All the same, it was unfortunate that some knights should hold from so many different lords. For example, here was the attorney of the Justiciar, doing homage on behalf of his lord for some small fief held of the Honour of Canterbury; Richard de Lucy held far greater fiefs from the King, and everyone knew that he thought of himself as the King’s man only. So he was making a promise that perhaps he would not fulfil, which any lawyer knows is the greatest source of contention in the world. It was a pity. England would be a tidier country, easier to govern, if each knight held only one fief from one lord. But you could not deprive Lucy of his fiefs to make things tidy; while he performed his due service he must keep his land. Yet a prudent Archbishop should bear in mind that some promises did not mean all they said.
At the end of September 1163 Thomas rode from Canterbury to Westminster. As always, he was sad to leave his own city, where work filled his daylight hours and the monastic office in the Cathedral comforted his soul. He knew that all England considered him the most efficient Archbishop who had ever occupied the chair of St.
Augustine, but he could only keep abreast of his work if he remained constantly at home.
Cantering down Watling Street on his destrier he discussed this with Herbert of Bosham, pattering beside him on a monkish little mule. ‘This realm lacks competent magnates, Herbert, that’s the real trouble. The best Normans rode south to Italy, where they could be free of all government; only the second-rate followed Duke William. As a result they lay too many duties on the Archbishop. I must rule the Church in the greater part of England, which is a full occupation for a busy man; at the same time I am expected to be in constant attendance on the King. Whenever he holds a Council I must be there, lest my successors lose their rightful place as the first magnates of the realm. We have nothing of importance to discuss at this Council, and yet I must go, neglecting the plans I had made for the due celebration of Advent; just because all great decisions must be ratified by my seal. Well, Henry is even busier than I am, but it only proves once again that one man can’t govern both Church and realm. You might remind me to make that point if the King tries again to encroach on my rights. But I don’t think there will be an opening for a speech ranging over general affairs. What exactly are we called on to decide?’
‘Only quite ordinary questions, things that come up time after time. The Abbey of St. Albans seeks to be placed immediately under the control of the Pope; the Curia has agreed, but the Abbot very sensibly desires a formal grant from the King’s Council. I presume you will support him, my lord?’
‘If the Curia agrees I have no option. It is a good principle, though only too often control from Rome means no control at all. However, I haven’t forgotten that I supported the Abbot of Battle on the same point. But that is not exactly a question that comes up time after time. I suppose you were thinking of some other matter?’
‘The Archbishop of York seeks a clear-cut definition of his rights and privileges, from the King in person. Thus in the future unedifying disputes will be averted.’ Herbert looked primly down his nose.
‘Aha, so Roger’s at it again! The trouble is, he despises me as a man. He served with me in the household of Archbishop Theobald, and he invented the silly nickname that has stuck to me ever since. Nothing will make him admit that he is inferior to me in dignity. But he’s a trained clerk. He will argue and dispute and perhaps offer bribes; but when a definite decision arrives from Rome he will obey it.’
Thomas fell silent, thinking of all the trouble Archbishop Roger had caused him, and would cause him in future. The government of the Church in England had been frozen into a very queer pattern, for historical reasons that were now out of date. Once each petty Saxon Kingdom had enjoyed its own Bishop; as the Kingdoms coalesced the number of Bishoprics had diminished, until now they were too few. The last two Kingdoms of any importance had been Wessex and Northumbria. With the supremacy of Wessex had come a vague supremacy of Canterbury over York, though both remained Metropolitan; one was Primate of England, the other Primate of All England. In short, their relationship did not make sense. But it was not for Thomas, temporary holder of a great office which would continue after his death, to diminish the power entrusted to him. The Archbishop of York was Metropolitan, but he was not the equal of Canterbury. So it must remain, and the less Roger’s power was analysed the better.
Besides, there was something flighty about Roger. He had a good mind, and he lived a godly life, causing no scandal. But he despised everyone less intelligent or less highly born than himself, which meant that he despised the greater part of the human race; he lived in great luxury; and he thought too much of the King’s favour. These last faults might be imputed to Thomas, but that made him all the more aware of them in Roger.
7. Clarendon
At Westminster on the Ist of October 1163 all the Bishops of England were present; but though the business before the meeting was chiefly ecclesiastical it was a meeting of the King’s Council, and the clerks were outnumbered by lay magnates. The King presided in person, seated on the throne at the end of the great hall built by Rufus.
The meeting opened soon after sunrise, to allow for a long session before the light faded. Thomas had warned the Bishops to say their Masses early, and when they took their places they had all breakfasted. It was a well-known trick, in these mixed gatherings of clerks and laity, for the lay magnates to bring snacks in their wallets, keeping the proceedings going until fasting clerks gave in through sheer hunger. But the early Masses were noticed, as a warning that the Council might be contentious. Thomas regretted his precaution when he saw that Henry was already in a bad temper.
The first business was the exemption of St. Albans. There was little opposition, but a too-ingenious monk of the community insisted on going into precedents, and Henry took a keen interest in the authorities cited: this had been done on the authority of our lord the Pope, but that on the authority of our lord the King of England. To a legal mind it was a glorious confusion; Pope and King seemed to have held equal and concurrent jurisdiction in every ecclesiastical question of the last hundred years.
After the Abbot of St. Albans had been granted his franchise there was a pause before Archbishop Roger opened his plea. The Archbishop of York was behaving correctly, Thomas was pleased to note. He had come to the meeting in cope and mitre, the full vestments of his rank, for this was a state occasion that demanded full dress. But no cross was borne before him, as was the privilege of most Archbishops; the Archbishop of York, in virtue of his undefined inferiority to Canterbury, was not permitted to display his cross outside his own northern Province. He made a seemly reverence to the crucifix which topped the cross of Canterbury, and embraced his rival. Thomas felt safe whenever an occasion called for a display of good manners, since he knew his manners were as good as Pevensey could make them; it was only when great men began to lose their tempers that he felt at a disadvantage. His rage was so strong that he dared not allow it to wake, and he found it a trial to remain calm and smiling while others shouted and banged on the table.
While everyone waited for Roger to introduce the advocate who would advance his plea the King suddenly took a hand in the proceedings. He rose to his feet (a nuisance, for etiquette compelled all others to stand also), and spoke in a loud voice to the whole company.
‘In judging the plea of the venerable Abbot of St. Albans we have heard much of the ancient custom of the realm of England. In accordance with this ancient custom we decided in his favour. Yet there were voices raised against us, though they were overborne by argument. It is a very shocking thing to disregard the ancient custom of the land. We did not make it, and, unless we obtain the consent of every free man in England, we cannot alter it.’
He looked at Thomas, standing to the full extent of his enormous height, splendid in cope and mitre, with the pallium of Metropolitan authority dangling on his breast. The King’s malicious smile reminded his old comrade of the armoury from which he had drawn that argument concerni
ng the unalterable nature of the Law of England.
The King continued, his cheeks red and fingers twitching, signs that he was making ready to overcome any disagreement of his councillors.
‘The ancient custom must stand; and the ancient custom was best enforced during the reign of my grandfather, whose peace was the strongest England has ever known. Therefore I propose that, before we go any further, all my councillors here present swear to uphold that ancient custom. First I shall ask the opinion of my knights and lay magnates.’
There was a roar of agreement from the laymen, who held their land by ancient custom, and disliked any change. Besides, they could guess what was coming next, and they looked forward to the humiliation of these haughty Bishops.
‘Now I ask the same of my spiritual councillors. My lord of Canterbury, you are learned in the law. Will you be the first of my Bishops to give adherence to the ancient custom of England, as it was in the reign of my grandfather?’
Many thoughts raced through Thomas’s head. First came resentment at an old friend who should spring this proposal on him without warning, as though deliberately to make him look foolish. Then his legal training warned him not to commit himself without careful study; King Henry I had reigned for thirty-five years, and it would be dangerous to approve everything he had done. Then, as he was about to open his mouth, he saw the next point standing clear, as he had seen the end of an involved argument while he thought on his feet in the schools of Paris long ago. Even if the custom of England were the best code of laws conceivable in a fallen world, that did not matter; it rested on the authority of the King, and for the Church to acknowledge it would mean the submission of the Church to lay control.
‘My lord,’ he said firmly, speaking distinctly that all might hear, ‘your grandfather was a great King, who kept good peace as I remember. But the clergy, who are ruled by God and His Vicar the Pope, may not swear to abide by the customs of any King.’
From time to time that needed saying; though it was an obvious truism, with which, after reflection, every Christian must agree.
Without reflection Henry would not agree to it. Thomas saw he was working up one of his famous rages. He had not seen him behave so since the lawsuit at Colchester, and the reason was the same; Henry had been reminded that there was a power above the temporal lord.
Thomas continued to think on his feet. Henry in a rage might do literally anything. Obviously he had summoned this Council with malice in his heart, or he would have discussed his surprising proposal in private beforehand. It was unfair to call on the Bishops of England to commit themselves, unprepared, to such a far-reaching agreement. The unfairness was so evident that no one would blame him for using guile to turn aside the King’s wrath. Well, there was a formula, known to all lawyers, which met the case; it might mean anything or nothing, but then so might the King’s claim to enforce a custom which his oldest councillor could not remember.
After a pause Thomas continued: ‘My lord, this land has been Christian for more than five hundred years. Its customs should be Christian customs, though I, a Norman, cannot be expected to know all of them. Nevertheless, for the sake of peace, and to prevent a conflict which might overturn the secular authority (as the authority of King Stephen was overturned after he had persecuted the Bishop of Salisbury), I will swear to follow your custom, saving of course the rights of my order.’
King Henry turned purple, while the Bishops of Winchester and London, trained clerks who could appreciate every nuance of the speech, smiled in delighted recognition of Thomas’s thrusts. It was necessary to bring the exchange to a close, before the King bellowed some absurd threat from which he could not withdraw. Bishop Henry of Winchester stepped quickly into the breach. Ceremoniously he swept up to the foot of the throne. ‘I also will abide by the old custom of the first King Henry, the ancient custom of England,’ said he, ‘and I also make this reservation: saving the rights of my order.’
Every Bishop made the same promise, with the same reservation; except Hilary of Chichester, who hung back as though trying to make an independent decision. At last he swore also; but instead of the usual reservation he said he swore ‘in good faith’, a phrase strange to lawyers. The King did not know whether to take this as an amendment in his favour, or as a stronger expression of dissent.
By this time everyone had forgotten the next business, the claim of York to independence. The King was in a fury. He strode from his place, glaring at the Bishops; when he had left the magnates looked at one another, uncertain whether the Council was in fact ended.
The Bishop of Winchester was less flustered than his colleagues. A gallant knight, a holy monk, a King’s brother, he could not be disgraced and he did not fear death. He spoke mildly:
‘I take it, my lords, that the Council is terminated. The King may be unwell, or he may have been called away by urgent business. Let us disperse to our lodgings, until we are summoned to the next Council. Since the lay magnates are in full accord with the King they obviously have no more to discuss. But I noticed some difference of opinion among my episcopal brethren. I invite you, my lords, to meet again in my lodging over the river.’
Then he sat quietly, his lips moving as he got through his daily office, until a servant announced that his horse was waiting.
That evening, in his great town-house across the river from London, he faced an excited gathering of men who screeched and chattered to shake him from his calm. Thomas alone said nothing, because he could not trust himself to speak; he did not know whether that morning he had surrendered the liberty of the Church by his improvised submission, or whether he had insulted the King so gravely that there could be no forgiveness. That was one of his handicaps; if a telling phrase came into his mind he could not keep it to himself. He was always more anxious to win the debate than to convince his adversary.
Bishop Henry, however, was all praise for his behaviour. Thomas was Metropolitan, and Bishop Henry a stickler for form; but it was absurd for a middle-class man of forty-five to exact continual deference from an elderly royal prince; after a short contest of politeness the Archbishop and his most important suffragan sat side by side in a window, where they could talk privately.
‘You did well in a tight corner, my lord,’ began the elder man. ‘It was discourtesy in the King to open such a grave matter without warning. Your assent “saving the rights of our order” means nothing at all, but it was wiser than a blunt refusal. My only regret is that you included what sounded like a threat, which by the way was not wholly accurate. My unfortunate brother died King of England, for all that he oppressed the Church until I thought it my duty to oppose him. Though perhaps if the whole Church were united we could overthrow a King.’ He glanced across the hall at Gilbert of London.
‘Gilbert made the same reservation,’ answered Thomas. ‘He feels ill-used, and that is in a way reasonable. He would be a better Archbishop than I am. But Cluny trained him in obedience. He will never disobey the command of his lawful superior, however unworthy.’
‘Gilbert will never fall into the sin of canonical disobedience, though if he advises your adversaries his plans will be hard to circumvent. However, our real danger, if you will pardon a warlike metaphor, is not that our knights will desert to the other side, but that through fear they may flee before the onset.’
To Thomas this was a new idea, for he had never been afraid in his life; neither had Bishop Henry, but during the civil war he had seen fear in others. Now he looked hard at Bishop Hilary of Chichester. ‘That’s a frightened man,’ he murmured. ‘He will do anything to escape death, and certainly he will not risk his life in your cause. He cannot look at you without seeing the Abbot of Battle grinning in triumph over your shoulder.’
‘Young Henry lost his temper this morning,’ Thomas replied easily, ‘but he won’t do anything rash. I know him. He’ll kick and scream and bite the blankets on his bed. But the crown of England is very dear to him; he will never imperil it.’
‘Don’t
take my word alone,’ the older man persisted. ‘Collect the opinions of our colleagues.’
Thomas was surprised to find many Bishops truly frightened. After all, as William of Norwich pointed out, the King’s father had castrated the Bishop of Seez and all his chapter. That showed what an Angevin might do when his blood was up. The Bishop of Norwich was a holy and elderly monk, who constantly regretted the unsought promotion which had torn him from the cloister; he considered every layman capable of any wickedness; if they had not been wicked they would have become monks. He protested that he was indifferent to personal risk; but in the interest of the realm as a whole they must not tempt the King into the grievous sin of sacrilege.
Bishop Hilary of Chichester raised another point, and a sound one as far as it went. He had been trained in the Roman Curia, and he always thought first of the temporal interests of the Holy See. He reminded Thomas that only two Kings of the first rank supported the rightful pontiff. Alexander III, living in exile under the protection of King Louis of France, was financially dependent on revenues remitted by the King of England. While Italy and the Empire acknowledged the usurped sway of the anti-Pope it would be disastrous if the Church picked a quarrel with King Henry.
Since his consecration Thomas had neglected foreign policy. Now he remembered with a start that even a good cause may need the help of unworthy allies. At Tours he had met Pope Alexander, and he guessed that the Holy Father would be less concerned with his revenue than with the upholding of a great principle. Even so, a good Papalist should not manoeuvre the Pope into a position where he must make unwelcome decisions.
Next morning the Bishops learned that the King had left London, riding no man knew whither; he might even now be raising an army to harry their lands, or sending envoys to transfer the allegiance of England to the anti-Pope. Even Henry of Winchester begged Thomas to make peace at once, on the best terms he could, before great harm came to all the souls in his care.
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