Dunfermline, on the affairs of his order; and in the presence of this
holy man, the adopted brother of his beloved Henry, one of the four
promising boys who had gladdened the early days of his reign, the King’s
grief broke freely forth, though still it was not the sorrow of one who
had no hope. He told Aelred he saw in this calamity a punishment for the
devastation he had caused in his invasion of England, and would fain
have laid down his royalty, and spent the rest of his days in penitence
in a convent; but he was persuaded to relinquish the design, and guard
the crown for his grandsons. He shed tears as he tenderly embraced
Aelred, and both felt it was their last meeting.
David did not long survive his son. He appointed his eldest grandchild,
Malcolm, to succeed him, and set his affairs in order, redoubling all
his pious and charitable acts. One of the last things he was heard to
say, was, “Lord, I restore Thee the kingdom wherewith Thou didst entrust
me. Put me in possession of that whereof the inhabitants are all kings.”
He was soon after found dead, in the attitude of devotion. His body
was buried at Dunfermline, and his name added to the list of Scottish
saints.
His grandsons, Malcolm, William, and David, were all good and valiant
men.
Waltheof, his stepson, lived peaceably at Melrose, strict in rule,
gentle in manners, and peculiarly humble in demeanor, and poor in dress.
He once had occasion to meet King Stephen, and rode in among the barons
in their armor, only clad in his coarse serge frock, and mounted, on
an old gray horse. His brother Simon, who stood by the King, was
displeased, and said, “See, my lord, how my brother and thy kinsman does
honor to his lineage.” He met with a reply he little expected. “If thou
and I had only the grace to see it,” said Stephen, “he is an honor
indeed to us. He adorns our race, as the gem does the gold in which it
is set!” And when he had parted with the meek abbot, Stephen exclaimed,
with tears, “This man has put all worldly things under his feet; but we
are presuming after this fleeting world, and losing both body and soul
in the chase.”
This must indeed have, been brought home soon after to Stephen, by the
fate of his wretched son Eustace. This fiery youth had desired to be
crowned in his father’s lifetime; but Archbishop Theobald, and all his
suffragans, perceiving that this would prevent the only hope of peace on
Stephen’s death, steadily refused, though the King shut them all up in
his hall, and threatened them violently. The next year, when the treaty
was made by which Henry of Anjou was to reign after Stephen, Eustace
was so enraged at finding himself excluded from the succession, that he
rushed off, accompanied by a party of lawless young men, and ravaged all
Cambridgeshire, committing dreadful excesses. It is to be hoped that he
was already under the influence of the brain-fever which came on in a
few days’ time, immediately after he had pillaged Bury St. Edmund’s, and
of which he died; leaving a belief among the country people, that,
like King Sweyn, he had been struck by the avenging hand of the Saint
himself. His father, King Stephen, only lived a few months after, worn
out by the toils and troubles which he had brought on himself by his own
ambition. His son William, who would have opposed Henry’s accession,
was prevented, by breaking his leg by a fall from his horse, and Henry
peaceably gained the throne. His mother, Empress Maude, had in the
meantime retired to Anjou, where she led a quiet life, giving up her
rights to her son, and apparently profiting by the lesson she had been
taught when her prosperity was turned at its full tide by her own pride
and presumption.
Of the boys bred up in the good household of Dunfermline, Aelred was the
last survivor. Waltheof had the happiness, before his death, of seeing
his brother, the proud Earl Simon of Northampton, repent heartily, leave
his evil courses, found churches, and endow the convent of Waldon, which
he had once persecuted for sheltering his brother. Waltheof was elected
to be Bishop of St. Andrews, and Aelred, as head of the Cistercians in
Britain, came to Melrose, to order him, on his canonical obedience, to
accept the see. But Waltheof was weak in health, and knew that another
call had gone forth. He pointed to a stone slab on the floor of the
chapter-house. “There,” said he, “is the place of my rest. Here will be
my habitation, among my children.”
And in a short time he died, in the year 1159. Aelred lived seven or
eight years longer, and was highly honored and trusted by the young
Malcolm of Scotland. On his behalf the old Abbot undertook a journey,
to treat with the wild men of Galloway, whom Malcolm had three times
defeated in battle, and now wished to bring to terms. He succeeded
in persuading their chief to submit, and even to become a canon at
Holyrood.
He afterward attended a chapter of his order at Pavia, and died at
Rivaux, after a long illness, about 1166.
CAMEO XIX. YOUTH OF BECKET. (1154-1162)
_King of England_.
1154. Henry II.
_King Of Scotland_.
1153. Malcolm V.
_King of France_.
1137. Louis VII.
_Emperors of Germany_.
1138. Konrad II.
1152. Friedrich II.
_Popes_.
1154. Adrian IV.
1159. Alexander III.
Henry of Anjou showed, in his journey to England, both courage and
moderation. He remained there for some little time, and then returned
home to join his father in a war against the Count de Montreuil, who
was befriended by both Pope and King of France. The Pope excommunicated
Geoffrey, but he fought on, and made his enemy prisoner; then, at the
command of the King of France, released him. When the Pope would have
absolved Geoffrey, he refused, saying he had only done justice, and had
not deserved the sentence. A few months after, in 1151, a cold bath,
when he was heated with riding, brought on a fever that caused his
death.
He left his son Henry his county of Anjou, to be resigned to Geoffrey if
he should become King of England, and commanded that his body should not
be interred till Henry had taken an oath to that effect. From this oath
Henry was absolved by Adrian IV, properly Nicholas Brakespeare, the only
English Pope, and stripped his brother of all his possessions. It was
no good omen for his own relations with his sons. His mother lived many
years in retirement, and used her influence chiefly for good. She died
in 1167.
Henry, meantime, had come to the throne in 1154, and was the mightiest
King who had yet reigned in England. More than half France was
his--partly by inheritance, and partly by marriage with Eleanor, heiress
of Aquitaine; and he was quite able to rule his vast dominions. His
alertness and activity were the wonder of every one. He made journeys
with great rapidity, was always busy, and hardly ever sat down. He had
a face like a lion, well-knit limbs, and a hardy temperament. He was
heedless what he ate or wore, and was an embodiment of vehemence and
activity. He threw himself eagerly into the work of reducing to order
the dreadful state of things allowed by Stephen.
Down came the castles--once more the nobles found they had a strong hand
over them--no more dens of robbers were permitted--the King was here,
there, and everywhere. He had English to tame Anglo-Normans, Angevins
to set on French Normans, Poitevins to turn loose on both. He knew what
order was, and kept it; and the counsellor who aided him most must now
be described.
Here is the romantic ballad-tale of that counsellor’s origin, though it
is much to be feared that the fact cannot be established.
In the reign of Henry I. the citizens of London were amazed by the
sight of a maiden in an Eastern dress, wandering along the streets,
plaintively uttering the word “Gilbert!” Certain seafaring men declared
that she had prevailed on them to take her on board their vessel and
bring her to England, by constantly repeating the name “London!”--the
only other word in the language that she knew.
Poor lady! The mob of London were less compassionate than the sailors
had been. They hooted and hunted her, till she came to Southwark, in
front of a house belonging to Gilbert à Becket, a rich and prosperous
merchant, who, with his faithful serving-man, Richard, had lately
returned from pilgrimage. Richard, who had come out on hearing the
noise, hurried back into the house as soon as he perceived its cause;
then, hastening out again, went up to the poor, persecuted maiden, who
fainted away at the sight of him. He carried her to the house of an
honorable widow lady, desiring her, in his master’s name to take care of
the desolate stranger, with whom, on her revival, he held converse in
her own tongue, and seemed to cheer her greatly.
Meanwhile, Gilbert à Becket was on his way to St. Paul’s, to consult the
Bishop of London. He related how, in the East, he and his man Richard
had been taken captive by the Saracens, and become slaves to a wealthy
Emir. In the course of their services to their master, Gilbert had
attracted the notice of his daughter, who had more than once asked
him questions about his faith and country, and had at last offered to
contrive his escape, if he would take her for his wife, and bring her to
his own land. Gilbert, who did not trust her, effected his escape with
Richard without her assistance, and returned to England, little thinking
they should ever see her again. But she followed him, leaving her
home, her riches, and her father, and seeking him through his long and
dangerous journey, ignorant of all save his name, and the name of his
city.
Five other prelates were present when he told the story, and one, the
Bishop of Chichester, exclaimed, that Heaven itself most have conducted
the damsel, and advised that Gilbert should at once marry her. The next
day she was brought to St. Paul’s, and was there baptized by the name of
Matilda, Richard acting as interpreter; and shortly after the wedding
took place.
This romantic story was the origin of several old English ballads, one
of which celebrates the Saracen lady by the extraordinary title of Susy
Pye, perhaps a vulgarism of her original Eastern name.
In the first year of his marriage, Gilbert went on pilgrimage again,
leaving his wife under the care of his man Richard. Soon after his
departure she gave birth to a son, to whom she gave the name of Thomas,
and who was three years old by the time his father returned from the
Holy Land. They afterward had two daughters, named Mary and Agnes, and
lived in great piety and happiness, until the time of Matilda’s death,
at the end of twenty-two years.
Thomas received a clerkly education from the Canons of Merton, and
showed such rare ability that his whole family deemed him destined for
great things. He was very tall and handsome, and his aquiline nose,
quick eyes, and long, slender, beautiful hands, accorded with the
story of his Eastern ancestry; and he was very vigorous and athletic,
delighting in the manly sports of the young men of his time. In his
boyhood, while he was out hawking with a knight who used to lodge in
his father’s house when he came to London, he was exposed to a serious
danger. They came to a narrow bridge, fit only for foot-passengers, with
a mill-wheel just below. The knight nevertheless rode across the bridge,
and Thomas was following, when his horse, making a false step, fell into
the river. The boy could swim, but would not make for the bank, without
rescuing the hawk, that had shared his fall, and thus was drawn by the
current under the wheel, and in another moment would have been torn to
pieces, had not the miller stopped the machinery, and pulled him out of
the water, more dead than alive.
It seems that it was the practice for wealthy merchants to lodge their
customers when brought to London by business, and thus young Thomas
became known to several persons of high estimation in their several
stations. A rich merchant called Osborn gave him big accounts to keep;
knights noticed his riding, and clerks his learning and religious life.
Some of the clergy of Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury, who were among
those guests, were desirous of presenting him to their master. He at
first held back, but they at length prevailed with him: he became a
member of the Archbishop’s household, and, after he had improved himself
in learning, was ordained deacon, and presented with the Archdeaconry of
Canterbury, an office which was then by no means similar to what we
at present call by that name. It really then meant being chief of the
deacons, and involved the being counsellor, and, in a manner, treasurer
to the Bishop of the diocese; and thus, to be Archdeacon of Canterbury,
was the highest ecclesiastical dignity in the kingdom, next to that of
the prelates and great mitred abbots.
Thomas à Becket was a secular clerk, bound by none of the vows of
monastic orders; and therefore, though he led a strictly pure and
self-denying life, he did hot consider himself obliged to abstain from
worldly business or amusements, and in the year 1150 he was appointed
Chancellor by Henry II. He was then in his thirty-eighth year, of great
ability and cultivation, graceful in demeanor, ready of speech, clear in
mind, and his tall frame (reported to have been no less than six feet
two in height) fitting him for martial exercise and bodily exertion. The
King, a youth of little past twenty, delighting in ability wherever he
found it, became much attached to his gallant Chancellor, and not only
sought his advice in the regulation of England after its long troubles,
but, when business was done, they used to play together like two
schoolboys.
It must have been a curious scene in the hall of Chancellor Becket,
when, at the daily meal, earls and barons sat round his table, and
knights and nobles crowded, so thickly at the others, that the benches
were not sufficient, and the floor was daily strewn with hay or straw in
winter, or in summer with green boughs, that those who sat on it might
not soil their robes. Gold and silver dishes, and goblets, and the
richest wines, were provided, and the choicest, most costly viands were
purchased at any price by his servants for these entertainments: they
once gave a hundred shillings for a dish of eels. But the Chancellor
seldom touched these delicacies, living on the plainest fare, as he sat
in his place as the host, answering the pledges of his guests, amusing
them with his converse, and providing minstrelsy and sports of all kinds
for their recreation. Often the King would ride into the hall, in the
midst of the gay crowd seated on the floor, throw himself off his horse,
leap over the table, and join in the mirth.
These rich feasts afforded afterward plentiful alms for the poor, who
were never forgotten in the height of Becket’s magnificence, and
the widow and the oppressed never failed to find a protector in the
Chancellor.
His house was full of young squires and pages, the sons of the nobility,
who placed them there as the best school of knighthood; and among them
was the King’s own son Henry, who had been made his pupil.
The King seems to have been apt to laugh at Becket for his strict life
and overflowing charity. One very cold day, as they were riding, they
met an old man in a thin, ragged coat.
“Poor old man!” said Henry, “would it not be a charity to give him a
good, warm cloak?”
“It would, indeed.” said Becket: “you had better keep the matter in
mind.”
“No, no; it is you that shall have the credit of this great act of
charity,” said Henry, laughing. “Ha! old man, should you not like this
nice, warm cloak?” and, with those words, he began to pull at the
scarlet and gray mantle which the Chancellor wore. Becket struggled
for it, and in this rough sport they were both nearly pulled off their
horses, till the clasp gave way, and the King triumphantly tossed his
prize to the astonished old man.
The Chancellor was in the habit of daily giving more costly gifts than
these, both to rich and poor; gold and silver, robes and jewels, fine
armor and horses, hawks and hounds--even fine new ships, were bestowed
by him, from the wealth of the old merchant Gilbert, as well as from the
revenues of his archdeaconry, and of several other benefices, which the
lax opinions of his time caused him to think no shame to keep in his own
hands.
We cannot call Thomas à Becket by any means a perfect character; but
thoroughly conscientious he must ever have been, and very self-denying,
keeping himself pure from every stain in the midst of the court, and
guarding himself by strict discipline. He was found to be in the habit
of sleeping on the bare boards beside his rich bed, and in secret he
wore sackcloth, and submitted to the lash of penance. His uprightness
and incorruptibility as a judge, his wisdom in administering the affairs
of state, and his skill in restoring peace to England, made the reign of
Henry Plantagenet a relief indeed to his subjects.
In almost every respect he lived like a layman. He hunted and hawked,
and was found fault with by the Prior of Leicester for wearing a cape
with sleeves, which it seems was an unclerical garment. The prior
said it was more unsuitable in one who held so many ecclesiastical
preferments, and was likely to become Archbishop of Canterbury.
To this Thomas answered: “I know three poor priests, each of whom I
would rather see Archbishop than myself. If I had that rank, I know full
well I must either lose the King’s favor, or set aside my duty to God.”
When Henry went to war with France respecting the inheritance of Eleanor
of Aquitaine, his wife, his Chancellor brought to his aid seven hundred
knights of his own household, besides twelve hundred in his pay, and
four thousand foot soldiers. He fed the knights themselves at his own
table, and paid them each three shillings a day for the support of their
squires and horses; and he himself commanded them, wearing armor, and
riding at their head. He kept them together by the sound of a long,
slender trumpet, such as was then used only by his own band; and in
combat he showed himself strong and dexterous in the use of lance and
sword, winning great admiration and respect even from the enemy.
Henry resolved to come to a treaty, and to seal it by asking the King
of France, Louis le Jeune, to give his daughter Margaret in marriage to
Henry, the heir of England. Becket was sent on this embassy, and the
splendor of his equipment was such as might become its importance.
Two hundred men on horseback, in armor or gay robes, were his immediate
followers, and with them came eight waggons, each drawn by five horses,
a groom walking beside each horse, and a driver and guard to every
waggon, besides a large, fierce dog chained beneath each. The waggons
carried provisions and garments, and furniture for the night: two were
filled with ale for the French, who much admired that English liquor;
another was fitted up as a kitchen, and another for a chapel. There were
twelve sumpter horses carrying small articles, and on the back of each
of these sat a long-tailed ape!
Dogs and hawks, with their attendants, accompanied the procession, the
whole marshalled in regular order, and the men singing as they went;
and the impression on the minds of all beholders was, “If such was the
Chancellor, what must be the King?”
At Paris all these riches were given away, and so resolved was Becket
to keep up his character for munificence, that he did not choose to be
maintained at the expense of the French King; and when Louis, wishing to
force him into being his guest, sent orders to the markets round to sell
nothing to the English Chancellor, his attendants disguised themselves,
and bought up all the provisions in the neighborhood. King Louis
acquired a great esteem and admiration for the Chancellor, and willingly
granted his request, betrothing Margaret, who was only seven years old,
to Prince Henry. She, as well as her little husband, became Becket’s
pupils, by desire of King Henry, and she, at least, never seems to have
lost her attachment to him.
The time Becket dreaded came. The good, old, peaceable Archbishop
Theobald died in 1162, and Henry, who was then at Falaise, ordered his
Chancellor to England, ostensibly to settle a disturbance in the western
counties, but in reality, as he declared in a private interview, that he
might be elected to the primacy.
Becket smiled, and, pointing to his gay robes, said, “You are choosing a
pretty dress to figure at the head of your monks of Canterbury. If you
do as you say, my lord, you will soon hate me as much as you love me
now, for you assume an authority in Church affairs to which I shall not
consent, and there will be plenty of persons to stir up strife between
us.”
Henry did not heed the warning, and King, Bishops, and the Chapter
of Canterbury unanimously chose Becket as Archbishop, with only one
reluctant voice, that of Gilbert Folliot, Bishop of London, who expected
the same promotion himself. On Whit-Sunday Thomas received priest’s
orders, and shortly after was consecrated Bishop by Henry de Blois,
Bishop of Winchester, and brother of King Stephen. John of Salisbury, a
priest of Becket’s household, and his intimate friend, was sent to Rome
to ask for the pallium; and, bringing it home, laid it on the altar of
Canterbury Cathedral, whence the Archbishop took it up.
The magnificent Archdeacon was expected by King Henry to lead the same
life when Archbishop, and thus to secularize the Church. But Henry had
mistaken his man. Clever and clear-sighted as the King was, seven years
of transacting business together, and of familiar intercourse with the
frank-hearted, free-spoken Thomas à Becket, had failed to make him
conscious of the inner life and deep devotion, the mortification and
uncompromising sense of duty, that was the true spring of his actions.
It was no secret; Becket avowed it from the first; the King only did not
see it, because he _could_ not understand it.
Becket had too high an idea of the office of a bishop to unite the care
of state affairs with it, and he at once resigned the chancellorship.
Outwardly there was not much difference--he still kept a magnificent
table, and entertained nobles and knights at his banquets; but his
self-discipline was secretly carried to a far greater extent than
before. He touched the wine-cup with his lips, to do honor to his
guests, but his drink was water in which hay had been boiled; and though
costly meats were placed before him, he hardly tasted them, and his
chief food was bread. He doubled all the gifts that Archbishop Theobald
had been wont to make to the poor convents and hospitals, and gave very
large alms. Every day he washed the feet of thirteen beggars, then fed
them, and gave them each four shillings. This was, in fact, considered
as a religious duty, almost an obligation on certain occasions. It is
a ceremony still performed by the Pope at Passion-tide; and Queen
Elizabeth herself used to do so on Maundy Thursday. The gifts now
distributed by the Queen on that day are a relic of the custom.
Archbishop Becket, when at Canterbury, often visited the cloisters,
where he sat reading among the monks; and he often went to see and
console the sick or infirm brethren, who were unable to leave their
cells. He was much loved and respected by those who knew him best; but
the nobles, who had usurped lands belonging to his see, dreaded his
maintenance of his rights, and hoped for disagreements between him and
the King--especially one Randolf de Broc, who wrongfully held the Castle
of Saltwood, near Canterbury.
However, at the first meeting all was smooth. On the return of the court
the Archbishop brought his pupil, Prince Henry, to meet his father at
Southampton, and was received with great affection. The King embraced
him eagerly, and spent much time apart with him, discussing all that had
taken place in his absence.
CAMEO XX. THE CONSTITUTIONS OF CLARENDON. (1163-1172.)
_King of England_.
1151. Henry II.
_King of Scotland_.
1165. William.
_King of France_.
1137. Louis VII.
_Emperor of Germany_.
1152. Friedrich II.
_Pope_.
1159. Alexander III.
The strife between the Crown and the Mitre was not long in breaking out
again. The former strife had been on the matter of investiture; the
strife of the twelfth century was respecting jurisdiction.
We sometimes hear the expression, “Without benefit of clergy,” and the
readers of the “Lay of the Last Minstrel” cannot have forgotten William
of Deloraine’s declaration,
“Letter or line know I never a one,
Were’t my neck-verse at Harribee.”