Just then there was a commotion outside, sudden shouts penetrating the normal noise level of the hall. Eleanor turned toward the sound with jaded curiosity, wondering what fresh trouble was about to be dumped at their door.
Geoffrey Ridel and Richard of Ilchester had no compunctions about speaking their minds even as excommunicates. Lent eloquence by their anger, they had taken turns accusing the Archbishop of Canterbury of sins running the gamut from bad faith to outright treachery. But Gilbert Foliot and Jocelin of Salisbury were far more scrupulous about adhering to their proscribed status as spiritual exiles.
“My lord king,” the Archbishop of York asserted, “I was suspended from my sacred calling, but I may still defend myself and my brothers in Christ.” He gestured toward the two bishops, standing mute and miserable behind him. His dramatic declaration was needless, for everyone in the hall knew that an excommunicate was not only denied the holy sacraments, prayers, and burial in consecrated ground; he was also deprived of the right to participate in the common blessings of the Christian community.
York drew a deliberate breath, making sure all eyes were upon him. “My liege, Thomas Becket has done us a great wrong. Nor does he mean to confine his vengeance to us. It is his intent to excommunicate all who consented to the coronation of the young king, your son.”
“Does he, indeed?” Henry’s scowl put Eleanor in mind of lowering storm clouds. “If all who were involved in my son’s coronation are to be excommunicated, I am not likely to escape, either.”
“That would be an evil way to repay you for the many kindnesses you’ve done him over the years. He owes all to you. How could a man of his humble pedigree ever aspire to the most exalted office of the English Church? But he seems to know nothing of gratitude. He even dared to claim that you’d agreed at Freteval that he could cast my brethren out into eternal darkness!”
“He did what?” Henry said, in so ominous a tone that those closest to him began to back away. “He said that he had to discipline them for defying the Pope. Nary a word was said about excommunication!”
“Alas, my liege, Becket’s veracity is only one of our concerns. I have grave doubts, too, about his motives. Many believe that he has it in mind to overturn the young king’s coronation.”
“No.” Henry was shaking his head impatiently. “I gave him the right to re-crown my son. There is no need to annul the coronation.”
“I am sure you are right, my lord. It may be that these suspicions are unwarranted. But you cannot blame men for taking alarm, not after Becket has been riding about your realm with a large armed force-”
“An armed force?” Henry echoed incredulously. “This is the first I’ve heard of that!”
“Indeed, my lord. He took a large escort on his procession to and from London. Moreover, he disobeyed your son’s order to return straightaway to Canterbury and remain there. Instead he went from Southwark to Harrow to meet with the Abbot of St Albans. Once more he shows his contempt for royal authority-”
Again there was an interruption. This time it came from the Bishop of Salisbury, who was stricken by a fit of coughing. Jocelin de Bohun was elderly, not in robust health, and many in the hall began to mutter indignantly. A man darted forward from the crowd and assisted the bishop toward a seat. As he turned around, Eleanor recognized Reginald Fitz Jocelin, the bishop’s son.
Reginald was his father’s archdeacon and had once been in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s service. Salisbury’s friends had long insisted that Becket’s animosity toward him was the result of his son’s defection to the king’s service in 1164. The situation was further complicated by Reginald’s claim that he’d been born before his father’s ordination as a priest, a claim Becket hotly disputed. It occurred to Eleanor now that in the race to make enemies, her husband and his archbishop were heading for the finish line neck and neck.
Salisbury allowed Reginald to seat him on the nearest bench, but when his son attempted to help him drink from a wine cup, he shrank back, vehemently shaking his head lest that be interpreted as sharing a meal, a transgression which could taint Reginald with his own pollution.
Reginald’s face was streaking with tears, but his voice was harsh with rage. “Look, my lords,” he cried, “look how they have ill-used my father! What has he done to deserve such cruel treatment? We all know why he has been persecuted by Thomas Becket-because of me! The archbishop seeks vengeance for my loyalty to the king.”
The Archbishop of York reclaimed center stage now by saying, loudly and combatively, “Nor is that likely to change. This man Becket has naught in his heart but hatred. It spews from his lips like venom, sparing neither the righteous nor the just. His own words convict him. He has called the Bishop of London and myself ‘priests of Baal and sons of false prophets.’ He slandered Reginald Fitz Jocelin as ‘that bastard son of a priest, born of a harlot’ and he invariably refers to Archdeacon Geoffrey as ‘that archdevil.’ When he learned that the Bishop of London had been absolved of his unjust excommunication at Easter, he even reviled the bishop as ‘Satan.’ Again and again, he has resorted to the rhetoric of the gutter, the vulgarisms of infamy!”
That was too much for Eleanor’s uncle. Raoul nearly strangled trying to stifle a laugh, amazed that the bombastic York could make such a charge without even a trace of irony. He nudged Eleanor playfully, but she ignored him, unamused by what was occurring. This was too dangerous a discussion to conduct in a public forum, where collective outrage could easily ignite a veritable firestorm. She signaled to one of her children’s attendants, who swiftly gathered up Joanna and John and led them from the hall. She saw no indication, though, that her husband was going to do the prudent thing and hear the rest of this incendiary report in private. Doubting that he’d have listened to her cautionary words, she remained silent, a witness both intent and oddly detached.
“The Archbishop of York speaks true, my liege,” Geoffrey Ridel exclaimed. “We earnestly beseeched Thomas Becket to absolve the bishops, reminding him that these excommunications were contrary to the peace made at Freteval. He knows nothing of good faith, nothing of gratitude. I, too, have heard that he has been raising an army, and I cannot help wondering what use he means to make of it.”
Henry could not believe that a fire he’d thought finally quenched was flaring again. Savagely damning Becket to the hottest abode in Hell, he retained just enough control to keep from saying it aloud. Swinging back toward York, he demanded to know what they would advise him to do. Salisbury and Gilbert Foliot were looking more disturbed by the moment, but York seemed quite calm, almost complacent.
“We think you ought to take counsel from your barons and knights, my lord king,” he said sententiously. “It is not our place to say what should be done.”
Richard of Ilchester had brought a stool out for Gilbert Foliot, insisting that he seat himself. Foliot resisted at first, but he was in his sixth decade and soon capitulated. He was so flushed that he looked feverish, so obviously shaken that he aroused considerable sympathy in the hall. Richard gestured angrily toward the older man. “Here is yet another victim of Becket’s vengeful scheming. Bishop Gilbert has devoted his entire life to Holy Church, first as Abbot of Gloucester Abbey, then as Bishop of Hereford and now London. None have ever questioned his faith or besmirched his integrity-none but Becket! He even dared to accuse Bishop Gilbert of the vilest sort of treachery. His very words to Bishop Gilbert were: ‘Your aim has been all along to effect the downfall of the Church and ourself.’ Notice how he equates the Mother Church with his own selfish interests!”