The Fool (Bailey)/Chapter 21

HEREAFTER came tidings to the King where he lay in Bayeux that a hundred French knights and lords had marched with the Archbishop and borne him company to the sea and that he was embarked on a tall ship wherein his cross was planted above the figurehead, and so with holy cross to lead him he was gone to England.

The King turned in his bed, for he lay sick. "It is his own cross which he bears," said he.

And soon strange tales came back to Bayeux. A while before the ship of his state had sailed, the Archbishop had sent a little boat by stealth with a trusty messenger. When he came to the English shore he had not deigned to land in the King's harbour at Dover but sailed along to his own town of Sandwich. But to Dover his messenger had come and sown letters among the lords of the King's council and his officers and brought fear. And when my lord Archbishop came into Sandwich there were to greet him many great folks who had no love of the King and all along his road to Canterbury poor folk knelt for his blessing and a multitude with garlands and with banners brought him to his cathedral. The justiciar smiled sourly, "'And every one that was in distress, and every one that was in debt, and every one that was discontented, gathered themselves unto him and he became a captain over them,'" he said.

"Yea, yea," quoth Bran, "and still he hath no power over you unless you do him wrong."

From the King it could not be hidden, and he rose with his fever still upon him and fretted himself seeking sure tidings and all the court murmured rage.

Each day brought its new story, false or true. The Archbishop rode to and fro with a guard of knights and men-at-arms. The Archbishop sought to marshal the people under his command. The Archbishop would not be stayed by the King's council and swore he was to suffer no man's bidding, but the King should hear commands of him.

"Ere Lent there will be wild work in England," the justiciar said, and all the court murmured war, though the King gave no sign.

And then came to Bayeux the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of London and the Bishop of Salisbury with what was worse than rumour. For it was to them that the messenger of Dover had given Becket's secret letters. It was a boy, or a nun in a boy's habit, who came to them in St. Peter's oratory and gave to each a parchment and vanished before they could read.

"Well for the rogue," quoth Gilbert of London, "for the Sheriff hunted him with naked swords a day and a day."

The letters were letters of excommunication, banning Archbishop and Bishops from holy sacrament and Christian company because while their Primate was in exile they had done duties which were his of right. "It is we to-day, it is you to-morrow, my lord," quoth Gilbert. "Nay, by my faith, you may be under his ban already, for you have speech with us, and if his curse holds we pollute whom we touch."

"If his curse holds all England is stricken," the justiciar said.

"See you to that," Gilbert turned on him. "There will be no peace while Master Thomas lives."

"By God's eyes," the King cried, "if all are cursed who stand by the law, hell is here upon us." And he gnawed his hands and muttered writhing in his chair. "This knave, this knave that I made with kindness, that came first to court me in rags, riding a lame mule, he is to rule me and destroy my realm with his folly." He started up. "God's body, God's body, what cowards have I about me that none will deliver me from this turbulent priest!"

Then the Archbishop of York and the justiciar were earnest to quiet him and they took him apart and began to reason what was to do.

But the King's men were in a tumult, swearing themselves no cowards and raging against Becket and the King's caution. When darkness fell and the gates of the castle were shut came the constable to the justiciar and told him that four knights of the King's household had ridden forth that day and were not returned, Reginald Fitzurse and Hugh de Morville, William de Tracey and Richard the Breton.

"Whither? I know not, my lord. But I may guess. The King called his knights cowards this day."

"God's body, they would not dare!" the justiciar said. "Yet they must be stayed." And he made haste to send after them one he could trust, William de Mandeville, to guard him safe.

But another was gone before.

It was the afternoon of a winter's day and the light all but gone from a clear cold sky. In his own chamber in his palace at Canterbury Becket sat among his clergy. It was dark about him save for the red glow of a fire, and his chaplain sang a psalm: Domine Deus Meus in te speravi; salvum me fac ex omnibus persequentibus me et libera me: O Lord my God; in thee do I put my trust; save me from all them that persecute me and deliver me. On that broke a man in motley, and mad as his motley, screaming as he ran and flinging body and limbs this way and that. He cast himself upon the Archbishop and dragged at him, arms about his neck, crying; "Come, Thomas, come. So the Lord wills. This is not the place, nor this the hour, nor thus you win to grace. Come, brother, come."

Then Fitzstephen the chaplain and Grim the clerk from Cambridge tore him off and he fell down and sobbed: "Save not yourself, na, na. Save men. Be gone and save us all."

Then Fitzstephen said, "He hath a devil."

But Becket said, "Nay, brother. He has loved much, alas poor Bran"; and the hard face smiled. Now a noise sounded far off and grew and a woman came running and after her a monk, and she cried out: "My lord, my lord, the King's knights, the King's knights come in arms." "Who cares for that?" Becket laughed. "Armed am I."

But his clergy gathered about him and prayed him for their lives: "To sanctuary, to the church, to the church," they cried, and among them bore him away.

Bran rose painfully and looked at the woman who wept. "Yea, yea," he laughed. "You would be for him, you. God have mercy on a mad world." She gazed at him not knowing him and ran where Becket had gone and he too followed.

The last of the winter twilight glimmered in the cloisters. The great bell was ringing vespers and the cathedral windows shone from the candles on the altars. Down the cloisters the four knights came, phantoms in arms, swords drawn, with axes in their left hands and after them clanging, glittering, yet dimly seen, a company of men-at-arms. "Where is the traitor? Where is Thomas Becket?" one cried; at the church door they halted a moment, then rushed in.

The altar lights shone as from afar and low across the gloom. On the steps of the choir the Archbishop stood, a tall, great form, alone, and by that revealed. The four rushed upon him and down the steps he came to meet them. Then Grim cried out and broke from the clergy who huddled before the altar and ran to him. But Becket put him by and came among them. "I have no fear of your swords," he said. "What do you seek of me?"

"Do the King's will!" cried Hugh de Morville.

"I do the will of God," he said.

"Take off the ban on the King's men."

"I dare not nor I will not, till they sue pardon and atone."

Reginald Fitzurse stole up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder with the flat of his sword. "You are a dead man, Thomas," he said.

"Traitor, you shall die as you have deserved," cried William de Tracey.

"Ready I am to die. I charge you in the name of God that you hurt no one here but me. May the Church through my blood win freedom and peace."

Fitzurse grasped at him and strove to drag him away from sanctuary: "Touch me not, Reginald," he cried, "off, knave, off!" and flung the man down. And Tracey grappled him and was flung down in turn. Then the swords fell to work.

Fitzurse struck and the blade turned from his head. Tracey struck and Grim took the blow on his arm and fell, but Becket's brow was wounded and the blood ran down his face. "For Christ and His Church I am ready to die," he cried, and Tracey struck again and he fell down on hands and knees. Then Richard the Breton gave a blow at his head which seared the very skull and broke the sword upon the stones and he was dead. One of their company, the deed is certain but proved against none of them, set his foot upon the dead man's neck and thrust at the brain.

They stood over him, the four with his blood upon them, breathing hard: "We may go," one said, "the traitor is dead and no more will trouble the land"; and they looked at each other in the gloom. Then with an oath: "King's men!" Fitzurse cried, "King's men," and led them out into the night.

Bran lay upon his face, the hood torn back from his shaven head, and he beat his brow upon the stones and moaned out, "Have mercy, have mercy upon the world Thou hast made." In a little while he rose, moving painfully, and peered round him in the dark.

From before the altar, from the shadows of the great tombs, from the crypt monks were stealing out. But by the dead man were only two folk, Grim who lay in his blood and a woman who knelt and holding by a pillar prayed and sobbed. Over her Bran stood and peered down at her: "Who are you that weep for him?" he said, and he laughed and his laugh tore through the murmurous gloom. "You were Gytha of Elstow once. Yea, yea, you are his in his death."

"I am Gytha and he saved my soul," she cried. "He gave me peace. He taught me mercy."

"You have said," Bran's head bent. "God be with you, sister," and he stumbled away.

The townsfolk were flooding into the cathedral, and forcing his way through them came a knight with an ordered company of men-at-arms who challenged Bran and bade him stand. "Na, na, you come too late, brother," Bran laughed. "His blood is out already."

"God's wounds, it is Bran! Speak clear, man, you know me. I am William de Mandeville. I come to guard him for the King."

"Then are you late indeed, brother. See where he lies." "They have struck! Out on them for madmen, madmen!" He peered through the gloom and saw the light of the monks' tapers fall over the body and the blood. "God have mercy upon us all."

"Well said, brother," quoth Bran, and went his way.

In Bayeux the King lay with his fever still upon him. There to his bedside, a weary man came Bran and fell upon his knees and kissed the King's hand and hid his face. "His blood is upon the ground," he said. "They slew him in his church. Oh, Henry my brother, a good death he died."

"By my hand!" the King cried out. "My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?"