Читать книгу Thomas Becket - Father John S. Hogan - Страница 18

In March 1148, Matilda returned to Normandy to find peace in the priory of Notre-Dame-du-Pré. Having had enough of war, she just wanted to pray and live a quiet life among the nuns for the years that were left to her. She passed the scepter, impotent as it was for now, to her son Henry Angevin. This young man, son of two noble houses, heir through his mother to the realms of England and Normandy and through his father to the dukedom of Anjou, had all the assets to become one of the most powerful monarchs in Christendom; he also had the ambition and ability. Stephen was well aware of this, and he realized that he needed to take action to prevent Henry from gaining a foothold in England. The time had come, he surmised, to crown and anoint his son Eustace, the Count of Boulogne, as junior king of England to settle the matter of succession and provide for a smooth transfer of power when he died.

In 1147, hungry for victory for his mother and himself, fourteen-year-old Henry landed in England at the head of an army. While the English were concerned a new front had opened up in the civil war, and there were rumors that the young commander led a large army, their fears were unfounded as Henry’s army, not as impressive as the rumors would have it, quickly abandoned him and his cause when the money ran out and no wages were paid. Henry appealed to his mother and his uncle Roger to assist him financially, but they refused — they may not have been keen to finance what they might have seen as a foolhardy venture.¹ With a display of bravado, however, Henry appealed to King Stephen, offering to withdraw his army if the king would send him money. Astonishingly, Stephen agreed, and Henry returned to Anjou.² Henry’s second attempt occurred in 1149, this time with the support of his great-uncle, King David of Scotland. With a newly minted knighthood, thanks to the Scottish king, Henry set his sights on York and took it, before heading south. Stephen was not prepared to repeat his generosity this time. Sending a formidable army, joining with that of his son, Eustace, they created enough resistance for Henry that he was forced to return to Normandy.³

In the meantime, Geoffrey, Henry’s father, was growing in power and influence, and this worried King Louis VII of France. Having deprived Stephen of his Norman domains, Geoffrey had Henry proclaimed Duke of Normandy, an action that further alarmed the French king. Henry governed as duke for the next few years, developing his administrative skills. To pacify Louis, who could become a serious enemy, and to win him as an ally in the claim for the English throne, Geoffrey advised Henry to do homage to Louis as his feudal lord; Henry agreed to do so, and Louis formally acknowledged him as duke in 1150.

Henry’s ambition was growing, and planning for an invasion of England was under way. Geoffrey was at the heart of the planning, but on September 7, 1151, he died suddenly of a fever. Knowing his son all too well, and recognizing the real possibility that he might deprive his younger brother of an inheritance, Geoffrey had made arrangements for Henry to inherit the title of Count of Anjou and Maine only until he was king of England, at which point he would be legally obliged to pass the title and domains to his younger brother, also called Geoffrey. At his father’s death, Henry promised to do so, though he would regret the promise, and had his brother Geoffrey not been offered the title and domains of the County of Nantes a few years later in 1156, Henry would have re neged on his promise to his father and done what he had to do to prevent his brother claiming his right. Though he challenged Henry and made trouble for him, Geoffrey took Nantes, Henry kept Anjou and Maine, and they finally settled down to an amicable, if tense, relationship.

Meanwhile, Theobald was petitioning Rome for the office of papal legate in England; once again, his rival in this issue was King Stephen’s brother Henry, bishop of Winchester. Thomas was now being sent on missions for Theobald, some of them to Rome, where he was reacquainted with the workings of the curia. In 1149, Theobald sent Thomas to the pope to deliver his petition, and it met with success. That Henry of Winchester had already held the office and had used it to assail the see and archbishop of Canterbury proved an advantage for Theobald’s request — Rome had learned its lesson. Thomas’s advocacy before the pope was a powerful piece of persuasive oratory, and while Bishop Henry had rushed to Rome himself to plead his case, he was no match for Thomas, who wiped the floor with him, figuratively speaking. Thomas came back to England with the official bull appointing Theobald papal legate, the pope’s representative in England, invested with papal authority.

King Stephen was furious. His brother had lost the one office that could be most useful in his claim to the throne, and now it was in the hands of the archbishop whom he had exiled and who was on the verge of going over to the young Angevin. A further complication for the king was that any power Bishop Henry might have claimed to crown and anoint Eustace was well and truly gone; now only Theobald, as both archbishop of Canterbury and papal legate, had the authority to preside over a coronation. Theobald would have argued that the power belonged to the archbishop of Canterbury alone anyway, but it was sweet to have legatine powers to reinforce his point. He was also aware that Stephen was looking for a way out of his predicament. No sooner was Thomas home from Rome than he was sent back to the pope, this time with a much more impressive entourage — the formal delegation of a papal legate — to petition Eugene for a decree forbidding Eustace’s coronation. Again, Thomas met with success: The pope agreed and issued the decree.

As Thomas returned to Canterbury, Stephen’s own delegation arrived in Rome to plead his case; the king had appointed none other than the archdeacon of Canterbury, Roger de Pont L’Évêque, as his spokesman. Roger argued that the decree be withdrawn, but Eugene refused to rescind it, citing as one of his reasons Stephen’s breaking of his oath of fealty to Matilda. Eugene’s decision caused ripples in both England and France. The pope had called Stephen an oath breaker and had come down, at least tentatively, on Matilda’s side. This finally vindicated Matilda and gave her son Henry the political legitimacy that even a successful war could not confer. The question for the Angevin was how to use this papal pronouncement to push his cause in England.

On a personal level, Thomas’s own rivalry with Roger had deepened. That Roger had agreed to plead for the king revealed that his ambition outweighed his loyalty to his archbishop. Perhaps he was just a canon lawyer arguing a case for a client who just happened to be a king pushing a cause contrary to that of his archbishop — and every client is entitled to be heard — but Thomas would have taken note of Roger’s attitude. This man was capable of disloyalty to further his own aims. In the years ahead, Thomas would become more than well acquainted with this streak in Roger.

Stephen was not to be outdone. In the spring of 1152, he called a council in London to discuss the possibility of proceeding with Eustace’s coronation regardless of the papal decree. Bishops and lords attended the council to hear the king give the reasons why the ban had to be ignored. Eustace was also present in full view of all; any refusal to agree would be deemed a personal affront to the heir to the throne. Turning to the bishops, Stephen demanded that they consent to the coronation and then asked them to nominate one to do it. To a man, they looked to Theobald; he had the right as primate to preside at a coronation, and none of them was willing to usurp that right. Now sure of his brother bishops’ support, Theobald stood and faced the king. The pope had forbidden this coronation, he said, and therefore it would not happen.

King and son were incensed. They ordered that all the bishops be incarcerated in a nearby house and provoked with threats and hardship; they would remain there until they consented. Some bishops backed down, but most held the line. Theobald, seizing a quick opportunity, fled the assembly with Thomas and others in tow and made for the River Thames with the king’s knights in hot pursuit. As providence would have it, a boat lay idle; commandeering it, the fleeing company set sail down the Thames as the king’s knights pursued them, seeking to assassinate the archbishop. They reached Dover in time to catch a boat to the continent, and Theobald and his faithful clerks sailed across the channel to Flanders, arriving on April 6, 1152. Theobald’s second exile had begun.

This exile would prove to be short; he returned a few months later, in August. Stephen quickly repented of his rage and realized the foolishness of his actions. He had just driven the archbishop of Canterbury and papal legate into the arms of the Angevin, and with him many of his supporters in England, the hierarchy included. Stephen realized he needed to back down if he or Eustace were to have any chance of keeping the throne. Henry Angevin had gathered enough allies already, the most recent being the king of France, Louis VII, who had just formally recognized the young man as duke of Normandy, thereby depriving Stephen of those realms for good. Little did Stephen know that as Theobald was fleeing toward Flanders, ships facing toward England were already lining up in the ports of Normandy: Henry Angevin was preparing to invade. It was only the possibility of a desired marriage that distracted Henry from immediately carrying out his plans.

Louis VII of France had just obtained an annulment from his consort, Eleanor of Aquitaine, one of the most extraordinary women of the medieval period, and Henry was very interested in a match with her. Henry was not interested so much in Eleanor’s abilities and strength, which he would come to despise in time, but in her vast fortune and estates as the only heir to her father’s duchy. She was also a direct descendant of Charlemagne; marriage to such a woman brought prestige to any royal house. Henry was nineteen, and Eleanor thirty; she was the mother of two children for the French king — both daughters, to Louis’s disappointment. She was feisty and ultimately unconquerable. She had had a number of public arguments with Louis, and the relationship was so strained that at one point even the pope had had to intervene to seek reconciliation. Louis and Eleanor were also related within the forbidden degrees of consanguinity, so a marriage should never have been permitted — hence the decree of nullity.

Henry was enamored of her, though probably not for the reasons one contracts a modern marriage. Eleanor was also taken with Henry, though again probably not out of love. In this young and ambitious duke and possible king, Eleanor saw the means of restoring the glories of her duchy, which had declined since the death of her father, William X. Her grandfather, William IX, had been an effective ruler, a man who loved life and women — he had a reputation as a lecher. He was as daring on the battlefield as he was in his affairs, but he also fostered a love of learning and literature; he was, it seems, a competent lyric poet. Eleanor’s father, William X, nicknamed “the Saint,” was not as gregarious as his father, though he had been involved in a number of campaigns, notably against Normandy. Initially a supporter of Antipope Anacletus II, he was converted by Saint Bernard of Clairvaux to orthodox Catholicism. Upon his death in 1137 on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, William X left his eldest daughter and heir in the care of King Louis VI of France, who married her off to his son and heir.

Sizing Henry up, Eleanor may have thought he could help her restore the honor of her house; in this, her wits had abandoned her.⁴ Any notions she may have harbored of being able to dominate Henry Angevin were seriously deluded, but it was an effective delusion that saw them march up the aisle together on May 18, 1152, eight weeks after the annulment had been granted and not long after two attempts by ambitious suitors to kidnap the bride and marry her themselves.

As the couple honeymooned, King Louis fumed — not only had Henry married his former wife, and in unseemly haste, but as Duke of Normandy and a subject of the king of France, Henry had not honored the custom of seeking permission to marry from his feudal lord. In revenge, Louis attempted to scuttle Henry’s plans, backing the cause of Louis’s sister’s husband, none other than Eustace, Count of Boulogne and prince of England. Eustace had married Constance of France in 1140. Louis invited Eustace to come to Normandy and preempt Henry’s invasion of England. Eustace duly arrived and joined Louis in a campaign against the Angevin, laying siege near Dieppe. However, despite the distractions of a new wife, Henry was well able to meet the challenge and ran Eustace out of Normandy to Paris. Six weeks after he started his campaign, the young count went back to England with his tail between his legs.

The initial pleasures of marriage honored, Henry realized the time was ripe for his invasion. His ships were waiting, and his knights were tired of twiddling their thumbs; it was time to begin his campaign. In the second week of January 1153, his fleet left Barfleur for England.⁵ The boats faced a cold winter gale, but the army of 140 knights and 3,000 infantry landed safely at Wareham and made for Malmesbury, seizing the town and laying siege to its castle. In the meantime, Henry made his way around England, arriving in Gloucester, where, on April 19, he held court for Easter and proclaimed himself by his new title, Duke of Aquitaine. He then began his campaign in the midlands — laying siege to castles, capturing them, and forcing their occupants to surrender to him — all the while looking to that moment when he could claim another, loftier title.

Thomas was facing battles of his own in Canterbury as an uneasy peace with Roger de Pont L’Évêque seemed to make life just about bearable. However, an incident occurred that brought Thomas to Roger’s defense in the hope that some sort of reconciliation could be effected. John of Salisbury in his biography records accusations made against Roger during his time as archdeacon — that he was involved in a relationship with a young man in Theobald’s household. The young man, Walter by name, began to spread rumors of this relationship, and when Roger heard of this, he pursued proceedings in court against him. The court found in Roger’s favor, and as punishment for what were now regarded as false allegations, Walter had his eyes gouged out. Walter continued to make accusations against Roger in defiance of the court’s judgment; in responding to them again, the archdeacon allegedly persuaded a civil court to condemn Walter, and the young man was hanged.⁶

In 1152, the case was made public, and Roger found himself in hot water. Though Roger’s enemy, Thomas knew that Roger was entitled to a fair hearing, and so he enlisted the help of colleagues, legal experts among them, to deal with the matter. Theobald heard the case and was persuaded to accept a “purgation” from Roger, in which he denied under oath that any of the charges made by Walter were true. The archdeacon then had to travel to Rome to defend himself before the pope. Following a hearing at the papal court, he was cleared of the charges. He returned to his office, and his career advanced unaffected. In future disputes with Thomas, Roger would conveniently forget what his nemesis had done to help him. Biographers have tried to confirm whether these events occurred or whether John of Salisbury invented them to settle a score with an implacable enemy of Thomas’s who had benefited from his innate magnanimity. Most are inclined to believe that Roger was accused of something and might even have been guilty of an illicit relationship, though John may have exaggerated it in some respects.⁷ As to whether Thomas’s assistance tempered relations between Roger and himself in real terms, it is doubtful.

By the winter of 1152, Stephen and Eustace were entrenched in a siege at Wallingford, Henry’s base in Oxfordshire; the Angevin was forced to meet them in battle to relieve the castle. The barons, however, were not so keen to see bloodshed. They had much to lose in terms of their holdings in both England and Normandy; regardless of who won this battle, they would have offended one of the two rulers, Henry or Stephen, to whom they owed feudal loyalty. They feared the price they would have to pay for their perceived disloyalty. Eustace berated his barons, as he knew his only chance of wearing the crown was victory in battle, but they ignored him. Henry and Stephen would be forced to negotiate. The two agreed to talk, shouting at each other across the River Thames and trying to agree to a solution. The efforts failed, and both parties rode off, Henry to attack Stephen’s possessions at Stamford and Nottingham, and Stephen to attack Henry’s at Ipswich. Eustace sulked his way to the abbey at Bury St. Edmunds, where he demanded food and money from the monks. When they refused it, the irate count ordered the abbey to be pillaged and the church to be desecrated. On August 17, 1153, Eustace suddenly collapsed and died. He was about twenty-four years old, and while the cause was a heart attack, many interpreted his sudden demise as God’s response to his actions at Bury St. Edmunds. As his marriage to Constance of France was childless, Eustace left no heir.

Eustace’s death seemed an evil omen and removed any hope Stephen had of keeping the throne. The last obstacle to finally ending the Anarchy was removed.⁸ The king was also battling depression following the recent death of his wife — Queen Matilda, whom he regarded as his strength and most ardent supporter, died of a fever on May 3, 1152. Theobald took the initiative. In the previous months, he had already been in contact with both sides, urging negotiations. They were difficult months, as neither side fully trusted him. Stephen wondered how much of the old loyalty remained after all that had happened; Henry was not quite sure whether the archbishop had really come over to his side. Theobald needed extraordinary tact and prudence — one false step and not only would the little progress he had made be reversed, but the whole venture could come crashing down, soaked with the blood of countless innocent men and women.

In that summer of 1153, Theobald and his entourage, with Thomas at his side, had come looking for Stephen and Eustace to see whether they could be persuaded to agree to some form of negotiation. Later, Theobald met with Henry to see if he, too, could be coaxed to meet Stephen. By this time, Henry was more inclined to listen to Theobald; the archbishop had mediated a quarrel Henry had had with the bishop of Salisbury, so he had proven himself. Theobald had come to the decision that Henry must end up with the crown, regardless of how that was negotiated. In his efforts, Theobald found he had an unexpected ally: Stephen’s brother, his old nemesis Bishop Henry of Winchester. Perhaps through the wisdom of old age or a dawning realization that it was the only way to peace, Bishop Henry had come to regret his part in assisting his brother to seize the throne, and he was now a willing and generous servant of the archbishop in his efforts to bring the whole sorry episode to an end.

For six months, Theobald, with Thomas’s able assistance and shrewd diplomacy, went back and forth from Stephen to Henry. Stephen, heartbroken after Eustace’s sudden death, was no longer as fiery and insistent. At this stage, it seemed he just wanted to keep the crown for himself; he was no longer concerned about the succession. This opened the way to reconciliation. With the agreement of both parties, Theobald arranged a meeting. On November 6, 1153, Stephen and Henry met face-to-face at Winchester and there agreed to end hostilities and settle their differences. Theobald proposed a compromise that might satisfy both parties.

The peace was carefully choreographed. In a grand procession, Ste phen led Henry through the streets of Winchester to his palace, where a great council had gathered. Before them, Stephen declared Henry to be, for all purposes of the law of succession, his son and his heir, the lawful successor to the throne. In doing this, Stephen excluded his younger son William from any claim. Henry would require an oath from Stephen and his supporters to confirm William’s exclusion. The agreement, which Theobald had brokered, would allow Stephen to reign until his death, when Henry would succeed him. In terms of property that had been seized by either side during the civil war (castles and lands), these were to be returned to those who had held them during the reign of Henry I, thus establishing a principle Henry Angevin would seek to use to his advantage during his reign.

It took six weeks to formalize the agreement in writing, and the treaty enshrining the new arrangement and succession was signed when the royal court met for Christmas at Westminster Palace.⁹ Stephen took his oath excluding William from the succession, and William did homage to Henry as his father’s heir and future king. Stephen’s knights did likewise, with the proviso that their fealty lay with Stephen until his death. Important castles such as the Tower of London and those at Windsor, Oxford, Lincoln, and Winchester were given into the temporary possession of neutral parties until Henry succeeded. The bishops then took oaths of fealty to Henry.

Officially and legally, there was no mention of Thomas during these conferences; he was a mere clerk. Yet, his part in the negotiations was indispensable. Theobald had relied upon him and trusted him implicitly, and Thomas had excelled. The archbishop was, once again, vindicated in his decision to hire this Londoner and invest so much in him; he had received a mighty return. At the first opportunity, Thomas would be rewarded with even greater responsibility and greater trust. There was another who noticed this clerk’s ability — Henry — and perhaps he, too, filed away what he had seen for future reference.

As negotiations to end the civil war were being conducted, Henry Murdac, archbishop of York, died on October 14, 1153. Having failed to win the loyalty of the clergy of his archdiocese, he had had a difficult tenure. He was succeeded by his rival, the much maligned but innocent William FitzHerbert. William had traveled to Rome to plead with the new pope, Anastasius IV, to restore him to the see. The pope agreed, and William was reappointed archbishop on December 20, 1153, returning to York in May 1154. William’s period of office was to be short; he died suddenly a month later, on June 8, Trinity Sunday, after offering Mass. Initial investigations into his death revealed that he had been murdered — the chalice at Mass had been poisoned, and a culprit had been identified: the archdeacon of York, Osbert de Bayeux. Osbert had been a supporter of Henry Murdac and opposed to William’s succeeding to the office. Murder charges were brought against Osbert, and he stood trial in 1156 when the case was transferred to the papal courts, but no record of judgment exists. God’s judgment of William FitzHerbert’s life and character was revealed by the miracles that began to occur when he was invoked by the ordinary people of the archdiocese who had always supported him.

With York vacant for the second time in a year, a neutral candidate was needed. Thanks to Theobald’s efforts, one was found in his archdeacon: Roger de Pont L’Évêque was elected to the second most important see in England. He left Canterbury and traveled to York, where he was consecrated archbishop on October 10, 1154. The office of archdeacon of Canterbury was now vacant.