The Courts of Love - Jean Plaidy [130]
Richard particularly clung to me. I think he actually disliked his father. My main pleasure now was in my children. I would defend them against their father always and I think they knew it.
A great deal of preparation was going on for this meeting in the hunting lodge. The leading churchmen, with all the most influential noblemen in the country, were arriving.
Henry said to me: “This is going to be a most impressive occasion. It will do young Henry good to sit beside me and watch the proceedings. It will teach him a little perhaps.”
I wondered if that were wise. The conference would stress the clash between Becket and the King, and in view of the fact that our son had spent a long time in the Archbishop’s household and obviously idealized him, and that his antagonist was the King, it seemed to me as if it might have an undesirable effect on the boy. I did not mention this to Henry, knowing in advance that he would not understand.
It was a tense moment. I was beside the King: on the other side was young Henry. I watched my son when Becket came into the court.
There were a few preliminaries, then Henry rose and said: “My lords, you know what has gone before. There has been a little misunderstanding between myself and the Archbishop. I am happy that is now at an end. Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, has come to swear before you all that he will unconditionally serve the King.”
He turned to Thomas. The Archbishop’s face was very pale, his eyes were brilliant. He was an impressive figure; his emaciated looks proclaimed his religious fervor. I thought of the hairshirt under the magnificent robes . . . verminous, most likely. I thought of Louis on his knees at our bedside. And I wondered afresh about these men who seem pointlessly to pursue their painful devotions to a god of their own conception, for this must be so. What god would wish those he loved to submit themselves to senseless torture for his sake? There was no logic in it. I despised them for their folly. Yet it was difficult to despise Thomas. There was indeed an air of saintliness about him. I should not have been surprised to see a halo spring up around his head. I glanced at my son, who was staring at Thomas, his eyes shining. I could see that he would be ready to worship the man.
Thomas stood up. He was going to bow to Henry’s will. He would never have the courage to do otherwise . . . not even Thomas. There were armed men in the hall and outside. Thomas would know that if necessary they would do what the King commanded. His enemies were waiting to pounce, chief among them Roger de Pont l’Evque, Archbishop of York, who had always hated him and must have gnashed his teeth in envy over his rise to fortune. Roger was that very ambitious priest who had been in Theobald’s household when Thomas was there and who had contrived to bring about the latter’s dismissal. How he must have resented seeing Thomas Archbishop of Canterbury when he, for all his brilliance and scheming, had only York. Roger could be depended upon to do Thomas all the harm he could; and no doubt Roger was not the only one. A man who rose high could be sure that he would incur hatred, for no other reason than that he had risen, and the more spectacular the rise, the more people wished to pull him down.
I had to admit that Thomas was a brave man. There was a certain recklessness about him. He was as though he were courting martyrdom.
His voice was unfaltering; it rang out clearly in the hall.
“My lords, I swear to serve the King when that service does not conflict with my duty to the Church.”
I saw young Henry’s face turn pale. He realized what was happening. The man he loved was defying his all-powerful father.
I waited. Would there be a rage here in the council chamber? Would he roll on the floor; would he kick and shout and gnash his teeth?
Henry began to shout. He pointed at Thomas, his eyes bulging, foam on his lips.