Devil's Brood

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

July 1174

Westminster Palace, England

Ranulf and Willem were admitted to the king’s antechamber, but when they asked to see Henry, they had to wait while his chamberlain got permission for their entry. He soon emerged from the royal bedchamber, but not with the word they wanted. He was sorry, he reported, the king had retired for the night. Although they doubted that, they had no choice but to withdraw. Outside in the gardens, they paused to review their options.

“What now?” Willem sounded disheartened, and Ranulf couldn’t blame him. Since leaving Southampton, they’d tried repeatedly to talk with Henry about his intent to do penance at Becket’s tomb, to no avail. They’d initially been disquieted by his plan simply because it seemed so wildly out of character for him. But they’d soon had other reasons for concern. He’d been fasting on bread and water while pushing his body to the utmost, riding as if racing his troubles, and they’d begun watching him with the alarm of men trying to catch up with a runaway wagon.

“I do not know,” Ranulf admitted. “There is not much we can do, is there? No man can be forced to share what is in his heart, least of all a king.”

Willem acknowledged the truth of that by bidding Ranulf good night. “You’d best get some sleep,” he warned, “for he will want to depart at first light.”

Ranulf remained in the gardens after Willem went off to find a bed for the night. Although he was only fifteen years Henry’s senior, he’d always had a fatherly, protective love for his sister’s son, and he felt that he was somehow letting Henry down in his time of greatest need. The rain had stopped and the air was cool. He had just seated himself upon a wooden bench when he saw the Bishop of London and his attendants coming toward him. Rising, he greeted Gilbert Foliot courteously, but he felt obligated to advise the bishop that if he hoped to see the king that evening, he would be disappointed.

Gilbert blinked in surprise. “But the king summoned me, sending a messenger to tell me that he’d arrived at Westminster and wanted to see me straightaway.”

Ranulf apologized and then, on impulse, fell in step beside the bishop. In the antechamber, the chamberlain had obviously been briefed, for he ushered the bishop into Henry’s bedchamber without first announcing him. Figuring he had nothing to lose, Ranulf entered with Gilbert. Henry was still dressed, although he’d removed his boots. He gave Ranulf a sharp glance, but he did not order him from the chamber, and Ranulf took that as tacit permission to remain.

Interrupting the bishop’s pleased speech of welcome, Henry said bluntly, “I have need of your aid, my lord bishop. On the morrow I am going to Canterbury to do penance for my part in the archbishop’s death. I would like you to accompany me, and speak on my behalf to the monks of Christ Church priory.”

“My liege, I would be honored!” Gilbert’s eyes shone; he seemed about to embrace Henry before thinking better of it; the fact that Henry had called him by his title rather than the more intimate “Gilbert” indicated the king’s wish to observe the formalities this night, and Gilbert was shrewd enough to catch it. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“Good. We shall be departing at dawn, so it might be easier for you if you spend the night at the palace. My chamberlain will see to your needs.”

Gilbert seemed reluctant to leave, obviously eager to discuss Henry’s spiritual epiphany, but he’d been dismissed. Murmuring his good wishes, he withdrew, leaving Henry alone in the chamber with his uncle. Ranulf was expecting to be dismissed, too, but it did not come. “Where are your squires?” he asked, not sure how to ease into such an intrusive conversation, for what could be more meddlesome than an inquiry into the state of a man’s soul?

“I sent them off to the hall to eat,” Henry said, inadvertently giving Ranulf the opening he sought.

“Are you still fasting?” Getting a brief nod, he said carefully, “Would it not be better to wait until you reach Canterbury ere you fast? If you deprive yourself too severely, you risk becoming ill.”

“I thought the purpose of penance was to mortify the flesh,” Henry said, with a twisted smile. “Have you forgotten that Thomas not only wore a hairshirt and braies infested with vermin, but he subjected himself to a daily scourging? Do you think he’d be impressed just because I missed a few meals?”

“Is that what you want, Harry…to impress Thomas?”

“I want…” Henry began, but then he stopped, and shook his head, like a man weary of talking. After a few moments of silence, he said, “Did you notice that Gilbert asked no questions? Nor did he assure me there was no need for such a pilgrimage. It would seem that he considers my penance at Avranches as flawed as Roger does.”

“Why does Roger think that?” Ranulf asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“My cousin, the esteemed Bishop of Worcester, thinks that the Almighty has looked into my heart and found that I repented of Thomas’s death for all the wrong reasons.”

“And what do you think?”

Henry’s shoulders twitched, in what was almost a shrug. He’d dropped down into a window-seat, and Ranulf crossed the chamber, knelt in the floor rushes by his side. “Harry, are you sure you want to do this?”

Henry rubbed his fingers against his aching temples. “I suppose I could wait for more explicit signs of divine displeasure, wait until the Thames turns to blood or a plague of locusts comes up and covers the land.”

“You are not Pharaoh.”

Henry raised his head, looking Ranulf full in the face for the first time. “Can you honestly tell me, Uncle, that you have not wondered if this rebellion was God’s punishment for Thomas Becket’s murder? If not, you are most likely the only one in Christendom who has not entertained that thought.”

“What I think does not matter. Nor does it matter what Roger or Gilbert Foliot think. We are not the ones who must do public penance at Canterbury Cathedral.” Reaching out, Ranulf put his hand on Henry’s arm. “You are a proud man. You are a king. I know that we are told there is no greater glory than to humble ourselves before the Almighty. But that is easier for some than others. If, as I suspect, you mean to abase yourself utterly in atonement, you must be sure that this is what you truly want to do. Otherwise, I fear you will not gain what you seek-peace of mind.”

“‘Peace of mind’?” Henry echoed and then laughed harshly. “I have a greater need than that, Uncle. I mean to ask the Almighty and the sainted Thomas to save my kingdom. Not just for my sake, for all our sakes. The vultures are already gathering, and God help him, but Hal will not be able to fend them off. He’ll be a king in name only, whilst the Count of Flanders and the French king and the Scots king carve up my domains like a Michaelmas goose. You think the people suffered under Stephen? That will look like a golden age in comparison to the misery and anarchy that would follow my defeat.”

Ranulf could not argue with that bleak assessment of Hal’s kingship. He knew that men made pilgrimages for a multitude of reasons, both pure and profane. Some were reluctant penitents, ordered to it by an imperious bishop, an irate priest. Some sought God’s Mercy for a loved one, a frail child, an ailing wife. Some saw pilgrimage as a way to honor God. Others were driven by guilty consciences, memories of past sins. He did not doubt that those who humbled themselves of their own free will, those who asked no specific boons in return for their suffering were the ones who came away from a pilgrimage with that “peace of mind” his nephew dismissed so disdainfully. What would Harry do if he submitted to this ordeal and nothing changed? If the victory he’d prayed for was denied him? What does a man do when he acts out of desperation and despair and even that is not enough?

“I will entreat the Almighty,” he said softly, “to hear your prayers.” And he tried not to think of a conversation he’d once had with his other nephew. Roger had assured him that God always answered prayers. But sometimes He said no.

On Friday, July 12, Henry and his companions were approaching the town of Canterbury. As they neared the lazar-house of St Nicholas in Harbledown, they had their first glimpse of the cathedral in the distance. Henry dismounted, and the hospital’s master came hurrying out to meet him. Several of the lepers emerged from their wattle-and-daub huts, but they kept their distance. They were clad in long russet robes and scapulars, the ravages of their disease hidden by hoods for the men and thick, double veils for the women. Henry greeted the master and then accompanied him into the chapel to pray. After some hesitation, the Bishops of London, Winchester, and Rochester dismounted and followed, too. Most of the men remained on their horses, though, for even the bravest of knights was leery of entering a lazar-house.

Henry and the bishops soon emerged, and after he told the priest that he was granting the hospital twenty silver marks a year, to be paid out of royal revenues, the master thanked him profusely, promising that the lepers would offer up daily prayers on his behalf. If anyone thought that those poor souls needed prayers more than the king did, it remained unspoken. When Henry returned to the others, he did not remount, and seeing that he meant to walk the rest of the way, his men made haste to dismount, too.

They’d covered about half a mile when they saw the Westgate looming ahead. Henry headed not for the gate, though, but for the church of St Dunstan’s by the side of the road. His squires scurried after him. The other men waited, puzzled, and when the flustered parish priest arrived, none of them had any answers for him. They could see a crowd gathering just inside the Westgate, but the church bells that would normally peal out the king’s arrival were silent, for Henry had sent word that he wanted no royal ceremony.

It had been raining lightly since mid-morning, but as they waited for Henry to emerge from the church, the heavens opened and Canterbury was engulfed in a summer downpour. When Henry finally appeared, they saw that he’d stripped to his shirt and chausses and removed his boots. One of his squires was holding out the green wool cape that he wore when hunting, and the boy looked dismayed as Henry waved him away.

“He’s going to cut his feet to ribbons by the time he reaches the cathedral,” Willem muttered to Ranulf, who was more concerned at the moment with Henry’s intention to brave the rainstorm clad only in his shirt. Striding forward, he spoke briefly with his nephew, and to the relief of the spectators, Henry reluctantly agreed to don the green cape. As he set out, the bishops and knights fell in behind him, but Willem delayed long enough to ask Ranulf how he’d convinced Henry to wear the cloak.

“I told him,” Ranulf said, “that if he caught a fatal chill in the rain and died at Canterbury, all of Christendom would conclude that his sins had been too great for St Thomas to forgive.”

Willem looked at him, not knowing what to say. Ranulf had moved on, and he hastened to catch up, even though he was dreading what was coming as he’d never dreaded anything in his life before.

Escorted by the city reeve and aldermen, Henry passed through the Westgate and entered the town. As he walked along St Peter’s Street, his feet were soon cut and bleeding, but the rain washed his bloody footprints away. People lined both sides of the street, heedless of the weather, for they knew they were witnesses to a spectacle that none would ever forget-the sight of a highborn king, God’s Anointed, offering up his pride to make peace with their saint.

Thomas Becket had not been universally loved, even in his own city, but he’d always been revered by Christ’s Poor, and they turned out now in large numbers. The town’s merchants were quick to recognize what a blessing Henry was conferring upon them, for once word got out that the English king had prostrated himself before the Blessed Martyr, Canterbury’s shrine would become the most popular pilgrimage in all of Christendom. But their enthusiasm was tempered with uncertainty, for they did not know what was expected of them. Should they cheer the king for submitting to St Thomas? Or jeer him for his part in the Martyrdom? The result was that, for the first time within memory, a king passed by in utter silence, even the children and beggars watching in awed stillness.

If Henry’s bloodied bare feet were giving him pain, he did not show it. Nor did he seem to feel the drenching rain or take notice of the crowds. Followed by the bishops and his knights, he continued on past the churches of All Saints and St Helen’s, past the king’s mill, the guildhall, and the pillory. St Peter’s Street had become High Street when he halted momentarily, then turned into Mercery Lane, a passageway so narrow that more than two men could not walk abreast. Ahead he could see the monks waiting by the cemetery gate. The new archbishop was still absent, having gone to Rome to get papal approval of his election, but Henry recognized Odo, the prior, and Walter, the abbot of Boxley Abbey. In the past, he’d been welcomed by the chiming of the cathedral bells and the chanting of Lauds by the choir. Now there was only the same eerie quiet that had settled over the city.

They came forth to offer a solemn, subdued greeting, and quickly ushered him into the cathedral precincts, escorting him along the path through the cemetery for laypeople. The storm had turned it into a morass, and Henry’s feet and legs were soon caked with mud. He could think of few sights more desolate than a graveyard in the rain. The rest of the monks were waiting in the cathedral. He could see curiosity and anxiety and excitement on their faces, but little overt hostility. Oddly enough, Thomas had not been that popular with his own monks, had been feuding with Prior Odo at the time of his murder. It was only the discovery of his hairshirt and whip-scarred back that had awakened them to the realization that they’d had a saint in their midst.

“Show me,” Henry said, and they knew at once what he meant. Holding a candle aloft, Prior Odo led the way up the nave toward the northwest transept. A small altar had been set up on the spot, and candle flames glimmered on something silvery. “What is that?”

“Those are fragments of the sword of Richard le Bret,” the prior said, striving to sound matter-of-fact and almost accomplishing it. Another monk behind him, an anonymous voice in the shadows, volunteered that he was the knight who delivered the deathblow, striking with such force that he split the archbishop’s skull and broke his blade upon the tiles.

This unknown informant did not repeat what the knight had cried as he stood over the archbishop’s body. Take that for the love of my Lord William, the king’s brother! There was no need, for Henry and every man in the cathedral knew what had been said. Thomas had refused to grant William a dispensation to wed Isabella de Warenne, and when the twenty-seven-year-old William died suddenly soon afterward, his friends had contended that he’d died of a broken heart. Henry had blamed Becket, too, for Will’s death, but as he gazed at the pieces of that broken sword, it seemed so long ago to him, part of another man’s life. Kneeling, he prayed earnestly to God for forgiveness, and then leaned over and kissed the ground where Thomas died.

Rising to his feet, he looked over at the prior. “I would like to see his tomb now.”

“Of course, my liege. The stairway to the crypt is right behind you.”

With the prior again leading the way, they all descended to the cathedral undercroft. It was deep in shadows, and Henry’s eyes had to adjust before he could make out the outlines of the archbishop’s tomb. A wall had been built around the sarcophagus, rising a foot above the coffin, covered by a large marble slab. In each side of the wall two windows had been cut so that pilgrims could lean inside and kiss the coffin. Henry knelt again and began to pray.

The Bishop of London stepped forward to join Henry beside the tomb. “It is my honor to speak on behalf of the lord king. He orders me to declare his unreserved confession on his behalf, which I and others have heard in private. He declares before God and before the martyr that he did not cause St Thomas to be slain, but freely admits that he did use such words as were the cause of his being murdered. He begs the saint to forgive his offense, and he agrees to return all her holdings to this holy church. He has already pledged to give the cathedral the sum of thirty pounds each year, and he now adds an additional ten pounds per annum, so that candles may always be kept lit at the archbishop’s shrine. He asks you to pray to the true martyr lying here, beseeching him to lay aside all anger. The king has come here to make atonement.”

When Gilbert was done speaking, Henry gave him an approving nod. “Thank you, my lord bishop.” Turning back toward the monks, he said, “I hereby affirm all that the Bishop of London has said. I ask now for your forgiveness.”

Prior Odo smiled. “Gladly, my lord king, gladly.” And embracing Henry, he gave him the kiss of peace while many of the monks applauded.

There was a lessening of tension after that, as most of the men assumed the worst was over. As Henry’s eyes moved from face to face, he saw that only two knew what was coming, Gilbert Foliot, who’d been forewarned, and Ranulf, who sometimes seemed gifted with second-sight. “I regret the Blessed Martyr’s death more than words can ever say. But actions speak louder than words. It is for that reason that I restore to the cathedral and priory all of their rights and privileges. It is my pleasure to offer to St Thomas four marks of pure gold, a silk pall, and forty librates of land in Kent. I have asked the prior to send for the archbishop’s sister so that I may make amends to her as well, and I pledge to found an abbey in honor of the archbishop. And now…so that there may be no doubts as to the sincerity of my repentance, I willingly submit to the punishment I deserve for my part in this tragedy and ask that I be scourged for my sins.” With that, he unfastened his cloak and removed his shirt.

As they realized what he intended to do, a loud murmur swept through the spectators, expressions of shock and distress and satisfaction all mingling as one, like a river fed by smaller streams. Ignoring these ripples, Henry glanced from the bishop to the prior. “I would have each of the bishops and Abbot Walter give five lashes and then three from each one of the Christchurch monks.”

Prior Odo hastily whispered to one of the monks, who quickly fetched a penitential whip, a leather thong attached to a short handle. When he offered it to the Bishop of London, Gilbert took it as if he’d been handed a live snake. Seeing that he’d have to be the one to initiate the scourging, Henry said tersely, “Do it,” and then knelt by the tomb, thrusting his head and shoulders into one of the wall openings. It was an awkward position and his back began to ache before the first touch of the whip, but it had the advantage of shielding his face from his audience, one small indulgence that he hoped the Almighty would not begrudge him.

With a murmured “ Deus vult,” Gilbert struck his king’s bared back. It was a light blow, as were those that followed, for all of the bishops seemed determined to make the scourging a symbolic one. Prior Odo was no less gentle, and the first few monks to wield the whip were either intimidated by the circumstances or were never partisans of the archbishop, for their lashes barely touched Henry’s flesh. In the beginning, Henry was trying to keep count of the blows, but he’d soon given it up. There were at least seventy monks, which added up to more than two hundred strikes, and he decided that was enough to know. When the first blow sliced into his skin and drew blood, there were indignant protests from some of his men that subsided only when he demanded silence.

He discovered he could measure a monk’s devotion to St Thomas by the strength of his blows. Most were cautious or prudent, but occasionally one of the monks would employ the whip with enough enthusiasm to raise welts. Despite the care that the majority were taking, his back was soon stinging from the sheer number of the strokes. But his real discomfort came from his hunched posture, and before long, he felt as if his spine were breaking in two. The trapped, musty air of the tomb was bothering him, too, bringing on several prolonged coughing fits. At the start of the scourging, he’d sought solace in prayer, but it was difficult to concentrate when his body was anticipating the feel of the lash, and eventually he stopped trying to think altogether, just focused upon enduring the ordeal. It actually came as a surprise when he heard Prior Odo declare that it was done.

It was not easy to straighten up, so stiff had his body become. For a moment, he felt light-headed and had to grip the tomb for support. Staggering over to the central pillar, he squatted down upon the floor and refused those who would have offered water or wine. “My penance is not over,” he said hoarsely. “I shall stay here all night, offering up my prayers to the Almighty and St Thomas.”

After they hurriedly conferred, Prior Odo announced that they would be honored by his presence and they would make sure that other pilgrims were kept away so he might pray in private. When Henry interrupted with a curt, “No, let any enter who wish,” Odo looked troubled, but he assured Henry it would be done. He beckoned then to two new arrivals, and Henry watched as an elderly woman and a younger man timidly drew closer.

“My liege, this is Mistress Rohesia and her son John. You sent for them,” the prior added, and only then did Henry realize they were Thomas Becket’s sister and nephew. She had none of her brother’s innate assurance, the poise and polish that had made it so easy for him to walk with kings and talk with princes of the Church. When Henry had reacted with fury to Becket’s latest outrage and expelled all of his family and retainers from England, this stooped, shy woman was one of the chief victims of his vengefulness. He was shamed now by that memory, further disquieted by the recollection of a heated quarrel he’d had with Eleanor, who’d argued in vain against the expulsion, claiming that “This interminable feuding with Becket has well and truly addled your mind!”

“You may approach,” he said, as kindly as he could, called her “gentle sister,” and asked for her pardon and grace. She stammered out something unintelligible, and he realized that he was only frightening her all the more, for she did not know how to treat a king like a supplicant. “I deeply regret the wrong I’ve done to you and your family. I would make amends the only way I can-by granting you the king’s mill that stands by the River Stour. You ought to be able to collect at least ten marks a year in rental payments. Take it with my blessings.”

Rohesia looked dumbfounded, but her son’s smile was bright enough to light the darkest shadows of the crypt. He began to declare their eternal gratitude, but Gilbert Foliot accurately read the exhaustion on Henry’s face and tactfully steered them away.

“My lord king?” Willem was leaning over, looking so concerned that Henry somehow managed to find a smile for him. “What would you have us do now?”

“You may go, Willem. There is no need for any of you to remain.”

The earl frowned. “I do not want to leave you alone, my liege.”

“I will not be alone,” Henry said, stifling a cough. “I will have St Thomas to keep me company.” Once Willem would have been sure that was a jest; now he no longer knew.

All afternoon and well into the evening, pilgrims were admitted to the crypt, where they made offerings to the monk keeping vigil by the shrine, prayed to St Thomas, and watched the King of England do penance. Some were surreptitious about it, others gawked openly, but Henry was always aware of their eyes upon him. Kneeling by the tomb of the man who’d once been a beloved friend, then a hated enemy, he’d silently entreated the Almighty to forgive him, interspersing these pleas with the Latin prayers he’d learned in childhood. Refusing to eat or drink or even to pass water, he lay full length upon the cold floor of the crypt as he uttered the familiar words of the Confiteor.

The other pilgrims did not share his knowledge of Latin, but they knew the responses to the Mass and so when he whispered, “Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Ioanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, et omnibus Sanctis, quita peccavi nimus cogitatione, verbo et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” they understood that he was confessing to God, the Blessed Mary, the archangel, the apostles, and the saints that he had “sinned exceedingly, in thought, word, and deed.”

He’d begun by alternating pleas to God and St Thomas, but after a while he’d stopped praying to Thomas, for he felt as if his words were falling into a void. The archbishop did not seem to be listening. His fatigue was beginning to affect his thinking; when he recited the Litany of the Saints, he found himself unable to remember who came first, the patriarchs and prophets or the apostles.

After Vespers, the tide of pilgrims slowed to a trickle. But a new monk had taken up the vigil and he was a talker. Introducing himself as Brother Benedict, he informed Henry that he was collecting accounts of St Thomas’s miracles so that they might be saved for posterity. Pointing to a pile of crutches stacked in a corner, he explained that they had been abandoned by cripples who’d been healed by the saint’s mercy. With his own eyes, he’d seen people cured of leprosy, blindness, the palsy. A canon of Oseney was cured of the falling sickness, and a Templar from Chester was healed of a bowel ailment. But he only included those miracles that could be verified, he assured Henry. He did not intend to report one of his favorite stories, alas, for he could find no witnesses to confirm its accuracy. He then proceeded to tell Henry a preposterous tale of a starling that had been taught to recite a prayer to the Blessed Martyr. The bird had been attacked by a hawk-a kite, he believed it was-and invoked the prayer as it was caught in the kite’s talons. The hawk was at once struck dead, he recounted breathlessly.

Henry did his best to block out that droning voice, unwilling to give way to anger during his time of penance. Brother Benedict was not making it easy, however. As the night wore on, his body ailments were becoming more and more difficult to ignore. His lacerated back was throbbing; so was his head. His gashed feet had begun to bleed again, and his bladder felt full to bursting. Although he’d eaten nothing but bread for almost a week, he was not hungry. But his thirst was well-nigh intolerable. He’d put his shirt on again; it did little to shield him, though, from the damp chill of the crypt. With a flicker of very grim humor, he recalled Ranulf’s warning and entertained himself by imagining the great scandal should he be found dead on the morrow.

With an effort, he came back to the here and now, troubled that his thoughts were wandering like this. He ought to be thinking only of his sins. His muscles were cramping and stiffening, so that he had to pull himself upright by holding on to the marble top of the sarcophagus. Brother Benedict was still chattering on, describing the drowning of a little boy of Rochester; he’d fallen into the River Medway in mid-afternoon, had not been dragged out till Vespers had rung. But his mother refused to despair and measured his body with a thread and promised St Thomas a silver thread of the same length if he saved her son. And lo and behold, the child moaned and stirred and vomited up a barrel full of river water, even though they’d first hung him by his feet and not a drop did he spit out.

“Not that the Blessed Martyr is one to be trifled with. There have been sinners who sought his aid, and then did not fulfill their vows as promised, and retribution was always swift. I myself witnessed a sad case where a lame boy fell asleep with his head on the tomb. He had a vision of St Thomas, who rebuked him for his disrespect, and said, ‘Go hence, I will do nothing for you.’ His parents pleaded, but our saint would not relent.”

Henry began to recite the Pater Noster, the first prayer to come to mind, in hope of drowning the monk out. “Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra,” he murmured, the words coming from memory as his thoughts began to stray again. Was there a way to murder Brother Benedict and make it seem as if he’d been smitten by the wrath of the unforgiving Thomas? A vengeful saint was surely a contradiction in terms, but he alone seemed to think so. He was no longer shivering, and when he put his hand to his forehead, it felt hot. He’d been running a fever intermittently for days now, and he supposed neither the drenching nor the hours spent on his knees had done his aching body any good. Focusing again upon prayer, he began to repeat the Litany, almost at random. “Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.”

And to his great relief, the Son of God heard his plea and showed mercy, for Brother Benedict rose from his post and excused himself, saying that there would be no more pilgrims that night and he hoped to get a few hours sleep before Matins. Gathering up his offerings, he politely wished Henry God’s Peace and shuffled off to bed, leaving Henry alone in the crypt with the dead and the ghost of the murdered archbishop.

At least, it seemed that way to Henry. He had not been able to invoke the saint’s presence, but it was easier to imagine Thomas’s earthly spirit lurking in the shadows, watching his abasement with sardonic amusement. For Thomas had once had a quick wit, a playful humor, a droll sense of mockery. He’d lost that humor, though, as soon as he’d put the sacred pallium about his neck, yet another mystery that Henry could not fathom. Had the man he’d known and trusted and loved ever truly existed? Or had he been a fiction from the very first, a chimera conjured up out of cobwebs and moonbeams? Henry desperately wanted to know the answer, an answer only Thomas Becket could give him.

“It is just the two of us now, Thomas. No one else can hear our secrets, so why not talk to pass the time? We have hours to go till dawn, time enough for honesty if nothing else.”

Pushing himself away from the tomb, he walked toward the center of the crypt, noting with bemusement that he left a trail of blood and mud. “Ranulf said something once that I’ve never forgotten. He thought that his Welsh friend Hywel-you remember the poet-prince-saw you with the clearest eye, saying that you reminded him of a chameleon, changing your color to reflect your surroundings. The perfect clerk. The perfect royal chancellor. And then the perfect archbishop. Was he right, Thomas?”

He cocked his head, hearing only the silence of the grave. “I suppose you’d rather talk about the killing. Fair enough. I never wanted your death. I swear this to you upon the lives of my children. But you know that already. Why am I so sure? Because Roger showed me a letter written by your subdeacon, William Fitz Stephen. I’ve restored him to royal favor, by the way. In fact, he and his brother Ralph are co-sheriffs of Gloucestershire now. Life goes on.

“What was I saying? Ah, yes, the letter. Fitz Stephen wrote that you told the killers that you did not believe they came from the king, from me. So there really is no reason to swear my innocence upon holy relics, is there? You know the truth. Of course Roger knew the truth, too, and was the one man with the ballocks to say it straight out to my face. I may not be guilty, he pointed out, but neither am I innocent. I daresay you agree with him, no?”

He waited, heaving a sigh that echoed in the stillness. “Come, Thomas, hold up your part of the conversation. You need not do anything dramatic, like loosing a thunderbolt or performing one of your miracles. But at the least, you could extinguish a few candles to show me you are paying attention. Surely that is not too much to ask?”

He was feeling light-headed again, and sank down upon the floor, slumping back against one of the pillars. “I sound like a drunkard or a madman…mayhap both. But just between you and me, talking to a ghost makes as much sense as talking to a saint. What else do you want to know, Thomas? Did I grieve for you? No, I did not. My grief was for myself, for I knew at once that you’d trapped me well and truly. For you are not innocent either, my lord archbishop. You sought your martyrdom, you craved it, even lusted after it for all I know. You could have escaped, Thomas, had so many opportunities to evade your killers. But you did not, did you? You had to confront them, had to taunt them. Was it true that you called Fitz Urse a pimp?”

Henry laughed unsteadily, ending in a cough. “They went unpunished, you know. You insisted that only the Church could punish its own, so I could do nothing to them, and the Pope could only send them off on pilgrimage to the Holy Land with a stern warning to mend their evil ways. Christ Almighty, Thomas, surely you see the irony of that? The lunacy? For I will not lie to gain your pardon. I was right to want to try degraded priests in my courts. Your way turned justice into a farce, and I will never understand why you could not see that.”

Henry leaned forward, rested his head upon his drawn-up knees. He was either burning up with fever or losing his mind. “Sancte Thoma,” he mumbled, “requiescat in pace.” But there was as much pain as mockery in his voice, and when he looked up, he saw the crypt through a haze of hot tears. “Do you know why I did not grieve for you when you died, Thomas? Because I’d already done my grieving. I trusted you, I had faith in you, I loved you more than my own brother. And then you turned on me. But it need not have been that way. You could have served both me and the Almighty, and what a partnership we could have forged, what we could not have done together!”

Getting to his feet with difficulty, he had to hold on to the pillar, for his head was spinning. “When I told you that I would raise you up to the archbishopric, you said you would not want to put our friendship at risk. And I assured you that it would not happen, that I was not so prideful that I saw God as a rival. Do you remember what I said? That the Almighty and I would not be in contention for your immortal soul. Why could you not believe me, Thomas?”

His tears were falling faster now, but there was no one to see them. “I am truly and grievously sorry that our path led us to this place, this night. I do mourn you, Thomas. But do I think you are a saint? God’s truth, I do not know. You are the only one who can answer that question, my lord archbishop. We both know you could never resist a challenge. So take it up. Prove my doubts are unfounded. Prove me wrong.”

Dropping to his knees, he winced at the pain that action caused his fevered, battered body. “St Thomas,” he said in a low, husky voice, “guard my realm.”

Henry heard mass at daybreak the next morning, warned the citizens of Canterbury that there was danger of a Flemish invasion, and advised them to move their goods beyond the River Medway. He set out for London then, reaching the city the following day, where he was welcomed enthusiastically by the citizens, who escorted him through the streets to his palace at Westminster. By this time he was running a high fever, and utterly exhausted, body and soul, he took to his bed.

Henry had been bled by his physician earlier in the day and advised to rest until he regained his strength. But even when he was ill, he found it hard to stay abed, and by the afternoon, he was up and dressed, conferring with his court officials and getting reports from his scouts, who were watching for the Flemish fleet. The soles of his feet had been badly bruised and cut by the Canterbury cobblestones, and so he made one concession to his body’s needs and remained on the settle in his bedchamber while he conducted affairs of state. He was still awaiting word from the North, where the Scots king was menacing the royal castle at Alnwick, but he was finding it difficult to recapture his sense of urgency. He felt numb, depleted of all his reserves, as if he’d gambled everything on one roll of the dice and lost.

Soon after Vespers, the arrival of the Bishop of Worcester was announced. Roger swept into the chamber like a summer wind, dark eyes glowing, as elated as Henry had ever seen him. Striding forward, he engulfed Henry in an exuberant embrace, behavior so unlike Roger that Henry voiced no complaints, although his cousin’s hug was pressing painfully against his injured back. Releasing him at last, Roger sank to his knees and kissed Henry’s hand.

“I have never been so proud of you, Cousin,” he said. “I know what courage it took to humble yourself like that. Whatever else you may accomplish in this life, I truly believe Friday was your finest hour.”

“So you are saying that from now on, it is all downhill?” Henry’s attempt at humor could not disguise the pleasure that Roger’s words had given him; his cousin had never been one for lavish, effusive, or fawning praise. Retaking his seat, he gestured for the other man to join him on the settle, and signaled for wine.

Roger had fully intended to discuss Henry’s penance at length, wanting to hear all the details of this blessed reconciliation. But as he looked more closely at his cousin, he was startled into blurting out tactlessly, “Jesu, you look like you’ve been camping at death’s door! I’d heard you were ailing, but I did not realize how ill you truly were. You have seen a doctor, I trust?”

When Henry brushed off his concern with predictable impatience, that reassured Roger somewhat. “I’ll not stay long,” he said, “for you ought to be in bed. Ere I go, though, what is the news from the North? Has Alnwick fallen yet?” He realized at once how pessimistic that sounded, as if he expected defeat, but it was too late to call his words back. To his surprise, though, Henry did not react, and he did not take that to be a good sign.

“The last I heard,” Henry said, “William de Vesci is still holding out at Alnwick. I suppose you know that the rebels have seized Norwich, Northampton, and Nottingham. You may not know that my son and the Count of Flanders have been waiting at Gravelines, intending to launch their invasion once the weather clears. For all I know, they could be landing on English beaches even as we speak.”

He delivered this alarming news with an eerie lack of emotion, almost as if he were relating another man’s troubles, and Roger felt a chill that seemed oddly out of place on a summer evening. When had Harry ever sounded listless or fatalistic? “I’ll go now,” he said, “so you may get some rest. But I’ll be back in the morning.”

Henry had not meant to ask. But as Roger reached the door, he heard himself saying suddenly, “Roger…do you think Thomas forgave me?”

Roger turned, with a surprised smile. “I know he did,” he said, and Henry, who’d never had reason to envy other men, felt a sharp pang, wishing that he shared Roger’s utter certainty, his steadfast faith, and his serene acceptance of God’s Will.

Henry was stretched out upon the settle, dozing. One of his squires was sitting in the floor rushes beside the settle, gently rubbing ointment into the wounds on his king’s feet. Others moved quietly around the chamber, making as little noise as possible. It was still early for one who kept night-owl hours, but Henry’s weary body was asserting itself after days of abuse and neglect. As he drifted down into sleep, the last sound he heard was the distant chiming of church bells.

When he awakened, he had no idea how much time had elapsed. Candles still burned, and Warin was still tending to his injured feet. He propped himself up on an elbow, and it was then that he heard the voices, the clamor that had chased away his sleep. “What is it?”

“Someone wanted to see you, my liege,” Warin explained, “and when the chamberlain said you were sleeping and he must wait till the morrow, he began to argue. I am so sorry that you were disturbed.”

“Who is it?” Henry called out, and the chamberlain came into his line of sight.

“It is a messenger, my lord, from the North. I told him to come back, but he is most insistent. He says you know him-Brien, one of Sir Ralf de Glanville’s men.”

“Let him enter,” Henry commanded, his voice even more raspy than usual. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the settle, but Warin was close enough to see that he’d lost color; his feverish flush fading into an ashen pallor as he watched the door.

The man ushered into the chamber was indeed known to him. He looked as haggard and gaunt as his king, and he dropped to his knees like one thankful for a moment’s rest. “Forgive me, sire, but I’ve scarcely eaten or slept these four days gone, so urgent was my news.”

Henry closed his eyes for a heartbeat. “Tell me,” he said grimly. “Hold nothing back.”

Brien had been given a wine cup and drained the contents in several swallows. When he lowered the cup and looked at Henry, there was such blazing joy upon his face that Henry caught his breath. “My liege, I bring you wondrous news, as good as you could wish. The Scots king has been taken captive by my lord de Glanville, and with him all his barons.”

One of Henry’s squires let out a jubilant shout, and the other men in the chamber began to exclaim and praise God. Henry was not yet ready to believe, though. “Is this true, Brien? Swear to me it is so!”

“Yes, sire, by my faith, it is so! Soon after dawn on Saturday, we surprised the Scots king in the meadows before the walls of Alnwick Castle. My lord de Glanville and the sheriff of Yorkshire met William de Vesci at Newcastle on Friday last, where he’d gone to seek aid for Alnwick. He told us that the Scots king had sent the bulk of his army off to ravage Northumbria, and he had remained behind with only sixty knights. We set out at once, had ridden more than twenty miles before the sun had risen. A thick fog settled in during the night, but we continued on, sure that God was with us. When we emerged from the mists, we saw the Scots king breaking his fast with his knights. At first he thought we were his own men returning, and by the time he realized the truth, it was too late.”

“God’s Bones,” Henry breathed. “What proof have you of this?”

Brien grinned. “My lord knew that was the first question you’d ask, my liege. I bear a letter from Sir Ralf, attesting to all that I’ve told you. And on the morrow you ought to receive further confirmation from the Archbishop of York, for he was dispatching a messenger, too. He was not as fast a rider as me, though!”

Henry snatched up the letter Brien was holding out, but he made no attempt to read it. “Tell me the rest,” he said, and Brien needed no urging.

“I have to admit, sire, that he fought valiantly, spurred his stallion into our midst once he realized he was trapped between us and the castle. But one of our men speared his fine grey destrier, and the king’s legs were pinned when the beast fell. He surrendered to my lord de Glanville, and was taken under guard back to Newcastle and then, on to Richmond. That traitor Roger de Mowbray fled like a hare before hounds, but none of the Scots knights would abandon their liege lord, and surrendered when he did.” Brien was not happy at having to compliment his Scots foes, but he was a fair man, and he added, “They acquitted themselves well, my liege, brave men all.”

He was being offered more wine, which he accepted happily. “You are indeed favored by God, my lord king. I am honored to be the one to bring you such glad tidings.”

Henry laughed. “Ah, Brien, you will want for nothing for the rest of your born days,” he promised. “Land, gold, it will all be yours for the asking.”

Brien laughed, too. “For now, my lord, I ask only for a bed and a meal to fill my empty belly!”

Others were crowding into the bedchamber now, drawn by the uproar, and in the ensuing pandemonium, it was left to Henry’s squire Warin to realize the full significance of Brien’s message. “My lord,” he cried, tugging on Henry’s sleeve in his urgency to be heard. “Brien said that the Scots king was captured on Saturday, around dawn. My liege, that was when you were completing your penance at St Thomas’s tomb!”

There were exclamations of wonder and most of the men made the sign of the cross. Henry stared at the squire, and then sat down abruptly on the settle. “You are right, Warin,” he said in awe. “This is indeed his doing.”

Word was spreading like wildfire throughout the palace, and Henry’s bedchamber was soon thronged with celebrants, both jubilant and reverent. Willem and Ranulf had pushed their way through to Henry’s side, and Gilbert Foliot had also succeeded in reaching the king. “My lord,” he cried, “should we ring the bells to awaken the city?”

“No,” Henry said, “let them sleep. The morning will come soon enough.” Glancing around, he knew that none of these blissful, boisterous men would get a wink of sleep. Neither would he, for his exhaustion was magically vanished, his fever forgotten. “We might as well move these revelries over to the great hall,” he said, grinning when his declaration was met with raucous cheers; he knew these men would have cheered if he’d announced they must all take holy vows.

“I do want to awaken my cousin, the Bishop of Worcester,” he said. “Send someone to fetch him, Gilbert. And once he gets here, I want to go to the abbey church and give thanks to St Thomas for our victory, for his miracle.”

For his two-hundred-seventy-mile dash, Brien was rewarded by Henry with “ten liveries of land” and an estate in Norfolk.

Hal and the Count of Flanders had decided to send their fleet on ahead of them, and their ships had sailed into the same storm that had inundated Canterbury. During those hours that Henry did penance for his sins, their fleet was scattered by the high winds, and the threat of invasion was over. Just as people gave credit to the martyred archbishop for the capture of Henry’s greatest enemy, they saw the dispersal of the Flemish fleet as yet another proof of St Thomas’s favor.