Time and Chance (75 page)

There was a sudden stir at the end of the hall. Fitz Stephen jumped to his feet, nervously smoothing the crumpled folds of his mantle as Thomas Becket appeared in the doorway of the Bishop of Winchester’s private chamber. He was flanked by Waleran, Prior of St Mary’s of Southwark, and Richard, Prior of St Martin’s, a respected cleric from Dover. Fitz Stephen tried to take heart from their presence—physical proof that his lord did not stand alone—and reminded himself that not all of the bishops would side with the king. For certes, the Bishops of Winchester and Worcester and Exeter would hold fast for the archbishop, he concluded, and tried to shut out the insidious inner voice whispering that Winchester and Exeter were elderly and ailing and Lord Roger far away in Tours.

Trailing after Alexander, Fitz Stephen threaded his way through the crush toward his lord. Once there, he stopped as if rooted in place, eyes stinging with tears, for the archbishop’s face was etched with the evidence of his travails; he looked haggard, even frail, all too intimate with pain of the body and soul. Like one consumed by a flame from within, Fitz Stephen thought sorrowfully, and cried out hoarsely, “My lord!”

“William!” As Fitz Stephen knelt, Becket gestured for him to rise. His smile was warming, blotting out the years of separation as if they’d never been. “I am gladdened by the sight of you,” he said. “Have you come to welcome me home?”

“Yes, my lord, and to serve you . . . if you’ll have me.”

“There is always room in my heart for a faithful friend.” Fitz Stephen was still on his knees and Becket reached out, offering his hand. “It is well that you are here,” he said. “ ‘You also shall bear witness, because you have been with me from the beginning.’ ”

 

 

 

BECKET SENT the Prior of St Martin’s to the young king at Winchester, preparing the way for his own arrival. The prior returned to Southwark with unwelcome news for the archbishop: he’d been received very coolly and soon dismissed, being told that a reply would be dispatched by a royal messenger. The court of the young king was hostile territory, he recounted. Geoffrey Ridel, King Henry’s chancellor, was utterly opposed to allowing the archbishop to meet with the young king, and in that, he seemed to have many allies. Only the lad’s greatuncle, the Earl of Cornwall, had spoken out in favor of the proposed visit.

The prior’s pessimistic report was soon borne out. A delegation of high-ranking lords rode in from Winchester. The young king, the archbishop was told, did not wish to see him. He was to return to Canterbury straightaway and remain there upon pain of incurring the royal wrath.

 

 

 

BECKET WAS very troubled by his failure to see the young king; Hal had once been educated in the archbishop’s household and he was quite fond of the boy. He’d known that there were many in England who resented his return, men who’d profited by his exile, others who bore him grudges for past disputes. But he’d not realized how well entrenched they were at Hal’s court. Not a man to accept defeat easily, he decided to send Prior Richard back to try again. And since the Earl of Cornwall seemed most amenable of the young king’s advisers to reason, he sent a trusted confidant to the earl, his personal physician, Master William.

 

 

 

RAINALD HAD ACCEPTED the hospitality of the Augustinian canons at Breamore, not far from Fordingbridge where the young king was then residing. He was so alarmed by the arrival of one of the archbishop’s men that Master William was easily infected by his own panic. Dismissed by the earl, William wearily set out for Canterbury, bearing a message that seemed heavier with each passing mile. He reached the archbishop’s palace at dusk on Saturday, the nineteenth of December, and was ushered into Becket’s bedchamber to deliver his bad news.

The archbishop was attended only by one of his oldest advisers and friends, the noted scholar and cleric, John of Salisbury. They were seated by the hearth, his lord’s chair just scant inches from the flames, for his extreme susceptibility to the cold made winters an ongoing ordeal. He smiled at the sight of William and beckoned him forward.

“Come sit with us, William, and warm yourself. John, you remember my physician. He is the one who treated me when my jaw became inflamed at Pontigny. William has just returned from a covert visit to the Earl of Cornwall and, to judge by his demeanor, his mission was not a success. Do not try to sweeten the brew, William. If it is as bitter a draught as I fear, it is best to drink it fast.”

Master William gratefully settled onto a stool, stretching his feet toward the fire. “You are right, my lord. I bring troublesome tidings.”

John of Salisbury stiffened his spine, like a man bracing for bad news. But Becket’s face remained impassive. “Go on,” he said. “Tell us all.”

“Earl Rainald was not pleased to see me, my lord. He was blunt-spoken and said that you had created a great disturbance in the kingdom and that unless God intervenes, you will bring us to eternal shame. He went so far as to say that we should all end up in Hell because of you. Later, when we spoke in private, he told me in confidence that your enemies are plotting against you. I asked him if the young king gave credence to their charges and he shrugged, saying that he was but fifteen and not much interested in political matters. There is a real fear amongst his advisers that you mean to undermine royal authority. Some believe that you will seek to overturn the coronation, and there is much talk about your evil intent, talk that you are riding with a large army.”

“A large army?” John echoed indignantly. “We took five knights as an escort back to Canterbury—five!” Becket remained silent and, after a moment, William resumed.

“Earl Rainald said that there was much sympathy at court for the bishops; men were irate that you acted so unfairly and vengefully, especially in the season of Advent. He said that he was not necessarily voicing his own views, merely telling me what others were saying.”

He paused uncertainly until Becket nodded, signaling him to continue. “The next day the young king sent over from Fordingbridge a gift of venison for the earl, and by mischance, the bearer recognized me, crying out loudly, ‘That is Master William, one of the archbishop’s household!’ He was assured that I was the earl’s doctor, but the earl was greatly disturbed by this incident, not wanting others to believe he was your ally. He insisted that I leave at once, telling me to get as far away as I could. And . . . and he bade me warn you, my lord, to look after yourself. He said that you are not the only one in danger, that so are John of Salisbury and Alexander of Wales, and if they are found by your enemies, they will be put to the sword.”

John gasped, his eyes flooding with tears, but Thomas Becket regarded William calmly. Stretching his neck, he tapped it lightly with the palm of his hand, saying, “Here, here is where they will find me.”

 

 

 

ON CHRISTMAS MORNING, Becket preached a sermon to the townspeople of Canterbury, assembled before him in the cathedral nave, based upon the text
Peace on earth to men of goodwill.
He then excommunicated again those men who had transgressed God’s Laws: Rannulph and Robert de Broc; Henry’s chancellor, Geoffrey Ridel; and his keeper of the seal, Nigel de Sackville; and he published the papal censures against the Archbishop of York, the Bishop of London, and the Bishop of Salisbury.

“Christ Jesus curse them all!” he proclaimed, and flung the lighted candles to the ground where they flickered and guttered out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

 

 

 

 

 

 

WILLIAM FITZ STEPHEN was seated at a table in the great hall, drafting a letter to the Archbishop of Sens. Once it was done, he would take it to the archbishop and if it met with his approval, it would then be turned over to a scribe who would make a final copy. Fitz Stephen was a gifted Latinist, far better than Becket, and it pleased him greatly to put his skills at the service of his lord. He was so intent upon his task that he did not look up until his name was called close at hand.

Edward Grim was standing by the table with two full cups. “I thought you might like a cider.”

Fitz Stephen was agreeable to a work break, and after carefully putting aside his parchment, quill pen, inkhorn, and pumice stone, he made room at the table for his new friend. Edward Grim had been at Canterbury only a few days. Like many visitors to the archbishop, he was a supplicant, bearing a letter of recommendation from Arnulf, Bishop of Lisieux. A testimonial by Arnulf was suspect in some quarters, given his reputation for slyness and his closeness to the king, and Grim had been treated with coolness by several of the archbishop’s clerks. But Becket had received him cordially, and Fitz Stephen thought that he had a good chance of getting the archbishop’s help. He’d been given the benefice of Saltwood Church by the Abbot of Bec, only to be forcibly ejected by the de Brocs, and by aiding him to regain his office, Becket would accomplish two benefits: righting a wrong while injuring his foes. When Grim asked now about his prospects, Fitz Stephen was able to offer him honest encouragement.

“Your grievance is one that needs redressing and I think Lord Thomas will decide to uphold your claim to the benefice at Saltwood. But I would not want to make less of the difficulties you’ll be facing. The de Brocs are likely to maintain their greedy grasp upon Kent until the king himself comes over to evict them.”

Grim nodded morosely, and the same thought was in both their minds: the latest offense by Robert de Broc, the apostate monk. On Christmas Eve, he’d stopped a servant of the archbishop’s delivering supplies to the priory kitchens, and cut off the tail of the man’s packmare. Fitz Stephen did not doubt that he’d then gone back to Saltwood Castle to brag of his deed, for that sort of alehouse humor was sure to win favor among the riffraff followers of his uncle, Rannulph de Broc. These were men who deserved the utmost contempt, but they were dangerous, too, and one forgot that at his peril.

He said as much to Grim, who nodded again in bleak agreement and then asked him about the tension he’d observed between the archbishop and Odo, the Christ Church prior.

“The last prior died during Lord Thomas’s exile and the monks chose Odo to succeed him. But my lord does not recognize his election and plans to replace him with his own choice.”

“Ah . . . I see.” Edward Grim tactfully asked no more questions, thinking that this conflict between Lord Thomas and Prior Odo explained much. He’d been baffled by the obvious undercurrents at the priory, by the silent, smoldering resentment that existed between the archbishop and some of his own monks.

“Will?” Alexander Llewelyn was coming toward them, and after one look at the Welshman’s somber expression, Grim rose and politely excused himself. Straddling the bench vacated by the young priest, Alexander gestured toward Fitz Stephen’s half-finished letter. “Is that the one I’m to take?”

Fitz Stephen nodded and then glanced across the hall, where Herbert of Bosham was standing by the open hearth. His eyes glassy, his face feverishly flushed, he looked so wretched that Fitz Stephen felt a twinge of pity. Alexander was hiding his distress better than Herbert, but Fitz Stephen knew him well enough to discern his inner turmoil. By now all in the religious community knew that Lord Thomas was sending Herbert and Alexander to consult with the French king and the Archbishop of Sens, and all knew, too, that both men were obeying with extreme reluctance, loath to leave their lord in the midst of his enemies.

Trying to offer some comfort, Fitz Stephen observed that Alexander could be thankful, at least, that he’d not been the one chosen to visit the papal court, for he’d be able to return from France within a fortnight if luck and good winds were with him. Alexander did not seem much heartened by that. Absentmindedly helping himself to Fitz Stephen’s cider, he stared down into the cup as if it were a wishing well. “Listen,” he said after a long, brooding silence, “I want you to stay close to Lord Thomas whilst I am gone. I fear he is making a grave mistake to send Herbert and me and the others away. I have a bad feeling about all this, Will . . .”

Fitz Stephen would normally have joked about his friend’s Welsh second-sight. Instead, he said earnestly, “You must not let your fears run loose, Sander. Keep them tightly reined in, for your own sake. None would dare harm an archbishop, not even the Devil’s leavings like the de Brocs.”

Alexander’s mouth twitched down. “We both know better than that. But I am worrying about more than those Saltwood vipers. It is Lord Thomas’s state of mind that gives me concern, too. After the Christmas Mass, he spoke to me of the martyred archbishop, St Alphege, and said there would soon be another.”

Fitz Stephen blinked, and then said hastily, “He had just condemned men to eternal damnation. Is it so surprising that his mood would be low at that moment?”