Plantagenet 1 - The Plantagenet Prelude (43 page)

And then Thomas?

‘So you will not swear to serve your King?’ demanded Henry.

‘I will give him all earthly honour saving my order,’ answered Thomas.

The King might rave and rant but he would not swerve from that. Thomas remained adamant, and finally the King strode out in great anger.

In his private chamber he sent for his secretary.

‘Write to the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ he commanded. ‘Say that any posts, honours and land which came into his possession when he was Chancellor of this realm are to be resigned to me without delay.’

The secretary complied and the King felt a little eased. That would show Thomas what it meant to defy his master. Thomas loved his luxurious houses; he loved all the pomp that went with them. Very well, he should do without them.

Thomas immediately complied with the King’s demands.

‘That is settled then,’ said Henry.

The King made it clear that he had not done with this matter, but meanwhile another had arisen which gave him great cause for annoyance.

His brother Geoffrey was dead but his younger brother William still lived and Henry was eager to make provision for him. A young brother roaming the kingdom of England or the dukedom of Normandy could come to mischief.

He had often discussed this matter with his mother and they had decided that when an opportunity occurred for William to marry advantageously, he should take it.

The opportunity came. King Stephen’s son William had died in the service of Henry. His widow, the Countess of Warenne, was a very rich woman. Here was William’s chance, decided Henry.

He called William to him and told him of his plans; William decided that he must first see the lady and become acquainted with her before she knew that a match had been suggested between them.

Henry was nothing loath to a little romantic behaviour and when William came to him and told him that he loved the Countess of Warenne deeply, Henry was delighted.

‘The marriage should not be delayed,’ said the King, ‘for the sooner the Warenne estates are securely in the family the better.’

Opposition came from a quarter from which Henry was now becoming accustomed to getting it.

The Archbishop of Canterbury pointed out that William Plantagenet and William of Blois had been second cousins; therefore the marriage of a widow of one to the other was not legal.

Henry cursed the meddlesome Archbishop but in view of the fact that his own wife had obtained a divorce on the grounds of consanguinity with Louis of France, he could not demur.

He kept the Countess’s estates in the family by marrying her off to one of his illegitimate half-brothers, but he was very angry.

So was his brother William. He declared he would no longer stay in a country which was ruled by an archbishop, and went to join his mother in Normandy.

Matilda and he agreed about the character of Thomas Becket, and Matilda whipped up William’s resentment to fury. Henry had been a fool, as she had always said, to favour the man. He should have known that to pick a Chancellor out of the gutter was folly. She had over the years exaggerated Becket’s lowly origins. It had always been a characteristic of hers to make the facts fit her case. Thomas Becket would ruin the country she was sure. Henry should send him into exile and the sooner he appointed another Primate the better.

She would not let the matter rest. She discussed it day after day with her son until it seemed to him that he had lost everything that made life worth living. When he caught a cold his spirits were so low that he could not throw it off and it affected his chest.

In the draughty castle he grew very ill and in his delirium he talked of the Countess of Warenne and how he no longer wished to live because he had been unable to marry her.

When he died Matilda, wild with grief, proclaimed that Thomas Becket had killed her son.

She wrote at once to Henry.

‘Your brother is dead. Life was no longer worth living for him when he lost the woman he loved. Your Archbishop has done this.’

When the news reached Henry he was stunned.

William was but a young man - younger than he was! And he was dead! Was it possible to die of love? His mother declared it was. ‘If he had been allowed to marry the woman he loved this would never have happened to him,’ she insisted.

Nor would it, thought Henry. His wife would have cared for him for she loved him. But Thomas Becket would not permit the marriage to take place, and now my brother William is dead!

You have a lot to answer for, Thomas Becket, and this is something I shall never forget nor forgive.

Chapter XII

THE KING’S TRIUMPH

H
enry could not stop thinking of Becket. Sometimes he would awake from a dream in which they had been the friends they used to be when they were King and Chancellor together. No one could amuse him as Becket had done. He could find little pleasure in the company of others. Even at Woodstock he would find himself thinking of Becket.

The man seemed determined to plague him. What had happened to him? He had grown serious - the churchman had completely superseded the gay reveller, for Becket
had
been gay. How he had loved to sit at his table and look at the fine plate he possessed and the magnificent livery of his servants! If he himself ate frugally and drank little it had not mattered. It had been part of the eccentricity of the man which Henry had found so attractive.

Was there a way, he wondered, in which they could be reconciled? If only Becket would give way to his wishes the whole Church would follow him. As for the Pope, he was not in too happy a position and could make little trouble. Henry could reform the Church in his country and Alexander could not afford to raise a voice against him.

He decided to see Thomas and he sent a command for him to meet him at Northampton.

When the King arrived with his great retinue he sent a message to Thomas to stay where he was, for it would be impossible for the town to accommodate two great parties such as theirs would be.

And I doubt not, thought the King angrily, that your party is as grand and as great as mine for you were ever a lover of ostentation, my Archbishop.

They met in a field and Thomas rode his horse to meet that of the King. For a moment they remained looking at each other, and the knowledge of the great friendship which had once been theirs swept over them both so that it was an emotional moment.

Then the King said: ‘Dismount. We will walk and talk.’

This they did and the King took Thomas’s arm as he said, ‘I marvel you have forgotten all the favours I have shown you. I wonder how you could be so ungrateful as to oppose me in everything.’

‘My lord, I am not ungrateful for favours received from you alone nor from God through you. I would never resist your will as long as it is also the will of God. You are my lord. But God is your Lord and mine also and it would be good for neither of us if I should leave His will for yours. One day we shall both stand before Him to be judged.’

The King made an impatient movement but Thomas would not be silenced. He went on: ‘St Peter says we must obey God rather than man. And although I would obey the wishes of my King whenever it was possible I could not do so if they went against my duty to God.’

‘Pray do not preach me sermons,’ retorted Henry. ‘I have not come here for that.’

‘I do not intend to preach, my lord, only to tell you what is my mind concerning these matters.’

‘And what think you is in my mind? Is the King to be tutored by one of his rustics?’

‘You refer to my humble birth. It is true I am not royal. St Peter was not royal either but God gave him the keys of Heaven and made him the head of the Catholic Church.’

‘That is true,’ said the King. ‘But then he died for his Lord.’

‘I will die for my Lord when the time comes.’

‘You have risen high and you think that because of this which has come to you through my goodness you are of such importance that you may defy me. Do not trust too much in my friendship.’

‘I trust in the Lord,’ said Thomas soberly, ‘for foolish is the man who puts his trust in men.’

‘Enough of this, Thomas. We are almost in agreement. I just wish you to swear to serve your King.’

‘So will I, but only when serving him does not conflict with the will of God.’

‘Only when … ! I will not have conditions. Swear to serve your King.’

‘I could not … without that condition.’

‘I have tried to reason with you, but you will not be reasoned with. Because of the friendship I once felt for you and could feel again, I have met you here. I wished to speak to you in person. I am offering to accept you again, Thomas, that things may be as they once were before between us. I have been fond of you. I miss you. Do you remember how amusing life was when we were together? Come Thomas. All you have to do is say a few words. Say them, Thomas, and all will be well.’

‘I cannot say what you wish, my lord, for as I see it to do so would be to deny my God.’

‘A plague on your sermons and a plague on you, Becket. I have raised you up. So could I put you back. Think of that, rustic. And remember you stand against the King.’

With that he turned and left Thomas.

There was only one thing to be done and that was to appeal to the Pope. In France news of the conflict between King and Archbishop had already been received. Louis sent letters of encouragement to Thomas and hinted that if he should find it impossible to go on living in England there would be a welcome for him in France.

The position of the Pope was not a very happy one. The Emperor of Germany had joined forces with his rival and had forced Alexander to leave Italy. He was now residing uneasily in France. He was afraid to offend Henry as he had been on other occasions. At the same time he believed that Thomas was in the right.

But it came to his ears that Henry Plantagenet had uttered threats against him and because of his very precarious position he could not face any opposition from that quarter. Wanting to applaud Becket he must yet placate the King, who had already written his account of the matter.

The Pope would understand, wrote Henry, that a King could not tolerate what appeared to be disobedience in any of his subjects be they priests or merchants. All he wished was a statement from the Archbishop to the effect that he would serve his King in all ways, and this he must have for the sake of his kingly dignity. Neither the Pope nor the Archbishop must think for one moment that he would take advantage of this. He wanted to see a strong Church. He knew full well that it was their religious beliefs that kept men virtuous. Did they think he wanted a nation of thieves and robbers and irreligious men? Not he! But a king could not have it be known that some of his subjects believed they could defy him; ay, and had boasted of it in public.

The Pope wrote to Thomas to the effect that he believed there should be moderation and submission for thus he was sure that Thomas could avert great trouble which would bring no good to the Church. He commanded Thomas to submit to the King for, he added, he believed the King would accept nothing else and this was not the time for the Church to quarrel with the King of England.

When he received this letter, Thomas was astonished and depressed. He must obey the Pope.

He discovered that the King was at Woodstock, and there in his palace Henry agreed to see him.

Henry was in a good mood. He invariably was at Woodstock, and when he heard that Thomas was asking for an audience he received him at once.

‘Well, Thomas?’

‘My lord, I have heard from His Holiness.’

‘And what instructions have you had from him?’ asked the King.

‘He tells me that I must do as you wish. I must agree to serve you wholeheartedly.’

‘Ah,’ said the King. ‘So our little trouble is over. You have decided to pay me the homage due to your King?’

‘The Pope has sent his command.’

‘He had wisdom enough for that,’ said Henry with a laugh.

‘I cannot disobey him.’

‘But you don’t agree with him?’ cried Henry.

‘I think I was right in what I did.’

‘But you will now withdraw. That is better. You will swear absolute allegiance to your King.’

‘I do,’ said Thomas, ‘for I am instructed by the Pope that this assurance is only to preserve your dignity and you will not put into action any reforms regarding the Church.’

‘You have sworn, Thomas.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘That is good. You have sworn to me in private, but because you declared your disobedience in public, in public must you swear your allegiance. Farewell, Thomas. We shall meet soon. I shall summon you to Clarendon where you may make your oath of submission publicly.’

No sooner had Thomas received the King’s summons to Clarendon than he began to question what he had done.

The Pope was in a difficult position; he had advised him to submit to Henry because he feared the King’s antagonism. Thomas should never have taken his advice. He knew Henry well. Who should know him better? During the years when he had been his Chancellor and they had roamed the countryside together he had become familiar with every twist and turn of that violent nature. When Henry had made up his mind to have something, he was going to have it. He would lie, cheat, fight, threaten to do anything to obtain it. He had no scruples and now it was clear that he had made a vow that he was going to subdue his one-time friend and Chancellor. He had to show Thomas that he was his superior. It had always been so in their games and practical jokes. Henry liked a good adversary that he might glean more glory in victory.

His promises that he had no wish to interfere with the Church meant nothing. Of course he wanted to interfere with the Church. He wanted to bring it to heel as he did his dogs. He was going to make the Church serve the State. He might pay lip service to the Pope, but everyone in the kingdom be they bishops or archbishops must learn that he was master.

And Thomas had privately agreed to accept his rule in all matters - because a weak Pope had been afraid to order him to do otherwise.

Thomas spent hours on his knees in prayer. His hair shirt tortured him, even more than it would most men for his poor circulation made his skin extra sensitive. Yet he did this penance in the hope that he might expiate his sins and win God’s help. He thought of his pride when Richer de L’Aigle had taken him to Pevensey, and the joy he had found in living the life of a nobleman. He thought of his rich garments, his cloaks lined with fur, his velvet doublets, the delight he had taken in being the King’s constant companion. Earthly vanity that had been. Was he being asked to pay for it now?

As soon as he had become Archbishop of Canterbury he had changed. His love of luxury had abated for he had seen the folly of it. He remembered how he had turned his face from Canterbury, how he had tried so hard not to take the post, for he knew it would be an end to the merry life.