from Roger’s flask. “Why are you here at the castle?” Ranulf asked, since that was a safer question than why Roger thought demons were abroad in the night. “I thought you were lodging in the town.”
“And I thought you were staying with the canons?”
“I was, but I stayed so late tonight in Harry’s chambers that it seemed easier just to spend the night here. You, too?”
Roger took another swig of wine, his shoulders slumping. “I went to the priory,” he said, “to see how Thomas was faring. Not only have many of the knights of his household asked to be released from his service, but more than forty of his clerks have abandoned him, too. Craven louts, the lot of them,” he added, with unexpected venom.
“Does it truly surprise you that men should fear the contagion of the king’s disfavor as much as they do leprosy or the spotted fever?”
“No…,” Roger conceded. “I do not blame the knights for looking to their own interests. But it is shameful for men of God to behave like rats fleeing a sinking ship.”
Ranulf agreed that it was and reached over to reclaim the flask. “So what brought you back to the castle?”
“Thomas asked me and the Bishops of Hereford and Rochester to go to the king and seek a safe-conduct for his journey back to Canterbury.” Roger was quiet then for a time. “Harry said that he’d answer us on the morrow.”
“And that worries you? It should not,” Ranulf insisted. “He’ll give a safe conduct. When Rainald and I told him of the ugly scene in the great hall and of the threats made against Becket by some of the barons, he immediately sent forth heralds to proclaim that the archbishop was not to be harmed or harassed. It is Becket’s humiliation he seeks, not his blood. Do you doubt that, Roger?”
“No… I suppose not. It is just that… that this quarrel with Thomas has brought out the worst in Harry, a side of his nature I’ve not seen before and would that I not see again.”
Ranulf could not dispute that, as much as he wanted to. He refrained from making the natural rejoinder: that the archbishopric had brought out the worst in Becket. Enough heedless words had already been said during these days at Northampton. They were sitting under the overhead rushlight, and its muted glow magnified the hollowed cheekbones and grimly set lines of Roger’s mouth. Ranulf shifted sideways. “You have the look of a man with much on his mind, none of it pleasant. If talking will help, I’m willing to listen. It is the least I can do after drinking your wine.”
Roger’s smile flickered, briefly. For a long moment, his eyes searched Ranulf’s face. He looked so much like his sire that Ranulf felt the pang of an old grief. “I loved your father, lad,” he said quietly, “as I’ve loved few men in this life.”
“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.”
To his lord and friend Louis, illustrious King of the French, from Henry, King of the English and Duke of the Normans and Aquitanians, and Count of the Angevins, greetings and affection.
Know that Thomas, who was Archbishop of Canterbury, has been publicly adjudged in my court, by full council of the barons of my realm, to be a wicked and perjured traitor to me, and under the manifest name of traitor has wickedly departed, as my messengers will more fully tell you.
Wherefore I earnestly entreat you not to permit a man guilty of such infamous crimes and treasons, or his men, to remain in your kingdom; and let not this great enemy of mine, so it please you, have any counsel or aid from you or yours, even as I would not give any such help to your enemies in my realm or allow it to be given. Rather, if it please you, help me to take vengeance upon my great enemy for this affront, and look to my honor, as you would have me do for you if there were need of it.
Done at Northampton.
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 Compiegne 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 Compiegne, 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
