The Pillars of the Earth (150 page)

Philip went to pay his respects to the archbishop of Sens, William Whitehands, a brilliant young clergyman who was the nephew of the late King Stephen. Archbishop William invited Philip to dinner. Philip was flattered, but he declined the invitation: he had come a long way to see Thomas Becket and now that he was so close he was impatient. After attending mass in the cathedral he followed the River Yonne northward out of the town.

He was traveling light, for the prior of one of the wealthiest monasteries in England: he had with him only two men-at-arms for protection, a young monk called Michael of Bristol as his aide, and a packhorse loaded with holy books, copied and beautifully illustrated in the scriptorium at Kingsbridge, to use as gifts for the abbots and bishops he called on during the journey. The costly books made impressive presents and contrasted sharply with the modesty of Philip’s entourage. This was deliberate: he wanted people to respect the priory, not the prior.

Just outside the north gate of Sens, in a sunny meadow by the river, he found the venerable abbey of Sainte-Colombe, where Archbishop Thomas had been living for the past three years. One of Thomas’s priests greeted him warmly, called servants to take care of his horses and baggage, and ushered him into the guesthouse where the archbishop was staying. It occurred to Philip that the exiles must be glad to receive visitors from home, not just for sentimental reasons, but because it was a sign of support.

Philip and his aide were given food and wine and introduced to Thomas’s household. His men were all priests, mostly young and—Philip thought—rather clever. Within a short while Michael was arguing with one of them about transubstantiation. Philip sipped a cup of wine and listened without taking part. Eventually one of the priests said to him: “What’s your view, Father Philip? You haven’t said anything yet.”

Philip smiled. “Knotty theological questions are the least worrying of problems, to me.”

“Why?”

“Because they will all be resolved in the hereafter, and meanwhile they can safely be shelved.”

“Well spoken!” said a new voice, and Philip looked up to see Archbishop Thomas of Canterbury.

He was immediately aware of being in the presence of a remarkable man. Thomas was tall, slender and exceptionally handsome, with a wide forehead, bright eyes, fair skin and dark hair. He was about ten years younger than Philip, around fifty or fifty-one. Despite his misfortunes he had a lively, cheerful expression. He was, Philip saw instantly, a very
attractive
man; and this partly explained his remarkable rise from humble beginnings.

Philip knelt and kissed his hand.

Thomas said: “I’m so glad to make your acquaintance! I’ve always wanted to visit Kingsbridge—I’ve heard so much about your priory and the marvelous new cathedral.”

Philip was charmed and flattered. He said: “I’ve come to see you because everything we’ve achieved has been put in peril by the king.”

“I want to hear all about it, right away,” Thomas said. “Come into my chamber.” He turned around and swept out.

Philip followed, feeling at once pleased and apprehensive.

Thomas led him into a smaller room. There was a costly leather-and-wood bed covered with fine linen sheets and an embroidered quilt, but Philip also saw a thin mattress rolled up in a corner, and he recalled stories that Thomas never used the luxurious furniture provided by his hosts. Remembering his own comfortable bed in Kingsbridge, Philip suffered a pang of guilt to think that he snored in comfort while the primate of all England slept on the floor.

“Speaking of cathedrals,” said Thomas, “what did you think of Sens?”

“Amazing,” Philip said. “Who’s the master builder?”

“William of Sens. I’m hoping to lure him to Canterbury one day. Sit down. Tell me what’s happening in Kingsbridge.”

Philip told Thomas about Bishop Waleran and Archdeacon Peter. Thomas appeared deeply interested in everything Philip said, and asked several perceptive questions. As well as charm, he had brains. He had needed both, to rise to a position from which he could frustrate the will of one of the strongest kings England had ever had. Underneath his archbishop’s robes, it was rumored, Thomas wore a hair shirt; and beneath that charming exterior, Philip reminded himself, there was a will of iron.

When Philip had finished his story, Thomas looked grave. “This must not be allowed to happen,” he said.

“Indeed,” Philip said. Thomas’s firm tone was encouraging. “Can you stop it?”

“Only if I’m restored to Canterbury.”

That was not the answer Philip had been hoping for. “But can’t you write to the pope, even now?”

“I will,” Thomas said. “Today. The pope will not recognize Peter as bishop of Kingsbridge, I promise you. But we can’t stop him from sitting in the bishop’s palace. And we can’t appoint another man.”

Philip was shocked and demoralized by the decisiveness of Thomas’s negative. All the way here he had nursed the hope that Thomas would do what he had failed to do, and come up with a way to frustrate Waleran’s scheme. But the brilliant Thomas was also stumped. All he could offer was the hope that he would be reinstated at Canterbury. Then, of course, he would have the power to veto episcopal appointments. Philip said dejectedly: “Is there any hope you’ll come back soon?”

“Some hope, if you’re an optimist,” Thomas replied. “The pope has devised a peace treaty which he urges me and Henry to agree to. The terms are acceptable to me: the treaty gives me what I’ve been campaigning for. Henry says it is acceptable to him. I have insisted that he demonstrate his sincerity by giving me the kiss of peace. He refuses.” As he spoke, Thomas’s voice changed. The natural rise and fall of conversation flattened out and became an insistent monotone. All the vivacity went out of his face, and he took on the look of a priest delivering a sermon on self-denial to a heedless congregation. Philip saw in his expression the stubbornness and pride that had kept him fighting all these years. “The refusal of the kiss is a sign that he plans to lure me back to England and then renege on the terms of the agreement.”

Philip nodded. The kiss of peace, which was part of the ritual of the mass, was the symbol of trust, and no contract, from a wedding to a truce, was complete without it. “What can I do?” he said, as much to himself as to Thomas.

“Go back to England and campaign for me,” Thomas said. “Write letters to your fellow priors and abbots. Send a delegation from Kingsbridge to the pope. Petition the king. Preach sermons in your famous cathedral, telling the people of the county that their most senior priest has been spurned by their king.”

Philip nodded. He was going to do nothing of the kind. Thomas was telling him to line up with the opposition to the king. That might do Thomas’s morale some good but it would achieve nothing for Kingsbridge.

Philip had a better idea. If Henry and Thomas were this close it might not take much to push them together. Perhaps, Philip thought hopefully, there was something he could do. The idea excited his optimism. It was a long shot, but he had nothing to lose.

After all, they were only arguing about a kiss.

Philip was shocked to see how his brother had aged.

Francis’s hair was gray, there were leathery bags under his eyes, and the skin of his face looked desiccated. However, he was sixty years old, so perhaps it was not surprising. And he was bright-eyed and sprightly.

Philip realized that what was bothering him was his own age. As always, seeing his brother made him aware of how he himself must have aged. He had not looked in a mirror for years. He wondered if he had bags under his eyes. He touched his face. It was hard to tell.

“What’s Henry like to work for?” Philip asked, curious, as everyone was, to know what kings were like in private.

“Better than Maud,” Francis said. “She was cleverer, but too devious. Henry is very open. You always know what he’s thinking.”

They were sitting in the cloisters of a monastery at Bayeux, where Philip was staying. King Henry’s court was billeted nearby. Francis was still working for Henry, as he had for the last twenty years. He was now head of the chancery, the office that wrote out all the royal letters and charters. It was an important and powerful post.

Philip said: “Open? Henry? Archbishop Thomas doesn’t think so.”

“Yet another major error of judgment on Thomas’s part,” Francis said scornfully.

Philip thought Francis ought not to be so contemptuous of the archbishop. “Thomas is a great man,” he said.

“Thomas wants to be king,” Francis snapped.

“And Henry seems to want to be archbishop,” Philip rejoined.

They glared at one another for a moment. If we’re having a row already, Philip thought, it’s no surprise that Henry and Thomas are fighting so fiercely. He smiled and said: “Well, you and I shouldn’t quarrel about it, anyway.”

Francis’s face softened. “No, of course not. Remember, this dispute has been the plague of my life for six years now. I can’t be as detached about it as you.”

Philip nodded. “But why won’t Henry accept the pope’s peace plan?”

“He will,” Francis said. “We’re a whisker away from reconciliation. But Thomas wants more. He’s insisting on the kiss of peace.”

“But if the king is sincere, surely he should give the kiss of peace as a surety?”

Francis raised his voice. “It’s not in the plan!” he said in an exasperated tone.

“But why not give it anyway?” Philip argued.

Francis sighed. “He would gladly. But he once swore an oath, in public, never to give Thomas the kiss of peace.”

“Plenty of kings have broken oaths,” Philip argued.

“Weak kings. Henry won’t go back on a public oath. That’s the kind of thing that makes him different from the wretched King Stephen.”

“Then the Church probably shouldn’t try to persuade him otherwise,” Philip conceded reluctantly.

“So why is Thomas so insistent on the kiss?” Francis said in an exasperated tone.

“Because he doesn’t trust Henry. What is to stop Henry from reneging on the deal? What could Thomas do about it? Go into exile again? His supporters have been staunch, but they’re weary. Thomas can’t go through all this again. So, before he yields, he must have iron guarantees.”

Francis shook his head sadly. “It’s become a question of pride, now, though,” he said. “I know Henry has no intention of double-crossing Thomas. But he won’t be compelled. He hates to feel coerced.”

“It’s the same with Thomas, I think,” Philip said. “He’s asked for this token, and he can’t back down.” He shook his head wearily. He had thought that Francis might be able to suggest a way to bring the two men together, but the task looked impossible.

“The irony of the whole thing is that Henry would gladly kiss Thomas
after
they’re reconciled,” Francis said. “He just won’t accept it as a precondition.”

“Did he say that?” said Philip.

“Yes.”

“But that changes everything!” Philip said excitedly. “What did he say, exactly?”

“He said: ‘I’ll kiss his mouth, I’ll kiss his feet, and I’ll hear him say mass—after he comes back.’ I heard him myself.”

“I’m going to tell Thomas this.”

“Do you think he might accept that?” Francis said eagerly.

“I don’t know.” Philip hardly dared to hope. “It seems such a small climb-down. He gets the kiss—it’s just a little later than he wanted it.”

“And for Henry, a similar small climb-down,” Francis said with rising excitement. “He gives the kiss, but voluntarily, rather than under compulsion. By God, it might work.”

“They could have a reconciliation at Canterbury. The whole agreement could be announced in advance, so that neither of them could change things at the last minute. Thomas could say mass and Henry could give him the kiss, there in the cathedral.” And then, he thought, Thomas could block Waleran’s evil plans.

“I’m going to propose this to the king,” Francis said.

“And I to Thomas.”

The monastery bell rang. The two brothers stood up.

“Be persuasive,” Philip said. “If this works, Thomas can return to Canterbury—and if Thomas comes back, Waleran Bigod is finished.”

They met in a pretty meadow on the bank of a river at the frontier between Normandy and the Kingdom of France, near the towns of Fr
é
teval and Vievy-le-Raye. King Henry was already there, with his entourage, when Thomas arrived with Archbishop William of Sens. Philip, in Thomas’s party, spotted his brother, Francis, with the king, on the far side of the field.

Henry and Thomas had reached agreement—in theory.

Both had accepted the compromise, whereby the kiss of peace would be given at a reconciliation mass after Becket returned to England. However, the deal was not done until the two of them had met.

Thomas rode out to the middle of the field, leaving his people behind, and Henry did the same, while everyone looked on with bated breath.

They talked for hours.

Nobody else could hear what was being said, but everyone could guess. They were talking about Henry’s offenses against the Church, the way the English bishops had disobeyed Thomas, the controversial Constitutions of Clarendon, Thomas’s exile, the role of the pope. ... Initially Philip was afraid they would quarrel bitterly and part worse enemies. They had been close to agreement before, and had met like this, and then something had come up, some point that touched the pride of one or both, so that they had exchanged harsh words and then stormed off, each blaming the intransigence of the other. But the longer they talked, the more optimistic Philip became. If one of them had been ready to storm off, it would surely have happened early on, he felt.

The hot summer afternoon began to cool, and the shadows of the elms lengthened across the river. The tension was unbearable.

Then at last something happened. Thomas moved.

Was he going to ride away? No. He was dismounting. What did it mean? Philip watched breathlessly. Thomas got off his horse, approached Henry, and knelt at the king’s feet.

The king dismounted and embraced Thomas.

The courtiers on both sides cheered and threw their hats into the air.