The Church, as bearing the message of peace, claimed to be exempt from
the sword of the State. Her sacred buildings protected the criminal,
the inhabitants of her lands were spared in war, and offences committed
either by an ecclesiastic or against one, were not liable to be punished
by the temporal power. This protection was extended not only over
actually ordained clergymen, but all who held any office in connection
with ecclesiastical affairs--all students, nay, all who were clerks
enough to read and write. Thus the wild borderers, when made prisoners,
escaped the halter by pretending to read a verse of the _Miserere_,
which they had learnt by heart in case of such an emergency, and called
their neck-verse; and “without benefit of clergy” was added to new laws,
to prevent education from exempting persons from their power.
But this arose long after the battle had been fought and won; and it
is not to be supposed, that the Church left offenders unpunished.
Imprisonment, loss of rank, and penance, fell heavily on them, and
it was only very hardened and desperate men who would die under
excommunication rather than endure all that was required before they
could be reconciled to the Church.
Henry II. had found the course of justice seriously impeded by these
privileges of the clergy, and convoking a council at Westminster, in
1163, called on the bishops to consent that, as soon as a clerk should
be proved guilty of a crime, he should be deprived of his orders, and
handed over to receive punishment as a layman, at the hands of the
King’s officer.
According to our views in the present day, this demand was just, but to
the Church of the twelfth century it seemed an attempt to deprive her
of powers committed to her trust; and considering the uncertainty of
justice, and the lawless tyranny and cruelty often exercised by the
sovereigns and nobles, the resistance made to Henry II. cannot be
wondered at.
The bishops, however, first took the King’s view, and argued that a
crime was worse in a clerk than in another, so that he deserved no
immunity. To this Becket answered, that the loss of his orders was one
penalty, and it was not right that he should be punished twice for the
same offence. They said that the King would be displeased, and it would
be better to give up their liberties than to perish themselves. This
cowardly plea Becket treated no better than it deserved, and brought
them over to his side, so that they all answered the King, that their
duty forbade them to comply with his demand; Henry put the question in
another form, asking them whether they would in all things observe the
royal Constitutions of his ancestors. Becket replied, “We will in all
things, saving the privileges of our order;” and so, one by one, said
they all, except Hilary of Chichester, who was afraid, and left out
the important restriction. But by this cowardice all he gained was the
King’s contempt. Henry chose him as the one on whom to vent his passion,
abused him violently, and quitted the council, in one of his furious
fits of rage.
Thenceforth Henry was at war with Becket. One of his first acts of
spite, was exiling the Archbishop’s friend, John of Salisbury, a
faithful priest, and an excellent scholar, as his correspondence with
his master remains to testify. It is curious to read his account of
Paris. “The people here seem to enjoy abundance of everything; the
Church ceremonies are performed with great splendor, and I thought, with
Jacob, ‘Surely the Lord is in this place, and I knew it not;’ also, in
the words of the poet,
“‘Blessed is the banish’d man who liveth here.’
“The French are much afraid of our King Henry, and hate him most
intensely; but this between ourselves.”
The Archbishop wrote to the Pope for counsel, but the King had strong
influence at Rome, and the Pope only advised Becket to preserve peace;
owning that what the King demanded was wrong, but recommending Becket to
give way, and make friends, so that England might be once more at his
beck and call.
For this policy Becket was far too straight-forward, and his perplexity
was great, especially when the Archbishop of York, who had always been
his enemy, the jealous and disappointed Gilbert Folliot of London, and
the time-serving Hilary of Chichester, all declared themselves of the
King’s party.
The Pope and his legate prevailed with Becket to consent to the
Constitutions of the realm, without making any exception; the King said
this must be done in public, and in January, 1164, convoked a council
for the purpose at Clarendon, in Wiltshire.
The Constitutions were read, and proved to contain much that was
contrary to the canons of the Church; they were discussed and commented
on for three days, and then, to Becket’s surprise and dismay, he was
required not only to agree to them by word of mouth, as he had already
done, but to set his archiepiscopal seal to them. He rose, and
exclaimed, much agitated, “I declare by God Almighty, that no seal of
mine shall ever be set to such Constitutions as these.”
The King left the room in a fury, and great confusion ensued, of which
we have no clear account. The nobles broke in on the bishops, and
threatened them in the King’s name; the Grand Master of the Templars
persuaded Becket, and it seems that his firmness in some degree
gave way, though whether what he repented of was the sealing the
Constitutions, or merely the promise he had given, we cannot tell. The
assembly broke up, the King and each of the Archbishops taking a copy of
the Constitutions.
Becket, as he rode away, lamented over what had passed, as his faithful
friend and biographer, Herbert of Bosham, has recorded. “My sins are the
cause why the Church of England is reduced to bondage,” he said. “I was
taken from the court to fill this station, a proud and vain man; not
from the cloister, nor from a school of the Saviour, but from the palace
of Caesar. I was a feeder of birds, and I was suddenly made a feeder of
men; I was a patron of players, and a follower of hounds, and I became
a shepherd over many souls. I neglected my own vineyard, and yet was
intrusted with the care of others.”
He fasted, and abstained from ministering at the altar, till he had
received from the Pope a letter of absolution for his act of weakness;
and as the Pope gave no ratification of the Constitutions of Clarendon,
he did not consider them binding.
Henry shifted his ground, and, calling another Council at Northampton in
1164, brought various petty charges against the Archbishop. The first
was, that a man named John Marshall had failed to obtain justice in his
court. The truth was, that the man had been caught making oaths on a
jest-book, instead of on the Gospels; and Becket, instead of coming
himself to state this, sent four knights with letters explaining it.
For this neglect, as it was said, of the King’s summons, Becket was
condemned to forfeit the whole of his personal property; and to this he
submitted, but without appeasing the King, who went on to accuse him of
taking the public money while Chancellor, when, as every one knew, he
had spent far more largely than ever he had received in the King’s
service. Not a person was there who did not know that his character
stood far above such base charges; besides, an appointment to an
ecclesiastical dignity was always supposed to clear from all former
charges.
Henry de Blois, Bishop of Winchester, brother of King Stephen, went to
the King, and offered to pay the whole sum required of Becket; but he
was not listened to, and the Bishops of Chichester and London plainly
told the Archbishop, that what was aimed at was to force him to resign.
The plain, blunt Bishop of Lincoln said, “The man’s life is in danger;
he will lose it, or his bishopric; and what good his bishopric will do
him without his life, I do not see.”
On the decisive day on which he was expected to submit to judgment,
Archbishop Thomas rose early and celebrated mass; after which, arrayed
in his pontifical dress, except his mitre and pall, he set out for the
place of meeting, attended by his faithful clerks. He wished to have
gone thither barefoot, and, bearing his cross, to have thrown himself at
the feet of the King, and intercede with him for the liberties of the
Church; but his clergy and the Templars persuaded him to relinquish this
design, contrary to his own judgment. He returned to it again so far,
that, on dismounting in the Castle court, he took his cross from
Alexander Llewellyn, its bearer, and carried it himself into the hall.
The Bishop of Hereford ran up to him, saying, “Suffer me, my lord, to
carry the cross; it is better than that you should carry it yourself.”
“Nay, my son,” he answered, “suffer me to retain it, as the banner under
which I fight.”
A French archdeacon, who was present, said to the Bishop of London, “My
lord, do you allow the Archbishop to carry his own cross?”
“My good friend,” was Folliot’s rude reply, “he always was a fool, and
will continue so to the end.”
But when all gave way before the majestic figure of the Archbishop, with
the cross in his hand, Gilbert went up to him, and tried to snatch it
away, telling him he was disturbing the peace; for the King would take
the sword, and then the King and Archbishop would be matched against
each other.
“So be it,” said Becket; “my cross is the sign of peace; the King’s
sword is an instrument of war.”
He sat down to wait, while the other prelates were called to a
consultation with the King in another apartment. His clerks sat round,
and Herbert de Bosham said, “If they lay violent hands on you, you can
excommunicate them all.”
“Far be that from our lord,” rejoined Fitzstephen, his secretary; “let
him rather follow the pattern of the ancient confessors and martyrs, and
pray for his enemies and persecutors.”
One of the King’s marshals touched Fitzstephen on the shoulder, telling
him it was forbidden to speak to the Archbishop; upon which he glanced
at his master, and pointed to the cross, to express what he was
forbidden to say.
The King sat in his own chamber, and the bishops and barons were sent in
turn with messages from him to the Archbishop. Becket appealed to the
Pope, and the bishops, on their side, appealed against the Archbishop;
and then the Earls of Leicester and Cornwall were sent to pronounce
sentence on him; but instead of allowing them to proceed, he declared
that the King had no right to call him to account for what had happened
before he was Archbishop; for it had been expressly declared, when he
was appointed, that he was freed from all former claims.
This was a point of view in which the Earls had not seen the case, and
they said they must go back to the King. “One word more,” said Becket:
“as the soul is more worthy than the body, so you are bound to obey God
rather than the King. Can the son judge his father? I can receive no
judgment from you or the King; the Pope alone, under God, is my judge. I
place myself and my Church under his protection. I call the bishops, who
have obeyed their King rather than God, to answer before his tribunal;
and so, protected by the Holy Catholic Church and the power of the
Apostolic See, I leave this court.”
He rose, followed by his clerks. Cries of abuse followed him; Ranulf de
Broc shot straws at him, and a relation of the King reproached him with
sneaking away like a traitor. “If I were a knight,” said the Archbishop,
“my sword should answer that foul speech.”
It was only the King’s immediate followers that thus reviled him; the
poor crowded after him in multitudes, so that he could hardly hold
in his horse, carry the cross, which he still retained, and give his
blessing to those who sought it. “See,” he said to his clerks, “what a
glorious train escorts me home! These are the poor of whom Christ spake,
partakers of my distress: open the door, and let us feast together!”
On coming to the monastery, they first went to the chapel, where he
prayed, and laid down the cross; then went to the refectory to take
food. In talking over the events of the day, he bade his clerks beware
of retorting on their enemies the abuse that was poured on them. “To
rail,” he said “is the mark of an inferior; to bear it, of a superior.
If we would teach them to control their tongues, let us show that we
control our ears.”
In the reading that evening, at supper, the text occurred, “If they
persecute you in one city, flee to another.” This Becket took as
direction for his course, and sent to ask the King for a safe-conduct to
return to Canterbury. The King said he should have an answer to-morrow,
which Becket and his clerks considered as a sign that his life was not
safe. That night, therefore, he, with three of his clergy, mounted at
the postern of the monastery, and rode off, in such torrents of rain,
that four times he was obliged to cut off a portion of his long cloak to
relieve himself of the weight. He made for Kent, travelling by night and
hiding by day, for twenty days, till he reached the coast, and at Estrey
was hidden for several days in a little secret chamber opening into
the parish church, whence, at mass, he gave the blessing to the
congregation, though they knew it not. At last a small open boat was
procured, and, embarking on the 2d of November, 1164, he safely landed
near Gravelines.
The county of Boulogne belonged to Mary de Blois, Stephen’s daughter.
She had taken the veil at Romsey, when a girl; but on the death of her
brothers, Eustace and William, became the heiress of her mother’s county
of Boulogne, and had been stolen away and married, for the sake of her
inheritance, by Matthew of Flanders. The Archbishop had opposed this
marriage, and the count was therefore his enemy, so that he was obliged
to pass through his territory in the disguise of a Cistercian monk,
calling himself Brother Christian.
Twice he was in danger of discovery. The first time was when they met a
party of young men hawking. Becket, who had never lost his admiration
for the noble birds (for one of whom he had so nearly lost his life),
showed so much interest in the falcons, that their owner, surprised at
seeing so much sportsmanship in a monk, exclaimed, “You must be the
Archbishop of Canterbury!” “What!” said another of the hawking party,
“do you think the Archbishop travels in this sort?” And thus Becket was
saved from being obliged to make answer. The next time was at supper,
when they had reached the inn at Gravelines, where his great height and
beautiful hands attracted attention; and the host, further remarking
that he bestowed all the choicest morsels on the children, was convinced
that this must be the English Archbishop, whose escape was already known
on the Continent, and falling down at his feet, blessed the saints for
bringing such a guest under his roof. Becket was much afraid the good
man might unintentionally betray him, and left Gravelines early the next
morning, on his way to the monastery of St. Bertin’s, at St. Omer. It is
amusing to find Becket’s faithful clerks, on the Friday when they were
to arrive at that hospitable convent, trying to coax their master to
grant them leave, after their journey, to eat a little meat: “for,
suppose there should be a scarcity of fish.” Here they were joined by
Herbert de Bosham, who had been sent to Canterbury to collect such money
and valuables as he could bring away.
Henry had in the meantime sent an embassy to desire the King of France
not to shelter “the late Archbishop;” but it met with no favorable
reception from Louis. “He is a noble-minded man,” said he; “if I knew
where to find him, I would go with my whole court to meet him.”
“But he did much harm to France,” said the Earl of Arundel, “at the head
of the English army.”
“That was his duty,” said Louis; “I admire him the more. If he had been
my servant, he would have done the same for me.”
Nor did the embassy meet with much better success on going to Sens,
where Pope Alexander III. then was. The Bishop of London began to abuse
the Archbishop virulently, saying that he had fled, “as the Scripture
saith. ‘The wicked fleeth when no man pursueth.’”
“Nay,” interrupted the Pope, “spare. I entreat you, spare--”
“I will spare him, holy father,” said Gilbert
“Not _him_, but _yourself_, brother,” said Alexander; and Gilbert was
silenced.
Finding how favorably both Pope and King were disposed toward him,
Becket left his retreat at St. Omer, and was received with much respect
by Louis at Soissons, after which he proceeded to Sens. There he was
treated with high honor by Alexander, and almost his first measure
was to confess, with deep grief, that he considered his election
uncanonical, “the handiwork of men, and not of God,” and that therefore
these troubles had fallen on his Church. He therefore gave up his see;
but the Pope would not accept his resignation, and assigned to him the
Cistercian Abbey of Pontigny as his dwelling-place. Here he remained two
years, while the King persecuted his adherents and banished his kindred.
Four hundred poor creatures were stripped of their goods, and turned
adrift in Flanders, where they must have perished, had not the Count and
the Empress Maude taken pity on them.
CAMEO XXI. DEATH OF BECKET. (1166-1172.)
_King of England._
1154. Henry II.
_King of Scotland_.
1165. William.
_King of France._
1137. Louis VII.
_Emperor of Germany_.
1152. Friedrich II.
_Pope_.
1159. Alexander III.
In 1166, Pope Alexander III. returned to Rome, after many vain attempts
to reconcile the King and Archbishop, and it was determined that Becket
should pronounce sentence of excommunication on the King and his chief
followers in his uncanonical proceedings. Henry was at this time
seriously ill, and Becket therefore did not include him under the
sentence; the others were excommunicated, and this so exasperated Henry,
that he intimated to the monks at Pontigny that he should seize all the
possessions of the Cistercians in England, if they continued to harbor
his enemy.
The poor monks were much distressed, and laid the letter before their
guest, who could, of course, do no other than depart. “He who feeds the
birds of the air, and clothes the lilies of the field, will provide
for me and my fellow-exiles,” said he; and he soon after received an
invitation from the King of France to choose any castle or convent in
his dominions for his abode. He selected the Abbey of St. Columba, a
little beyond the walls of Sens, and took leave of the brethren at
Pontigny, with such a burst of tears that the abbot remarked them with
surprise, and begged to know their cause. “I feel that my days are
numbered,” said Becket; “I dreamt, last night, that I was put to death.”
“Do you think you are going to be a martyr?” said the abbot. “You eat
and drink too much for that.”
“I know that I am too self-indulgent,” said the Arch bishop; “but God is
merciful, albeit I am unworthy of His favor.”
Legates were sent by the Pope to negotiate, and many letters were
written on either side, but without effect. The difference was said to
lie in a nutshell; but where the liberties of the Church were concerned,
Becket was inflexible. At the Epiphany, 1169, he was put to a severe
trial; Henry himself, who had long been at war with Louis le Jeune,
came to Montmirail, to hold a conference and sign a treaty, and he was
summoned to attend it. By the advice of the legates and other clergy,
Becket had agreed to give up the phrase which had formerly given the
King so much offence at Clarendon, “Saving the privileges of my order,”
but not without inserting in its stead an equivalent, “Saving the honor
of God,” which, as being concerned in that of the Church, meant the same
thing.
Yet on this the clergy of France, who were always extremely submissive
to the crown, were by no means of Becket’s opinion, and tried so hard to
persuade him, for the sake of peace, to suppress this clause altogether,
and make no reservation, that the bold and faithful Herbert de Bosham
began to fear he might give way, and, pressing through the crowd as the
Archbishop was advancing to the presence of the two kings, he whispered
in his ear, “Take heed, my lord--walk warily. I tell you truly, if you
leave out the words, ‘Saving God’s honor,’ as you suppressed the other
phrase, saving your own order, your sorrow will be renewed, and the more
bitterly.”
The throng was so dense, that Becket could only answer him by a look,
and he remained in great anxiety as he watched his master advance and
throw himself at the feet of King Henry; then, when raised up by the
King, begin to speak, accusing himself of being by his unworthiness, the
cause of the troubles of the English Church. “Therefore,” said he, “I
throw myself on your mercy and pleasure, my lord, on the whole matter
that lies between us, only _saving the honor of my God._”
Henry burst out in rage and fury, heaping on Becket a load of abuse;
declaring, to the King of France that this was all a pretence and that
he himself was willing, to leave the Archbishop to the full as much
power as any of his predecessors, but that he knew that, whatever the
Archbishop disapproved, he would say was contrary to God’s honor. “Now,”
said Henry, “there have been many kings of England before me, some
of greater power than I am, some of less; and there have been many
archbishops of Canterbury before him. Now let him behave to me as the
holiest of his predecessors behaved to the least of mine, and I am
satisfied.”
There was apparent reason in this, that brought over Louis to Henry’s
side, and he said, rather insultingly, “My lord Archbishop, do you wish
to be more than a saint?”
But Becket stood firm. He said there had indeed been holier and greater
archbishops before him, each one of whom had corrected some abuse of the
Church; and had they corrected all, he should not have been exposed to
this fiery trial. Besides, the point was, that Henry was not leaving the
Church as it had been under them, but seeking to bind a yoke on her that
they had never borne. Almost all the French clergy and nobles were now
against him; they called him obstinate and proud; the two kings mounted
their horses and rode away together, without bidding him farewell; and
some of the last words his clerks heard from the French nobles were, “He
has been cast out by England; let him find no support in France.”
Dreading what might come next, and grievously disappointed in their
hopes of returning to their homes, even his clerks were out of humor,
and blamed his determination. As they rode back in the gloom toward St.
Columba, the horse of one happened to stumble, and in his vexation he
exclaimed, “Come up, saving the honor of the Church and my order.”
The Archbishop looked grieved, but was silent, and Herbert took this
moment for riding up to him, and saying, “Heaven be praised, my lord,
that through all to-day’s tribulation you have been sustained by the
Lord, and have not suffered that slippery member to betray you into
anything against the honor of God.”
The great ground of anxiety was the displeasure of Louis, who had
hitherto not only allowed the exiles to take shelter in his dominions,
but absolutely maintained them; and if he was won over by their
persecutors, what was to become of them?
Their alarm increased as they heard nothing from him of his usual
messages of kindness and friendship, and they were consulting together
on their plans if they should be turned out of St. Columba.
“Never fear,” said the Archbishop; “I am the only person King Henry
wishes to injure: if I go away, no one will molest you.”
“It is for you we are anxious,” they said; “we do not see where you can
find refuge.”
“Care not for me,” he said: “my God can protect me. Though England and
France are closed against me, I shall not be undone. I will not apply to
those Roman robbers, who do nothing but plunder the needy. I have heard
that the people who dwell on the banks of the Arar, in Burgundy, are
open-handed. I will go among them, on foot, with one comrade, and they
will surely have compassion on me.”
Just then a messenger came to desire the Archbishop to come to the
lodgings of the French King.
“There! it is to drive us out of his kingdom,” said one of the clerks.
“Do not forebode evil,” returned Becket. “You are not a prophet, nor the
son of a prophet.”