Becket shook his head slowly. “The clergy, by reason of their orders and distinctive office, have Christ alone as king. And since they are not under secular kings, but under the King of Heaven, they should be punished by their own law. Degradation is a harsh penalty, suitable for most offenses. In addition to the shame of it, it deprives a man of his livelihood. You would impose a double penalty for the same crime, and I cannot agree to that. St Jerome spoke clearly to that very issue when he said, ‘God judges not twice for the same offense.’ ”
Henry had not expected Becket to reject his proposal out of hand, for he truly thought his reform was a moderate one. “If degradation were the ‘harsh penalty’ you think it is, it would be a deterrent to your wayward clerks and criminous priests. Clearly, that is not so. As for double punishment, it seems to me that a crime committed by a man who has taken holy orders is more despicable for that very reason, as it is a betrayal of God. Such men deserve no mercy. I am not willing to concede that priests and clerics are above the King’s Law. But that is not at issue here. We are talking of punishing men who have been found guilty in your own courts, men who can no longer claim the protective immunity of their holy vows. Where is the injustice in that?”
For the first time, Becket glanced over at the other bishops, his gaze lingering upon their tense, pale faces. When he turned back to Henry, he said, “I, too, am prepared to be reasonable, my liege. We would be willing to agree that if a cleric was tried in our courts and degraded and then subsequently committed another offense, he should be subject to the jurisdiction of your courts.”
“Would you, indeed? So you are saying that you’d not object if a former priest went on a murderous rampage and I chose to try him in my own court? How truly magnanimous of you!”
Henry’s sarcasm was so savage that a number of the bishops flinched. But Becket did not back down. “I am sorry you think so little of our concession, my liege. I can only say to you what Our Lord Christ said to the Pharisees: ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.’ ”
“Let’s talk, then, of what is owed to Caesar. Would you deny that you owe allegiance and loyalty to the Crown?”
“Of course not.”
“So you would be willing, then, to abide by the ancient customs of the realm?”
Becket frowned. “Just what are you asking of us, my liege?”
“You require a translation, my lord archbishop? I want to know if you are willing to swear here and now to obey the ancient customs of the realm. A simple enough question, I should think. What say you?”
“Ere I say anything, my lord king, I wish to consult with my fellow bishops.”
Henry’s eyes glittered. “I thought you listened only to the Almighty these days.”
Becket drew a sharp breath. They stared at each other, the others in the hall forgotten, the silence fraught with suspicion and all that lay unspoken between them.
Eleanor quickened her step at the sight of her brother-in-law. “Will? Why are you not at the council?”
“We adjourned for an hour so that Becket and the other bishops could discuss Harry’s demand.”
He did not need to be more explicit, for Henry had confided in Eleanor his strategy: if they balked at allowing him to punish former clerks, he meant to fall back upon the ancient customs of the realm, just as his grandfather had done in a dispute with another contentious archbishop.
“I doubt that Becket will agree,” she said. “He seems to think that if he yields so much as an inch to Harry, it will brand him as a heretic and apostate, unworthy to wear Canterbury’s mitre.”
“You think he is sincere?”
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “I am sorry to say that I do. He’d be easier to deal with if he were not. Zealots are always more troublesome than hypocrites, Will, for they never doubt they are in the right.” She almost added, “Rather like kings,” but she knew Will would not appreciate such subversive humor. In that, he was very much his mother’s son. She’d always been grateful that her husband had inherited Geoffrey’s irony as well as his fair coloring, although it was a pity that he’d passed along the infamous Angevin obstinacy, too. Well, whatever Harry’s faults, at least he was never boring, and that meant much to a woman wed for fifteen years to the French king.
Will was still talking about Becket, and she focused her attention upon him again. Alas, Will was boring these days, for his only topic of conversation seemed to be the wrong done him by the archbishop. She doubted that his marriage would have turned out for the best. His expectations were too unrealistic; Isabella de Warenne could not possibly have lived up to them. She was sorry, though, that he was so unhappy, for he was a likable lad, putting her in mind of her own half-brothers, who cared more for pleasure than politics and were blessedly free of envy or spite.
“You must not despair, Will,” she said. “If Becket cannot be coaxed or coerced into dropping his objections to your marriage, Harry will appeal to the Pope on your behalf.”
“That will not help. The Pope will not want to offend his own archbishop.”
“He’ll not want to offend the King of England, either. As long as Harry supports him against that puppet the Holy Roman Emperor has set up in Rome, it is very much in Alexander’s interest to keep Harry’s goodwill.”
“Yes, but he can delay acting upon my request for a dispensation, neither granting it nor denying it. What better way to deal with an awkward issue than by ignoring it?”
Eleanor thought that was an astute assessment of the workings of the papal court, too astute and cynical for Will. “What makes you say that, lad?”
“I asked the Bishop of Lisieux to tell me honestly what my chances were. He said I ought not to get my hopes up, that vexatious petitions have a way of getting conveniently lost in the papal archives.”
Eleanor could not help smiling, for that sounded just like Arnulf of Lisieux. A shrewd, worldly man in his late fifties, he was as noted for his political acumen as for his erudition, and since his arrival from his Norman see, he’d been advising Henry how best to outmaneuver Becket. She regretted, though, that he’d seen fit to strip Will of his optimism. Will needed hope as much as he did air and food.
“You ought to know by now that your brother is one for getting his own way,” she chided. “If anyone can pry a dispensation from the Pope, for certes it is Harry.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than her husband appeared in the doorway of the great hall. She patted Will absently on the arm, then moved to meet Henry.
“Will says Becket and the bishops are conferring in private. Could you tell if the others seem to be siding with Becket?”
“If they do, they’ll regret it,” he said tersely. He didn’t appear to want to talk, not a good sign. He stalked down the steps and she had to hasten to keep pace with him. She had never been particularly troubled by his rages, for she came from a volatile family herself. Her father’s spectacular fits of fury had shaped her views of normal male behavior, and Louis’s mild manner had seemed neither manly nor royal to her. Her baffled and bitter comment to her sister that “I thought I’d married a king and found I’d married a monk” could well serve as the epitaph for their marriage.
So when Henry fumed and seethed and ranted, she took his tempers in stride. She’d soon realized that there was a degree of calculation to his rages, just one more weapon in his arsenal. And she agreed with him; far better that a king be feared than loved. But his anger against Becket was different. It was stoked by pain, and she could imagine no fuel more inflammable, and therefore more dangerous.