He needed time to think. His actions now were of the utmost importance. He had come a long way in the last twenty years, when, as son of Matilda, daughter of Henry I of England, and the Count of Anjou, he had had a not very steady grasp on the crown of the Dukes of Normandy. He had married the richest heiress in Europe and had taken the crown of England and there was not a man who could stand against him. The King of France feared him; he had defied the Pope; he had had his way and it had brought him great power.
But now he was in danger, and all through Thomas à Becket. The Church would sing the Archbishop’s praises, for Thomas had been slain in the battle between Church and State which had been raging for years and would doubtless go on. And Thomas would be a saint and a martyr.
‘You always tried to get the better of me, Thomas,’ he muttered and a grim smile appeared on his lips. ‘And I always fought you … often in jest and latterly in earnest and you have to learn that I always win.’
And now in death you play this trick on me!
A great deal depended on what he did now. First of course he must insist that the knights had misconstrued his words. He must show everyone that no one mourned the death of Thomas à Becket more deeply than the King.
He would shut himself into his chamber; he would let it be known that so stunned was he by the news that he must be alone to mourn. He would not come down to eat; he would take only what was necessary to keep him alive – he had never been a great trencherman so that was no difficulty – he would wear nothing but his robe of sack-cloth and all must understand that he wished to be left to prayer and meditation.
Fortunately the position of Pope Alexander was not very secure and the Papal Court was at Tusculum. Alexander had to be careful whom he offended and he would not wish to arouse the enmity of the King of England.
First Henry would send the messengers back to Canterbury with the news that the King’s one-time Chancellor and Archbishop of Canterbury was to be given burial worthy of his rank.
How to approach the Pope needed a great deal of consideration. It was no use pleading complete innocence. No one would accept that. That there had been friction between himself and Thomas was a well-known fact. Yet there must be no delay in writing to Alexander before others got in with their accusations.
He took up his pen and wrote:
‘To Alexander by the Grace of God Supreme Pontiff, Henry, King of the English, Duke of the Normans and Aquitainians and Count of the Angevins sends greetings and due devotion.’
There was no harm in reminding Alexander of the power he held over so many territories.
‘Out of reverence for the Roman Church and love for you … I granted peace and the full restitution of his possessions, according to your order, to Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury, and allowed him to cross over to England with a fitting revenue.
‘He, however, brought not peace and joy but the sword, and made accusations against me and my crown. Not being able to bear such effrontery from the man, those he had excommunicated, and others, rushed in upon him and, what I cannot say without sorrow, killed him.
‘Wherefore I am gravely concerned, as God is my witness, for I fear that the anger I had formerly conceived against him may be accounted as the cause for this evil deed. And because in this deed I fear more for my reputation than my conscience, I beg Your Serenity to encourage me with your advice in this matter.’
He despatched messengers to Tusculum and waited.
How quickly life could change. He had just been congratulating himself on having control of his subjects, of having rid himself of Eleanor; he had been delightedly planning a little domestic peace with Rosamund, and Thomas à Becket must be murdered! Why could not Thomas have died of some flux, some bodily disorder? No, he could not do that, though it seemed he was ailing. He had to die in the most spectacular fashion from the sword thrusts of the King’s knights.
Trust Thomas to plague him to the end.
He thought of Eleanor who would very soon hear the news, for he was sure it would be ringing across the length and breadth of Europe. He could picture her sly smile, for she would know how discomfited he would be. In her malice she would doubtless feed the rumours with tales of his quarrels with Thomas, for at one time he had confided in her a great deal. She had never liked Thomas. In the days of the great friendship between the King and his Chancellor when Eleanor herself was still a little enamoured of her husband, she had been jealous of Thomas because she had known that the King preferred his conversation to that of anyone else.
‘A curse on the Queen,’ cried the King.
He must not give way to anger now. He needed all his wits about him. He thought of all his vassals, those who unwillingly accepted him as their suzerain. They would be ready to whisper against him, the man who must surely be cursed because he was guilty of shedding the martyr’s blood.
He stayed in his room most of those days. He was not seen at the table. His servants and knights spoke in whispers. ‘The King is deeply affected by the death of Thomas à Becket,’ they said.
When messengers arrived they were summoned immediately to his presence.
They had stories to tell of what was happening in Canterbury. On the night of the murder, it was said, there had been a violent storm. The lightning was horrifying and many were terrified of the thunder which broke right over the Cathedral. A blind woman had stooped and kissed the stones which were stained with Thomas’s blood and lo, her sight was restored.
People were flocking to Canterbury, the sick and the maimed. It was said that Christ had given Thomas the power of healing.
It was worse than Henry had feared.
There was news too from Tusculum.
The Pope had shut himself away as soon as he had received the news of the murder. For eight days he had remained in seclusion that, as he said, he might mourn his beloved son. When he emerged he gave orders that no Englishman should be admitted to his presence.
Meanwhile the Archbishop of Sens had denounced Henry King of England as the murderer and the King of France joined the Archbishop in his accusations.
Henry knew that it was only a matter of time before he would be excommunicated.
This was disaster. But he was not a man to give way in adversity. In fact it was at such times that he showed his greatest skills. He had done what he could. He had written to the Pope honestly stating what had happened. He could only plead his sorrow and show that he mourned the death as sincerely as did everyone else.
There was nothing more he could do to convince the world of his innocence; and if they refused to believe him then he must make them aware of his might.
He had ever sought to add to his dominions and for long had had his eyes on Ireland.
This seemed an appropriate time to show the world that it would be unwise for any to underestimate him. His knights had murdered Thomas à Becket and he might be thought responsible, but let none of them forget that he was the great grandson of the Conqueror.
He decided to spend his days in planning an invasion of Ireland.
The young King Henry received the news in the old Saxon Palace of Winchester.
He was feeling somewhat displeased with his lot. It had been a great experience to be crowned King of England and he would never forget that ceremony which had taken place last June, some six months before. How wonderful it was to be a king! Those about him feared to offend him; they remembered that his father could not live for ever and that one day there would only be one king of England. He was very surprised that his father had allowed him to be crowned and had made a king of him when it was quite clear that so many people liked the son better than the father.
Young Henry knew that he was more handsome than his father. They told him he resembled his paternal grandfather, the Count of Anjou, who had been known as Geoffrey the Fair. Looks were important, although his father would never accept that. Young Henry would never get his hands chapped and rough because he refused to wear gloves. He liked to see them adorned with rings. He was not like his father at all; he tried to charm people, something the older Henry never bothered with. But it was important, reasoned Henry the younger; it made people like one, it bound them to one; they were likely to be loyal if they had an affection for a ruler. No one had a great affection for his father. They might respect him as a great ruler and fear him, but love him? Never!
He knew how people were with him. They flattered him because he flattered them; there had been many a hint that those about him would be happy enough when there was only one king to rule England.
Not that he had been allowed to do much ruling yet. He had quickly realised that his father had had no intention of giving him power, only a crown. He was in fact becoming more and more disgruntled every day.
He wished he could see his mother, but of course she had always been more fond of Richard than she was of him; as for his father, it sometimes seemed as though he wanted his affection. Let him do something to get it then. Let him give the son he had made King some land to rule over; let him be King in fact as well as in name. As if the old man would give up anything he once laid his hands on!
‘Your father is the most acquisitive man on earth,’ his mother had said to him. ‘He’ll never take his hands from anything once they have held it.’
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