The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (34 page)

He had himself to blame—but instead he blamed Becket.

“I’ll show him,” he cried. “He will see what it means to bait me.”

He could never have been judicious where Becket was concerned. He must have either great love or great hatred for the man. Now it was hate and it burned fiercely.

What harm could he do Becket? Becket loved his possessions. He loved comfort, ease, grand living; his pallium could not make up for that. Very well, he would begin by robbing him of some of the manors in which he had taken great pride. He would begin with Berkhampsted and follow with Eye. They were two manors very dear to Thomas’s acquisitive heart.

Perhaps Becket was hurt even more than he was by the loss of Berkhampsted and Eye when Henry took our son out of his care.

Young Henry came to me bewildered and sad. I greeted him warmly and told him how I had missed him.

He said he missed me too. “But why do I have to leave Thomas?” he asked. “Is it just for a while or for always?”

“It will depend. At the moment your father is not very well pleased with the Archbishop.”

“I hope I may go back.”

“You were happy there, were you not?”

Henry nodded and I saw the faraway look in his eyes.

“He was not in the least like an archbishop,” he said.

“I can believe that.”

“He was so merry. There was always fun. He was so kind. He always explained everything         .         .         .         he made it interesting. Has he offended my father?”

“I think you could say that.”

“But Thomas would never offend anyone. He is so kind and so good.”

I could see that young Henry loved the man as his father once had.

Henry questioned young Henry about the time he had spent in the Archbishop’s household, but he was rather impatient with the boy when he saw that he had put Becket on a pedestal.

“He has his good points,” said Henry, “but he is obstinate and he wants to put the Church above the State.”

Young Henry said: “He is a churchman. That is why.”

“He is first of all one of my subjects         .         .         .         as you all are.”

“But         .         .         .”

“Don’t argue with me,” snapped Henry.

I saw the look in my son’s eyes, and it was by no means one of affection. It occurred to me that he was comparing his father with Thomas, and it was the King who suffered from the comparison.

Becket obsessed Henry. Before we left Northampton he decided that he would meet the Archbishop alone. There should be just the two of them. They could meet in a meadow, and perhaps without any lookers-on they could settle their differences.

During this time Henry and I had grown a little closer to each other. I think he felt the need of my support. I was rather pleased at this and felt gratified because I had always viewed his friendship with Becket with suspicion. It was as though I was being proved right. He did not mention this, but the fact that he confided in me showed me his feelings, especially as he was growing affectionate again. He could share his thoughts with me, so I knew very well how much Becket was affecting him; and he did tell me in detail about that meeting in the meadow.

“I thought,” he said, “if we got right away from our retinues, if he could forget for a while that he was the Archbishop of Canterbury and I the King, we might get on terms we enjoyed during our old friendship. I told him to dismount and I would do the same. We would walk together         .         .         .         nothing about us but the grass and the sky. We could both feel free to talk as we willed without an audience.

“He obeyed me and I took his arm. I noticed how thin he had grown. He takes his religion seriously. He really does see himself as God’s servant. He used to see himself as mine. I said that he opposed me at every turn—we used to be such good friends—and he replied that he did no such thing. It just happened that my wishes clashed with his duty.

“Then I said that he was ungrateful. He seemed to forget how I had raised him up. Who was he? Thomas Becket! Was his father not some merchant         .         .         .         his mother a Saracen? I told him to consider what he had now. I had lifted him from nothing to be my Chancellor. He said, ‘That is what I should have remained.’ ‘And now,’ I went on, ‘you are my Archbishop.’ ‘I did not want the post,’ he replied. ‘You insisted that I take it. I knew it would mean strife between us, for the Church and the State cannot always march together.’”

“It is what your mother implied. Do you remember?”

He nodded grimly. “I grew angry with him. ‘Why not?’ I demanded. ‘It is for this reason that I made you my Archbishop. We worked together when you were Chancellor. Why the change of heart when you are Archbishop?’”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He said, ‘Am I not the head of the Church in England?’”

“And you reminded him that you were the head of all your subjects?”

“I did. He said he was indeed my subject—but God’s first. You can imagine how this talk of God angered me.”

“I can indeed.”

“I called him ungrateful. He replied that he was not ungrateful for favors received from me through God. You see, he has to bring God into everything—and that did not soothe my temper, I can tell you. He went on, ‘I would never resist you if it were the will of God. You are my lord, but God is your Lord and mine also, and it would be wrong for both of us if I should forsake His will to follow yours.’ I told him that since he had become a churchman he seemed to be on very intimate terms with God. He knew of course what was God’s will, and that rather conveniently seemed to coincide with Thomas’s own. He smiled at me sadly and said the day would come when we should both stand before the Judgment Seat. I was angered by his sanctimonious tone. How different he used to be I shouted at him. ‘And to you God will say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” and to me, “Get thee down to Hell. You have disobeyed the will of my good Thomas and as you should know he and I are always together in the right.”’ I was getting more and more angry.”

I smiled. “And you had gone there with the desire to make things right between you. It must have been very frustrating.”

“Oh, it was indeed. He is a very obstinate man. I said to him, ‘You think the King should be tutored by a rustic         .         .         .         a peasant such as you are.’ He replied, ‘It is true I am not royal but St. Peter was not royal either and God made him head of His Church and gave him the keys of Heaven.’ ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘and he died for his Lord.’ ‘I will die for my Lord when the time comes,’ he replied piously. ‘Becket,’ I told him, ‘you have stretched too far and grown above yourself. You believe that because I have lifted you up I have made you more important than I am. You think you can defy me with impunity. Have a care, Becket. My patience, as you know, is not great.’ ‘I shall trust in the Lord,’ he answered. ‘I would not put my trust in any man.’

“He enraged me and yet at the same time I had some respect for his fervor. I would be lenient with him. I said, ‘There is not really much about which we disagree. There are just one or two points. Just swear that you will serve me. Forget about your order. Come. Give your complete allegiance to the King. Then all shall be as it once was between us.’ I meant it. I would forgive him all the troubles he has caused me. I wanted to be on good terms with the man.”

“I know you have always had a great affection for him. None but Thomas Becket would have dared provoke you so.”

“Still, he would not give me what I wanted. He kept saying, ‘In all things save when it would be in conflict with my order.’ I gave him one last chance. I said to him, ‘I have tried to reason with you, because of the friendship we once had. I have stripped myself of my royalty and come to you as a friend         .         .         .         as a commoner. I will put aside all the trouble you have caused me; you shall not suffer for it. You shall have Berkhampsted back         .         .         .         Eye, too. Young Henry shall return to you. Come, Thomas, what say you? Remember how we enjoyed life together         .         .         .         what friends we were? All you have to do is give me your word. You will obey the King         .         .         .         in all things.’ And what do you think he said to that?”

“I can guess.”

“He said, ‘I cannot deny my order, which is to deny God.’ I shouted at him then. I had waived my dignity         .         .         .         everything for friendship and all he could do was mutter about his order. He would not budge one iota. I told him I would put him back where he was before I set him up. Everything he had he owed to me. He had better be careful, I said. I had had enough of his disobedience. He thought because of the great friendship I had shown him he could treat me scurvily. ‘You will see,’ I told him, ‘what it is to tangle with kings.’ He did not flinch. He just bowed his head; and I left him. That meeting should never have taken place.”

“No,” I agreed. “You have gone a long way to placate Becket.”

“No more,” he shouted. “No more. Now there is war between us and that augers ill for Becket.”

”We shall spend Christmas at Berkhampsted,” said Henry. “Becket will hear that we are there. It will remind him of the proud possession which is no longer his.”

He continued to be obsessed by Becket. Now he was turning over in his mind how he could do him some harm. He wanted revenge; but in his heart I knew he longed for the old friendship.

I was annoyed. He had cared for Becket more than he ever had for me. It was humiliating; but because of his obsessive love, his hatred was the greater, and what he wanted now, since there could not be reconciliation, was revenge.

Henry decided to appeal to the Pope. He believed he might very well be successful in this, for Alexander III was not in a very happy position at this time, and when their state is weak, Popes are often ready to placate powerful monarchs. Henry knew that Alexander could not afford to offend him. When the English Pope, Nicholas Breakspear, who called himself Hadrian IV, had died, there were differences in the Church and two rivals came on the scene. Henry promised his support to Alexander, who was now living in France, and it was to Alexander that the appeal against Becket was addressed.

Henry stressed that he was a good churchman. He was a ruler who wanted nothing but obedience from his subjects, and Alexander would understand that no king could effectively rule without that. He could not allow anyone—even though he held a high position in the Church—publicly to declare his disobedience. All he wanted was a word from his Archbishop that he would obey the King—and that he must have. He said that he wished the Church to be strong in England, for all knew that the Christian faith kept men righteous. Thieves, murderers and rapists were irreligious men and he wanted to rid his realm of them; but to do this he must have power to enforce his laws and he could not allow any man—even if he be a priest—to escape justice.

Henry was known as a man of purpose, and Alexander would understand that he could not be ignored. He might have supported the Archbishop if he had been in a position to do so. It always amuses me to see how these religious men are influenced by their personal needs.

The result was that Alexander wrote to Becket telling him that there must be no quarrel between the Church and the King and that if it was a matter of saying a few words it would be wise for Becket to say them.

I should have enjoyed seeing Becket’s face when he read that. How did he feel about his master the Pope, who was not prepared to take a small risk when he, Becket, was staking his whole career and perhaps his life? But he was trapped. He had orders from the Pope and he must give way because of the uncertainty of Alexander’s position, for Alexander, who needed all the support he could get, was not going to offend a monarch as powerful as Henry.

Becket sought a meeting.

I was with Henry when he was brought in. He looked very disturbed. He must have been feeling that he had been betrayed by the Pope.

I was mildly irritated to see that Henry’s mood had softened at the sight of Becket. It was amazing that, after all that had happened, he could still feel affection for him. I believed he was telling himself that when this little matter had been settled and Becket realized it would be wise to stand firmly beside the King, they could return to their old relationship.

“Well,” said Henry expansively, “what has His Holiness to say on our little matter?”

“He is of the opinion that I must swear to serve you without reservations.”

“Wise man. So our little difference is over, eh?”

“The Pope commanded it.”

Henry’s genial mood began to fade. “And you must obey
him,
eh?”

“I must, my lord King.”

“You must, of course         .         .         .         while you disregard me.”

“He is the Head of the Church.”

“And you still think that you were right and His Holiness is wrong?”

“I thought I was right in what I did.”

“And because he is not prepared to agree with you, you will do your duty and swear allegiance to your King?”

“I am assured from His Holiness that I must make this concession because you, as the King of this realm, cannot have your wishes openly disregarded and that you have given your word that you will not go against the laws of the Church.”

“You swear to obey me, Thomas?”

“I do, my lord.”

Henry’s face was tinged with purple. I could see the love fighting with the hatred. He so desperately wanted this man to tell him that he would serve him, forsaking all other; he wanted not so much complete obedience from Thomas as love; he wanted Thomas to break down that cold reserve, that dedication to his Church, to be as he had been in the old days when they had roamed the streets of London together, sharing interesting conversation, private jokes, enjoying the fun which two people, close in spirit, can find in each other. But between them stood the Church. Thomas was a strange man. Perhaps therein lay his fascination.

Remembering the past was angering Henry. Why had it changed? And all because he had bestowed on this man high office in the Church. He had been a fool to do it. He had been warned         .         .         .         outspokenly by his mother, obliquely by me         .         .         .         and by Thomas himself. Henry hated to think himself a fool and it was typical of him that when the blame rested on himself he sought to shift it onto others.