ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SECOND
PART THE FIRST
Henry Plantagenet, when he was but twenty-one years old, quietly
succeeded to the throne of England, according to his agreement made
with the late King at Winchester. Six weeks after Stephen’s death, he
and his Queen, Eleanor, were crowned in that city; into which they rode
on horseback in great state, side by side, amidst much shouting and
rejoicing, and clashing of music, and strewing of flowers.
The reign of King Henry the Second began well. The King had great
possessions, and (what with his own rights, and what with those of his
wife) was lord of one-third part of France. He was a young man of
vigour, ability, and resolution, and immediately applied himself to
remove some of the evils which had arisen in the last unhappy reign. He
revoked all the grants of land that had been hastily made, on either
side, during the late struggles; he obliged numbers of disorderly
soldiers to depart from England; he reclaimed all the castles belonging
to the Crown; and he forced the wicked nobles to pull down their own
castles, to the number of eleven hundred, in which such dismal
cruelties had been inflicted on the people. The King’s brother,
Geoffrey, rose against him in France, while he was so well employed,
and rendered it necessary for him to repair to that country; where,
after he had subdued and made a friendly arrangement with his brother
(who did not live long), his ambition to increase his possessions
involved him in a war with the French King, Louis, with whom he had
been on such friendly terms just before, that to the French King’s
infant daughter, then a baby in the cradle, he had promised one of his
little sons in marriage, who was a child of five years old. However,
the war came to nothing at last, and the Pope made the two Kings
friends again.
Now, the clergy, in the troubles of the last reign, had gone on very
ill indeed. There were all kinds of criminals among them—murderers,
thieves, and vagabonds; and the worst of the matter was, that the good
priests would not give up the bad priests to justice, when they
committed crimes, but persisted in sheltering and defending them. The
King, well knowing that there could be no peace or rest in England
while such things lasted, resolved to reduce the power of the clergy;
and, when he had reigned seven years, found (as he considered) a good
opportunity for doing so, in the death of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
‘I will have for the new Archbishop,’ thought the King, ‘a friend in
whom I can trust, who will help me to humble these rebellious priests,
and to have them dealt with, when they do wrong, as other men who do
wrong are dealt with.’ So, he resolved to make his favourite, the new
Archbishop; and this favourite was so extraordinary a man, and his
story is so curious, that I must tell you all about him.
Once upon a time, a worthy merchant of London, named Gilbert à Becket,
made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and was taken prisoner by a Saracen
lord. This lord, who treated him kindly and not like a slave, had one
fair daughter, who fell in love with the merchant; and who told him
that she wanted to become a Christian, and was willing to marry him if
they could fly to a Christian country. The merchant returned her love,
until he found an opportunity to escape, when he did not trouble
himself about the Saracen lady, but escaped with his servant Richard,
who had been taken prisoner along with him, and arrived in England and
forgot her. The Saracen lady, who was more loving than the merchant,
left her father’s house in disguise to follow him, and made her way,
under many hardships, to the sea-shore. The merchant had taught her
only two English words (for I suppose he must have learnt the Saracen
tongue himself, and made love in that language), of which London was
one, and his own name, Gilbert, the other. She went among the ships,
saying, ‘London! London!’ over and over again, until the sailors
understood that she wanted to find an English vessel that would carry
her there; so they showed her such a ship, and she paid for her passage
with some of her jewels, and sailed away. Well! The merchant was
sitting in his counting-house in London one day, when he heard a great
noise in the street; and presently Richard came running in from the
warehouse, with his eyes wide open and his breath almost gone, saying,
‘Master, master, here is the Saracen lady!’ The merchant thought
Richard was mad; but Richard said, ‘No, master! As I live, the Saracen
lady is going up and down the city, calling Gilbert! Gilbert!’ Then, he
took the merchant by the sleeve, and pointed out of window; and there
they saw her among the gables and water-spouts of the dark, dirty
street, in her foreign dress, so forlorn, surrounded by a wondering
crowd, and passing slowly along, calling Gilbert, Gilbert! When the
merchant saw her, and thought of the tenderness she had shown him in
his captivity, and of her constancy, his heart was moved, and he ran
down into the street; and she saw him coming, and with a great cry
fainted in his arms. They were married without loss of time, and
Richard (who was an excellent man) danced with joy the whole day of the
wedding; and they all lived happy ever afterwards.
This merchant and this Saracen lady had one son, Thomas à Becket. He it
was who became the Favourite of King Henry the Second.
He had become Chancellor, when the King thought of making him
Archbishop. He was clever, gay, well educated, brave; had fought in
several battles in France; had defeated a French knight in single
combat, and brought his horse away as a token of the victory. He lived
in a noble palace, he was the tutor of the young Prince Henry, he was
served by one hundred and forty knights, his riches were immense. The
King once sent him as his ambassador to France; and the French people,
beholding in what state he travelled, cried out in the streets, ‘How
splendid must the King of England be, when this is only the
Chancellor!’ They had good reason to wonder at the magnificence of
Thomas à Becket, for, when he entered a French town, his procession was
headed by two hundred and fifty singing boys; then, came his hounds in
couples; then, eight waggons, each drawn by five horses driven by five
drivers: two of the waggons filled with strong ale to be given away to
the people; four, with his gold and silver plate and stately clothes;
two, with the dresses of his numerous servants. Then, came twelve
horses, each with a monkey on his back; then, a train of people bearing
shields and leading fine war-horses splendidly equipped; then,
falconers with hawks upon their wrists; then, a host of knights, and
gentlemen and priests; then, the Chancellor with his brilliant garments
flashing in the sun, and all the people capering and shouting with
delight.
The King was well pleased with all this, thinking that it only made
himself the more magnificent to have so magnificent a favourite; but he
sometimes jested with the Chancellor upon his splendour too. Once, when
they were riding together through the streets of London in hard winter
weather, they saw a shivering old man in rags. ‘Look at the poor
object!’ said the King. ‘Would it not be a charitable act to give that
aged man a comfortable warm cloak?’ ‘Undoubtedly it would,’ said Thomas
à Becket, ‘and you do well, Sir, to think of such Christian duties.’
‘Come!’ cried the King, ‘then give him your cloak!’ It was made of rich
crimson trimmed with ermine. The King tried to pull it off, the
Chancellor tried to keep it on, both were near rolling from their
saddles in the mud, when the Chancellor submitted, and the King gave
the cloak to the old beggar: much to the beggar’s astonishment, and
much to the merriment of all the courtiers in attendance. For,
courtiers are not only eager to laugh when the King laughs, but they
really do enjoy a laugh against a Favourite.
‘I will make,’ thought King Henry the second, ‘this Chancellor of mine,
Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. He will then be the head of
the Church, and, being devoted to me, will help me to correct the
Church. He has always upheld my power against the power of the clergy,
and once publicly told some bishops (I remember), that men of the
Church were equally bound to me, with men of the sword. Thomas à Becket
is the man, of all other men in England, to help me in my great
design.’ So the King, regardless of all objection, either that he was a
fighting man, or a lavish man, or a courtly man, or a man of pleasure,
or anything but a likely man for the office, made him Archbishop
accordingly.
Now, Thomas à Becket was proud and loved to be famous. He was already
famous for the pomp of his life, for his riches, his gold and silver
plate, his waggons, horses, and attendants. He could do no more in that
way than he had done; and being tired of that kind of fame (which is a
very poor one), he longed to have his name celebrated for something
else. Nothing, he knew, would render him so famous in the world, as the
setting of his utmost power and ability against the utmost power and
ability of the King. He resolved with the whole strength of his mind to
do it.
He may have had some secret grudge against the King besides. The King
may have offended his proud humour at some time or other, for anything
I know. I think it likely, because it is a common thing for Kings,
Princes, and other great people, to try the tempers of their favourites
rather severely. Even the little affair of the crimson cloak must have
been anything but a pleasant one to a haughty man. Thomas à Becket knew
better than any one in England what the King expected of him. In all
his sumptuous life, he had never yet been in a position to disappoint
the King. He could take up that proud stand now, as head of the Church;
and he determined that it should be written in history, either that he
subdued the King, or that the King subdued him.
So, of a sudden, he completely altered the whole manner of his life. He
turned off all his brilliant followers, ate coarse food, drank bitter
water, wore next his skin sackcloth covered with dirt and vermin (for
it was then thought very religious to be very dirty), flogged his back
to punish himself, lived chiefly in a little cell, washed the feet of
thirteen poor people every day, and looked as miserable as he possibly
could. If he had put twelve hundred monkeys on horseback instead of
twelve, and had gone in procession with eight thousand waggons instead
of eight, he could not have half astonished the people so much as by
this great change. It soon caused him to be more talked about as an
Archbishop than he had been as a Chancellor.
The King was very angry; and was made still more so, when the new
Archbishop, claiming various estates from the nobles as being
rightfully Church property, required the King himself, for the same
reason, to give up Rochester Castle, and Rochester City too. Not
satisfied with this, he declared that no power but himself should
appoint a priest to any Church in the part of England over which he was
Archbishop; and when a certain gentleman of Kent made such an
appointment, as he claimed to have the right to do, Thomas à Becket
excommunicated him.
Excommunication was, next to the Interdict I told you of at the close
of the last chapter, the great weapon of the clergy. It consisted in
declaring the person who was excommunicated, an outcast from the Church
and from all religious offices; and in cursing him all over, from the
top of his head to the sole of his foot, whether he was standing up,
lying down, sitting, kneeling, walking, running, hopping, jumping,
gaping, coughing, sneezing, or whatever else he was doing. This
unchristian nonsense would of course have made no sort of difference to
the person cursed—who could say his prayers at home if he were shut out
of church, and whom none but God could judge—but for the fears and
superstitions of the people, who avoided excommunicated persons, and
made their lives unhappy. So, the King said to the New Archbishop,
‘Take off this Excommunication from this gentleman of Kent.’ To which
the Archbishop replied, ‘I shall do no such thing.’
The quarrel went on. A priest in Worcestershire committed a most
dreadful murder, that aroused the horror of the whole nation. The King
demanded to have this wretch delivered up, to be tried in the same
court and in the same way as any other murderer. The Archbishop
refused, and kept him in the Bishop’s prison. The King, holding a
solemn assembly in Westminster Hall, demanded that in future all
priests found guilty before their Bishops of crimes against the law of
the land should be considered priests no longer, and should be
delivered over to the law of the land for punishment. The Archbishop
again refused. The King required to know whether the clergy would obey
the ancient customs of the country? Every priest there, but one, said,
after Thomas à Becket, ‘Saving my order.’ This really meant that they
would only obey those customs when they did not interfere with their
own claims; and the King went out of the Hall in great wrath.
Some of the clergy began to be afraid, now, that they were going too
far. Though Thomas à Becket was otherwise as unmoved as Westminster
Hall, they prevailed upon him, for the sake of their fears, to go to
the King at Woodstock, and promise to observe the ancient customs of
the country, without saying anything about his order. The King received
this submission favourably, and summoned a great council of the clergy
to meet at the Castle of Clarendon, by Salisbury. But when the council
met, the Archbishop again insisted on the words ‘saying my order;’ and
he still insisted, though lords entreated him, and priests wept before
him and knelt to him, and an adjoining room was thrown open, filled
with armed soldiers of the King, to threaten him. At length he gave
way, for that time, and the ancient customs (which included what the
King had demanded in vain) were stated in writing, and were signed and
sealed by the chief of the clergy, and were called the Constitutions of
Clarendon.
The quarrel went on, for all that. The Archbishop tried to see the
King. The King would not see him. The Archbishop tried to escape from
England. The sailors on the coast would launch no boat to take him
away. Then, he again resolved to do his worst in opposition to the
King, and began openly to set the ancient customs at defiance.
The King summoned him before a great council at Northampton, where he
accused him of high treason, and made a claim against him, which was
not a just one, for an enormous sum of money. Thomas à Becket was alone
against the whole assembly, and the very Bishops advised him to resign
his office and abandon his contest with the King. His great anxiety and
agitation stretched him on a sick-bed for two days, but he was still
undaunted. He went to the adjourned council, carrying a great cross in
his right hand, and sat down holding it erect before him. The King
angrily retired into an inner room. The whole assembly angrily retired
and left him there. But there he sat. The Bishops came out again in a
body, and renounced him as a traitor. He only said, ‘I hear!’ and sat
there still. They retired again into the inner room, and his trial
proceeded without him. By-and-by, the Earl of Leicester, heading the
barons, came out to read his sentence. He refused to hear it, denied
the power of the court, and said he would refer his cause to the Pope.
As he walked out of the hall, with the cross in his hand, some of those
present picked up rushes—rushes were strewn upon the floors in those
days by way of carpet—and threw them at him. He proudly turned his
head, and said that were he not Archbishop, he would chastise those
cowards with the sword he had known how to use in bygone days. He then
mounted his horse, and rode away, cheered and surrounded by the common
people, to whom he threw open his house that night and gave a supper,
supping with them himself. That same night he secretly departed from
the town; and so, travelling by night and hiding by day, and calling
himself ‘Brother Dearman,’ got away, not without difficulty, to
Flanders.
The struggle still went on. The angry King took possession of the
revenues of the archbishopric, and banished all the relations and
servants of Thomas à Becket, to the number of four hundred. The Pope
and the French King both protected him, and an abbey was assigned for
his residence. Stimulated by this support, Thomas à Becket, on a great
festival day, formally proceeded to a great church crowded with people,
and going up into the pulpit publicly cursed and excommunicated all who
had supported the Constitutions of Clarendon: mentioning many English
noblemen by name, and not distantly hinting at the King of England
himself.
When intelligence of this new affront was carried to the King in his
chamber, his passion was so furious that he tore his clothes, and
rolled like a madman on his bed of straw and rushes. But he was soon up
and doing. He ordered all the ports and coasts of England to be
narrowly watched, that no letters of Interdict might be brought into
the kingdom; and sent messengers and bribes to the Pope’s palace at
Rome. Meanwhile, Thomas à Becket, for his part, was not idle at Rome,
but constantly employed his utmost arts in his own behalf. Thus the
contest stood, until there was peace between France and England (which
had been for some time at war), and until the two children of the two
Kings were married in celebration of it. Then, the French King brought
about a meeting between Henry and his old favourite, so long his enemy.
Even then, though Thomas à Becket knelt before the King, he was
obstinate and immovable as to those words about his order. King Louis
of France was weak enough in his veneration for Thomas à Becket and
such men, but this was a little too much for him. He said that à Becket
‘wanted to be greater than the saints and better than St. Peter,’ and
rode away from him with the King of England. His poor French Majesty
asked à Becket’s pardon for so doing, however, soon afterwards, and cut
a very pitiful figure.
At last, and after a world of trouble, it came to this. There was
another meeting on French ground between King Henry and Thomas à
Becket, and it was agreed that Thomas à Becket should be Archbishop of
Canterbury, according to the customs of former Archbishops, and that
the King should put him in possession of the revenues of that post. And
now, indeed, you might suppose the struggle at an end, and Thomas à
Becket at rest. No, not even yet. For Thomas à Becket hearing, by some
means, that King Henry, when he was in dread of his kingdom being
placed under an interdict, had had his eldest son Prince Henry secretly
crowned, not only persuaded the Pope to suspend the Archbishop of York
who had performed that ceremony, and to excommunicate the Bishops who
had assisted at it, but sent a messenger of his own into England, in
spite of all the King’s precautions along the coast, who delivered the
letters of excommunication into the Bishops’ own hands. Thomas à Becket
then came over to England himself, after an absence of seven years. He
was privately warned that it was dangerous to come, and that an ireful
knight, named Ranulf de Broc, had threatened that he should not live to
eat a loaf of bread in England; but he came.
The common people received him well, and marched about with him in a
soldierly way, armed with such rustic weapons as they could get. He
tried to see the young prince who had once been his pupil, but was
prevented. He hoped for some little support among the nobles and
priests, but found none. He made the most of the peasants who attended
him, and feasted them, and went from Canterbury to Harrow-on-the-Hill,
and from Harrow-on-the-Hill back to Canterbury, and on Christmas Day
preached in the Cathedral there, and told the people in his sermon that
he had come to die among them, and that it was likely he would be
murdered. He had no fear, however—or, if he had any, he had much more
obstinacy—for he, then and there, excommunicated three of his enemies,
of whom Ranulf de Broc, the ireful knight, was one.
As men in general had no fancy for being cursed, in their sitting and
walking, and gaping and sneezing, and all the rest of it, it was very
natural in the persons so freely excommunicated to complain to the
King. It was equally natural in the King, who had hoped that this
troublesome opponent was at last quieted, to fall into a mighty rage
when he heard of these new affronts; and, on the Archbishop of York
telling him that he never could hope for rest while Thomas à Becket
lived, to cry out hastily before his court, ‘Have I no one here who
will deliver me from this man?’ There were four knights present, who,
hearing the King’s words, looked at one another, and went out.
The names of these knights were Reginald Fitzurse, William Tracy, Hugh
de Morville, and Richard Brito; three of whom had been in the train of
Thomas à Becket in the old days of his splendour. They rode away on
horseback, in a very secret manner, and on the third day after
Christmas Day arrived at Saltwood House, not far from Canterbury, which
belonged to the family of Ranulf de Broc. They quietly collected some
followers here, in case they should need any; and proceeding to
Canterbury, suddenly appeared (the four knights and twelve men) before
the Archbishop, in his own house, at two o’clock in the afternoon. They
neither bowed nor spoke, but sat down on the floor in silence, staring
at the Archbishop.
Thomas à Becket said, at length, ‘What do you want?’
‘We want,’ said Reginald Fitzurse, ‘the excommunication taken from the
Bishops, and you to answer for your offences to the King.’ Thomas à
Becket defiantly replied, that the power of the clergy was above the
power of the King. That it was not for such men as they were, to
threaten him. That if he were threatened by all the swords in England,
he would never yield.
‘Then we will do more than threaten!’ said the knights. And they went
out with the twelve men, and put on their armour, and drew their
shining swords, and came back.
His servants, in the meantime, had shut up and barred the great gate of
the palace. At first, the knights tried to shatter it with their
battle-axes; but, being shown a window by which they could enter, they
let the gate alone, and climbed in that way. While they were battering
at the door, the attendants of Thomas à Becket had implored him to take
refuge in the Cathedral; in which, as a sanctuary or sacred place, they
thought the knights would dare to do no violent deed. He told them,
again and again, that he would not stir. Hearing the distant voices of
the monks singing the evening service, however, he said it was now his
duty to attend, and therefore, and for no other reason, he would go.
There was a near way between his Palace and the Cathedral, by some
beautiful old cloisters which you may yet see. He went into the
Cathedral, without any hurry, and having the Cross carried before him
as usual. When he was safely there, his servants would have fastened
the door, but he said No! it was the house of God and not a fortress.
As he spoke, the shadow of Reginald Fitzurse appeared in the Cathedral
doorway, darkening the little light there was outside, on the dark
winter evening. This knight said, in a strong voice, ‘Follow me, loyal
servants of the King!’ The rattle of the armour of the other knights
echoed through the Cathedral, as they came clashing in.
It was so dark, in the lofty aisles and among the stately pillars of
the church, and there were so many hiding-places in the crypt below and
in the narrow passages above, that Thomas à Becket might even at that
pass have saved himself if he would. But he would not. He told the
monks resolutely that he would not. And though they all dispersed and
left him there with no other follower than Edward Gryme, his faithful
cross-bearer, he was as firm then, as ever he had been in his life.
The knights came on, through the darkness, making a terrible noise with
their armed tread upon the stone pavement of the church. ‘Where is the
traitor?’ they cried out. He made no answer. But when they cried,
‘Where is the Archbishop?’ he said proudly, ‘I am here!’ and came out
of the shade and stood before them.
The knights had no desire to kill him, if they could rid the King and
themselves of him by any other means. They told him he must either fly
or go with them. He said he would do neither; and he threw William
Tracy off with such force when he took hold of his sleeve, that Tracy
reeled again. By his reproaches and his steadiness, he so incensed
them, and exasperated their fierce humour, that Reginald Fitzurse, whom
he called by an ill name, said, ‘Then die!’ and struck at his head. But
the faithful Edward Gryme put out his arm, and there received the main
force of the blow, so that it only made his master bleed. Another voice
from among the knights again called to Thomas à Becket to fly; but,
with his blood running down his face, and his hands clasped, and his
head bent, he commanded himself to God, and stood firm. Then they
cruelly killed him close to the altar of St. Bennet; and his body fell
upon the pavement, which was dirtied with his blood and brains.
It is an awful thing to think of the murdered mortal, who had so
showered his curses about, lying, all disfigured, in the church, where
a few lamps here and there were but red specks on a pall of darkness;
and to think of the guilty knights riding away on horseback, looking
over their shoulders at the dim Cathedral, and remembering what they
had left inside.
PART THE SECOND
When the King heard how Thomas à Becket had lost his life in Canterbury
Cathedral, through the ferocity of the four Knights, he was filled with
dismay. Some have supposed that when the King spoke those hasty words,
‘Have I no one here who will deliver me from this man?’ he wished, and
meant à Becket to be slain. But few things are more unlikely; for,
besides that the King was not naturally cruel (though very passionate),
he was wise, and must have known full well what any stupid man in his
dominions must have known, namely, that such a murder would rouse the
Pope and the whole Church against him.
He sent respectful messengers to the Pope, to represent his innocence
(except in having uttered the hasty words); and he swore solemnly and
publicly to his innocence, and contrived in time to make his peace. As
to the four guilty Knights, who fled into Yorkshire, and never again
dared to show themselves at Court, the Pope excommunicated them; and
they lived miserably for some time, shunned by all their countrymen. At
last, they went humbly to Jerusalem as a penance, and there died and
were buried.
It happened, fortunately for the pacifying of the Pope, that an
opportunity arose very soon after the murder of à Becket, for the King
to declare his power in Ireland—which was an acceptable undertaking to
the Pope, as the Irish, who had been converted to Christianity by one
Patricius (otherwise Saint Patrick) long ago, before any Pope existed,
considered that the Pope had nothing at all to do with them, or they
with the Pope, and accordingly refused to pay him Peter’s Pence, or
that tax of a penny a house which I have elsewhere mentioned. The
King’s opportunity arose in this way.
The Irish were, at that time, as barbarous a people as you can well
imagine. They were continually quarrelling and fighting, cutting one
another’s throats, slicing one another’s noses, burning one another’s
houses, carrying away one another’s wives, and committing all sorts of
violence. The country was divided into five kingdoms—Desmond, Thomond,
Connaught, Ulster, and Leinster—each governed by a separate King, of
whom one claimed to be the chief of the rest. Now, one of these Kings,
named Dermond Mac Murrough (a wild kind of name, spelt in more than one
wild kind of way), had carried off the wife of a friend of his, and
concealed her on an island in a bog. The friend resenting this (though
it was quite the custom of the country), complained to the chief King,
and, with the chief King’s help, drove Dermond Mac Murrough out of his
dominions. Dermond came over to England for revenge; and offered to
hold his realm as a vassal of King Henry, if King Henry would help him
to regain it. The King consented to these terms; but only assisted him,
then, with what were called Letters Patent, authorising any English
subjects who were so disposed, to enter into his service, and aid his
cause.
There was, at Bristol, a certain Earl Richard de Clare, called
Strongbow; of no very good character; needy and desperate, and ready
for anything that offered him a chance of improving his fortunes. There
were, in South Wales, two other broken knights of the same
good-for-nothing sort, called Robert Fitz-Stephen, and Maurice
Fitz-Gerald. These three, each with a small band of followers, took up
Dermond’s cause; and it was agreed that if it proved successful,
Strongbow should marry Dermond’s daughter Eva, and be declared his
heir.
The trained English followers of these knights were so superior in all
the discipline of battle to the Irish, that they beat them against
immense superiority of numbers. In one fight, early in the war, they
cut off three hundred heads, and laid them before Mac Murrough; who
turned them every one up with his hands, rejoicing, and, coming to one
which was the head of a man whom he had much disliked, grasped it by
the hair and ears, and tore off the nose and lips with his teeth. You
may judge from this, what kind of a gentleman an Irish King in those
times was. The captives, all through this war, were horribly treated;
the victorious party making nothing of breaking their limbs, and
casting them into the sea from the tops of high rocks. It was in the
midst of the miseries and cruelties attendant on the taking of
Waterford, where the dead lay piled in the streets, and the filthy
gutters ran with blood, that Strongbow married Eva. An odious
marriage-company those mounds of corpses must have made, I think, and
one quite worthy of the young lady’s father.
He died, after Waterford and Dublin had been taken, and various
successes achieved; and Strongbow became King of Leinster. Now came
King Henry’s opportunity. To restrain the growing power of Strongbow,
he himself repaired to Dublin, as Strongbow’s Royal Master, and
deprived him of his kingdom, but confirmed him in the enjoyment of
great possessions. The King, then, holding state in Dublin, received
the homage of nearly all the Irish Kings and Chiefs, and so came home
again with a great addition to his reputation as Lord of Ireland, and
with a new claim on the favour of the Pope. And now, their
reconciliation was completed—more easily and mildly by the Pope, than
the King might have expected, I think.
At this period of his reign, when his troubles seemed so few and his
prospects so bright, those domestic miseries began which gradually made
the King the most unhappy of men, reduced his great spirit, wore away
his health, and broke his heart.
He had four sons. Henry, now aged eighteen—his secret crowning of whom
had given such offence to Thomas à Becket. Richard, aged sixteen;
Geoffrey, fifteen; and John, his favourite, a young boy whom the
courtiers named Lackland, because he had no inheritance, but to whom
the King meant to give the Lordship of Ireland. All these misguided
boys, in their turn, were unnatural sons to him, and unnatural brothers
to each other. Prince Henry, stimulated by the French King, and by his
bad mother, Queen Eleanor, began the undutiful history.
First, he demanded that his young wife, Margaret, the French King’s
daughter, should be crowned as well as he. His father, the King,
consented, and it was done. It was no sooner done, than he demanded to
have a part of his father’s dominions, during his father’s life. This
being refused, he made off from his father in the night, with his bad
heart full of bitterness, and took refuge at the French King’s Court.
Within a day or two, his brothers Richard and Geoffrey followed. Their
mother tried to join them—escaping in man’s clothes—but she was seized
by King Henry’s men, and immured in prison, where she lay, deservedly,
for sixteen years. Every day, however, some grasping English noblemen,
to whom the King’s protection of his people from their avarice and
oppression had given offence, deserted him and joined the Princes.
Every day he heard some fresh intelligence of the Princes levying
armies against him; of Prince Henry’s wearing a crown before his own
ambassadors at the French Court, and being called the Junior King of
England; of all the Princes swearing never to make peace with him,
their father, without the consent and approval of the Barons of France.
But, with his fortitude and energy unshaken, King Henry met the shock
of these disasters with a resolved and cheerful face. He called upon
all Royal fathers who had sons, to help him, for his cause was theirs;
he hired, out of his riches, twenty thousand men to fight the false
French King, who stirred his own blood against him; and he carried on
the war with such vigour, that Louis soon proposed a conference to
treat for peace.
The conference was held beneath an old wide-spreading green elm-tree,
upon a plain in France. It led to nothing. The war recommenced. Prince
Richard began his fighting career, by leading an army against his
father; but his father beat him and his army back; and thousands of his
men would have rued the day in which they fought in such a wicked
cause, had not the King received news of an invasion of England by the
Scots, and promptly come home through a great storm to repress it. And
whether he really began to fear that he suffered these troubles because
à Becket had been murdered; or whether he wished to rise in the favour
of the Pope, who had now declared à Becket to be a saint, or in the
favour of his own people, of whom many believed that even à Becket’s
senseless tomb could work miracles, I don’t know: but the King no
sooner landed in England than he went straight to Canterbury; and when
he came within sight of the distant Cathedral, he dismounted from his
horse, took off his shoes, and walked with bare and bleeding feet to à
Becket’s grave. There, he lay down on the ground, lamenting, in the
presence of many people; and by-and-by he went into the Chapter House,
and, removing his clothes from his back and shoulders, submitted
himself to be beaten with knotted cords (not beaten very hard, I dare
say though) by eighty Priests, one after another. It chanced that on
the very day when the King made this curious exhibition of himself, a
complete victory was obtained over the Scots; which very much delighted
the Priests, who said that it was won because of his great example of
repentance. For the Priests in general had found out, since à Becket’s
death, that they admired him of all things—though they had hated him
very cordially when he was alive.
The Earl of Flanders, who was at the head of the base conspiracy of the
King’s undutiful sons and their foreign friends, took the opportunity
of the King being thus employed at home, to lay siege to Rouen, the
capital of Normandy. But the King, who was extraordinarily quick and
active in all his movements, was at Rouen, too, before it was supposed
possible that he could have left England; and there he so defeated the
said Earl of Flanders, that the conspirators proposed peace, and his
bad sons Henry and Geoffrey submitted. Richard resisted for six weeks;
but, being beaten out of castle after castle, he at last submitted too,
and his father forgave him.
To forgive these unworthy princes was only to afford them
breathing-time for new faithlessness. They were so false, disloyal, and
dishonourable, that they were no more to be trusted than common
thieves. In the very next year, Prince Henry rebelled again, and was
again forgiven. In eight years more, Prince Richard rebelled against
his elder brother; and Prince Geoffrey infamously said that the
brothers could never agree well together, unless they were united
against their father. In the very next year after their reconciliation
by the King, Prince Henry again rebelled against his father; and again
submitted, swearing to be true; and was again forgiven; and again
rebelled with Geoffrey.
But the end of this perfidious Prince was come. He fell sick at a
French town; and his conscience terribly reproaching him with his
baseness, he sent messengers to the King his father, imploring him to
come and see him, and to forgive him for the last time on his bed of
death. The generous King, who had a royal and forgiving mind towards
his children always, would have gone; but this Prince had been so
unnatural, that the noblemen about the King suspected treachery, and
represented to him that he could not safely trust his life with such a
traitor, though his own eldest son. Therefore the King sent him a ring
from off his finger as a token of forgiveness; and when the Prince had
kissed it, with much grief and many tears, and had confessed to those
around him how bad, and wicked, and undutiful a son he had been; he
said to the attendant Priests: ‘O, tie a rope about my body, and draw
me out of bed, and lay me down upon a bed of ashes, that I may die with
prayers to God in a repentant manner!’ And so he died, at twenty-seven
years old.
Three years afterwards, Prince Geoffrey, being unhorsed at a
tournament, had his brains trampled out by a crowd of horses passing
over him. So, there only remained Prince Richard, and Prince John—who
had grown to be a young man now, and had solemnly sworn to be faithful
to his father. Richard soon rebelled again, encouraged by his friend
the French King, Philip the Second (son of Louis, who was dead); and
soon submitted and was again forgiven, swearing on the New Testament
never to rebel again; and in another year or so, rebelled again; and,
in the presence of his father, knelt down on his knee before the King
of France; and did the French King homage: and declared that with his
aid he would possess himself, by force, of all his father’s French
dominions.
And yet this Richard called himself a soldier of Our Saviour! And yet
this Richard wore the Cross, which the Kings of France and England had
both taken, in the previous year, at a brotherly meeting underneath the
old wide-spreading elm-tree on the plain, when they had sworn (like
him) to devote themselves to a new Crusade, for the love and honour of
the Truth!
Sick at heart, wearied out by the falsehood of his sons, and almost
ready to lie down and die, the unhappy King who had so long stood firm,
began to fail. But the Pope, to his honour, supported him; and obliged
the French King and Richard, though successful in fight, to treat for
peace. Richard wanted to be Crowned King of England, and pretended that
he wanted to be married (which he really did not) to the French King’s
sister, his promised wife, whom King Henry detained in England. King
Henry wanted, on the other hand, that the French King’s sister should
be married to his favourite son, John: the only one of his sons (he
said) who had never rebelled against him. At last King Henry, deserted
by his nobles one by one, distressed, exhausted, broken-hearted,
consented to establish peace.
One final heavy sorrow was reserved for him, even yet. When they
brought him the proposed treaty of peace, in writing, as he lay very
ill in bed, they brought him also the list of the deserters from their
allegiance, whom he was required to pardon. The first name upon this
list was John, his favourite son, in whom he had trusted to the last.
‘O John! child of my heart!’ exclaimed the King, in a great agony of
mind. ‘O John, whom I have loved the best! O John, for whom I have
contended through these many troubles! Have you betrayed me too!’ And
then he lay down with a heavy groan, and said, ‘Now let the world go as
it will. I care for nothing more!’
After a time, he told his attendants to take him to the French town of
Chinon—a town he had been fond of, during many years. But he was fond
of no place now; it was too true that he could care for nothing more
upon this earth. He wildly cursed the hour when he was born, and cursed
the children whom he left behind him; and expired.
As, one hundred years before, the servile followers of the Court had
abandoned the Conqueror in the hour of his death, so they now abandoned
his descendant. The very body was stripped, in the plunder of the Royal
chamber; and it was not easy to find the means of carrying it for
burial to the abbey church of Fontevraud.
Richard was said in after years, by way of flattery, to have the heart
of a Lion. It would have been far better, I think, to have had the
heart of a Man. His heart, whatever it was, had cause to beat
remorsefully within his breast, when he came—as he did—into the solemn
abbey, and looked on his dead father’s uncovered face. His heart,
whatever it was, had been a black and perjured heart, in all its
dealings with the deceased King, and more deficient in a single touch
of tenderness than any wild beast’s in the forest.
There is a pretty story told of this Reign, called the story of Fair
Rosamond. It relates how the King doted on Fair Rosamond, who was the
loveliest girl in all the world; and how he had a beautiful Bower built
for her in a Park at Woodstock; and how it was erected in a labyrinth,
and could only be found by a clue of silk. How the bad Queen Eleanor,
becoming jealous of Fair Rosamond, found out the secret of the clue,
and one day, appeared before her, with a dagger and a cup of poison,
and left her to the choice between those deaths. How Fair Rosamond,
after shedding many piteous tears and offering many useless prayers to
the cruel Queen, took the poison, and fell dead in the midst of the
beautiful bower, while the unconscious birds sang gaily all around her.
Now, there _was_ a fair Rosamond, and she was (I dare say) the
loveliest girl in all the world, and the King was certainly very fond
of her, and the bad Queen Eleanor was certainly made jealous. But I am
afraid—I say afraid, because I like the story so much—that there was no
bower, no labyrinth, no silken clue, no dagger, no poison. I am afraid
fair Rosamond retired to a nunnery near Oxford, and died there,
peaceably; her sister-nuns hanging a silken drapery over her tomb, and
often dressing it with flowers, in remembrance of the youth and beauty
that had enchanted the King when he too was young, and when his life
lay fair before him.
It was dark and ended now; faded and gone. Henry Plantagenet lay quiet
in the abbey church of Fontevraud, in the fifty-seventh year of his
age—never to be completed—after governing England well, for nearly
thirty-five years.