The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (33 page)

Henry, seeking ammunition with which to attack the Church, thought he might have it here.

“All this man did,” he pointed out, “was to swear he was innocent. Any criminal could do that. There was no submission of evidence, no witnesses called         .         .         .         and he goes free. Why? Because he is a canon of the Church, and the Church protects its own. Well, I am going to protect my people.”

In this battle with Becket he turned more to me. He knew that from the first I had resented his friendship with the man and he supposed that I would certainly not be ready to support Becket against him. I was not entirely in agreement with him because I felt he was doing harm to the people’s image of him as a wise king by taking up the battle against Becket. By making Becket Archbishop, he had also made him a holy man in the eyes of the people. Chancellor Becket had been the worldly sophisticate; as an Archbishop he had made a complete turnabout; his tall, spare figure and his ascetic, pale face were an indication of his abstinence; the rich garments he wore were only a concession to his former tastes, and under them was the hairshirt.

My fortunes were bound up with those of Henry, and although I liked to score over him in private, I did not want his position to be shaken in the smallest way.

I said: “The man is said to be innocent because he swears before God that he is, and it is said that any churchman would prefer to take his punishment on Earth, rather than suffer eternal damnation.”

“That’s all very well,” said Henry, “but a great many of these churchmen are rogues and they should be seen as such. Philip de Brois is going to come before one of my judges and he can plead innocence there, but if he is found guilty, he shall suffer a just punishment. How can I keep order in my land if the crimes which are forbidden to some are allowed to go free in priests?”

“You are fighting against the Church,” I said.

“The Church must obey the laws of the land like anyone else. And if I wish to fight against the Church, I will.”

But, of course, he was fighting against Becket.

He had ordered the judges to bring him a list of the priests who had recently been accused and released after swearing their innocence before a Church tribunal. It was one of these justices, Simon Fitz-Peter, who had brought up the case of Philip de Brois.

He said that he felt there was a strong case against the man and, acting on the King’s order, when he was holding his assizes at Dunstable, he ordered Philip de Brois to appear before him to stand trial. Philip de Brois promptly refused and, moreover, was insulting to Fitz-Peter who reported the matter to Henry.

Henry was enraged. He demanded that de Brois now appear on two charges—murder and contempt of court.

This was where Becket came into the battle.

I could not understand the man. He was recklessly exposing himself to the King’s wrath. Why? I have never understood Becket. It was as though there were two men in one body. In the days of his chancellorship when he had played the affluent dandy, with his luxurious living, his sumptuous table, surrounding himself with valuable possessions, always adorned in the finest clothes, there had yet been something austere about him. In spite of his grandeur and love of pomp, those fine classical features of his had suggested an ascetic man. Now one side of his nature seemed completely subdued. The ascetic had come forth, the sybarite had retreated. I was appalled to think of that hairshirt beneath his magnificent robes.

Becket was a man who could not be halfhearted on any matter. Now he had determined to defend the Church against the State—the State being his onetime close friend Henry. He was going to stand for the rights of the Church no matter in what danger it placed him. He was a dangerous man. As I watched this battle between them, I was growing very uneasy, and I was turning more and more against Henry. He was acting foolishly. He wanted to proclaim to all that he held supreme power. But the Church had stood through centuries, and I believed that he did not completely realize the formidable nature of his foe, so sure was he of his own strength.

Becket pointed out that the law could not be changed over one case. Men of the Church were tried by the Church. That was Church law. Henry might rant and rage but he had to accept Becket’s logic. This was the law; and Henry, who set such store by law, could not enforce it on others and disregard it himself.

It seemed to me that he was losing this battle with Becket.

They both had to compromise. De Brois could not be tried in a lay court because he was a churchman. On the other hand, since the King wished there to be a further trial, this would have to be before an ecclesiastical court.

The result was a foreseen conclusion. The murder case, said the prelates who were gathered together to form judgment, had already been settled. De Brois had sworn his innocence. No priest would lie before God, for to do so was to imperil his immortal soul and destroy all hope of a future life. Therefore de Brois was innocent of murder.

It was true that he had flouted one of the King’s justices and that was due for punishment. He had been guilty of contempt of the King’s Court, and for that he should be exiled for two years. In addition he should wear a penitential robe and go barefoot to Simon Fitz-Peter and make his apologies to him for his ill-mannered and ill-advised behavior.

When Henry heard this, he was enraged. His eyes looked as though they would fall out of his head; he ran his hands fiercely through his cropped curls and brought his fist down on a nearby stool with such vigor that I feared he had harmed himself.

“By God’s eyes,” he cried, “I’ll have an end of this. I am going to study this whole matter of Church judgment versus the State. I’ll not have others ruling in my kingdom.”

I said: “You are taking on a mighty enemy in the Church.”

He did not answer. I knew he was thinking about Becket.

Another matter had arisen which gave Becket a chance once more to flout the King’s authority.

Some time previously, Henry had wanted to arrange a match for his young brother William. William was a docile young man; he had never caused Henry trouble as his brother Geoffrey had. William was without ambition. He was gentle and all he wanted was to live in peace. It was difficult to understand how Geoffrey le Bel and Matilda could have had such a son. He was so different from his ambitious brothers.

Henry was very attached to William. He had at one time thought of conquering Ireland to give to him, but Matilda, seeing the folly of this, had dissuaded him. Henry had some strange notions sometimes. The idea of expecting a young man like William to hold in check one of the most turbulent places in the world was astonishing. However, Henry did not cease to think of William and wanted to see him comfortably settled; and if he could not be a ruler of Ireland, he could at least be a man of great wealth and property, as was due to the brother of the King.

The opportunity came with a widowed Countess, heiress to large estates. Henry sent for his brother and told him that he had a fine match in mind for him. William responded characteristically. He thanked his brother warmly for his efforts on his behalf, but when he married he must marry for love.

Henry greeted such a statement with roars of laughter. “Marry for gain, boy,” he said. “Love and marriage do not always go together but that does not mean you need not find love.”

But William was determined; it is amazing how strong the seemingly weak can be at times. Henry was fond of the boy. It had always been a comfort to have a young brother who was not planning to rise up against him and who bore no malice but only admiration for his success.

He asked William if he would be prepared to meet the lady and perhaps get to know her a little. William replied that that would be a pleasure, for he did want to please his brother who had taken such pains to get him happily settled. The outcome caused Henry a great deal of amusement and satisfaction. The pair met and in a few weeks William came to Henry, his eyes alight with happiness. He had fallen in love with the Countess and she with him; there was nothing they wanted more than to be joined in matrimony.

Henry was gleeful. He embraced his brother. He said William had never caused him a moment’s anxiety. Everything was set fair. Henry had provided for his brother. He was going to have the love match which suited his temperament and ideals, and the marriage would bring money into the family in the most agreeable way. What could have been more satisfactory?

And then Becket intervened.

The marriage could not take place because the bride and groom were second cousins, and in the eyes of the Church it would be no true marriage because of consanguinity.

Henry was furious. He cursed Becket. Here was the Church meddling again.

I was alarmed. I was afraid that if this matter were pursued Becket might raise the question of the legality of my marriage to Henry as there was a close blood tie between us. Our position was vulnerable. I had had my divorce from Louis because of the closeness of our relationship, and I was more closely related to Henry. What if Becket worked this out?

Henry was going to fight the matter out with Becket, but I reminded him of our own position and he saw the point. We had our children to think of. We did not want queries to be made concerning their legitimacy.

At length, with much gnashing of teeth, he agreed to let the matter of William’s marriage drop and the pair parted, for the bride’s family would not hear of a marriage forbidden by the Church.

It was yet another mark against Becket. The Philip de Brois case still rankled and Henry had made an oath that he would change the law.

We were at Westminster and Henry decided to delay no longer. He called together a meeting of the leading churchmen and the most important barons of the country.

When they were all assembled, he told them that for long he had been troubled about the crimes which were committed in the country and that he had pledged himself to restore that justice and respect for the law which had been the order of his grandfather’s day.

“It has been brought to my notice,” he said, “that numerous crimes have been committed by members of the Church who, when apprehended, immediately fly to the shelter of the Church which protects them from justice. During the years of my reign there have been over a hundred murders committed by men who, because they are priests, have never paid the penalty for their sin. There has been rape and robbery, and if the man who commits these crimes is a priest, all he has to do is stand up before his ecclesiastical friends and say, ‘I am innocent.’ It will not do. It is for this reason that we have priests who think they have special immunity and can commit crimes for which the layman is severely punished. Now, I intend that, in future, any churchman, whoever he may be, if he is suspected of a crime, shall be deprived of the protection of the Church and be given over to the judges whom I shall set up to try criminals, and so keep this country safe for law-abiding citizens. All my subjects must obey the same laws.”

He paused for a moment and looked full at Becket.

“My lord of Canterbury,” he went on, “I demand that you and all your bishops and clergy give your consent to the handing over to my courts of justice any of your churchmen who are caught committing crimes, as was the law in my grandfather’s reign.”

Thomas and his fellow churchmen were taken by surprise. They had thought they were called together to discuss other matters. Thomas must have forgotten what he knew of Henry if he thought he would let the matter of Philip de Brois be passed over easily. He should have been prepared for this.

He asked permission to retire with his fellow churchmen, for, he said, they must discuss this in private. Henry gave them permission and they filed out.

When they came back, Thomas announced that it was not fitting for the King to make such a demand, not was it fitting for the clergy to grant it. They must obey the law of the Church.

Henry shouted angrily that the laws had worked well in his grandfather’s day, and in those days archbishops who had been dedicated servants of the Church—holier men than some he could name today—had not questioned the rights of the King’s Courts to try criminals.

Thomas replied that the clergy would be obedient and ready to obey the King in everything they could, saving their order.

Henry cried out that he wanted to hear nothing of their order. He demanded that they obey the King. He wanted their obedience to the old laws which had worked well for the country under the first Henry.

He turned his back on Thomas and demanded one by one of the others if they would obey their King. They all gave the same answer which Becket had. They would obey the King, saving their order.

Henry talked to them, cajoling them, threatening them. They stood firmly with Becket.

They had already sworn an oath of allegiance from which they would never swerve, said Becket. They would obey him in all things         .         .         .         saving their order.

Saving their order! How he hated the phrase. It meant they would serve him unless the Church wanted them to do otherwise.

Frustrated, angry, unable to keep his rage under control, Henry left the hall. He came to me and told me exactly what had happened.

“‘Saving our order’: They kept repeating it         .         .         .         one after another. It was Becket. Without him it would have been easy. I should have had them. But there he was         .         .         .         determined to have his way, determined to show me that the Church comes before the State. Who would have believed it of him?”

“Some of us would,” I reminded him.

He might have turned on me in rage but he did not. All his anger was for Becket. I think he blamed himself. He had been warned. He had thought that an Archbishop who was also his Chancellor would go step by step with him. He had not known Becket, it seemed. In any case, Becket had changed. He was a different man from the one who had hawked and hunted with Henry. He was an archbishop now, not an elegant dilettante. He was a man of the Church and had taken up his new profession with a zeal which astonished all. Henry was beginning to see that, in thinking to make his way easy, he had created a great obstacle to his plans.