Henry glanced again at his own boys. They were perfectly at ease in such a public setting, their eyes bright with suppressed laughter, and he felt a surge of fierce joy that these young fledglings were his. He wished suddenly that Eleanor could have been here to see how their sons shone at the French court. How proud she would have been, and how disdainful of Louis’s timid little whelp.
Becoming aware that someone had drawn near, Henry turned. William of Blois, the newly consecrated Bishop of Sens, was not a man whose company he enjoyed, yet another of Stephen’s troublesome nephews, nursing a grudge that should have been buried with Stephen. The bishop was watching him intently, as if searching for signs of satisfaction, but Henry was not about to give him any. Smiling blandly, he said that it had been a good day, indeed, a day in which the seeds of a lasting peace were sown.
The bishop could hardly disagree and responded with an innocuous platitude of his own. But then he wiped the smile from Henry’s face by saying coolly, “Let us hope that another peace will be made on the morrow, when you meet with His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
THE WEATHER on the following day mirrored Henry’s unsettled mood, the sky blotched with clouds the color of snow, occasional patches of pale blue hinting at a possible reemergence of the sun. Henry and Louis were flanked by the papal legates who had arranged this meeting: Simon, Prior of Mont-Dieu, Bernard de la Coudre, Prior of Grandmont, and Engelbert, Prior of Val-St-Pierre. The legates were scanning the crowd intently, for they had a stake in this outcome, too. If they could reconcile England’s king with his rebellious archbishop, they’d earn the Pope’s undying gratitude. This was a quarrel that only Thomas Becket seemed inclined to pursue; everyone else simply wanted it to go away, especially now that it jeopardized hopes of another holy quest. Henry had spoken of taking the Cross, but how likely was that if his feuding with Becket continued to occupy his time and energy? It had been a long and tiresome struggle, but the papal envoys had eventually convinced the archbishop that his protracted exile served neither his own interests nor those of his Church.
Henry was not as confident as the papal legates that Becket was finally willing to compromise. They had assured him this was so, that the archbishop would make a public submission without qualification or reservation, promising him that there would be no repeat of that restrictive clause Henry had found so odious at Clarendon, “saving our order.”
Henry harbored some doubts, though, for he’d bribed a man who’d been privy to their discussions with Becket, and his spy had reported to him that Becket had wanted to substitute “saving our order” with a phrase even more inflammatory: “saving the Honor of God.” The legates had been able to persuade Becket that this proviso was not only unacceptable but offensive, too, implying as it did that the king cared naught for the Almighty’s Honor. Henry waited now to find out if the papal mission had been as successful as they claimed.
He hoped they were right. He, too, had grown weary of the unending discord. Becket had become a distraction, a tool for his enemies to use against him, a needless bone of contention with the Church. He would never understand why the other man had betrayed him, for that was how he still saw it. And until the day he died, this was a wound that would be imperfectly healed, sore to the touch. He had no intention of repudiating the Constitutions of Clarendon and suspected that Becket’s opposition to them had not weakened during his years of exile. But the Pope governed on a far greater stage than the one Thomas Becket occupied, especially now that he’d been able to return to Italy. The King of England was a more valuable ally than one aggrieved archbishop, and a peace cobbled together with strategic silences and calculated omissions was still better than no peace at all.
The Bishop of Sens had just come into view, and as the crowd parted, Henry saw Thomas Becket. This was their first meeting in more than four years and his immediate, unbidden thought was that those years had not been kind to Thomas. Becket had always been of slender build; now he was gaunt. Fair-skinned by nature, his was now the sickly pallor of the ailing. Henry suddenly believed those stories he’d heard of Becket’s deprivations and denials, no longer dismissed them as self-promotion. The archbishop’s eyes were hollowed, his dark hair well salted with silver, and his black beard had gone white. Only his height was as Henry had remembered. His throat tightened unexpectedly; could this be the man who’d once playfully tussled with him over a crimson cloak?
He was not the only one to be assailed by memories. For a moment at least, both of their defenses were down and he saw his own regrets reflected in the other man’s face. One of Becket’s clerks was tugging at his lord’s sleeve, whispering urgently in his ear; Henry recognized the florid face and fashionable figure of Herbert of Bosham. Becket made no response, keeping his eyes fixed upon Henry’s face. And then he was striding forward, his somber black mantle reminding Henry anew of that long-lost scarlet cloak. Dropping to his knees in the snow, Becket said huskily:
“My lord king, I place myself in God’s Hands and yours, for God’s Honor and your own.”
Henry at once reached out, raising the archbishop to his feet, and their attentive audience released pent-up breaths, beginning to believe that this meeting at Montmirail might actually begin the healing between them. Smiling, the French king bade the archbishop welcome, and cordiality reigned. When the time came for Becket’s act of submission, the sun slid from behind a cloud and all took that as a good omen.
“My lord king, so far as this dispute which lies between us is concerned, here in the presence of the King of France and the bishops and barons and the young princes, your sons, I cast myself upon your mercy and your judgment . . .” Becket paused, drawing a deep, deliberate breath before saying, very clearly and distinctly, “Saving the Honor of my God.”
There were audible gasps. The French king’s expression of dismay was eclipsed only by the horror on the faces of the papal legates. Henry alone felt no real surprise, just an intense sense of disappointment, and then utter rage. His temper burst forth in a blaze of profanity, scorching enough to make men marvel that the snow had not begun to melt. Moving swiftly to Becket’s side, the papal legate from the priory of Grandmont began to admonish him in low, wrathful tones, soon joined by his colleagues. The archbishop bore their rebukes and recriminations in silence, watching Henry all the while. The rest of the spectators did, too, believing the peace conference was at an end.
By then, Henry had gotten his rage back under rein. Glancing around, he saw that for once public sentiment was completely on his side; even Louis was staring at Becket as if he’d grown horns. Turning toward the French king, Henry said in a voice still tight with anger:
“It should be noted that the archbishop deserted his Church of his own free will. I did not drive him into exile. He fled of his own accord in the dead of night. And now he tells you that his cause is the Church’s cause and that he is suffering for the sake of righteousness. The truth is that I have always been willing, and still am willing, to allow him to rule over the Church with as much freedom as any of those saintly archbishops who came before him.”
“That is not so,” Becket interjected, but Henry paid him no heed.
“My lord King of France, attend me if you please. Whatever displeases him, he will declare contrary to the Honor of God and thus he will ever have the last word with me. But lest I seem in any way not to honor God, I offer this proposal. There have been before me many Kings of England, some with more, some with less authority than mine. And there have been many Archbishops of Canterbury, great and holy men. Let him yield to me what the greatest and most saintly of his predecessors conceded to the least of mine and I shall be satisfied.”
Henry saw at once that he had carried the day. The words “fair” and “reasonable” could be heard, heads nodding in agreement, eyes turning expectantly toward Thomas Becket, awaiting his response. When he remained silent, the disapproving murmurs grew louder. Somewhat to Henry’s surprise, the coup de grâce was delivered by the French k
ing. Sounding more sorrowful than angry, Louis said quietly:
“My lord archbishop, the peace you desire has been offered. Why do you hesitate? Do you wish to be more than a saint?”
NEITHER THE papal legates nor the French king were able to persuade Becket to retreat from the line he’d drawn, and the Montmirail conference broke up in disarray and ill will, most of it directed against the archbishop.
AN ASCENSION DAY MASS was in progress in St Paul’s Cathedral. The priest had just kissed the altar stone and was now moving toward the right side of the High Altar for the Introit. In the back of the church, a young Frenchman clutched his mantle more tightly against his chest. Although it was a warm May morning, he was cold to the bone, shivering in the shadows as he awaited his moment. His name was Meurisse Berenger and he was in London on a holy mission. He knew full well that if he were caught, he could expect no mercy, but his courage was nourished by his faith, his utter certainty that he was on the side of right, doing battle with the ungodly.
“Kyrie eleison.” The parishioners dutifully chanted the Greek litany, and Berenger silently mouthed the words, not having saliva enough for speech. Lord, have mercy on us. “Christe eleison.” Christ, have mercy on us. Even as the familiar prayer echoed in his head, he was straining to see the High Altar. The priest was extending his hands, the beautiful Latin phrases rolling musically off his tongue: “Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonai voluntatis.” Berenger closed his eyes and tried not to think of the Antichrist, England’s evil king. When he opened them again, he was shocked to hear the concluding words of the Gospel. So close now to the Offertory, so close!
After kissing the altar again, the priest turned to face the worshippers. “Dominus vobiscum.” Berenger slid a hand under his mantle, drawing out a packet wrapped in cloth. The penitents were withdrawing, as the remainder of the Mass was only for the faithful. People had moved into the aisle, approaching the High Altar with their oblations, and Berenger joined their ranks.
The priest was smiling, murmuring words of approval. When Berenger held out his bundle, it seemed to take forever until the priest reached for it, almost as if time itself had stopped. But then the letters were in the priest’s hand and Berenger grabbed the startled man’s wrist, holding his arm aloft so all could see.
“Let all men know,” he cried loudly, “that your bishop, Gilbert Foliot, has been excommunicated by Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury and Apostolic Legate!”
ESCAPING FROM St Paul’s in the ensuing confusion, Berenger made his way to York, where he again proclaimed the bishop’s sentence of excommunication and again eluded capture. Gilbert Foliot had anticipated just such an action and had already appealed to the Pope. But he was badly shaken by the anathema and scrupulously obeyed the strictures placed upon him, not only shunning Mass but going so far as to destroy his eating utensils after every meal lest they be used by others, for no good Christian could break bread with an excommunicate.
In addition to the Bishop of London, Becket had excommunicated numerous others, including the Bishop of Salisbury; Henry’s justiciar, Richard de Lucy; Geoffrey Ridel, his chancellor; the Earl of Norfolk; the Keeper of the Seal; and Rannulph de Broc. Henry was enraged. The Pope was no happier than Henry with these arbitrary excommunications and strongly urged Becket to rescind the sentences. The archbishop refused and warned that his next act would be to excommunicate the English king himself and lay all England under interdict.
THE BENEDICTINE ABBEY of Marmoutier was one of the most celebrated in Henry’s domains. For the past two years, it had been home to the Bishop of Worcester. Roger had voluntarily exiled himself from England in a brave but vain attempt to convince Henry to make peace with Thomas Becket. On this blustery, cold night in early December, Roger looked back upon a year of failures, beginning with the ill-fated conference at Montmirail and ending a fortnight ago with an equally unproductive meeting at Montmartre. Roger was by nature an optimist, but he was finding it harder and harder to hold on to hope, to believe that either his cousin the king or his friend the archbishop would ever compromise enough to reconcile their differences.
He was in good spirits, though, on this particular evening. The future looked bleak indeed, and wind-lashed sleet was thudding upon the roof, but his guest quarters were warmed by a blazing hearth, his table was laden with a surprisingly tasty Advent supper, and best of all, he had the company of a woman he loved deeply, a woman who could have coaxed laughter from Job.
Maud leaned forward, resting her chin on her laced fingers as she studied her brother with mock solemnity. “Well, you look as if you survived the bloodletting at Montmartre with all your body parts intact. So tell me . . . who disgraced himself the most, dear Cousin Harry or the saintly Becket?”
Roger shook his head with a wry smile. “Actually, they never even met face to face. The archbishop and his clerks were sequestered within the Chapel of Holy Martyrs, whilst Harry and the French king and the papal legates and bishops were gathered outside.”
Maud was delighted; this was a detail she hadn’t heard. “Did they really keep Harry and Becket apart? That makes sense with dogs and cats, mayhap, but with kings and archbishops?”
Roger shrugged. “I overheard one of the papal legates muttering that the Montmartre peace council would be a great success if only they did not have to invite the English king or his archbishop. He laughed then, but without much humor.”
“So how was it managed? Did they send messengers running back and forth with proposals and counterproposals?” Maud asked and laughed outright when Roger nodded. “What else? Tell me more.”
“I hardly think it necessary,” he observed. “Did you not just come from Eleanor’s court at Poitiers?”
“We know that the meeting came to naught, that Becket demanded thirty thousand marks in arrears of his confiscated estates, that Harry offered to arbitrate the matter at either the court of the French king or the University of Paris, that Becket showed his usual skittishness about arbitration and insisted he preferred a ‘friendly’ settlement to litigation.”
She paused for breath and Roger said reprovingly, “I am trying to remember if I have ever heard you mention Thomas without sarcasm dripping from his name like icicles.”
She pretended to think about it, then shook her head. “No, probably not. I do find it hard to give the noble Thomas the benefit of the doubt—damnation, I did it again, didn’t I? You are right, of course. Eleanor had a full account of the meeting as fast as a courier’s horse could travel from Montmartre to Poitiers. But you were there, Roger. I truly would like to hear your view of the events.”
“Fair enough. It was very disheartening, Maud. The differences between the two men are so deep that I despair of ever seeing them bridged. But the papal legates were bound and determined to achieve at least the semblance of reconciliation. From what I’ve heard, the Pope is sorely vexed with Thomas and thinks that he is woefully shortsighted, unable to see the forest for all the trees. There is some truth in that, but they do not understand how much he cares about the liberty of Mother Church.”
Maud rolled her eyes at that, thinking of the letter Eleanor had shown her, having somehow obtained a copy of the archbishop’s correspondence to the Pope. Becket had complained of suffering “tribulation more severe than any which has ever been experienced since tribulation first began” and assured the pontiff that there was never “grief like unto my grief.” But for once, she held her tongue, waiting for Roger to continue.
“Harry finally agreed to make restitution to Thomas ‘as his ministers should advise him,’ and the French king convinced Thomas that this was acceptable. Louis thought it was unseemly that a priest should bicker over money,” Roger said, with a faint smile. “Alas, such a high-minded principle is one only kings can afford.”
Maud nodded sympathetically, knowing that Roger had incurred huge debts in the months away from his English diocese; she would have to find a tactful way to offer a loan to tide him over. “It sou
nds as if they did not so much resolve their differences as agree to ignore them.”
“Just so,” Roger said and sighed. “Thomas agreed to drop the ‘saving the Honor of God’ proviso and Harry in turn agreed to forgo that counterclause he sprang upon the papal legates this summer.”
Maud grinned. “I heard about that. ‘Saving the dignity of my realm,’ was it not? I assume he figured that one ambiguous phrase deserves another. At least Harry has not entirely lost his sense of humor about all this!”
“That is more than the rest of us can say,” Roger confessed. “It pains me greatly, Maud, to see two men I cherish so hostile to each other, all the more so because they were once such fast friends.”
And you’re the one caught between them, she thought sadly, grist for their mills. “So they agreed to jettison those troublesome stipulations and Harry promised to restore the archbishopric estates and no one dared breathe the dreaded words ‘Constitutions of Clarendon.’ After coming so far, how could they then stumble over a ritual like the Kiss of Peace? Why throw away all that progress over something ceremonial?”
Roger reached for his cup, grimacing at the taste of warm ale; he had forsaken wine for Advent. “I know. It was like watching a race where the horses pulled up just before the finish. They were so close to agreement, so close. . . . But then Thomas demanded that Harry give him the Kiss of Peace and Harry refused. He said—correctly—that the Kiss of Peace was to be given only after a true bargain had been struck, and there were still serious matters unresolved between them. If he’d stopped at that, well and good. But he then went on to claim that he’d sworn a holy vow that he’d never give Becket the Kiss of Peace. Since Harry has never been one for holding oaths sacred and inviolable, that explanation was met with considerable skepticism. The legates and the Archbishop of Rouen offered to absolve him of his vow, but he declined, insisting it would look forced and false under the circumstances. He offered, though, to have his eldest son give the Kiss in his stead. Thomas balked at that, and the good ship Appeasement ran up on the rocks yet again.”
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