by Jean Plaidy
It was true that he had flouted one of the King’s justices and that was due for punishment. He had been guilty of contempt of the King’s Court, and for that he should be exiled for two years. In addition he should wear a penitential robe and go barefoot to Simon Fitz-Peter and make his apologies to him for his ill-mannered and ill-advised behavior.
When Henry heard this, he was enraged. His eyes looked as though they would fall out of his head; he ran his hands fiercely through his cropped curls and brought his fist down on a nearby stool with such vigor that I feared he had harmed himself.
“By God’s eyes,” he cried, “I’ll have an end of this. I am going to study this whole matter of Church judgment versus the State. I’ll not have others ruling in my kingdom.”
I said: “You are taking on a mighty enemy in the Church.”
He did not answer. I knew he was thinking about Becket.
Another matter had arisen which gave Becket a chance once more to flout the King’s authority.
Some time previously, Henry had wanted to arrange a match for his young brother William. William was a docile young man; he had never caused Henry trouble as his brother Geoffrey had. William was without ambition. He was gentle and all he wanted was to live in peace. It was difficult to understand how Geoffrey le Bel and Matilda could have had such a son. He was so different from his ambitious brothers.
Henry was very attached to William. He had at one time thought of conquering Ireland to give to him, but Matilda, seeing the folly of this, had dissuaded him. Henry had some strange notions sometimes. The idea of expecting a young man like William to hold in check one of the most turbulent places in the world was astonishing. However, Henry did not cease to think of William and wanted to see him comfortably settled; and if he could not be a ruler of Ireland, he could at least be a man of great wealth and property, as was due to the brother of the King.
The opportunity came with a widowed Countess, heiress to large estates. Henry sent for his brother and told him that he had a fine match in mind for him. William responded characteristically. He thanked his brother warmly for his efforts on his behalf, but when he married he must marry for love.
Henry greeted such a statement with roars of laughter. “Marry for gain, boy,” he said. “Love and marriage do not always go together but that does not mean you need not find love.”
But William was determined; it is amazing how strong the seemingly weak can be at times. Henry was fond of the boy. It had always been a comfort to have a young brother who was not planning to rise up against him and who bore no malice but only admiration for his success.
He asked William if he would be prepared to meet the lady and perhaps get to know her a little. William replied that that would be a pleasure, for he did want to please his brother who had taken such pains to get him happily settled. The outcome caused Henry a great deal of amusement and satisfaction. The pair met and in a few weeks William came to Henry, his eyes alight with happiness. He had fallen in love with the Countess and she with him; there was nothing they wanted more than to be joined in matrimony.
Henry was gleeful. He embraced his brother. He said William had never caused him a moment’s anxiety. Everything was set fair. Henry had provided for his brother. He was going to have the love match which suited his temperament and ideals, and the marriage would bring money into the family in the most agreeable way. What could have been more satisfactory?
And then Becket intervened.
The marriage could not take place because the bride and groom were second cousins, and in the eyes of the Church it would be no true marriage because of consanguinity.
Henry was furious. He cursed Becket. Here was the Church meddling again.
I was alarmed. I was afraid that if this matter were pursued Becket might raise the question of the legality of my marriage to Henry as there was a close blood tie between us. Our position was vulnerable. I had had my divorce from Louis because of the closeness of our relationship, and I was more closely related to Henry. What if Becket worked this out?
Henry was going to fight the matter out with Becket, but I reminded him of our own position and he saw the point. We had our children to think of. We did not want queries to be made concerning their legitimacy.
At length, with much gnashing of teeth, he agreed to let the matter of William’s marriage drop and the pair parted, for the bride’s family would not hear of a marriage forbidden by the Church.
It was yet another mark against Becket. The Philip de Brois case still rankled and Henry had made an oath that he would change the law.
We were at Westminster and Henry decided to delay no longer. He called together a meeting of the leading churchmen and the most important barons of the country.
When they were all assembled, he told them that for long he had been troubled about the crimes which were committed in the country and that he had pledged himself to restore that justice and respect for the law which had been the order of his grandfather’s day.
“It has been brought to my notice,” he said, “that numerous crimes have been committed by members of the Church who, when apprehended, immediately fly to the shelter of the Church which protects them from justice. During the years of my reign there have been over a hundred murders committed by men who, because they are priests, have never paid the penalty for their sin. There has been rape and robbery, and if the man who commits these crimes is a priest, all he has to do is stand up before his ecclesiastical friends and say, ‘I am innocent.’ It will not do. It is for this reason that we have priests who think they have special immunity and can commit crimes for which the layman is severely punished. Now, I intend that, in future, any churchman, whoever he may be, if he is suspected of a crime, shall be deprived of the protection of the Church and be given over to the judges whom I shall set up to try criminals, and so keep this country safe for law-abiding citizens. All my subjects must obey the same laws.”
He paused for a moment and looked full at Becket.
“My lord of Canterbury,” he went on, “I demand that you and all your bishops and clergy give your consent to the handing over to my courts of justice any of your churchmen who are caught committing crimes, as was the law in my grandfather’s reign.”
Thomas and his fellow churchmen were taken by surprise. They had thought they were called together to discuss other matters. Thomas must have forgotten what he knew of Henry if he thought he would let the matter of Philip de Brois be passed over easily. He should have been prepared for this.
He asked permission to retire with his fellow churchmen, for, he said, they must discuss this in private. Henry gave them permission and they filed out.
When they came back, Thomas announced that it was not fitting for the King to make such a demand, not was it fitting for the clergy to grant it. They must obey the law of the Church.
Henry shouted angrily that the laws had worked well in his grandfather’s day, and in those days archbishops who had been dedicated servants of the Church—holier men than some he could name today—had not questioned the rights of the King’s Courts to try criminals.
Thomas replied that the clergy would be obedient and ready to obey the King in everything they could, saving their order.
Henry cried out that he wanted to hear nothing of their order. He demanded that they obey the King. He wanted their obedience to the old laws which had worked well for the country under the first Henry.
He turned his back on Thomas and demanded one by one of the others if they would obey their King. They all gave the same answer which Becket had. They would obey the King, saving their order.
Henry talked to them, cajoling them, threatening them. They stood firmly with Becket.
They had already sworn an oath of allegiance from which they would never swerve, said Becket. They would obey him in all things . . . saving their order.
Saving their order! How he hated the phrase. It meant they would serve him unless the Church wanted them to do otherwise.
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sp; Frustrated, angry, unable to keep his rage under control, Henry left the hall. He came to me and told me exactly what had happened.
“‘Saving our order’: They kept repeating it . . . one after another. It was Becket. Without him it would have been easy. I should have had them. But there he was . . . determined to have his way, determined to show me that the Church comes before the State. Who would have believed it of him?”
“Some of us would,” I reminded him.
He might have turned on me in rage but he did not. All his anger was for Becket. I think he blamed himself. He had been warned. He had thought that an Archbishop who was also his Chancellor would go step by step with him. He had not known Becket, it seemed. In any case, Becket had changed. He was a different man from the one who had hawked and hunted with Henry. He was an archbishop now, not an elegant dilettante. He was a man of the Church and had taken up his new profession with a zeal which astonished all. Henry was beginning to see that, in thinking to make his way easy, he had created a great obstacle to his plans.
He had himself to blame—but instead he blamed Becket.
“I’ll show him,” he cried. “He will see what it means to bait me.”
He could never have been judicious where Becket was concerned. He must have either great love or great hatred for the man. Now it was hate and it burned fiercely.
What harm could he do Becket? Becket loved his possessions. He loved comfort, ease, grand living; his pallium could not make up for that. Very well, he would begin by robbing him of some of the manors in which he had taken great pride. He would begin with Berkhampsted and follow with Eye. They were two manors very dear to Thomas’s acquisitive heart.
Perhaps Becket was hurt even more than he was by the loss of Berkhampsted and Eye when Henry took our son out of his care.
Young Henry came to me bewildered and sad. I greeted him warmly and told him how I had missed him.
He said he missed me too. “But why do I have to leave Thomas?” he asked. “Is it just for a while or for always?”
“It will depend. At the moment your father is not very well pleased with the Archbishop.”
“I hope I may go back.”
“You were happy there, were you not?”
Henry nodded and I saw the faraway look in his eyes.
“He was not in the least like an archbishop,” he said.
“I can believe that.”
“He was so merry. There was always fun. He was so kind. He always explained everything . . . he made it interesting. Has he offended my father?”
“I think you could say that.”
“But Thomas would never offend anyone. He is so kind and so good.”
I could see that young Henry loved the man as his father once had.
Henry questioned young Henry about the time he had spent in the Archbishop’s household, but he was rather impatient with the boy when he saw that he had put Becket on a pedestal.
“He has his good points,” said Henry, “but he is obstinate and he wants to put the Church above the State.”
Young Henry said: “He is a churchman. That is why.”
“He is first of all one of my subjects . . . as you all are.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t argue with me,” snapped Henry.
I saw the look in my son’s eyes, and it was by no means one of affection. It occurred to me that he was comparing his father with Thomas, and it was the King who suffered from the comparison.
Becket obsessed Henry. Before we left Northampton he decided that he would meet the Archbishop alone. There should be just the two of them. They could meet in a meadow, and perhaps without any lookers-on they could settle their differences.
During this time Henry and I had grown a little closer to each other. I think he felt the need of my support. I was rather pleased at this and felt gratified because I had always viewed his friendship with Becket with suspicion. It was as though I was being proved right. He did not mention this, but the fact that he confided in me showed me his feelings, especially as he was growing affectionate again. He could share his thoughts with me, so I knew very well how much Becket was affecting him; and he did tell me in detail about that meeting in the meadow.
“I thought,” he said, “if we got right away from our retinues, if he could forget for a while that he was the Archbishop of Canterbury and I the King, we might get on terms we enjoyed during our old friendship. I told him to dismount and I would do the same. We would walk together . . . nothing about us but the grass and the sky. We could both feel free to talk as we willed without an audience.
“He obeyed me and I took his arm. I noticed how thin he had grown. He takes his religion seriously. He really does see himself as God’s servant. He used to see himself as mine. I said that he opposed me at every turn—we used to be such good friends—and he replied that he did no such thing. It just happened that my wishes clashed with his duty.
“Then I said that he was ungrateful. He seemed to forget how I had raised him up. Who was he? Thomas Becket! Was his father not some merchant . . . his mother a Saracen? I told him to consider what he had now. I had lifted him from nothing to be my Chancellor. He said, ‘That is what I should have remained.’ ‘And now,’ I went on, ‘you are my Archbishop.’ ‘I did not want the post,’ he replied. ‘You insisted that I take it. I knew it would mean strife between us, for the Church and the State cannot always march together.’”
“It is what your mother implied. Do you remember?”
He nodded grimly. “I grew angry with him. ‘Why not?’ I demanded. ‘It is for this reason that I made you my Archbishop. We worked together when you were Chancellor. Why the change of heart when you are Archbishop?’”
“And what did he say to that?”
“He said, ‘Am I not the head of the Church in England?’”
“And you reminded him that you were the head of all your subjects?”
“I did. He said he was indeed my subject—but God’s first. You can imagine how this talk of God angered me.”
“I can indeed.”
“I called him ungrateful. He replied that he was not ungrateful for favors received from me through God. You see, he has to bring God into everything—and that did not soothe my temper, I can tell you. He went on, ‘I would never resist you if it were the will of God. You are my lord, but God is your Lord and mine also, and it would be wrong for both of us if I should forsake His will to follow yours.’ I told him that since he had become a churchman he seemed to be on very intimate terms with God. He knew of course what was God’s will, and that rather conveniently seemed to coincide with Thomas’s own. He smiled at me sadly and said the day would come when we should both stand before the Judgment Seat. I was angered by his sanctimonious tone. How different he used to be I shouted at him. ‘And to you God will say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” and to me, “Get thee down to Hell. You have disobeyed the will of my good Thomas and as you should know he and I are always together in the right.”’ I was getting more and more angry.”
I smiled. “And you had gone there with the desire to make things right between you. It must have been very frustrating.”
“Oh, it was indeed. He is a very obstinate man. I said to him, ‘You think the King should be tutored by a rustic . . . a peasant such as you are.’ He replied, ‘It is true I am not royal but St. Peter was not royal either and God made him head of His Church and gave him the keys of Heaven.’ ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘and he died for his Lord.’ ‘I will die for my Lord when the time comes,’ he replied piously. ‘Becket,’ I told him, ‘you have stretched too far and grown above yourself. You believe that because I have lifted you up I have made you more important than I am. You think you can defy me with impunity. Have a care, Becket. My patience, as you know, is not great.’ ‘I shall trust in the Lord,’ he answered. ‘I would not put my trust in any man.’
“He enraged me and yet at the same time I had some respect for his fervor. I would be lenient with
him. I said, ‘There is not really much about which we disagree. There are just one or two points. Just swear that you will serve me. Forget about your order. Come. Give your complete allegiance to the King. Then all shall be as it once was between us.’ I meant it. I would forgive him all the troubles he has caused me. I wanted to be on good terms with the man.”
“I know you have always had a great affection for him. None but Thomas Becket would have dared provoke you so.”
“Still, he would not give me what I wanted. He kept saying, ‘In all things save when it would be in conflict with my order.’ I gave him one last chance. I said to him, ‘I have tried to reason with you, because of the friendship we once had. I have stripped myself of my royalty and come to you as a friend . . . as a commoner. I will put aside all the trouble you have caused me; you shall not suffer for it. You shall have Berkhampsted back . . . Eye, too. Young Henry shall return to you. Come, Thomas, what say you? Remember how we enjoyed life together . . . what friends we were? All you have to do is give me your word. You will obey the King . . . in all things.’ And what do you think he said to that?”
“I can guess.”
“He said, ‘I cannot deny my order, which is to deny God.’ I shouted at him then. I had waived my dignity . . . everything for friendship and all he could do was mutter about his order. He would not budge one iota. I told him I would put him back where he was before I set him up. Everything he had he owed to me. He had better be careful, I said. I had had enough of his disobedience. He thought because of the great friendship I had shown him he could treat me scurvily. ‘You will see,’ I told him, ‘what it is to tangle with kings.’ He did not flinch. He just bowed his head; and I left him. That meeting should never have taken place.”
“No,” I agreed. “You have gone a long way to placate Becket.”
“No more,” he shouted. “No more. Now there is war between us and that augers ill for Becket.”
”We shall spend Christmas at Berkhampsted,” said Henry. “Becket will hear that we are there. It will remind him of the proud possession which is no longer his.”
