Chapter VII.

Henry II. (1154-1189).

When King Henry II. ascended the throne in 1154, he was the most powerful monarch that had ever reigned in England, and one of the most powerful in Christendom. To his hereditary possessions, Anjou, Normandy, and Maine, and his beautiful kingdom of England, he had added by his marriage with Eleanor of Aquitaine, Poitou, and Aquitaine, which comprised Saintonge, Auvergne, Perigord, Limousin, Angoumois, and Guienne. {147} He was ambitious and greedy of power. His father, who knew him well, had provided by his will that Anjou should return to his second son Geoffrey, if the eldest should become King of England, and in order to secure this arrangement he had forbidden his own interment before Henry should have sworn to conform to it. The prince hesitated long, then took the oath, and Count Geoffrey Plantagenet was consigned to the tomb. But Henry had become king and his brother had claimed the execution of his promise. The monarch contrived to be relieved of his oath by Nicholas Breakspeare, who had been raised to the pontifical dignity under the name of Adrian IV., the only Englishman who has ever become Pope. Henry Plantagenet retained Anjou, the cradle of that family which he was destined to render so powerful.

When the new king landed in England, six weeks after the death of Stephen, he found his kingdom a prey to horrible anarchy. In the intervals of their power Maud and Stephen had both endeavored to attach to themselves the great nobles by important grants of lands and castles: hence the royal domains were reduced to insignificance and were surrounded on all sides by menacing fortresses guarded by resolute soldiers who recognized no authority but that of their chiefs. Many of these fortresses were in the hands of Flemish and Brabantine mercenaries whom each party in turn had summoned to their assistance. It was by dealing with these men that Henry began the reform which he reckoned upon introducing into the condition of territorial property. On a given day, to the great joy of the Normans and Saxons, he ordered all foreigners to leave the kingdom. "We saw them (says a chronicler), we saw all those Brabantines and Flemings recross the sea to return to their plough-tails, and from being lords become serfs again."

{148}

The expulsion of the foreign mercenaries had been popular; but this was not the principal object of the king, who desired to reconstitute the royal domain, and with that object convoked a grand council, which admitted, though not without difficulty, that Henry was under the necessity of resuming the grants made by Stephen and Maud. The king was not more sparing of the partisans of his mother than of her enemies. From the moment that right was on his side he never stopped in his efforts: from castle to castle, from domain to domain, he triumphed over the malcontents, either by the sword or by negotiation. When he became master of one fortress he instantly had it razed to the ground. In this way eleven hundred castles disappeared from the face of England; they had been mere haunts of robbers who oppressed the country roundabout. The peasants and the townspeople applauded the work of destruction.

King Henry had already triumphed over his vassals and defeated his brother Geoffrey, who had refused to acquiesce in his spoliation. He had compelled him to take refuge at Nantes, the population of which town had offered him the government. In 1157 he came to the determination to bring to an end the struggle with the Welsh, who were still fighting proudly for their independence. But Henry did not know well that country of mountains and defiles. He became entangled in the environs of the forest of Coleshill, and the Welsh sallying forth in a mass from the obscure lurking-places where they had been lying in ambush, fell upon the English army. The massacre was great. The Earl of Essex, hereditary standard-bearer of the crown, let fall the royal banner, and took to flight. The rumor spread abroad at once that the king was killed, but he soon rallied his troops and effected his retreat to a more open country, where he pitched his camp, and thence inflicted so much annoyance on the Welsh that without venturing a second time upon a fixed battle they consented to restore to Henry the territory which they had won back from Stephen, and to swear fidelity and homage to him for the lands which they retained. {149} The struggles of King Henry with the Welsh were not ended. Repeated insurrections were destined to recall him into the mountains; but he succeeded nevertheless in securing and extending his dominion over that indomitable population, proud of the antiquity of their race, and convinced that all England belonged to them by right of birth.

Geoffrey had lately died at Nantes (1158) and his brother claimed that city as belonging to him by inheritance. In vain the citizens protested: in vain Conan, duke of Brittany, and earl of Richmond in England, maintained the rights of his vassals, King Henry confiscated the lands of the Earl of Richmond and crossed the sea with so powerful an army that the inhabitants of Nantes were terrified and opened their gates to him. Henry immediately took possession of all the territory between the Loire and the Vilaine, and proposed to the duke to terminate their differences by affiancing his daughter Constance to Geoffrey, the third of the English princes. In order to obtain the consent of the King of France, Louis VII., to this increase of his power upon French soil, Henry had sought the hand of Margaret of France on behalf of Henry, his eldest son.

This gleam of a good understanding between the great powers of the earth was very soon disturbed by new ambitious dreams of Henry Plantagenet. Eleanor of Aquitaine had, or believed herself to have through her grandmother, claims to the countship of Toulouse. Her first husband, Louis VII., had relinquished those rights by treaty after an attempt to seize them by force of arms; but by virtue of the divorce, Eleanor had vested her pretensions in her second husband, Henry, king of England, who claimed the cession pure and simple of the countship by Raymond of St. Gilles, count of Toulouse. {150} The latter invoked the aid of his suzerain lord, the King of France. In the prospect of this distant struggle, Henry commuted the military service which his vassals were bound to render into a tax, and by means of this money he secured the services of an army of Brabantines. With these marched Malcolm, king of Scotland; and the King of Aragon, who like the King of France and the Duke of Brittany had lately affianced his daughter to one of the sons of Henry, and the most warlike of the English barons. But Louis VII. had already entered Toulouse, when Henry advanced against that city. Louis had but few troops with him and the King of England might easily have attempted an assault: scruples based upon his position of vassal of his lord, however, restrained him. When the French army had joined Louis VII. a few feats of arms of little importance soon brought the war to an end; but it had left indelible traces. The inhabitants of the south of France had acquired the habit of calling to their aid sometimes the King of France, sometimes the King of England, and their independence was destined to succumb under these powerful protectors. It was so well known upon the banks of the Garonne that the southern provinces were at peace when their dangerous allies were quarrelling elsewhere that people openly asked, in the form of a prayer, "When will the truce between the English and the Tournois come to an end?"

In the midst of these wars and negotiations, these invasions and these treaties. King Henry relied on all sides upon the advice and the support of Thomas Becket, or à Becket, chancellor of England, the son of Gilbert à Becket, a merchant of the city of London, of Norman origin. {151} A romantic story attaches to the birth of Thomas Becket. It is related that the busy passers-by in the streets of London, had, to their great surprise, observed one day a woman wearing Oriental costume who was wandering about repeating the name of Gilbert. To questions put to her she gave no answer, and she knew no other English words than "Gilbert" and "London." The people around her had begun to murmur, when she was recognized by a servant who had accompanied Gilbert Becket to the crusades. Both had been made prisoners and had succeeded in escaping: but the daughter of the Emir who had held them captive had conceived a passion for Gilbert; she had followed his traces to the shore and had found means of going to England, and then to London, without any other guide to the whereabouts of him she loved than this name of Gilbert, at that time a very common one. Becket consulted his confessor; the Saracen princess was baptized under the name of Matilda, and Gilbert married her. Her husband made a great fortune and his son Thomas, a handsome and intelligent youth, had been brought up with great care, then sent into France and Italy to finish his education. He had been taken notice of from his childhood by Theobald, archbishop of Canterbury, who took him into his house as soon as he had completed his studies and employed him in the most delicate diplomatic affairs, when at the accession of King Henry II. he himself fulfilled the functions of prime minister. The king took a liking to the young archdeacon, and in 1156 appointed him chancellor, at the same time confiding to him the education of his eldest son. He also made him constable of the Tower, with the custody of considerable domains. The ecclesiastical benefices often vacant, which the chancellor was in no haste to fill up, caused to flow into the treasury the rich revenues of the bishoprics and abbeys. {152} Gilbert Becket was dead, and his son had inherited a great fortune. He was forty years of age, elegant in his person magnificent in his attire, skilled in all bodily exercises, and at the same time learned, courageous, enterprising, and able. The king, who saw only through his eyes, kept him incessantly at his side, and could not endure his absence. Becket kept a splendid retinue, remarkable, even at that period of magnificent extravagance. His house was filled with knights and daughters of great lords who designed to secure by this means the favor of the king, and to bring up their children in the manners of the court. His sumptuously furnished table was open to all comers, and when a diplomatic mission led the chancellor abroad, the retinue which accompanied him was so magnificent and so numerous that the spectators exclaimed, "What must the king of England be, when his servant travels with such pomp?" It was in this way that Thomas Becket presented himself at the French court to negotiate on the affair of Brittany and the alliance of Prince Henry with Margaret of France. With similar grand display, although of a different nature, he accompanied the king in his campaign through the countship of Toulouse, of which he directed in person the greater part of the operations. He was at the head of seven hundred knights and men of arms, supported at his expense, when he attacked the town of Cahors and the castles which surrounded it. His sagacity, his good humor, his caustic and fertile wit were to the king a continual source of amusement. He lived with his favorite in almost brotherly intimacy, and the administrative talents which the chancellor displayed in domestic affairs added to his popularity. "I will make thee Archbishop of Canterbury," Henry often said. Becket smiled and shook his head. When the prior of Leicester, a rigid ecclesiastic, reproached him with the worldliness and outward show of his mode of living, reminding him that he was destined to become primate of England, the chancellor exclaimed, "I know three poor priests more fitted than I for that dignity. If ever I attained it, I should either lose the king's favor, or forget my duty towards God."

{153}

The Archbishop Theobald was dead (1161). For thirteen months the king left the see vacant, in order to appropriate its revenues: but he did not lose sight of the choice on which he had resolved. Becket was devoted to him: he had always displayed great respect for the royal prerogative, exacting so rigorously what was due to the crown, even from the clergy, that the Bishop of London, Gilbert Folliot, accused him angrily of plunging a dagger into the maternal bosom of his Church. Henry believed himself sure of thus raising to the ecclesiastical supremacy a friend who would support him in the reforms which he was meditating. He sent for Thomas Becket at Toulouse, where he happened to be, and ordered him to set out immediately for England, where he would be elected archbishop of Canterbury. Becket smiled as he pointed to the magnificent dress in which he was clothed. "You choose fine dresses to figure at the head of your monks at Canterbury," he said. "If you do as you say, sire, you will hate me very soon as much as you now love me; for you will meddle in the affairs of the Church more than I can consent to, and people will not be wanting to embroil us."

The king paid no heed to the views of the chancellor. The bishops and the chapter of Canterbury proclaimed Becket unanimously, with the exception of Gilbert Folliot, who had hoped to secure that promotion for himself. The new archbishop received the order of priesthood, for he was hitherto only a deacon, and he was consecrated by Henry of Winchester, brother of King Stephen. The pallium was brought from Rome, and Becket took possession of the archiepiscopal throne.

{154}

In placing his hand upon the pastoral crozier Becket had completely changed his way of living. From the most ostentatious luxury he suddenly passed to the austerest life. No more festivities; no more horses; no more sumptuous clothing. The rich revenues were expended in alms; the archbishop had resigned his position as chancellor, saying that he could not do justice to the affairs of the king as well as those of the Church. Henry was astonished at this transformation; but as yet it caused him no irritation. When the court returned to England the archbishop conducted his royal pupil to his father and the king exhibited towards him the affection and the confidence to which he had been accustomed.

Meanwhile the storm was approaching. Becket had resolved to restore to the see of Canterbury its primitive splendor; and to take back from the hands of the despoiler the property of which the chapter had been deprived by slow degrees. This measure, similar to that which Henry had long before applied to the crown property, seemed to the king objectionable when the matter in hand was the lands of the archbishopric. Becket even dared to demand a castle, and he had excommunicated a vassal holding directly from the crown who had expelled a priest from his domains. It was with an ill will and after much difficulty that the archbishop withdrew his sentence in obedience to the king's orders.

While these clouds were gathering in the sky Henry was preparing a measure fatal to the good understanding between himself and his favorite. The priests and all those who depended, directly or indirectly, on the Church, had the right of being judged exclusively by ecclesiastical tribunals; and clerical justice was accused of great partiality. {155} Its very laws forbade the shedding of blood. Thus a servant of the Church could not be condemned to death even for murder, and this assurance often led to the most odious crimes, the repression of which was uncertain. The king had resolved to remedy this inconvenience by requiring that every priest degraded for his misdeeds should be given up to the civil tribunals, who should judge him in their turn. Becket maintained that it would be unjust to judge and punish twice the same culprit. The greater number of the bishops were of his opinion. The king shifted the question: "Will you," he asked the assembly of prelates, "swear to maintain the ancient customs of the realm?" "Save the honor of our order," replied all the bishops, with the exception of Hilary of Chichester. The king was furious. He convoked a great council at Clarendon (January 25, 1164), where he presented to the bishops a series of decrees and laws regulating the relations of the civil and ecclesiastical tribunals, which have since been known under the name of "The Constitutions of Clarendon." He had striven to intimidate the bishops by stripping Becket of the castles and the titles which he had given to him long before. Alternately threatening and yielding, the archbishop had arrived at Clarendon: he had consented to sign the Constitutions; the act was complete, and it only remained now to affix the seals when Becket was seized with remorse. "I will never affix my seal to this," he said, and without listening to the representations of his colleagues, or the counsels of the Grand Master of the Templars, or taking heed of the anger of the king, who had left the hall of council in a fit of rage, he remounted his horse and returned gloomily to Canterbury, lamenting over his sins as the cause of the enslavement of the Church in England. "I was taken from the court to become a bishop--vain and proud as I was--not from the school of the Saviour, but from the palace of Cæsar. {156} I was a feeder of birds, and I was suddenly called on to be the pastor of men; I was the patron of of mummers and took delight in following the hounds. I have become the keeper of many souls. I neglected my own vineyard, and now I am entrusted with the vineyard of others." He fasted and prayed, refusing to ascend the steps of the altar; and he found no rest until the Pope had sent him absolution for his failings. The pontiff had not ratified the Constitutions of Clarendon.

The king had not abandoned his project. His anger was directed against the archbishop, whom he rightly regarded as the only serious obstacle to his designs. He summoned him to appear before his council which met at Southampton (October 1164), under pretext of a denial of justice on the part of his archiepiscopal court. Becket excused himself, but was condemned to forfeit his personal property, a sentence which was commuted into a fine of five hundred pounds sterling. The charges against him were not yet exhausted. A demand was made for the rents which he had received from lands given to him by the king. The archbishop promised payment. Each day brought some new claim. The king, who was furious against his old favorite, demanded at length a sum of 44,000 marks of silver, on account of the ecclesiastical revenues which Becket had appropriated as chancellor during the vacancies of the sees. This was absolute ruin, and war to the knife. The archbishop replied that it was not in his power to pay such a sum, and that he had been declared free from all such claims when he had resigned his place as chancellor in order to become Primate of England. At the same time he requested a conference with the bishops; but all had abandoned him. Henry of Winchester alone proposed to pay the sums demanded of the archbishop. {157} The king would not listen to him. "What he desires is your resignation," said the Bishops of London and Winchester to Becket. "The life of this man is in danger," exclaimed the Bishop of Lincoln. "He will lose his bishopric or his life; and I would like to know of what use his bishopric will be when he is dead."

Under the effects of so many violent emotions the archbishop had been taken ill; he sincerely believed himself to be bound to maintain the juridical rights of the Church, and in his mind this cause was absolutely identified with the cause of God. To allow the ecclesiastical privileges to be trammelled by the royal authority, appeared to him "an act of treason against the Lord God who had elevated him, unworthy as he was, to the office of pastor of souls." Defeated and troubled, he at one time thought of throwing himself at the king's feet, and begging him to spare the Church for the sake of their old friendship; but Becket's was a proud and ungovernable spirit, and such humiliation appeared impossible to him; he therefore resolved to fight it out to the last. It was on the 18th of October, 1164, that he was to appear before the court to receive his final sentence. Clad in his episcopal robes, he celebrated mass in honor of St. Stephen, the first martyr; and then, after laying down his mitre, he advanced, holding a crucifix in his hand, and followed by the priests into the council-chamber. As he was entering, the Bishop of Hereford came to him, with the intention of taking the crucifix from him. "Allow me to keep it, my lord," he said; "it is the banner of the Prince whom I serve." The Bishop of London, Gilbert Folliot, was there, and also wished to take the crucifix from the hands of the prelate. "You defy the king," cried he, "by coming in this garb to his court; but the king holds a sword, the point of which is sharper than your crucifix." {158} The archbishop had, however, entered the council-chamber, and on seeing him Henry blushed deeply and hastily retired. The archbishop sat down, but the bishops had been called away by the king; discord reigned in the royal chamber. Henry was furious, and railed bitterly first against the obstinacy of the archbishop, and then against the cowardice of his own advisers. The Archbishop of York retired, calling all his followers, in order, as he said, to avoid seeing bloodshed. The Bishop of Exeter went and threw himself at Becket's feet, imploring him to give in and to save his life. "Go," said the archbishop, "you do not understand those things which are of God." At length the bishops returned with Hilary of Chichester at their head. "You were our primate," he said, "but in putting yourself in opposition to the royal will you have broken your oath of allegiance; a perjured archbishop has no longer any claim upon our obedience; we will submit the affair to the pope, and call upon you to answer before him for your conduct." "I understand," replied the archbishop coldly.

The noblemen had followed the bishops, and the Earl of Leicester approached Becket. "Hear your sentence," he began. "My sentence!" cried Becket; "my son, listen to me first: you know how faithfully I have served the king, and with what repugnance I accepted this duty to please him. You are my children in God; can a son sit in judgment on his father? I take exception to your tribunal and appeal to the Pope. I place myself, as well as my Church, under his protection, and summon the bishops who have obeyed the king rather than their God, to answer at that tribunal; it is under the protection of the Holy Catholic Church and of the apostolic see that I leave this court."

{159}

He had risen from his seat, and all the bishops had done likewise; followed by his priests, he strode slowly across the room; the courtiers insulted him and threw at him the bundles of straw which covered the floor. Somebody called out "traitor." "Were it not for the garments which I wear, that coward would repent his insolence," said the archbishop, who then mounted his horse, while he was saluted by the cries of the people who were prostrating themselves and asking his benediction. The prelate caused the doors of the monastery in which he resided to be opened, and the poor entered in crowds, the archbishop giving them a supper, and sitting down to table with them himself.

The Scriptures were being read, and Becket was struck by these words of the Lord: "If you are persecuted in one town, fly to another." He sent to the king for a passport. "You shall be answered to-morrow," was the message sent back from the palace. The friends of Becket were in great fear. "This night will be your last if you do not fly," said the clergy. The archbishop at length decided to leave England. Mounted on horseback, and accompanied by three priests, he set out in the direction of Kent, amidst torrents of rain that compelled him to cut off the skirts of his long mantle, which were wet and heavy and were irksome to him. He wandered about in the disguise of a monk, and under the name of Brother Christian, during twenty days in Kent, meeting with many adventures. At length he procured a little vessel, and landed on the 2nd of November, 1164, in the countship of Boulogne, near Gravelines, whence he repaired on foot and in the same disguise, to the convent of Saint-Bertin, near Namur.

{160}

The fugitive's first thought was to ask shelter of the King of France and protection of Pope Alexander II., who was then residing at Sens; the anti-Pope Victor held possession of Rome. The ambassadors of Henry II. had preceded Becket at both courts; but Louis the Young, an enemy to the King of England and therefore unwilling to do the latter a service, haughtily declared that it was the ancient privilege of the French crown to succor the oppressed against their persecutors. The Pope at first received Becket's representative rather coldly; but he ended by deciding to brave the anger of Henry II. and received the fallen archbishop with great kindness. "If I had been willing to do the bidding of the king in all things," said Becket, "nobody in his kingdom would now be as great as I; but I know that I obtained through him the position which I occupy to the prejudice of the liberty of the Church; that is the reason that I throw myself at your Holiness's feet; your Holiness must appoint a new primate of England." The Pope did not accept this resignation, and having caused the Constitutions of Clarendon to be read to the prelate, he condemned them, with the exception of six clauses; then raising the archbishop, whom he had reinvested with his ecclesiastical dignity, "Go," said he, "and learn in poverty to console the poor." The Pope assigned the abbey of Pontigny to him as his residence, and authorized him to excommunicate the enemies of the Church.

When Henry heard of the success of his adversary, his anger knew no bounds; not only did he confiscate both the goods and revenues of Becket and the priests who had followed him, but he included in his revenge all the members of the archbishop's family as well as all his friends. He proscribed more than four hundred persons, men, women, and children, whom he sent, divested of everything, to Becket, to complain of the misfortune which he had brought upon them. {161} Every day these unhappy people would present themselves at the convent of Pontigny, breaking the heart of the archbishop, who found no rest until the time when the combined charity of King Louis, the Pope, and the Queen of Sicily, provided for the necessities of the exiles.

Meanwhile, King Henry had on hand grave affairs which would soon have made him forget his grievances against the archbishop, if he had been of a less vindictive disposition. The Welsh had revolted, and the war against them had been unfortunate in consequence of bad weather; the king had consoled himself for this by causing the noses of the hostages to be cut off and their eyes destroyed; but this was not sufficient to appease his anger. He found satisfaction in Brittany, where he profited by the rebellion against Conan. Henry took advantage of it to seize upon the country. He celebrated, in 1166, the marriage of his son Geoffrey with Constance. Brittany was pacified, but Becket had just excommunicated all those who held the property of the Church, and particularly several of the king's favorites, whom he mentioned by name.

When Henry heard this news, he was at Chinon, near Tours. His anger was so violent that he threw himself upon his bed, tearing the clothes, biting the straw of the mattress and howling with rage. He immediately informed the abbot of Pontigny that if the order of Cistercians wished to retain their property in the provinces dependent on the King of England, he must refuse the shelter of his house to the enemy who so haughtily defied his sovereign. The abbot went and saw Becket. "God forbid that upon such injunctions the chapter should think of sending you away," he said; "consider for yourself what you had better do." The archbishop immediately made preparation to leave the place, and went to the convent of Saint Colomba near Sens, where King Louis had ordered that he should be received (1168).

{162}

Up to this period political considerations had created an ill-feeling between the King of France and the King of England, and in this lay Becket's security; in 1169 similar influences brought them to an understanding. They met at a solemn conference at Montmirail, and when the young princes, Henry's sons, had done homage to the King of France for Normandy, Aquitaine, and Brittany, the case of Becket was considered, and he was ordered to appear before the august assembly. The archbishop was growing weary of his exile, and his protectors were growing weary of defending him. It was therefore hoped that he would tender his submission, in order to end the struggle. Becket presented himself before King Henry with a grave and modest air. Bending his knee, the archbishop said, "My liege, in all the disputes which have taken place between us, I submit to your judgment, as arbitrary sovereign in all points, except the honor of God." Immediately this restriction was uttered, the king burst into a passion, and turning towards King Louis, "Do you know," he cried, "what would happen if I were to accept this reservation? Everything that should displease him would be contrary to the honor of God, and I should lose all power. There have been archbishops at Canterbury much more pious than he, and there have been kings in England less powerful than I; let him only treat me as the least pious of his predecessors treated the smallest of mine, and I shall be satisfied." "Save the honor of God," repeated the archbishop. The assembly cried out aloud that it was past endurance, that the king could ask no less, and that Becket was too exacting. "Do you wish then to be more than a saint?" asked Louis angrily, but he got no further concession; and the two kings remounted their horses without taking leave of the archbishop, whose fate was now very much harder by reason of the estrangement of the King of France. {163} He was reduced to live by alms, until the day when Louis again sent for him. "It is to banish us from his dominions," the clergy said, in alarm; but scarcely had the king seen the archbishop when he threw himself in his arms. "Forgive me, father," he cried, "you are right, we were mistaken; we wished to subject the honor of God to the will of a man. Absolve me." Henry had failed to fulfil his contracts with King Louis, who had thereupon hastened to express his approval of Becket's conduct.

A fresh attempt at a reconciliation broke down in consequence of the king's firm decision never to give to the archbishop the kiss of peace, with which it was usual to ratify all oaths. Meanwhile Prince Henry had been crowned in England, his father wishing to secure the succession to him. Becket's office had been usurped, the young prince having received the crown from the hands of the Archbishop of York. The Pope had returned to Rome, after the death of the anti-Pope Victor, and the displeasure or favor of the King of England now had fewer attractions or horrors for him. Henry was afraid that he might authorize Becket to excommunicate him personally, and to place his kingdom under an interdict, and he at length yielded, under the advice of the king of France, with whom he had just effected a reconciliation. In the month of July, 1170, the two antagonists met within the confines of Touraine. As soon as the king perceived the archbishop, he came forward, helmet in hand, and accosted him. They conversed in a friendly manner, with a certain amount of their old familiarity, and when they parted from each other, the king said to his courtiers, "I found the archbishop most favorably disposed towards me, and if the feeling were not mutual I should be the worst of men." {164} Within two days of this event the reconciliation took place. Becket bent his knee to the king, who held the stirrup for the archbishop to remount his horse; but the kiss of peace was not given. However, the restitution of the archbishop's property was agreed upon. Henry promised to supply Becket with the money requisite to defray his travelling expenses to England, and the two enemies, apparently reconciled, took leave of each other. "I do not believe that I shall ever see you again," said the archbishop, looking fixedly at the king. "What! Do you take me for a traitor?" cried Henry angrily. The prelate only bowed in answer. He never saw the king again.

The archbishop had proceeded to Rouen, awaiting the money which had been promised to him, and during the sojourn which he was compelled to make in Normandy, he received frequent warnings of the dangers which awaited him on the other side of the Channel. "They will not even allow Becket time enough to eat a whole loaf," said Ranulph de Broc, who had been excommunicated by him; but Becket did not take heed of any warnings. "Even," he said, "if I had to face the certainty of being cut to pieces on the other side of the Channel, I should not turn back on my way. Seven years of absence are sufficient for the pastor and for his flock."

After having waited for four months, he borrowed three hundred livres of the Archbishop of Rouen, and set sail in a small vessel which landed him in Sandwich Bay, whereby he avoided an ambush which had been prepared for him near Dover. A messenger preceded the prelate, bearing letters of excommunication from the Pope against the Archbishop of York, the Bishop of London, and the Bishop of Chichester, who had all taken part in the ceremony of the coronation of the young king. {165} The letters were publicly consigned to the three bishops, who were enraged beyond measure. It was on the first of December that Becket returned to England, to the great delight of the people, but not a single baron came to meet him. The first who passed were armed and drew their swords; one of the king's chaplains, who had accompanied the primate, was at great pains to quiet them, and to protect Becket on his re-entering his episcopal city. "He gathers serfs round him on his way," said the noblemen, "and leads them with him." The archbishop had come back to Canterbury after having attempted to obtain an interview with the young king, his old pupil, but the latter had refused to see him, and Becket, confined to his diocese, surrounded himself with the poor and the peasants, who constituted a rustic guard round him. Excommunications were still being proclaimed; on Christmas-day, after having begun his sermon with these words, "_Venio ad vos, mori inter vos_" (I come to you to die among you), Becket, reminding his congregation that one of their archbishops had suffered martyrdom, added, "You will perhaps see another suffer in the same manner; but, before dying, I will avenge some of the wrongs done to the Church." He then excommunicated Ranulph and Robert de Broc, his bitter enemies.

Meanwhile the suspended bishops had crossed the sea, to go and lay their complaints before King Henry II., who was still in Normandy. "We throw ourselves at your mercy, in the name of the Church and State, for your peace and for ours. There is a man who is inflaming all England; he marches with troops of armed horsemen and foot-soldiers, prowling around the fortresses, trying to effect an entrance." Henry had never sincerely forgiven his old favorite, and he was very angry at these accounts of his conduct. {166} "What!" cried he, "does this wretch who has eaten my bread, who came to my court a beggar, upon a lame horse, with all he possessed behind him, insult me with impunity, while not one of the cowards whom I feed at my table dares to deliver me from a priest who is so obnoxious to me."

Words like these are always caught up by willing ears. When the king convoked a council of his barons to decide what was to be done with Becket, four of their number were absent--Richard Brito, Hugh de Moreville, William de Tracy, and Reginald Fitzurse. When the king observed that they were not there, he became uneasy, and hastened the departure of the Earl of Mandeville, who was commissioned to arrest Becket. The four conspirators preceded him.

On the 29th of December, in the morning, they arrived at Canterbury, followed by a troop of soldiers whom they had collected together on their way. They wished to secure the help of the mayor of the town, but the latter refused. The knights recommended him at least to keep the townsmen quiet, and they proceeded to the prelate's house with twelve of their friends.

The archbishop was in his room, and the knights sat down on the floor without saluting him and in silence. No one dared begin. The archbishop asked their business. "We have come on behalf of the king," said Reginald Fitzurse, "in order that those you have excommunicated may be absolved, that the bishops who have been suspended may be re-established in their positions, and that you may justify your designs against the king." '"It is not I who excommunicated the Archbishop of York," said Becket, "but the Pope himself. As to the others, I will re-establish them if they will tender their submission." {167} "From whom do you hold your appointment as archbishop?" inquired Fitzurse, "from the Pope or from the king?" "My spiritual office I hold by the will of God and the Pope," said the primate, "and my temporal rights from the king." "It is not from the king, then, that you obtain everything?" "No." The knights were restless, and were twisting their gloves angrily. "I am astonished," said Becket, "that men who formerly swore allegiance to me come into my house to threaten me." "We will do more than threaten," cried the barons. They thereupon retired hastily.

The priests and attendants who surrounded Becket were alarmed; they wanted to close all the doors and barricade the house, begging the bishop to take refuge in the church. He refused. Already the noise of battle-axes rattling against the entrance was heard. Fitzurse was endeavoring to break open the door, which an attendant had shut upon the intruders, who had now come back with their weapons. The bell of the church was ringing for vespers. "Since it is my duty, I will go to the church," said Becket, and, preceded by a priest carrying a cross, he passed slowly through the cloisters and entered the cathedral. The door had not given way, but the conspirators had just entered the palace by the window. The clergy were hastening to close the doors of the church. "No," said the archbishop, "the house of God should not be barricaded like a fortress." He was ascending the steps leading to the choir when Reginald Fitzurse entered abruptly at the other end of the church. He was brandishing his sword and crying, "Come, loyal subjects of the king." It was late; the movements of the conspirators were scarcely observable, neither could the latter see the priests distinctly. The archbishop was urged to descend into the crypt. He refused, and advanced boldly towards the sacrilegious intruders, who were brandishing their swords within the holy precincts. {168} His cross-bearer alone had not fled "Where is the traitor?" cried a voice. Becket did not answer. "Where is the archbishop?" repeated Fitzurse. "I am here," said Becket, "but no traitor, only a priest of the Lord. What are you here for?" "Absolve all those whom you have excommunicated." "They have not repented, and therefore I cannot." "You shall die then." "I am ready, in the name of the Saviour; but I forbid you, by the Lord Almighty, to touch any of these present, either priests or laymen." At this moment he received between the shoulders a blow with the flat part of a sword. "Fly," they cried, "or you are a dead man." The archbishop did not stir; the intruders endeavored to drag him out, not daring to kill him in the sanctuary; he was struggling in their grasp. At length William de Tracy raised his sword and wounded the archbishop in the head, striking down at the same time the hand of Edward Gryme, the brave cross-bearer. Becket had clasped his hands together: "I confide my soul and the cause of the Church to God, to the Virgin Mary, to the patron saints of this church, and to St. Denis," he cried. A second thrust from a sword laid him prostrate upon the ground near St. Bennet's altar; a third blow split his skull, and the sword was broken on the paved floor. "Thus perish all traitors," cried one of the conspirators, and they left the church hurriedly, while the monks were tearfully laying the archbishop's body out at the foot of the altar, taking up his blood in vessels, leaving exposed to view the hair-cloth which he wore, and already revering him as a martyr. But on the morrow they were obliged to bury him in great haste in order to spare his dead body the indignity of being insulted by Ranulph de Broc, who desired to take it away. {169} The Archbishop of York publicly declared that Becket had fallen in his guilt and his pride like Pharaoh, while other bishops maintained that the body of the traitor ought not to lie in consecrated ground, and that he should be thrown into the foulest ditch or be put upon a gibbet to rot. It was forbidden in the churches to speak of him as a martyr.

Decrees are incapable of influencing the development of public opinion; King Henry was the first to discover this. Scarcely had he heard the news, when a profound feeling of repentance for his imprudent words overcame him; he shut himself up in his private apartment, and during three days would not see anybody or take any food. When he awoke from this sullen depression, he immediately sent an ambassador to the Pope, assuring the latter of his innocence and of the grief which the death of the archbishop caused him. At the same time, he hesitated to punish the murderers, who had acted according to his suggestion, and he allowed them the benefit of clergy, the crime having been committed upon the person of a priest. Thus the liberties of the Church, for which Becket had just died, protected his assassins. It is related that the latter were stricken with remorse in their turn, and that they went and threw themselves at the feet of the Pope, at Rome, who ordered them to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, where they died sincerely penitent. If the story of the repentance of the murderers is not well authenticated, that of Becket's posthumous triumph is incontestable. He had not been buried two years, and King Henry had scarcely obtained forgiveness of the Pope (1172) by undertaking to support, during three years, two hundred horsemen intended for the defence of the Holy Sepulchre, when pilgrims were already proceeding in crowds to Canterbury Cathedral, begging the protection of the martyr, canonized by the public voice before being recognized as a saint by the Church. {170} Two more years elapsed, and on the 10th of July, 1174, the king was proceeding barefooted along the road leading to Canterbury. Each step he made left behind him a spot of blood; he wore a pilgrim's dress, and on his arrival descended into the crypt, and prostrated himself before the tomb. The Bishop of London, from the pulpit, assured the people of the innocence of the king, of the profound grief which the death of the archbishop had caused him, and of the remorse which he experienced for the fit of anger which had caused the commission of the crime; the king remained praying. He rose, uncovered his shoulders, and, passing before the chapter, he received from each monk three strokes from a knotted rope; Henry then returned to the tomb, still fasting and praying. He passed the night in the church, and the morning after, having attended holy mass, he returned to London so exhausted by the fatigue and severity of his punishment that he fell ill on his arrival.

During the anxieties which Henry experienced while he was quarrelling with Becket, he had not neglected external affairs, and a new kingdom had been added to his vast dominions, a kingdom insecurely held, however, as yet, and which was to cost England much blood and many errors before being united completely to his crown. Henry II. had made the conquest of Ireland.

After having shone with some brilliancy in letters as well as in the history of religious faith, Ireland had for some time past fallen back into a state verging on barbarism. Originally inhabited by different colonies of the Celtic race, she retained institutions analogous to those of the Highlands of Scotland. The clans were called septs, the chief was known as a "Carfinny," and chose his successor or "Tanist" from his own family, without regard to the laws of primogeniture; when the "Carfinny" died the Tanist succeeded him and named his own heir presumptive. {171} The same rule existed in the four kingdoms of Ulster, Munster, Leinster, and Connaught. Enmity and rivalry were constant between these princes; of one hundred and seventy-eight kings who ruled over Ireland, seventy-one were killed in war and sixty were murdered. In 1169 the King of Leinster, Dermod MacMorogh, having been driven from his possessions, had applied to Henry II. for assistance, offering to take the oath of allegiance to the English king. But the king was engrossed in his relations with France, and he contented himself with authorizing English warriors to support the cause of Dermod if they chose. Having obtained this permission, a certain number of adventurers went over to Ireland; the most notable of whom was the son of the Earl of Pembroke, Richard de Clare, called Strongbow, who took with him a force of three thousand men. He fought against Dermod's enemies, married that chief's daughter, and had just inherited the kingdom of his father-in-law, when the king, annoyed at his success, wrote for him, recalling him to England. Strongbow immediately crossed the sea and came and threw himself at the king's feet, offering to surrender the town of Dublin to him. Henry's anger was appeased, and he appointed Strongbow to the position of seneschal of Ireland. In the following year the king himself landed in his new dominions with an army so numerous that the Irish soon made a nominal submission. Henry, however, intended not to act as a conqueror; he was taking possession, he said, of Ireland, by virtue of an old bull of Pope Adrian which conferred upon him the sovereignty of this new kingdom by the right which the Popes claimed to exercise over all the islands recognizing the Christian faith. The Irish Bishops answered this appeal by meeting together in council. Several wise measures were adopted for the civilization of the savage regions, where polygamy was still practised, and where dead bodies were not always buried. {172} But Henry did not attempt to impose the English laws upon his new subjects. That portion of Ireland occupied by the Normans was alone assimilated to England; the rest of the country remained subject to its old customs. When Henry returned from thence on the 17th of April, 1173, nominating Hugh de Lacy governor of Ireland, he left behind him territories which his armies had not overrun, and an undisciplined population, who took advantage of his absence to rebel. The jealousies of the English noblemen established in Ireland still further complicated the difficulties of the government. Harassed by their mutual recriminations, the king would depose, replace, or recall the rivals; disorder reigned in all parts, when, in 1185, the king, having obtained from the Pope the investiture of Ireland for his son John, sent the young prince there with his court. The arrogance, the severity, and the follies of the new sovereign soon caused fresh insurrections. John grew alarmed and returned precipitately to England, leaving to Sir John de Courcy the care of pacifying Ireland; the lieutenant succeeded in this, and, having become Earl of Ulster, he governed the new kingdom with as much firmness as good sense, until, at the end of the reign of Henry II., a prosperous state of affairs was inaugurated, to which Ireland had not been accustomed under native kings.

Henry had begun to appropriate Ireland to himself, but without being able to give his personal attention to that country. He was a prey to bitter and ever-increasing embarrassments. The crowning of his son, Prince Henry, had excited in the young man an ambitious spirit which his father-in-law, Louis VII., constantly encouraged. He asked for the immediate cession of Normandy or even of England, in order to be able, he said, to maintain his position and that of the queen his wife. {173} "Wait until my death," replied the king, "you shall have wealth and power enough." He intended to bequeath England to Henry as well as Normandy, Anjou, and Maine. Aquitaine he designed for Richard, Brittany for Geoffrey, and Ireland for John. The young princes had even already been invested with these magnificent provinces; but, encouraged by their mother, the vindictive Eleanor, to whom Henry II. had always been a good husband, they plotted to seize their inheritance beforehand. In March, 1173, Prince Henry, who had slept with his father at Chinon, found a means of escaping during the night, and of reaching the territory of the King of France. A few days afterwards, his two brothers, Richard and Geoffrey, also escaped, and Queen Eleanor prepared to follow her sons; but she was captured by her husband's emissaries and brought back to England, where she was imprisoned until King Henry's death.

The father had sent to Paris to ask that his son should be given up to him; the ambassadors found the young prince clad in regal robes, seated by the side of Louis VII. "We come from Henry, King of the English, Duke of Normandy and of Aquitaine, Count of Anjou and of Maine," began the messengers. "No," said the king, interrupting them, "King Henry is sitting here, and he has commissioned you to deliver no message. If you wish to speak of the king his father, he is dead since his son wears the crown. If he still has any pretensions to the title of king, I will soon cure him of them." In accordance with these haughty words, the young prince caused a seal similar to that of England to be made, and declared, by letters addressed to the Pope, to his brothers, and to all the great noblemen of England and of the French states, that he was at war with his father in order to avenge the death of Becket, "my foster-father, whose assassins are still safe and sound. {174} I am unable (he added) to bear this criminal negligence, for the blood of the martyr cries aloud in my ears. My father is incensed against me; but I do not fear to offend him when the honor of God is the cause." The Kings of France and Scotland, the Count of Flanders, and a great number of English and Norman noblemen sided with the conspirators; King Henry began to see himself abandoned by his most intimate friends.

He was a match for his four sons. "The King of England neither rides nor sails," said King Louis, alarmed by the rapidity of his rival's movements; "he is believed to be in England, and he is in France; he is believed to be in Ireland, and he is in England." An army of Brabantines had been raised, and King Henry II. had called upon all those monarchs who had sons, to support him in his quarrel; endeavoring to secure their help by the consideration of the disorder which would reign in their own dominions if their own children followed the example set by the English princes. He had implored the Pope to help him to defend the patrimony of St. Peter, as he called the islands of England and Ireland; the pontiff replied by sending legates to put an end to this unnatural struggle; but blood had already been shed. In the month of June, 1173, the Count of Flanders had entered into Normandy; but his brother, who was his heir, having been killed at the first siege, he retired from this impious struggle and re-entered his states. King Louis VII. and Prince Henry were defeated by the Brabantines; Prince Geoffrey did not meet with success in Brittany; a conference convoked at Gisors again excited their animosity. The war was carried on with alternate successes and reverses; the insurrection had spread as far as Aquitaine; the Scots had crossed the frontier, and several towns of England were in the hands of the insurgents, when, in the month of July 1174, Henry hastily left Normandy. {175} On reaching England he proceeded directly to Becket's tomb. It was on the morrow of his humiliation and repentance, when he was already in his bed, overcome by fever, that it was announced to him that an attendant of Ranulph de Glanville wished to speak with him. The king inquired whether Ranulph, who was one of his intimate friends, was well. "My lord is well," replied the messenger, "and your enemy, the King of Scotland, is in your hands." The king trembled. "Say that again," he said. The man tendered some letters to the king; it appeared that on the 12th of July Glanville had surprised the King of Scotland, William the Lion, in the neighborhood of Alnwick, and had made a prisoner of him. This good news effected a cure of the king's disorder; the people again thronged round his standards. In a few days the insurrection was quelled in all parts, and Henry, after this triumph, recrossed the sea with his army to relieve Rouen, which was besieged by the King of France, Prince Henry, and the Count of Flanders. A battle took place under the walls of the town, which was decided in favor of the King of England; the princes were for the time reduced to obedience. Richard resisted for a greater length of time than his brothers; he had acquired a taste for warlike achievements, which were to become the passion of his life, and he thought besides that he was upholding the rights of his mother, to whom he was tenderly attached. But he yielded at length. An interval of peace at length allowed Henry II. breathing time and leisure to organize the great institution which he wished to bequeath to England. It was in 1176 that he definitively established, with the help of his friend Ranulph de Glanville, the courts of justice, where the assizes were regularly held for all the civil and criminal business, and which were presided over by itinerant judges, who made a circuit from town to town to direct the decisions of the knights of the shire who then represented the jury.

{176}

Louis VII. was dead. Philip Augustus had ascended the throne (1180), and war was about to break out afresh. King Henry, who was now reconciled to his eldest son, wished to compel Richard to do homage to his brother for the duchy of Aquitaine; the prince refused, saying that he would not compromise the rights of his mother. She was greatly beloved in her hereditary dominions, and the poet Bertrand de Born, powerful among his countrymen, and devoted to Eleanor's cause, was intriguing successively with whichever of the three sons appeared the most incensed against his father. King Henry had caused a picture to be painted re-presenting four young eagles attacking their sire. "If John does not join his brothers," he said sadly, "it is because he is too young."

Richard at length made peace with his father, but Henry and Geoffrey had raised the standard of rebellion in their turn. They had invited the king to a conference at Limoges (1183); when he approached the town he was saluted with a volley of arrows, of which one wounded his horse in the neck. "Ah! Geoffrey," cried the king, "what has your unhappy father done to you that you should thus make a target of him for your arrows?" The prince laughed at this bitter remonstrance. "We cannot live in peace amongst ourselves," he said, "without being in league against my father." His brother Henry was disgusted at this evidence of his brother's hard-heartedness, and joined the king for awhile; but soon after, having been again annoyed, he departed and joined Geoffrey and the Poitevins, who had revolted, when he fell ill at Limoges. {177} In terror, he sent, begging his father to come and grant his forgiveness. The king did not dare to accede to the request; his friends would not allow him to venture into the camp of his sons, who had so recently attempted his life. He contented himself with sending a ring by the Archbishop of Bordeaux, assuring the prince of his forgiveness. The prelate found the young man dying upon a bed of ashes, a prey to remorse and despair. He died pressing to his lips the ring which his father had sent to him, greatly distressed at not having received the benediction upon which he had hitherto set so little value.

A few days afterwards Limoges was taken, and the instigator of the insurrections, Bertrand de Born, was made a prisoner; he was brought before the king to receive sentence; he said nothing, and did not defend himself. "Bertrand," said the king, "you pretend that at no time do you require one-half of your talents; know that in this instance the whole of them would avail you little." "Sire," replied Bertrand, "it is true that I said that, and I told the truth." "And I think that your talents have deserted you," cried Henry angrily. "Ah! Sire," said Bertrand, "my powers deserted me on the day that the brave young king, your son, died; on that day I lost all my powers." The king burst into tears. "Bertrand," he cried, "it is but right that my son's death should have unnerved you, for he was more attached to you than to anybody else in the world; and I, for love of him, give you your life, your goods, and your castle."

The poet Dante did not forgive Bertrand de Born, as king Henry had done, for he placed him in hell. "I saw," said he, "and I seem to see it still, a headless trunk approach us, and the head being cut off, it held it in one hand by the hair, like a lantern: 'Know that I am Bertrand de Born, who gave bad advice to the young king.'"

{178}

In the midst of the general grief a kind of union was effected between the father and his remaining sons, as well as between the father and mother. Eleanor was brought back to Aquitaine, and restored to liberty; but this mutual understanding, so rare in this royal family, only lasted for a short time; Geoffrey asked the king to grant him the countship of Anjou, and on being refused, he retired to the court of France: death awaited him there; he was thrown in a tournament, and trampled under foot by the horse before the attendants could come to his assistance.

Henry had two sons remaining; Richard, who was afterwards called "Cœur-de-Lion," and who had inherited that majestic countenance which Peter of Blois attributes to his father, whose almost square face resembled a lion's head; and John Lackland, as his father laughingly called him, who had not taken part in the revolts of his brothers, and whom Henry esteemed very much for that reason. Richard had already shown fresh signs of insubordination. Eleanor had returned to her prison at Winchester, when a call from the East brought a short truce to the hostilities between France and England. Jerusalem had just been retaken by the Mussulmans (1187); Pope Urban II. had died of grief in consequence. Gregory VIII., who had succeeded him, called the Christians from the West to the deliverance of the Holy Sepulchre, and the Archbishop of Tyre was preaching in favor of the crusade. King Henry was the first to respond to the appeal. Richard assumed the cross as well as his father. Philip-Augustus manifested the same desire. A conference was held under the elm of Gisors, the famous tree at the foot of which many treaties had been ratified which had remained in force but for a very short time. The treaty of peace which was there agreed to in the name of the crusade proved to be no more durable than the others, and the King of France in his anger caused the tree to be rooted up, saying that no more perfidy should be witnessed under its branches. {179} It was rumored that the King of England had the intention of bequeathing his kingdom to his youngest son. Richard had another grievance against his father; the latter had for some time been detaining in a castle the Princess Alice of France, who had been promised in marriage to Richard, and far from conniving at the union, he was endeavoring to obtain a divorce from Eleanor, with the intention, it was said, of marrying the young princess himself. Richard demanded an explanation from his father of these two infringements of his rights, asking for his father's consent to his marriage and an acknowledgment of himself as heir to the throne of England.

Henry did not reply; he at length proposed to marry the Princess Alice to John Lackland. Richard was not infatuated with her, for he already dreamt of Berengaria of Navarre; but he looked upon his father's proposal as an indication of his intentions respecting John. "Is it really so," cried he; "I did not think it possible, but now, my friends, you will see what you little expected," And, kneeling before King Philip-Augustus, he placed his hands in that monarch's, and at once did the latter homage for the duchies of Normandy, Brittany, and Aquitaine, as well as for the countships of Poitou. Anjou, and Maine, asking for assistance in recovering his rights. Philip-Augustus accepted him as a vassal and liege, and immediately gave up to Richard the castles which he had taken from the latter's father.

{180}

This time the shot had been sent straight to the king's heart. In vain did he retire to Saumur, to recommence preparations for war: his energy and decision had failed him; he awaited the arrival of the Pope's legates, who were entrusted with the care of attempting a reconciliation, and contented himself with rewarding the noblemen of Normandy, who had always remained true to him. When the legate arrived, King Philip-Augustus, who was too clever not to discover the weariness of the old king, insisted on the conditions of peace offered at the last conference, asking besides that John should accompany his brother in the crusade, without which he threatened to cause the greatest disorder in the kingdom. Henry refused. "Then the truce is at an end," said the King of France. The legate threatened to place the kingdom under an interdict, and to excommunicate Philip and Richard. "I am not afraid of your mercenary anathemas," said Philip; and Richard, drawing his sword, cried, "I will kill any insensate who dares to excommunicate two princes in a single breath!" His friends restrained his violence; the legate remounted his mule and retired in great haste.

The French marched towards Le Mans; the town was taken and pillaged. Aquitaine, Poitou, and Brittany revolted; treason was rife among the English barons. Henry felt that he was beaten; he sued for peace, declaring himself ready to accept the propositions of Philip and of Richard. The two monarchs met upon a plain between Tours and Azay. Richard was not present; while they were conferring in the open field, and still on horseback, the thunder roared and a violent storm broke forth. The nerves of King Henry had been shaken by disease and trouble. He reeled in his saddle, and his servants sustained him with difficulty. When he had recovered his senses, he was too ill to continue the conference, and the proposals for peace were sent to his head-quarters. They were hard and humiliating; an indemnity for King Philip, permission for his vassals to do homage to Richard, the restoration of the Princess Alice to a person commissioned to deliver her with all honor to her brother, or her affianced husband on the return from the crusade, and so forth. {181} King Henry II. stretched upon his couch, listened in silence. When an end was made he asked to see a list of the barons who had pledged themselves to maintain the cause of Philip and Richard. The first name was that of his son John, count of Mortagne; the unhappy father uttered a cry of pain. "John, the son of my heart," he exclaimed, "for love of whom I have brought upon myself all these misfortunes--he, too, has betrayed me!" He was assured that it was so. "Let all things henceforth proceed as they will," he said, "I have no longer any regard for myself or this world." And he turned his face again to the wall in the bitterness of his soul. His son Richard had followed him, and leaning towards him asked for the kiss of peace in ratification of the treaty. The king did not refuse it as he had done before in the case of Becket; but Richard had scarcely left the chamber when the indignant father muttered between his teeth, "May I live to avenge myself on thee!"

He gave orders to be carried to Chinon, oppressed with a profound melancholy, which was succeeded by a violent fever. In his fits he raised himself in his bed, invoking the vengeance of Heaven upon his children. "Shame, shame upon a vanquished king--a king dispossessed of his rights," he cried; "accursed be the day when I was born; accursed be the children that I leave behind me!" He directed his attendants to carry him into the church, where he expired at the foot of the altar on the 6th of July, 1189. He had not yet completed his fifty-fifth year, but his features were worn like those of an aged man. When Richard, stricken with horror at the intelligence which he had received, hastened to Fontevrault, whither the corpse of his father had been removed without ceremony, some one had surrounded the royal forehead with a golden fringe in imitation of a crown, and it had been necessary to employ hired horses in order to convey to his last resting-place the powerful master of so many dominions.

{182}

Richard approached the coffin. A drop of blood appeared under the nostrils of the corpse. "Yes, it is I who have killed him!" cried Richard, stricken with repentance. He fell on his knees beside the dead body of his father, remained there a moment prostrate, then rising, went out precipitately.

Ten years later, when Richard was dying at the siege of Chalus, he ordered that his body should be conveyed to Fontevrault, to be interred at the feet of his father.