‘Why, my lord, I thought you knew. The Emperor has two Chancellors, since his realm is spread so wide. His Chancellor for Germany is the Archbishop of Mainz, and for Italy the Archbishop of Cologne.’
‘I knew. I thought you might have forgotten. You see that it is the very latest fashion to have an Archbishop for Chancellor. Does the Church in Germany complain that these Archbishops neglect their spiritual duties? On the contrary, everyone is pleased to see great clerks so highly placed in the councils of the Empire. Why shouldn’t I have the Archbishop of Canterbury for my Chancellor?’
‘Those clerks were already Archbishops, who took office because they knew they had time to perform those duties. The Emperor does not administer his realm as you administer England. I have never heard of a King’s Chancellor who took an Archbishopric as his second, less important, work. In any case, Gilbert is your man.’
‘Gilbert Foliot is out of the running. I have let him know as much, unofficially.’
‘Well, you must find someone. Otherwise the Pope will appoint. Let me see. Gilbert himself got Hereford from the Pope because the See had been too long vacant, and that ass Hilary got Chichester in the same way, on the excuse that his predecessor died in Rome. That’s two papal appointments, out of less than twenty Bishops in all England. The Pope will be appointing to London unless you hurry up. If you let Canterbury lapse also your power will be greatly diminished.’
‘As you say, someone must have Canterbury, and soon. But if the Pope knows a nomination is under consideration he won’t do anything in a hurry. Once again I suggest that you take it. At least see how the proposal is received by the clergy of England. I have already taken steps to find out that. I told Walter Map, in strict confidence. Walter is incapable of keeping a secret. In a month or so, when the news has leaked to the most remote rectory in the realm, we shall know what they think of it.’
‘I can tell you that now. They will think that an avaricious King has found a way of rewarding his Chancellor at no cost to the Treasury. It will be regarded as yet another plundering of the endowments of the Church. Perhaps that is how you see it yourself?’
‘Well, you know it would be an economy. But the Archbishopric would also be in good hands. You could easily do the work in your spare time, and with the same man at the head of both spiritual and temporal affairs there would be no danger of a conflict of jurisdiction.’
‘But I don’t want to be an Archbishop, and your loving subjects among the clergy don’t want me over them. Do our wishes count for nothing?’
‘My dear Thomas, I wouldn’t offend you for the world. I shall even take note of the sentiments of my subjects. That is why I launched the rumour. If it causes a great uproar I shall deny it gracefully, and start looking for another head for the English Church.’
‘Then I’m safe. If you wait for public approval before promoting me I shall die a simple deacon.’
Then it was time to ride thirty miles in the general directions of Aquitaine, hawking by the way while the baggage caught up. For the rest of the day Henry did not refer to the Archbishopric, and Thomas hoped that the outburst of indignation which must greet the rumour would convince him. But he was not sure. Sometimes opposition only confirmed Henry in his obstinacy.
By autumn they were back in Rouen, Henry’s favourite residence. It was the most comfortable station for the court; the castle could shelter the King and all his knights, in the town there was a market-hall big enough for the Chancery, and the Archbishop always lent Thomas a spacious lodging. This even possessed a solar behind the dais, where the Chancellor might amuse himself in private. Thomas never relaxed where the public could see him; before a crowd his acute sense of the behaviour fitting in a Chancellor always kept him self-conscious.
On this particular evening Henry was away; the hunt had led him farther than he had intended, and he would pass the night in a forester’s hut. The unfortunate courtiers might find what shelter they could, or sleep in the open. That was one of the penalties of court life, worth enduring for the sake of catching the King’s ear when he was in an affable mood. The Chancellor, who had been too busy to go hunting, might for once pass the evening in privacy.
In the little solar he gathered a few intimates for a game of chess. They were mostly knights of his mesnie, not clerks. For he passed all his working hours in the company of clerks, and for amusement in the evening laymen struck a lighter note. Besides, at chess most clerks could beat him; he had only taken up that frivolous game after he had become an archdeacon, able to afford heavy wagers; the average clerk of the court had played it since he was big enough to sit at the table. So had the average knight, but the average knight was not intelligent; Thomas found that his wit enabled him to hold his own with the laymen.
Chess was the most fashionable gambling game. Young debauchees could dissipate a fortune quicker at dice; but that was definitely wicked. Chess was a game of skill, though frivolous. It was a little daring for a sober official like the Chancellor to indulge in it, but no one could say it was positively wrong. Of course it should not be played too earnestly, or the fun of the gamble would be lost. In this solar a trouvere sang a lay of the Crusade, and the player must make his move before the end of each stanza. Thomas’s opponent was the banneret who led his mesnie, a player of his own level of skill. Since the lesser knights standing round held definite views about the capability of their leader the board was plastered with gold and silver, the stakes and the side-bets of the onlookers.
Then a fool of a new chamberlain made a serious mistake. The door was thrown open, and this ass announced that Master John of Salisbury craved immediate audience of the Chancellor; John followed on his heels, pausing in the door-way to take in the tableau.
It could hardly have looked worse. The Chancellor sat behind a winking heap of money; on the table were flagons and wine-cups, and some knights showed by their manner that they had been drinking steadily all evening; everyone was dressed in the extravagant garb of the court, and the Chancellor outshone them all. Over a tunic and chausses of his favourite scarlet cloth he wore a long gown of sky-blue silk trimmed with sable; on his red leather shoes gleamed knightly spurs; the sleeves of his tunic followed the new fashion from Provence; cut with increasing width from elbow to wrist their open ends swept the floor as he sat; inside they were lined with gold tissue, and the wrists of his shirt, thus exposed, were caught up with little gold chains. Round his neck, and on the front of his tunic, were other chains and brooches; as he moved he flashed like a man in polished mail.
There was nothing for Thomas to do but to carry off the interview as best he might. Springing to his feet, he pushed his stake cross the table.
‘Sir William, I concede you the victory. You would have beaten me anyway, but I must not let this game delay my greeting of Master John, the learned lawyer of Rome and Canterbury. Come here, John, and sit beside me. What can your old friend Bailhache do for you?’
That gave Master John all the advantage he needed. After a successful career in the Roman Curia he had entered the household of Archbishop Theobald. He had been present when Master Roger, now Archbishop of York, had bestowed that opprobrious nickname. He knew Thomas hated it; he would only use it, in that deprecatory manner, because he was already ashamed of himself. So he ought to be ashamed of himself, and John was the man to drive it home.
He waited, standing in silence, until the household had withdrawn. Then he sat down carefully on the little stool facing the Chancellor across the gaming-board. ‘Thomas,’ he began portentously, ‘I shall tell you my errand, and then you can judge the effect of your conduct. I have been sent, on behalf of the Abbots and Bishops of England, to see for myself how our prospective Archbishop amuses his leisure. We heard of your extravagant embassy to Paris; that might be excused, since you were carrying out the instructions of your ruler. But there were stories of your magnificent private life, stories which do infinite harm to your reputation, which I wished to be in a position to deny. What do I find
? You are a deacon, of a rank next in honour to the priesthood itself. Yet as Chancellor you divert to the secular Treasury the endowments of three wealthy Sees, London, Worcester, and now even Canterbury.’
‘Worcester isn’t wealthy,’ Thomas interjected. ‘It’s one of the poorest Sees in Christendom, vacant because no one will accept it.’
John was a trained orator, not to be halted in his eloquence by a mere mistake of fact. The speech rolled on.
‘You are a Prebendary of Beverley, Dean of Hastings, the holder of many rich benefices. The Church supports you generously, and you should support the Church. Instead I find you gambling with a group of bloodthirsty drunkards, gambling away, for all I know, money which is the property of some cathedral. You yourself are not drunk, I am pleased to see; but your companions were intoxicated, and you provide strong wine to make their condition yet more disgraceful. As to your dress, I beg you to recall that you are in major orders. You look like an exceptionally profligate knight, with gilt spurs and a silk gown and sleeves trailing on the floor. There is no more to be said. I did not come to seek favours from you; I did not even come to speak to you. I came to see you, and to tell the clergy of England what I had seen. If you will call for my horse I will leave immediately.’
Thomas was too angry to feel ashamed. He knew that in the face of great temptation he lived chastely and soberly. He was doing difficult work remarkably well. He had shed lustre on the arms of Normandy by unhorsing Engelram de Trie. Now this fat windbag, who had never faced anything more dangerous than the splutterings of a rival advocate, was telling a grown and learned man of forty-three, the most successful clerk in France or England, how he ought to behave. The red mist of anger rose in his brain, though by long custom he controlled it. When he answered his face wore a pleasant smile.
‘Master John, since you are come on a grave errand I have heard you patiently to the end. Now I will tell you a secret. I did not seek the burden of the Primacy; I considered it too heavy for me, and I was determined to refuse. Your wise advice has changed my convictions. Now, if Canterbury is offered to me, I shall accept. And I shall show you, and every other gossiping idler in my Province, what it means to be ruled by an Archbishop who knows his rights and intends to enforce them. Go back and advise those who sent you to begin making friends with their new master. Oh, and by the way, if you happen to see that pompous Archbishop Roger, will you remind him of the rule about Metropolitan crosses? He may display his cross in his own Province, but not in mine. If you want your horse I will send for it. But why don’t you stay here for the night? You might enjoy a good game of chess.’
There was a twinkle in the Chancellor’s eye, and John smiled in return. He saw that Thomas had been angry, but it was really amazing how that man could control his temper. He was once more the gay scholar of Paris, the witty spark who had kept them laughing in the Archbishop’s office at Harrow. After all, he did know the rights and duties of Canterbury, after his training as archdeacon; and he had the business experience to become a capable administrator, if not a specially saintly shepherd of his flock.
When Thomas thought over what he had said he realized that there was still one great obstacle to his accepting the proffered promotion. St. Augustine, the first Archbishop of Canterbury, had been a Benedictine; it just so happened that nearly every succeeding Archbishop had been a monk also. A monastery of black monks formed the Cathedral chapter, with the Archbishop as Abbot ex officio. Thomas knew he could not endure the monastic life, after six years of delicate food and luxurious beds. He would never stand the rising at midnight, the fasting, or the straw pallets. No, after all, he was not fitted for Canterbury.
During the next Lent he had his last chance of refusing the great office. At Falaise Henry held court to entertain the Cardinal of Pisa, a special envoy from the Pope. That fitted in very nicely, for the Cardinal could convey the papal endorsement necessary for the chosen candidate for Canterbury, whoever he might be.
The Cardinal knew of the proposal, for the Roman court took immense trouble to be well informed about the leading figures in every realm of Christendom. Thomas was surprised to find that he favoured it, for usually papalists disliked the custom of rewarding a King’s ministers from the endowments of the Church. The reason for this approval was a simple matter of power politics. Though everyone spoke of the ‘Roman’ court and of appealing to ‘Rome’ the Pope, as had often happened before, was in exile. On the death of the Englishman Adrian IV, the patron of John of Salisbury, the cardinals had elected Alexander III to succeed him. But the Emperor had organized a rival election, and proclaimed his creature ‘Victor IV’. The chief supporters of Alexander III were the Kings of France and England, and a cardinal of this party would go to great lengths to please King Henry.
At the end of a long banquet Henry summoned Thomas to his royal seat. Thomas had expected this, and had deliberately attended the banquet in his most splendid and most secular dress. If they insisted on making an Archbishop out of him they must see him for what he was.
When the King began to speak loudly, in the hearing of all, of his desire that Thomas should accept the See of Canterbury, the Cardinal graciously added his entreaties. Thomas listened quietly until these speeches were finished, and then glanced down at his gown. ‘My lord,’ he said with a grin, ‘do I look the kind of man who should be put into such a famous Bishopric? Do I look the kind of holy monk who should be made Abbot of Christ Church?’
‘Certainly not,’ Henry muttered under his breath, ‘but you haven’t always dressed like that. Thomas, I know you can do this. Do it, to please me.’
‘Shall I please you? Are Kings usually pleased with their Archbishops?’ whispered Thomas in reply. Then he went on, in a loud voice that all the company might hear: ‘If I accept, the love you now feel for me will turn to bitter hate. For I know you will require of me many things which I shall not bear quietly.’
Then he muttered again: ‘That’s my last warning. If you press me again I must accept. At least you know what you are in for.’
‘I know that my best friend will be the most powerful clerk in my dominions. That will bring peace to the Church. Of course you must accept, and we shall hurry on the election. Bear witness, all of you, that I nominate to the electors of Canterbury the learned deacon Master Thomas of London, my Chancellor.’
‘In the name of the Pope I endorse that excellent choice,’ added the Cardinal.
‘Very well, my lord. I shall leave for London immediately. Will you come also? The election cannot be complete until the King has given his assent.’
‘Or the King’s representative. You forget that now I have a viceroy in England, capable of these purely ceremonial functions. Little Henry fitzHenry will assent in my name, and receive your homage.’
‘But an Archbishop may not do homage to a King,’ put in the Cardinal anxiously.
‘That is arranged, eminence,’ Thomas said smoothly. He was once more the Chancellor, finding the quickest way out of one of the muddles caused by Henry’s impetuosity. ‘In England we have found a way round the difficulty. I shall do homage as a simple deacon, after election but before consecration. In my native land no Bishop does homage. Perish the thought! But every Bishop is a man who has done homage, and homage endures for life.’
‘Ah, the famous English levity,’ said the Cardinal. ‘We grave Italians could never invent these frivolous evasions. But now all ends happily, and such amity among his children will be specially pleasing to His Holiness.’
For the rest of the banquet Thomas sat silent. That night he paced the floor of his chamber for many hours, thinking of the future.
There had been plenty of time to get used to the idea, and yet it came as a shock. He was forty-three years of age, and for more than twenty of them he had earned his bread as a scholar and lawyer; he was not a priest; and in a few weeks he would be Archbishop. He had lived in the household of a holy Archbishop, and he knew how seriously and devoutly Theobald had performed his dutie
s. Come, that was something; he knew what an Archbishop should do. Richer de I’Aigle had shown him what a knight should do, and when he had to do it he had unhorsed Engelram de Trie. At Merton he had been taught how a holy man should comport himself; incidentally his old comrade, novice Robert, was now Prior of Merton; he would appoint him confessor to the Archbishop, and such an example would keep him up to the mark. In Paris he had obeyed his teachers. In Theobald’s household he had behaved in a manner fitting to his position. When he was made Chancellor there had been no precedents to guide him, for never before had the Chancellor wielded such power; but at least no one had been surprised at his conduct. It was quite simple, at least for a scholar who had been taught to use his mind. In a novel situation you must find out how you were expected to behave; you then behaved in that manner, and everybody praised you. It needed self-control, but self-control was his strong point.
With his memory of Theobald, and with Robert of Merton to tell him the latest theological theories, he could be a model Archbishop. At present the obvious thing to do was to pass the night in prayer, especially to Our Lady his patron. When his valet came to call him in the morning, he found the Chancellor kneeling beside an untouched bed. The valet was not surprised; if his master wished to pray he would of course pray all night, for his master never did anything by halves.
At last the monks of Christ Church, Canterbury had the royal permission to proceed to election, without which they could do nothing. But there was no pretence that this was a free election, and in consequence no need for them to consult in private over their choice. For a purely ceremonial function they jumped at a chance of a visit to London. All the seventy choir-monks rode up, and the election was held in the chapter-house of St. Paul’s.
Though only the monks were electors this was a matter that closely concerned all the Bishops of southern England; they were entitled to be present and speak, though not to vote. In the chapter-house Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of Hereford, counted all the other Bishops of the Province of Canterbury besides three visiting Welsh prelates. He was glad to see such a distinguished audience for his protest.
God and My Right Page 18
