IN AUGUST, HENRY, STILL nursing his humiliation at Thomas’s hands, discovered that the incident in the council had reaped an unexpected harvest: The leading barons, few of whom had liked Thomas the chancellor, became openly hostile to Thomas the archbishop. Gilbert Foliot, the bishop of London, went so far as to refuse to renew his oaths of obedience to Canterbury.
Gratifying as this was, it fell short of the mark—which was to retaliate in kind. He needed a potential weapon—but what would best serve him?
One morning late in the month, Henry was sitting at the head of a long oak table in his council chamber, two bloodhounds curled at his feet. Eleanor sat on one side of the table, Robert of Leicester on the other, both reading through official dispatches. A clerk perched on a high stool in one corner, stylus and wax tablet in hand. The table was littered with quill pens, wells of ink and rolls of parchment. Those documents Eleanor and Leicester thought merited Henry’s attention were placed on a growing pile in front of him. It was stifling in the small chamber, thick with the odor of stale air, goblets of warm wine, and a platter of overripe peaches.
“Here is a protest from the sheriff of London,” said Eleanor, reading aloud from a square of parchment. “Last month a clerk stole a chalice from the church of St. Mary-le-Bow in London. He should have been tried by the lay courts but—”
“But Thomas ignored my request to do so,” Henry interjected, “and plucked the knave out of the sheriff’s hands and tried him in an ecclesiastical court. I don’t wonder the sheriff’s nose is twisted of joint, but what can I do now?”
Eleanor shrugged, laid the parchment aside, and picked up another one. The chapel bells rang for nones.
“Enough for today. God’s eyes, if I read another document or sign one more writ or charter, I shall go from my wits.” With impatient fingers Henry shoved away the pile of dispatches. “Leicester, what do you say to a few hours of hunting in the woods? Plenty of time before it grows dark.” He rose eagerly to his feet; the hounds yawned and jumped up to join him.
“Just a moment, Henry,” said Eleanor, her eyes swiftly running down the new sheaf of parchment. “Holy Mother, listen to this—”
“Not now, Nell. Please.”
“This is from the sheriff in Bedfordshire. You remember the recent case of the canon in Worcester who was tried in the ecclesiastical court?”
“If you mean the one who raped a girl and murdered her father, I recall it only too well.” Henry had one hand upon the door. “Been hanged at last, has he? Not before time.”
“Is this the case that the archbishop managed to transfer to the church courts?” Frowning, Leicester rose heavily to his feet.
Henry nodded, opening the door. “And I returned to the sheriff’s custody. This problem of trying every criminatory cleric in the church courts was one I hoped Thomas’s appointment as chancellor would right. I did not object that strongly over a church theft, but murder is another matter.” He stepped out into the passage.
“If this is the same case, the man has not been hanged.” Eleanor laid down the parchment. “The sheriff ordered the canon to stand trial again and he flatly refused, insulting the sheriff in the bargain.”
Impatiently, Henry turned around. “Yes, yes, I know all that. But I ordered the sheriff to try the canon again, for contempt as well as murder this time.”
“The sheriff of Bedfordshire, who dictates this, says he summoned the canon to stand trial again as you ordered, but the archbishop once more intervened, tried the canon in his own court, and again acquitted him!”
“Thomas acquitted him again? I don’t believe it!” Henry marched back into the chamber.
“Read for yourself. The sheriff says Thomas had the canon flogged for insulting a king’s official, and denied him the revenues from his benefices. When the sheriff again protested in the strongest terms, Thomas told him that no cleric may be tried by the royal justices.”
Henry felt the blood pound in his head. He, king of England, had explicitly ordered that the canon be tried again in the lay courts. No one had the right gainsay him in this matter. No one! For a moment he could not get his breath; he felt exactly as if a horse had kicked him in the chest.
“What an outrage!” The fury in Eleanor’s voice echoed his own. “Because church courts cannot impose a sentence which involves the shedding of blood, a cold-blooded murderer and rapist will get off with only a loss of income and a flogging!”
“In the royal courts, murder is a hanging offense; rape can be punished by blinding and castration. It is a huge discrepancy.” Leicester shook his head. “And going on far too long.”
Henry snatched the letter from the table. “That Thomas dared to countermand my writ in order to acquit a murderer is intolerable!” He struggled to gain control as he tried to read the words through the red mist of rage that blinded him. It was almost beyond belief that his once-treasured friend should have so totally betrayed him.
“Since the beginning of my reign nine years ago,” he said in a choked voice, “more than a hundred clerics have committed murder. Many more have committed rape, theft, and extortion. Not one found guilty in the church courts was ever turned over to lay authority for punishment. My protests have gone unheeded; even the pope is dilatory in righting this matter.”
Eleanor rose to her feet. “And now?”
Henry flung the parchment onto the floor. “Such leniency will no longer be tolerated. It goes against the ancient customs of the realm and the power of kingship.” He turned to Leicester. “This abuse of justice started in the last reign, did it not?”
“In point of fact it started with the Conqueror in the last century when he separated the lay courts from the church courts—”
“Do you dare blame my great-grandfather for this disastrous state of affairs?”
Leicester went pale. “No, my lord king, I sought only to clarify—”
Henry waved him to silence, spun on his heels, and stalked the chamber, thumbs hooked into his belt. “Surely clerics should be punished more severely than laymen, for they are supposed to be educated and of a spiritual bent. But suppose they are not?”
Eleanor jumped up from the table. “Certainly that is part of the problem! Virtually anyone can get himself consecrated as a clerk in minor orders and neither his education nor his character are ever put to the test.”
“Adulterers, robbers, rapists, fire-raisers, and murderers, all of them!”
“I must protest. You go too far,” replied Leicester, eyes wide in shock.
Ignoring him, Henry smote his clenched fist into an open palm. “We will return to the traditions and customs of my beloved grandfather, the first Henry. Jesu! I’ve been concentrating on legal reforms in the lay courts, when the church courts are where they’re sorely needed.” He gave a grim smile. “My purpose has always been to create laws common to all men. Clerics are men, made like any other.” He paused then slowly nodded. “I’ve thought of something. . . . But it will take time to work through.”
Both Leicester and Eleanor looked mystified. It mattered little. They, like everyone else in England, would soon discover what he had in mind.
The following autumn Henry convened an assembly of bishops and barons at Westminster. Telling no one of his real intentions, he had given it out that the meeting was to settle a dispute between the archbishops of York and Canterbury, both of whom were to be present.
On a chill October morning, Henry, flanked by his two co-justiciars, Leicester and de Lucy, as well as Eleanor, stood in the open doorway of the great hall of Westminster, watching the bishops arrive in litters or on horseback. The sky was a bold blue streaked with feathers of white. Eddies of wind blew gold and russet leaves into little piles in the courtyard. Henry took in deep breaths of the bracing air. Not a day to be imprisoned inside a musty chamber with a lot of dry clergymen, most of them in their dotage.
A sudden commotion in the courtyard caught his attention. The archbishop rode into view, properly mounted this time on a black gelding. A horde of commoners, some in rags, ran at his stirrups and pushed one another aside to clutch his habit. Thomas stretched out his hands and blessed them, before the guards waved everyone off.
“The common people love him,” commented de Lucy, “just as the humble priests of the clergy do.”
Henry turned from the door. The image of an old man dressed in a threadbare brown cloak, his feet wrapped in rags, kissing the hem of the archbishop’s gown stayed in his mind. He stroked his chin with thoughtful fingers.
“Thomas has become rather more dangerous than I had previously thought.”
“People will flock to a man they think stands up to authority,” Eleanor murmured, “especially such a charismatic figure as our saintly archbishop.”
“These simple folk are but beguiled and dazzled by all the far-fetched tales they have heard about Thomas Becket,” said de Lucy.
“They will learn that it is a common law I am trying to achieve, a law that does not set one man above another but declares all equal before the bar of justice,” Henry replied. “The poor and humble—clergy or otherwise—are not excluded.”
In truth, he had been rather dismayed at the expression of devotion just witnessed. Only rarely had the populace of England shown such affection to their king. Henry knew he had the good of the people in mind far more often than Thomas did, yet, seemingly, they preferred the primate. He repressed a strong surge of jealousy and hardened his heart. Thomas was now more than an adversary; he had become a rival.
“Take a seat at the back of the chamber,” he told Eleanor, “you will be less noticeable. Most of these dry old sticks don’t approve of a woman being present.”
When all the magnates and prelates were assembled around the long table in the council chamber, Henry rose to his feet. In a deliberately low and calm voice he addressed the assembly: “As you all know, it has long been my desire to establish tranquility and peace in my dominions.” From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Thomas’s unreadable face. “I feel sure it is yours, too?”
The prelates glanced at one another, then at their king.
“Indeed, Sire,” several voices rang out.
“You can imagine, then, my shock and surprise to discover that the clergy—of all people—are guilty of disorder and lawlessness.”
From the look of shock on their faces Henry knew it was the last thing they’d expected him to say. He went on to explain that he had consulted his legal advisors and had himself looked through the records of his reign. He declared his shock at the number of murders and other criminal acts committed by the clergy, and at the church courts’ failure to impose harsh enough penalties to deter further acts of lawlessness.
“Sanctuary has become a mockery,” Henry said, rocking back on his heels, thumbs tucked into his black belt. “Taking advantage of the rule that no man may be removed by the law for forty days while in the bounds of a church, every robber, knave, and villain with blood on his hands seeks such protection. It is common knowledge that relatives support and victual such rogues. Some even venture out at night to commit other heinous crimes then slink back into the safety of Holy Church.”
The bishops looked down and would not meet his eye. None could deny what he had said.
“Such an intolerable condition is like a hair shirt on the back of all clergy,” said the bishop of London, “one which we do not condone, but to which we are committed by tradition.”
“This is but another excuse, my lord bishop. I struggle daily to act in the interests of justice. This violation of sanctuary is like a thorn in my side.”
“What is the relevance of this sermon, majesty?” Thomas asked. “I understood we were called to resolve a dispute between the archbishop of York and myself.”
“Did you?” Henry looked Thomas straight in the eye, pausing long enough to savor what he would say next. “The dispute between myself and Holy Church is more important. I request, my lord of Canterbury, that you and your fellow bishops consent to the following proposal: All clerics caught committing crimes or confessing to them should be deprived of church protection and be handed over to the royal courts for punishment.”
Although quickly masked, the brief look of livid disbelief on the assembled faces before him was actually comical.
“There is nothing new in what I propose,” Henry added, his voice still low and reasonable. “Nor does it violate either canon or civil law. After all, I only wish to return to the customs of my grandfather, whose reign was prosperous and peaceful.”
Thomas’s face had paled to the color of death. He rose slowly to his feet. “I beg leave for the bishops and me to consult among ourselves first. We did not expect this—attack.”
Henry affected an expression of surprise. “Attack? Attack? I have asked reasonable men in a reasonable manner to look into obvious abuses—which I have just detailed. But of course you may take what time you need.”
While he waited, Henry sat down in the wooden chair at the head of the table. Idly, he drummed his fingers against the polished oak, sipped Gascon wine from a pewter goblet, nibbled at a honey cake. From the corner of his eye he saw Leicester and de Lucy look at him askance while they exchanged a few brief words. Eleanor gave him an approving smile. His proposal had come as much of a surprise to his co-justiciars and to Eleanor as it had to the prelates.
“My lord king, we have your answer.” Thomas’s voice cut through Henry’s thoughts.
The bishops and Thomas huddled together as one black-clad body, which did not bode well, Henry decided, for his proposal.
“To begin with, let me quote from Saint Jerome,” Thomas began. “‘Nec enim Deus judicat bis in idipsum.’”
“I hardly need to be reminded that God does not judge twice for the same offense.” Henry’s lips curled. “No one disputes the sainted Jerome, heaven forefend. I am not asking that. If a cleric accused of a crime is found innocent by a church court I will, however unwillingly, accept that. But if found guilty, then the cleric must be handed over to the secular authorities to suffer the same punishment as a layperson for a similar crime.” Henry spread out his hands. “My lord bishops, once again, all I require is that you follow the customs observed in my grandfather’s day, and to which Holy Church raised no objection.”
The archbishop flushed. “In truth, no one here knows to what ‘customs’ you refer. But if former prelates were so misguided as to act contrary to the laws laid down in the canons, they did so out of fear. If former kings practiced customs contrary to canon law, those were, in fact, gross abuses which will no longer be tolerated.” He raised his voice and his eyes glittered like wildfire. “The clergy accept Our Lord Christ alone as their leader and obey only that law expounded in his canons. Surely to try a man twice for the same offense is to bring the Christ again before Pontius Pilate.” He lifted his arms up to the ceiling and in a voice of thunder cried, “Touch not mine anointed. We are not subordinate to kings!”
There was a horrified silence. Several prelates pulled at Thomas’s arms and spoke to him in agitated whispers. Henry could hear fragments: “. . .do not antagonize . . .” Then they put their heads together in a hurried conference.
It was another public throwing down of the gauntlet, another attempt to humiliate him. Henry felt the blood rush to his head but kept a tight rein on himself until Thomas faced him again. Before he could speak, Henry held up his hand.
“Can I have heard correctly? Do you tell me that men of God refuse to honor the ancient customs and laws of this realm so that its safety may be ensured? Am I to believe that you object to common law being upheld? For that is all I mean when I demand that clerks and priests be given the same punishment as lay offenders.”
Thomas bent his head and conferred again with the prelates before addressing him.
“On the contrary, my lord king, you will find each of us agreeable and ready to accord with your will in all that we can possibly consent to, saving the privileges of our order.”
Henry felt himself losing control. “By God’s eyes, what is that supposed to mean? You will obey my customs absolutely!”
He strode menacingly through the group of bishops who, like a flock of frightened sheep, scattered at his approach. In a loud voice he asked each bishop in turn if they would obey the customs of the realm and all answered as Thomas had done: They would do so, saving their order. Henry bounded back to the table and began shouting.
“This is not good enough.” He pounded the table with his fist. “You must swear an oath to observe the customs in good faith without any reservation. Thus I will have it.”
They looked terrified; even Thomas appeared alarmed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Eleanor had risen to her feet.
“My lord king,” Thomas began in what Henry recognized as his “pacifying” voice, “we have already sworn fealty to you—”
If he remained one more moment Henry knew he would lose any semblance of reason. “Leicester, de Lucy, come with me!” Without another word, he raced furiously out of the chamber, followed by his astonished justiciars and Eleanor.
He left behind him a hush like death.