It was a barbed jest, yet a jest nonetheless. Relieved laughter rustled through the audience. Thomas Becket did not join in the laughter. Nor did William Fitz Stephen.
Afterward, Herbert of Bosham drew Fitz Stephen aside to comment upon how well he thought the meeting had gone. “I was sure the king would rave and rant over this breach of his accursed Constitutions. Who would have guessed that he’d take it in such good humor?”
Fitz Stephen looked around to make sure none were within hearing range. “Do you not realize what that means, Herbert? The king is done with arguing. I fear he has something else in mind for our lord archbishop.”
Ranulf felt no relief when the walls of Northampton came into view, even though the sight signaled the end of a long and arduous journey. It had not occurred to him to disobey the king’s summons, but never had he dreaded a council as he dreaded this one, for he knew its purpose-to declare war upon Wales. He’d known for months that this day was coming; Henry could not let Rhys ap Gruffydd’s defiance go unpunished. And when an English army crossed into Wales, he knew that Owain Gwynedd would choose to fight with Rhys. What he did not yet know was what he would do.
The sky was a vibrant blue, and October was already beginning to splash its colors across the countryside. But the beauty of the season was lost upon Ranulf. Knowing the castle would be filled to overflowing, he decided to lodge his men at the Cluniac priory of St Andrew’s outside the city walls, only to discover that the priory was already occupied by the Archbishop of Canterbury. As Becket had brought with him a large entourage, including more than forty clerks and numerous household knights and servants, there was not a bed to be found in the priory’s guest hall. Ranulf ordered his weary men back into the saddle. He had better luck with the Augustinian canons at St James, where the harried hospitaller managed to squeeze them in, and within the hour, he was dismounting in the outer bailey of Northampton Castle.
“Ranulf!” His brother Rainald was coming down the steps of the keep. “I was beginning to think you were not coming. The council started yesterday.”
“Wales is a long way off, Rainald. What have I missed? Nothing has been decided yet about the Welsh campaign?”
“There has been no talk at all of Wales so far. Harry has other fish to fry. Ere he deals with the Welsh rebels, he must deal with his rebellious archbishop. So the first item of business was the contempt charge against Becket.”
“What contempt charge?”
“Ranulf, you truly do live at the back of beyond! When are you going to move back to civilization? Come into the hall where we can get an ale and I’ll bring you up to date on all you’ve been missing.”
Seated in a window seat with a flagon and a plate of hot wafers drizzled with honey, Rainald wasted no time in launching into his narrative. “Remember John Marshal, that lunatic who was nearly burned alive in that bell tower ere he’d surrender to Stephen’s soldiers? Well, this summer he lodged a claim in the archbishop’s court for the manor of Pagenham. When he lost, he appealed to the king’s court, as provided by the Constitutions of Clarendon. Becket then made a grave mistake. He did not appear in answer to the king’s summons, sending four knights to argue that Marshal had committed perjury in the Pagenham case. Knowing Marshal, that is more than likely. But Becket should have come himself to the king’s court. By not doing so, he handed Harry a club to bash him with, and you can be sure that Harry made the most of it.”
“He was found guilty, then, of contempt?” Ranulf asked, and Rainald nodded.
“That was all but inevitable since he had no defense to offer. But the sentence passed was unusually harsh for a first offense-forfeiture of all Becket’s movable goods. The best proof that men thought it too severe was that none were willing to pass sentence; the bishops argued that it was for the barons to do and the barons insisted it was more fitting for a bishop to do it. Harry finally lost patience and ordered the Bishop of Winchester to do it. Becket objected at first, but was persuaded by the other prelates that he ought to accept the judgment, and all the bishops save Gilbert Foliot then offered to stand surety for any fine imposed by the court.”
Ranulf was finding it difficult to concentrate upon Becket’s plight when Wales was on the verge of calamity, especially since he felt that many of the archbishop’s troubles were of his own making. “So the Becket case has been resolved, then. Does that mean the matter of Wales will be discussed on the morrow?”
Rainald’s reply was unintelligible, for his mouth was full of wafer. Washing it down with ale, he gave Ranulf a knowing smile. “Becket might think it is over. But I’d wager Harry has a surprise or two still in store for our lord archbishop.”
The Council assembled the next morning in the great hall. This was Ranulf’s first glimpse of the archbishop, and he thought Becket was showing the strain of his war of wills with the king. He’d lost more weight, and he’d not had flesh to spare. His dark hair was feathered with more grey than Ranulf remembered, his natural pallor enhanced by the stark black of the habit he now wore, the garb of an Augustinian monk. He seemed composed, though, doubtless feeling that the worst was behind him. Henry was plainly dressed, as usual, in a green wool tunic. But he did not need silk or fur-trimmed garments to hold center stage. Like Owain Gwynedd, he projected the aura of kingship by his very presence, not by the trappings of royalty, the accoutrements of power. Ranulf needed only a few moments of close observation to conclude that Rainald’s suspicions were correct-their nephew was not ready to settle for a contempt-of-court conviction.
When Geoffrey Ridel rose to speak on the king’s behalf, Thomas Becket stiffened noticeably, for Ridel had been acting as chancellor since Becket’s abrupt resignation of that office two years before. “There are a few other matters to be settled,” Ridel said calmly. “My lord Archbishop of Canterbury owes the Crown an accounting for sums expended during his tenure as chancellor.”
Becket looked perplexed. “What sums are you talking about?” “Three hundred pounds in revenue from the Honour of Eye and the castle of Berkhamsted.”
Becket turned in his seat to stare at the king. “As Your Grace well knows, I used that money to make repairs to the Tower of London.”
“Not on my authorization. Did you get my consent to make these repairs? Did you even discuss them with me?”
“No… but… but that is because I saw no need.” Becket’s stammer had come back. “I never bothered you with minor matters like that. I took it for granted that you’d be in agreement with me.”
“Well,” Henry said softly, “those days are gone… are they not?”
They looked at each other across a distance far greater than the width of the hall. The impasse was broken by the Bishop of Winchester, who hobbled to his feet and asked for a brief recess so Becket could confer with his fellow bishops.
Ranulf had heard that Henry of Blois was no longer the conniving, ambitious opportunist who had goaded his brother Stephen into claiming the crown and thus doomed England to nineteen years of a bloody civil war. Ranulf supposed that it was possible for a man to mellow in old age, sincerely to repent the sins of his past. He just wasn’t sure if the bishop was that man. His suspicions proved unfounded, though, at least on this particular occasion, for the bishops soon returned to the hall and Henry of Blois announced that the Archbishop of Canterbury was confident that he had done nothing wrong. He was willing, however, to make repayment of the three hundred pounds, for he would not have money come between him and his lord king.