Beloved Enemy (82 page)

“My dear,” she began.

“Thomas thinks I cannot rule without him, waits for me to put a foot wrong. I am no longer the green boy he first knew, and I don’t need his counsel. By God’s eyes, if he thinks—”

“My dear,” she interjected, “I have put up with Thomas as your closest confidant and advisor in all things. His presence has overshadowed our lives. But where he has never been, and where I will not allow him now, is in our bed.”

Henry was silent; after a moment, he said, “Forgive me, Nell.”

She leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Ever since I’ve arrived, your mind has been obsessed with the archbishop and how to bend him to your will. The two of you remind me of nothing so much as two stubborn boys quarreling over a toy—only in this case the prize is no less than England itself. You tread dangerous ground here, Henry. However much you may regret it, the deed is done. You and Thomas must now deal with one another as king and archbishop. Compromise—”

“England itself.” Henry wagged a finger at her. “Exactly. Thomas wants to control what is mine, to prove to everyone that he is my equal in power.” He raised himself on one elbow. “Thus he seeks to ruin my plans for the realm!” He began to pound the bed with his free hand. “Is this not treason? Every Englishman owes loyalty first to his king—”

Eleanor wanted to scream. Had he heard one word she said? She closed her ears to his endless harangue peppered with phrases like “cut him down to size … he will rue the day … force the pope to take action …” and other threats of a similar nature.

She felt she was going mad. Henry was more preoccupied with Thomas now, when he hated him, than he had been when he loved him! And yet—were not the bonds of hate as strong as those of love?

The following morning, Eleanor persuaded Henry to allow her into the council chamber to observe.

“Not one word, Nell.”

“I promise.”

Trying to remain inconspicuous in a corner of the hot, stuffy chamber, Eleanor saw their eldest son, Harry, seated on a stool beside his father. He stifled a yawn, and she smiled.

Thomas rose to his feet. “In regard to the matter of the sheriffs, my lords, Sire. According to the ancient custom of the realm, no new taxes may be imposed without the unanimous consent of the magnates.”

“Who said anything about imposing a tax?” Henry looked surprised. “I simply said that moneys that now go to the sheriffs will go into the treasury.”

Eleanor could see the magnates look at one another in dismay. They glanced at Henry and then at Thomas. Not one of them wanted to support the archbishop, that was obvious, but loyalty to their purse was stronger than loyalty to the crown.

“If the sheriffs’ recompense is paid directly into the treasury, then it is no different from a new tax, Sire,” said John the marshal. “I believe you said yourself it would go into the treasury as a legal tax. Much as I wish to support you in this matter, I cannot give my consent.”

Trust the venal marshal to look to himself first. But even the others, albeit somewhat reluctantly, agreed. An expression of satisfaction flitted across the archbishop’s pale countenance. Henry, crimson-faced, was barely managing to stay in control.

But he was no fool, thank the Holy Mother. To flout his own magnates would be to cut his own throat, and he knew it. Harry looked from his father to Thomas and back again. He understood nothing, poor lad; nor did she in this instance, Eleanor realized—but the boy must make a start sometime if one day he was to rule.

“My lords, I will not press you against your will,” Henry said in a strangled voice. “Let matters proceed as usual.”

Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. She saw Thomas step forward then suddenly stop. No wonder. The expression on Henry’s face was decidedly menacing—the expression of a man who has been checkmated, and will make his opponent pay dearly.

Unable to breathe in such a dread atmosphere, Eleanor slipped out the door of the chamber and walked outside into the lucent courtyard and the laughter of her children at play. Overhead a blue sky dazzled, the air sparkled with sunshine, and the scent of summer roses overpowered the senses. But the oppressive ambiance in the council chamber clung to her spirits like a giant cobweb. Henry was setting his own course.
Where will it end?
his mother had asked her. He was without a guide now, refusing to listen to anyone’s advice.

Thomas started across the courtyard, a lonely black-robed figure, head bent, hands behind his back. Harry ran out behind him. Eleanor held out her arms, expecting him to run to her. To her great surprise, her son ran up to Thomas and embraced him. The archbishop patted the boy’s head, an obvious affection strong between them.

Oddly moved, Eleanor turned away—and allowed herself to complete a thought that had hovered at the rim of her mind for some days. Now that Thomas no longer threatened her in the inexplicable way he always had, was she actually going to
miss
his presence at Henry’s side? It was a shocking realization.

I
N AUGUST, HENRY, STILL
nursing his humiliation at Thomas’s hands, discovered that the incident in the council had reaped an unexpected harvest: The leading barons, few of whom had liked Thomas the chancellor, became openly hostile to Thomas the archbishop. Gilbert Foliot, the bishop of London, went so far as to refuse to renew his oaths of obedience to Canterbury.

Gratifying as this was, it fell short of the mark—which was to retaliate in kind. He needed a potential weapon—but what would best serve him?

One morning late in the month, Henry was sitting at the head of a long oak table in his council chamber, two bloodhounds curled at his feet. Eleanor sat on one side of the table, Robert of Leicester on the other, both reading through official dispatches. A clerk perched on a high stool in one corner, stylus and wax tablet in hand. The table was littered with quill pens, wells of ink and rolls of parchment. Those documents Eleanor and Leicester thought merited Henry’s attention were placed on a growing pile in front of him. It was stifling in the small chamber, thick with the odor of stale air, goblets of warm wine, and a platter of overripe peaches.

“Here is a protest from the sheriff of London,” said Eleanor, reading aloud from a square of parchment. “Last month a clerk stole a chalice from the church of St. Mary-le-Bow in London. He should have been tried by the lay courts but—”

“But Thomas ignored my request to do so,” Henry interjected, “and plucked the knave out of the sheriff’s hands and tried him in an ecclesiastical court. I don’t wonder the sheriff’s nose is twisted of joint, but what can I do now?”

Eleanor shrugged, laid the parchment aside, and picked up another one. The chapel bells rang for nones.

“Enough for today. God’s eyes, if I read another document or sign one more writ or charter, I shall go from my wits.” With impatient fingers Henry shoved away the pile of dispatches. “Leicester, what do you say to a few hours of hunting in the woods? Plenty of time before it grows dark.” He rose eagerly to his feet; the hounds yawned and jumped up to join him.

“Just a moment, Henry,” said Eleanor, her eyes swiftly running down the new sheaf of parchment. “Holy Mother, listen to this—”

“Not now, Nell. Please.”

“This is from the sheriff in Bedfordshire. You remember the recent case of the canon in Worcester who was tried in the ecclesiastical court?”

“If you mean the one who raped a girl and murdered her father, I recall it only too well.” Henry had one hand upon the door. “Been hanged at last, has he? Not before time.”

“Is this the case that the archbishop managed to transfer to the church courts?” Frowning, Leicester rose heavily to his feet.

Henry nodded, opening the door. “And
I
returned to the sheriff’s custody. This problem of trying every criminatory cleric in the church courts was one I hoped Thomas’s appointment as chancellor would right. I did not object that strongly over a church theft, but murder is another matter.” He stepped out into the passage.

“If this is the same case, the man has
not
been hanged.” Eleanor laid down the parchment. “The sheriff ordered the canon to stand trial again and he flatly refused, insulting the sheriff in the bargain.”

Impatiently, Henry turned around. “Yes, yes, I know all that. But I ordered the sheriff to try the canon again, for contempt as well as murder this time.”

“The sheriff of Bedfordshire, who dictates this, says he summoned the canon to stand trial again as you ordered, but the archbishop once more intervened, tried the canon in his own court, and again acquitted him!”

“Thomas acquitted him again? I don’t believe it!” Henry marched back into the chamber.

“Read for yourself. The sheriff says Thomas had the canon flogged for insulting a king’s official, and denied him the revenues from his benefices. When the sheriff again protested in the strongest terms, Thomas told him that no cleric may be tried by the royal justices.”

Henry felt the blood pound in his head. He, king of England, had explicitly ordered that the canon be tried again in the lay courts. No one had the right gainsay him in this matter. No one! For a moment he could not get his breath; he felt exactly as if a horse had kicked him in the chest.

“What an outrage!” The fury in Eleanor’s voice echoed his own. “Because church courts cannot impose a sentence which involves the shedding of blood, a cold-blooded murderer and rapist will get off with only a loss of income and a flogging!”

“In the royal courts, murder is a hanging offense; rape can be punished by blinding and castration. It is a huge discrepancy.” Leicester shook his head. “And going on far too long.”

Henry snatched the letter from the table. “That Thomas dared to countermand my writ in order to acquit a murderer is intolerable!” He struggled to gain control as he tried to read the words through the red mist of rage that blinded him. It was almost beyond belief that his once-treasured friend should have so totally betrayed him.

“Since the beginning of my reign nine years ago,” he said in a choked voice, “more than a hundred clerics have committed murder. Many more have committed rape, theft, and extortion. Not one found guilty in the church courts was ever turned over to lay authority for punishment. My protests have gone unheeded; even the pope is dilatory in righting this matter.”

Eleanor rose to her feet. “And now?”

Henry flung the parchment onto the floor. “Such leniency will no longer be tolerated. It goes against the ancient customs of the realm and the power of kingship.” He turned to Leicester. “This abuse of justice started in the last reign, did it not?”

“In point of fact it started with the Conqueror in the last century when he separated the lay courts from the church courts—”

“Do you dare blame my great-grandfather for this disastrous state of affairs?”

Leicester went pale. “No, my lord king, I sought only to clarify—”

Henry waved him to silence, spun on his heels, and stalked the chamber, thumbs hooked into his belt. “Surely clerics should be punished more severely than laymen, for they are supposed to be educated and of a spiritual bent. But suppose they are not?”

Eleanor jumped up from the table. “Certainly that is part of the problem! Virtually anyone can get himself consecrated as a clerk in minor orders and neither his education nor his character are ever put to the test.”

“Adulterers, robbers, rapists, fire-raisers, and murderers, all of them!”

“I must protest. You go too far,” replied Leicester, eyes wide in shock.

Ignoring him, Henry smote his clenched fist into an open palm. “We will return to the traditions and customs of my beloved grandfather, the first Henry. Jesu! I’ve been concentrating on legal reforms in the lay courts, when the church courts are where they’re sorely needed.” He gave a grim smile. “My purpose has always been to create laws common to all men. Clerics are men, made like any other.” He paused then slowly nodded. “I’ve thought of something… . But it will take time to work through.”

Both Leicester and Eleanor looked mystified. It mattered little. They, like everyone else in England, would soon discover what he had in mind.

The following autumn Henry convened an assembly of bishops and barons at Westminster. Telling no one of his real intentions, he had given it out that the meeting was to settle a dispute between the archbishops of York and Canterbury, both of whom were to be present.

On a chill October morning, Henry, flanked by his two co-justiciars, Leicester and de Lucy, as well as Eleanor, stood in the open doorway of the great hall of Westminster, watching the bishops arrive in litters or on horseback. The sky was a bold blue streaked with feathers of white. Eddies of wind blew gold and russet leaves into little piles in the courtyard. Henry took in deep breaths of the bracing air. Not a day to be imprisoned inside a musty chamber with a lot of dry clergymen, most of them in their dotage.

A sudden commotion in the courtyard caught his attention. The archbishop rode into view, properly mounted this time on a black gelding. A horde of commoners, some in rags, ran at his stirrups and pushed one another aside to clutch his habit. Thomas stretched out his hands and blessed them, before the guards waved everyone off.

“The common people love him,” commented de Lucy, “just as the humble priests of the clergy do.”

Henry turned from the door. The image of an old man dressed in a threadbare brown cloak, his feet wrapped in rags, kissing the hem of the archbishop’s gown stayed in his mind. He stroked his chin with thoughtful fingers.

“Thomas has become rather more dangerous than I had previously thought.”

“People will flock to a man they think stands up to authority,” Eleanor murmured, “especially such a charismatic figure as our saintly archbishop.”

“These simple folk are but beguiled and dazzled by all the far-fetched tales they have heard about Thomas Becket,” said de Lucy.

“They will learn that it is a
common
law I am trying to achieve, a law that does not set one man above another but declares all equal before the bar of justice,” Henry replied. “The poor and humble—clergy or otherwise—are not excluded.”