Jean Plaidy - The Plantagenet Prelude

‘Roger,’ he said, ‘my life is in danger. It may be this night the King will send his guards to take me.’

A look of horror crossed Roger’s face. He could visualise the fate which could await the Archbishop. Incarceration in a dungeon, his eyes perhaps gouged out. Left to live out a dark and wretched existence, for the King might have qualms about murdering the Archbishop of Canterbury.

‘I think it is God’s will that I should not be taken,’ said Thomas. ‘If I were, the fight would be over. Roger of York would fall in with the King’s wishes. Henry is already trying to set York over Canterbury. This must not be. I am going to get away to France … if it is God’s will. The King of France will be my friend and I can reach the Pope.’

‘What would you have me do, my lord?’

‘Tell Robert de Cave and Scailman to be ready to leave with me. I can trust them as I trust you. Then saddle four horses and have them ready. These horses must not come from my stables. Take them to the monastery gate and the three of you wait there as though holding the horses for someone who is visiting the monastery. I will join you there.’

‘It is a rough night, my lord.’

‘I know it. I can hear the wind and rain, Roger. But it is tonight or not at all.’

Roger went away to do his bidding and Thomas went to his bed behind the high altar. He was conducted there by Herbert his Archdeacon, and when they were alone Thomas embraced him and told him what he had planned.

‘It is the only way,’ agreed Herbert. ‘You must attempt to escape tonight. Tomorrow might be too late. The King’s mood is very ugly. I wondered you were not arrested in the council chamber.’

‘I know Henry. His courage deserted him at the last moment. He wants control of the Church but he is afraid of God’s wrath. That mood will not last for before anything is his determination to have his own way. My dear good friend, I wish you to lose no time in going to Canterbury. Collect what valuables you can carry and then cross the sea. Wait for me there if you should arrive first, which may well be. Go to the monastery of Saint Bertin near Saint Omer. I trust ere long that we shall meet there. Now be gone. We must lose no time.’

The Archdeacon kissed the hands of his Archbishop, asked for his blessing and was gone.

The church was quiet. The monastery slumbered. Thomas rose from his bed and took off his stole. He put on his black cappa, and taking only his pallium and his archiepiscopal seal set out.

Roger with the two lay brothers, Robert and Scailman, were waiting with the horses.

They went through the unguarded gate of the town and rode on to Grantham where they rested for a while. After that they reached Lincoln.

It was a long and tortuous journey and every minute they feared discovery, for so far had they to travel that the King’s men might have caught them in any town where they paused to rest.

But Thomas had loyal supporters throughout the country. Many people knew that this was a struggle between the Church and the State and that the King sought to set himself in sole judgement over them. They knew that Thomas Becket was a good man. He had given much to the poor; he was a man of God who had dared defy the King. They were already looking upon him as a saint. There were few who would not feel honoured to give him shelter in their houses, and Thomas was determined to protect them by denying his identity whenever it was questioned. Thus he came to the fen country and finally to the village of Eastry close to Sandwich and but eight miles from Canterbury.

They stayed for a while in the house of a priest who found a boat for them and kept them in his house until the time came when it appeared they could make the crossing with safety.

The boat was small, the sea was rough, but they could wait no longer.

‘We will place ourselves in God’s hands,’ said Thomas. ‘If it is his will that we live then we shall and if the sea takes us then that is his will too.’

They set off; the little boat was tossed cruelly on the waves but miraculously it seemed to keep afloat and the very violence of the wind blew the boat across the water. They landed on the sands at Oie, not far from Gravelines.

‘Thank God,’ cried Roger, but Thomas was not sure that they were out of danger yet.

He was right because they discovered that they were in the territory which belonged to the Earl of Boulogne. This was that Matthew who had married the Abbess of Romsey, the match which Thomas had opposed. Matthew had borne him a grudge for this, for although the marriage had gone through it was only due to the King’s cunning that it had and Thomas had done all in his power to prevent it.

‘We dare not risk falling into the hands of the Earl of Boulogne,’ said Thomas. ‘He would send me back to the King.’

So it was no use hoping for comfort. They must continue their arduous journey on foot as though they were four itinerant lay brothers. Until they had left the realm of the Earl of Boulogne they would not be safe, and there were many alarms during the journey, for the news had spread that the Archbishop of Canterbury had landed and people looked out for him.

He almost betrayed himself on one occasion when the three footsore travellers came upon a party of young men out hawking. In a careless moment Thomas showed his interest and knowledge of the hawk on the wrist of the leader of the party.

‘How should a travelling lay brother know of such things?’ asked the young man. ‘By my faith, I believe you to be the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

Scailman, who was quicker witted than Roger or Robert, said quickly, ‘You must be a simpleton if you imagine the Archbishop of Canterbury would travel in this manner.’

”Tis true,’ said the young man. ‘I remember when he came here as the Chancellor of England. Never had such magnificence been seen.’

They passed on while the young man was telling his companions of the brilliantly caparisoned horses and the reputed extravagances of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

‘We must take greater care,’ said Scailman.

‘I must take heed that I do not fall into the trap of betraying myself,’ answered Thomas. ‘But for your quick wits, Brother Scailman, that could have been an awkward moment.’

How thankful he was to see the towers of Clairmarais, a monastery close to Saint Omer. There he was given a great welcome and a messenger was sent to Saint Bertin where Herbert had already arrived.

They embraced each other, delighted that they had completed the most hazardous part of their journey. But there was no time for delay. Thomas should rest awhile at Saint Bertin and then they must make their way to Soissons.

‘Once we are there,’ said Herbert, ‘we can make sure of the protection of the King of France.’

Within a few days they had reached that sanctuary.

There was a great rejoicing in France for Louis’s wife had given birth to a son. A male heir for France when it had been despaired of. Louis was delighted; all over France the bells rang out and the news was proclaimed through the streets of Paris. He had feared that he could beget only daughters.

Henry heard the news with despondency. His son Henry was married to Marguerite of France and he had hoped that on the death of Louis, since the French King had then no male heir, young Henry might take the crown. He would after all have a certain claim through his wife and with the King of England and Duke of Normandy behind him, his power would be great.

Alas, fate had decided against him.

Eleanor shared his chagrin and she herself very shortly afterwards gave birth to a daughter. They called her Joanna.

The birth of his son seemed to add a new dimension to Louis’s character. He cast off much of his meekness. He had a son to plan for now. This showed immediately in his reception of Thomas Becket to whom he accorded a very warm welcome.

‘It is one of the royal dignities of France to protect fugitives, especially men of the Church, from their persecutors,’ he said. He would do everything in his power to help Thomas reach the Pope.

Henry’s feelings were incomprehensible even to himself. He was half pleased that Thomas had escaped. He could have arrested him in the council chamber. Why had he not done so? he asked himself many times. Because he did not want Thomas’s blood on his hands. The man exasperated him beyond endurance; he set the hot blood rushing to his head; and yet at the same time he could not entirely suppress a tenderness for him. Often memories of the old days would come crowding into his mind. What fun they had had! No one had ever amused him quite as much as Thomas. What a fool the man was! If only he had been ready to do what the King wished, their friendship would have gone on and on to enrich both their lives.

He sent his envoys to the court of France with gifts for Louis and congratulations, which Louis knew were false, on the birth of his son.

They had come, they said, to speak of the late Archbishop of Canterbury.

Louis with surprising spirit answered that he had not known that Thomas Becket was the late Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘I am a King even as the King of England is,’ he went on, ‘yet I have not the power to depose the least of my clerics.’

They realised then that Louis was not going to be helpful and that Thomas had indeed found a sanctuary with him.

They asked him if he would write to the Pope putting the King of England’s grievances to him. They reminded him that during the conflict between England and France the Archbishop had worked assiduously against France.