“My lord archbishop, the peace you desire has been offered. Why do you hesitate? Do you wish to be more than a saint?”
NEITHER THE papal legates nor the French king were able to persuade Becket to retreat from the line he’d drawn, and the Montmirail conference broke up in disarray and ill will, most of it directed against the archbishop.
AN ASCENSION DAY MASS was in progress in St Paul’s Cathedral. The priest had just kissed the altar stone and was now moving toward the right side of the High Altar for the Introit. In the back of the church, a young Frenchman clutched his mantle more tightly against his chest. Although it was a warm May morning, he was cold to the bone, shivering in the shadows as he awaited his moment. His name was Meurisse Berenger and he was in London on a holy mission. He knew full well that if he were caught, he could expect no mercy, but his courage was nourished by his faith, his utter certainty that he was on the side of right, doing battle with the ungodly.
“Kyrie eleison.”
The parishioners dutifully chanted the Greek litany, and Berenger silently mouthed the words, not having saliva enough for speech.
Lord, have mercy on us. “Christe eleison.” Christ, have mercy on us.
Even as the familiar prayer echoed in his head, he was straining to see the High Altar. The priest was extending his hands, the beautiful Latin phrases rolling musically off his tongue:
“Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonai voluntatis.”
Berenger closed his eyes and tried not to think of the Antichrist, England’s evil king. When he opened them again, he was shocked to hear the concluding words of the Gospel. So close now to the Offertory, so close!
After kissing the altar again, the priest turned to face the worshippers.
“Dominus vobiscum.”
Berenger slid a hand under his mantle, drawing out a packet wrapped in cloth. The penitents were withdrawing, as the remainder of the Mass was only for the faithful. People had moved into the aisle, approaching the High Altar with their oblations, and Berenger joined their ranks.
The priest was smiling, murmuring words of approval. When Berenger held out his bundle, it seemed to take forever until the priest reached for it, almost as if time itself had stopped. But then the letters were in the priest’s hand and Berenger grabbed the startled man’s wrist, holding his arm aloft so all could see.
“Let all men know,” he cried loudly, “that your bishop, Gilbert Foliot, has been excommunicated by Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury and Apostolic Legate!”
ESCAPING FROM St Paul’s in the ensuing confusion, Berenger made his way to York, where he again proclaimed the bishop’s sentence of excommunication and again eluded capture. Gilbert Foliot had anticipated just such an action and had already appealed to the Pope. But he was badly shaken by the anathema and scrupulously obeyed the strictures placed upon him, not only shunning Mass but going so far as to destroy his eating utensils after every meal lest they be used by others, for no good Christian could break bread with an excommunicate.
In addition to the Bishop of London, Becket had excommunicated numerous others, including the Bishop of Salisbury; Henry’s justiciar, Richard de Lucy; Geoffrey Ridel, his chancellor; the Earl of Norfolk; the Keeper of the Seal; and Rannulph de Broc. Henry was enraged. The Pope was no happier than Henry with these arbitrary excommunications and strongly urged Becket to rescind the sentences. The archbishop refused and warned that his next act would be to excommunicate the English king himself and lay all England under interdict.
THE BENEDICTINE ABBEY of Marmoutier was one of the most celebrated in Henry’s domains. For the past two years, it had been home to the Bishop of Worcester. Roger had voluntarily exiled himself from England in a brave but vain attempt to convince Henry to make peace with Thomas Becket. On this blustery, cold night in early December, Roger looked back upon a year of failures, beginning with the ill-fated conference at Montmirail and ending a fortnight ago with an equally unproductive meeting at Montmartre. Roger was by nature an optimist, but he was finding it harder and harder to hold on to hope, to believe that either his cousin the king or his friend the archbishop would ever compromise enough to reconcile their differences.
He was in good spirits, though, on this particular evening. The future looked bleak indeed, and wind-lashed sleet was thudding upon the roof, but his guest quarters were warmed by a blazing hearth, his table was laden with a surprisingly tasty Advent supper, and best of all, he had the company of a woman he loved deeply, a woman who could have coaxed laughter from Job.
Maud leaned forward, resting her chin on her laced fingers as she studied her brother with mock solemnity. “Well, you look as if you survived the bloodletting at Montmartre with all your body parts intact. So tell me . . . who disgraced himself the most, dear Cousin Harry or the saintly Becket?”
Roger shook his head with a wry smile. “Actually, they never even met face to face. The archbishop and his clerks were sequestered within the Chapel of Holy Martyrs, whilst Harry and the French king and the papal legates and bishops were gathered outside.”
Maud was delighted; this was a detail she hadn’t heard. “Did they really keep Harry and Becket apart? That makes sense with dogs and cats, mayhap, but with kings and archbishops?”
Roger shrugged. “I overheard one of the papal legates muttering that the Montmartre peace council would be a great success if only they did not have to invite the English king or his archbishop. He laughed then, but without much humor.”
“So how was it managed? Did they send messengers running back and forth with proposals and counterproposals?” Maud asked and laughed outright when Roger nodded. “What else? Tell me more.”
“I hardly think it necessary,” he observed. “Did you not just come from Eleanor’s court at Poitiers?”
“We know that the meeting came to naught, that Becket demanded thirty thousand marks in arrears of his confiscated estates, that Harry offered to arbitrate the matter at either the court of the French king or the University of Paris, that Becket showed his usual skittishness about arbitration and insisted he preferred a ‘friendly’ settlement to litigation.”
She paused for breath and Roger said reprovingly, “I am trying to remember if I have ever heard you mention Thomas without sarcasm dripping from his name like icicles.”
She pretended to think about it, then shook her head. “No, probably not. I do find it hard to give the noble Thomas the benefit of the doubt—damnation, I did it again, didn’t I? You are right, of course. Eleanor had a full account of the meeting as fast as a courier’s horse could travel from Montmartre to Poitiers. But you were there, Roger. I truly would like to hear your view of the events.”
“Fair enough. It was very disheartening, Maud. The differences between the two men are so deep that I despair of ever seeing them bridged. But the papal legates were bound and determined to achieve at least the semblance of reconciliation. From what I’ve heard, the Pope is sorely vexed with Thomas and thinks that he is woefully shortsighted, unable to see the forest for all the trees. There is some truth in that, but they do not understand how much he cares about the liberty of Mother Church.”
Maud rolled her eyes at that, thinking of the letter Eleanor had shown her, having somehow obtained a copy of the archbishop’s correspondence to the Pope. Becket had complained of suffering “tribulation more severe than any which has ever been experienced since tribulation first began” and assured the pontiff that there was never “grief like unto my grief.” But for once, she held her tongue, waiting for Roger to continue.
“Harry finally agreed to make restitution to Thomas ‘as his ministers should advise him,’ and the French king convinced Thomas that this was acceptable. Louis thought it was unseemly that a priest should bicker over money,” Roger said, with a faint smile. “Alas, such a high-minded principle is one only kings can afford.”
Maud nodded sympathetically, knowing that Roger had incurred huge debts in the months away from his English diocese; she would have to find a tactful way to offer a loan to tide him over. “It sounds as if they did not so much resolve their differences as agree to ignore them.”
“Just so,” Roger said and sighed. “Thomas agreed to drop the ‘saving the Honor of God’ proviso and Harry in turn agreed to forgo that counterclause he sprang upon the papal legates this summer.”
Maud grinned. “I heard about that. ‘Saving the dignity of my realm,’ was it not? I assume he figured that one ambiguous phrase deserves another. At least Harry has not entirely lost his sense of humor about all this!”
“That is more than the rest of us can say,” Roger confessed. “It pains me greatly, Maud, to see two men I cherish so hostile to each other, all the more so because they were once such fast friends.”
And you’re the one caught between them, she thought sadly, grist for their mills. “So they agreed to jettison those troublesome stipulations and Harry promised to restore the archbishopric estates and no one dared breathe the dreaded words ‘Constitutions of Clarendon.’ After coming so far, how could they then stumble over a ritual like the Kiss of Peace? Why throw away all that progress over something ceremonial?”
Roger reached for his cup, grimacing at the taste of warm ale; he had forsaken wine for Advent. “I know. It was like watching a race where the horses pulled up just before the finish. They were so close to agreement, so close. . . . But then Thomas demanded that Harry give him the Kiss of Peace and Harry refused. He said—correctly—that the Kiss of Peace was to be given only after a true bargain had been struck, and there were still serious matters unresolved between them. If he’d stopped at that, well and good. But he then went on to claim that he’d sworn a holy vow that he’d never give Becket the Kiss of Peace. Since Harry has never been one for holding oaths sacred and inviolable, that explanation was met with considerable skepticism. The legates and the Archbishop of Rouen offered to absolve him of his vow, but he declined, insisting it would look forced and false under the circumstances. He offered, though, to have his eldest son give the Kiss in his stead. Thomas balked at that, and the good ship Appeasement ran up on the rocks yet again.”
“God save us from stubborn men,” Maud said with a sigh. “So what happens now? Surely the Pope will continue trying to mediate between them?”
“Of course he will. However irksome he finds Thomas these days, he is still the Archbishop of Canterbury, England’s greatest prelate and a prince of the Church. Nor can the Pope afford to alienate the King of England, especially since he has hopes now that Harry will take part in the coming Crusade.”
“Ah, yes, our cousin the crusader,” Maud said, very dryly. “I was with Eleanor when she heard about Harry’s sudden fervor to see Jerusalem. She laughed so hard that she spilled a cup of good wine.”
Roger did not disagree with Eleanor’s cynical assessment of her husband’s motives. “For all that his greatest passion is for the hunt, Harry would have made a fine fisherman, too, for he can throw out bait with the best of them. And you may be sure that the Holy Father knows that full well. But as long as there is a chance that Harry truly intends to take the Cross, it must be pursued.”
“Spiders must marvel at the webs that kings weave . . . or queens,” Maud added, thinking of Eleanor. “Is it true that you and Harry had a falling-out this summer? Eleanor said he was wroth enough to order your banishment.”
“Eleanor doubtless knows of it as soon as a weed sprouts anywhere in Harry’s domains,” Roger said, smiling—although that was not entirely meant as a compliment. “I was prideful enough to think that I could make Harry see the folly of this feud. But Thomas had just excommunicated several of Harry’s councilors and I knew I’d encounter them at court. So I wrote to Thomas, explaining my mission and requesting that he give me dispensation to associate with these lost souls. Regrettably, Thomas refused.”
“How gracious of him!” Maud exclaimed sharply, and then, “I am sorry, but I could not help myself. If you please, continue.”
“I caught up with Harry in June, ere he left for Gascony to chase down more of Eleanor’s Poitevin rebels. He seemed pleased to see me; I may be one of the very few whose friendship with Thomas he is willing to overlook. He was in good spirits for a man who’d spent the spring putting out fires in Aquitaine whilst attempting to get the Pope to absolve Gilbert Foliot and the others from their sentences of excommunication. I tried to talk to him about Thomas a few times, but he was always quick to change the subject; you know how elusive Harry can be.
“Still, all was going well until we attended Mass together on the third day of my visit. When Geoffrey Ridel entered the chapel, I had no choice but to depart at once. Harry followed me, baffled by my sudden departure. I explained that I could not be in the company of an excommunicate, but that was not what he wanted to hear. One hasty word led to another and ere we knew it, Harry was ordering me from his domains. I could probably have talked him out of it, but my own temper was afire by then and I made some intemperate remark to the effect that my foot was already in the stirrup, which did not help at all.”
Maud could not keep from laughing. “I’d think not. A pity that neither one of us inherited our father’s calm, placid temperament instead of taking after our hotheaded mother! So what happened then?”
“I rode off in high dudgeon,” Roger admitted, laughing, too. “To his credit, Harry cooled off first and sent a messenger after me, telling me to return. I refused, of course. But by the time his third summons reached me, I was done with my sulking and so I came back and we made our peace. I had no luck in convincing Harry to end his estrangement with Thomas, but for the rest of my stay, Harry saw to it that neither Geoffrey Ridel nor any of the other excommunicates came into my presence.”