seen other men of rank do, as Thomas Becket had done during his years as the king’s elegant, worldly chancellor. Yet Henry was always the focus of all eyes, even upon those rare occasions when his identity was not known. Even as a youth, he’d had it, the force that gave him the mastery of other men. It was as if he were a lodestone, a magnet that attracted light and luck, not metal.
That was so fanciful a thought that Roger laughed softly to himself as he moved toward his cousin the king. Henry was delighted to see him, reaching out to clasp Roger’s hand in both of his, forestalling a formal obeisance. “At last! I’d begun to fear you’d been waylaid by bandits or Breton demons!” Adding with a gleam of mischief, “Not that one so virtuous and worthy would have anything to fear from the forces of darkness. What evil spirit would dare to defy a bishop?”
“Your Grace’s faith in my sanctity is most heartening,” Roger said dryly, “given that some claim your lineage can be traced to the Devil.”
Henry’s grey eyes flashed, but with amusement, not anger. “Ah, yes, the righteous Abbot Bernard once declared that my lord father was the Devil’s spawn, or words to that effect. As I recall, my father laughed at him, much to the sainted Bernard’s indignation.”
Roger knew that story well; it was legendary in their family. The man Henry sardonically called “the sainted Bernard” was likely to become a genuine saint, as the Holy See had begun the canonization process. But impending sainthood had not tempered Henry’s disdain, for Abbot Bernard had been a bitter enemy of the counts of Anjou, claiming that the Angevins sprang from a depraved stock, doomed and damned. Roger did not doubt that Abbot Bernard was a holy man, blessed by the Hand of the Almighty, but neither did he deny that Bernard’s earthly behavior had not always been saintly. God’s Lambs were not always meek, mild, and forgiving, and for a moment, he thought sadly of his friend and martyr, Thomas Becket.
Shaking off the memory, he reminded himself that today’s needs must take precedence over yesterday’s regrets. Meeting Henry’s gaze evenly, he said, “I hear, my lord king, that you’ve a sudden yearning to see the Irish isle again.”
Henry’s expression was not easy to read, for he had the irritating ability to appear utterly inscrutable when it served his purposes. “Yes,” he said, “you’ve heard right. Come on in,” jerking his head toward the open bedchamber door, “and I’ll tell you of my travel plans.”
Several men were gathered in the bedchamber, only one of whom Roger was pleased to see, his uncle Rainald, Earl of Cornwell. The others-Arnulf, Bishop of Lieieux, Geoffrey Ridel, Henry’s acting chancellor, and Richard of Ilchester, Archdeacon of Poitiers-were trusted royal councilors, but they had also been avowed enemies of Thomas Becket. Fending off his uncle’s bear hug of a greeting, Roger acknowledged the bishop and archdeacons with cool civility, and then turned to face Henry.
“You are not truly ending the talks ere they begin, Harry?”
“Of course not.” Henry accepted a wine cup from Rainald, gesturing for Roger to help himself. “On the morrow, Arnulf will seek out the legates and offer to mediate our differences.”
“And what are those differences?”
“They demanded that I repudiate the Constitutions of Clarendon.” Henry’s smile was without humor. “And you know how likely I am to agree to that, Cousin.”
Roger did. Henry had attempted to define and clarify the ancient customs of the realm by putting them down in writing, a radical proposal to his conservative bishops, who had been accustomed to vague, ambiguous terms that could be accepted or repudiated as circumstances warranted. But they were practical men for the most part, well aware that there must be accommodation between Church and Crown; if the king refused to unsheathe his secular sword to enforce spiritual penalties, how effective would those penalties be?
Compromise was anathema, though, to the Archbishop of Canterbury. Thomas Becket had refused to accept the Constitutions in any form whatsoever, arguing that the Church, not the king, was the giver of laws. But Henry had forced the issue, for accommodation was possible only if there was trust on both sides, and Henry no longer believed he could trust his former friend and chancellor. Becket had eventually given in and ordered the bishops to accept the Constitutions, only then to repent and recant his sworn oath. Within less than a year, Becket had fled into French exile, and the Pope, reluctantly dragged into this dangerous dispute, had backed Becket’s position and came out in opposition to the Constitutions of Clarendon. The stalemate had endured for the remainder of Becket’s life, looming ahead of them now like an uncharted rock, threatening to sink all hopes of a peaceful settlement.
That would not happen, though, as long as Roger drew breath. He was going to steer this ship into a safe harbor if it was the last thing he ever did. “When I was in Rome last year to plead your case at the Holy See, I spoke at some length with several of the cardinals. I gathered that the Church’s objections to the Constitutions were not so much based upon the contents; they accepted your argument that the customs set down were indeed the traditional practices of the realm, more or less. Their concerns were with the oaths that you demanded of all the bishops. Never had such oaths been required by any of your predecessors. We balked at taking vows that might conflict with canon law, as you well remember, Harry. It was only when Thomas’s resolve briefly weakened, that we had to agree-”
“His resolve ‘briefly weakened,’ did it?” Henry echoed sarcastically. “That is a very kind way to phrase it, Cousin. I believe his exact words to you and the other bishops were, ‘If the king would have me perjure myself, so be it. I will take the oath he demands and hope to purge the sin by future penance.’”
Roger winced, sorry but not surprised that someone had broken the confidentiality of the bishops’ conclave; informants clustered around kings like bees at a hive. “I admit that was not Thomas’s finest hour and his behavior at Clarendon is not easily defended. But I need not remind you, Cousin, that your behavior has not always been defensible either. What matters is how we settle this issue now. Would you be willing to agree not to demand such an oath of your prelates in the future?”
When Henry nodded, Roger glanced toward the Bishop of Lisieux. He had no liking for the other man, but he did not deny that Arnulf was highly intelligent, well educated, and an accomplished diplomat. “That would be a beginning, my lord bishop.”
Arnulf’s smile was both confident and complacent. “Indeed, it would,” he said and gestured toward a parchment sheet filled with scribbles, scratched out words, and ink splatters. “My lord king and I were discussing this very matter ere you arrived. There must be a way to satisfy the cardinals without making an explicit renunciation of the Constitutions. How does this sound? ‘The King of the English vows to abolish any new customs which have been introduced into his realm to the prejudice of the Church.’”
Roger considered the wording. “Yes, that might do it.” Shooting his cousin a sharp look, he said, “This vow is acceptable to you, Harry?”
“Of course. I do not see this as a controversial issue, for I am confident I have not introduced customs detrimental to the Church, for certes not knowingly,” Henry said blandly, and Roger sighed, for he’d expected as much. Fortunately, the papal legates would expect as much, too. They’d not be going into this blind. Remembering that he held a cup of claret, he took a swallow, warmed as much by a surge of optimism as by the wine. It was beginning to look as if both sides might win this war.
Setting his cup down on the table next to Arnulf’s draft, he asked to be excused so that he could wash away the dust of the road. Henry let him reach the door before he asked the question Roger had hoped to avoid.
“Do you not want to know what the cardinals told me about Becket’s killers?”
Roger already knew the answer to that deceptively innocuous query. “It is my understanding that the killers are on their way to Rome to do penance for Thomas’s murder.”
“Yes,” Henry said, “and what penance do you expect the Pope to impose?”
“I would not know,” Roger said untruthfully, a lie that Henry pounced upon with zest.
“What penance can he impose, Roger? To take the cross and journey to the Holy Land. Does that seem sufficient punishment to you for the murder of an archbishop?”
Roger frowned, for Henry had just demonstrated the logical absurdity of the Church’s insistence upon disciplining their own. The Constitutions of Clarendon had been the result, not the cause, of the conflict between Henry and Becket. It had begun with Henry’s desire to make clerics subject to secular law. The Church had long claimed sole authority to judge the offenses of men in holy orders or the crimes committed against them. Even men who’d merely taken religious vows must be tried in ecclesiastical court, not the king’s court. No matter how heinous his transgression, a clerk was beyond the reach of royal justice, and the harshest penalty the Church could impose was degrading, depriving him of his orders.
