‘I cannot disobey him.’

‘But you don’t agree with him?’ cried Henry.

‘I think I was right in what I did.’

‘But you will now withdraw. That is better. You will swear absolute allegiance to your King.’

‘I do,’ said Thomas, ‘for I am instructed by the Pope that this assurance is only to preserve your dignity and you will not put into action any reforms regarding the Church.’

‘You have sworn, Thomas.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘That is good. You have sworn to me in private, but because you declared your disobedience in public, in public must you swear your allegiance. Farewell, Thomas.

We shall meet soon. I shall summon you to Clarendon where you may make your oath of submission publicly.’

No sooner had Thomas received the King’s summons to Clarendon than he began to question what he had done.

The Pope was in a difficult position; he had advised him to submit to Henry because he feared the King’s antagonism. Thomas should never have taken his advice.

He knew Henry well. Who should know him better? During the years when he had been his Chancellor and they had roamed the countryside together he had become familiar with every twist and turn of that violent nature. When Henry had made up his mind to have something, he was going to have it. He would lie, cheat, fight, threaten to do anything to obtain it. He had no scruples and now it was clear that he had made a vow that he was going to subdue his one-time friend and Chancellor. He had to show Thomas that he was his superior. It had always been so in their games and practical jokes. Henry liked a good adversary that he might glean more glory in victory.

His promises that he had no wish to interfere with the Church meant nothing. Of course he wanted to interfere with the Church. He wanted to bring it to heel as he did his dogs. He was going to make the Church serve the State.

He might pay lip service to the Pope, but everyone in the kingdom be they bishops or archbishops must learn that he was master.

And Thomas had privately agreed to accept his rule in all matters – because a weak Pope had been afraid to order him to do otherwise.

Thomas spent hours on his knees in prayer. His hair shirt tortured him, even more than it would most men for his poor circulation made his skin extra sensitive. Yet he did this penance in the hope that he might expiate his sins and win God’s help. He thought of his pride when Richer de L’Aigle had taken him to Pevensey, and the joy he had found in living the life of a nobleman. He thought of his rich garments, his cloaks lined with fur, his velvet doublets, the delight he had taken in being the King’s constant companion. Earthly vanity that had been. Was he being asked to pay for it now?

As soon as he had become Archbishop of Canterbury he had changed. His love of luxury had abated for he had seen the folly of it. He remembered how he had turned his face from Canterbury, how he had tried so hard not to take the post, for he knew it would be an end to the merry life.

And now his feet were firmly placed on a path which he must follow, for it was his destiny.

He trusted that God would show him what to do at Clarendon for he knew what happened there was going to affect his future for good or ill.

In the great hall, Henry was seated in the centre of the dais and on his left hand was his son, young Henry, who was nine years old.

The boy’s eyes lit up at the sight of Thomas and the Archbishop’s heart warmed to him. There was one who loved him. He did not meet the King’s eyes but he knew that the elder Henry watched him covertly.

As Primate he took the place on the right hand of the King – the second most important post in the kingdom.

There were the bishops all assembled and among them the Archbishop of York, Roger de Pont l’Eveque. Roger could not hide his satisfaction. He would be remembering the old days in the household of Theobald when a certain young man – not of noble birth – had joined the young men there and won the old Archbishop’s affection as none of the others had done. Roger had done his best to appease his envy by getting Thomas expelled; he had succeeded in this on two occasions but when Thomas had been recalled he was in higher favour than ever. How envious Roger must have been when he heard of the King’s friendship with the man he hated! People used to say in those days: The King loves the Chancellor more than any other living being.

And now here was triumph, for everyone in that hall knew that they had been assembled to witness the public humiliation of the King’s one-time beloved friend.

Yet Thomas had his sympathisers there – mellow men, men of integrity. One was Henry of Winchester, brother of King Stephen, a man who had once had great ambitions, but who had long discarded them realising their emptiness.

He knew the nature of the King and that of Thomas too. The Earl of Leicester and Richard de Luci were good honest men who served the King well. They would not go against Henry but they did not wish to see such a man as Thomas Becket humiliated. They understood his scruples and applauded them and would rather that it had not been necessary to call this meeting.

If Thomas knew the King, the King knew Thomas. He was well aware that Thomas had given him his verbal promise because as a churchman he had believed he must obey the Pope. It was a slip, Thomas, thought the King exultantly. Your poor weak Pope trembled for his own skin, and you fell into the trap. And now you regret it. And you can well refuse to take the oath in public. And I know you well. I know your eloquence. I know that you could sway a multitude to your way of thinking. Look around the hall, Thomas. See the armed men I have had stationed here.

Others see them. They will know for what purpose they are here. There is not a man in this hall who would dare offend his King, Thomas. Except perhaps you. Consider the folly of it, Thomas.

He himself opened the meeting.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, he said, had come to swear before them all that he would unconditionally serve his King.

Thomas rose from his seat.

‘My lord,’ he said. ‘I will swear to serve my King when that service does not conflict with my duty to the Church.’

The King’s face was scarlet, his eyes blazed and every man in the hall save Thomas trembled. Thomas felt only exultation, for he had done what he believed was right. He had feared that in that assembly he might have quailed, but he had come through safely, and he felt he was sustained by God.

Henry’s fury broke forth. So great was his rage that he was incoherent. He could only fling abuse at his Archbishop. Thomas remained calm and pale as though he did not hear the King.

Nor did he. He was thinking, I have taken the first step.

Whatever happens to me I must accept. If it is death then it will soon be over and I shall have died for God and the Church.

The King suddenly strode out of the hall. His son took a trembling look at Thomas and followed him. Thomas caught the cynical eye of the Archbishop of York, who in those seconds could not disguise his pleasure.

Thomas made his way to his lodging that he might meditate and pray for strength to go on as he had begun. It was not long before Joceline, Bishop of Salisbury and Roger, Bishop of Worcester called on him.

‘Come in, my friends,’ said Thomas.

They came in and regarded him with fearful eyes.

‘We implore you, my lord,’ said the Bishop of Salisbury,

‘to make your peace with the King.’

‘I do not wish to be at war with the King,’ answered Thomas.

‘He will kill us all if you do not take the oath, my lord.’

‘Then we must die. It will not be the first time that men have died for the Church of God. Countless hosts of saints have taught us by word and example: God’s will be done.’