Gilbert Foliot sat down wearily upon one of the wooden benches and was soon joined by Roger, Worcester’s bishop-elect. “The king seems to be sleeping late,” Roger said.
Another man so closely akin to the king would have made a proprietary reference to his “cousin,” but Roger had a becoming sense of modesty, never flaunting his royal connections, and Foliot smiled approvingly. He and Thomas Becket might not agree on much, but they were united in their high esteem for their younger colleague. “I hope,” he said, “that the king had a better night than I did. I was wakeful into the early hours, and when I finally did sleep, my dreams were anything but restful.”
“Nor were mine,” Roger admitted. “I am heartsick over this, for no good can come of it. Yet what choice had we? If we’d agreed to the king’s demand, who is to say what surprises might lurk down the road, hidden in the brambles of ancient custom?”
“Just so,” Foliot agreed reluctantly. What if the king used their assent to forbid them to obey a papal summons? Or if he chose to leave bishoprics vacant indefinitely, thus allowing him to appropriate the revenues? It was not that Foliot suspected the king of acting in bad faith. But it was his experience that kings were rarely satisfied with boundaries; they were always looking to expand their influence into new spheres. And this king in particular was too adept at taking a weak claim and turning it into an indisputable one. What infuriated Foliot was his conviction that this confrontation need not have happened. There had been numerous opportunities for compromise, all lost or deliberately thrown away.
Foliot’s eyes shifted, coming to rest accusingly upon the tall figure of Thomas Becket. He said nothing, though, for this was neither the time nor the place for such recriminations. If they hoped to prevail, they must present a united front to the king. He just wished he had more confidence in the man leading them into battle.
Roger was watching Becket, too, although without Foliot’s animosity. Roger was easily the most riven of those caught up in this contest of wills between king and archbishop, for he was deeply fond of both Henry and Becket. He’d noticed that a few barons had begun to straggle into the hall. But there was still no sign of the king or his justiciars, and he wondered if Henry was deliberately delaying his arrival for maximum effect, playing a cat-and-mouse game meant to shred their nerves and shake their resolve.
Several of the bishops were staring toward the door, and Roger turned to see if Henry was finally arriving. At the sight of the man standing in the doorway, he frowned, for he recognized Simon Fitz Peter, the Sheriff of Bedfordshire who’d clashed so acrimoniously with the disgraced canon, Philip de Brois.
The sheriff paused and then announced in a loud, carrying voice, “I have a message for the Archbishop of Canterbury.” Filled with foreboding, Roger watched as Fitz Peter moved briskly up the center aisle of the hall. If Becket shared Roger’s unease, he was better at hiding it. “What message is that?” he asked coolly.
“A message from my lord king.”
“He is delayed?”
Roger knew the message was more ominous than that, for it was not by mere happenchance that Henry had selected as his emissary the man mired in the middle of the controversy over Philip de Brois. He was sure that Becket knew it, too, and admired the archbishop’s sangfroid even as he braced himself for trouble.
“The king is gone.” The sheriff’s manner was stiffly correct, but he could not keep the echoes of satisfaction from his voice. “He left Westminster at first light.”
There were smothered exclamations at that, whisperings of dismay. A flicker of surprise crossed Becket’s face. “He has no plans to return, then?”
“No, my lord archbishop. He said the council’s business was done.”
“I see. Well… we thank you for informing us of his departure.”
It was a polite dismissal, but Fitz Peter did not move. “That was not the king’s message, my lord.” With a deliberately dramatic flourish, he drew two parchment scrolls from within his mantle. “As you can see, my lord, these writs bear the king’s seal.” He held them out to Becket. “King Henry orders you to yield up to him the castle of Berkhamsted and the Honour of Eye.”
Becket had held Berkhamsted and Eye since the days of his chancellorship; he would feel the loss of their income keenly. But the public humiliation stung far worse. Reaching out, he took the writs, but made no attempt to break the seal.
“My lord archbishop… do you not want to read the writs?” The sheriff’s courtesy was poisonous. “The second one concerns the young prince.”
Becket’s hand clenched on the scrolls. “What of him?”
“The king no longer wants you to assume responsibility for the education of his eldest son. You are to surrender custody of the young lord forthwith.”
A brisk November wind was blowing dead leaves across the road, causing Henry’s stallion to prance sideways, pawing the frozen ground. Thomas Becket was awaiting him beyond Northampton’s walls, and it was Henry’s doing, but he was already regretting that rash impulse. He knew his action had surprised many, including himself, but only Eleanor had dared to question him, and with her, he’d fallen back upon a half-truth: that he owed it to Will to try one last time to reconcile his own differences with Becket. She could hardly quarrel with that, and indeed he did want to salvage his brother’s sinking marital hopes, if at all possible.
His motives were more ambiguous and complicated, though, than mere brotherly concern. He still could not believe that he’d so misjudged Becket. He’d never given his trust easily, even with those he loved. Very few ever got through his outer defenses. But Thomas Becket had been his closest friend. He’d enjoyed Becket’s company, valued his intelligence, relied upon his discretion and steadfast loyalty. Thomas had been the perfect chancellor, shrewd and worldly and ruthless when need be. Now he was the perfect archbishop, defending the rights of Holy Church as passionately as he’d once defended the Crown and his king. Which man was the real Thomas Becket? Henry needed to know if their friendship had been a lie from the very first. Had Becket played him for Christendom’s greatest fool?
And so he had summoned Becket, impulsively, before he could think better of it. The archbishop had obeyed, but brought such a large entourage that Henry’s unease had flared into resentment. He’d hoped to meet a penitent, not this prideful prince of the Church, and he’d angrily sent Becket word to hold his men outside Northampton, claiming that there were not enough lodgings in the town to accommodate the royal retinue and the lord archbishop’s, too. Almost at once, though, he relented, and called for his stallion.
The archbishop had turned aside into a large meadow, midst a growing crowd of curious spectators. Thomas had always been one for drawing attention to himself, Henry thought sourly, remembering his chancellor’s spectacular entry into Paris five years before. Telling his men to wait, he spurred his mount forward.
Becket hastily swung up into the saddle and galloped out to meet Henry. Both men were riding spirited young stallions, though, and their high-strung destriers reacted as if this were a battlefield encounter, plunging and rearing and screaming defiance as soon as they were within striking range. Henry and Becket were skilled riders, but neither man was able to calm his combative horse. This development, as ludicrous as it was anticlimactic, would once have had them roaring with laughter. Now it roused not even a smile. After several futile attempts to divert their stallions from confrontation, they were forced to wheel their fractious mounts, ride back to their waiting escorts.
Henry’s justiciar, Richard de Lucy, at once offered his own horse. One of Becket’s clerks did the same. Mounting again, they rode toward each other across the barren, frost-glazed meadow, this time at a more measured pace. The wind was picking up, catching at their billowing mantles and the brims of their hats, chilling them both to the bone. Henry reined in first; how had he not realized until now just how wretchedly cold the day was?