For he must protest, as publicly as possible, against this cynical misapplication of a great office in the Church to provide an endowment for a royal official, a deacon who had never exercised a cure of souls, a warrior and administrator, unfitted to bear rule in spiritual things even if his exacting work as Chancellor left him the time to perform the duties of his charge. Conscience compelled Gilbert, though he knew jealous enemies would misrepresent his stand for righteousness.
A Bishop faithful to his charge, who rebuked sinners and held the lazy to their duty, must have plenty of jealous enemies. A monk of Cluny would not accept a Bishopric if he thought the throne would be only a pleasant seat. Gilbert had abandoned Cluny, that outpost of Heaven on earth whose spiritual life fitted all the needs of his soul, only because the Church on the war-torn March of Wales needed a zealous supervisor. A profitable servant might not spend his days and nights chanting in the blessed choir of Cluny if his talents would be useful in a wider sphere. Making his sacrifice of inclination and desire, he had accepted a mitre.
Even the world admitted that he made an excellent Bishop. Otherwise the King would not have offered him that hole-and-corner semi-promotion, to administer the See of London at Hereford’s expense. Of course as far as he personally was concerned the money made no difference, though it grieved him to see the endowments of the Church vanishing into a secular Treasury. He had been compelled to refuse, antagonizing the King who could make or mar his career, because any trained Canon lawyer could see that London was not really vacant. Canon Law permitted a Bishop to resign, though it seldom happened; or a Bishop overcome by age might consent to the appointment of a coadjutor with right of succession. But poor old Richard of London had lost his wits through sheer senility; by the time the King noticed that he was incapable of performing his duties he was also incapable of giving consent to his own replacement. Until the dotard died London must remain without a Bishop.
That refusal of an uncanonical responsibility had cost Gilbert dear. It had been taken for granted that he would be the next Archbishop of Canterbury; but for the King’s dislike the Bishops would have recommended him, the Pope would have given his formal assent, and the electors would have considered no other name. What made the disappointment more bitter was that his friends had congratulated him in advance.
That was not the reason for his protest. No clerk had a right to Canterbury, even though he was best fitted for it. The protest must be made because the King was giving the rule of the Church to his boon-companion, a secular clerk notorious for luxury, who would place those who had vowed their lives to God under the control of the sinful royal court. The Prior of Christ Church had just finished reading the letter patent under the Great Seal (a seal affixed by that sinful Thomas, no doubt with unholy glee). Now he formally sought the advice of the assembled Bishops. Gilbert rose to address the meeting.
It was not an easy speech, even for a trained preacher from Cluny. Of course no one there present would accuse him of ambition, for he was well known to them all. But a Goliard, one of those dissolute wanderers who disgraced sound learning, could make a very funny song about the envious monk who attacked his successful rival. Gilbert persevered, for he was willing to put himself in an unfavourable, even ridiculous, light if duty demanded.
An obstacle he had not foreseen was the dignified bearing of the worldling. Thomas managed to look worthy of his promotion, though no well-informed man could ignore his hunting and hawking and jousting, and the scandalous luxury of that embassy to Paris. He was as magnificent as usual, in wide-sleeved scarlet tunic, scarlet gown trimmed with ermine, pointed shoes and gilded spurs; but he wore also the hood of the Paris schools, and under it his pale face, the jutting nose and flashing eyes seemed that of an ascetic Doctor of the Church. He was very thin, and he stooped courteously from his great height with a composed smile of assent as Gilbert pointed out his manifest imperfections.
The monks of Christ Church took refuge in the letter of the Rule, sitting with bent heads enveloped in cowls and hands hidden in wide black sleeves; the other Bishops and attendant clerks stared stonily ahead. Only the Chancellor seemed to listen as Gilbert, overcome by a mounting sensation of embarrassment, stumbled to a faltering conclusion.
There was a minute of dead silence.
Then Thomas himself came forward and spoke: ‘My lord Prior, you have read the letter of our lord the King, and you have sought the advice of those Bishops who owe obedience to Canterbury. The Bishop of Hereford alone has thought right to advise you; and I agree with all he has said. I hope you follow his advice. But since no other Bishop wishes to speak it is your duty to proceed to election.’
The Prior looked round nervously; but he was accustomed to taking a chief part on occasions of ceremony, and he spoke out with a firm voice: ‘My lords, brethren, we have heard the wish of our lord the King, and we have been informed of the concurrence of our lord the Pope. Taking note of the advice offered us by the Bishop of Hereford and the King’s Chancellor, we note also that they are advisers only, with no vote in this election. We unanimously elect Thomas of London, deacon, to be Archbishop of our Cathedral and Primate of All England.’
‘I accept,’ Thomas answered at once, ‘provided I receive the assent of the King’s deputy in England, King Henry fitzHenry. Will you come with me, my lords, to seek it?’
Seven-year-old King Henry was usually known as the Young King, for it seemed absurd to call him Henry III while Henry II was yet reigning. Now he sat in Westminster Hall, carefully rehearsed in what he must perform.
All the same, when the group of Bishops and monks approached the throne on which the self-conscious child sat stiffly, an unrehearsed incident intruded. As Thomas knelt before the boy, his long bony hands between the chubby fists, Bishop Henry of Winchester stepped forward to speak.
In the absence of an Archbishop Henry was the unquestioned leader of the clergy. His See ranked second in the southern Province, but Henry of Blois was great in his own right; brother to the last King, he had been for some years papal legate, which made him superior to Canterbury. This honour he no longer held, for such an arrangement had proved unworkable; but he had resigned gracefully when asked, and in temporal politics all knew that it was largely through his efforts that Henry of Anjou had succeeded peacefully to the throne. There were few assemblies in England where he would not have first place.
Now he spoke formally, facing the boy-King but addressing the magnates round his throne. ‘My lord, our Archbishop-elect is also the salaried servant of your father. Let him come to the service of God untrammelled by worldly cares. It may be many years before the Exchequer finally passes his accounts; grant him now a release from the claims of his secular employment. Only thus can he devote all his energies to his great task of ruling the Church of God in England.’
The child looked round his councillors. He must never grant a favour, or refuse one, without their assent; and usually he was told beforehand exactly what to do. But there had been nothing about this in the morning’s rehearsal. However, he saw the Justiciar nod and smile. That was enough; he took a deep breath, and his childish treble could be heard through the hall.
‘My lord Thomas, we release you from the burdens of your Chancellorship. I am sure your accounts will look very nice when you present them. The King is your debtor for loyal service, and I also am indebted to you for a pleasant winter passed in your hall. I hope to visit you later in Canterbury.’
He looked round again, proudly. On the spur of the moment he had made a gracious speech, all composed in his head without rehearsal. He thought that pretty good for a boy of his age.
The Bishop of Hereford muttered sourly to his neighbour: ‘Does this mean that our new Metropolitan can spend the King’s money as he likes?’
The Justiciar overheard, and answered soothingly, anxious that harsh words should not mar this occasion of state. ‘Our little King’s answer means nothing. Thomas is still Chancellor, and of course the Chancellor must account for
his expenditure. The word of a seven-year-old King will not weigh with the Barons of the Exchequer. But it doesn’t matter. Thomas keeps accounts, and we all acknowledge that he is an honest man.’
Bishop Gilbert was not so certain, but this was not the time to pursue the matter. Servants were bringing in long tables, for such a numerous gathering of magnates merited a feast of exceptional splendour.
The procession to Canterbury attracted every idle sightseer for miles round. Since the King never ceased his journeying men were accustomed to galloping parties of horse, knights, sergeants and crossbowmen. But fourteen Bishops in one cavalcade, even though three of them were Welsh foreigners who didn’t count – that was something the oldest Kentishman had never seen, and the youngest would never see again. The new Archbishop-elect they were bound to see often, as he rode from Canterbury to London and back again; but it would be pleasant to tell the neighbours you had seen him when he was only a deacon.
First came a small advance-guard, made up of knights and sergeants of the Chancellor’s military household; wearing the scarlet livery of their lord instead of armour, they were obviously there to add dignity, not for protection. Servants followed, mounted or leading pack-horses, loaded with the great leather trunks, ironbound and studded with brass nails, in which magnates packed their robes and clerks their vestments. Heavy chariots creaked along, burdened with the carcasses of harts and boars, or with ponderous tuns of Gascon wine (which would taste very nasty after the ruts of Watling Street had stirred its dregs); for Canterbury would be scantily furnished after a vacancy of more than a year, in which dishonest stewards could plunder without a master. The consecration of an Archbishop called for a greater feast even than that which had celebrated his election.
Then came a horde of clerks, on mules if they were wealthy, hackneys if they were moderately prosperous, donkeys if they were genuinely poor. Last of all came the Bishops, in ecclesiastical order of precedence with the place of honour at the rear. Thus the visiting Welsh came first, followed by Walter of Rochester, whose Diocese was almost a part of Canterbury; there followed him the suffragans of Canterbury, ten in all, for London and Worcester were still vacant. These great men rode tall Spanish mules, whose gentle paces could bear an elderly clerk over the roughest road without discomfort.
Last of the Bishops, riding alone, came Henry of Winchester. In his gorgeous appearance the emblems of noble birth seemed to war with his natural humility. His travelling-cloak, of fine silk, was a monkish grey in colour, and the Benedictine habit below contrasted with the jewelled splendour of his mitre; on his hands were gloves of soft leather, set with rubies; on his unspurred feet Benedictine sandals; he held it unclerkly to ride a horse, but his mule was worth a King’s ransom. The benevolence of his countenance held no hint of the woolly kindness of poor old Theobald; at sixty years of age he was an intelligent and experienced politician, still in full command of his faculties.
At the very end, just before the military rear-guard, came the Archbishop-elect. Thomas was still a deacon, and he had made no change in his secular appearance. His scarlet tunic and riding-cloak befitted a gallant knight as much as the gilded spurs on his heels and the hooded falcon on his wrist. His destrier, a black stallion, played gently with his silver bit; had there been other stallions in the procession he would have screamed and fought to get at them, but mules and gelded hackneys were beneath his notice. Prior Robert of Merton, on a cheap little jennet, might ride in safety beside him.
Thomas had tasted the first delights of his new authority when he sent for the Prior of Merton. No Prior who took thought for the welfare of his community would neglect an opportunity to be constantly in the presence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Robert had immediately agreed to stay with him as long as he was wanted.
Thomas chatted easily, telling of hurried journeys over this same road on the King’s service, or recalling their shared schooldays. As he talked he slipped into the old intimacy, and presently opened his most inward thoughts.
‘I am too excited to think straight,’ he said casually. ‘If I begin to make a fool of myself in public you must stop me. This great promotion haunts even my dreams. Last night I dreamed that a venerable figure, clothed in white and wearing a halo, just like any saint you see painted over an altar, bowed low before me, offering ten talents wrapped in a napkin. I don’t know what a talent looks like, though I have often read of them; but in my dream I knew these were talents. Now I might easily start talking of that as a vision from Heaven; when it only means that I can’t stop thinking of my own greatness, even in sleep.’
‘Thomas, that was a vision,’ the Prior answered earnestly. ‘But you were not receiving the congratulations of the saints, which you have done nothing to deserve. Can’t you see? It was a warning. The steward who received ten talents was required to return them thirty-fold. God has given you health and brains and courage, good luck and the respect of your fellows. In return you must serve Him as the best Archbishop ever seen in Canterbury. If you fail in that task you imperil your salvation.’
‘The best Archbishop ever seen in Canterbury? The first Archbishop, Augustine, is a canonized saint; and later there were St. Alphege and St. Anselm. Is it my duty to surpass these?’
‘It is your duty, for you can do it. St. Augustine came to a pagan land, St. Alphege was martyred by pagan invaders, St. Anselm strove with a wicked King. You control the spiritual life of a Christian land, whose King is your friend and an adequate Christian. You can do anything you set your mind to. Give to God’s service the determination and astuteness which impressed your teachers at Merton. As your confessor I point out your bare duty. I ask nothing extra, for the love of God.’
‘I have chosen a stern confessor, though I had all England to choose from. This needs thinking over.’
Thomas rode the rest of the journey in silence. But that night in Canterbury he spoke to his valet apart.
‘Guido, I have a commission for you. You can find your way about a strange city. I want you to buy me a hair shirt with drawers to match. In this holy place such things must be made from time to time. Stay, you had better buy two of each, so that they can be washed. I must do my duty, but it is no part of the duty of an Archbishop to stink in hot weather. Take what money you need from that coffer in the corner, and get these things without telling anyone. I shall wear them for the first time to-morrow, at my ordination.’
Guido was an excellent valet. Next morning he brought in with his master’s other clothes the hair shirt and drawers. As he returned a few coins to the coffer he remarked: ‘They were cheap, my lord, for they were woven by a widow vowed to poverty. She showed me how they should be washed, and I suggest, if you wish to keep them secret, that I wash them myself.’
That was the morning of the Saturday within the Octave of Pentecost. As soon as he was dressed, in his richest deacon’s vestments over the secret hair shirt, Thomas rode fasting to the Cathedral. There the Bishop of Rochester ordained him priest. The other Bishops were present to lend lustre to the function; but it was a warm May morning, and yesterday these elderly gentlemen had ridden a long journey; the service was cut to the minimum, and Thomas went to breakfast without saying Mass.
He passed the remainder of the day in prayer and meditation. He prayed decorously, on his knees before a crucifix or flat on his face with arms extended. That was not very difficult. He merely ordered himself to pray, and obeyed his own orders. But when he tried to meditate he could not fix his mind on heavenly things; his thoughts turned to the neglected Chancery, and he could not help wondering how Henry was getting on in Normandy without his most competent adviser.
In the evening the Bishops called him from his chamber to decide as Chancellor a trivial dispute. Gilbert of Hereford, making things as difficult as only a pedantic and unco-operative Canon Lawyer could make them, had pointed out that on the rare previous occasions when a priest had been consecrated Archbishop of Canterbury the consecration had been performed by the Bishop of London
; he implied that the consecrations of the Primate was a privilege of the See of London. At present that See was in the hands of an imbecile. Should they wait until it was filled by a competent Bishop before proceeding further?
Thomas was inclined to think Gilbert wrong in his facts. In any case the implied slur, that it was unusual for a priest to become Archbishop, was patently absurd. St. Anselm and Lanfranc had come straight from the cloister to the Primacy.
But who should have the honour of consecrating him? Luckily there was an obvious solution. Henry of Winchester stood first among the Bishops of England. But a professional courtier like Thomas must avoid the suspicion that he deferred to a Bishop because he was brother to a King. Instead of naming Winchester, he suggested that the senior Bishop, in point of consecration, should have the honour of consecrating his own Metropolitan. Henry of Winchester had been a Bishop for thirty-four years, and was by a long way the senior.
On the Sunday after Pentecost, which at Canterbury was kept as the special feast of the Holy Trinity, Pontifical High Mass was sung with great splendour before the high altar of the Cathedral. Then Bishop Henry consecrated Thomas of London, priest and Chancellor and a knight besides.
Now that he was among the successors of the Apostles Thomas could no longer delay saying his first Mass. The long fast had not bothered him, for it was no worse than he had suffered during many of the King’s hasty journeys; but the knowledge of what he was about to do weighed on his spirit. He was forty-three years of age, and since he had left the schools of Paris he had lived as a layman: an upright and God-fearing layman, certainly; he was still a virgin, and in a State of Grace. But how often during the last twenty years had he thought of heavenly things, or of anything except the material interest of Thomas of London, or of King Henry his friend?
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