Becket remained below in the great hall, still clinging to his cross, but the other bishops had joined Henry in the upper chamber. They had obviously conferred amongst themselves, designating Gilbert Foliot and Hilary of Chichester as their spokesmen. “My lord king,” Foliot said, “the Archbishop of Canterbury has forbidden us to take further part in this council or to sit in judgment upon him on any secular charge. He has also commanded us to defend him with ecclesiastical censure, excommunicating any who lay hands upon him.”
Henry’s color alerted them to his rising anger. “That would put you all in violation of the Constitutions of Clarendon, which every one of you swore to obey and uphold. Need I remind you that Article Eleven compels the bishops to participate in all of the royal judgments that do not involve the shedding of blood?”
“We do understand that, my lord. But the archbishop’s command has placed us between the hammer and the anvil. We must obey you or the archbishop-”
“You think you’re being offered a choice? Think again, my lord bishop!” Henry’s eyes flicked from Foliot to the other bishops; it did not escape him that none seemed willing to meet his gaze. “I suggest you go back downstairs and talk some sense into him. My patience is fast running out.”
Foliot was convinced such talk would be a waste of breath. There was no point in protesting, though; that, too, would be a waste of breath. Followed by several of the bishops and a number of barons, he returned to the great hall, where Becket sat alone with two of his clerks, Herbert of Bosham and William Fitz Stephen. Before Foliot could launch his futile appeal, Bartholomew of Exeter fell to his knees before Becket. He was one of the most respected of the prelates and all fell silent, disquieted to see him in such an emotional state. Tears blurring his eyes, he reached out uncertainly toward Becket.
“Father,” he entreated, “spare yourself and us, your brother bishops. The king has let it be known that he will treat all who oppose him as traitors.”
Becket slowly and deliberately shook his head. “You do not understand the Will of God.”
Foliot drew an exasperated breath, audible evidence of his frustration. “We tried,” he said tersely, pivoting on his heel to go back abovestairs. Most of his colleagues followed, but some of the barons lingered and began to talk loudly amongst themselves, with the archbishop as their true audience. They reminisced about past clashes between kings and churchmen, reminding one another that King Henry’s great-grandfather, William the Bastard, had known how to tame his clerks, arresting his own brother, the Bishop of Bayeux, and condemning an Archbishop of Canterbury to perpetual imprisonment. Rannulph de Broc, who was known to loathe Becket, chimed in with a chilling atrocity story of more recent vintage. “What about the king’s father, Geoffrey, the Count of Anjou? He had the Bishop-elect of Seez gelded for his insolence!”
That was too much for Ranulf. While he had never been fond of Geoffrey of Anjou, he did know that Geoffrey had always sworn his men had exceeded their authority in the brutality of the attack upon the bishop-elect. How true that was he had no way of knowing, but he resented Rannulph de Broc’s dredging up of a twenty-year-old tragedy for the express purpose of frightening Becket into surrender. Neither of the archbishop’s clerks could hide their horror. Becket was better at dissembling, but Ranulf noticed his white-knuckled grip upon the cross. Did Becket truly think Harry was capable of cruelty of that sort? If so, he had misjudged Harry as badly as Harry had misjudged him.
Ranulf shoved past the loitering barons, meaning to reassure Becket and his clerks that Henry would never resort to such violence, even though he suspected that his words might sound hollow to them, coming from the king’s uncle. But his other nephew had lingered, too, and Roger stepped forward now to offer Becket his own assurances, pointing out that the bishops were only to sit in judgment in those cases that involved no shedding of blood. Yet Henry was insisting that the bishops take part in the judgment. What better proof could they have that he intended no charge that involved maiming or mutilation?
Ranulf couldn’t tell if Roger’s reassurances had succeeded or not. The clerks were too polite to show any skepticism, and the archbishop’s expression was difficult to decipher. Ranulf had an uneasy sense that Becket was listening to voices only he could hear. What had he said to Exeter? You do not understand the Will of God.
Above stairs the quarrel still raged between Henry and his bishops. Finally even the Bishop of Winchester agreed to go down and urge Becket to resign. He had no more luck, though, than the others, and the bishops, abandoning Becket to his fate, set about making their own peace with the king. After withdrawing for a hurried consultation, they returned to the chamber with a proposition for Henry.
Once again, Gilbert Foliot was the one chosen to speak for them. “My lord king, we find ourselves caught between Scylla and Charybdis. The Archbishop of Canterbury has placed us in an impossible position. First he bade us vow to obey the Constitutions of Clarendon and now he forbids us to honor that promise. But we owe him a duty of obedience and risk excommunication if we refuse to heed his prohibition.”
“Have you thought about what you risk if you do heed Becket?”
“Indeed, my lord king. Therefore, we offer a compromise. If you will excuse us from pronouncing judgment upon the archbishop, we will forthwith make an appeal to the Holy Father, accusing the archbishop of perjuring himself and forcing us to violate our own oaths. We will further promise to seek his removal.”
More than a few of the bishops then held their breath. Henry did not keep them in suspense, though. After a moment to consider, he nodded. “So be it,” he said, although he was unable to resist adding a sardonic aside. “I’d not want it said that I showed as little compassion for my bishops as does the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
William Fitz Stephen was seated at Thomas Becket’s feet, Herbert of Bosham on the archbishop’s other side. The tension and turmoil had given Fitz Stephen a pounding headache, and from the way a vein was throbbing in the archbishop’s temple, he suspected that Lord Thomas suffered from the same malady. They were sitting in silence, for after Herbert had urged Becket to excommunicate his enemies, the marshals had warned them that no one was to speak to the archbishop. They could only wait, dreading what was being deliberated abovestairs. Fitz Stephen cast admiring glances at his lord, marveling that he could seem so composed in the face of such blatant injustice. When their eyes met, Becket smiled tiredly and Fitz Stephen found himself fighting back tears. Bowing his head, he whispered, “ ‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven,’ ” only to be silenced by one of the marshals.
They were soon joined by the bishops, who’d been excused from further participation in the proceedings, and the waiting resumed. Occasionally a muffled shout of “Traitor” carried down to the hall and Fitz Stephen shuddered. His lord did not respond, though; his earlier agitation and uncertainty were gone, or well camouflaged in an almost other-worldly appearance of calm. The other bishops showed far less patience, fidgeting and murmuring amongst themselves. Herbert was glaring openly at them, making no effort to hide his disdain. Fitz Stephen was less judgmental; excepting the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Chichester, he felt they were well intentioned. While it was a great pity they’d not shown more backbone, he could not in all fairness fault them for it. There were few men walking God’s earth with the courage to defy a king, especially this king.
When they finally heard the door open and the thud of footsteps on the stairs, Fitz Stephen, Herbert, and several of the bishops jumped to their feet. Thomas Becket remained seated, though, still firmly gripping his cross. Men began to crowd into the hall and Fitz Stephen’s last quavering hope was snuffed out by the sight of the triumphant grins and smirks of those barons most hostile to his lord.