forgotten that Thomas not only wore a hairshirt and braies infested with vermin, but he subjected himself to a daily scourging? Do you think he’d be impressed just because I missed a few meals?”
“Is that what you want, Harry…to impress Thomas?”
“I want…” Henry began, but then he stopped, and shook his head, like a man weary of talking. After a few moments of silence, he said, “Did you notice that Gilbert asked no questions? Nor did he assure me there was no need for such a pilgrimage. It would seem that he considers my penance at Avranches as flawed as Roger does.”
“Why does Roger think that?” Ranulf asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“My cousin, the esteemed Bishop of Worcester, thinks that the Almighty has looked into my heart and found that I repented of Thomas’s death for all the wrong reasons.”
“And what do you think?”
Henry’s shoulders twitched, in what was almost a shrug. He’d dropped down into a window-seat, and Ranulf crossed the chamber, knelt in the floor rushes by his side. “Harry, are you sure you want to do this?”
Henry rubbed his fingers against his aching temples. “I suppose I could wait for more explicit signs of divine displeasure, wait until the Thames turns to blood or a plague of locusts comes up and covers the land.”
“You are not Pharaoh.”
Henry raised his head, looking Ranulf full in the face for the first time. “Can you honestly tell me, Uncle, that you have not wondered if this rebellion was God’s punishment for Thomas Becket’s murder? If not, you are most likely the only one in Christendom who has not entertained that thought.”
“What I think does not matter. Nor does it matter what Roger or Gilbert Foliot think. We are not the ones who must do public penance at Canterbury Cathedral.” Reaching out, Ranulf put his hand on Henry’s arm. “You are a proud man. You are a king. I know that we are told there is no greater glory than to humble ourselves before the Almighty. But that is easier for some than others. If, as I suspect, you mean to abase yourself utterly in atonement, you must be sure that this is what you truly want to do. Otherwise, I fear you will not gain what you seek-peace of mind.”
“‘Peace of mind’?” Henry echoed and then laughed harshly. “I have a greater need than that, Uncle. I mean to ask the Almighty and the sainted Thomas to save my kingdom. Not just for my sake, for all our sakes. The vultures are already gathering, and God help him, but Hal will not be able to fend them off. He’ll be a king in name only, whilst the Count of Flanders and the French king and the Scots king carve up my domains like a Michaelmas goose. You think the people suffered under Stephen? That will look like a golden age in comparison to the misery and anarchy that would follow my defeat.”
Ranulf could not argue with that bleak assessment of Hal’s kingship. He knew that men made pilgrimages for a multitude of reasons, both pure and profane. Some were reluctant penitents, ordered to it by an imperious bishop, an irate priest. Some sought God’s Mercy for a loved one, a frail child, an ailing wife. Some saw pilgrimage as a way to honor God. Others were driven by guilty consciences, memories of past sins. He did not doubt that those who humbled themselves of their own free will, those who asked no specific boons in return for their suffering were the ones who came away from a pilgrimage with that “peace of mind” his nephew dismissed so disdainfully. What would Harry do if he submitted to this ordeal and nothing changed? If the victory he’d prayed for was denied him? What does a man do when he acts out of desperation and despair and even that is not enough?
“I will entreat the Almighty,” he said softly, “to hear your prayers.” And he tried not to think of a conversation he’d once had with his other nephew. Roger had assured him that God always answered prayers. But sometimes He said no.
On Friday, July 12, Henry and his companions were approaching the town of Canterbury. As they neared the lazar-house of St Nicholas in Harbledown, they had their first glimpse of the cathedral in the distance. Henry dismounted, and the hospital’s master came hurrying out to meet him. Several of the lepers emerged from their wattle-and-daub huts, but they kept their distance. They were clad in long russet robes and scapulars, the ravages of their disease hidden by hoods for the men and thick, double veils for the women. Henry greeted the master and then accompanied him into the chapel to pray. After some hesitation, the Bishops of London, Winchester, and Rochester dismounted and followed, too. Most of the men remained on their horses, though, for even the bravest of knights was leery of entering a lazar-house.
Henry and the bishops soon emerged, and after he told the priest that he was granting the hospital twenty silver marks a year, to be paid out of royal revenues, the master thanked him profusely, promising that the lepers would offer up daily prayers on his behalf. If anyone thought that those poor souls needed prayers more than the king did, it remained unspoken. When Henry returned to the others, he did not remount, and seeing that he meant to walk the rest of the way, his men made haste to dismount, too.
They’d covered about half a mile when they saw the Westgate looming ahead. Henry headed not for the gate, though, but for the church of St Dunstan’s by the side of the road. His squires scurried after him. The other men waited, puzzled, and when the flustered parish priest arrived, none of them had any answers for him. They could see a crowd gathering just inside the Westgate, but the church bells that would normally peal out the king’s arrival were silent, for Henry had sent word that he wanted no royal ceremony.
It had been raining lightly since mid-morning, but as they waited for Henry to emerge from the church, the heavens opened and Canterbury was engulfed in a summer downpour. When Henry finally appeared, they saw that he’d stripped to his shirt and chausses and removed his boots. One of his squires was holding out the green wool cape that he wore when hunting, and the boy looked dismayed as Henry waved him away.
“He’s going to cut his feet to ribbons by the time he reaches the cathedral,” Willem muttered to Ranulf, who was more concerned at the moment with Henry’s intention to brave the rainstorm clad only in his shirt. Striding forward, he spoke briefly with his nephew, and to the relief of the spectators, Henry reluctantly agreed to don the green cape. As he set out, the bishops and knights fell in behind him, but Willem delayed long enough to ask Ranulf how he’d convinced Henry to wear the cloak.
“I told him,” Ranulf said, “that if he caught a fatal chill in the rain and died at Canterbury, all of Christendom would conclude that his sins had been too great for St Thomas to forgive.”
Willem looked at him, not knowing what to say. Ranulf had moved on, and he hastened to catch up, even though he was dreading what was coming as he’d never dreaded anything in his life before.
Escorted by the city reeve and aldermen, Henry passed through the Westgate and entered the town. As he walked along St Peter’s Street, his feet were soon cut and bleeding, but the rain washed his bloody footprints away. People lined both sides of the street, heedless of the weather, for they knew they were witnesses to a spectacle that none would ever forget-the sight of a highborn king, God’s Anointed, offering up his pride to make peace with their saint.
Thomas Becket had not been universally loved, even in his own city, but he’d always been revered by Christ’s Poor, and they turned out now in large numbers. The town’s merchants were quick to recognize what a blessing Henry was conferring upon them, for once word got out that the English king had prostrated himself before the Blessed Martyr, Canterbury’s shrine would become the most popular pilgrimage in all of Christendom. But their enthusiasm was tempered with uncertainty, for they did not know what was expected of them. Should they cheer the king for submitting to St Thomas? Or jeer him for his part in the Martyrdom? The result was that, for the first time within memory, a king passed by in utter silence, even the children and beggars watching in awed stillness.
If Henry’s bloodied bare feet were giving him pain, he did not show it. Nor did he seem to feel the drenching rain or take notice of the crowds. Followed by the bishops and his knights, he continued on past the churches of All Saints and St Helen’s, past the king’s mill, the guildhall, and the pillory. St Peter’s Street had become High Street when he halted momentarily, then turned into Mercery Lane, a passageway so narrow that more than two men could not walk abreast. Ahead he could see the monks waiting by the cemetery gate. The new archbishop was still absent, having gone to Rome to get papal approval of his election, but Henry recognized Odo, the prior, and Walter, the abbot of Boxley Abbey. In the past, he’d been welcomed by the chiming of the cathedral bells and the chanting of Lauds by the choir. Now there was only the same eerie quiet that had settled over the city.
They came forth to offer a solemn, subdued greeting, and quickly ushered him into the cathedral precincts, escorting him along the path through the cemetery for laypeople. The storm had turned it into a morass, and Henry’s feet and legs were soon caked with mud. He could think of few sights more desolate than a graveyard in the rain. The rest of the monks were waiting in the cathedral. He could see curiosity and anxiety and excitement on
