Ken Follett - The Pillars Of The Earth

Philip had a better idea. If Henry and Thomas were this close it might not take much to push them together. Perhaps, Philip thought hopefully, there was something he could do. The idea excited his optimism. It was a long shot, but he had nothing to lose.

After all, they were only arguing about a kiss.

Philip was shocked to see how his brother had aged.

Francis’s hair was gray, there were leathery bags under his eyes, and the skin of his face looked desiccated. However, he was sixty years old, so perhaps it was not surprising. And he was bright-eyed and sprightly.

Philip realized that what was bothering him was his own age. As always, seeing his brother made him aware of how he himself must have aged. He had not looked in a mirror for years. He wondered if he had bags under his eyes. He touched his face. It was hard to tell.

“What’s Henry like to work for?” Philip asked, curious, as everyone was, to know what kings were like in private.

“Better than Maud,” Francis said. “She was cleverer, but too devious. Henry is very open. You always know what he’s thinking.”

They were sitting in the cloisters of a monastery at Bayeux, where Philip was staying. King Henry’s court was billeted nearby. Francis was still working for Henry, as he had for the last twenty years. He was now head of the chancery, the office that wrote out all the royal letters and charters. It was an important and powerful post.

Philip said: “Open? Henry? Archbishop Thomas doesn’t think so.”

“Yet another major error of judgment on Thomas’s part,” Francis said scornfully.

Philip thought Francis ought not to be so contemptuous of the archbishop. “Thomas is a great man,” he said.

“Thomas wants to be king,” Francis snapped.

“And Henry seems to want to be archbishop,” Philip rejoined.

They glared at one another for a moment. If we’re having a row already, Philip thought, it’s no surprise that Henry and Thomas are fighting so fiercely. He smiled and said: “Well, you and I shouldn’t quarrel about it, anyway.”

Francis’s face softened. “No, of course not. Remember, this dispute has been the plague of my life for six years now. I can’t be as detached about it as you.”

Philip nodded. “But why won’t Henry accept the pope’s peace plan?”

“He will,” Francis said. “We’re a whisker away from reconciliation. But Thomas wants more. He’s insisting on the kiss of peace.”

“But if the king is sincere, surely he should give the kiss of peace as a surety?”

Francis raised his voice. “It’s not in the plan!” he said in an exasperated tone.

“But why not give it anyway?” Philip argued.

Francis sighed. “He would gladly. But he once swore an oath, in public, never to give Thomas the kiss of peace.”

“Plenty of kings have broken oaths,” Philip argued.

“Weak kings. Henry won’t go back on a public oath. That’s the kind of thing that makes him different from the wretched King Stephen.”

“Then the Church probably shouldn’t try to persuade him otherwise,” Philip conceded reluctantly.

“So why is Thomas so insistent on the kiss?” Francis said in an exasperated tone.

“Because he doesn’t trust Henry. What is to stop Henry from reneging on the deal? What could Thomas do about it? Go into exile again? His supporters have been staunch, but they’re weary. Thomas can’t go through all this again. So, before he yields, he must have iron guarantees.”

Francis shook his head sadly. “It’s become a question of pride, now, though,” he said. “I know Henry has no intention of double-crossing Thomas. But he won’t be compelled. He hates to feel coerced.”

“It’s the same with Thomas, I think,” Philip said. “He’s asked for this token, and he can’t back down.” He shook his head wearily. He had thought that Francis might be able to suggest a way to bring the two men together, but the task looked impossible.

“The irony of the whole thing is that Henry would gladly kiss Thomas after they’re reconciled,” Francis said. “He just won’t accept it as a precondition.”

“Did he say that?” said Philip.

“Yes.”

“But that changes everything!” Philip said excitedly. “What did he say, exactly?”

“He said: ‘I’ll kiss his mouth, I’ll kiss his feet, and I’ll hear him say mass-after he comes back.’ I heard him myself.”

“I’m going to tell Thomas this.”

“Do you think he might accept that?” Francis said eagerly.

“I don’t know.” Philip hardly dared to hope. “It seems such a small climb-down. He gets the kiss-it’s just a little later than he wanted it.”

“And for Henry, a similar small climb-down,” Francis said with rising excitement. “He gives the kiss, but voluntarily, rather than under compulsion. By God, it might work.”

“They could have a reconciliation at Canterbury. The whole agreement could be announced in advance, so that neither of them could change things at the last minute. Thomas could say mass and Henry could give him the kiss, there in the cathedral.” And then, he thought, Thomas could block Waleran’s evil plans.

“I’m going to propose this to the king,” Francis said.

“And I to Thomas.”

The monastery bell rang. The two brothers stood up.

“Be persuasive,” Philip said. “If this works, Thomas can return to Canterbury-and if Thomas comes back, Waleran Bigod is finished.”

They met in a pretty meadow on the bank of a river at the frontier between Normandy and the Kingdom of France, near the towns of Fréteval and Vievy-le-Raye. King Henry was already there, with his entourage, when Thomas arrived with Archbishop William of Sens. Philip, in Thomas’s party, spotted his brother, Francis, with the king, on the far side of the field.

Henry and Thomas had reached agreement-in theory.

Both had accepted the compromise, whereby the kiss of peace would be given at a reconciliation mass after Becket returned to England. However, the deal was not done until the two of them had met.

Thomas rode out to the middle of the field, leaving his people behind, and Henry did the same, while everyone looked on with bated breath.

They talked for hours.

Nobody else could hear what was being said, but everyone could guess. They were talking about Henry’s offenses against the Church, the way the English bishops had disobeyed Thomas, the controversial Constitutions of Clarendon, Thomas’s exile, the role of the pope… Initially Philip was afraid they would quarrel bitterly and part worse enemies. They had been close to agreement before, and had met like this, and then something had come up, some point that touched the pride of one or both, so that they had exchanged harsh words and then stormed off, each blaming the intransigence of the other. But the longer they talked, the more optimistic Philip became. If one of them had been ready to storm off, it would surely have happened early on, he felt.

The hot summer afternoon began to cool, and the shadows of the elms lengthened across the river. The tension was unbearable.

Then at last something happened. Thomas moved.

Was he going to ride away? No. He was dismounting. What did it mean? Philip watched breathlessly. Thomas got off his horse, approached Henry, and knelt at the king’s feet.

The king dismounted and embraced Thomas.

The courtiers on both sides cheered and threw their hats into the air.

Philip felt tears come to his eyes. The conflict had been resolved-by reason and goodwill. This was how things ought to be.

Perhaps it was an omen for the future.

It was Christmas Day, and the king was in a rage.

William Hamleigh was frightened. He had known only one person with a temper like King Henry’s, and that was his mother. Henry was almost as terrifying as she. He was an intimidating man anyway, with his broad shoulders and deep chest and huge head; but when he was angry his blue-gray eyes became bloodshot, his freckled face went red, and his customary restlessness turned into the furious pacing of a captive bear.