The Pillars of the Earth (152 page)

“No dinner, thank you,” said Reginald.

“A cup of wine, after your journey?”

“We have a message for your master from the king,” Reginald said impatiently. “Please announce us right away.”

“Very good.” The steward bowed. They were unarmed, so he had no reason to refuse them. He left the table and walked to the far end of the hall.

William and the four knights followed. The eyes of the silent servants went with them. William was trembling the way he used to before a battle, and he wished the fighting would start, for he knew he would be all right then.

They all went up a staircase to the upper floor.

They emerged in a roomy attendance chamber with benches around the sides. There was a large throne in the middle of one wall. Several black-robed priests and monks were sitting on the benches, but the throne was empty.

The steward crossed the room to an open door. “Messengers from the king, my lord archbishop,” he said in a loud voice.

There was no audible reply, but the archbishop must have nodded, for the steward waved them in.

The monks and priests stared wide-eyed as the knights marched across the room and went into the inner chamber.

Thomas Becket was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in his archbishop’s robes. There was only one other person in the room: a monk, sitting at Thomas’s feet, listening. William caught the monk’s eye, and was jolted to recognize Prior Philip of Kingsbridge. What was he doing here? Currying favor, no doubt. Philip had been elected bishop of Kingsbridge, but had not yet been confirmed. Now, William thought with savage glee, he never would be.

Philip was equally startled to see William. However, Thomas carried on speaking, pretending not to notice the knights. This was a piece of calculated discourtesy, William thought. The knights sat down on the low stools and benches around the bed. William wished they had not: it made the visit seem social, and he felt they had lost impetus somehow. Perhaps that was what Thomas had intended.

Finally Thomas looked at them. He did not rise to greet them. He knew them all, except William, and his eye came to rest on Hugh Morville, the highest-ranking. “Ah, Hugh,” he said.

William had put Reginald in charge of this part of the operation, and so it was Reginald, not Hugh, who spoke to the archbishop. “We come from the king in Normandy. Do you want to hear his message in public or in private?”

Thomas looked irritably from Reginald to Hugh and back again, as if he resented dealing with a junior member of the delegation. He sighed, then said: “Leave me, Philip.”

Philip stood up and walked past the knights, looking worried.

“But don’t close the door,” Thomas called after him.

When Philip had gone out, Reginald said: “I require you in the name of the king to go to Winchester to answer charges against you.”

William had the satisfaction of seeing Thomas go pale. “So that’s how it is,” the archbishop said quietly. He looked up. The steward was hovering at the door. “Send everyone in,” Thomas said to him. “I want them all to hear this.”

The monks and priests filed in, Prior Philip among them. Some sat down and others stood around the walls. William had no objection: on the contrary, the more people who were present, the better; for the object of this unarmed encounter was to establish before witnesses that Thomas refused to comply with a royal command.

When they were all settled, Thomas looked at Reginald. “Again?” he said.

“I require you in the name of the king to go to Winchester to answer charges against you,” Reginald repeated.

“What charges?” Thomas said quietly.

“Treason!”

Thomas shook his head. “I will not be put on trial by Henry,” he said calmly. “I’ve committed no crime, God knows.”

“You’ve excommunicated royal servants.”

“It was not I, but the pope, who did that.”

“You’ve suspended other bishops.”

“I’ve offered to reinstate them on merciful terms. They have refused. My offer remains open.”

“You’ve threatened the succession to the throne by disparaging the coronation of the king’s son.”

“I did no such thing. The archbishop of York has no right to crown anyone, and the pope has reprimanded him for his effrontery. But no one has suggested that the coronation is invalid.”

Reginald said exasperatedly: “The one thing follows from the other, you damn fool.”

“I’ve had enough!” Thomas said.

“And we’ve had enough of you, Thomas Becket,” Reginald shouted. “By God’s wounds, we’ve had enough of you, and your arrogance and troublemaking and treason!”

Thomas stood up. “The archbishop’s castles are occupied by the king’s men,” he shouted. “The archbishop’s rents have been collected by the king. The archbishop has been ordered not to leave the city of Canterbury. And you tell me that
you
have had enough?”

One of the priests tried to intervene, saying to Thomas: “My lord, let’s discuss the matter in private—”

“To what end?” Thomas snapped. “They demand something I must not do and will not do.”

The shouting had attracted everyone in the palace, and the doorway to the chamber was crowded with wide-eyed listeners, William saw. The argument had gone on long enough: nobody could now deny that Thomas had refused a royal command. William made a signal to Reginald. It was a discreet gesture, but Prior Philip noticed it and raised his eyebrows in surprise, realizing that the leader of the group was not Reginald but William.

Reginald said formally: “Archbishop Thomas, you are no longer under the king’s peace and protection.” He turned around and addressed the onlookers. “Clear this room,” he ordered.

Nobody moved.

Reginald said: “You monks, I order you in the name of the king to guard the archbishop and prevent his escape.”

They would do no such thing, of course. Nor did William want them to: on the contrary, he wanted Thomas to attempt an escape, for that would make it easier to kill him.

Reginald turned to the steward, William Fitzneal, who was technically the archbishop’s bodyguard. “I arrest you,” he said. He grabbed the steward’s arm and marched him out of the room. The man did not resist. William and the other knights followed them out.

They ran down the stairs and through the hall. The local knight, Richard, was still on guard in the porch. William wondered what to do with the steward. He asked him: “Are you with us?”

The man was terrified. He said: “Yes, if you’re with the king!”

He was too frightened to be any danger, whatever side he was on, William decided. He said to Richard: “Keep an eye on him. Let no one leave the building. Keep the porch door closed.”

With the others he ran across the courtyard to the mulberry tree. Hastily they began to put on their helmets and swords. We’re going to do it now, William thought fearfully; we’re going to go back in there and kill the archbishop of Canterbury, oh my God. It was a long time since William had worn a helmet, and the fringe of chain mail that protected the neck and shoulders kept getting in the way. He cursed his clumsy fingers. He did not have time to fumble anything just now. He spotted a boy watching him openmouthed and shouted to him: “Hey! You! What’s your name?”

The boy looked back toward the kitchen, unsure whether to answer William or flee. “Robert, lord,” he said after a moment. “They call me Robert Pipe.”

“Come here, Robert Pipe, and help me with this.”

The boy hesitated again.

William’s patience ran out. “Come here, or I swear by the blood of Jesus I’ll chop off your hand with this sword!”

Reluctantly the boy came forward. William showed him how to hold up the chain mail while he put on the helmet. He got it on at last, and Robert Pipe fled. He’ll tell his grandchildren about this, William thought fleetingly.

The helmet had a ventail, a mouth flap that could be pulled across and fastened with a strap. The others had closed theirs, so that their faces were hidden and they could no longer be recognized. William left his open a moment longer. Each of them had a sword in one hand and an ax in the other.

“Ready?” William said.

They all nodded.

There would be little talk from now on. No more orders were necessary, no further decisions had to be made. They were simply going to go back in there and kill Thomas.

William put two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle.

Then he fastened his ventail.

A man-at-arms came running out of the gatehouse and threw open the main gate.

The knights William had stationed in the house across the road came out and poured into the courtyard, shouting, as they had been instructed, “King’s men! King’s men!”

William ran back to the palace.

The knight Richard and the steward William Fitzneal threw open the porch door for him.

As he entered, two of the archbishop’s servants took advantage of the fact that Richard and William Fitzneal were distracted, and slammed the door between the porch and the hall.

William threw his weight against the door but he was too late: they had secured it with a bar. He cursed. A setback, and so soon! The knights began to hack at the door with their axes, but they made little headway: it had been made to withstand attack. William felt control slipping away from him. Fighting back the beginnings of a panic, he ran out of the porch and looked around for another door. Reginald went with him.

There was nothing on this side of the building. They ran around the west end of the palace, past the detached kitchen, into the orchard on the south side. William grunted with satisfaction: there on the south wall of the palace was a staircase leading to the upper floor. It looked like a private entrance to the archbishop’s chambers. The feeling of panic went away.

William and Reginald ran to the foot of the staircase. It was damaged halfway up, and there were a few workmen’s tools and a ladder nearby, as if the stairs were being repaired. Reginald leaned the ladder against the side of the staircase and climbed up, bypassing the broken steps. He reached the top. There was a door leading to an oriel, a little enclosed balcony. William watched him try the door. It was locked. Beside it was a shuttered window. Reginald smashed the shutter with one blow of his ax. He reached inside, fumbled, then opened the door and went in. William started to climb the ladder.

Philip was scared from the moment he saw William Hamleigh, but the priests and monks in Thomas’s entourage were at first complacent. Then, when they heard the hammering on the hall door, they became frightened, and several of them proposed taking refuge in the cathedral.

Thomas was scornful. “Take refuge?” he said. “From what? Those knights? An archbishop can’t run from a few hotheads.”

Philip thought he was right, up to a point: the title of archbishop was meaningless if you could be frightened by knights. The man of God, secure in the knowledge that his sins are forgiven, regards death as a happy transfer to a better place, and has no fear of swords. However, even an archbishop ought not to be so careless of his safety as to invite attack. Furthermore, Philip had firsthand knowledge of the viciousness and brutality of William Hamleigh. So when they heard the smashing of the oriel shutter, Philip decided to take a lead.

He could see, through the windows, that the palace was surrounded by knights. The sight of them scared him more. This was clearly a carefully planned attack, and the perpetrators were prepared to commit violence. He hastily closed the bedroom door and pulled the bar across. The others watched him, content to let someone decisive take charge. Archbishop Thomas continued to look scornful but he did not try to stop Philip.

Philip stood by the door and listened. He heard a man come through the oriel and enter the audience chamber. He wondered how strong the bedroom door was. However, the man did not attack the door, but crossed the audience chamber and started down the stairs. Philip guessed he was going to open the hall door from the inside and let the rest of the knights in that way.

That gave Thomas a few moments’ reprieve.

There was another door in the opposite corner of the bedroom, partly concealed by the bed. Philip pointed at it and said urgently: “Where does that lead?”

“To the cloisters,” someone said. “But it’s locked shut.”

Philip crossed the room and tried the door. It was locked. “Have you got a key?” he said to Thomas, adding as an afterthought, “My lord archbishop.”

Thomas shook his head. “That passage has never been used in my memory,” he said with infuriating calm.

The door did not look very stout, but Philip was sixty-three years old and brute force had never been his métier. He stood back and gave the door a kick. It hurt his foot. The door rattled flimsily. Philip gritted his teeth and kicked it harder. It flew open.

Philip looked at Thomas. Thomas still seemed reluctant to flee. Perhaps it had not dawned on him, as it had on Philip, that the number of knights and the well-organized nature of their operation indicated a deadly serious intention to do him harm. But Philip knew instinctively that it would be fruitless to try to scare Thomas into fleeing. Instead he said: “It’s time for vespers. We ought not to let a few hotheads disrupt the routine of worship.”

Thomas smiled, seeing that his own argument had been used against him. “Very well,” he said, and he got to his feet.

Philip led the way, feeling relief that he had got Thomas moving and fear that the archbishop still might not move fast enough. The passage led down a long flight of steps. There was no light except what came through the archbishop’s bedroom. At the end of the passage was another door. Philip gave it the same treatment as he had given the first door, but this one was stronger and it did not open. He began to hammer on it, shouting: “Help! Open the door! Hurry, hurry!” He heard the note of panic in his own voice, and made an effort to stay calm, but his heart was racing and he knew that William’s knights must be close behind.

The others caught up with him. He continued to bang the door and shout. He heard Thomas say: “Dignity, Philip, please,” but he took no notice. He wanted to preserve the archbishop’s dignity—his own was of no account.