by Jean Plaidy
‘And as Chancellor so he should,’ retorted the King.
‘An upstart,’ said Matilda. ‘Having been born humble he must continually let people know how noble he has become.’
‘You, my dear Mother, were born royal but I believe you never allowed any to forget your nobility.’
‘Oh, but this fellow was quite ostentatious,’ said Eleanor. ‘I have heard it said that he lived more splendidly than you ever did.’
Henry laughed indulgently. ‘He has a taste for such luxury. As you say he was not born to it but acquired it. Therefore he prized it.’
‘He has bewitched you,’ Eleanor told him.
He gave her a glance of distaste. Why did she bait him? She was jealous he knew. So she still had some feeling for him. She had disliked his friendship with Becket almost as much as she hated his love affairs.
She went on to discuss the extravagances of Becket.
‘At his banquets there must be every rarity. I heard that he paid seventy-five pounds for a dish of eels.’
‘One hears this gossip,’ said the King. ‘If Thomas was extravagant it was to do me honour. He is my Chancellor and I remember when he went to France in great state it was said that I must indeed be a wealthy man since my Chancellor travelled as he did.’
‘Clever he may be,’ said Matilda, ‘but I warn you. Make sure he is not too clever.’
‘You will see what a brilliant move this is on my part. This will be an end to the strife between Church and State.’
It was only a day or so after that conversation that Henry fell into one of the greatest rages that ever had overtaken him.
A messenger had arrived from Canterbury, bringing with him the Great Seal of Office. Henry looked at it in dismay for he began to understand what it meant. There was a letter from Thomas and as the King read it a mist swam before his eyes.
‘By God’s eyes, Thomas,’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘I could kill you for this.’
Thomas had written that he must resign his Chancellorship for he could not reconcile his two posts. The Archbishop must be quite apart from the Chancellor. Thomas had a new master. The Church.
Henry’s rage almost choked him. This was the very thing his mother had prophesied. This was the implication behind Eleanor’s sneers. He had believed in Thomas’s love for him; he had thought their friendship more important than anything else. So it had seemed to him. But not to Thomas.
He remembered Thomas’s words. It would be the end of their friendship.
Only if the Chancellor and the Archbishop were as one could Henry’s battle with the Church be won. If Thomas was going to set himself up on one side while he was on the other there would be conflict between them.
His grandfather had fought with the Church. Was he to do the same … with Thomas?
And he had thought himself so clever. He was going to avoid that. He was going to put his friend into the Church so that the Church would be subservient to the State - so that the King would rule and none gainsay him. Henry Plantagenet had planned to have no Pope over him.
And this man … who called himself his friend, to whom he had given so much … had betrayed him. He had accepted the Archbishopric and resigned from the Chancellorship.
‘By God, Thomas,’ he said, ‘if you wish there to be war between us, then war there shall be. And I shall be the victor. Make no mistake about that.’
Then the violence of his rage overcame him. He beat his fist against the wall and it was Thomas’s face he saw there. He kicked the stool around the chamber and it was Thomas he kicked.
None dared approach him until his rage abated. They all knew how violent the King’s temper could be.
Eleanor and Henry took their farewell of Matilda and travelled to Barfleur. The King had declared he would spend Christmas at Westminster.
His anger against Thomas had had time to cool. He reasoned with himself. Thomas had reluctantly taken the Archbishopric and he had in some measure forced it upon him. Therefore he must not complain if Thomas resigned the Chancellorship. It was disappointing but he might have known that Thomas would do exactly as he had done. He was after all a cleric.
There will be battles between us, thought Henry. Well, there have always been battles of a kind. It will be stimulating, amusing. I long to see Thomas again.
Eleanor said: ‘I’ll dare swear your Archbishop is trembling in his shoes as he awaits your arrival.’
‘That is something Thomas would never do.’
‘If he has heard what a mighty rage you were in when you heard he had resigned the Chancellorship, he will surely not expect you to greet him lovingly.’
‘He is a man of great integrity. He would always do what he believed to be right.’
‘So he is forgiven? How you love that man! I’ll warrant you can scarcely wait to enjoy his sparkling discourse. And only a short while ago you were cursing him. What a fickle man you are, Henry!’
‘Nay,’ answered Henry, ‘rather say I am constant, although I may be enraged for a time that passes.’
‘Your servants know it. All they must do is anger you, keep out of your way and then return to be forgiven.’
‘You know that is not true,’ he said and closed the conversation.
Do not think, she mused, that I may be thrust aside for a while and then taken back. You may be in a position to subjugate others but not Eleanor of Aquitaine. I shall never forget that you placed your bastard into my nurseries to be brought up with my sons. Richard was now six. She had watched his manner with his father. He was all for his mother, and would be more so. And Richard was the most beautiful and most promising of their children. Henry the eldest had already gone to Becket and clearly doted on the man. Little Geoffrey was too young to show a preference. Henry could have the adulation of his little bastard and be content with that, but when the time came it was his legitimate children who would inherit their parents’ possessions. Richard should be Duke of Aquitaine; on that she had decided. He could already sing charmingly and loved to play the lute.
At Barfleur they waited for the wind to abate. It would be folly to set to sea in such weather. But day after day it raged and it became apparent that they could not be in Westminster for Christmas.
There were festivities at Cherbourg, but it was not the same. Eleanor would have liked to be with her children on Christmas Day. She had planned an entertainment for them with minstrels and dancers and she knew that young Richard would have enjoyed that and shone too above the rest of them. He would have made bastard Geoffrey seem an oaf.
It was not until nearing the end of January that they set sail.
When they reached Southampton Thomas Becket and their son Henry were waiting there to greet them. Henry, eight years old, had grown since they last saw him. He knelt before them and his father laid his hand on his head. He was pleased with his son’s progress. There was nothing gauche about the boy. That was due to Thomas.
And Thomas? He and the King looked at each other steadily. Thomas was clearly uncertain what to expect. Then the King burst out laughing.
‘Well, my Chancellor that was and my Archbishop that is, how fare you?’
And all was well between them.
On the journey to London the King rode side by side with his Archbishop and every now and then the King’s laughter rang out. There was a contented gleam in his eyes. There was no one who could amuse him like Thomas.
As they neared the end of the ride he referred to his anger when he had received the news of Thomas’s resignation.
‘I guessed it would be so,’ said Thomas.
‘Yet you dared provoke it.’
‘It was inevitable. I knew I could not remain Chancellor. That was why I did not wish to become Archbishop in the first place. I was certain that it would impair our friendship.’
‘There will be battles between us, Thomas. But by God’s eyes, I’d rather have battles with you than docility from any other man.’
‘Nay,’ answered Thomas, ‘harmony
is best.’
‘See,’ retorted the King. ‘You disagree with me already.’
Thomas smiled ruefully as he gazed at the darkening sky over Westminster.
Summer had come. The King had ridden to Woodstock and there had found many an opportunity to slip away to Rosamund. She was delighted to have him with her after his long absence abroad. The children had grown and danced round him to see what gifts he had brought them while Rosamund reproved them gently. What did gifts matter, she demanded, when they had their dear father with them?
‘I would that I could come to you more often, Rosamund,’ he told her. ‘Here I find a peace which elsewhere is denied me.’
The fact that he kept his liaison with her a secret apart from one or two who must inevitably know of it - gave it a touch of romance which he had never known with any of his other mistresses.
‘Has anyone come to the house?’ he always asked her.
One or two people had, she told him. They had wandered through the maze of trees and by chance arrived there. They had been strangers who had not associated her with the King.
He was always a little uneasy that Eleanor might discover Rosamund’s bower. And if she did? Then perforce she must suffer it. But he feared her in a way. She was no ordinary woman. There was a power about her, he had to admit. She still fascinated him as she had in the beginning of their relationship and it was because of Eleanor that he felt a need to keep Rosamund’s existence a secret.
He could not stay long or he would be missed and speculation would be rife.
There was to be a meeting of the Great Council and he had summoned this to Woodstock in order that he might enjoy a brief respite with Rosamund. Now he reluctantly said farewell to her and went back to take part in it.
Here a difference arose between the King and Thomas. It was not a matter of great moment, but it was a sign of what was to come, like the rumble of distant thunder of an approaching storm.
The problem of raising taxes was always a pressing one. Henry was not extravagant in his personal life; but he needed a constant supply of money to keep his armies in readiness, that he might go into action if need be at home in England and most certainly he would have at some time to maintain his overseas possessions.
It was the custom throughout the country to pay a tax which was quite small to the sheriff of the district. This had been in existence before the Norman conquest and Henry proposed that this tax instead of being paid to the sheriffs should come to the national exchequer.
There was an outcry among the landowners. The sheriffs were appointed by the King whom they paid handsomely for their appointments. Because of these taxes collected from every man who owned land in their area they grew rich very quickly.
Thomas said that if the tax was paid into the exchequer the sheriffs would demand it be paid to them also, so that any man who owned land would in effect be paying a double tax.
He had a great following and he did not think he would have any difficulty in making the King see his point.
Henry, however, aware of the sly comments of the Queen who had hinted that he was ready to be guided by his Archbishop, decided that he would not give way in this issue.
Thomas’s vast lands in the See of Canterbury gave him a big interest in the matter, and he spoke in favour of the landowners.
‘Saving your pleasure, my lord King,’ he told Henry at the Council, ‘we will not pay these monies as a tax.’
How dared Thomas defy him! How dared he stand up before the Council and deliberately state that he would not do what the King demanded!
‘By God’s eyes,’ cried the King, using the oath he favoured when his anger was mounting that it might be a warning to any who heard it not to provoke him further, ‘they shall be paid as a tax and entered in the King’s books.’
‘Out of reverence for the same eyes,’ replied Thomas, ‘they will not be paid on my land, and not a penny from any land which, by law, belongs to the Church.’
Here - even on such a small matter - was the conflict between Church and State showing itself.
Henry knew that he had lost. The Church had its laws outside the State.
Eleanor affected to be amused by the outcome.
‘It would seem your clever Archbishop has more power than the King.’
‘It is this matter of the law of the Church against the law of the State,’ he grumbled.
‘It is time that was changed,’ said Eleanor. ‘Is the King the ruler of his country or is the Archbishop of Canterbury?’ She did not help to soothe his resentment.
It was inevitable that another cause for friction should arise. This took place very soon after the affair of the sheriff’s tax.
If a member of the Church committed a crime he was tried not by the King’s court of law but by a court set up by the Church. This was a matter which had long rankled among the high officials of the State. It was said that the courts set up by the Church were too lenient with their members, and that a much less harsh punishment was meted out to offenders than was the case in the secular court.
The case of Philip de Brois was an example.
This man was a canon who had been accused of murdering a soldier. This had taken place some time before, when Theobald was Archbishop and the diocesan court which had tried him had found him not guilty and acquitted him.
The matter was not allowed to rest. From time to time the King’s travelling judges visited various parts of the country in order to try and pass sentence on those who had committed crimes. It was this order instituted by Henry which had brought considerable law and order to the country and made the roads safe for travellers.
Several men who were convinced of the guilt of Philip de Brois captured him and brought him before the King’s Judge Simon Fitz-Peter.
De Brois, believing his case to have been settled, defied the Court. As a canon, he said, the King’s justiciary had no power over him and he demanded his release. He quoted the law and was released.
When the matter was reported to Henry he was furious.
‘The King’s justice has been insulted,’ he cried. ‘I’ll not allow this to pass. That man shall be taken and brought to trial and his judge shall be my justiciary Simon Fitz-Peter. We shall see how he fares then.’
News of what was happening was then brought to Thomas at Canterbury. He was still saddened by the matter of the sheriff ‘s tax. These conflicts between himself and the King he had foreseen, and now there was this matter of the accused canon.
He was convinced that the law of the Church must stand, even though it angered the King. They had argued about it in the old days, but good-humouredly. Now it was a matter of putting their beliefs into practice.
The King had always said: ‘The State should be supreme.’
And Thomas: ‘In all matters but where it infringes on the law of the Church.’
‘Is the Pope then ruler of England?’ Henry had demanded.
‘The Pope is head of the Church wherever it may be.’
Thomas knew how that rankled! Henry was not the first king to seek to throw off the restraint.
‘Philip de Brois cannot be tried by the King’s justiciary,’ declared Thomas. ‘But since the King demands another trial he shall be tried in my own court at Canterbury.’
The King was powerless. He knew that Thomas had the law of the Church on his side and until that was altered he must give way.
The second time in a few months! This was what came of making Thomas Becket Archbishop of Canterbury.
At the court of Canterbury Philip de Brois was again acquitted of murder but for his contempt of the King’s court he was sentenced to be flogged. He also had to forfeit two years of his salary from the Church.
‘So,’ cried the King, ‘the Archbishop of Canterbury allows his clerics to murder as they will.’
‘In the Archbishop of Canterbury’s court Philip de Brois was acquitted of murder,’ was Thomas’s answer.
‘One law for the churchman, one for the layman,�
�� cried the King. ‘By God, I’ll have justice in my land.’
He was however a little appeased by the sentence which had been passed on Philip de Brois. At least it showed that the Church had some respect for the King’s court.
But the rift was growing.
The King, urged on by his wife and mother, determined to take his battle against the Church a step further.
He called together a council at Westminster and at this declared that if a cleric was guilty of a crime he should be given over to the King’s officers to be punished. He demanded that the bishops support him on this point for he was determined to maintain law and order in the land. The force with which he addressed the company gave no doubt of the determination with which he backed up his demands; and everyone knew that this was a direct stab at Thomas Becket.
The Archbishop of York, that Roger de Pont L’Eveque who during their sojourn in Theobald’s household had hated Thomas because he was jealous of him, saw an opportunity of doing considerable harm to the man who had now risen to the highest peak of power in the Church.
Roger had watched the rise of Thomas; he had gnashed his teeth over the stories of the King’s love for that man; he had heard how they had roamed the country together, behaving as some said like two schoolboys, how they shared games and jokes and behaved like brothers. It was very galling to a man of Roger’s ambition to see Thomas Becket rise so high.
He saw now a chance of contributing to his fall, for if the King had once loved Becket, he was at this time irritated by his recent behaviour.
The members of the Church met to discuss the King’s ultimatum and the three chief of them were Roger of York, Hilary of Chichester and Gilbert Foliot of London. Right or wrong, Roger had decided that he would stand against the Archbishop. He persuaded the bishops that they must do this, for the King was too strong for them.
Thomas summoned them to Canterbury.
‘You are foolish!’ he cried. ‘What means this? It is the Church’s ruling that a man cannot be punished twice for the same crime. The liberty of the Church is involved in this.’
