While half his mind had fallen into the old groove of bantering talk with his dear friend Henry, Thomas felt below the surface a nagging warning. ‘That embrace was not the Kiss of Peace,’ it said. ‘It was something very like it, and this is an occasion when the Kiss might have been expected. But Henry did not grant it. He is not truly your friend.’
This was disappointing, for he had yielded without haggling, thinking only of friendship. He was still surprised at his own sudden change of front, but common sense told him it had been the only course left. He had never expected to gain every point in dispute; in no Christian realm were clerks completely beyond the jurisdiction of lay courts, and there must always be some check on appeals from Canterbury to Rome. He had struggled for five years to make Henry see that the Church was not a mere department of the realm, and to save the soul of his old friend from the deadly sin of Pride. If he could have forced him to yield he would have been assured of his salvation. But since the Pope no longer supported his Archbishop he could never make Henry yield; so he himself must surrender. For peace on any terms was better than unending strife which tempted great men to sin and left the Church in England leaderless. In the cause of friendship someone’s pride must be sacrificed; it would have to be his own.
Henry was making things easy for him, seeming genuinely anxious that between them they should rule England as it ought to be ruled. He had hardly mentioned the coronation of young fitzHenry when the King began eagerly to explain it away. ‘I know that you, and you alone, have the right to crown a King of England. My dear Thomas, if I had known you were about to return to your allegiance I would have waited for you. But I was in a hurry. My son is fifteen, and unless he is crowned there would be another civil war if I dropped dead tomorrow. On the worst construction, I took only what was offered to me unasked. The real culprit is the Archbishop of York.’
‘Who still remembers me as the gawky and undignified Bailhache?’
‘Exactly. He offered to crown the lad, and it seemed absurd that I should refuse my heart’s desire on a minor point of religious etiquette. I was guided by the counsel of an Archbishop, as in future I shall be guided by your counsel. There’s nothing wrong in that, is there? As a matter of fact we can put all to rights, and quite soon too. My daughter-in-law was not crowned with her husband, and King Louis threatens to ravage the Vexin in revenge for the slight on her dignity. I must make amends, and the simplest way is to hold the coronation all over again. Next spring both children can be crowned together, by you, the Archbishop whose right it is to crown the Kings of England. It will make a good excuse for another great feast in Westminster Hall.’
‘Of course I will be glad to crown them, unless the Pope forbids it. There is no reason why he should, but you may remember that Archbishop Theobald was forbidden to crown Eustace fitzStephen.’
‘He was the son of a usurper. I already have the Pope’s permission for the coronation of my son.’
Henry answered sharply. Of course there could be no doubt that his son had been crowned with papal approval; Thomas was going out of his way to remind him that if a conflict should arise on any other question Canterbury would support Rome. He envied the Emperor his jewel of an Archbishop of Cologne; how useful to have a Primate who followed his sovereign into schism with uncomplaining loyalty! But Thomas was looking very old and worn. He would not last long. Yet before he died the quarrel must be ended; so that a peaceful election, with every opportunity for royal pressure, should provide an amenable successor to lead the English Church.
‘I do not blame you in the slightest, my dear lord,’ Thomas continued with an irritating plodding forbearance which carried a hint of patronage; as though to say one should not expect anything better from a King. ‘As you say, you took what York offered, thankfully and without inquiry. But I blame Archbishop Roger, and the Bishops who assisted him. They knew they were doing wrong.’
‘I expect they will apologize, when they see you restored to power. Can’t you overlook their fault, at least for the present? This is supposed to be a joyful reconciliation. Threats of punishment are ill-timed.’
‘Then complete the reconciliation with the Kiss of Peace. Come on, Henry, I suppose you fear your courtiers will despise you for changing your mind after you vowed you would never grant me the Kiss. But I have surrendered all the principles for which I endured a long exile. Won’t you give your dignity just the slightest bruise?’
‘Perhaps, one of these days. I can’t bring myself to do it here and now. Let’s talk of other things. What do you think of my new gyrfalcon?’
They rode side by side, talking as they had talked when Henry was a young untried ruler and Thomas his Chancellor and tutor in the art of government. But Henry was now a grown man, who for six years had ruled his realm single-handed; Thomas’s patronizing manner began to ruffle his nerves. And each had in his mind one overmastering thought which might not be uttered. Henry felt singing through his brain that unworthy hope: ‘Thomas is a sick man, Canterbury will soon be vacant.’ Thomas heard an interior voice repeating: ‘Henry will not grant me the Kiss. He is not really my friend.’
On the 26th of November 1170 the Archbishop of Canterbury took counsel with his clerks in the little Norman seaport of Wissant. He was lodged in a decent stone house, the requisitioned property of a rich burgess, where there was a solar, snug and dry with windows of oiled silk, an excellent place for such a meeting. He was once more living in comfort, now that he had the resources of King Henry at his back; though it was unfortunate that the clerk in charge of his travelling arrangements should be John of Oxford, who had incurred his special excommunication by swearing obedience to the anti-Pope at Wurtzburg. However, John steadfastly denied that he had in fact sworn obedience, and the choice of such an unsuitable courier might be evidence only of Henry’s carelessness, not of his spite.
The Archbishop’s household were madly excited at the prospect of returning to their homes and benefices, and anxious to return in a friendly manner. It was impossible to disguise that they were returning in defeat, defeated because the Pope was tired of their leader’s obstinacy; in England they would be at King Henry’s mercy, and it seemed only common sense to give as little trouble as possible. If they wanted to stand up for their rights, reckless of consequences, then they had no business to be waiting here for a passage home.
But Thomas saw matters differently. Foremost in his mind, as he sat in his chair at the head of the table, was the knowledge that he had never received from King Henry the Kiss of Peace, though he had delayed from July to October to obtain it.
In itself the ceremony meant very little; Henry had sworn to be his friend, and an oath on the True Cross could not bind him more firmly than his word of honour. But it was obvious that Henry had a superstitious regard for the actual physical Kiss. If only he could be induced to grant it he would in future bear himself as a loyal son of the Church.
But Thomas could not extract the Kiss from him, even by sharp practice. Six weeks ago he had appeared uninvited in the chapel of the King’s castle at Amboise just before Henry was due to hear his morning Mass. That should have done the trick; for ritual demanded that the celebrant, at the words Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum, should bestow the Kiss of God’s Peace on the most eminent member of the congregation, who on this occasion would be Henry himself; then Henry must pass on the Kiss to the second in dignity, who in this company would be the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Kiss was what mattered, not the intention behind it; and Henry would be trapped into friendship.
The King had been warned before the Mass started, and the quick brain of the royal chaplain found a way out, at the cost of doing violence to the Ordo for the day. It was the 12th of October, the Feast of St. Wilfred of York, a famous English saint; but the chaplain ignored him, and sang instead a Mass of Requiem, at which the blessing takes a different form and no Kiss is given. When Mass was over Thomas rode away without seeking a private interview. He saw that the refusal was final, and that he
would never receive the Kiss.
His mind was made up. The King was still his enemy, but he asked his Archbishop to return to England. The Pope also desired it, and in fact it held out the only hope of peace for the Church. So he would return. He would take no steps until everything had been discussed with his advisers, and he would not be the first to renew the quarrel; for if he lost his temper he might put himself in the wrong.
Now he spoke temperately, relating the damning facts without eloquence or emphasis. ‘Brethren,’ he said calmly, glancing down at his notes on the table, ‘the first problem is the return of our endowments. It would be completely wrong, and an act of dishonesty to our successors, if we returned to England in peace while the King still detains the property of the Church. Last July we were assured that our lands would be returned to us. Yet the Michaelmas rents of Canterbury have been received by Ranulf de Broc on behalf of the King. Most of my lands pay rent once a year, at Michaelmas. If I submit to this injustice I shall be penniless until next September.’
‘A dirty trick, certainly,’ said Henry of Houghton, ‘but no dirty trick is too low for King Henry when there is money at stake. We shall be cheated by the King’s officers; but our brethren who never left England are cheated by them. We must bear it as patiently as we can. What would Christendom think of us if we broke this peace, which we have sought for six years, over the question of one year’s rent?’
Henry of Houghton was the most eager of all the company to return to England. He was a learned lawyer and a skilful advocate, whose career had stood still for six years while he followed his lord from one foreign monastery to another; he was impatient to get back to his practice in the Church courts before his reputation was entirely forgotten. But he was too honourable to desert after he had once taken his stand, and he knew that if he deserted prospective clients would despise him; he could not return without his leader.
‘Yes, well, King Henry is not very honest over money; as I recall from the days of my Chancellorship, when I used to help him rob his vassals. Perhaps it is only justice that now he will keep me very poor for a year. As you say, Henry, it is not an issue on which we can appeal to public opinion. I shall endure in silence anything the King does to me.’
He emphasized the word ‘King’, and Herbert of Bosham looked up sharply, guessing what would come next.
‘But I am charged, by God Himself through His deputy the Pope, with the rule of the Christian people of my Province,’ Thomas continued. ‘It is my duty, which I may not avoid, to protect them from false shepherds who would lead them into sin. The Bishops who defied me must be punished for the part they took in the coronation of the Young King.’
‘They were in the wrong, but surely you will overlook it. Your reconciliation with the King should wipe out also any wrongful acts done by his supporters in his name.’ That was Houghton again, still pleading for peace.
‘I am prepared to overlook it,’ said Thomas with a gathering frown, ‘for according to their lights they were justified in disobeying me. The King’s party held that my authority as Archbishop was suspended during my exile. But now I am once more the first magnate of England, a loyal vassal of the King who should protect me as he protects his other vassals. Our reconciliation is known throughout England, and all the Bishops of the Province of Canterbury should know that they must obey my commands. Yet I have just heard news of a very grave nature. The message came to you, Herbert, and you will explain it. I might be carried away by my feelings.’
Herbert of Bosham coughed and looked solemn. He was wholly faithful to the Archbishop, and though he would be glad to see England at peace he did not look forward to the finish of his intimacy with his adored leader; as a monk of Canterbury he would miss the close contact with great events which had lightened his exile. The others knew that if he thought Thomas justified in continuing the struggle he would advise it without flinching.
‘Since we left England,’ he began formally, ‘five Sees have fallen vacant by the death of their Bishops. The King wished to avoid answering the awkward question whether Canterbury also stood vacant; for if there is a Metropolitan the Metropolitan presides over the consecration of a new Bishop. So these Sees remain vacant to this day. I have just learned that the King intends to fill them before we reach England. Our leader, when he resumes his duties, will be faced by five young suffragans of the King’s party, who will of course oppose him in all he does. I learned this news from a sailor, who did not understand the import of what he said. It is still most secret.’
The others craned forward. That they should have got so far as Wissant, honoured guests of King Henry, only to break off negotiations and return to exile, was more than most of them could bear.
‘Elections to the vacant Sees of Lincoln, Hereford, Chichester, Ely and Bath are to be held in Normandy, in the presence of the King. Delegations from the chapters of these cathedrals are now at his court. After election must come consecration, and the King fears that Norman Bishops will heed the Canons, and decline to consecrate Bishops for a foreign Province. So the Archbishop of York, and the Bishops of London and Salisbury are waiting at Dover for a favourable wind. As soon as may be they will cross to Normandy, and consecrate the new Bishops before our master can reach Canterbury. It was planned that we should know nothing until all was done; and the plan would have succeeded if a sailor had not gossiped to me about the distinguished company he had left waiting in Dover castle.’
There were murmurs of shocked indignation, but Henry of Houghton was still anxious for peace. ‘These Bishops do wrong, as they must know themselves. But can you, my lord, force them to their rightful obedience? Has not the Pope forbidden you to inflict any ecclesiastical punishment on your own responsibility?’
Thomas swept the clerk with frowning eyes until he blushed and wriggled. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, my dear Henry,’ he said quietly, but with a note of triumph. ‘I am glad to see you so earnest for peace, under all provocation. As you remind me, the Holy Father has suspended my disciplinary powers, I suppose because he fears my notorious lack of self-control. But he has not left me entirely helpless, for though peace is good justice is better. I have Bulls from the Pope himself, excommunicating London and Salisbury for their disobedience to me. I have also a letter which suspends Roger of York, who cannot disobey me since he is not my subject. But he is subject to Rome, like every other Christian, and in opposing me he opposes the Pope. The Holy Father gave me these sentences to publish or suppress as I thought fit, and as soon as this news is confirmed I shall publish them. On that I am decided. I seek your advice only on the question of whether after publishing them I should return to England.’
That was a desperate question, on which opinion was divided. But Thomas did not really seek the advice of his council, for he was determined to return; he had only informed them of this new development in case they themselves feared the vengeance of the King, and would prefer to remain in France. Some, if allowed to decide in private, might have chosen the course of prudence; but Herbert of Bosham took it for granted that no clerk could desert such a leader, and in the publicity of the council chamber no one had the hardihood to disagree.
In Advent the Archbishop of Canterbury excommunicated the Bishops of London and Salisbury. In the name of the Pope he also suspended the Archbishop of York. On the same afternoon he and his clerks sailed over a calm sea to England. In mid-channel they passed the ship which bore the sentenced Bishops to the elections in Normandy.
12. Defeat and Victory
The bells of Canterbury were ringing for joy, as they had rung without stopping for the last three days. But the gates were closed and the wall manned, for the sheriff of Kent had mustered the King’s vassals and at any moment civil war might begin. The vassals of Canterbury were fulfilling their elementary duty of guarding the person of their lord.
Thomas sat in his chamber, not heeding the turmoil of warlike preparations round him. After his long absence he was taking over the neglected affairs of his
Diocese with the ability and concentration of a veteran who had been both archdeacon and Chancellor.
As he tried to sum up the finances of his Church, after its long and dishonest administration by Ranulf de Broc, he was constantly interrupted. Every new vassal of Canterbury, who had inherited his fief in the last six years, sought the earliest opportunity to confirm his tenure by doing homage to his lord; messengers were riding in from every English Diocese, bearing messages of congratulation; and a deputation of the commons of London came to beg the most distinguished living Londoner to visit his native city as soon as possible. He dealt with these callers absently, for the most urgent need was to suppress Ranulf de Broc. The exreceiver of the Honour of Canterbury still held the Archbishop’s castle of Saltwood, where he had reinforced his garrison with a band of brigands led by Hugh of Horsea, the renegade clerk famous in Kent as the Evil Deacon; already his men had plundered a ship carrying the Archbishop’s baggage, and it was expected that soon they would ride out to ravage his lands.
But all business must be interrupted to receive a messenger from the King himself. Luckily the man was only a letter-carrier from the Wardrobe, not a gentleman who must be entertained and invited to a conference. Thomas answered him shortly.
‘Since the King particularly desires it, I shall release from excommunication the Bishops of London and Salisbury, who are my subjects. They must of course come before me in person, to ask pardon for their disobedience. But you may tell them that when they come they will be pardoned. The case of the Archbishop of York is different. He is not suspended by me, but by the Pope. I cannot pardon him. If he seeks pardon from Rome you may tell him that I shall beg the Pope to be merciful. That is all. My clerks will put it into writing, but you may find it quicker to inform your lord by word of mouth.’
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