Time and Chance (40 page)

“I know that, Uncle. I know, too, that you could not love Harry more if he were your own son.”

Ranulf set down the flask between them. “What you tell me goes no further than this chapel. You have my word upon that, Roger.”

Roger let his breath out slowly. “I might be wrong,” he said, “but I think that Thomas means to flee tonight.”

“Understandable after what happened today. What makes you think so?”

“Whilst I was at the priory, I overheard two of his clerks talking. They were huddled in one of the carrels out in the cloisters and my approach caught them unaware. Ere they noticed me and went mute, I heard them say something about midnight and an unguarded gate in the town.”

Roger seemed relieved to have unburdened himself. Almost at once, though, he reached out and caught Ranulf’s arm. “Uncle, you’ll say nothing of this? If Harry were to find out . . .”

“You need not fret, lad. I’ll not break faith with you. Even if I had not given my word, I do not think that I’d want to deliver Becket into Harry’s hands—for both their sakes.”

“Amen,” Roger said, and after that they drank in silence while the castle slept and the storm raged through the night.

 

 

 

AT THE HEIGHT of the storm, Thomas Becket and three others slipped out of the town’s unguarded north gate and spurred their horses toward Lincoln. From there, he began a slow, circuitous journey for the coast, disguised as a monk. On All Soul’s Day, the second of November, he and his three companions set sail from the port of Sandwich. Manning a small boat in heavy seas, they came ashore safely in Flanders at dusk.

Henry did not actively pursue the fugitive archbishop, contenting himself with putting the ports under watch. Nor had he exploded in one of his famous fits of rage upon being told of Becket’s escape. In some ways, his response was even more chilling to the archbishop’s partisans. Eyes narrowing, he’d said laconically, “I have not done with him yet.”

Henry then turned his attention to the rebellion in Wales. His council at Northampton resolved upon a summer campaign against Rhys ap Gruffydd and Owain Gwynedd, and his lords pledged to supply large numbers of infantry, more suitable than armor-clad knights for the hit-and-run warfare waged by the Welsh. Mercenaries were to be hired from Flanders and a fleet equipped at Dublin. The Marcher barons departed Northampton secure in the knowledge that there was to be a reckoning with the troublesome Welsh at long last.

 

 

 

AFTER THE COUNCIL at Northampton drew to an end, Henry sent a delegation across the Channel to see the French king at Compiègne and then on to the Pope, still in exile at Sens. By an irony of chance, they sailed from Dover on the very day that Thomas Becket made his escape from Sandwich. Henry’s envoys were distinguished—including the Bishops of London, Worcester, Chichester, and Exeter, the Archbishop of York, and the Earl of Arundel—but their mission was a failure. Returning to England, they began the lugubrious task of finding the king and breaking the bad news to him. Perhaps because they were in no hurry to deliver disappointment, they did not overtake Henry until Christmas Eve, where he and Eleanor were keeping court at Marlborough Castle.

 

 

 

A LIGHT SNOWFALL powdered the castle grounds and a fire burned brightly in the hearth of the king’s solar, which was festively adorned with holly, mistletoe, and evergreen boughs. But every spark of Christmas cheer had been quenched with the first halting words of Gilbert Foliot, for even his eloquence could find no way to make his news palatable: that Becket had been warmly received by both the Pope and the French king.

Henry was standing so close to the fireplace that he was in danger of being singed by its dancing flames, but he seemed oblivious of the heat. “Tell me,” he said tersely. “Hold nothing back.”

“We met with the French king at his castle of Compiègne, where we delivered your letter. I regret to say, my liege, that his piety has adversely affected his judgment. His natural inclination is to give any priest the benefit of every doubt, even when presented with proof of perjury and broken faith.”

That was a diplomatic and discreet rendering of the French king’s response, and none knew it better than Eleanor, who knew her first husband all too well. She glanced toward Henry to see if he was reading between the lines. But then the Bishop of Chichester tactlessly intervened with the truth.

“We sought to make him privy to the facts, Your Grace, but he was not wont to listen. ‘Who deposed the Archbishop of Canterbury?’ he asked. He said he was as much a king as the King of the English, but he did not have the power to depose the least of the clerks in his realm. Not only did he offer Becket asylum in his domains, he wrote to the Pope on Becket’s behalf, urging him to receive the archbishop with kindness and pay no heed to unjust accusations against him.”

Henry spat out an extremely profane oath, but whom it was meant for—Becket or the French king—none could be sure. “Go on,” he said harshly. “What happened at Sens?”

As Chichester showed no inclination to relinquish center stage and Foliot was willing to let him be the bearer of bad tidings, he was the one to tell Henry the rest, the worst. “We met with the Holy Father and the cardinals, and as you bade us, my liege, we privately urged the Archbishop of Canterbury’s deposition. Whilst I do not doubt that many of the cardinals would not mourn Becket’s departure, the Pope insisted that he could take no action until he heard the archbishop’s account of the Northampton council. Becket soon arrived, with a retinue of three hundred horsemen provided by the French king. He threw himself at the Holy Father’s feet, holding out a chirograph of the Constitutions of Clarendon.”

Chichester had always prided himself upon his remarkable memory and he could not resist quoting now from Becket’s own words. “He said, ‘Behold, Holy Father, the customs of the King of the English, opposed to the canons and decretals and even the laws of secular princes, for which we are driven to endure exile.’ He then read out the clauses of the Constitutions, one by one, offering his own critical analysis of each article, and although Cardinal William of Pavia made a spirited defense of the provisions, Becket’s view prevailed. He then . . .”

Chichester paused for maximum dramatic impact and Henry’s eyes flashed dangerously. “What?”

“Becket was ever one for the grand gesture,” Chichester said scornfully. “He knelt again, began to weep, and resigned the archbishopric of Canterbury for the good of the Church, he said, and offered his archiepiscopal ring to the Holy Father. Alas, my liege, the Holy Father was moved by his tears and returned the ring, saying ‘Receive anew at our hands the cure of the episcopal office.’ ”

Everyone in the solar understood the significance of the Pope’s act. The appeal of the other bishops for Becket’s deposition would come to naught. Nor would Henry’s complaints to the Holy See. Thomas Becket would remain as Archbishop of Canterbury, with the Pope’s blessings—and there was nothing Henry could do about it.

There was a prolonged silence, fraught with foreboding, and then the inevitable explosion. Henry’s tempers were known to them all, but even Eleanor had never seen him in such a spectacular rage as this. A sweep of his arm sent the contents of the trestle table flying off into space, books and quill pens and an open inkwell spilling into the floor rushes. With a crash that reverberated throughout the entire room, the table followed, barely missing one of Eleanor’s alarmed greyhounds. The men shrank back from this violent display of royal wrath, only the king’s wife and his cousin Roger standing their ground. Henry overturned a chair, then swung around upon Gilbert Foliot.

“I shall issue an order confiscating all of that whoreson’s possessions down to the last farthing and the forfeiture of the archbishopric. No bishop of mine shall pay revenues to any of Becket’s clerks holding prebends within their sees. Will any Church objections be raised to my writ, my lord bishop?”

Foliot swallowed. “No, my liege . . . no objections.”

“Now . . . what burrow has our snake found for the winter? Is he still at the Papal Curia in Sens?”

“No, Your Grace,” Foliot said swiftly, grateful that he had at least a scrap of good news to offer Henry. “The Holy Father’s actions were not as one-sided as the Bishop of Chichester related. Whilst he did refuse Becket’s resignation and condemned the Constitutions of Clarendon, he did not censure me or my fellow bishops as Becket expected, and he most certainly did not make him welcome at the papal court. He has sent Becket off to the Cistercian abbey at Pontigny. So you see, my liege, all is not as bleak as it might first have seemed.”

His words did not have the desired effect. They did not even seem to have registered with Henry. “Pontigny,” he echoed. “Good . . . let them go there then and seek shelter from him.”

Foliot looked confused; nor was he the only one. “Who, my lord king?” the Earl of Arundel asked in bewilderment. “Who shall seek shelter?”

“All of Becket’s household still in England, and their kin as well. They are to join him in exile, every last one of them. Let him see for himself what misery he has brought upon his own. And let the French king provide for their bread if Becket will not!”

The others were speechless, staring at him in disbelief. Oddly enough, it was the opportunist who spoke up first. Hilary of Chichester cleared his throat, then said hesitantly, “My liege, I implore you to reconsider. If you banish all of Becket’s family and clerks, I fear you will be harshly judged for it by your enemies.”

“Let them! You think I care?”

“My liege . . .” Gilbert Foliot had never lacked for courage—until now. “I think once your anger cools, you will not want to—”

“Who are you to tell me what I want? Becket should have thought of the consequences when he fled in the night like a thief. There is always a price to be paid for betrayal and he is about to find that out, by God!” The disapproval Henry saw reflected on their faces only fanned his fury all the higher. Gesturing toward the door, he ordered them all out. “After failing me so abysmally in Compiègne and Sens, why should I listen to you now? Go on, get out!”

They did, some hastily enough to compromise their dignity. Only Roger dared to protest further. Reaching the door, he paused, meeting his cousin’s eyes without flinching. “This is wrong, Harry,” he said in a low voice. “Wrong and unjust.”

He did not linger; he knew better than that. As the door closed behind him, Henry swore again. But before he could react, a cushion was suddenly shoved into his hand. “Here,” Eleanor said. “If you must destroy something, fling this about. It is much easier to mend a pillow than a table.”

Henry was not amused. “I’m glad you’re taking it in such good humor that I’ve just been stabbed in the back by that gutless weasel you married!”

“A pity there is no way you can blame Becket’s misdeeds on me, too!”

“If you are about to remind me that you opposed Becket’s elevation to the archbishopric, trust me, Eleanor—this is not the time!”

“Actually, I have a far more recent grievance. I entreated you not to send Louis that letter, warned you it would do you more harm than good, did I not? And as usual, you paid me no heed whatsoever!”

“For the love of Christ, woman, let it lie! Can you not see that I’m in no mood to deal with this now?”

“Fine,” she said tartly. “Forget about Louis and the fact that you were the one to provide the dagger for that back-stabbing. Let’s talk, instead, about your plan to banish those poor souls whose only offense is that they are related to Becket either by blood or service. Surely you do not mean that, Harry.”

“Surely I do.”

“Then this interminable feuding with Becket has well and truly addled your mind!”

“This is none of your concern! I am heartily sick of your meddling, Eleanor, will have no more of it!”

“If you bid me be silent, then of course I will,” Eleanor responded, with poisonous sweetness, “for like any dutiful and devoted wife, I live only to please you.” With a deep, graceful curtsy, she swept toward the door, where she paused, her hand on the latch, a quizzical smile upon her face. “About that ‘weasel’ I married . . . You were referring to Louis, were you not?”

He glared at her. “Damn you, Eleanor!”

“Likewise, my love,” she retorted, and left him alone in the solar.