Plantagenet 1 - The Plantagenet Prelude (42 page)

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.’

‘Of what use is the liberty of the Church, if the Church itself should perish?’

‘You are bewitched,’ cried Thomas. ‘Are we to add sin to sin? It is when the Church is in trouble and not merely in times of peace that a bishop should dare to do his duty. In the old days men gave their blood for the Church and now they must be prepared to die if need be in defence of the Church’s liberty. By God, I swear that it is not safe for us to leave that form which we have received from our fathers. We cannot expose anyone to death for we are not allowed to take part in any trial of life and death, and if we were to pass a man of the Church over to the secular court they could sentence him to death.’

Roger had to admit the power of the man and he could not persuade the others to stand out against him.

Henry plunged into another of his violent rages.

‘I will have obedience,’ he shouted. ‘I will not allow these clerics to defy me because of their cloth. I will have them swear, man by man, that they obey royal customs in all things.’

He sent for the bishops, including the one he called their master - Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury.

When they were gathered together he raged before them in such a manner as to strike terror into all their hearts - except that of Thomas. He had seen those rages before.

Oh Henry, he thought, how far we have grown apart. I knew it was the end of our friendship when I became your Archbishop.

Henry was saddened too. How different it used to be, Thomas! he thought. You were my friend when you were my Chancellor. Everything you did was for my good. You loved me; you served me well. And now you set yourself against me. You have another master, your Church. I’ll get you back, Thomas. I’ll force you back.

‘I will not speak to you collectively,’ declared the King, ‘but separately.’

He was gleeful. That was clever. Singly he could strike terror into their miserable hearts.

One by one the bishops gave way; Roger cynically, his eyes on future advancement at the time when Thomas was disgraced and sent into exile, or whatever fate the King had reserved for him, for then his place would be vacant and the King would give it to one who knew where his advantage lay.

Thomas could have wept with sorrow. The bishops had betrayed the Church. Of course he knew how violent Henry could be when he was fighting for his own way. He could understand what veiled threats were uttered; he knew exactly how those defaulting bishops would make peace with their consciences.