and 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 the
people; four, with his gold and silver plate and stately clothes;
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Dickens, Charles – A Child’s History of England
two, with the dresses of his numerous servants. Then, came twelve
horses, each with a monkey on his back; then, a train of people
bearing shields and leading fine war-horses splendidly equipped;
then, falconers with hawks upon their wrists; then, a host of
knights, and gentlemen and priests; then, the Chancellor with his
brilliant garments flashing in the sun, and all the people capering
and shouting with delight.
The King was well pleased with all this, thinking that it only made
himself 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 London
in hard winter weather, they saw a shivering old man in rags.
‘Look at the poor object!’ said the King. ‘Would it not be a
charitable 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 trimmed
with ermine. The King tried to pull it off, the Chancellor tried
to keep it on, both were near rolling from their saddles in the
mud, when the Chancellor submitted, and the King gave the cloak to
the old beggar: much to the beggar’s astonishment, and much to the
merriment of all the courtiers in attendance. For, courtiers are
not only eager to laugh when the King laughs, but they really do
enjoy a laugh against a Favourite.
‘I will make,’ thought King Henry the second, ‘this Chancellor of
mine, Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. He will then be
the head of the Church, and, being devoted to me, will help me to
correct the Church. He has always upheld my power against the
power of the clergy, and once publicly told some bishops (I
remember), that men of the Church were equally bound to me, with
men of the sword. Thomas a Becket is the man, of all other men in
England, to help me in my great design.’ So the King, regardless
of all objection, either that he was a fighting man, or a lavish
man, or a courtly man, or a man of pleasure, or anything but a
likely man for the office, made him Archbishop accordingly.
Now, Thomas a Becket was proud and loved to be famous. He was
already famous for the pomp of his life, for his riches, his gold
and silver plate, his waggons, horses, and attendants. He could do
no more in that way than he had done; and being tired of that kind
of fame (which is a very poor one), he longed to have his name
celebrated for something else. Nothing, he knew, would render him
so famous in the world, as the setting of his utmost power and
ability against the utmost power and ability of the King. He
resolved with the whole strength of his mind to do it.
He may have had some secret grudge against the King besides. The
King may have offended his proud humour at some time or other, for
anything I know. I think it likely, because it is a common thing
for Kings, Princes, and other great people, to try the tempers of
their favourites rather severely. Even the little affair of the
crimson cloak must have been anything but a pleasant one to a
haughty man. Thomas a Becket knew better than any one in England
what the King expected of him. In all his sumptuous life, he had
never yet been in a position to disappoint the King. He could take
up that proud stand now, as head of the Church; and he determined
that it should be written in history, either that he subdued the
King, or that the King subdued him.