What state and ceremony he loved in those days! His palace was far grander than the king’s; a hundred and forty knights followed in his train. None wore such magnificent robes as he; none made so brave a display. As for the king, he cared nothing for those things in which Becket’s soul delighted. Often when the chancellor sat down to feast with his followers, Henry would gallop up to the door of the palace, toss his bridle to a groom, stride into the great hall, vault the table, and in his rough riding-dress take his place by the side of his gorgeous chancellor.
What stories they tell of the pranks these two used to play! One winter day, when the pair were riding through the streets of London, the king saw an old man shivering in his rags. “Look at that poor beggar,” said he. “Would it not be a kind act to give him a good warm coat?”
“Certainly, sire,” replied Becket; “and you are a good Christian to bethink yourself of such a generous deed.”
“Then give him yours,” laughed the king, and seized the rich robe which the chancellor was wearing. Becket was loath to bestow his rich crimson coat on a beggar man; but the king would have his way, and a pretty tussle ensued between them. At last the chancellor’s cloak was pulled from his shoulders, and Henry handed it to the astonished beggar. How hugely he laughed all the way home at the wry face which Becket pulled!
But all this has suffered a “sea-change” long ago. When the king had quelled the robber barons and had pulled down their strongholds about their ears, he found that there was lawlessness in the Church needing his grave attention. The Conqueror had given the bishops the right to hold courts, in which they alone could try the clergy, no matter what crimes they committed. In course of time the bishops claimed jurisdiction, not only over priests, but over all clerks—that is, persons who could read. But who cared for the bishop and his judgments? He could not imprison or hang; he could simply drive a man out of the Church. Many a bold rogue has saved his neck by pulling out a writing from his pocket and gravely reading a certain verse from the Psalms, mayhap while he held the scroll upside down.
Since Henry has sat on the throne more than a hundred murders have been committed by clerks, and not one of the murderers has graced the gallows. This is intolerable; Henry will brook this state of things no longer. He will have justice and order in his land, come what may. Ah! but to meddle with the rights of the Church is no light matter, as he is ere long to discover to his cost. He cannot even make a beginning of reform unless the head of the Church in England is in sympathy with his plans. Good thought! he will make Becket archbishop, and then all will be well.
But when the consecration is over, Henry finds to his dismay that Becket is another man. He dismisses his gay followers; he throws off his costly robes; he abandons his feasting, his gold plate, his tapestries, and his jewels. He mortifies himself with the coarsest food, drinks bitter water, wears sackcloth next his skin, and has himself flogged for his sins. A little cell is his home, and every day, to emulate the meekness of his Master, he washes the feet of thirteen beggars. All the world wonders, and Henry grows angry. His anger increases when Becket resigns the chancellorship, and lets it be known that he now lives for Mother Church, and Mother Church alone.
Henry now tries to carry out his reforms, and make all men, priest and layman alike, answerable for their crimes to the king’s court. For a moment Becket wavers; the king shall have his wish. But a day’s reflection convinces him that in yielding he is betraying the Church. Then his resolution stiffens. He prays the Pope to release him from his promise, and when he is absolved he boldly defies the king. Picture Henry’s rage. You must know the man to imagine the fury of it. When thwarted, he is wont to fling himself on the floor and bite the rushes with which it is strewn.
Becket has made many enemies by his arrogance in the old days, and now they take care to fan the king’s wrath. Some one accuses him of having denied justice, and forthwith he is found guilty and heavily fined. Other punishments are in store for him; but he sweeps into the Council chamber in full robes, with his crosier in his hand, and dares them to pass sentence upon him. He and the Church, he says, are in the keeping of God, and the Pope, and none other, shall judge him. Angry indeed are the king’s friends at these bold words. One of them shouts “Traitor!” and others take up the rushes from the floor and fling them at him. Turning to one of his assailants, he fiercely cries, “If I might bear arms, I would quickly prove on you that you lied!” With this he leaves the hall.
Full well he knows that there is no safety for him in England, so, disguised as a simple monk, and calling himself “Brother Dearman,” he hastens from the kingdom, and for seven long years he dwells abroad. Discontented nobles in Henry’s wide French dominions—he is lord from the Pyrenees to the Tweed—threaten to take up arms in Becket’s cause, and at length a kind of peace is patched up between archbishop and king.