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. I prayed that he would not completely lose control. He was fighting to retain it, I knew. “If this man does not observe the laws and customs of my kingdom, I will resort to the sword.”

Thomas stood calm as though waiting for the blow.

Henry was clenching and unclenching his hands. What would the assembled nobles think, all those dignified churchmen ... to see their King rolling on the floor like an animal?

But Henry controlled himself sufficiently to stride from the room.

There was a long silence. I felt for my son’s hand and held it reassuringly.

The meeting was broken up for that day.

Henry went into the court next day with documents setting out the laws which had been in existence in his grandfather’s day. All had agreed, had they not, that his grandfather had administered the law to the utmost satisfaction of all. Had he not been known throughout the country as “The Lion of Justice”? All he wanted was a return to those laws and a peaceful country in which it was safe for men to travel unmolested. The laws had lapsed since his grandfather’s time. All he wanted was to return to them.

“And to prevent trouble rising in the future,” he said, “I wish the Archbishop of Canterbury to put his seal to them.”

There stood that strange man, stirring us all—even myself—with a sense of awe. There was something quite spiritual about him. I wondered what it was. Perhaps the contrast to all we knew of his earlier life, his love of comfort, which showed even now in the fine material of his robes. I reminded myself again of the hairshirt. He was a mass of contradictions, that man.

Now he spoke in ringing tones. “By Almighty God, never as long as I live will I put my seal to them.”

Then he took an unprecedented action: he strode from the hall.

We were all aghast. Roger of York could not hide his satisfaction. Henry was too shocked for rage. That would come later. My son looked shocked and bewildered. For a moment I thought he was going to burst into tears.

There could be no turning back now. My rival for Henry’s affections was completely destroyed. This must be the end of Becket. But in my heart I knew that, whatever happened, Becket would always be there in Henry’s thoughts. He would never escape from him.

Henry had recovered a little from the shock Becket had given him by his abrupt departure from the hall. He was debating what his next action would be.

I wondered whether he would have Becket arrested as a traitor. That was possible. Becket had refused allegiance to the crown ... had openly done so. There was tension. Everyone was waiting for Becket’s arrest. I thought he might welcome it. It would all be part of what I called his “hairshirt mentality.”

There was a little trouble between the two Henrys. The King asked his son what he thought of the proceedings.

Young Henry said he thought the Archbishop very noble.

“Noble!” screamed his father. “To defy me?”

“He did it for the Church ... because he thought it was right.”

“Well, my son, he must be a fool then if he thinks it is right to go against his King.”

“The Archbishop is not a fool.”

“What then? I could have his head for this.”

“He does not care for his head. He cares for what is right.”

“Right!” cried the King. “Right to defy me! Fine words from the heir to the throne.”

“The Archbishop always said we must tell the truth ... no matter how hard it is. The great Christians did ... even though it cost them their lives.”

“What has he been stuffing your head with?” demanded Henry.

“With truth,” said the boy, defiant in his loyalty to Becket.

I could see that Henry was still smarting from insults from Becket and was in no mood to listen to his defense from his own son.

I went to the boy and ruffled his hair.

I said to Henry: “He is a boy, you know. It is right that he should respect truth. He is not yet ready for politics.”

The King was scowling. I had to pull Henry away. He would have stood there and faced his father; but I wanted no trouble for the boy and I knew how fierce the King could be.

He was staring at us as we left. I knew because I turned my head and saw. I gave him a placating smile, implying: He is only a child. Leave the children to me.

When we were alone I said to my son: “You are not old enough to take up arguments with your father.”

“The Archbishop is right,” he said stubbornly.

“The King is the head of the country,” I reminded him. “Kings make rules. All your father wants is to try those who commit crimes, whoever they are.”

“But it is against the law of the Church, and the Archbishop has sworn allegiance to the Church.”

“That is a quarrel which has gone on through the ages. Church against State. It is something with which you will have to deal when you are King.”

“I hope that when I am I shall have men like Thomas about me.”

“They can be very uncomfortable at times, as you have seen.”

“But he is right ... right.”

“Do not let your father hear you say that again. Remember that we have to support the crown. Your father is the King. You will be the King. If it is to be a battle between Church and State, it must be the State for you.”

“I do not see why they cannot work together. All this swearing about small matters is not necessary.”

“You will understand one day. A king must be strong. Your father is that.”

He was silent but his eyes narrowed and his mouth was hard.

I kissed him. “Come. Forget the matter.”

He would not. Later I remembered that occasion, and it occurred to me that it was a beginning.

Everyone was waiting now for what would happen next. There was one thing which was certain. The matter would not be allowed to rest. The King and the Archbishop were at war with each other, and the King could not afford to have an enemy in a high place. It rankled all the more because he had put him there.