Ranulf recoiled with a startled gasp. “Christ Jesus, Roger, I thought you were one of the Devil’s own come to claim my soul!”
His nephew smiled wryly. “It would not surprise me, Uncle, to find the Devil stalking Northampton this night. But your soul is safe with me.” He gestured toward several prayer cushions piled in a corner. “I have made a snug nest for myself, as you can see. I even have a flask of wine. Care to join me?”
“Why not?” Seating themselves on the cushions, resting their backs against the wall, they took turns drinking from Roger’s flask. “Why are you here at the castle?” Ranulf asked, since that was a safer question than why Roger thought demons were abroad in the night. “I thought you were lodging in the town.”
“And I thought you were staying with the canons?”
“I was, but I stayed so late tonight in Harry’s chambers that it seemed easier just to spend the night here. You, too?”
Roger took another swig of wine, his shoulders slumping. “I went to the priory,” he said, “to see how Thomas was faring. Not only have many of the knights of his household asked to be released from his service, but more than forty of his clerks have abandoned him, too. Craven louts, the lot of them,” he added, with unexpected venom.
“Does it truly surprise you that men should fear the contagion of the king’s disfavor as much as they do leprosy or the spotted fever?”
“No . . . ,” Roger conceded. “I do not blame the knights for looking to their own interests. But it is shameful for men of God to behave like rats fleeing a sinking ship.”
Ranulf agreed that it was and reached over to reclaim the flask. “So what brought you back to the castle?”
“Thomas asked me and the Bishops of Hereford and Rochester to go to the king and seek a safe-conduct for his journey back to Canterbury.” Roger was quiet then for a time. “Harry said that he’d answer us on the morrow.”
“And that worries you? It should not,” Ranulf insisted. “He’ll give a safe conduct. When Rainald and I told him of the ugly scene in the great hall and of the threats made against Becket by some of the barons, he immediately sent forth heralds to proclaim that the archbishop was not to be harmed or harassed. It is Becket’s humiliation he seeks, not his blood. Do you doubt that, Roger?”
“No . . . I suppose not. It is just that . . . that this quarrel with Thomas has brought out the worst in Harry, a side of his nature I’ve not seen before and would that I not see again.”
Ranulf could not dispute that, as much as he wanted to. He refrained from making the natural rejoinder: that the archbishopric had brought out the worst in Becket. Enough heedless words had already been said during these days at Northampton. They were sitting under the overhead rushlight, and its muted glow magnified the hollowed cheekbones and grimly set lines of Roger’s mouth. Ranulf shifted sideways. “You have the look of a man with much on his mind, none of it pleasant. If talking will help, I’m willing to listen. It is the least I can do after drinking your wine.”
Roger’s smile flickered, briefly. For a long moment, his eyes searched Ranulf’s face. He looked so much like his sire that Ranulf felt the pang of an old grief. “I loved your father, lad,” he said quietly, “as I’ve loved few men in this life.”
“I know that, Uncle. I know, too, that you could not love Harry more if he were your own son.”
Ranulf set down the flask between them. “What you tell me goes no further than this chapel. You have my word upon that, Roger.”
Roger let his breath out slowly. “I might be wrong,” he said, “but I think that Thomas means to flee tonight.”
“Understandable after what happened today. What makes you think so?”
“Whilst I was at the priory, I overheard two of his clerks talking. They were huddled in one of the carrels out in the cloisters and my approach caught them unaware. Ere they noticed me and went mute, I heard them say something about midnight and an unguarded gate in the town.”
Roger seemed relieved to have unburdened himself. Almost at once, though, he reached out and caught Ranulf’s arm. “Uncle, you’ll say nothing of this? If Harry were to find out . . .”
“You need not fret, lad. I’ll not break faith with you. Even if I had not given my word, I do not think that I’d want to deliver Becket into Harry’s hands—for both their sakes.”
“Amen,” Roger said, and after that they drank in silence while the castle slept and the storm raged through the night.
AT THE HEIGHT of the storm, Thomas Becket and three others slipped out of the town’s unguarded north gate and spurred their horses toward Lincoln. From there, he began a slow, circuitous journey for the coast, disguised as a monk. On All Soul’s Day, the second of November, he and his three companions set sail from the port of Sandwich. Manning a small boat in heavy seas, they came ashore safely in Flanders at dusk.
Henry did not actively pursue the fugitive archbishop, contenting himself with putting the ports under watch. Nor had he exploded in one of his famous fits of rage upon being told of Becket’s escape. In some ways, his response was even more chilling to the archbishop’s partisans. Eyes narrowing, he’d said laconically, “I have not done with him yet.”
To his lord and friend Louis, illustrious King of the French, from Henry, King of the English and Duke of the Normans and Aquitanians, and Count of the Angevins, greetings and affection.
Know that Thomas, who was Archbishop of Canterbury, has been publicly adjudged in my court, by full council of the barons of my realm, to be a wicked and perjured traitor to me, and under the manifest name of traitor has wickedly departed, as my messengers will more fully tell you.
Wherefore I earnestly entreat you not to permit a man guilty of such infamous crimes and treasons, or his men, to remain in your kingdom; and let not this great enemy of mine, so it please you, have any counsel or aid from you or yours, even as I would not give any such help to your enemies in my realm or allow it to be given. Rather, if it please you, help me to take vengeance upon my great enemy for this affront, and look to my honor, as you would have me do for you if there were need of it.
Done at Northampton.
Henry then turned his attention to the rebellion in Wales. His council at Northampton resolved upon a summer campaign against Rhys ap Gruffydd and Owain Gwynedd, and his lords pledged to supply large numbers of infantry, more suitable than armor-clad knights for the hit-and-run warfare waged by the Welsh. Mercenaries were to be hired from Flanders and a fleet equipped at Dublin. The Marcher barons departed Northampton secure in the knowledge that there was to be a reckoning with the troublesome Welsh at long last.
AFTER THE COUNCIL at Northampton drew to an end, Henry sent a delegation across the Channel to see the French king at Compiègne and then on to the Pope, still in exile at Sens. By an irony of chance, they sailed from Dover on the very day that Thomas Becket made his escape from Sandwich. Henry’s envoys were distinguished—including the Bishops of London, Worcester, Chichester, and Exeter, the Archbishop of York, and the Earl of Arundel—but their mission was a failure. Returning to England, they began the lugubrious task of finding the king and breaking the bad news to him. Perhaps because they were in no hurry to deliver disappointment, they did not overtake Henry until Christmas Eve, where he and Eleanor were keeping court at Marlborough Castle.
A LIGHT SNOWFALL powdered the castle grounds and a fire burned brightly in the hearth of the king’s solar, which was festively adorned with holly, mistletoe, and evergreen boughs. But every spark of Christmas cheer had been quenched with the first halting words of Gilbert Foliot, for even his eloquence could find no way to make his news palatable: that Becket had been warmly received by both the Pope and the French king.
Henry was standing so close to the fireplace that he was in danger of being singed by its dancing flames, but he seemed oblivious of the heat. “Tell me,” he said tersely. “Hold nothing back.”
“We met with the French king at his castle of Compiègne, where we delivered your lette
r. I regret to say, my liege, that his piety has adversely affected his judgment. His natural inclination is to give any priest the benefit of every doubt, even when presented with proof of perjury and broken faith.”
That was a diplomatic and discreet rendering of the French king’s response, and none knew it better than Eleanor, who knew her first husband all too well. She glanced toward Henry to see if he was reading between the lines. But then the Bishop of Chichester tactlessly intervened with the truth.
“We sought to make him privy to the facts, Your Grace, but he was not wont to listen. ‘Who deposed the Archbishop of Canterbury?’ he asked. He said he was as much a king as the King of the English, but he did not have the power to depose the least of the clerks in his realm. Not only did he offer Becket asylum in his domains, he wrote to the Pope on Becket’s behalf, urging him to receive the archbishop with kindness and pay no heed to unjust accusations against him.”
Henry spat out an extremely profane oath, but whom it was meant for—Becket or the French king—none could be sure. “Go on,” he said harshly. “What happened at Sens?”
As Chichester showed no inclination to relinquish center stage and Foliot was willing to let him be the bearer of bad tidings, he was the one to tell Henry the rest, the worst. “We met with the Holy Father and the cardinals, and as you bade us, my liege, we privately urged the Archbishop of Canterbury’s deposition. Whilst I do not doubt that many of the cardinals would not mourn Becket’s departure, the Pope insisted that he could take no action until he heard the archbishop’s account of the Northampton council. Becket soon arrived, with a retinue of three hundred horsemen provided by the French king. He threw himself at the Holy Father’s feet, holding out a chirograph of the Constitutions of Clarendon.”
Chichester had always prided himself upon his remarkable memory and he could not resist quoting now from Becket’s own words. “He said, ‘Behold, Holy Father, the customs of the King of the English, opposed to the canons and decretals and even the laws of secular princes, for which we are driven to endure exile.’ He then read out the clauses of the Constitutions, one by one, offering his own critical analysis of each article, and although Cardinal William of Pavia made a spirited defense of the provisions, Becket’s view prevailed. He then . . .”
Chichester paused for maximum dramatic impact and Henry’s eyes flashed dangerously. “What?”
“Becket was ever one for the grand gesture,” Chichester said scornfully. “He knelt again, began to weep, and resigned the archbishopric of Canterbury for the good of the Church, he said, and offered his archiepiscopal ring to the Holy Father. Alas, my liege, the Holy Father was moved by his tears and returned the ring, saying ‘Receive anew at our hands the cure of the episcopal office.’ ”
Everyone in the solar understood the significance of the Pope’s act. The appeal of the other bishops for Becket’s deposition would come to naught. Nor would Henry’s complaints to the Holy See. Thomas Becket would remain as Archbishop of Canterbury, with the Pope’s blessings—and there was nothing Henry could do about it.
There was a prolonged silence, fraught with foreboding, and then the inevitable explosion. Henry’s tempers were known to them all, but even Eleanor had never seen him in such a spectacular rage as this. A sweep of his arm sent the contents of the trestle table flying off into space, books and quill pens and an open inkwell spilling into the floor rushes. With a crash that reverberated throughout the entire room, the table followed, barely missing one of Eleanor’s alarmed greyhounds. The men shrank back from this violent display of royal wrath, only the king’s wife and his cousin Roger standing their ground. Henry overturned a chair, then swung around upon Gilbert Foliot.
“I shall issue an order confiscating all of that whoreson’s possessions down to the last farthing and the forfeiture of the archbishopric. No bishop of mine shall pay revenues to any of Becket’s clerks holding prebends within their sees. Will any Church objections be raised to my writ, my lord bishop?”
Foliot swallowed. “No, my liege . . . no objections.”
“Now . . . what burrow has our snake found for the winter? Is he still at the Papal Curia in Sens?”
“No, Your Grace,” Foliot said swiftly, grateful that he had at least a scrap of good news to offer Henry. “The Holy Father’s actions were not as one-sided as the Bishop of Chichester related. Whilst he did refuse Becket’s resignation and condemned the Constitutions of Clarendon, he did not censure me or my fellow bishops as Becket expected, and he most certainly did not make him welcome at the papal court. He has sent Becket off to the Cistercian abbey at Pontigny. So you see, my liege, all is not as bleak as it might first have seemed.”
His words did not have the desired effect. They did not even seem to have registered with Henry. “Pontigny,” he echoed. “Good . . . let them go there then and seek shelter from him.”
Foliot looked confused; nor was he the only one. “Who, my lord king?” the Earl of Arundel asked in bewilderment. “Who shall seek shelter?”
“All of Becket’s household still in England, and their kin as well. They are to join him in exile, every last one of them. Let him see for himself what misery he has brought upon his own. And let the French king provide for their bread if Becket will not!”
The others were speechless, staring at him in disbelief. Oddly enough, it was the opportunist who spoke up first. Hilary of Chichester cleared his throat, then said hesitantly, “My liege, I implore you to reconsider. If you banish all of Becket’s family and clerks, I fear you will be harshly judged for it by your enemies.”
“Let them! You think I care?”
“My liege . . .” Gilbert Foliot had never lacked for courage—until now. “I think once your anger cools, you will not want to—”
“Who are you to tell me what I want? Becket should have thought of the consequences when he fled in the night like a thief. There is always a price to be paid for betrayal and he is about to find that out, by God!” The disapproval Henry saw reflected on their faces only fanned his fury all the higher. Gesturing toward the door, he ordered them all out. “After failing me so abysmally in Compiègne and Sens, why should I listen to you now? Go on, get out!”
They did, some hastily enough to compromise their dignity. Only Roger dared to protest further. Reaching the door, he paused, meeting his cousin’s eyes without flinching. “This is wrong, Harry,” he said in a low voice. “Wrong and unjust.”
He did not linger; he knew better than that. As the door closed behind him, Henry swore again. But before he could react, a cushion was suddenly shoved into his hand. “Here,” Eleanor said. “If you must destroy something, fling this about. It is much easier to mend a pillow than a table.”
Henry was not amused. “I’m glad you’re taking it in such good humor that I’ve just been stabbed in the back by that gutless weasel you married!”
“A pity there is no way you can blame Becket’s misdeeds on me, too!”
“If you are about to remind me that you opposed Becket’s elevation to the archbishopric, trust me, Eleanor—this is not the time!”
“Actually, I have a far more recent grievance. I entreated you not to send Louis that letter, warned you it would do you more harm than good, did I not? And as usual, you paid me no heed whatsoever!”
“For the love of Christ, woman, let it lie! Can you not see that I’m in no mood to deal with this now?”
“Fine,” she said tartly. “Forget about Louis and the fact that you were the one to provide the dagger for that back-stabbing. Let’s talk, instead, about your plan to banish those poor souls whose only offense is that they are related to Becket either by blood or service. Surely you do not mean that, Harry.”
“Surely I do.”
“Then this interminable feuding with Becket has well and truly addled your mind!”
“This is none of your concern! I am heartily sick of your meddling, Eleanor, will have no more of it!”
“If you bid me be silent, then of course I wil
l,” Eleanor responded, with poisonous sweetness, “for like any dutiful and devoted wife, I live only to please you.” With a deep, graceful curtsy, she swept toward the door, where she paused, her hand on the latch, a quizzical smile upon her face. “About that ‘weasel’ I married . . . You were referring to Louis, were you not?”
He glared at her. “Damn you, Eleanor!”
“Likewise, my love,” she retorted, and left him alone in the solar.
ON THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS, Henry followed through on his threat and expelled as many as four hundred people, including Becket’s sisters and nephews, his clerks and servants and their families. A steady steam of refugees made their miserable way to Pontigny and Thomas Becket was indeed distressed, as Henry had intended. But it was a Pyrrhic victory, one that left a lasting stain upon Henry’s honor and his reputation.
Henry and Eleanor patched up their Christmas Eve quarrel the way they usually did, in bed, and when they departed Marlborough, she was pregnant again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
May 1165
Trefriw, North Wales
>AR HAD COME to Wales, but the first battle was being fought in the great hall of Rhodri’s manor in the hills above Trefriw. The summons from the English king had erupted in their midst with devastating impact, as incendiary as Greek fire and as difficult to extinguish. For days now, the quarrel had raged and showed no signs of abating. Rhodri had argued with Ranulf until his voice cracked. Eleri had been reduced to angry tears more than once, and Celyn had overcome his natural reticence to plead with surprising passion. Even the self-absorbed Enid had roused herself to observe that it would be folly to obey the summons, for if Ranulf fought against the Welsh, he would alienate his family and friends and neighbors beyond forgiving.
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