‘That’s nonsense, Thomas. More than thirty years ago we sat at the same desk, and I know you well enough to contradict you to your face. The Pope holds you blameless, because in swearing to the custom you were following his instructions. That’s true, isn’t it? He does not mean that the custom is harmless. As a matter of fact he doesn’t know what it is.’
‘That’s true, but Henry has put it into writing. One day the Pope, or perhaps his successor, will read the full enormity of what Henry considers should be the custom of a Christian land. If I did not sin in swearing to it the Pope sinned gravely, in ordering me to swear.’
‘Then the Pope sinned gravely. He is not the first Pope to sin, since the day when St. Peter thrice denied his Lord. You have nothing to worry about. You only obeyed orders.’
‘I concede it,’ Thomas said gloomily, in the language of the schools. ‘Since I was carrying out the order of my lawful superior the sin cannot be put to my account. But my incompetence is more shameful than the gravest sin. Think of it! The great Thomas of London, the famous Chancellor, the skilled negotiator, the eminent lawyer, the archdeacon who judged the suits of all England! I was given a simple task, to smooth over any difference between the Pope and his faithful son King Henry, who is committed to support him against the anti-Pope. Just to make it perfectly easy I am instructed to grant Henry everything he asks, though even those Italians on the Curia know that he asks more than the Church should concede. Well, I give in, I swear away the liberties of the Church, for which St. Anselm suffered persecution, for which even poor old Theobald endured exile. And at the end, when I have lost every stake with which I began to play, the King remains a bitter enemy to Pope and Church. I was ordered to buy peace, at much too high a price. I paid the price, and there is no peace. In the most important negotiation of my career I failed ludicrously.’
Robert of Merton knew that the Archbishop was in great need of consolation, but truth was always to him more important than sympathy. ‘You failed, and you failed ludicrously,’ he assented sternly. ‘Do you know why? Because you yourself wanted war, not peace. You followed your instructions, you granted the King all he desired. Yet you did it so grudgingly that now he hates you, though not so long ago he was your friend. Do you remember Palm Sunday only last year, here in Canterbury? How the King came here specially, and how he walked beside you through the rain, though the gale had destroyed the garlands hung in the streets? Now, as I said, he hates you. All the same, you have carried out your instructions. He has the friendliest feelings for Pope Alexander. At the present moment he is probably writing to ask him to remove you from your Archbishopric. No harm has been done.’
Thomas smiled bitterly. ‘The Pope and the King are united in a common enmity to Canterbury. Perhaps I shall be remembered as a peacemaker. A queer kind of peacemaker, whose enemies make peace with one another. But at the end you went wrong, my dear Robert. At Clarendon a great deal of harm was done, not to me personally or to the strength of the Pope in his struggle with the Emperor; just harm to the ordinary obscure Christians of my Province. I must write to the Pope, pointing out what will come from these customs if they are accepted without protest from the Curia.’
‘You can’t write to the Pope without permission from the King. That is one of the customs you swore to accept.’
‘Which proves that these customs are absurd. But I will not commit further perjury just after I have been absolved for swearing to them. I myself will visit the Pope at Sens, which is handier than his usual residence; and explain my attitude to the whole Curia.’
‘You can’t do that either, without the King’s leave. No intercourse whatever with the Pope, either personally or by letter. It is all down in black and white in the Customs of Clarendon.’
‘This is schism!’ shouted Thomas. ‘Whatever I swore, the Pope remains my superior. I have not sworn myself right outside the Christian Church! I don’t know these customs as thoroughly as you, for it is a subject that repels me. But if they are as bad as you say I must warn the Pope against them.’
‘If you go, you should go secretly; otherwise the King will stop you. It is my duty as your confessor to remind you that recently you swore to obey the King.’
‘It can never be a sin to warn my lord of pressing danger; as any knight would do, though he were a prisoner released on parole.’
‘I cannot consider hypothetical cases,’ answered Robert with a smile. ‘You have sworn to obey the King. If you cross the Channel you break that oath. Whether you are justified depends on the urgency of the danger. You are the best judge of that.’
‘In other words,’ said Thomas, more cheerfully, ‘you think I ought to go secretly to the Pope. Even poor Theobald did as much, when Stephen tried to keep him from a Council. They say he actually crossed the Channel in a dinghy rowed by two fishermen. If he could cross in a rowing boat I can swim! We shall see how my faithful pirates in Romney obey the King’s orders.’
Soon after, when they separated at bed-time, Prior Robert reflected on the one curious failing of his admired master and penitent. Thomas had every accomplishment. He was a good Archbishop, a good priest, a good diplomatist, even, so they said, a good knight. But he was blind to the effect of his actions on public opinion. He had shocked and dismayed the Bishops by his abject surrender at Clarendon, when a little explanation before-hand would have prepared them for his sudden change of front. Now he was about to break a promise, in such a good cause that his act would not be sinful; but his breach of faith would shock every chivalrous knight in England. The exploit was in fact silly. He would never dare to return unless the King forgave him; and if he considered exile better than submission he might have fled to France earlier, without ever swearing to those sinful customs.
When rumour reached the King’s court that the Archbishop of Canterbury had fled oversea Henry was delighted. It was dangerous to arrest an Archbishop, in spite of the threats a King might utter in his wrath; while he remained in England it was even more difficult to silence him, without attracting public sympathy for his sufferings. Now he was oversea, and would presently be forgotten.
The lands of Canterbury must send their profits to the Treasury, as though the See were vacant; but there might also be valuable chattels in the palace, for the Archbishop had fled in haste. Three knights of the King’s household rode at once to Canterbury, to seize in the King’s name all he had left behind.
These were knights who remembered the luxury of the Chancellor, and they were eager to see how Thomas had lived when he was something even greater. Rumour spoke of servants by the hundred, and the most open-handed hospitality in Christendom. The man who demanded fresh floor-rushes daily when he was on campaign would keep an interesting palace as first vassal of the crown.
They found the city gate of Canterbury standing open and unguarded. Before they could show the King’s seal on their letter patent they had to search out a watchman. But they feared to be accused of private plunder unless their commission was known, and they insisted on reporting to the city authorities. Inside the walls it was not far to the Archbishop’s hall. Here also they rode unquestioned into the yard and dismounted unattended, without so much as a groom to run to the horses’ heads. The whole establishment was deserted. But there were no signs of plunder. King Henry kept good peace.
The knights were wet through; for the last week the weather had been foul, with driving rain and gales. They left their sodden cloaks on their tethered horses, and entered the palace in search of a fire.
Even the great door was untended, the door where daily the poor of Canterbury were marshalled to receive the leavings of the Archbishop’s lavish dinner. The screens between hall and kitchen were deserted. Only at the far end of the empty hall a smoky fire of damp wood smouldered feebly in the great chimney. As the envoys reached it they were aware of a solitary figure seated on a pile of rushes, a figure huddled in a black Augustinian gown, so still and shapeless that at first glance they had taken it for a heap of cast-off cloth
ing.
Then the figure moved its head; and the knights recognized the unmistakable Norman beak. Their leader remembered his manners; on bended knee he fumbled for the right hand of this miserable creature and raised the sacred ring to his lips.
Dully Thomas offered it, then raised his hand in a shaky gesture of blessing. His voice was a weak croak. ‘You come from the King? I see you wear his badge. I am sick; I cannot answer the King’s message. Seek my steward, in the little house across the court. In the meantime, leave me alone.’
The last sentence came out venomously, with such an undertone of hatred that the knights were glad to withdraw without warming themselves at the little heap of damp sticks which seemed to be the only fire in the place. The little house across the court was likewise deserted, but presently they found the steward of the temporalities of Canterbury, Sir William fitzNigel, drinking in a city tavern. From him they learned what had passed, and carried their message swiftly to the King.
Henry was disappointed to learn that the Archbishopric was not abandoned after all, and that the Law would not yet permit him to seize the Archbishop’s chattels. But something must turn up soon, for Thomas seemed determined to defy him.
By the beginning of September something had turned up.
8. Northampton
It was a glorious autumn day, with bright sun and a strong wind to dry the water-meadows. Showers had washed away the mist, and the red-gold woods seemed solid blocks of colour against the paler gold of the stubble. In fact it was a very good day for hawking.
Green-clad austringers beat on foot through the thorns by the river, and shaggy spaniels splashed among the reeds; a bowshot from the bank, where the grass was firm for riding, noble falconers sat chatting in the sunshine; they lounged in their padded hunting-saddles, bird on wrist, more at their ease than in any other seat. As the beaters dislodged a duck one of the lesser short-winged hawks would be loosed to pursue it, following its jinks and turns in a stern chase until the quarry escaped to cover or was caught and killed. This was not a sport you could bet on, and in fact it was not very exciting; but every courtier trained his own hawks, and took pleasure in seeing them fly better than his neighbour’s.
High overhead a gyrfalcon waited on, towering in her pride of place. King Henry, sitting easily in his saddle, half turned in conversation with that amusing young man of letters, Walter Map, occasionally glanced in her direction. Superbly trained, she hovered awaiting his signal.
Presently the spaniels put up a great cob swan. Instantly the river was alive with splashing men, frightening him away from the water. This was the real thing, the cream of the day; and it was made all the better when the gyrfalcon missed her first stoop. Each courtier gathered his reins and rammed his toes home in the stirrups; soon they were galloping over a wooded ridge, all eyes turned to the sky. The swan flew strongly, searching for the gleam of open water; while the falcon mounted for her next stoop. Then she struck, falling out of the sky at breathtaking speed, an embodiment of ruthless power; she bound to her quarry, and both came crashing to earth. Before she had opened the entrails of her prey the King arrived at a thundering gallop, and she came obediently to the lure as soon as he waved the gay little toy.
‘A model flight, young Walter,’ the King said with satisfaction. ‘All went off perfectly because my bird did as she was bid. You know, you could make a conceit out of that. The rage I inherit from my ancestors is the falcon towering in the sky, frightening but harmless until she is signalled on her quarry. She kills, but at my command. Then she comes back to me, harmless once more until I need her the next time. So it is with my rage. I am never overcome, unless I will it. Certainly I cannot control all my feelings, any more than the best falconer alive can control all the motions of his falcon. But I can order her to stop, and roughly speaking she does as I tell her.’
‘And that falcon, your rage, is always in the sky,’ answered Walter, with a glance at the towering gyrfalcon. ‘You never carry her, hooded, on your wrist, as do lesser men with their lesser hawks. When you have bound to the swan who awaits you at Northampton you will still hunt unsatisfied.’
‘You should not make Thomas a swan, unless you invoke the imaginary black swans of the poet. He was once a jay, decked in bright colours and chattering incessantly to mislead the other fowl of the forest; then he changed to a gloomy black crow …’
‘And soon he will hang upside-down from the husband-man’s snare, a scarecrow for his brethren.’ Breathlessly Walter completed the figure, glad of a chance to show off his rhetoric.
‘No, he won’t hang,’ the King answered seriously. ‘I have no right to hang an Archbishop, no matter how richly he deserves it. He shall have strict justice, the very letter of the Law. But that will be enough. After this Council he will never again trouble the peace of England.’
‘Has he put himself in the wrong, my lord?’ Walter asked vaguely. It was his pose to despise great affairs, and affect ignorance of politics. If you kept to that line you would never make dangerous enemies. ‘It’s odd if he has, for they say he is a clever lawyer.’
‘He hasn’t a leg to stand on, my boy,’ the King chuckled jovially. ‘He has refused to plead in his lord’s court, and there can be no defiance worse than that, unless he were to unfurl his banner and summon the tenants of Canterbury to ride against the King. The beauty of it is that this case has nothing to do with religion. It’s a straight denial of justice, proved on oath. No clerk can claim that such a case should be tried by Canon Law. Yet Thomas neglected to attend.’
Walter saw, even as the King spoke, that there could be a great difference between refusing to plead and neglecting to attend. The Archbishop might have a valid excuse up his sleeve, waiting to spring it on the court. But he was too wise to say anything of this to King Henry.
The King seemed disposed to hawk the length of this new stream, where the swan had been seeking refuge when the falcon caught him. Count Hamelin of Warenne, his half-brother, urged by a group of serious clerks, presumed on his relationship to ask the King to ride on. But Henry would not be hurried, even when Hamelin reminded him that the Council had been summoned to meet at Northampton on Tuesday the 6th of October, and that to-day was the 7th. He replied that it was already too late to start business today, and that it would do no harm to keep Thomas waiting two days instead of one. Even if they hawked every stream they would reach Northampton by evening.
‘Then you must do your share, my dear brother,’ he continued. ‘I shall not judge the Archbishop; if all goes well I shall not even meet him. This is a secular case, concerned with a lay fief. The suitors of my court must give judgment and pass sentence. You all dread my rage,’ he added in a burst of frankness, ‘I know that. It’s why I am so careful to keep in the background. But you must do your duty, and judge him as you would any other landholder who has broken my law. Just forget that he is an Archbishop.’
‘Brother Henry, you are my lord, and I owe suit to your court,’ the young man answered doubtfully. ‘I must do my duty, and when it comes to the point I suppose I shall. But I wish he were not an Archbishop. You ask too much in asking us to forget that.’
‘Never mind. I intend to keep my temper. In this crisis I need an unclouded judgment. I depend on you to keep your peers straight; and if a point of Church Law comes up (though it can’t) you can rely on the Bishop of London, who is as good a Canonist as Thomas. There will be nothing to frighten you.’
For the rest of the day, while they hawked most enjoyably and the gyrfalcon surpassed herself in obedience, Henry repeated to himself his vow: that whatever the rogue Thomas might do to vex him he would keep his temper.
He knew that only in self-control could his foe surpass him; in essentials Thomas resembled him, for both were sprung from the fierce Norman stock which recked nothing of odds when once battle was joined. Thomas spent most of his time performing the actions expected from an Archbishop, and Henry spent most of his time behaving as a great King should behave; but both felt
most at ease with a destrier between the legs and a lance in the right hand. Henry knew that sometimes rage could blind his judgment; he suspected that Thomas might suffer from the same defect, though so far he had never reached the bottom of his self control. The thing to do was to make him lose his temper. Perhaps it would help if he could first frighten him a little, but Henry was not sanguine that it could be done. Thomas was brave, and resolute, and clever. But underneath he was a Norman knight. If he were blinded by the red mist he might take some stand so outrageous that the Pope would be compelled to disavow him.
So next morning, Thursday the 8th of October 1164, everything was arranged to intimidate the Archbishop. The magnates of England both clerk and lay stood ranged in the great hall of Northampton castle, with the King on his throne in the midst. The first business was the hearing of the appeal of John the Marshal against his lord the Archbishop of Canterbury; a mere formality, hurried over before Thomas arrived. On the 15th of September last John the Marshal had taken oath that his lord denied him justice in the matter of the manor of Pagenham, held of the Honour of Canterbury; and the Archbishop had not answered, either in person or by a sufficient attorney. John the Marshal once more gabbled quickly through his oath, and the court waited for Thomas to arrive and make what excuse he could for his defiance. It seemed quite straightforward. Thomas must be put in the King’s mercy.
But Gilbert of London left his place to whisper in the King’s ear. ‘My lord,’ he said, bending over the throne, ‘this John is a great rogue, and his claim to the manor would fail if it were tried by the Grand Assize.’
‘What of it?’ Henry whispered back. ‘He does not charge that his lord gave judgment against him, but that his claim was not heard. That is “denial of justice”. He has taken oath on the Gospels that justice was denied to him. Every formality has been fulfilled.’
Bishop Gilbert, that skilled lawyer, felt a little nettled to hear the King explain to him the elements of feudal law. He answered in a damp and agitated whisper. ‘The forms have not been fulfilled. That rascal John never swore on the Gospels. I have been talking to him. The book he held in his hand was a collection of tropes, pointed for singing. He explains that, since he can’t read, all books look alike to him; and he was told that this Troper was the Gospel. I don’t believe it. He knew he was swearing falsely, and he thought to avoid the sin by avoiding swearing on the Gospel. If the Archbishop hears of this he can claim that the case was not properly heard, and that therefore his presence was not necessary.’
God and My Right Page 24
