Afterward, Herbert of Bosham drew Fitz Stephen aside to comment upon how well he thought the meeting had gone. “I was sure the king would rave and rant over this breach of his accursed Constitutions. Who would have guessed that he’d take it in such good humor?”
Fitz Stephen looked around to make sure none were within hearing range. “Do you not realize what that means, Herbert? The king is done with arguing. I fear he has something else in mind for our lord archbishop.”
RANULF FELT NO RELIEF when the walls of Northampton came into view, even though the sight signaled the end of a long and arduous journey. It had not occurred to him to disobey the king’s summons, but never had he dreaded a council as he dreaded this one, for he knew its purpose—to declare war upon Wales. He’d known for months that this day was coming; Henry could not let Rhys ap Gruffydd’s defiance go unpunished. And when an English army crossed into Wales, he knew that Owain Gwynedd would choose to fight with Rhys. What he did not yet know was what he would do.
The sky was a vibrant blue, and October was already beginning to splash its colors across the countryside. But the beauty of the season was lost upon Ranulf. Knowing the castle would be filled to overflowing, he decided to lodge his men at the Cluniac priory of St Andrew’s outside the city walls, only to discover that the priory was already occupied by the Archbishop of Canterbury. As Becket had brought with him a large entourage, including more than forty clerks and numerous household knights and servants, there was not a bed to be found in the priory’s guest hall. Ranulf ordered his weary men back into the saddle. He had better luck with the Augustinian canons at St James, where the harried hospitaller managed to squeeze them in, and within the hour, he was dismounting in the outer bailey of Northampton Castle.
“Ranulf!” His brother Rainald was coming down the steps of the keep. “I was beginning to think you were not coming. The council started yesterday.”
“Wales is a long way off, Rainald. What have I missed? Nothing has been decided yet about the Welsh campaign?”
“There has been no talk at all of Wales so far. Harry has other fish to fry. Ere he deals with the Welsh rebels, he must deal with his rebellious archbishop. So the first item of business was the contempt charge against Becket.”
“What contempt charge?”
“Ranulf, you truly do live at the back of beyond! When are you going to move back to civilization? Come into the hall where we can get an ale and I’ll bring you up to date on all you’ve been missing.”
Seated in a window seat with a flagon and a plate of hot wafers drizzled with honey, Rainald wasted no time in launching into his narrative. “Remember John Marshal, that lunatic who was nearly burned alive in that bell tower ere he’d surrender to Stephen’s soldiers? Well, this summer he lodged a claim in the archbishop’s court for the manor of Pagenham. When he lost, he appealed to the king’s court, as provided by the Constitutions of Clarendon. Becket then made a grave mistake. He did not appear in answer to the king’s summons, sending four knights to argue that Marshal had committed perjury in the Pagenham case. Knowing Marshal, that is more than likely. But Becket should have come himself to the king’s court. By not doing so, he handed Harry a club to bash him with, and you can be sure that Harry made the most of it.”
“He was found guilty, then, of contempt?” Ranulf asked, and Rainald nodded.
“That was all but inevitable since he had no defense to offer. But the sentence passed was unusually harsh for a first offense—forfeiture of all Becket’s movable goods. The best proof that men thought it too severe was that none were willing to pass sentence; the bishops argued that it was for the barons to do and the barons insisted it was more fitting for a bishop to do it. Harry finally lost patience and ordered the Bishop of Winchester to do it. Becket objected at first, but was persuaded by the other prelates that he ought to accept the judgment, and all the bishops save Gilbert Foliot then offered to stand surety for any fine imposed by the court.”
Ranulf was finding it difficult to concentrate upon Becket’s plight when Wales was on the verge of calamity, especially since he felt that many of the archbishop’s troubles were of his own making. “So the Becket case has been resolved, then. Does that mean the matter of Wales will be discussed on the morrow?”
Rainald’s reply was unintelligible, for his mouth was full of wafer. Washing it down with ale, he gave Ranulf a knowing smile. “Becket might think it is over. But I’d wager Harry has a surprise or two still in store for our lord archbishop.”
THE COUNCIL ASSEMBLED the next morning in the great hall. This was Ranulf’s first glimpse of the archbishop, and he thought Becket was showing the strain of his war of wills with the king. He’d lost more weight, and he’d not had flesh to spare. His dark hair was feathered with more grey than Ranulf remembered, his natural pallor enhanced by the stark black of the habit he now wore, the garb of an Augustinian monk. He seemed composed, though, doubtless feeling that the worst was behind him. Henry was plainly dressed, as usual, in a green wool tunic. But he did not need silk or fur-trimmed garments to hold center stage. Like Owain Gwynedd, he projected the aura of kingship by his very presence, not by the trappings of royalty, the accoutrements of power. Ranulf needed only a few moments of close observation to conclude that Rainald’s suspicions were correct—their nephew was not ready to settle for a contempt-of-court conviction.
When Geoffrey Ridel rose to speak on the king’s behalf, Thomas Becket stiffened noticeably, for Ridel had been acting as chancellor since Becket’s abrupt resignation of that office two years before. “There are a few other matters to be settled,” Ridel said calmly. “My lord Archbishop of Canterbury owes the Crown an accounting for sums expended during his tenure as chancellor.”
Becket looked perplexed. “What sums are you talking about?” “Three hundred pounds in revenue from the Honour of Eye and the castle of Berkhamsted.”
Becket turned in his seat to stare at the king. “As Your Grace well knows, I used that money to make repairs to the Tower of London.”
“Not on my authorization. Did you get my consent to make these repairs? Did you even discuss them with me?”
“No . . . but . . . but that is because I saw no need.” Becket’s stammer had come back. “I never bothered you with minor matters like that. I took it for granted that you’d be in agreement with me.”
“Well,” Henry said softly, “those days are gone . . . are they not?”
They looked at each other across a distance far greater than the width of the hall. The impasse was broken by the Bishop of Winchester, who hobbled to his feet and asked for a brief recess so Becket could confer with his fellow bishops.
Ranulf had heard that Henry of Blois was no longer the conniving, ambitious opportunist who had goaded his brother Stephen into claiming the crown and thus doomed England to nineteen years of a bloody civil war. Ranulf supposed that it was possible for a man to mellow in old age, sincerely to repent the sins of his past. He just wasn’t sure if the bishop was that man. His suspicions proved unfounded, though, at least on this particular occasion, for the bishops soon returned to the hall and Henry of Blois announced that the Archbishop of Canterbury was confident that he had done nothing wrong. He was willing, however, to make repayment of the three hundred pounds, for he would not have money come between him and his lord king.
Ranulf felt a surge of relief that the matter was to be settled as quickly as this. But his relief ebbed away as Geoffrey Ridel rose to speak again. “Indeed we are making progress,” Ridel said smoothly. “I hope we can be equally expeditious in resolving the debts still outstanding from the king’s Toulouse campaign.”
Thomas Becket half rose in his seat, then sank back. “What debts?”
“Five hundred marks you borrowed from the King’s Grace and an additional five hundred marks you borrowed from the Jews, for which the king stood surety.”
“That money was a gift from the king, and spent in his service!”
“Have you evidence in su
pport of that claim?” When Becket reluctantly shook his head, Ridel smiled derisively, although Henry remained impassive. After a brief deliberation, the court’s decision was rendered: that the thousand marks must be repaid. By now the king’s intent was plain to every man in the hall, and Becket had some difficulty in finding men willing to stand surety for the debt.
His face flushed with barely suppressed anger, Becket looked challengingly at Henry. “Is there anything more you require of me?” he asked, managing to invest those innocuous words with resounding echoes of contempt.
Henry’s hand closed on the arm of his chair. When he spoke, though, his voice was quite even, chillingly dispassionate. “Just one thing more. I require from you an accounting for all the proceeds of the archbishopric of Canterbury during the period between Archbishop Theobald’s death and your consecration—and an accounting for the revenues of all the vacant bishoprics and abbacies you administered during your chancellorship.”
Becket blanched and there were audible gasps. This heavy-handed display of royal power was disturbing to them all.
RANULF WAS ADMITTED into the king’s private chamber as dusk was falling. Henry looked tired but satisfied, and why not? So far all had been going his way. Becket’s protest that he’d been summoned only to answer contempt of court charges had fallen on deaf ears. He’d finally gained himself a brief reprieve by insisting that he must consult with his fellow bishops before responding to this latest demand, and the court had been temporarily adjourned. But Ranulf knew that the bloodletting would resume on Monday—unless he could convince his nephew to back off.
“Have you come to take supper with me, Uncle?”
“Yes, but first I would like a few moments with you—alone.” Henry hesitated slightly, then made a gesture of dismissal. As the other men obediently trooped out, he moved to the hearth, reached for the fire tongs, and began to stir the flames.
“Harry . . .” Ranulf joined the younger man at the hearth, so obviously groping for words that Henry slanted him a grimly amused look.
“Spit it out, Uncle, ere it chokes you.”
“Harry, I was troubled by what occurred in the hall this afternoon.”
“Not as troubled, I trust, as Becket.”
“In all honesty, I think every man in that hall was troubled. You were justified to charge him with contempt, but to demand a full accounting . . . Jesú, that might well total as much as thirty thousand marks! It could take years to sort through the records, and there are bound to be discrepancies and missing receipts and errors—”
“So?”
“So it is beginning to look as if you are aiming for nothing less than the man’s ruination!”
“I am,” Henry said, with a bluntness that took Ranulf’s breath away. “I cannot dismiss him, but I can force his resignation, and by God, I will—one way or another.”
“At what cost, Harry? Have you not thought about the damage done to the Church—and the Crown—by this feud with Becket? I understand your disappointment with his performance as archbishop. For the life of me, I cannot understand why he felt the need to make you his enemy or to take such extreme, provocative positions. Yet getting rid of him might well give you more grief than ever he could. Granted that he was a mistake, but surely he is a mistake you can live with?”
“Can Will?” Henry demanded, so bitterly that Ranulf fell silent. There was no point in arguing that Becket had not brought about Will’s death. That wound was still too raw.
SATURDAY MORNING PASSED in endless and increasingly acrimonious discussion. All of the bishops had gathered in Becket’s priory guest quarters and proceeded to give the archbishop advice that was distinguished only by its discord. Gilbert Foliot argued brusquely for resignation, a course of action adamantly opposed by the Bishop of Winchester, who insisted this would set an invidious precedent for future prelates and undermine canon law. Hilary of Chichester contended that compromise was clearly called for under the circumstances, and the plain-spoken Bishop of Lincoln sent shivers of alarm through the room when he blurted out that Becket’s choices had narrowed to resignation or execution. “What good will the archbishopric do him if he is dead?”
The Bishop of Winchester shook off the gloom engendered by Lincoln’s tactless remark, getting stiffly to his feet and demanding his cane. “It has been my experience,” he said dryly, “that few problems will not go away if enough money is thrown at them. I shall go to the king and see what effect two thousand marks have upon his resolve.”
Becket had been slumped in his chair, letting the arguments swirl about him. At that he raised his head sharply. “I do not have two thousand marks to give the king,” he said and Winchester patted him on the shoulder.
“Ah, but I do,” he said, and limped purposefully toward the door.
His departure brought a hiatus in the day’s heated discussions. Some of the men went off to answer nature’s call, others to find food or drink in the priory guest hall. William Fitz Stephen had been hovering inconspicuously on the sidelines. He’d been deeply shaken by the Bishop of Lincoln’s terse warning, and when he saw the young Bishop of Worcester heading for the door, he swiftly followed.
He caught up with Roger out in the priory cloisters. “My lord bishop, might I have a word with you?”
“Of course, William.” Roger gestured toward a bench in a nearby carrel. “What may I do for you?”
“You are the king’s cousin. Surely you must know his mind. My lord, how far is he prepared to go? Think you that there is any chance the archbishop’s life might be at risk?”
“No,” Roger said firmly, “I do not. The king has the Devil’s own temper, as he’d be the first to admit. But for all that, I cannot see him being deliberately cruel or unjust.”
Fitz Stephen was heartened by the certainty in Roger of Worcester’s voice and he returned to the lord archbishop’s quarters with a lighter step. There he found that Hilary of Chichester was haranguing Becket on the need to resign his position, insisting that otherwise he faced imprisonment for embezzlement. Becket paid him no heed, but another of the bishops rebuked Chichester sharply, declaring that it would be shameful for the archbishop to consider his personal safety. The afternoon dragged on, one of the longest that Fitz Stephen could remember. And then the Bishop of Winchester was back, stoop-shouldered and grim-visaged.
“Well,” he said, heaving himself into the closest chair, “he turned me down. If he does not want money, what then? Blood?”
Fitz Stephen knew that the bishop, a highly erudite man, was speaking metaphorically. Still, he flinched, and as he looked around, he saw that he was not the only one disquieted by those ominous words.
ON SUNDAY IT RAINED, but Monday brought flashes of sun. Henry was just finishing his breakfast when he received a message from his one-time chancellor and friend. He read it hastily, swearing under his breath, and then shouted for his uncle.
Rainald pushed reluctantly away from the table, his trencher still heaped with sausages and fried bread. “What is amiss?”
“That is what I want you to find out. Becket claims that he is too ill to attend today’s session. Find Leicester and ride to the priory, see if he is truly ailing or if this is just a ruse.”
Rainald looked wistfully at his breakfast, but knew better than to argue. Out in the castle bailey, he ran into Ranulf and coaxed him into accompanying them. As they rode through the town’s stirring streets, they speculated amongst themselves whether Becket was feigning sickness. Rainald thought it highly likely, and the Earl of Leicester was somewhat dubious, although he did concede that he could hardly blame Becket if it were so, saying that a hunted fox would always go to earth if it could. Ranulf alone felt that Becket’s purported illness was genuine, and was still submitting to his brother’s good-natured raillery as they reached the priory of St Andrew.
All of their doubts were dispelled, though, with their first glimpse of Thomas Becket. He was paler than new snow, bathed in sweat, and clearly in considerable discomfo
rt. Propped up in bed by pillows, he regarded them with dull, hollowed eyes, too preoccupied with his body’s pain to worry about the king’s enmity. Rainald and Leicester exchanged a martyred look of resignation, and then began their interrogation of the stricken archbishop on behalf of the king, constrained all the while to use the hushed, somber tones considered proper for the sickroom.
Ignoring the glares of the archbishop’s clerks and the hostility of Master William, his physician, they extracted from Becket the information they sought: that his malady was a colic, one he’d suffered from in the past. The faint stench of vomit and Becket’s occasional involuntary gasps bolstered his credibility even more than his faltering words. Rainald and Leicester were both uncomfortable in their role as inquisitors to an obviously ailing man, but Rainald knew what his nephew the king would most want to know, and girded himself to ask it.
“Think you that you’ll be well enough to attend the court session on the morrow?”
There were outraged murmurs from the clerks. But the last words were to be Becket’s. “I will be there,” he said hoarsely, “if I have to be carried in on a litter.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Ranulf was standing in the bailey of Northampton Castle when the Bishop-elect of Worcester rode in. Roger handed the reins to a groom, gestured for his clerks to go on into the hall, and then headed toward Ranulf.
“How is Thomas?” Ranulf asked quietly. “Is he well enough to attend today’s session?”
Roger nodded, but there was something in his face that Ranulf caught, a fleeting emotion of surprising intensity in his usually composed nephew. “What is it?” he asked. “What you tell me will go no further, Roger, if that is your concern.”
“It is not that, for the king will hear soon enough.” Roger’s voice was low, his dark eyes troubled. “Uncle Ranulf, I fear this will end very badly. Never have I seen Harry so . . . so unreasonable. If we are to avoid utter calamity, the lord archbishop must be the one to compromise . . . and he has begun listening again to those who are urging defiance. He seems to have taken his sudden illness as . . . as a sign. When we called upon him this morning, he forbade us to take part in a judgment against him and ordered us to excommunicate any man who dared to lay hands upon him. Gilbert Foliot angrily objected, pointing out that the bishops would then be in violation of their own oaths to obey the Constitutions of Clarendon, oaths they’d given only at Thomas’s command. When Gilbert threatened to appeal to the Holy Father, Thomas said he had that right, but the command still stood. He then went to say Mass . . . and he chose the Mass of the martyr St Stephen, with the Introit, ‘Princes also did sit and speak against me.’ He was even going to come to the castle in his Mass vestments, barefoot, carrying his cross—”