‘No,’ said Richer firmly, assuming the pompous expression of an elder statesman instructing a younger colleague, ‘Thomas came out of it badly. It was the wrong kind of point to make before the King’s Council. We are none of us lawyers, thank God; just simple warriors advising our King as every landowner must advise his lord. When Thomas explained that the King had forgotten to withdraw grants made during pleasure I saw the Archbishop for the first time as a lawyer, a wily debater from the schools of Paris. A clerk trained in Paris might very well cheat a simple bluff warrior like King Henry.’
‘Simple bluff warrior my foot!’ Reginald answered crudely. ‘If you ever dispute with the King about money I advise you to hire the best lawyer you can find. Even then he may prove that your horse is rightly his, and send you home on foot.’
All the same, I am sorry,’ said Richer with a melancholy sigh. ‘I used to think of Thomas as a brave knight, now I see him only as a clever attorney. And I’m not alone. There are other lords who will recognize that perhaps he’s too clever by half, too clever to be a worthy Archbishop. I wish it was all over. This has been a beastly embarrassing day.’
It had been an embarrassing day for everyone except the two principals in the dispute, who were each so convinced of his own righteousness that he had no time to consider his dignity. The King showed himself petty and vindictive, but the Archbishop was disingenuous in claiming that he could fetch from Canterbury accounts he had never bothered to keep.
Richer de l’Aigle was pleased to find eager listeners for long stories of his youth. Yes, he had known the Archbishop since he was so high; he had taught him to joust, and to fly a hawk, with the other accomplishments of a gentleman. You would never guess that his father had been a mere burgess of London, would you? With really uncanny foresight he had known, when he first saw Thomas in his father’s shop in Cheapside, that this was destined to be a very great lord; if Thomas now displayed good manners it was entirely due to the unselfish teaching of the lord Richer. Then followed the story of his miraculous preservation from the millrace, with other anecdotes of a remarkable childhood. But when asked what he thought would be the outcome of this quarrel between the rulers of Church and Realm the lord Richer refused to prophesy; all he would say, and he said it frequently, hoping it would reach the ears of the King, was that it was no use trying to frighten Thomas. But then everyone who knew the Archbishop knew that already.
The Archbishop was not frightened, but he was a little troubled in his conscience. In a dispute over the rights of the Church a clerk had only to stand firm, to the death if need be; in the next world, if not in this, he would be proved right. But here was a dispute about his financial policy as Chancellor, at a time when he had been only a deacon; he might perhaps be at fault. Whatever happened, the King would seize the chattels of Canterbury. Perhaps, to bring peace to the Church, he ought to acknowledge his fault. It was unfortunate that he had answered the King so hotly, but when he heard Henry’s sneering reproaches he remembered only that he had been trained in debate in the sternest school in the world, Paris; and he gave as good as he got. That oblique reminder that Henry had stolen the crown of England from his own mother was especially unforgivable, because unanswerable. For if he claimed by descent from the Empress, while she lived her claim must be better than his. On Saturday morning the Archbishop held a meeting of his trusted advisers in the guest-chamber of the Priory of St. Andrew, where he lodged. Today he would not attend the court in person; he would negotiate only through envoys, who would not be tempted to insult the King to his face.
All the Bishops crowded into the guest-chamber, and all approved his plan to keep out of the King’s way. But if this Council were ever to end there must be some definite act of reconciliation or apology; otherwise Henry would rake up another breach of the Law as soon as the last had been purged. Though no one really knew the whole Law of England in all its archaic and superstitious ramifications, he knew enough of it to put in the wrong any magnate who had offended him.
What was the best way to win the King’s forgiveness? Bishop Henry of Winchester had his answer: they must buy it. In his view the King did not really care about the punishment of criminous clerks, the ostensible ground of the quarrel. But the King received the chattels of convicted felons, and what he disliked in the claims of the Church was that a clerical felon convicted in a Church court did not part with his chattels to anyone. Accordingly Bishop Henry began to reckon up how much money all the Bishops of the Province could raise as a peace-offering; even Gilbert of London, who attended the conference as an almost open representative of the other side, offered to contribute. But Thomas forbade it. He pointed out that the King had already seized the chattels of Canterbury, and would probably find an excuse to confiscate the two thousand marks Bishop Henry had put up as bail. He must not be incited to rob the whole Church in England; as he would be if they tried to buy his good will.
Bishop Henry suddenly remembered the solemn release from all secular obligations that the Young King had pronounced on the occasion of Thomas’s election. Thomas objected that at the time he had still been Chancellor, intending to continue in office; the release had been a graceful gesture, but in the last analysis meaningless. Still, if the King were willing to end this undignified quarrel, here was an excellent opportunity for him to save his face. It might be worth trying. The Bishops, without Thomas, rode the few hundred yards from St. Andrews to the castle.
Thomas knew he had committed a grave breach of the Law by refusing to appear in the case of John the Marshal. He could not give a convincing reason for such pointless contumacy, which had of course entailed his conviction. He had been ill, so ill that he did not feel equal to arguing before a hostile tribunal; but he had not asked for an adjournment on grounds of ill-health, though such an adjournment was usually granted. In truth, as he now realized, he had grown tired of struggling to keep the peace. At Woodstock and Clarendon he had bowed to injustice for the sake of peace. But since then the course of events had shown that the King would never live in peace with him. It was better to bring the quarrel to a head.
But if he was glad that the lists were drawn for a pitiless encounter between King and Archbishop, he realized that in the whole of England only King and Archbishop were eager to carry on the quarrel. The Bishop of Winchester was anxious to buy peace with all he possessed. The Bishop of London had broken the united ranks of the hierarchy because he did not wish the Church as a whole to be committed to this quarrel. As for the lay magnates, the whole world knew they would eagerly endorse any compromise put before them. If Henry would be content with peace, victory, and the chattels of Canterbury, it was his duty to yield as gracefully as he could.
He was relieved when the Bishops rode back, to announce that the King refused to recognize the release granted by his son. He was within his rights, for the formula had been meaningless. Now it was open war, and Gilbert of London had at last openly joined the enemies of his Metropolitan. For Gilbert, proud of his wit, had been unable to suppress a wounding impromptu; though he knew very well that the matter of the old release had been brought up only to save the King’s face, and that Thomas himself did not take it seriously, he had flashed out in open Council, before all the lay magnates of England: ‘The Archbishop of Canterbury thinks episcopal consecration absolves from debt, as baptism absolves from sin. As a theologian, I deny it.’
Here was all the excuse Henry needed to refuse the proposal; the Bishops could get no better terms than an adjournment until next Monday. On that day Thomas must produce his accounts, or admit that he was again at the King’s mercy.
Still the Bishop of Winchester had not abandoned hope of a settlement. His new proposal recognized that there could be no peace between Thomas and Henry, and sought only to leave the Church in general outside the dispute. He wanted Thomas to resign his See, going into exile as a titular Archbishop. Then his successor might settle the question of clerical felons without the handicap of the King’s animosity.
/> There was much to be said for this scheme. In his imagination Thomas saw a distinguished Confessor, an Archbishop exiled from his See, travelling as a poor scholar from Paris, by way of Chartres and Salerno, to Bologna; the clergy greeted him in every city, and he was invited to lecture in every school; he would enjoy leisure, dignity, and the sympathy of educated Christendom. But he saw farther; he saw a procession of ex-Metropolitans, compelled by precedent to resign as soon as they disagreed with their secular lords, crossing the Channel by every tide. If the Archbishopric of Canterbury were to be held at the King’s pleasure, like the Honour of Berkhamstead, the Church would be wholly subject to the lay power.
He refused to resign, even at the entreaty of the Bishop of Winchester. Bishop Henry dwelt on the terrible conditions of Christendom, and the danger that the exiled Pope might lose his wealthiest supporter; he reminded his lord that the first duty of a Bishop is to save souls, and that to continue on a course which must bring Interdict and Excommunication to all England might be regarded as a betrayal of trust. But Thomas stood firm. He would suffer persecution without resistance; but Henry must know, without a shadow of excuse, that the man he persecuted was the Archbishop of Canterbury.
By Sunday morning every magnate in the realm, clerical or lay, was searching for a formula to avert the breach. Unless a formula was found the Council must give judgment on Monday, and then every suitor would have to support one party or the other. That was what they all dreaded. For the division between clerk and lay was anything but clear cut; the Justiciar’s brother was Abbot of Battle, the Bishop of Winchester was born a great lord; everywhere the contest would sunder families and friends. For that matter, the lay magnates were decent practising Christians, who would be reluctant to follow their lord to the point of excommunication. If only a formula could be found!
As he said Mass that Sunday Thomas was assailed by a conviction of sin. Here in Northampton were assembled the great men of the realm; all were ardent for peace, save the two greatest of them. Henry and Thomas alone sought conflict; which seemed to put the Archbishop in the same class as the angry and sinful King.
Thomas knew he had a quick temper. So far he had kept it reasonably well, by the cowardly expedient of staying away from his enemy; a more saintly Archbishop might have apologized so humbly that the King’s wrath was appeased. As instigator of the quarrel he must be at fault. But when he considered the matter more calmly he could see no way of conceding with honour all the points at issue. As for the simple question of his accounts as Chancellor, he would not seek to defend himself. But his real offence was that he was Archbishop and would not resign, and there he knew he was in the right. All the same, at St. Andrews he was in a minority of one, and the fear that his obstinacy might be obstructing a peaceful settlement set his heart pounding against his ribs.
On Monday morning he stumbled through his Mass, with a headache and a pain in his breast. At breakfast he collapsed through sheer nervous exhaustion, and was put to bed by the Infirmarian. The Bishops rode once more to the castle, and after some argument (for Henry of course suspected an excuse to delay an inevitable conviction) won a further adjournment of a single day.
Until vespers the sickbed of the Archbishop was the focus of a weighty and wordy conference. Every Bishop and Abbot in Northampton called there at one time or another to discuss the chance of peace. Most of them hoped to persuade him to resign; all dreaded an open breach between King and Church, though if the battle-lines were formed they would follow their spiritual leader. Thomas lay on a low pallet, tortured by pain, the result of overstretched nerves. He had done nothing morally wrong, though he had fallen foul of the Law of the land; but these pompous shepherds of souls took it for granted that the quarrel was entirely his fault, and that it was his duty, by abject apology and crushing financial payment, to win King Henry into a reasonable frame of mind.
At sunset the pain left him. He felt an access of energy, mingled with irritation at the merely expedient advice he had been hearing all day. He longed to tell these silly old cowards to go away and look after their revenues, since they thought more of the prosperity of the Church than of her honour. But he remembered that he must above all things keep his temper; he explained that he desired to meditate, with no companion except his confessor. That seemed a most proper resolve from an Archbishop in trouble with the Law, and even the Bishop of Winchester, who assumed that everyone, on every occasion, would be glad of his advice, withdrew with the other visitors.
Alone with Prior Robert, Thomas raised himself on his elbow and spoke straight to the point: ‘Have I sinned against King Henry? If I have, how shall I make restitution?’
Prior Robert was a tough, middle-aged monk, who never compromised with the world into which duty had called him; he made time to say his whole office every day, and lived, by himself, the regular life of an Augustinian Canon. All day he had sat in a corner over his breviary, hearing what was said but taking no part in the discussion. His answer was as direct as the question.
‘You have not sinned against King Henry, and you are not called on to make restitution. The Council may find you guilty of a breach of the law; but what you have broken is a penal regulation. Anyone may break a penal law without sin, provided he is willing to pay the penalty.’
‘Then what is your advice?’
‘You have heard advice all day, probably more than is good for you. Why do you seek more from me, who can tell you nothing of politics?’
‘I don’t want your views on politics. I want the moral counsel of my confessor. What shall I do in court tomorrow?’
‘You have a choice. You may yield to the King. If you crawl abjectly enough, and pay enough money, he will forgive you. And you will not be doing anything that I, your confessor, can pronounce sinful. But,’ and he waved a horny thumb to emphasize his point, ‘if you wish to serve God as a good knight serves his lord, joyfully doing more than your bare duty, you will defend the liberties of Canterbury, defying the King even in his strong castle.’
‘And that’s what I’ll do, old comrade. It can’t be more frightening than jousting against Engelram de Trie. I shall ride to the castle and defy them all. By the way, whose feast falls tomorrow? I hope he is a saint who will lend me courage.’
‘St. Edward of England, King and Confessor,’ Robert answered with a sardonic smile. He was Norman enough to feel some dislike of the newly canonized Saxon. ‘A very meek man, though holy. Not perhaps the most inspiring patron of a perilous enterprise.’
‘Then I shall say a votive Mass. What patron do you suggest?’
‘Let me see. What about St. Stephen, the first martyr? He spoke fearlessly in the council of the Jews, as you intend to speak fearlessly in the Council of England.’
‘That’s it, my dear Robert. Tell the sacristan to put out crimson vestments. St. Stephen will fortify my courage. My mind is made up! No more compromise, no more politics! They can’t do more than kill me; and I must one day die and face the Judgment, though King Henry were my loving friend.’
‘True enough,’ answered Robert calmly. ‘But if you provoke them you tempt them to the sin of sacrilege. Your duty is to make the magnates of England behave as Christians, instead of going about the place threatening Archbishops. You should ride to the castle in all your state, to remind them what manner of man they are judging.’
‘Leave that to me,’ Thomas said eagerly. ‘I shall plan my appearance in court as I planned the famous embassy to Paris. The world will remember the visit of the Archbishop of Canterbury to King Henry in Northampton castle.’
Early on Tuesday morning the Bishops of England assembled at the Priory to escort their lord to the castle. But the Archbishop of York, with his single suffragan, might go straight to court, since he owed no obedience to Canterbury. The Bishops were poorly attended and simply dressed, for they hoped by a show of humility to turn away the King’s wrath.
They were informed that the Archbishop had risen early from his sickbed, and was alread
y saying his Mass. They at once set off for the chapel, to join in the prayers of their lord. But as they reached the side-altar where Thomas celebrated they halted in amazement. They themselves had said the Mass of St. Edward, in the white vestments appropriate to his feast; but their Archbishop was vested in the crimson of a martyr. He had already said the Introit, by which these veteran clergy could recognize any Mass, and they did not understand what he was at until he read the proper Gospel. ‘Ut veniat super vas omnis sanguis justus qui effusus est super terram,’ he thundered, and his voice took on a tone of triumph a moment later, ‘Ecce relinquetur vobis domus vestra deserta!’ (That upon you may come all the righteous blood shed upon the earth … Behold your house is left unto you desolate.)
‘God save us,’ whispered William of Norwich. ‘He expects martyrdom this very day!’
‘He exaggerates,’ replied Henry of Winchester. ‘They say that when he entered Paris on that embassy he looked more like a jongleur than a statesman; today he thinks more of appearing as a splendid figure of defiance than of the welfare of the Church. But he has great need of our prayers. Let us kneel.’
When Mass was finished and Thomas went to breakfast the Bishops were relieved to discover that he was not at all angry. Neither was he frightened. Only Bishop Henry, recalling the struggles of the civil war, recognized his mood. That controlled exaltation, that glittering eye and slightly shaking hand, were the marks of a brave knight about to charge in a doubtful battle.
Before the Bishops could disperse Thomas called them before him. He sat on a little stool, munching bread and honey; but he made it clear that this was a formal council, and that he was giving orders to men subject to his obedience.
‘I am Metropolitan of Canterbury, and I am within my Province,’ he began, sweeping the little group with a steady eye. ‘It may be that before I leave Northampton some layman may sacrilegiously use force against the person of his Archbishop. As you know, such a crime brings instant excommunication. But perhaps not every layman knows as much. I therefore command that any of you who should witness the wicked deed shall at once pronounce public sentence of excommunication, as I shall myself if I am permitted to speak. You have heard my formal command; if you disobey it you commit the sin of schism.’
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