Текст книги "The Plantagenet Prelude "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Meanwhile messengers had arrived from the Pope who, afraid of what he had done, sent letters to cancel his previous promise.

Henry took the letters and promptly burned them. He gave the impression that he had not received them. He had the ports watched and all travellers searched so anxious was he that no edict should reach his bishops from the Pope. One however did get through. This was a nun who had been sent by Thomas and she carried a letter to Roger of York.

She arrived and found her way to Roger on the day before that fixed for the coronation. He read it. Thomas forbade him! The Pope forbade him! Roger had come to his present position through obeying the King, not Thomas and the Pope.

The day dawned and young Henry, aged sixteen and reckoned to be the most handsome prince in the world, was crowned by Roger de Pont l’Evêque as King of England.

The King watched with complacence. He had yet again proved that he could do without an Archbishop of Canterbury, and he had secured the succession – so he believed.

He himself was thirty-seven years of age and constantly engaged in battle as he was he might meet his death at any time.

All was well. England would have a king to follow him, if by mischance he were to meet his end.

Chapter XV

TRAITOR’S MEADOW

There was one who was not pleased by the coronation and that was the King of France. It was the custom for kings of France to have their eldest sons crowned before their deaths and so make a new king who could step right on to the throne when the old man died. But what of his daughter? Was she not the wife of young Henry? Why was she not crowned?

Louis then began to make attacks on the Vexin for he said that if Henry did not regard her as young Henry’s wife and queen, he saw no reason why he should have her dowry.

Henry decided that it was easier to crown Marguerite and make peace with Louis than to stand out against the crowning and have to make war. One thing he could not do was lose the Vexin. While he was in France the Archbishop of Rouen visited him, and the reason for his visit was to tell him that the Pope wished him to make his peace with Thomas Becket.

It was an impossible situation. For several years England’s Archbishop had been in exile and this displeased the Pope. Becket would be happy to return to his post. It was for the King to invite him to. If he did not the Pope had hinted that he would have no alternative but to excommunicate the King of England.

Henry pretended to consider the matter. To see Thomas again! He had to admit that the idea was not displeasing. On the contrary it filled him with an excitement he could not understand. He was in excellent spirits when he met Louis to take leave from him before returning to England.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘that thief of yours shall have his peace and a good one too.’

‘By the saints of France, what thief pray?’ asked Louis.

‘That Archbishop of Canterbury of ours,’ answered Henry.

‘I wish he were ours as well as yours,’ replied the King of France. ‘You will please God and man if you make a good peace with him, and I shall be ever more grateful to you.’

It was dawn and the meeting was to take place in a green field which was called Traitor’s Meadow. The King of France, although he was stationed near by, had declared that he would not be present at the meeting for he realised that it would be an emotional encounter.

Henry surrounded by a few of his knights rode ahead of his party into the meadow, and there he waited until he saw approaching from the opposite direction the well -known figure and two of his friends riding on either side of him.

Oh God, thought Henry, is this he? He who used to look so fine on his horse in his magnificent cloak lined with fur. The years have ill used him. He spurred his horse that he might ride ahead and greet his old friend. Thomas did the same and in that field they faced each other.

‘Thomas,’ said Henry, his voice shaken with emotion.

‘My lord King.’

Henry dismounted and Thomas did the same. Then the King held out his arms and they embraced.

‘Thomas, it has been so long since we met.’

‘It is five years,’ replied Thomas. ‘A long time for a man to be away from his home.’

‘I have thought of you often and the days we used to spend together. I doubt I ever laughed as much as I did with you. Why did you plague me so? Why could you not have been as I wished?’

‘Because I was your Archbishop, my lord, and I owed my all egiance first to God and then to you.’

‘I wanted you to have the highest honour. You knew that.’

‘It was an honour that should have come to me through my service to God, not through your favour.’

‘By God’s eyes, what troubles we have made for ourselves! My son Henry talks of you fondly. You bewitched him, Thomas.’

‘I am glad that he did not lose his love for me.’

‘Nay. ’Tis hard to do that. You will come back to England, Thomas. Canterbury has been too long without its Archbishop. Your lands shall be restored to you.’

Thomas smiled but sadly. He knew Henry so well. How often in the past had his emotion extracted promises from him which in cooler moments he had not kept. Yet it was pleasant to be with this man, this Henry, for had they not loved each other well?

‘I have often thought,’ said the King, ‘that I would take the cross to the Holy Land. If I did, Thomas, I would leave my son Henry in your care.’

‘He is almost a man now with a will of his own.’

‘Yet he would be guided by you and this would I do if I were to leave on a crusade.’

Leave on a crusade! Leave England! Leave Normandy, Anjou, Aquitaine! These were the meaning of life to him. He would never leave them. But he liked to dream. He wished to show Thomas that he loved him, so he let himself indulge in this fancy.

‘I could not undertake a secular office,’ said Thomas. ‘But if you so desired I would give my advice to the young King.’

‘Thomas, you shall return. We will forget our differences. Come back to us soon.’

‘My lord is good,’ said Thomas. ‘There are certain bishops who have offended against the Church. None but the Archbishop of Canterbury should have crowned the young King. Those churchmen who agreed to this should be called to task for doing so.’

The King’s affability was a little strained at this.

‘I believed that as King of England I was entitled to have my son crowned wherever and by whomsoever I wished.

You will remember how my grandfather and great-grandfather were crowned.’

‘My lord, when the Conqueror was crowned by Aldred of York the throne of Canterbury was virtually vacant. Stigand had not at that time received the pal from a legitimate Pope. As for your grandfather Henry I, when he was crowned Anselm the Archbishop was in exile. The Bishop of Hereford crowned him as Anselm’s representative and as soon as Anselm returned he was requested to perform a new coronation.’

‘’Tis true,’ said Henry. ‘And you shall perform a coronation for my son and this time his wife shall be with him for the King of France was sorely vexed because his daughter was not crowned with Henry.’

Thomas knelt then at the King’s feet; Henry leaned forward and lifted him. Then he embraced him. This was indeed a reconciliation.

Chapter XVI

MURDER

Six years before he had escaped from the town of Sandwich and now he came back to it. His servants had set up the cross of Canterbury on the prow and as the little boat came in the people came down to the shore to welcome him. Many of them waded in the water battling for the honour of helping him ashore. On that strand many knelt and asked for his blessing.

One man shouted: ‘Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.’ And some of them shouted: ‘Hosanna.’

As he took the road to Canterbury people fell in behind him. They cried out: ‘He is back among us. God has blessed us and given him back to us.’

In the city of Canterbury itself they set all the bells ringing; people dressed themselves in their finest garments; they filled the streets; they cried to each other that all was well with Canterbury for Thomas Becket was back.

Thomas walked into the cathedral. The joy of being in his own church was unsurpassed. He sat on the throne and one by one his monks came to receive the kiss of peace and the people who had crowded into the cathedral looked on with awe.

Some whispered to the others: ‘All is well now. He is back.’

There were many who were deeply disturbed by his return; those who had helped to destroy him, those who had taken part in the coronation of young Henry, those who had believed their ambitions would be furthered if he were out of the way. And chief of these was Roger, Archbishop of York.

‘How long will he last?’ he asked his friends. ‘Has he not laid strictures on us because we officiated at the ceremony of coronation. I have the King behind me. I will empty my coffers...I will spend eight – nay ten thousand pounds – to put down this man. Let us to Normandy where the King is and there we will tell him of how Thomas Becket conducts himself as soon as he has returned to England.’

Smarting under the threat of excommunication the bishops agreed with him and they set out for Normandy.

Thomas meanwhile was discovering that the King had not kept his promise to return his estates, and had even taken revenge on his family. His sisters had been forced to go into exile. Mary who had become a nun had gone to a French convent, and Matilda and her family had also gone to France where the Abbot of Clairmarais had given them refuge.

How deep had Henry’s feeling been? Had he really meant his promise of friendship?

Roger of York was a powerful man and he had been Thomas’s enemy from the days when they had been together in Theobald’s household. He now knew that Thomas’s rise could only be his fall, and he had meant what he said when he had boasted that he would spend his fortune on ruining him.

He was an influence in the Church; he had won the King’s favour by showing him that he had no scruples and was bent on reaching his ambition which was to be head of the Church in England.

Before he left for Normandy he went to Woodstock to see the young Henry.

Henry was proud of his crown and his attitude had changed since his coronation. He was apt to be critical of his father and wise men said that it was folly for one king to crown his successor while he still lived. The boy king was undoubtedly a little arrogant; he was surrounded by sycophants, and when Roger came with that unctuous manner which he knew so well how to use and flattered the young boy, he could influence him.

‘Becket is on his way to see you, I doubt not,’ he told him,

‘I’ll warrant you will have little time for the old hypocrite.’

Henry was puzzled. ‘I liked him well,’ he said. ‘He tutored me, you know.’

‘Ah, my lord. That was when you were a young boy and could be easily deceived. How quickly you learned to see the truth. I’ll swear that you see this more quickly even than your noble father.’

‘It may be so,’ said Henry solemnly.

‘I said to my bishops, “Our lord, the young King, will see right through the old fellow when he comes trying to wheedle something out of him.”’

‘Why should he wheedle?’

‘Because, dear lord, you are who you are: our King.’

Henry smiled. ‘I could not help but like the fellow...’

‘Until you saw that he was a troublemaker. You saw it ere your father did, I warrant.’

Henry was silent. He supposed that Thomas was a troublemaker. His father and the Archbishop had quarreled.

‘You know he has excommunicated those of us who took part in your coronation?’

‘Why so?’

‘Because he did not believe you should be crowned.’

‘And why should he presume to do that?’

‘Because he is presumption. He was against the coronation. There should be one king at a time, he says.’

‘Does he indeed! Then he will have to be taught otherwise.’

‘I knew you would think that, my lord. He has insulted you by his protests against the coronation. I’ll warrant you’ll not lose an opportunity of insulting him.’

Henry was thoughtful.

Thomas was traveling to Woodstock. What pleasure it would give him to embrace his pupil. He would see young Marguerite too. He had loved the pair of them dearly; and they had been eager to learn from him.

First he would pass through London and when he reached that city, his reception was as heartening as that which he had received in Canterbury.

The Bishop of Winchester received him in his Palace of Southwark and caused the bells to be rung for he was as good a friend as Roger of York was bad an enemy.

‘It warms my heart to see you back,’ he said. ‘And see what a welcome the people of London give you. You will overcome your enemies.’

When Thomas went into the streets people came to him and knelt on the cobbles for his blessing, but there was one distressing incident when a mad woman who called herself a prophetess ran amok through the crowd. ‘Beware of the knife, Archbishop,’ she kept crying. ‘Beware of the knife.’

They hustled her away and Thomas went on his progress. But that night his dreams were disturbed and in them he heard the old woman’s cry: ‘Beware of the knife.’

When he approached Woodstock, his good friend Abbot Simon of Saint Albans, who had traveled from his monastery to greet the Archbishop, said that he would go as messenger to the young King and tell him of the approach of his old friend and counsel or.

It saddened him when Simon returned with the news that the young King refused to see him, and that he had been told by one of Henry’s knights that there would be no welcome for Thomas Becket at Woodstock.

So he traveled back to Canterbury. It was Christmas time and on Christmas Day at high Mass his text was ‘On earth peace to men of good will.’ He was full of foreboding.

Young Henry had been turned against him, and how could he know what was in the mind of his father?

Henry was at Bayeux when Roger of York and some of the excommunicated bishops arrived to see him.

The first thing he asked was: ‘How fares the Archbishop of Canterbury?’

‘As he always did, my lord,’ said Roger of York. ‘He is roaming the country and seeking to turn many of your subjects against you.’

‘How has he done that?’ demanded the King.

‘He has only to appear and the people shout for him. He poses as the martyr who has suffered greatly because of the King’s ill will.’

‘And his ill will towards me? What of that?’

‘He does not mention that, my lord. He poses as a saint. Many say he is. The people follow him wherever he goes. They kneel before him and they think that if he gives them his blessing their sins are forgiven them and they are sure of their place in Heaven. He declares the young King is no king for he should never have been crowned.’

‘He has preached this?’

‘Assuredly so, my lord. He has cursed all those who took part in the coronation. He will excommunicate them, he says.’

‘Then he will excommunicate me,’ said the King.

‘He has said all, my lord, and that would assuredly include you. He gathers multitudes wherever he goes. He is marching through England calling on the people to turn out the young King.’

‘By God’s eyes,’ said the King, ‘he has deceived me again. He is against me and mine.’

The rage was beginning to show in his eyes; he tore at his hair and pulled at the stuff of his doublet. He shouted to Roger and his companions: ‘What would you have me do, eh? How would you have me act?’

‘It is not for us to advise you, my lord,’ answered Roger.

‘That is for your barons, but as long as Thomas Becket lives you will not have good days, nor a peaceful kingdom and quiet times.’

Henry clenched his fists and those standing near him took a pace backwards for they could see that his wrath would burst forth at any moment and would be terrible.

‘A fellow who has eaten my bread has lifted up his heel against me. A fellow who first broke into my court on a lame horse with a cloak for a saddle swaggers on my throne while you, the companions of my fortunes, look on.’

He glared at the company and his gaze rested on a certain knight named Reginald FitzUrse. The man trembled before the wrath of the King.

‘A curse upon all the false varlets I have maintained!’ spat out Henry. ‘They have left me long exposed to the insolence of this low-born cleric and have not attempted to relieve me of him.’

He strode angrily to the door, and eagerly they fell back to let him pass.

When he had gone there was a deep silence in the room.

Reginald FitzUrse, a man of some ambition, asked three of his friends to come to his chamber where they might talk in secret. These three were William de Tracy, Hugh de Morville and Richard Brito.

When they were there and he was sure of secrecy, FitzUrse said: ‘It was a command from the King. He looked straight at me when he said those words. He is commanding me to kill Thomas Becket.’

‘I believe that to be so,’ replied Hugh de Morville. ‘I believe he would reward well those who rid him of the troublesome priest.’

‘I have asked you here that we might share this honour of doing service to the King. He will not forget us, depend upon it.’

‘The Archbishop is at Canterbury surrounded by his friends.’

‘That should not deter us.’

‘What should we do then?’

‘First we go to Canterbury and there we will make our plans.’

‘Then,’ said Richard Brito, ‘why do we not set out without delay?’

‘We will leave this night for Canterbury,’ answered Reginald FitzUrse.

Within a few hours they were on their way to the coast to take ship for England.

On the 28th of December the four knights came to Saltwood Castle and there they rested. They had collected a party of men known to be enemies of the Archbishop, those who thought they could profit by pleasing the King, and there they conferred together. They would incite the people to march on the Archbishop’s palace.

They soon discovered that this was impossible as the people were fervently on the side of the Archbishop and nowhere more than in his own district. They therefore marched on alone.

Thomas was in the refectory talking with some of the monks and clerics as was his custom. They had been trying to urge him to escape, for they were well aware that the King’s knights were in the neighbourhood endeavouring to inflame the people against him.

He had awakened that morning with a presentiment of disaster and had said that he believed his end was very near. Those who loved him implored him to leave. They were but six miles or so from Sandwich; a boat could be procured. The King of France would offer him hospitality.

‘Nay,’ said Thomas. ‘Not again. I know the time has come and it is God’s will that I stay to meet my fate.’

While they sat there his seneschal came in to announce the arrival of four knights. They stood before him looking at him insolently. He knew them all by name for they had served him when he had been the Chancellor.

‘God help you,’ said FitzUrse and his voice was exultant.

‘Have you come here to pray for me then?’ asked Thomas.

‘We come with a message from the King. Will you hear it now or in private?’

‘At your pleasure,’ answered Thomas.

‘Nay, at yours.’

Thomas saw that they were all unarmed, yet he read murder in their eyes and he thought: The King has sent them to kill me.

‘It shall be at your pleasure,’ he said, for he had no will to stop their designs. Rather did he welcome them, so certain was he that his martyrdom was at hand.

‘You have offended the King,’ said FitzUrse. ‘You have broken your agreement with him. You have threatened excommunication of the King’s friends and roamed the country rallying people that they might act against the King.

Our lord the King commands that you go at once to his young son, King Henry, and swear fealty to him and make atonement for your crimes against our great King, Henry I.’

‘There is no man – saving young Henry’s own father – who loves him more than I. I have none but warm and loyal feelings for him. The welcome given me by my friends has been mistaken for disloyal demonstrations against the King and I am ready to prove this in any court. Any excommunication is decreed by the Pope. As for those who have taken part in the coronation of the King’s son I have no jurisdiction over the Archbishop of York, but if the Bishops of London and Salisbury who shared in that ceremony ask pardon and stand trial for their actions they will be absolved. I have had the King’s leave to punish those who invade my office.’

‘You accuse the King of treachery when you say he allowed you to suspend those who took part in a coronation ordered by himself,’ said FitzUrse.

‘I do not charge the King with treachery, but you know of our agreement.’

‘From whom do you hold your Archbishopric?’ demanded FitzUrse.

‘From God and the Pope.’

‘And not from the King?’

‘By no means. We must render to the King that which is the King’s and to God the things that are God’s.’

The knights were nonplussed and hated him the more for confounding them.

Thomas said softly: ‘You cannot be more ready to strike than I am to suffer. Understand this. I did not return to fly again.’

The knights looked at each other in bewilderment.

FitzUrse, the leader, cursed himself for having no weapon at hand and for a moment wondered whether he would snatch the crozier and batter the Archbishop to death with that.

Then he turned and hurried from Thomas’s presence, the others following him. Thomas’s friends were terrified. They knew that the four knights were bent on murder.

‘I wish to go into the cathedral to pray,’ said Thomas; and it occurred to several of the monks that he had the air of a bridegroom going to his marriage.

He left the palace with a very few of his monks. Terror had invaded the place, and it occurred to Thomas that his enemies would kill him before he could reach the cathedral.

He came in by the north transept and as he did so the four knights appeared at the far end of the cloister. Thomas moved towards the altar and in the gloom was not seen by the knights; but the monks who had accompanied him ran to shelter in various parts of the cathedral. Only one cleric, Edward Grim, remained beside him.

They shouted: ‘Where is the traitor, Becket?’

‘Here,’ cried Thomas. ‘No traitor but a priest of God. If you seek me you have found me. What do you wish of me?’

So calm was he that Morville and Tracy were suddenly afraid for they knew they were in the presence of a great man.

Tracy called: ‘Fly, or you are a dead man.’

‘I do not fear your swords,’ answered Thomas. ‘I welcome death for the sake of the Lord and the freedom of the Church.’

Aware that the others were wavering, FitzUrse cried: ‘You are our prisoner. You will come with us.’

‘I will not,’ answered Thomas.

FitzUrse stretched out to seize his pal. ‘Do not touch me, pander,’ said the Archbishop.

This enraged FitzUrse who waved his sword over the Archbishop’s head.

Thomas knew that the moment had come. He murmured: ‘Unto Thy hands, oh Lord...’ as FitzUrse shouted: ‘Strike!’

Tracy lifted his sword and the faithful Edward Grim tried to ward off the blow. His arm was severed from his body and he fell fainting to the ground. The sword came down in Thomas’s head and cut off the tonsured part of his crown.

FitzUrse came in and delivered another blow which sent Thomas to his knees. Brito struck out with his sword and Thomas fell dying to the floor.

FitzUrse cried: ‘The deed is done. Let us be off, comrades. This traitor will never rise again.’

His body lay on the stones and Osbert, his chamberlain, came and wept over him. Then he cut off a piece of his surplice and covered his master’s face.

The soldiers were ransacking the palace and the monks were in hiding. It was as though a terrible darkness had fallen over the cathedral; and when it was quiet and the ravagers had gone, and the news of what had happened had spread through the town, people came to the spot where he lay and they wept and knelt and called him,

‘Thomas the Saint and Martyr.’

The monks collected his scattered brains and put them in a basin as holy relics, and they found that beneath his robes he wore a long hair shirt, which was alive with vermin and which must have tormented him sorely.

All night they knelt beside him, and in the morning because they had heard that his enemies were coming to take his body and give it to the dogs, they took him to the crypt and they buried him before the altars of Saint John the Baptist and Saint Augustine the Apostle of England; and from that day it was said miracles were performed at the shrine of Thomas Becket.