“You wished to see me, my liege?”
Becket’s words and manner were respectful-and so distant that it suddenly seemed to Henry that they were miles and worlds apart. He had rehearsed a short speech, dignified but hinting at possible concession and compromise. Those carefully crafted words were forgotten. Urging his stallion in closer, he said hoarsely:
“You were my friend. Did I not raise you from a poor and lowly station to the summit of honor and rank? Do you truly think you’d ever have become Canterbury’s archbishop if not for me? How is it, then, that after so many benefits, so many proofs of my love for you, you have blotted them all from your mind? Not only are you ungrateful, Thomas, but by God, you go out of your way to oppose me in everything!”
“That is not so, my lord king. I have not forgotten your favors, which are not yours alone, for God deigned to confer them on me through you. Far be it from me to show myself ungrateful or to act contrary to your will in anything that accords with the Will of God. Your Grace knows how faithful I have been to you. You are indeed my liege lord, but He is both your Lord and mine. It would be useful neither to you nor to me if I were to neglect His Will in order to obey yours. For on His Fearful Day of Judgment, you and I will both be judged as servants of one Lord. Neither of us will be able to answer then for the other and no excuses will avail, for we will receive our due according to our acts. It is true that temporal lords must be obeyed, but not against the Almighty. As St Peter said, ‘We must obey God rather than men.’ ”
Henry had been listening incredulously. He had bared his soul to Thomas, at last admitted to his sense of hurt and betrayal, and this pedantic, bloodless lecture was Becket’s response? “I want no sermon from you!” Shame was not an emotion he’d often experienced, but he felt shame now that he could have revealed his heart’s pain so nakedly. Seeking a weapon to inflict a wound as grievous as his own, he found it by recalling Becket’s Achilles’ heel-his pride.
“After all, are you not the son of one of my villeins?” That scornful taunt was guaranteed to penetrate Becket’s shield, for in their society, few insults were more offensive than an accusation of low birth. And Becket, as Henry well knew, was sensitive about his family background; it had not been easy for the son of a London merchant to rise to the rarefied heights of power and privilege.
Just as Henry had expected, his barb drew blood. Becket’s face flooded with heat. “It is true,” he said, “that I am not ‘sprung from royal ancestors,’ if I may quote from Horace. But neither was Peter, the blessed Prince of the Apostles, upon whom Our Lord conferred the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven and the primacy over the Holy Church.”
“That is true,” Henry agreed. “But St Peter died for his Lord.”
Becket’s head came up. “I, too, will die for my Lord when the time comes.”
Henry’s mouth dropped open. His angry words had been a reproach, not a threat, a pointed reminder that St Peter had been loyal unto death-unlike Thomas, the faithless friend. He started to explain himself, then stopped abruptly. He stared at the other man, and it was as if he were looking at an utter stranger, someone he’d never known at all.
Pope Alexander III was not pleased to find himself dragged into the conflict between the English king and Canterbury’s archbishop. Alexander’s position was a precarious one: stranded in French exile by the papal schism, dependent upon the goodwill of those sovereigns who’d refused to recognize the legitimacy of the puppet Pope, who was sheltered in Rome by the Holy Roman Emperor. When Henry dispatched Arnulf of Lisieux to the papal court at Sens, the Pope listened to his complaints and concluded that he was not proposing anything that was contrary to the teachings of the Church. Several of the English bishops had already sought to persuade Becket to compromise with the king, only to be rebuffed sharply. But Becket could not so easily dismiss those who spoke on the Pope’s behalf. In December, he was visited at Harrow, his manor in Middlesex, by the highly respected Abbot of l’Aumone, the Count of Vendome, and Robert de Melun, the Bishop-elect of Hereford.
They reminded Becket of the dangers inherent in the papal schism and urged him to take a more moderate stance in his dealings with Henry. They assured him that Henry had promised not to introduce any novel customs or make any demands that the bishops could not obey in good conscience. The Pope wanted this dispute settled amicably and would assume the responsibility for any harm the Church might suffer in consequence. Becket eventually agreed to swear to abide by the ancient customs without the qualification that Henry had found so abhorrent, and the papal envoys dared to hope that this inconvenient crisis would soon be resolved, to the mutual satisfaction of Church and Crown.
Freezing rain and sleet had been falling since dawn and even a blazing open fire could not banish the damp, pervasive chill from the great hall. The wretched weather had not deterred Thomas Becket. Accompanied by the papal envoys, he arrived at Henry’s Woodstock manor soon after dark. The hall was filled with royal retainers, barons, men-at-arms, and servants, all eager to witness this December meeting between their king and the archbishop. There was considerable sympathy for Will, who was uncommonly well liked for a king’s brother, and a number of the younger knights muttered amongst themselves as Becket strode up the center aisle toward the dais.
If Becket was aware of their disapproval, he gave no indication of it, his expression somber, his gaze anchored upon Henry. He seemed composed, but Eleanor could detect signs of the toll this conflict was taking. He’d lost weight and there was a sprinkling of silver in the thick, dark hair framing his face. He was thirteen years older than her husband, less than a week away from his forty-third birthday. But he had fine bone structure, would likely age well. If she were casting for the role of archbishop, she had to concede that he looked the part, for certes. She’d known him for nigh on ten years, but he remained an enigma to her. She’d never understood men who claimed to speak for the Almighty. How could they be so sure that they had God’s Ear?
As Queen of France, she’d had such a man as her greatest enemy, the much venerated Bernard, Abbot of Clairvaux. He had been dead since 1153, and if the rumors she heard were true, he might eventually be canonized as a saint. No matter what the Church did, though, she would never see Abbot Bernard as holy. Saints were supposed to be forgiving, for Scriptures said that the Lord God would forgive men their iniquity and remember their sin no more. But Abbot Bernard had not been one for forgiving his foes. He’d never doubted that he was in the right, that he was the Chosen Instrument of the Lord. She’d been scornful of that absolute certainty of his, but chilled by it, too, for who could argue with one anointed by the Almighty? She found herself hoping now that Thomas Becket did not share Bernard’s fervent belief that he and he alone was doing God’s Work.
Henry’s greeting and Becket’s obeisance were spokes on the same wheeclass="underline" courteous, correct, and formal. The Abbot of l’Aumone was an eloquent speaker and he did what he could to ease the awkwardness. But this was not a social occasion, and there was no pretense otherwise. Becket had come to make amends, and Henry waited now to hear what he would say.
He did not get off to the best of starts, talking at length of the virtues and vices of past kings with an earnestness that put Eleanor in mind of a church sermon; whatever had happened to the man’s sense of humor? She glanced at Henry to see if he was vexed by Becket’s moralizing tone. His expression was inscrutable. Even she, who knew him so well, could not tell what he was thinking.