Plantagenet 1 - The Plantagenet Prelude (50 page)

He shouted to Roger and his companions: ‘What would you have me do, eh? How would you have me act?’

‘It is not for us to advise you, my lord,’ answered Roger. ‘That is for your barons, but as long as Thomas Becket lives you will not have good days, nor a peaceful kingdom and quiet times.’

Henry clenched his fists and those standing near him took a pace backwards for they could see that his wrath would burst forth at any moment and would be terrible.

‘A fellow who has eaten my bread has lifted up his heel against me. A fellow who first broke into my court on a lame horse with a cloak for a saddle swaggers on my throne while you, the companions of my fortunes, look on.’

He glared at the company and his gaze rested on a certain knight named Reginald FitzUrse. The man trembled before the wrath of the King.

‘A curse upon all the false varlets I have maintained!’ spat out Henry. ‘They have left me long exposed to the insolence of this low-born cleric and have not attempted to relieve me of him.’

He strode angrily to the door, and eagerly they fell back to let him pass.

When he had gone there was a deep silence in the room.

Reginald FitzUrse, a man of some ambition, asked three of his friends to come to his chamber where they might talk in secret. These three were William de Tracy, Hugh de Morville and Richard Brito.

When they were there and he was sure of secrecy, FitzUrse said: ‘It was a command from the King. He looked straight at me when he said those words. He is commanding me to kill Thomas Becket.’

‘I believe that to be so,’ replied Hugh de Morville. ‘I believe he would reward well those who rid him of the troublesome priest.’

‘I have asked you here that we might share this honour of doing service to the King. He will not forget us, depend upon it.’

‘The Archbishop is at Canterbury surrounded by his friends.’

‘That should not deter us.’

‘What should we do then?’

‘First we go to Canterbury and there we will make our plans.’

‘Then,’ said Richard Brito, ‘why do we not set out without delay?’

‘We will leave this night for Canterbury,’ answered Reginald FitzUrse.

Within a few hours they were on their way to the coast to take ship for England.

On the 28th of December the four knights came to Saltwood Castle and there they rested. They had collected a party of men known to be enemies of the Archbishop, those who thought they could profit by pleasing the King, and there they conferred together. They would incite the people to march on the Archbishop’s palace.

They soon discovered that this was impossible as the people were fervently on the side of the Archbishop and nowhere more than in his own district.

They therefore marched on alone.

Thomas was in the refectory talking with some of the monks and clerics as was his custom. They had been trying to urge him to escape, for they were well aware that the King’s knights were in the neighbourhood endeavouring to inflame the people against him.

He had awakened that morning with a presentiment of disaster and had said that he believed his end was very near.

Those who loved him implored him to leave. They were but six miles or so from Sandwich; a boat could be procured. The King of France would offer him hospitality.

‘Nay,’ said Thomas. ‘Not again. I know the time has come and it is God’s will that I stay to meet my fate.’

While they sat there his seneschal came in to announce the arrival of four knights.

They stood before him looking at him insolently. He knew them all by name for they had served him when he had been the Chancellor.

‘God help you,’ said FitzUrse and his voice was exultant.

‘Have you come here to pray for me then?’ asked Thomas.

‘We come with a message from the King. Will you hear it now or in private?’

‘At your pleasure,’ answered Thomas.

‘Nay, at yours.’

Thomas saw that they were all unarmed, yet he read murder in their eyes and he thought: The King has sent them to kill me.

‘It shall be at your pleasure,’ he said, for he had no will to stop their designs. Rather did he welcome them, so certain was he that his martyrdom was at hand.

‘You have offended the King,’ said FitzUrse. ‘You have broken your agreement with him. You have threatened excommunication of the King’s friends and roamed the country rallying people that they might act against the King. Our lord the King commands that you go at once to his young son, King Henry, and swear fealty to him and make atonement for your crimes against our great King, Henry II.’

‘There is no man - saving young Henry’s own father - who loves him more than I. I have none but warm and loyal feelings for him. The welcome given me by my friends has been mistaken for disloyal demonstrations against the King and I am ready to prove this in any court. Any excommunication is decreed by the Pope. As for those who have taken part in the coronation of the King’s son I have no jurisdiction over the Archbishop of York, but if the Bishops of London and Salisbury who shared in that ceremony ask pardon and stand trial for their actions they will be absolved. I have had the King’s leave to punish those who invade my office.’

‘You accuse the King of treachery when you say he allowed you to suspend those who took part in a coronation ordered by himself,’ said FitzUrse.

‘I do not charge the King with treachery, but you know of our agreement.’

‘From whom do you hold your Archbishopric?’ demanded FitzUrse.

‘From God and the Pope.’

‘And not from the King?’

‘By no means. We must render to the King that which is the King’s and to God the things that are God’s.’

The knights were nonplussed and hated him the more for confounding them.

Thomas said softly: ‘You cannot be more ready to strike than I am to suffer. Understand this. I did not return to fly again.’

The knights looked at each other in bewilderment. FitzUrse, the leader, cursed himself for having no weapon at hand and for a moment wondered whether he would snatch the crozier and batter the Archbishop to death with that.

Then he turned and hurried from Thomas’s presence, the others following him.

Thomas’s friends were terrified. They knew that the four knights were bent on murder.

‘I wish to go into the cathedral to pray,’ said Thomas; and it occurred to several of the monks that he had the air of a bridegroom going to his marriage.

He left the palace with a very few of his monks. Terror had invaded the place, and it occurred to Thomas that his enemies would kill him before he could reach the cathedral.

He came in by the north transept and as he did so the four knights appeared at the far end of the cloister. Thomas moved towards the altar and in the gloom was not seen by the knights; but the monks who had accompanied him ran to shelter in various parts of the cathedral. Only one cleric, Edward Grim, remained beside him.

They shouted: ‘Where is the traitor, Becket?’

‘Here,’ cried Thomas. ‘No traitor but a priest of God. If you seek me you have found me. What do you wish of me ?’

So calm was he that Morville and Tracy were suddenly afraid for they knew they were in the presence of a great man.

Tracy called: ‘Fly, or you are a dead man.’

‘I do not fear your swords,’ answered Thomas. ‘I welcome death for the sake of the Lord and the freedom of the Church.’

Aware that the others were wavering, FitzUrse cried: ‘You are our prisoner. You will come with us.’

‘I will not,’ answered Thomas.

FitzUrse stretched out to seize his pall. ‘Do not touch me, pander,’ said the Archbishop.

This enraged FitzUrse who waved his sword over the Archbishop’s head.

Thomas knew that the moment had come. He murmured: ‘Unto Thy hands, oh Lord …’ as FitzUrse shouted: ‘Strike!’

Tracy lifted his sword and the faithful Edward Grim tried to ward off the blow. His arm was severed from his body and he fell fainting to the ground. The sword came down in Thomas’s head and cut off the tonsured part of his crown.

FitzUrse came in and delivered another blow which sent Thomas to his knees. Brito struck out with his sword and Thomas fell dying to the floor.

FitzUrse cried: ‘The deed is done. Let us be off, comrades. This traitor will never rise again.’

His body lay on the stones and Osbert, his chamberlain, came and wept over him. Then he cut off a piece of his surplice and covered his master’s face.

The soldiers were ransacking the palace and the monks were in hiding. It was as though a terrible darkness had fallen over the cathedral; and when it was quiet and the ravagers had gone, and the news of what had happened had spread through the town, people came to the spot where he lay and they wept and knelt and called him, ‘Thomas the Saint and Martyr.’

The monks collected his scattered brains and put them in a basin as holy relics, and they found that beneath his robes he wore a long hair shirt, which was alive with vermin and which must have tormented him sorely.

All night they knelt beside him, and in the morning because they had heard that his enemies were coming to take his body and give it to the dogs, they took him to the crypt and they buried him before the altars of Saint John the Baptist and Saint Augustine the Apostle of England; and from that day it was said miracles were performed at the shrine of Thomas Becket.

Chapter XVII

THE KING’S REMORSE

W
hen the news was brought to the King he was filled with remorse and a certain terror.

‘I have done this,’ he said. ‘I am the murderer of Thomas Becket.’

He shut himself in his bedchamber and wished to see no one. There he thought of all they had been to each other in the days of their friendship and how there was no man he loved as he had loved Thomas Becket.

And he had killed him.

They were calling him a martyr. They were calling him a saint. They said that at his shrine miracles were performed. The whole of Christendom was shocked by the murder and the whole of Christendom said: ‘Who has done this wicked deed?’

It was FitzUrse and the others. Nay, it was the King. Had he not cursed them for not ridding himself of the man?

All his life the memory of Thomas Becket would be with him. He might do a public penance but he would never forget.

Thomas lay dead, his brains had been scattered on the stones. And his body they said was inflamed with the bites of the vermin who at his will had infested his hair shirt. Thomas, who had loved silk next to his skin and had hated the cold winds to blow on him! He was dead - killed by his one-time friend.

There was not room for the two of us in England, thought Henry, because I wanted to be supreme ruler not only of State but of Church. And because of this he lies dead and I am to blame. I am the murderer who killed the martyr.

But he was a king; he had his life to lead; his country to govern.

His son Henry, whom he had crowned, he now knew unwisely, was eager to take his place. Thomas had been against the crowning. It was never wise to set up a new king while the old one still reigned.

His wife Eleanor hated him. His son Richard had turned against him.

Where could he go for comfort? To Rosamund? She would give him solace, but he could not talk to her of his troubles. She would never understand them. She would agree with everything he said, and that was not what he wanted.

What was Eleanor doing? How long before she roused his sons against him? He was unhappy. He was afraid, for he was a lonely man and his soul was stained with the blood of one he had loved.