He was not the only one to be assailed by memories. For a moment at least, both of their defenses were down and he saw his own regrets reflected in the other man’s face. One of Becket’s clerks was tugging at his lord’s sleeve, whispering urgently in his ear; Henry recognized the florid face and fashionable figure of Herbert of Bosham. Becket made no response, keeping his eyes fixed upon Henry’s face. And then he was striding forward, his somber black mantle reminding Henry anew of that long-lost scarlet cloak. Dropping to his knees in the snow, Becket said huskily:
“My lord king, I place myself in God’s Hands and yours, for God’s Honor and your own.”
Henry at once reached out, raising the archbishop to his feet, and their attentive audience released pent-up breaths, beginning to believe that this meeting at Montmirail might actually begin the healing between them. Smiling, the French king bade the archbishop welcome, and cordiality reigned. When the time came for Becket’s act of submission, the sun slid from behind a cloud and all took that as a good omen.
“My lord king, so far as this dispute which lies between us is concerned, here in the presence of the King of France and the bishops and barons and the young princes, your sons, I cast myself upon your mercy and your judgment…” Becket paused, drawing a deep, deliberate breath before saying, very clearly and distinctly, “Saving the Honor of my God.”
There were audible gasps. The French king’s expression of dismay was eclipsed only by the horror on the faces of the papal legates. Henry alone felt no real surprise, just an intense sense of disappointment, and then utter rage. His temper burst forth in a blaze of profanity, scorching enough to make men marvel that the snow had not begun to melt. Moving swiftly to Becket’s side, the papal legate from the priory of Grandmont began to admonish him in low, wrathful tones, soon joined by his colleagues. The archbishop bore their rebukes and recriminations in silence, watching Henry all the while. The rest of the spectators did, too, believing the peace conference was at an end.
By then, Henry had gotten his rage back under rein. Glancing around, he saw that for once public sentiment was completely on his side; even Louis was staring at Becket as if he’d grown horns. Turning toward the French king, Henry said in a voice still tight with anger:
“It should be noted that the archbishop deserted his Church of his own free will. I did not drive him into exile. He fled of his own accord in the dead of night. And now he tells you that his cause is the Church’s cause and that he is suffering for the sake of righteousness. The truth is that I have always been willing, and still am willing, to allow him to rule over the Church with as much freedom as any of those saintly archbishops who came before him.”
“That is not so,” Becket interjected, but Henry paid him no heed.
“My lord King of France, attend me if you please. Whatever displeases him, he will declare contrary to the Honor of God and thus he will ever have the last word with me. But lest I seem in any way not to honor God, I offer this proposal. There have been before me many Kings of England, some with more, some with less authority than mine. And there have been many Archbishops of Canterbury, great and holy men. Let him yield to me what the greatest and most saintly of his predecessors conceded to the least of mine and I shall be satisfied.”
Henry saw at once that he had carried the day. The words “fair” and “reasonable” could be heard, heads nodding in agreement, eyes turning expectantly toward Thomas Becket, awaiting his response. When he remained silent, the disapproving murmurs grew louder. Somewhat to Henry’s surprise, the coup de grace was delivered by the French king. Sounding more sorrowful than angry, Louis said quietly:
“My lord archbishop, the peace you desire has been offered. Why do you hesitate? Do you wish to be more than a saint?”
Neither the papal legates nor the French king were able to persuade Becket to retreat from the line he’d drawn, and the Montmirail conference broke up in disarray and ill will, most of it directed against the archbishop.
An Ascension Day mass was in progress in St Paul’s Cathedral. The priest had just kissed the altar stone and was now moving toward the right side of the High Altar for the Introit. In the back of the church, a young Frenchman clutched his mantle more tightly against his chest. Although it was a warm May morning, he was cold to the bone, shivering in the shadows as he awaited his moment. His name was Meurisse Berenger and he was in London on a holy mission. He knew full well that if he were caught, he could expect no mercy, but his courage was nourished by his faith, his utter certainty that he was on the side of right, doing battle with the ungodly.
“Kyrie eleison.” The parishioners dutifully chanted the Greek litany, and Berenger silently mouthed the words, not having saliva enough for speech. Lord, have mercy on us. “Christe eleison.” Christ, have mercy on us. Even as the familiar prayer echoed in his head, he was straining to see the High Altar. The priest was extending his hands, the beautiful Latin phrases rolling musically off his tongue: “Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonai voluntatis.” Berenger closed his eyes and tried not to think of the Antichrist, England’s evil king. When he opened them again, he was shocked to hear the concluding words of the Gospel. So close now to the Offertory, so close!
After kissing the altar again, the priest turned to face the worshippers. “Dominus vobiscum.” Berenger slid a hand under his mantle, drawing out a packet wrapped in cloth. The penitents were withdrawing, as the remainder of the Mass was only for the faithful. People had moved into the aisle, approaching the High Altar with their oblations, and Berenger joined their ranks.
The priest was smiling, murmuring words of approval. When Berenger held out his bundle, it seemed to take forever until the priest reached for it, almost as if time itself had stopped. But then the letters were in the priest’s hand and Berenger grabbed the startled man’s wrist, holding his arm aloft so all could see.
“Let all men know,” he cried loudly, “that your bishop, Gilbert Foliot, has been excommunicated by Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury and Apostolic Legate!”
Escaping from St Paul’s in the ensuing confusion, Berenger made his way to York, where he again proclaimed the bishop’s sentence of excommunication and again eluded capture. Gilbert Foliot had anticipated just such an action and had already appealed to the Pope. But he was badly shaken by the anathema and scrupulously obeyed the strictures placed upon him, not only shunning Mass but going so far as to destroy his eating utensils after every meal lest they be used by others, for no good Christian could break bread with an excommunicate.
In addition to the Bishop of London, Becket had excommunicated numerous others, including the Bishop of Salisbury; Henry’s justiciar, Richard de Lucy; Geoffrey Ridel, his chancellor; the Earl of Norfolk; the Keeper of the Seal; and Rannulph de Broc. Henry was enraged. The Pope was no happier than Henry with these arbitrary excommunications and strongly urged Becket to rescind the sentences. The archbishop refused and warned that his next act would be to excommunicate the English king himself and lay all England under interdict.
The Benedictine Abbey of Marmoutier was one of the most celebrated in Henry’s domains. For the past two years, it had been home to the Bishop of Worcester. Roger had voluntarily exiled himself from England in a brave but vain attempt to convince Henry to make peace with Thomas Becket. On this blustery, cold night in early December, Roger looked back upon a year of failures, beginning with the ill-fated conference at Montmirail and ending a fortnight ago with an equally unproductive meeting at Montmartre. Roger was by nature an optimist, but he was finding it harder and harder to hold on to hope, to believe that either his cousin the king or his friend the archbishop would ever compromise enough to reconcile their differences.