deliberately dramatic flourish, he drew two parchment scrolls from within his mantle. “As you can see, my lord, these writs bear the king’s seal.” He held them out to Becket. “King Henry orders you to yield up to him the castle of Berkhamsted and the Honour of Eye.”
Becket had held Berkhamsted and Eye since the days of his chancellorship; he would feel the loss of their income keenly. But the public humiliation stung far worse. Reaching out, he took the writs, but made no attempt to break the seal.
“My lord archbishop… do you not want to read the writs?” The sheriff’s courtesy was poisonous. “The second one concerns the young prince.”
Becket’s hand clenched on the scrolls. “What of him?”
“The king no longer wants you to assume responsibility for the education of his eldest son. You are to surrender custody of the young lord forthwith.”
A brisk November wind was blowing dead leaves across the road, causing Henry’s stallion to prance sideways, pawing the frozen ground. Thomas Becket was awaiting him beyond Northampton’s walls, and it was Henry’s doing, but he was already regretting that rash impulse. He knew his action had surprised many, including himself, but only Eleanor had dared to question him, and with her, he’d fallen back upon a half-truth: that he owed it to Will to try one last time to reconcile his own differences with Becket. She could hardly quarrel with that, and indeed he did want to salvage his brother’s sinking marital hopes, if at all possible.
His motives were more ambiguous and complicated, though, than mere brotherly concern. He still could not believe that he’d so misjudged Becket. He’d never given his trust easily, even with those he loved. Very few ever got through his outer defenses. But Thomas Becket had been his closest friend. He’d enjoyed Becket’s company, valued his intelligence, relied upon his discretion and steadfast loyalty. Thomas had been the perfect chancellor, shrewd and worldly and ruthless when need be. Now he was the perfect archbishop, defending the rights of Holy Church as passionately as he’d once defended the Crown and his king. Which man was the real Thomas Becket? Henry needed to know if their friendship had been a lie from the very first. Had Becket played him for Christendom’s greatest fool?
And so he had summoned Becket, impulsively, before he could think better of it. The archbishop had obeyed, but brought such a large entourage that Henry’s unease had flared into resentment. He’d hoped to meet a penitent, not this prideful prince of the Church, and he’d angrily sent Becket word to hold his men outside Northampton, claiming that there were not enough lodgings in the town to accommodate the royal retinue and the lord archbishop’s, too. Almost at once, though, he relented, and called for his stallion.
The archbishop had turned aside into a large meadow, midst a growing crowd of curious spectators. Thomas had always been one for drawing attention to himself, Henry thought sourly, remembering his chancellor’s spectacular entry into Paris five years before. Telling his men to wait, he spurred his mount forward.
Becket hastily swung up into the saddle and galloped out to meet Henry. Both men were riding spirited young stallions, though, and their high-strung destriers reacted as if this were a battlefield encounter, plunging and rearing and screaming defiance as soon as they were within striking range. Henry and Becket were skilled riders, but neither man was able to calm his combative horse. This development, as ludicrous as it was anticlimactic, would once have had them roaring with laughter. Now it roused not even a smile. After several futile attempts to divert their stallions from confrontation, they were forced to wheel their fractious mounts, ride back to their waiting escorts.
Henry’s justiciar, Richard de Lucy, at once offered his own horse. One of Becket’s clerks did the same. Mounting again, they rode toward each other across the barren, frost-glazed meadow, this time at a more measured pace. The wind was picking up, catching at their billowing mantles and the brims of their hats, chilling them both to the bone. Henry reined in first; how had he not realized until now just how wretchedly cold the day was?
“You wished to see me, my liege?”
Becket’s words and manner were respectful-and so distant that it suddenly seemed to Henry that they were miles and worlds apart. He had rehearsed a short speech, dignified but hinting at possible concession and compromise. Those carefully crafted words were forgotten. Urging his stallion in closer, he said hoarsely:
“You were my friend. Did I not raise you from a poor and lowly station to the summit of honor and rank? Do you truly think you’d ever have become Canterbury’s archbishop if not for me? How is it, then, that after so many benefits, so many proofs of my love for you, you have blotted them all from your mind? Not only are you ungrateful, Thomas, but by God, you go out of your way to oppose me in everything!”
“That is not so, my lord king. I have not forgotten your favors, which are not yours alone, for God deigned to confer them on me through you. Far be it from me to show myself ungrateful or to act contrary to your will in anything that accords with the Will of God. Your Grace knows how faithful I have been to you. You are indeed my liege lord, but He is both your Lord and mine. It would be useful neither to you nor to me if I were to neglect His Will in order to obey yours. For on His Fearful Day of Judgment, you and I will both be judged as servants of one Lord. Neither of us will be able to answer then for the other and no excuses will avail, for we will receive our due according to our acts. It is true that temporal lords must be obeyed, but not against the Almighty. As St Peter said, ‘We must obey God rather than men.’ ”
Henry had been listening incredulously. He had bared his soul to Thomas, at last admitted to his sense of hurt and betrayal, and this pedantic, bloodless lecture was Becket’s response? “I want no sermon from you!” Shame was not an emotion he’d often experienced, but he felt shame now that he could have revealed his heart’s pain so nakedly. Seeking a weapon to inflict a wound as grievous as his own, he found it by recalling Becket’s Achilles’ heel-his pride.
“After all, are you not the son of one of my villeins?” That scornful taunt was guaranteed to penetrate Becket’s shield, for in their society, few insults were more offensive than an accusation of low birth. And Becket, as Henry well knew, was sensitive about his family background; it had not been easy for the son of a London merchant to rise to the rarefied heights of power and privilege.
Just as Henry had expected, his barb drew blood. Becket’s face flooded with heat. “It is true,” he said, “that I am not ‘sprung from royal ancestors,’ if I may quote from Horace. But neither was Peter, the blessed Prince of the Apostles, upon whom Our Lord conferred the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven and the primacy over the Holy Church.”
“That is true,” Henry agreed. “But St Peter died for his Lord.”
Becket’s head came up. “I, too, will die for my Lord when the time comes.”
Henry’s mouth dropped open. His angry words had been a reproach, not a threat, a pointed reminder that St Peter had been loyal unto death-unlike Thomas, the faithless friend. He started to explain himself, then stopped abruptly. He stared at the other man, and it was as if he were looking at an utter stranger, someone he’d never known at all.
Pope Alexander III was not pleased to find himself dragged into the conflict between the English king and Canterbury’s archbishop. Alexander’s position was a precarious one: stranded in French exile by the papal schism, dependent upon the goodwill of those sovereigns who’d refused to recognize the legitimacy of the puppet Pope, who was sheltered in Rome by the Holy Roman Emperor. When Henry dispatched Arnulf of Lisieux to the papal court at Sens, the Pope listened to his complaints and concluded that he was not proposing anything that was contrary to the teachings of the Church. Several of the English bishops had already sought to persuade Becket to compromise with the king, only to be rebuffed sharply. But Becket could not so easily dismiss those who spoke on the Pope’s behalf. In December, he was visited at Harrow, his manor in Middlesex, by the highly respected Abbot of l’Aumone, the Count of Vendome, and Robert de Melun, the Bishop-elect of Hereford.
They reminded Becket of the dangers inherent in the papal schism and urged him to take a more moderate stance in his dealings with Henry. They assured him that Henry had promised not to introduce any novel customs or make any demands that the bishops could not obey in good conscience. The Pope wanted this dispute settled amicably and would assume the responsibility for any harm the Church might suffer in consequence. Becket eventually agreed to swear to abide by the ancient customs without the qualification that Henry had found so abhorrent, and the papal envoys dared to hope that this inconvenient crisis would soon be resolved, to the mutual satisfaction of Church and Crown.
