consultation, they returned to the chamber with a proposition for Henry.
Once again, Gilbert Foliot was the one chosen to speak for them. “My lord king, we find ourselves caught between Scylla and Charybdis. The Archbishop of Canterbury has placed us in an impossible position. First he bade us vow to obey the Constitutions of Clarendon and now he forbids us to honor that promise. But we owe him a duty of obedience and risk excommunication if we refuse to heed his prohibition.”
“Have you thought about what you risk if you do heed Becket?”
“Indeed, my lord king. Therefore, we offer a compromise. If you will excuse us from pronouncing judgment upon the archbishop, we will forthwith make an appeal to the Holy Father, accusing the archbishop of perjuring himself and forcing us to violate our own oaths. We will further promise to seek his removal.”
More than a few of the bishops then held their breath. Henry did not keep them in suspense, though. After a moment to consider, he nodded. “So be it,” he said, although he was unable to resist adding a sardonic aside. “I’d not want it said that I showed as little compassion for my bishops as does the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
William Fitz Stephen was seated at Thomas Becket’s feet, Herbert of Bosham on the archbishop’s other side. The tension and turmoil had given Fitz Stephen a pounding headache, and from the way a vein was throbbing in the archbishop’s temple, he suspected that Lord Thomas suffered from the same malady. They were sitting in silence, for after Herbert had urged Becket to excommunicate his enemies, the marshals had warned them that no one was to speak to the archbishop. They could only wait, dreading what was being deliberated abovestairs. Fitz Stephen cast admiring glances at his lord, marveling that he could seem so composed in the face of such blatant injustice. When their eyes met, Becket smiled tiredly and Fitz Stephen found himself fighting back tears. Bowing his head, he whispered, “ ‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven,’ ” only to be silenced by one of the marshals.
They were soon joined by the bishops, who’d been excused from further participation in the proceedings, and the waiting resumed. Occasionally a muffled shout of “Traitor” carried down to the hall and Fitz Stephen shuddered. His lord did not respond, though; his earlier agitation and uncertainty were gone, or well camouflaged in an almost other-worldly appearance of calm. The other bishops showed far less patience, fidgeting and murmuring amongst themselves. Herbert was glaring openly at them, making no effort to hide his disdain. Fitz Stephen was less judgmental; excepting the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Chichester, he felt they were well intentioned. While it was a great pity they’d not shown more backbone, he could not in all fairness fault them for it. There were few men walking God’s earth with the courage to defy a king, especially this king.
When they finally heard the door open and the thud of footsteps on the stairs, Fitz Stephen, Herbert, and several of the bishops jumped to their feet. Thomas Becket remained seated, though, still firmly gripping his cross. Men began to crowd into the hall and Fitz Stephen’s last quavering hope was snuffed out by the sight of the triumphant grins and smirks of those barons most hostile to his lord.
There was no joy to be found in the somber expression of the Earl of Leicester. Moving with a heavy tread, as if he felt the full weight of his sixty years, he approached the archbishop. “It has fallen upon me,” he said gravely, “to inform you, my lord archbishop, that you have been found guilty of treason. The sentence passed by the court is that you be-”
“I will hear no judgment, for I have appealed to His Holiness, the Pope.”
Leicester was momentarily thrown off-stride by Becket’s interruption. His hesitation making it clear that this was a task he was loath to perform, he started to speak again and again Becket cut him off. Leicester turned to Rainald as if for assistance. Rainald merely shook his head. At that the Bishop of Chichester intervened, but not on behalf of his beleaguered colleague.
“Your treason is manifest to all,” he told Becket, with a sorrowful air that only emphasized the harshness of his words, “and you must hear the court’s sentence.”
“Who are you to tell me that?” Becket rose to his feet, dismissing Chichester with a scornful curl of his lip. For a moment, his eyes raked the hall and such was the power of his personality that even the most virulent of his foes fell silent. “Judgment is given after a trial,” he said, speaking loudly enough so that all could hear. “I have done no pleading today. I was summoned for no suit except that of John Marshal, who did not even put in an appearance.” When Leicester would have spoken, he held up his hand, halting the words in a gesture both dramatic and imperious. “I forbid you by the authority that Holy Church gives me over you to pass judgment upon me.”
Leicester, looking more uncomfortable by the moment, conceded defeat and stepped back. But Rannulph de Broc was uncowed. Pushing his way forward, he said with a sneer, “What authority can a lowborn traitor exercise?”
Becket’s face flooded with color. “You’re one to talk! One of your family got himself hanged for a felony, which is more than ever happened to any of my kin.”
De Broc sputtered, momentarily at a loss for words, and some of the other men grinned, for he had few friends, mainly allies of expedience. Becket took advantage of the pause, raising his cross and starting toward the door. He moved at a deliberate, unhurried pace, head high and shoulders squared, and as his clerks hastened to catch up with him, Fitz Stephen began to hope that they would be able to make a dignified, peaceful departure. But then Becket tripped over a bundle of faggots by the hearth and almost fell.
That small stumble was enough to embolden his foes. Rannulph de Broc lunged forward, shouting, “Perjurer!” The cry was quickly taken up by others and Becket was soon surrounded by angry, jeering men, some of them pelting him with rushes scooped up from the floor. Henry’s half-brother, Hamelin, his face contorted with hatred, barred Becket’s way, crying “Traitor!” in a hoarse voice that was an eerie echo of the king’s.
At that, Becket’s self-control snapped and he turned on Hamelin in a sudden fury. “Lackey,” he raged, “bastard! If I were not a priest, you’d pay dearly for that insult!”
By now Leicester and an equally alarmed Rainald had shouldered their way through the men encircling Becket, shouting for them to get back, and as they grudgingly gave way, Becket and his clerks were able to reach the door. The dignified departure Fitz Stephen had hoped for had taken on the urgency of an escape, and when Herbert of Bosham could not find his horse, he scrambled up behind Becket onto the archbishop’s stallion. But no attempts were made to stop them from leaving the castle, and there was no pursuit as they rode back to their lodgings at St Andrew’s Priory. Indeed, their retreat soon turned into a triumphant procession, with the townspeople flocking out to cheer for Becket and seek his blessings.
Ranulf had been tossing and turning for hours. All around him, the aisles of the great hall were crowded with pallets and the blanket-clad forms of sleeping men. But for Ranulf, sleep would not come. Finally surrendering unconditionally to his insomnia, he got to his feet and padded silently through the floor rushes toward the door. Trying not to awaken the closest sleepers, he pulled the bolt back and unfastened the latch. Cracking the door, he looked out in surprise. He’d known it was raining, hearing the thrumming upon the roof shingles. Until now, though, he’d not realized how severe the storm was. Torrential rains were flooding the bailey, the wind keening like a lost soul, and lightning flared somewhere over the town, searing the black sky with blue-white sparks.
Hastily crossing himself, Ranulf shut the door, wondering how many others were lying wakeful and uneasy this night. As midnight drew nigh, it seemed as if the very heavens were warring upon Northampton. How many would see this savage storm as an ill omen, a sign of the Almighty’s displeasure at the shabby way His servant had been treated in the king’s court?
Since he could not go outside, he looked around for another refuge, eventually settling upon the chapel adjoining the hall, for there at least, he’d find no snoring sleepers. Groping his way forward, he creaked open the door. A lone candle still flickered upon the altar and a rushlight burned in a wall sconce, but the chapel was swirling in shadows; even the wind’s wail was muffled here, the storm’s fury held at bay by the thick stone walls, the lingering grace of countless heartfelt prayers for God’s Mercy. Ranulf ’s troubled spirit eased and he drew a breath of solace. But as he moved toward the altar, a ghostly figure emerged suddenly from the shadows to intercept him.
Ranulf recoiled with a startled gasp. “Christ Jesus, Roger, I thought you were one of the Devil’s own come to claim my soul!”
His nephew smiled wryly. “It would not surprise me, Uncle, to find the Devil stalking Northampton this night. But your soul is safe with me.” He gestured toward several prayer cushions piled in a corner. “I have made a snug nest for myself, as you can see. I even have a flask of wine. Care to join me?”
“Why not?” Seating themselves on the cushions, resting their backs against the wall, they took turns drinking
