The Pillars of the Earth (151 page)

Philip felt tears come to his eyes. The conflict had been resolved—by reason and goodwill. This was how things ought to be.

Perhaps it was an omen for the future.

It was Christmas Day, and the king was in a rage.

William Hamleigh was frightened. He had known only one person with a temper like King Henry’s, and that was his mother. Henry was almost as terrifying as she. He was an intimidating man anyway, with his broad shoulders and deep chest and huge head; but when he was angry his blue-gray eyes became bloodshot, his freckled face went red, and his customary restlessness turned into the furious pacing of a captive bear.

They were at Bur-le-Roi, a hunting lodge of Henry’s, in a park near the Normandy coast. Henry should have been happy. He liked to hunt better than anything else in the world, and this was one of his favorite places. But he was furious, And the reason was Archbishop Thomas of Canterbury.

“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas! That’s all I hear from you pestilential prelates! Thomas is doing this—Thomas is doing that—Thomas insulted you—Thomas was unjust to you. I’m sick of Thomas!”

William furtively scrutinized the faces of the earls, bishops and other dignitaries around the Christmas dinner table in the great hall. Most of them looked nervous. Only one had a look of contentment: Waleran Bigod.

Waleran had predicted that Henry would soon quarrel with Thomas again. Thomas had won too decisively, he said; the pope’s peace plan forced the king to yield too much, and there would be further rows as Thomas tried to collect on the royal promises. But Waleran had not simply sat back to wait and see what would happen: he had worked hard to make his prediction come true. With William’s help, Waleran constantly brought Henry complaints about what Thomas had been doing since he returned to England: riding around the countryside with an army of knights, visiting his cronies and cooking up any number of treacherous schemes, and punishing clergymen who had supported the king during the exile. Waleran embroidered these reports before passing them on to the king, but there was some truth in everything he said. However, he was fanning the flames of a fire that was already burning well. All those who had deserted Thomas during the six years of the quarrel, and were now living in fear of retribution, were keen to vilify him to the king.

So Waleran looked happy while Henry raged. And well he might. He stood to suffer more than most from the return of Thomas. The archbishop had refused to endorse the nomination of Waleran as bishop of Lincoln. Nevertheless, Thomas had come up with his own nominee as bishop of Kingsbridge: Prior Philip. If Thomas had his way, Waleran would lose Kingsbridge but would not gain Lincoln. He would be ruined.

William’s own position would suffer too. With Aliena acting as earl, Waleran gone, Philip as bishop, and no doubt Jonathan as prior of Kingsbridge, William would be isolated, without a single ally in the county. That was why he had joined Waleran at the royal court, to collaborate in the undermining of the shaky concord between King Henry and Archbishop Thomas.

Nobody had eaten much of the swans, geese, peacocks and ducks on the table. William, who normally ate and drank heartily, was nibbling bread and sipping posset, a drink made with milk, beer, eggs and nutmeg, to calm his bilious stomach.

Henry had been driven into his current fury by the news that Thomas had sent a delegation to Tours—where Pope Alexander was—to complain that Henry had not kept his part of the peace treaty. One of the king’s older counselors, Enjuger de Bohun, said: “There will be no peace until you have Thomas executed.”

William was shocked.

Henry roared: “That’s right!”

It was clear to William that Henry had taken the remark as an expression of pessimism, rather than as a serious proposal. However, William had a feeling that Enjuger had not said it lightly.

William Malvoisin said idly: “When I was in Rome, on my way back from Jerusalem, I heard tell of a pope that had been executed, for insupportable insolence. Damned if I can think of his name, now.”

The archbishop of York said: “It looks as if there’s nothing
else
to be done with Thomas. While he’s alive he will foment sedition, at home and abroad.”

To William those three statements sounded orchestrated. He looked at Waleran. At that moment Waleran spoke. “There is certainly no point in appealing to Thomas’s sense of decency—”

“Be quiet, the lot of you!” the king roared. “I’ve heard enough! All you do is complain—when will you get off your backsides and do something about it?” He took a gulp of ale from his goblet. “This beer tastes like piss!” he shouted furiously. He pushed back his chair and, as everyone hastened to stand, he got up and stormed out of the room.

In the anxious silence that followed, Waleran said: “The message could hardly be clearer, my lords. We are to get up off our seats and do something about Thomas.”

William Mandeville, the earl of Essex, said: “I think a delegation of us should go to see Thomas and set him straight.”

“And what will you do if he refuses to listen to reason?” said Waleran.

“I think we should then arrest him in the name of the king.”

Several people started to speak at once. The assembly broke up into smaller groups. Those around the earl of Essex began to plan their deputation to Canterbury. William saw Waleran talking to two or three younger knights. Waleran caught his eye and beckoned him over.

Waleran said: “William Mandeville’s delegation will do no good. Thomas can handle them with one hand tied behind his back.”

Reginald Fitzurse gave William a hard look and said: “Some of us think the time has come for sterner measures.”

“What do you mean?” William said.

“You heard what Enjuger said.”

Richard le Bret, a boy of about eighteen, blurted out: “Execution.”

The word chilled William’s heart. It was serious, then. He stared at Waleran. “Will you ask for the king’s blessing?”

Reginald answered. “Impossible. He can’t sanction something like this in advance.” He grinned evilly. “But he can reward his faithful servants afterward.”

Young Richard said: “Well, William—are you with us?”

“I’m not sure,” William said. He felt both excited and scared. “I’ll have to think about it.”

Reginald said: “There’s no time to think. We’ll have to go now. We must get to Canterbury before William Mandeville, otherwise his lot will get in the way.”

Waleran addressed William. “They need an older man with them, to guide them and plan the operation.”

William was desperately keen to agree. Not only would this solve all his problems: the king would probably give him an earldom for it. “But to kill an archbishop must be a terrible sin!” he said.

“Don’t worry about that,” Waleran said. “I’ll give you absolution.”

The enormity of what they were going to do hung over William like a thundercloud as the group of assassins traveled to England. He could think of nothing else; he could neither eat nor sleep; he acted confused and spoke distractedly. By the time the ship reached Dover he was ready to abandon the project.

They reached Saltwood Castle, in Kent, three days after Christmas, on a Monday evening. The castle belonged to the archbishop of Canterbury, but during the exile it had been occupied by Ranulf de Broc, who had refused to give it back. Indeed, one of Thomas’s complaints to the pope was that King Henry had failed to restore the castle to him.

Ranulf put new heart into William.

Ranulf had ravaged Kent in the absence of the archbishop, relishing the lack of authority rather in the way William had in years gone by, and he was willing to do anything to retain the freedom to do as he pleased. He was enthusiastic about the assassination plan and welcomed the chance of taking part, and he immediately began to discuss the details with gusto. His matter-of-fact approach dispelled the fog of superstitious dread that had clouded William’s vision. William began once again to imagine how it would be if he were an earl again, with no one to tell him what to do.

They stayed up most of the night planning the operation. Ranulf drew a plan of the cathedral close and the archbishop’s palace, scratching it on the table with a knife. The monastic buildings were on the north side of the church, which was unusual—they were normally to the south, as at Kingsbridge. The archbishop’s palace was attached to the northwest corner of the church. It was entered from the kitchen courtyard. While they worked on the plan, Ranulf sent riders to his garrisons at Dover, Rochester and Bletchingley, ordering his knights to meet him on the road to Canterbury in the morning. Toward dawn the conspirators went to bed to catch an hour or two of sleep.

William’s legs hurt like fire after the long journey. He hoped this was the last military operation he would ever do. He would be fifty-five soon, if his calculations were right, and he was getting too old for it.

Despite his weariness, and the heartening influence of Ranulf, he still could not sleep. The idea of killing an archbishop was too terrifying, even though he had already been absolved of his sin. He was afraid that if he went to sleep he would have nightmares.

They had figured out a good plan of attack. It would go wrong, of course: there was always
something
that went wrong. The important thing was to be flexible enough to cope with the unexpected. But whatever happened, it would not be very difficult for a group of professional fighting men to overpower a handful of effeminate monks.

The dim light of a gray winter morning leaked into the room through the arrow-slit windows. After a while William got up. He tried to say his prayers, but he could not.

The others were up early too. They had breakfast together in the hall. As well as William and Ranulf, there were Reginald Fitzurse, whom William had made leader of the attack group; Richard le Bret, the youngster of the group; William Tracy, the oldest; and Hugh Morville, the highest-ranking.

They put on their armor and-set out on Ranulf’s horses. It was a bitterly cold day, and the sky was dark with low gray clouds, as if it might snow. They followed the old road called Stone Street. On the two-and-a-half-hour journey they picked up several more knights.

Their main rendezvous was at Saint Augustine’s Abbey, outside the city. The abbot was an old enemy of Thomas’s, Ranulf had assured William, but nevertheless William decided to tell him that they had come to arrest Thomas, not to kill him. That was a pretense they would keep up until the last moment: no one was to know the true aim of the operation except for William himself, Ranulf, and the four knights who had crossed from France.

They reached the abbey at noon. The men Ranulf had summoned were waiting. The abbot gave them dinner. His wine was very good and they all drank plenty. Ranulf briefed the men-at-arms who would surround the cathedral close and prevent anyone from escaping.

William kept shivering, even when he stood beside the fire in the guesthouse. It should be a simple operation, but the penalty for failure would probably be death. The king would find a way to justify the murder of Thomas, but he could never support the
attempted
murder: he would have to deny all knowledge of it and hang the perpetrators. William had hanged many people, as sheriff of Shiring, but the thought of his own body dangling at the end of a rope still made him shake.

He turned his mind to the thought of the earldom he could expect as a reward for success. It would be nice to be an earl again in his old age, respected and deferred to and obeyed without question. Perhaps Aliena’s brother, Richard, would die in the Holy Land and King Henry would give William his old estates again. The thought warmed him more than the fire.

When they left the abbey they were a small army. Nevertheless they had no trouble getting into Canterbury. Ranulf had controlled this part of the country for six years and he had not yet relinquished his authority. He held more sway than Thomas, which was no doubt why Thomas had complained so bitterly to the pope. As soon as they were inside, the men-at-arms spread out around the cathedral close and blocked all the exits.

The operation had begun. Until this moment it had been theoretically possible to call the whole thing off, with no harm done; but now, William thought with a shiver of dread, the die was cast.

He left Ranulf in charge of the blockade, keeping a small group of knights and men for himself. He installed most of the knights in a house opposite the main gateway to the cathedral close. Then he went through the gate with the remainder. Reginald Fitzurse and the other three conspirators rode into the kitchen courtyard as if they were official visitors, rather than armed intruders. But William ran into the gatehouse and held the terrified porter at sword point.

The attack was under way.

With his heart in his mouth, William ordered a man-at-arms to tie up the porter, then summoned the rest of his men into the gatehouse and closed the gate. Now no one could enter or leave. He had taken armed control of a monastery.

He followed the four conspirators into the kitchen courtyard. There were stables to the north of the yard, but the four had tied their horses to a mulberry tree in the middle. They took off their sword belts and helmets: they would keep up the facade of a peaceful visit a little longer.

William caught up with them and dropped his weapons under the tree. Reginald looked inquiringly at him. “All’s well,” William said. “The place is isolated.”

They crossed the courtyard to the palace and went into the porch. William assigned a local knight called Richard to stay in the porch on guard. The others entered the great hall.

The palace servants were sitting down to dinner. That meant they had already served Thomas and the priests and monks who were with him. One of the servants stood up. Reginald said: “We are the king’s men.”

The room went quiet, but the servant who had stood up said: “Welcome, my lords. I’m the steward of the hall, William Fitzneal. Please come in. Would you like some dinner?”

He was remarkably friendly, William thought, considering that his master was at loggerheads with the king. He could probably be suborned.