The Lions' Torment

by Blanche d'Alpuget

  On a balcony above them, the justiciars, Beaumont and de Lucy, joined the King and his brother. The old Earl’s expression was grim. ‘My dear, you’re satisfied, I know. But the princes of the Church are in a ferment of discontent. First and most violently with their Archbishop. But also with you. I take my share of blame. I now believe we should not have written the Constitutions without first discussing them. I blundered. If you request my resignation, I offer it willingly.’

  ‘Robert, you’re not resigning.’

  The justiciar sighed. ‘I have a letter here from John the Marshal, whose chivalry is admired throughout the realm. The Archbishop refuses to give up the land he’s seized from him.’

  Henry’s jovial mood vanished. ‘John lost an eye fighting for my mother during the civil war. How dare that scoundrel …’ As suddenly as he had angered, he became amiable again. ‘I believe, my dears, our Archbishop must be forced to answer this charge before a civil court.’

  De Lucy laughed out loud. ‘And when he refuses?’

  ‘I’ll prepare a surprise for him.’

  Becket toured the country, showing the sweet side of his nature, his generosity to the poor, his compassion for those in strife and his patience in listening to their problems. He travelled in great magnificence with a retinue of scholars and a band of forty knights, but dismounted frequently to help, with his own hands, a woman to steady a burden or a child to catch an errant sheep. In conversation with favoured scholars he boasted that he was ‘expanding our army’ by wooing the hoi polloi, the minor clergy and select members of the aristocracy. He sent post riders ahead to each village church so his arrival was greeted with joyful carillons. As the weather warmed, a cloud of dust rose behind the army of mercy, advertising for miles that His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury was on his way.

  Well behind the mighty throng rode a pair of itinerant merchants mounted on mules. They led a packhorse laden with modest household items: tallow candles, thread, needles, cooking pots, sharpening stones, fuller’s earth. After His Grace had passed through a village they would dismount to ask people if they had coin to buy a few necessities. The townsfolk remarked on the fair beauty of one merchant and the dark ugliness of the other. ‘We’re brothers,’ they said. ‘We suspect our mother went into a barn one night and mistook the blacksmith for our father.’ Everyone would laugh and they’d often get an extra sale.

  After four weeks of traipsing after Becket, they left the mules in a tavern, collected two fine horses and galloped to Northampton. Western sun lit the castle’s sandstone to the colour of gold. From miles distant it reared above its earth ramparts, the huge square keep and walls perfect in their geometry.

  Henry was entertaining a group of fifty barons from the Midlands with a banquet and games. A page whispered to him, ‘The Sir Richards are here, sire.’

  He received them together in a small private chamber. ‘Well, Lout?’

  ‘Men of wealth and good family now welcome Bec into their households. He spreads a rumour that you’ll introduce a law preventing landowners from expelling tenants without trial.’

  ‘That happens to be true. My sheriffs have swept England to search out crimes, with juries summoned in every village and hamlet. Both lay and clergy are caught in my net.’

  ‘Among villagers there’s a certain fear, sire,’ Brito put in.

  ‘Fear of?’

  ‘Your law.’

  ‘My law! Its purpose is to protect them.’

  ‘The Archbishop tells them you aim to make them slaves. He preaches that the end is nigh and the Day of Judgement draws near. “A king becomes a tyrant and enslaves his people,” he says. He pretends to read from the Bible. He talks of the four terrible horses, white, red, black and pale. He warns the faithful to be alert for horses of these colours. If they see them, especially near dawn or dusk, they must rush to their church for safety.’

  Henry summoned the justiciars from the banquet hall. ‘It’s time this game ended.’

  They nodded. ‘We just had news that he tried to flee to France three days ago but the sailors feared they would be committing treason. After a few hours at sea they put him ashore on the Kentish coast.’

  ‘We add that to his list of crimes. He’ll be tried here in Northampton.’

  Beaumont cleared his throat. ‘Of course, Henry, we won’t refer to a trial. That would be provocative, would it not?’

  The King thought a moment. ‘Indeed. I will call a council in Northampton. The question of Wales remains vexatious. The Crown has need of both the Church and the baronage to advise on the Welsh and other matters. Including the issue of John the Marshal’s land.’

  ‘That may cause Becket to try to flee to France again, and we may not have such reliable sailors.’

  Henry snorted. ‘He believes he’s immune. He didn’t bother to send even an excuse when first summoned to court to answer John’s charge of land theft. He swallows the flattery of his courtiers as if dining on larks’ tongues.’ He smiled around him. ‘I wish some of you would flatter me from time to time. All I get is scolding.’

  ‘That’s because you deserve it, sire,’ the Lout said. Like a cat taken by surprise, he jumped in the air to avoid Henry’s kick.

  The justiciars’ summons to present himself at Northampton reached Thomas in Harrow, where he was exercising his charm on a local baron who wanted to seize a watermill from one of his tenants. ‘The tyrant reveals his madness,’ Becket exclaimed. ‘John the Marshal! A one-eyed has-been with delusions of self-importance.’ He looked around at his supporters. ‘We’ll travel in grandeur to show our contempt for this piddling affair.’

  At sunrise, the Earl of Surrey stationed himself at the highest point of the keep of Northampton Castle to count the Archbishop’s retinue as it approached. Richard stood at his elbow taking notes on a wax board.

  ‘Forty chaplains, monks and clerks. There’s a military escort of … let me see … thirty … no, thirty-two knights. About a dozen noble boys from his household, each mounted on a pony and displaying his family’s standard. Plus churls, cooks …’

  ‘In excess of a hundred, my lord?’

  Hamelin said, ‘Go immediately and tell the King.’

  Henry was dressed for hunting, already mounted. He held out a gauntlet for his bird. When he heard the size of Becket’s retinue, he roared with laughter, startling the huntress. Her wings flared; she needed stroking and kissing before she’d settle on his glove. The sovereign beckoned the guards’ captain. ‘Take twenty of your most objectionable mercenaries and announce to the party approaching Northampton that there’s no room in the castle for such a crowd. They must seek accommodation elsewhere.

  ‘Darling girl,’ he murmured to the hawk. ‘You and I will enjoy chasing our prey.’ He glanced to Richard and Brito. ‘You two scoundrels stay and keep your ears open.’

  Richard observed, ‘Bec adores the hunt. He should contemplate the meaning of our liege taking a hawk again today. In this terrain a falcon would be the usual choice. Our Archbishop knows hawks fly low to take their prey by surprise.’

  On discovering that the apartment at Northampton normally set aside for him was accommodating some royal squires and the new Seneschal of Normandy, the Archbishop rose into a storm. ‘He doesn’t greet me! He gives my apartment to squires! He asks me to appear today, this morning, but he’s out hawking …’ Herbert and others tried to calm him, to little effect. ‘Take a message that I demand that riff-raff leave my apartment.’

  ‘I don’t think you should refer to the new Seneschal of Normandy as riff-raff, my lord,’ a monk said.

  ‘Raff-riff, then!’ Becket inhaled deeply. ‘You’re correct, Brother. I ask that the Seneschal and others vacate my accommodation. Meanwhile we’ll seek welcome in the Priory of St Andrew’s. None of us has eaten yet.’

  The King returned long after dinner time. His reply to the Archbishop’s request was one word. ‘No.’ Next morning in the castle chapel he attended Mass. The Archbishop waited for him outside.
As His Highness strolled out, Becket rose, presenting his cheek for the traditional kiss of peace. The King turned away.

  ‘He grimaced,’ Herbert whispered. ‘My lord, I have a very bad feeling.’

  ‘I’m a royal counsellor,’ Becket snapped. ‘I’ll take my place among my suffragan bishops, the magnates and other raff-riff.’

  Sir Richard of Bath and Sir Richard de Brito were stationed outside the ground-floor meeting hall. Both drew their swords as Becket and his followers approached. ‘You may not enter the royal council,’ Brito said.

  ‘You draw a sword on me, you ugly cur?’

  Richard of Bath gave a beguiling smile. ‘When it’s time for you to appear, someone will summon you, sir.’

  ‘Sir! What do you mean, “sir”? I’m the Lord Archbishop.’

  Richard’s pink tongue flicked the corner of his lip. ‘But not here, sir. Not today. You’re here as a baron, called to answer a charge of land theft.’

  Herbert and two other mighty men grabbed Becket as he began to tumble backwards. They held him upright until certain he could walk unaided. ‘Is it possible?’ he whispered. ‘Is it possible I can be judged as a layman?’ The scholars looked at each other, their faces pale with fright.

  ‘It seems the royal council has, in this instance, agreed, Your Grace.’

  The Archbishop took a sharp breath. ‘I’ll stare them down! In fact …’ he chortled to himself, ‘when all this is over, I’ll excommunicate them.’

  The next day the royal council heard the case. Beaumont announced, ‘You are condemned, sir, to the forfeit of all your movable possessions, at the mercy of the King.’

  ‘No!’ Becket shouted. ‘I know the law as well as you, Robert. This heinous sentence must be commuted to a monetary penalty.’ He glared at his bishops.

  Winchester stood. ‘We, the bishops gathered here, will stand surety for our Archbishop.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Foliot’s tone was icy.

  Silence gripped the hall. Becket’s chin dropped to his chest. ‘As soon as I can lay hands on a bell, the book and a candle, you, Gilbert Foliot, will be excommunicant,’ he muttered.

  The Earl of Surrey’s sharp ears heard the threat. ‘Kindly repeat that,’ he boomed.

  ‘Earl you are now, but Angevin bastard you were born, and servile bastard you still are! I’ll say this: every bishop who’s had the temerity to pass judgement on me I shall suspend.’ He stood to leave, but a relentless, searing pain hit his back. He stifled a scream of shock then recovered himself after a moment and sat once more.

  Beaumont was on his feet. ‘His Highness demands that you, Sir Thomas of London, return all the money you amassed while Chancellor. It amounts to a considerable sum.’

  ‘I was given no warning of this! I need time to gather documents to defend myself.’

  ‘We have documents,’ the justiciar replied calmly.

  The Bishop of London rose and hurried to Becket’s side. ‘Thomas, for God’s sake, resign! Resign as Archbishop for your own good and the good of the Church!’

  ‘Get away from me, skinny rat!’

  Foliot snatched Herbert by the sleeve. ‘You have his ear, young man. I beg you, make him understand that the King is bent on his ruin. Our Archbishop can bring ruin on the whole Church. On England herself, if what we hear is true.’

  Herbert murmured, ‘What do you hear?’

  ‘That he gathers what he calls an army to oppose the King. That he is in frequent contact with Welsh princes and the new King of Scotland, who plans a war against England. That he has arranged to flee to Louis of France. That, as he just announced, he’ll depose every bishop in England and some, like me, he’ll excommunicate. There’ll be chaos. Herbert, you’re educated. You understand what all this amounts to. There will be another civil war.’

  Bosham and Foliot were standing, men of the same height. Foliot’s narrow grey eyes bored into Herbert’s large round ones. The prelate stiffened. ‘Thomas was born a fool. He’ll always be a fool. But you, Herbert, are not. You understand what looms before you personally.’

  He barely heard Bosham breathe, ‘Treason?’

  ‘The pain refuses to stop,’ Becket said as he made his way slowly to his quarters in the priory. ‘I shall go to bed.’

  As soon as he was settled in his meagre accommodation, Herbert closed the door. ‘Tom, we must escape as soon as possible.’

  ‘I agree, dear boy. But today I can’t move.’

  ‘The Sabbath approaches. The council won’t sit. There’s time for you to recover.’

  Within the hour, bishops began calling on him. Some wanted to see if his illness were a ruse. Others wanted reassurance that earlier he had spoken in anger and did not really mean to depose them. All beseeched him to resign. The Bishop of Hereford murmured, ‘Throw yourself on the King’s mercy.’

  ‘What mercy?’ Becket snapped. He reached for a bible beside his bed and read out a verse: ‘“Princes did also sit and speak against me.”’

  The Archbishop of York gave a gasp of shock. ‘Tom – that is not a good chapter to read. It goes on to speak of murder.’

  ‘If I need your advice I’ll ask for it, Roger. I alone, it seems, am prepared to fight for the rights of the Church against the might of a tyrant. I fight for the dignity of our Mother, for her right of benefit of clergy.’

  York answered softly. ‘Yes indeed, Tom, but that is not the problem at this moment. You are the King’s vassal. You’ve sworn to obey him. At Clarendon you swore to preserve the royal rights and dignities. You demanded we all follow you. We did. But then you reneged. By doing so, you perjured yourself. What’s more, you’ve agreed that bishops should sit in the King’s courts. You are not called here as Archbishop of Canterbury, but as an ordinary baron. Ask mercy and resign!’

  ‘You were always jealous of me. I know you want Canterbury.’

  Roger of York looked around at the other bishops, shook his head and left.

  Foliot said, ‘We’re trapped between hammer and anvil. The Church suffers because of your excesses as a courtier when you were, as you confessed, “a patron of play-actors”. For God’s sake, man, resign!’

  ‘Get out!’

  Two days later, Becket rose from his sickbed with an order that his cross-bearer enter Northampton Castle carrying the cross before him. Even Herbert said, ‘Your Grace, I beg you, don’t have your cross carried into the King’s presence.’

  ‘The tyrant unsheathes his sword against me,’ Thomas answered. ‘I reply with mine. My sword is not merely for this world, Herbie, but for all eternity. Those whom it strikes shall suffer eternal damnation in the lake of fire.’

  Bosham began to weep.

  A solemn and gorgeously robed procession set out from the priory to the castle, the towering gold cross of the Archbishop leading the way. Barons who looked out on what approached turned to each other in astonishment. ‘He threatens our liege!’

  Henry watched through a narrow window. ‘All bishops are excused from passing judgement on their Archbishop,’ he announced. ‘Take that message to them.’

  As Becket reached the entrance to the castle, Foliot rushed at the cross-bearer, trying to wrest the cross from his grip. The young man, Llewellyn, hung on. ‘Imbecile boy!’ Foliot’s usual icy tone became a wail. ‘Don’t you understand how you endanger everyone!’

  Magnates and barons assembled in a chamber on the castle’s second storey. The churchmen and their retinue, gathered below, heard shouts of ‘Traitor!’ The commanding voice of Earl Robert de Beaumont was reading out the list of monies taken by the former Chancellor from the royal treasury.

  ‘We fear nothing,’ Becket said. But like a paling struck by an axe, his voice splintered.

  The royal steward, Sir Ranulf de Broc, arrived to speak to the prelates with a second decision from the King: ‘The bishops of England are to petition His Holiness Alexander III to depose Thomas Becket from the throne of Canterbury for his many acts of malfeasance. A list of these shall be provided.’

/>   Thomas recovered himself. He glared at his suffragans. ‘Anyone who writes to Alexander, I excommunicate. Immediately!’

  They huddled together, whispering, but none called for scribes.

  The morning wore on. Becket complained of pain once more and lay down, beckoning Herbert to his side. ‘Delay was a mistake,’ he muttered. ‘The moment we can leave, you’re to gather all the gold and silver you can and we sail to Dunkerque.’

  At last, when they were faint from fear and hunger, Earl Robert’s slow, heavy footsteps descended the stone stairs from the chamber above. ‘The royal council has heard and read the evidence. It declares Sir Thomas Becket guilty of perjury and treason.’

  Becket fell back on the couch on which he rested, his eyes closed. An elderly bishop fainted. For moments nobody could speak. Then, with bent heads, the Archbishop’s knights, some clerks and all the noble boys he was raising in his household came slowly forward. Most were in tears as they asked permission to leave his service.

  Becket smiled with soft melancholy. ‘Go with my blessing,’ he said to each one. When they had filed out of the castle, he turned to address the clerics who remained. ‘I arrived here a baron. I depart an archbishop.’ He glanced towards Herbert of Bosham, who gave the slightest nod. ‘I now order the bishops of Rochester, Hereford and Worcester to petition the King for my safe conduct from court.’

  The wait was not long. Hereford spoke for all three. ‘His Highness was most amiable, Lord Archbishop. He smiled and wished us good health. He said he would consider the matter overnight and give an answer tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Becket echoed.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ they chorused.

  ‘Therefore I shall return to the priory to await the royal decision.’ As the door to his chamber closed, he snatched Bosham’s hands. ‘Herbie, you’re sure the gate is unlocked?’

  ‘I paid the guards well, with the balance to be given to them on our escape.’