There was no joy to be found in the somber expression of the Earl of Leicester. Moving with a heavy tread, as if he felt the full weight of his sixty years, he approached the archbishop. “It has fallen upon me,” he said gravely, “to inform you, my lord archbishop, that you have been found guilty of treason. The sentence passed by the court is that you be-”
“I will hear no judgment, for I have appealed to His Holiness, the Pope.”
Leicester was momentarily thrown off-stride by Becket’s interruption. His hesitation making it clear that this was a task he was loath to perform, he started to speak again and again Becket cut him off. Leicester turned to Rainald as if for assistance. Rainald merely shook his head. At that the Bishop of Chichester intervened, but not on behalf of his beleaguered colleague.
“Your treason is manifest to all,” he told Becket, with a sorrowful air that only emphasized the harshness of his words, “and you must hear the court’s sentence.”
“Who are you to tell me that?” Becket rose to his feet, dismissing Chichester with a scornful curl of his lip. For a moment, his eyes raked the hall and such was the power of his personality that even the most virulent of his foes fell silent. “Judgment is given after a trial,” he said, speaking loudly enough so that all could hear. “I have done no pleading today. I was summoned for no suit except that of John Marshal, who did not even put in an appearance.” When Leicester would have spoken, he held up his hand, halting the words in a gesture both dramatic and imperious. “I forbid you by the authority that Holy Church gives me over you to pass judgment upon me.”
Leicester, looking more uncomfortable by the moment, conceded defeat and stepped back. But Rannulph de Broc was uncowed. Pushing his way forward, he said with a sneer, “What authority can a lowborn traitor exercise?”
Becket’s face flooded with color. “You’re one to talk! One of your family got himself hanged for a felony, which is more than ever happened to any of my kin.”
De Broc sputtered, momentarily at a loss for words, and some of the other men grinned, for he had few friends, mainly allies of expedience. Becket took advantage of the pause, raising his cross and starting toward the door. He moved at a deliberate, unhurried pace, head high and shoulders squared, and as his clerks hastened to catch up with him, Fitz Stephen began to hope that they would be able to make a dignified, peaceful departure. But then Becket tripped over a bundle of faggots by the hearth and almost fell.
That small stumble was enough to embolden his foes. Rannulph de Broc lunged forward, shouting, “Perjurer!” The cry was quickly taken up by others and Becket was soon surrounded by angry, jeering men, some of them pelting him with rushes scooped up from the floor. Henry’s half-brother, Hamelin, his face contorted with hatred, barred Becket’s way, crying “Traitor!” in a hoarse voice that was an eerie echo of the king’s.
At that, Becket’s self-control snapped and he turned on Hamelin in a sudden fury. “Lackey,” he raged, “bastard! If I were not a priest, you’d pay dearly for that insult!”
By now Leicester and an equally alarmed Rainald had shouldered their way through the men encircling Becket, shouting for them to get back, and as they grudgingly gave way, Becket and his clerks were able to reach the door. The dignified departure Fitz Stephen had hoped for had taken on the urgency of an escape, and when Herbert of Bosham could not find his horse, he scrambled up behind Becket onto the archbishop’s stallion. But no attempts were made to stop them from leaving the castle, and there was no pursuit as they rode back to their lodgings at St Andrew’s Priory. Indeed, their retreat soon turned into a triumphant procession, with the townspeople flocking out to cheer for Becket and seek his blessings.
Ranulf had been tossing and turning for hours. All around him, the aisles of the great hall were crowded with pallets and the blanket-clad forms of sleeping men. But for Ranulf, sleep would not come. Finally surrendering unconditionally to his insomnia, he got to his feet and padded silently through the floor rushes toward the door. Trying not to awaken the closest sleepers, he pulled the bolt back and unfastened the latch. Cracking the door, he looked out in surprise. He’d known it was raining, hearing the thrumming upon the roof shingles. Until now, though, he’d not realized how severe the storm was. Torrential rains were flooding the bailey, the wind keening like a lost soul, and lightning flared somewhere over the town, searing the black sky with blue-white sparks.
Hastily crossing himself, Ranulf shut the door, wondering how many others were lying wakeful and uneasy this night. As midnight drew nigh, it seemed as if the very heavens were warring upon Northampton. How many would see this savage storm as an ill omen, a sign of the Almighty’s displeasure at the shabby way His servant had been treated in the king’s court?
Since he could not go outside, he looked around for another refuge, eventually settling upon the chapel adjoining the hall, for there at least, he’d find no snoring sleepers. Groping his way forward, he creaked open the door. A lone candle still flickered upon the altar and a rushlight burned in a wall sconce, but the chapel was swirling in shadows; even the wind’s wail was muffled here, the storm’s fury held at bay by the thick stone walls, the lingering grace of countless heartfelt prayers for God’s Mercy. Ranulf ’s troubled spirit eased and he drew a breath of solace. But as he moved toward the altar, a ghostly figure emerged suddenly from the shadows to intercept him.
Ranulf recoiled with a startled gasp. “Christ Jesus, Roger, I thought you were one of the Devil’s own come to claim my soul!”
His nephew smiled wryly. “It would not surprise me, Uncle, to find the Devil stalking Northampton this night. But your soul is safe with me.” He gestured toward several prayer cushions piled in a corner. “I have made a snug nest for myself, as you can see. I even have a flask of wine. Care to join me?”
“Why not?” Seating themselves on the cushions, resting their backs against the wall, they took turns drinking from Roger’s flask. “Why are you here at the castle?” Ranulf asked, since that was a safer question than why Roger thought demons were abroad in the night. “I thought you were lodging in the town.”
“And I thought you were staying with the canons?”
“I was, but I stayed so late tonight in Harry’s chambers that it seemed easier just to spend the night here. You, too?”
Roger took another swig of wine, his shoulders slumping. “I went to the priory,” he said, “to see how Thomas was faring. Not only have many of the knights of his household asked to be released from his service, but more than forty of his clerks have abandoned him, too. Craven louts, the lot of them,” he added, with unexpected venom.
“Does it truly surprise you that men should fear the contagion of the king’s disfavor as much as they do leprosy or the spotted fever?”
“No…,” Roger conceded. “I do not blame the knights for looking to their own interests. But it is shameful for men of God to behave like rats fleeing a sinking ship.”
Ranulf agreed that it was and reached over to reclaim the flask. “So what brought you back to the castle?”
“Thomas asked me and the Bishops of Hereford and Rochester to go to the king and seek a safe-conduct for his journey back to Canterbury.” Roger was quiet then for a time. “Harry said that he’d answer us on the morrow.”
“And that worries you? It should not,” Ranulf insisted. “He’ll give a safe conduct. When Rainald and I told him of the ugly scene in the great hall and of the threats made against Becket by some of the barons, he immediately sent forth heralds to proclaim that the archbishop was not to be harmed or harassed. It is Becket’s humiliation he seeks, not his blood. Do you doubt that, Roger?”