Church’s weapons. Knowing him as I do, I can say with certainty that there was no agreement, for there was no meeting of the minds upon this.”
Alexander shrank back in feigned horror. “Saints preserve us, you’re sounding like a lawyer again! Be that as it may, Will, it is done and the archbishop is not likely to undo it. He told the sheriff and that whoreson de Broc when they threatened him at Sandwich that the sentences were passed by the Pope and so only His Holiness could absolve the bishops.”
To Fitz Stephen’s legally trained mind, such an argument was a sophistry, for the archbishop had set the censures in motion by seeking them from the Pope. There was nothing to be gained, though, by saying so. He found it very easy to understand his lord archbishop’s fury and frustration, his need to strike out at his foes. But if only he’d stayed his hand! If only he’d waited until the storm provoked by his return had passed. Fitz Stephen suppressed a shiver, for he feared that Lord Thomas had given to his enemies a sharp sword indeed.
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
