Chapter XII - England Under Henry the Second - Part the First -

by Charles Dickens

　　Henry Plantagenet, when he was but twenty-one years old, quietlysucceeded to the throne of England, according to his agreement madewith the late King at Winchester. Six weeks after Stephen's death,he and his Queen, Eleanor, were crowned in that city; into whichthey rode on horseback in great state, side by side, amidst muchshouting and rejoicing, and clashing of music, and strewing offlowers.

　　The reign of King Henry the Second began well. The King had greatpossessions, and (what with his own rights, and what with those ofhis wife) was lord of one-third part of France. He was a young manof vigour, ability, and resolution, and immediately applied himselfto remove some of the evils which had arisen in the last unhappyreign. He revoked all the grants of land that had been hastilymade, on either side, during the late struggles; he obliged numbersof disorderly soldiers to depart from England; he reclaimed all thecastles belonging to the Crown; and he forced the wicked nobles topull down their own castles, to the number of eleven hundred, inwhich such dismal cruelties had been inflicted on the people. TheKing's brother, Geoffrey, rose against him in France, while he wasso well employed, and rendered it necessary for him to repair tothat country; where, after he had subdued and made a friendlyarrangement with his brother (who did not live long), his ambitionto increase his possessions involved him in a war with the FrenchKing, Louis, with whom he had been on such friendly terms justbefore, that to the French King's infant daughter, then a baby inthe cradle, he had promised one of his little sons in marriage, whowas a child of five years old. However, the war came to nothing atlast, and the Pope made the two Kings friends again.

　　Now, the clergy, in the troubles of the last reign, had gone onvery ill indeed. There were all kinds of criminals among them -murderers, thieves, and vagabonds; and the worst of the matter was,that the good priests would not give up the bad priests to justice,when they committed crimes, but persisted in sheltering anddefending them. The King, well knowing that there could be nopeace or rest in England while such things lasted, resolved toreduce the power of the clergy; and, when he had reigned sevenyears, found (as he considered) a good opportunity for doing so, inthe death of the Archbishop of Canterbury. 'I will have for thenew Archbishop,' thought the King, 'a friend in whom I can trust,who will help me to humble these rebellious priests, and to havethem dealt with, when they do wrong, as other men who do wrong aredealt with.' So, he resolved to make his favourite, the newArchbishop; and this favourite was so extraordinary a man, and hisstory is so curious, that I must tell you all about him.

　　Once upon a time, a worthy merchant of London, named Gilbert ABecket, made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and was taken prisonerby a Saracen lord. This lord, who treated him kindly and not likea slave, had one fair daughter, who fell in love with the merchant;and who told him that she wanted to become a Christian, and waswilling to marry him if they could fly to a Christian country. Themerchant returned her love, until he found an opportunity toescape, when he did not trouble himself about the Saracen lady, butescaped with his servant Richard, who had been taken prisoner alongwith him, and arrived in England and forgot her. The Saracen lady,who was more loving than the merchant, left her father's house indisguise to follow him, and made her way, under many hardships, tothe sea-shore. The merchant had taught her only two English words(for I suppose he must have learnt the Saracen tongue himself, andmade love in that language), of which London was one, and his ownname, Gilbert, the other. She went among the ships, saying,'London! London!' over and over again, until the sailors understoodthat she wanted to find an English vessel that would carry herthere; so they showed her such a ship, and she paid for her passagewith some of her jewels, and sailed away. Well! The merchant wassitting in his counting-house in London one day, when he heard agreat noise in the street; and presently Richard came running infrom the warehouse, with his eyes wide open and his breath almostgone, saying, 'Master, master, here is the Saracen lady!' Themerchant thought Richard was mad; but Richard said, 'No, master!As I live, the Saracen lady is going up and down the city, callingGilbert! Gilbert!' Then, he took the merchant by the sleeve, andpointed out of window; and there they saw her among the gables andwater-spouts of the dark, dirty street, in her foreign dress, soforlorn, surrounded by a wondering crowd, and passing slowly along,calling Gilbert, Gilbert! When the merchant saw her, and thoughtof the tenderness she had shown him in his captivity, and of herconstancy, his heart was moved, and he ran down into the street;and she saw him coming, and with a great cry fainted in his arms.They were married without loss of time, and Richard (who was anexcellent man) danced with joy the whole day of the wedding; andthey all lived happy ever afterwards.

　　This merchant and this Saracen lady had one son, Thomas A Becket.He it was who became the Favourite of King Henry the Second.

　　He had become Chancellor, when the King thought of making himArchbishop. He was clever, gay, well educated, brave; had foughtin several battles in France; had defeated a French knight insingle combat, and brought his horse away as a token of thevictory. He lived in a noble palace, he was the tutor of the youngPrince Henry, he was served by one hundred and forty knights, hisriches were immense. The King once sent him as his ambassador toFrance; and the French people, beholding in what state hetravelled, cried out in the streets, 'How splendid must the King ofEngland be, when this is only the Chancellor!' They had goodreason to wonder at the magnificence of Thomas a Becket, for, whenhe entered a French town, his procession was headed by two hundredand fifty singing boys; then, came his hounds in couples; then,eight waggons, each drawn by five horses driven by five drivers:two of the waggons filled with strong ale to be given away to thepeople; four, with his gold and silver plate and stately clothes;two, with the dresses of his numerous servants. Then, came twelvehorses, each with a monkey on his back; then, a train of peoplebearing shields and leading fine war-horses splendidly equipped;then, falconers with hawks upon their wrists; then, a host ofknights, and gentlemen and priests; then, the Chancellor with hisbrilliant garments flashing in the sun, and all the people caperingand shouting with delight.

　　The King was well pleased with all this, thinking that it only madehimself the more magnificent to have so magnificent a favourite;but he sometimes jested with the Chancellor upon his splendour too.Once, when they were riding together through the streets of Londonin hard winter weather, they saw a shivering old man in rags.'Look at the poor object!' said the King. 'Would it not be acharitable act to give that aged man a comfortable warm cloak?''Undoubtedly it would,' said Thomas a Becket, 'and you do well,Sir, to think of such Christian duties.' 'Come!' cried the King,'then give him your cloak!' It was made of rich crimson trimmedwith ermine. The King tried to pull it off, the Chancellor triedto keep it on, both were near rolling from their saddles in themud, when the Chancellor submitted, and the King gave the cloak tothe old beggar: much to the beggar's astonishment, and much to themerriment of all the courtiers in attendance. For, courtiers arenot only eager to laugh when the King laughs, but they really doenjoy a laugh against a Favourite.

　　'I will make,' thought King Henry the second, 'this Chancellor ofmine, Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. He will then bethe head of the Church, and, being devoted to me, will help me tocorrect the Church. He has always upheld my power against thepower of the clergy, and once publicly told some bishops (Iremember), that men of the Church were equally bound to me, withmen of the sword. Thomas a Becket is the man, of all other men inEngland, to help me in my great design.' So the King, regardlessof all objection, either that he was a fighting man, or a lavishman, or a courtly man, or a man of pleasure, or anything but alikely man for the office, made him Archbishop accordingly.

　　Now, Thomas a Becket was proud and loved to be famous. He wasalready famous for the pomp of his life, for his riches, his goldand silver plate, his waggons, horses, and attendants. He could dono more in that way than he had done; and being tired of that kindof fame (which is a very poor one), he longed to have his namecelebrated for something else. Nothing, he knew, would render himso famous in the world, as the setting of his utmost power andability against the utmost power and ability of the King. Heresolved with the whole strength of his mind to do it.

　　He may have had some secret grudge against the King besides. TheKing may have offended his proud humour at some time or other, foranything I know. I think it likely, because it is a common thingfor Kings, Princes, and other great people, to try the tempers oftheir favourites rather severely. Even the little affair of thecrimson cloak must have been anything but a pleasant one to ahaughty man. Thomas a Becket knew better than any one in Englandwhat the King expected of him. In all his sumptuous life, he hadnever yet been in a position to disappoint the King. He could takeup that proud stand now, as head of the Church; and he determinedthat it should be written in history, either that he subdued theKing, or that the King subdued him.

　　So, of a sudden, he completely altered the whole manner of hislife. He turned off all his brilliant followers, ate coarse food,drank bitter water, wore next his skin sackcloth covered with dirtand vermin (for it was then thought very religious to be verydirty), flogged his back to punish himself, lived chiefly in alittle cell, washed the feet of thirteen poor people every day, andlooked as miserable as he possibly could. If he had put twelvehundred monkeys on horseback instead of twelve, and had gone inprocession with eight thousand waggons instead of eight, he couldnot have half astonished the people so much as by this greatchange. It soon caused him to be more talked about as anArchbishop than he had been as a Chancellor.

　　The King was very angry; and was made still more so, when the newArchbishop, claiming various estates from the nobles as beingrightfully Church property, required the King himself, for the samereason, to give up Rochester Castle, and Rochester City too. Notsatisfied with this, he declared that no power but himself shouldappoint a priest to any Church in the part of England over which hewas Archbishop; and when a certain gentleman of Kent made such anappointment, as he claimed to have the right to do, Thomas a Becketexcommunicated him.

　　Excommunication was, next to the Interdict I told you of at theclose of the last chapter, the great weapon of the clergy. Itconsisted in declaring the person who was excommunicated, anoutcast from the Church and from all religious offices; and incursing him all over, from the top of his head to the sole of hisfoot, whether he was standing up, lying down, sitting, kneeling,walking, running, hopping, jumping, gaping, coughing, sneezing, orwhatever else he was doing. This unchristian nonsense would ofcourse have made no sort of difference to the person cursed - whocould say his prayers at home if he were shut out of church, andwhom none but God could judge - but for the fears and superstitionsof the people, who avoided excommunicated persons, and made theirlives unhappy. So, the King said to the New Archbishop, 'Take offthis Excommunication from this gentleman of Kent.' To which theArchbishop replied, 'I shall do no such thing.'

　　The quarrel went on. A priest in Worcestershire committed a mostdreadful murder, that aroused the horror of the whole nation. TheKing demanded to have this wretch delivered up, to be tried in thesame court and in the same way as any other murderer. TheArchbishop refused, and kept him in the Bishop's prison. The King,holding a solemn assembly in Westminster Hall, demanded that infuture all priests found guilty before their Bishops of crimesagainst the law of the land should be considered priests no longer,and should be delivered over to the law of the land for punishment.The Archbishop again refused. The King required to know whetherthe clergy would obey the ancient customs of the country? Everypriest there, but one, said, after Thomas a Becket, 'Saving myorder.' This really meant that they would only obey those customswhen they did not interfere with their own claims; and the Kingwent out of the Hall in great wrath.

　　Some of the clergy began to be afraid, now, that they were goingtoo far. Though Thomas a Becket was otherwise as unmoved asWestminster Hall, they prevailed upon him, for the sake of theirfears, to go to the King at Woodstock, and promise to observe theancient customs of the country, without saying anything about hisorder. The King received this submission favourably, and summoneda great council of the clergy to meet at the Castle of Clarendon,by Salisbury. But when the council met, the Archbishop againinsisted on the words 'saying my order;' and he still insisted,though lords entreated him, and priests wept before him and kneltto him, and an adjoining room was thrown open, filled with armedsoldiers of the King, to threaten him. At length he gave way, forthat time, and the ancient customs (which included what the Kinghad demanded in vain) were stated in writing, and were signed andsealed by the chief of the clergy, and were called theConstitutions of Clarendon.

　　The quarrel went on, for all that. The Archbishop tried to see theKing. The King would not see him. The Archbishop tried to escapefrom England. The sailors on the coast would launch no boat totake him away. Then, he again resolved to do his worst inopposition to the King, and began openly to set the ancient customsat defiance.

　　The King summoned him before a great council at Northampton, wherehe accused him of high treason, and made a claim against him, whichwas not a just one, for an enormous sum of money. Thomas a Becketwas alone against the whole assembly, and the very Bishops advisedhim to resign his office and abandon his contest with the King.His great anxiety and agitation stretched him on a sick-bed for twodays, but he was still undaunted. He went to the adjournedcouncil, carrying a great cross in his right hand, and sat downholding it erect before him. The King angrily retired into aninner room. The whole assembly angrily retired and left him there.But there he sat. The Bishops came out again in a body, andrenounced him as a traitor. He only said, 'I hear!' and sat therestill. They retired again into the inner room, and his trialproceeded without him. By-and-by, the Earl of Leicester, headingthe barons, came out to read his sentence. He refused to hear it,denied the power of the court, and said he would refer his cause tothe Pope. As he walked out of the hall, with the cross in hishand, some of those present picked up rushes - rushes were strewnupon the floors in those days by way of carpet - and threw them athim. He proudly turned his head, and said that were he notArchbishop, he would chastise those cowards with the sword he hadknown how to use in bygone days. He then mounted his horse, androde away, cheered and surrounded by the common people, to whom hethrew open his house that night and gave a supper, supping withthem himself. That same night he secretly departed from the town;and so, travelling by night and hiding by day, and calling himself'Brother Dearman,' got away, not without difficulty, to Flanders.

　　The struggle still went on. The angry King took possession of therevenues of the archbishopric, and banished all the relations andservants of Thomas a Becket, to the number of four hundred. ThePope and the French King both protected him, and an abbey wasassigned for his residence. Stimulated by this support, Thomas aBecket, on a great festival day, formally proceeded to a greatchurch crowded with people, and going up into the pulpit publiclycursed and excommunicated all who had supported the Constitutionsof Clarendon: mentioning many English noblemen by name, and notdistantly hinting at the King of England himself.

　　When intelligence of this new affront was carried to the King inhis chamber, his passion was so furious that he tore his clothes,and rolled like a madman on his bed of straw and rushes. But hewas soon up and doing. He ordered all the ports and coasts ofEngland to be narrowly watched, that no letters of Interdict mightbe brought into the kingdom; and sent messengers and bribes to thePope's palace at Rome. Meanwhile, Thomas a Becket, for his part,was not idle at Rome, but constantly employed his utmost arts inhis own behalf. Thus the contest stood, until there was peacebetween France and England (which had been for some time at war),and until the two children of the two Kings were married incelebration of it. Then, the French King brought about a meetingbetween Henry and his old favourite, so long his enemy.

　　Even then, though Thomas a Becket knelt before the King, he wasobstinate and immovable as to those words about his order. KingLouis of France was weak enough in his veneration for Thomas aBecket and such men, but this was a little too much for him. Hesaid that a Becket 'wanted to be greater than the saints and betterthan St. Peter,' and rode away from him with the King of England.His poor French Majesty asked a Becket's pardon for so doing,however, soon afterwards, and cut a very pitiful figure.

　　At last, and after a world of trouble, it came to this. There wasanother meeting on French ground between King Henry and Thomas aBecket, and it was agreed that Thomas a Becket should be Archbishopof Canterbury, according to the customs of former Archbishops, andthat the King should put him in possession of the revenues of thatpost. And now, indeed, you might suppose the struggle at an end,and Thomas a Becket at rest. No, not even yet. For Thomas aBecket hearing, by some means, that King Henry, when he was indread of his kingdom being placed under an interdict, had had hiseldest son Prince Henry secretly crowned, not only persuaded thePope to suspend the Archbishop of York who had performed thatceremony, and to excommunicate the Bishops who had assisted at it,but sent a messenger of his own into England, in spite of all theKing's precautions along the coast, who delivered the letters ofexcommunication into the Bishops' own hands. Thomas a Becket thencame over to England himself, after an absence of seven years. Hewas privately warned that it was dangerous to come, and that anireful knight, named Ranulf de Broc, had threatened that he shouldnot live to eat a loaf of bread in England; but he came.

　　The common people received him well, and marched about with him ina soldierly way, armed with such rustic weapons as they could get.He tried to see the young prince who had once been his pupil, butwas prevented. He hoped for some little support among the noblesand priests, but found none. He made the most of the peasants whoattended him, and feasted them, and went from Canterbury to Harrow-on-the-Hill, and from Harrow-on-the-Hill back to Canterbury, and onChristmas Day preached in the Cathedral there, and told the peoplein his sermon that he had come to die among them, and that it waslikely he would be murdered. He had no fear, however - or, if hehad any, he had much more obstinacy - for he, then and there,excommunicated three of his enemies, of whom Ranulf de Broc, theireful knight, was one.

　　As men in general had no fancy for being cursed, in their sittingand walking, and gaping and sneezing, and all the rest of it, itwas very natural in the persons so freely excommunicated tocomplain to the King. It was equally natural in the King, who hadhoped that this troublesome opponent was at last quieted, to fallinto a mighty rage when he heard of these new affronts; and, on theArchbishop of York telling him that he never could hope for restwhile Thomas a Becket lived, to cry out hastily before his court,'Have I no one here who will deliver me from this man?' There werefour knights present, who, hearing the King's words, looked at oneanother, and went out.

　　The names of these knights were Reginald Fitzurse, William Tracy,Hugh de Morville, and Richard Brito; three of whom had been in thetrain of Thomas a Becket in the old days of his splendour. Theyrode away on horseback, in a very secret manner, and on the thirdday after Christmas Day arrived at Saltwood House, not far fromCanterbury, which belonged to the family of Ranulf de Broc. Theyquietly collected some followers here, in case they should needany; and proceeding to Canterbury, suddenly appeared (the fourknights and twelve men) before the Archbishop, in his own house, attwo o'clock in the afternoon. They neither bowed nor spoke, butsat down on the floor in silence, staring at the Archbishop.

　　Thomas a Becket said, at length, 'What do you want?'

　　'We want,' said Reginald Fitzurse, 'the excommunication taken fromthe Bishops, and you to answer for your offences to the King.'Thomas a Becket defiantly replied, that the power of the clergy wasabove the power of the King. That it was not for such men as theywere, to threaten him. That if he were threatened by all theswords in England, he would never yield.

　　'Then we will do more than threaten!' said the knights. And theywent out with the twelve men, and put on their armour, and drewtheir shining swords, and came back.

　　His servants, in the meantime, had shut up and barred the greatgate of the palace. At first, the knights tried to shatter it withtheir battle-axes; but, being shown a window by which they couldenter, they let the gate alone, and climbed in that way. Whilethey were battering at the door, the attendants of Thomas a Beckethad implored him to take refuge in the Cathedral; in which, as asanctuary or sacred place, they thought the knights would dare todo no violent deed. He told them, again and again, that he wouldnot stir. Hearing the distant voices of the monks singing theevening service, however, he said it was now his duty to attend,and therefore, and for no other reason, he would go.

　　There was a near way between his Palace and the Cathedral, by somebeautiful old cloisters which you may yet see. He went into theCathedral, without any hurry, and having the Cross carried beforehim as usual. When he was safely there, his servants would havefastened the door, but he said no! it was the house of God and nota fortress.

　　As he spoke, the shadow of Reginald Fitzurse appeared in theCathedral doorway, darkening the little light there was outside, onthe dark winter evening. This knight said, in a strong voice,'Follow me, loyal servants of the King!' The rattle of the armourof the other knights echoed through the Cathedral, as they cameclashing in.

　　It was so dark, in the lofty aisles and among the stately pillarsof the church, and there were so many hiding-places in the cryptbelow and in the narrow passages above, that Thomas a Becket mighteven at that pass have saved himself if he would. But he wouldnot. He told the monks resolutely that he would not. And thoughthey all dispersed and left him there with no other follower thanEdward Gryme, his faithful cross-bearer, he was as firm then, asever he had been in his life.

　　The knights came on, through the darkness, making a terrible noisewith their armed tread upon the stone pavement of the church.'Where is the traitor?' they cried out. He made no answer. Butwhen they cried, 'Where is the Archbishop?' he said proudly, 'I amhere!' and came out of the shade and stood before them.

　　The knights had no desire to kill him, if they could rid the Kingand themselves of him by any other means. They told him he musteither fly or go with them. He said he would do neither; and hethrew William Tracy off with such force when he took hold of hissleeve, that Tracy reeled again. By his reproaches and hissteadiness, he so incensed them, and exasperated their fiercehumour, that Reginald Fitzurse, whom he called by an ill name,said, 'Then die!' and struck at his head. But the faithful EdwardGryme put out his arm, and there received the main force of theblow, so that it only made his master bleed. Another voice fromamong the knights again called to Thomas a Becket to fly; but, withhis blood running down his face, and his hands clasped, and hishead bent, he commanded himself to God, and stood firm. Then theycruelly killed him close to the altar of St. Bennet; and his bodyfell upon the pavement, which was dirtied with his blood andbrains.

　　It is an awful thing to think of the murdered mortal, who had soshowered his curses about, lying, all disfigured, in the church,where a few lamps here and there were but red specks on a pall ofdarkness; and to think of the guilty knights riding away onhorseback, looking over their shoulders at the dim Cathedral, andremembering what they had left inside.

　　PART THE SECOND

　　When the King heard how Thomas a Becket had lost his life inCanterbury Cathedral, through the ferocity of the four Knights, hewas filled with dismay. Some have supposed that when the Kingspoke those hasty words, 'Have I no one here who will deliver mefrom this man?' he wished, and meant a Becket to be slain. But fewthings are more unlikely; for, besides that the King was notnaturally cruel (though very passionate), he was wise, and musthave known full well what any stupid man in his dominions must haveknown, namely, that such a murder would rouse the Pope and thewhole Church against him.

　　He sent respectful messengers to the Pope, to represent hisinnocence (except in having uttered the hasty words); and he sworesolemnly and publicly to his innocence, and contrived in time tomake his peace. As to the four guilty Knights, who fled intoYorkshire, and never again dared to show themselves at Court, thePope excommunicated them; and they lived miserably for some time,shunned by all their countrymen. At last, they went humbly toJerusalem as a penance, and there died and were buried.

　　It happened, fortunately for the pacifying of the Pope, that anopportunity arose very soon after the murder of a Becket, for theKing to declare his power in Ireland - which was an acceptableundertaking to the Pope, as the Irish, who had been converted toChristianity by one Patricius (otherwise Saint Patrick) long ago,before any Pope existed, considered that the Pope had nothing atall to do with them, or they with the Pope, and accordingly refusedto pay him Peter's Pence, or that tax of a penny a house which Ihave elsewhere mentioned. The King's opportunity arose in thisway.

　　The Irish were, at that time, as barbarous a people as you can wellimagine. They were continually quarrelling and fighting, cuttingone another's throats, slicing one another's noses, burning oneanother's houses, carrying away one another's wives, and committingall sorts of violence. The country was divided into five kingdoms- Desmond, Thomond, Connaught, Ulster, and Leinster - each governedby a separate King, of whom one claimed to be the chief of therest. Now, one of these Kings, named Dermond Mac Murrough (a wildkind of name, spelt in more than one wild kind of way), had carriedoff the wife of a friend of his, and concealed her on an island ina bog. The friend resenting this (though it was quite the customof the country), complained to the chief King, and, with the chiefKing's help, drove Dermond Mac Murrough out of his dominions.Dermond came over to England for revenge; and offered to hold hisrealm as a vassal of King Henry, if King Henry would help him toregain it. The King consented to these terms; but only assistedhim, then, with what were called Letters Patent, authorising anyEnglish subjects who were so disposed, to enter into his service,and aid his cause.

　　There was, at Bristol, a certain Earl Richard de Clare, calledStrongbow; of no very good character; needy and desperate, andready for anything that offered him a chance of improving hisfortunes. There were, in South Wales, two other broken knights ofthe same good-for-nothing sort, called Robert Fitz-Stephen, andMaurice Fitz-Gerald. These three, each with a small band offollowers, took up Dermond's cause; and it was agreed that if itproved successful, Strongbow should marry Dermond's daughter Eva,and be declared his heir.

　　The trained English followers of these knights were so superior inall the discipline of battle to the Irish, that they beat themagainst immense superiority of numbers. In one fight, early in thewar, they cut off three hundred heads, and laid them before MacMurrough; who turned them every one up with his hands, rejoicing,and, coming to one which was the head of a man whom he had muchdisliked, grasped it by the hair and ears, and tore off the noseand lips with his teeth. You may judge from this, what kind of agentleman an Irish King in those times was. The captives, allthrough this war, were horribly treated; the victorious partymaking nothing of breaking their limbs, and casting them into thesea from the tops of high rocks. It was in the midst of themiseries and cruelties attendant on the taking of Waterford, wherethe dead lay piled in the streets, and the filthy gutters ran withblood, that Strongbow married Eva. An odious marriage-companythose mounds of corpse's must have made, I think, and one quiteworthy of the young lady's father.

　　He died, after Waterford and Dublin had been taken, and varioussuccesses achieved; and Strongbow became King of Leinster. Nowcame King Henry's opportunity. To restrain the growing power ofStrongbow, he himself repaired to Dublin, as Strongbow's RoyalMaster, and deprived him of his kingdom, but confirmed him in theenjoyment of great possessions. The King, then, holding state inDublin, received the homage of nearly all the Irish Kings andChiefs, and so came home again with a great addition to hisreputation as Lord of Ireland, and with a new claim on the favourof the Pope. And now, their reconciliation was completed - moreeasily and mildly by the Pope, than the King might have expected, Ithink.

　　At this period of his reign, when his troubles seemed so few andhis prospects so bright, those domestic miseries began whichgradually made the King the most unhappy of men, reduced his greatspirit, wore away his health, and broke his heart.

　　He had four sons. Henry, now aged eighteen - his secret crowningof whom had given such offence to Thomas a Becket. Richard, agedsixteen; Geoffrey, fifteen; and John, his favourite, a young boywhom the courtiers named Lackland, because he had no inheritance,but to whom the King meant to give the Lordship of Ireland. Allthese misguided boys, in their turn, were unnatural sons to him,and unnatural brothers to each other. Prince Henry, stimulated bythe French King, and by his bad mother, Queen Eleanor, began theundutiful history,

　　First, he demanded that his young wife, Margaret, the French King'sdaughter, should be crowned as well as he. His father, the King,consented, and it was done. It was no sooner done, than hedemanded to have a part of his father's dominions, during hisfather's life. This being refused, he made off from his father inthe night, with his bad heart full of bitterness, and took refugeat the French King's Court. Within a day or two, his brothersRichard and Geoffrey followed. Their mother tried to join them -escaping in man's clothes - but she was seized by King Henry's men,and immured in prison, where she lay, deservedly, for sixteenyears. Every day, however, some grasping English noblemen, to whomthe King's protection of his people from their avarice andoppression had given offence, deserted him and joined the Princes.Every day he heard some fresh intelligence of the Princes levyingarmies against him; of Prince Henry's wearing a crown before hisown ambassadors at the French Court, and being called the JuniorKing of England; of all the Princes swearing never to make peacewith him, their father, without the consent and approval of theBarons of France. But, with his fortitude and energy unshaken,King Henry met the shock of these disasters with a resolved andcheerful face. He called upon all Royal fathers who had sons, tohelp him, for his cause was theirs; he hired, out of his riches,twenty thousand men to fight the false French King, who stirred hisown blood against him; and he carried on the war with such vigour,that Louis soon proposed a conference to treat for peace.

　　The conference was held beneath an old wide-spreading green elm-tree, upon a plain in France. It led to nothing. The warrecommenced. Prince Richard began his fighting career, by leadingan army against his father; but his father beat him and his armyback; and thousands of his men would have rued the day in whichthey fought in such a wicked cause, had not the King received newsof an invasion of England by the Scots, and promptly come homethrough a great storm to repress it. And whether he really beganto fear that he suffered these troubles because a Becket had beenmurdered; or whether he wished to rise in the favour of the Pope,who had now declared a Becket to be a saint, or in the favour ofhis own people, of whom many believed that even a Becket'ssenseless tomb could work miracles, I don't know: but the King nosooner landed in England than he went straight to Canterbury; andwhen he came within sight of the distant Cathedral, he dismountedfrom his horse, took off his shoes, and walked with bare andbleeding feet to a Becket's grave. There, he lay down on theground, lamenting, in the presence of many people; and by-and-by hewent into the Chapter House, and, removing his clothes from hisback and shoulders, submitted himself to be beaten with knottedcords (not beaten very hard, I dare say though) by eighty Priests,one after another. It chanced that on the very day when the Kingmade this curious exhibition of himself, a complete victory wasobtained over the Scots; which very much delighted the Priests, whosaid that it was won because of his great example of repentance.For the Priests in general had found out, since a Becket's death,that they admired him of all things - though they had hated himvery cordially when he was alive.

　　The Earl of Flanders, who was at the head of the base conspiracy ofthe King's undutiful sons and their foreign friends, took theopportunity of the King being thus employed at home, to lay siegeto Rouen, the capital of Normandy. But the King, who wasextraordinarily quick and active in all his movements, was atRouen, too, before it was supposed possible that he could have leftEngland; and there he so defeated the said Earl of Flanders, thatthe conspirators proposed peace, and his bad sons Henry andGeoffrey submitted. Richard resisted for six weeks; but, beingbeaten out of castle after castle, he at last submitted too, andhis father forgave him.

　　To forgive these unworthy princes was only to afford thembreathing-time for new faithlessness. They were so false,disloyal, and dishonourable, that they were no more to be trustedthan common thieves. In the very next year, Prince Henry rebelledagain, and was again forgiven. In eight years more, Prince Richardrebelled against his elder brother; and Prince Geoffrey infamouslysaid that the brothers could never agree well together, unless theywere united against their father. In the very next year aftertheir reconciliation by the King, Prince Henry again rebelledagainst his father; and again submitted, swearing to be true; andwas again forgiven; and again rebelled with Geoffrey.

　　But the end of this perfidious Prince was come. He fell sick at aFrench town; and his conscience terribly reproaching him with hisbaseness, he sent messengers to the King his father, imploring himto come and see him, and to forgive him for the last time on hisbed of death. The generous King, who had a royal and forgivingmind towards his children always, would have gone; but this Princehad been so unnatural, that the noblemen about the King suspectedtreachery, and represented to him that he could not safely trusthis life with such a traitor, though his own eldest son. Thereforethe King sent him a ring from off his finger as a token offorgiveness; and when the Prince had kissed it, with much grief andmany tears, and had confessed to those around him how bad, andwicked, and undutiful a son he had been; he said to the attendantPriests: 'O, tie a rope about my body, and draw me out of bed, andlay me down upon a bed of ashes, that I may die with prayers to Godin a repentant manner!' And so he died, at twenty-seven years old.

　　Three years afterwards, Prince Geoffrey, being unhorsed at atournament, had his brains trampled out by a crowd of horsespassing over him. So, there only remained Prince Richard, andPrince John - who had grown to be a young man now, and had solemnlysworn to be faithful to his father. Richard soon rebelled again,encouraged by his friend the French King, Philip the Second (son ofLouis, who was dead); and soon submitted and was again forgiven,swearing on the New Testament never to rebel again; and in anotheryear or so, rebelled again; and, in the presence of his father,knelt down on his knee before the King of France; and did theFrench King homage: and declared that with his aid he wouldpossess himself, by force, of all his father's French dominions.

　　And yet this Richard called himself a soldier of Our Saviour! Andyet this Richard wore the Cross, which the Kings of France andEngland had both taken, in the previous year, at a brotherlymeeting underneath the old wide-spreading elm-tree on the plain,when they had sworn (like him) to devote themselves to a newCrusade, for the love and honour of the Truth!

　　Sick at heart, wearied out by the falsehood of his sons, and almostready to lie down and die, the unhappy King who had so long stoodfirm, began to fail. But the Pope, to his honour, supported him;and obliged the French King and Richard, though successful infight, to treat for peace. Richard wanted to be Crowned King ofEngland, and pretended that he wanted to be married (which hereally did not) to the French King's sister, his promised wife,whom King Henry detained in England. King Henry wanted, on theother hand, that the French King's sister should be married to hisfavourite son, John: the only one of his sons (he said) who hadnever rebelled against him. At last King Henry, deserted by hisnobles one by one, distressed, exhausted, broken-hearted, consentedto establish peace.

　　One final heavy sorrow was reserved for him, even yet. When theybrought him the proposed treaty of peace, in writing, as he layvery ill in bed, they brought him also the list of the desertersfrom their allegiance, whom he was required to pardon. The firstname upon this list was John, his favourite son, in whom he hadtrusted to the last.

　　'O John! child of my heart!' exclaimed the King, in a great agonyof mind. 'O John, whom I have loved the best! O John, for whom Ihave contended through these many troubles! Have you betrayed metoo!' And then he lay down with a heavy groan, and said, 'Now letthe world go as it will. I care for nothing more!'

　　After a time, he told his attendants to take him to the French townof Chinon - a town he had been fond of, during many years. But hewas fond of no place now; it was too true that he could care fornothing more upon this earth. He wildly cursed the hour when hewas born, and cursed the children whom he left behind him; andexpired.

　　As, one hundred years before, the servile followers of the Courthad abandoned the Conqueror in the hour of his death, so they nowabandoned his descendant. The very body was stripped, in theplunder of the Royal chamber; and it was not easy to find the meansof carrying it for burial to the abbey church of Fontevraud.

　　Richard was said in after years, by way of flattery, to have theheart of a Lion. It would have been far better, I think, to havehad the heart of a Man. His heart, whatever it was, had cause tobeat remorsefully within his breast, when he came - as he did -into the solemn abbey, and looked on his dead father's uncoveredface. His heart, whatever it was, had been a black and perjuredheart, in all its dealings with the deceased King, and moredeficient in a single touch of tenderness than any wild beast's inthe forest.

　　There is a pretty story told of this Reign, called the story ofFair Rosamond. It relates how the King doted on Fair Rosamond, whowas the loveliest girl in all the world; and how he had a beautifulBower built for her in a Park at Woodstock; and how it was erectedin a labyrinth, and could only be found by a clue of silk. How thebad Queen Eleanor, becoming jealous of Fair Rosamond, found out thesecret of the clue, and one day, appeared before her, with a daggerand a cup of poison, and left her to the choice between thosedeaths. How Fair Rosamond, after shedding many piteous tears andoffering many useless prayers to the cruel Queen, took the poison,and fell dead in the midst of the beautiful bower, while theunconscious birds sang gaily all around her.

　　Now, there was a fair Rosamond, and she was (I dare say) theloveliest girl in all the world, and the King was certainly veryfond of her, and the bad Queen Eleanor was certainly made jealous.But I am afraid - I say afraid, because I like the story so much -that there was no bower, no labyrinth, no silken clue, no dagger,no poison. I am afraid fair Rosamond retired to a nunnery nearOxford, and died there, peaceably; her sister-nuns hanging a silkendrapery over her tomb, and often dressing it with flowers, inremembrance of the youth and beauty that had enchanted the Kingwhen he too was young, and when his life lay fair before him.

　　It was dark and ended now; faded and gone. Henry Plantagenet layquiet in the abbey church of Fontevraud, in the fifty-seventh yearof his age - never to be completed - after governing England well,for nearly thirty-five years.