henry the second 17

henry the second 17

One source of later misery was indeed unknown. The war of classes had not

yet begun. The lawyers had not been at work hardening and defining vague

traditions, and legally the position of the serf was far better than it

was a hundred years later. The feudal system still preserved relations

between the lord and his dependents, which were more easy and familiar

than anything we know. The lord of the manor had not begun to encroach on

the privileges or the "common" rights of the tenant, nor had the merchant

guilds of the towns attacked the liberties of the craftsmen and lesser

folk. For a century to come the battle for lands or rights was mainly

waged between the lord or the men of one township or manor with the men

of a neighbouring township or manor; and it was not till these had fairly

ended their quarrel that lords and burghers turned to fight against the

liberties and privileges of serfs and craftsmen. There are indications,

on the other hand, that one effect of the new administration of justice,

as it told on the poor, began early to show itself in the growth of an

"outlaw" class. Crimes of violence were surprisingly common. Dead bodies

were found in the wood, in the field, in the fold, in the barn. In an

extraordinary number of cases the judges' records of a little later time

tell of houses broken into by night and robbed, and every living thing

within them slain, and no clue was ever found to the plunderers. There

were stories in Henry's days of a new crime-of men wearing religious

dress who joined themselves to wayfarers, and in such a case the traveller

was never seen again alive. Tales of Robin Hood began to take shape. The

by-ways and thickets were peopled with men, innocent or guilty, but all

alike desperate. One Richard, we read, whose fellow at the plough fell

dead in an epileptic fit, fled in terror of the judges to the woods, and

so did many a worse man than Richard. We find constantly the same tale of

the sudden quarrel, the blow with a stick or a stone, the thrust with the

knife which every man carried, the stroke with a hatchet. Then the slayer

in his panic flies to a nun's garden, to a monastery, or to the shelter of

a church, where the men of the village keep guard over him till knights

of the shire are sent from the Court, to whom he confesses his crime,

and who allow him so many days to fly to the nearest port and forsake

the kingdom. Perhaps he never reaches the coast, but takes to the woods,

already haunted by "abjurors" like himself, or by outlaws flying from

justice. In the social conditions of the England of that day the

administration of justice was, in more ways than one, a very critical

matter, and the efforts of over-zealous judges and sheriffs might easily

end in driving the people to desperation before the severity of the law,

or in crushing out under a heedless taxation a prosperity which was

still new and still rare.

 

Henry perhaps already saw the deep current of discontent which only a

year later was to break out in the most terrible rebellion of his reign.

In any case the severity of the measures which he took shows how serious

he thought the crisis. After his landing in March 1170 one month was

given to inquiry as to the state of the country. In the beginning of

April he held a council to consider the reform of justice. A commission

was appointed to examine, during the next two months, every freeholder

throughout the kingdom as to the conduct of judges and sheriffs and

every other officer charged with the duty of collecting or accounting

for the public money. Its members were chosen from among the most

zealous opponents of the Court officials-the great barons, the priors,

the important abbots of the shires--and they were all men who had no

connection with the Exchequer or the Curia Regis. Their work was done,

and their report presented within the time allowed; but the king,

practical, businesslike, impatient of abuses, like every vigorous

autocratic ruler, had no mind to wait two months to redress the grievances

of his people. The barons who had been appointed as sheriffs at the

opening of his reign had governed after the old corrupt traditions, or

perhaps themselves suffering under the ruthless pressure of the barons of

the Exchequer, had been driven to a like severity of extortion. By an

edict of the king every sheriff throughout the country was struck from

his post; of the twenty-seven only seven were restored to their places,

and new sheriffs were appointed, all of whom save four were officers of

the King's Court. The great local noble who had lorded it as he chose over

the suitors of the Court for fifteen years, and fined and taxed and

forfeited as seemed good to him, suddenly, without a moment's warning,

saw his place filled by a stranger, a mere clerk trained in the Court

among the royal servants, a simple nominee of the king; he could no

longer doubt that the royal supremacy was now without rival, without

limit, irresistible, complete. Such an act of absolute authority had

indeed, as Dr. Stubbs says, "no example in the history of Europe since

the time of the Roman Empire, except possibly in the power wielded by

Charles the Great."

 

Nor was this Henry's only act of high-handed government. On the 10th of

April he called a council to London to consult about the coronation of

his son. It was a dangerous innovation, against all custom and tradition,

for no such coronation of the heir in his father's lifetime had ever taken

place in England. But Henry was no mere king of England, nor did he

greatly heed barbaric or insular prejudice when he had even before his

eyes the example not only of the French Court, but of the Holy Roman

Empire. The coronation was a necessary step in the completion of the plan

unfolded at Montmirail for the ordering of the second empire of the West.

Moreover, the settlement probably seemed to him more imperative than ever

from the restlessness and discontent of the land. No king of England since

the Conquest had succeeded peaceably to his father. The reign of Stephen

had abundantly proved how vain were oaths of homage to secure the

succession; and the sacred anointing, which in those days carried with it

an inalienable consecration, was perhaps the only certain way of securing

his son's right. It may well be, too, that, threatened as he was with

interdict, he saw the advantage of providing for the peace and security of

England by crowning as her king an innocent boy with whom the Church had

no quarrel. The actual ceremony of consecration raised, indeed, an

immediate and formidable difficulty. A king of England could be legally

consecrated only by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Three years before Henry

had forced the Pope, then in extreme peril, to grant special powers to the

Archbishop of York to perform the rite, but he had not yet ventured to

make use of the brief. Now, however, whether the case seemed to him more

urgent, or whether his temper had grown more imperious, he cast aside his

former prudence. On the 14th of June the lords and prelates were gathered

together "in fear, none knowing what the king was about to decree." The

younger Henry, a boy of fifteen, was brought before them; he was anointed

and crowned by Roger of York. From this moment a new era opened in Henry's

reign. The young king was now lord of England, in the view of the whole

medieval world, by a right as absolute and sacred as that of his father.

All who were discontented and restless had henceforth a leader ordained by

law, consecrated by the Church, round whom they might rally. Delicate

questions had to be solved as to the claims and powers of the new king,

which never in fact found their answer so long as he lived. Meanwhile

Henry had raised up for himself a host of new difficulties. The archbishop

had a fresh grievance in the king's reckless contempt of the rights of

Canterbury. The Church party both in England and in Europe was outraged

at the wrong done to him. Many who had before wavered, like Henry of

Blois, now threw themselves passionately on the side of Thomas. In the

fierce contention that soon raged round the right of the archbishop to

crown the king, and to deal as he chose with any prelate who might

infringe his privileges, all other questions were forgotten. Not only

the zealots for religious tradition, but all who clung loyally to

established law and custom, were thrown into opposition. The French

king was bitterly angry that his daughter had not been crowned with her

husband. All Henry's enemies banded themselves together in a frenzy of

rage. So immediate and formidable was the outburst of indignation that

ten days after the coronation the king no longer ventured to remain in

England; and on the 24th of June he hastily crossed the Channel. Near

Falaise he was met by the bishop of Worcester, who had supported him at

Northampton. The king turned upon him passionately, and broke out in angry

words, "Now it is plain that thou art a traitor! I ordered thee to attend

the coronation of my son, and since thou didst not choose to be

there, thou hast shown that thou hast no love for me nor for my son's

advancement. It is plain that thou favourest my enemy and hatest me. I

will tear the revenues of the see from thy hands, who hast proved unworthy

of the bishopric or any benefice. In truth thou wert never the son of my

uncle, the good Count Robert, who reared me and thee in his castle, and

had us there taught the first lessons of morals and of learning." Earl

Robert's son, however, was swift in retort. He vehemently declared he

would have no part in the guilt of such a consecration. "What grateful

act of yours," he cried, "has shown that Count Robert was your uncle, and

brought you up, and battled with Stephen for sixteen years for your

sake, and for you was at last made captive? Had you called to mind his

services you would not have driven my brothers to penury and ruin. My

eldest brother's tenure, given him by your grandfather, you have

curtailed. My youngest brother, a stout soldier, you have driven by stress

of want to quit a soldier's life and give himself to the perpetual service

of the hospital at Jerusalem, and don the monk's habit. Thus you know how

to bless those of your own household! Thus you are wont to reward those

who have deserved well of you! Why threaten me with the loss of my

benefice? Be it yours if it suffice you not to have already seized an

archbishopric, six vacant sees, and many abbeys, to the peril of your

soul, and turned to secular uses the alms of your fathers, of pious kings,

the patrimony of Jesus Christ!" All this abuse, and much more besides, the

angry bishop poured out in the hearing of the knights who were riding on

either side of the king. "He fares well with the king since he is a

priest," commented a Gascon; "had he been a knight he would leave behind

him two hides of land!" Some one else, thinking to please the king, abused

the bishop roundly. Henry, however, turned on him with an outburst of

rage. "Do you think, scoundrel, if I say what I choose to my kinsman and

my bishop, that you or anyone else are at liberty to dishonour him with

words and persecute him with threats? Scarce can I keep my hands from

thy eyes!"

 

The king well understood, indeed, in what a critical position matters

stood. He swiftly agreed to every conceivable concession on every hand.

He met the papal messengers and bent to their terms of reconciliation.

On the 20th of July he had a conference with Louis near Fréteval in

Touraine, and next day the kings parted amicably. On the 22d an interview

between the king and the archbishop followed. The royal customs were not

mentioned; no oath was exacted from the Primate; he was promised safe

return and full possession of his see, and the "kiss of peace"; he was

to crown once more the young king and his wife. At the close of the

conference Thomas lighted from his horse to kiss the king's foot, but

Henry, rivalling him in courtesy, dismounted to hold the Primate's

stirrup, with the words, "It is fit the less should serve the greater!"

But if there was a show of peace "the whole substance of it consisted only

in hope," as Thomas wrote. Each side was full of distrust. Thomas demanded

immediate restitution of his see, and liberty to excommunicate the bishops

who had shared in the coronation. Henry wanted first to see "how Thomas

would behave in the affairs of the kingdom." The king and Primate met for

the last time in October 1170 at Chaumont with seeming friendliness, but

any real peace was as far off as ever. "My lord," said Thomas, as he bade

farewell, "my heart tells me that I part from you as one whom you shall

see no more in this life." "Do you hold me as a traitor?" asked the king.

"That be far from thee, my lord!" answered Thomas. But to the Primate the

king's fair promises were but the tempting words of the devil--"all these

things will I give thee if thou wilt fall down and worship me." He begged

from the Pope unlimited powers of excommunication. "The more potent and

fierce the prince is," he said, "the stronger stick and harder chain is

needed to bind him and keep him in order." He had warning visions. He

spoke of returning to his church "perhaps to perish for her." "I go to

England," he said; "whether to peace or to destruction I know not; but God

has decreed what fate awaits me."

 

The king's conduct indeed gave ground for fear. He had summoned clergy

abroad against law and custom to elect bishops who, in contempt of the

Primate's rights, were to be sent to Rome for consecration. In the

general doubt as to the king's attitude, no one dared to speak to envoys

sent by Thomas to England. Ranulf de Broc was still wasting the lands of

Canterbury; the palace was half in ruins, the barns destroyed, the lands

uncultivated, the woods cut down. The Primate's friends urged him to

keep out of England for fear of treachery. Thomas, however, was determined

to return, and to return with uncompromising defiance. He sent before him

letters excommunicating the bishops of London and Salisbury, and

suspending the Bishop of Durham and the Archbishop of York, for having

joined in the coronation; and on the following day, under the protection

of John of Oxford as the king's officer, he landed at Sandwich. The

excommunications had set the whole quarrel aflame again, and John of

Oxford with difficulty prevented open fighting. The royal officers

demanded absolution for the bishops. Thomas flatly refused unless they

would swear to appear at his court for justice, an oath which the bishops

in their terror of the king dared not take. They fled to Henry's court in

Normandy; while on the 1st of December Thomas passed on to Canterbury. The

men of Kent were stout defenders of their customary rights; they clung

tenaciously to their special privileges; they had their own views of

inheritance, their fixed standard of fines, their belief that the Crown

had no right to the property of thief or murderer, who had been

hanged--"the father to the bough, the son to the plough," said they, in

Kent at least. They were a very mixed population, constantly recruited

from the neighbouring coasts. They held the outposts of the country as the

advanced guard formally charged with the defence of its shores from

foreign invasion, which was a very present terror in those days. Lying

near the Continent they caught every rumour of the liberties won by the

Flemish towns or French communes; commerce and manufacture were doing

their work in the ports and among the iron mines of the forests; and it

seems as though the shire very early took up the part it was to play

again and again in medieval history, and even later, as the asserter and

defender of popular privileges. From such a temper Thomas was certain to

find sympathy as he passed through the country in triumph. At Canterbury

the monks received him as an angel of God, crying, "Blessed be he that

cometh in the name of the Lord." "I am come to die among you," said

Thomas in his sermon. "In this church there are martyrs," he said again,

"and God will soon increase their number." A few days later he made a

triumphant progress through London on his way to visit the young king;

his fellow-citizens crowded round him with loud blessings, while a

procession of three hundred poor scholars and London clerks raised a

loud Te Deumas Thomas rode along with bowed head scattering alms on

every side. His old pupil Henry refused, however, to receive him, and Thomas returned to Canterbury.