A Beggar's Coat

A large crowd was gathered on the Smooth Field for the last Friday horse market before Christmas. Set outside London’s ancient walls and enclosed by the Fleet River to the west, the rough ground was used for fairs and trading by the citizens. The horse market was the most popular day for the royal court particularly during the holidays. There was more entertainment on show for the crowds. The thick fall of overnight snow had been turned to muddy slush as races and gambling took place; jousts and scores settled, boots and hooves, all cut up the ground like a ploughed field. The combat was accompanied by the yells and whooping of the watching crowd, apprentices and shop boys mostly, who supped ale by the gallon and cheered their favoured contestants on, always causing more brawling and rowdiness among the rough crowd. The new priory hospital, Rahere’s Folly, at the south end of the field and close to the city walls would tend to the broken crowns. The monks would spend their weekend setting bones and restoring men struck senseless, just in time for the following Friday’s display.

King Henry and his new Chancellor, Thomas of London, were sat atop riding horses, with guards and flunkeys in tow, taking the sights and sounds in. The contrast between the two men was stark: Henry, in his twenties, broad and flame haired, well muscled and barrel-chest, and in well made but unadorned leather armour and a broadsword at his side. His dark-haired slender Chancellor was perched on an expensive white horse, finely dressed with a fur trimmed cloak of red and grey stripes and fur hat to keep him warm in the biting wind.

‘Who are these two?’ Henry pointed to two men making ready to joust.

‘The older man is Josselin of Pontivy, brother to the Count of Rohan.’

The King grunted. ‘A Breton then.’

‘He is renowned with the lance and has a fine seat,’ said Thomas. ‘And his brother could be important to us.’

There was a sniff at that comment from one of the nobles attending on the King. Thomas glanced behind at the barons. All of them were waiting for the common born Chancellor to slip and fall so they could take his favoured position. Thomas needed more noble allies. He turned back to the contest and pulled the fur trimmed cloak close.

Henry saw the glance. ‘They will not divide us, my friend,’ he whispered. Then he turned away and pointed to the field.

‘And the other man, God’s teeth, he is huge?’ Henry pointed at a huge man riding a tall grey horse.

Thomas smiled at his excited lord. ‘That is Reginald FitzUrse, Lord. He is a squire in your household. They call him Bear because of his temper.’

‘Ursus by name ursus by nature,’ quipped Henry. ‘How old is he?’

‘Fourteen.’

The King whistled. ‘Does his skill match his size?’

Thomas merely smiled and gestured for Henry to watch.

FitzUrse the Bear eyed the other warrior warily across the field. The boy had proved his mettle in practice bouts and with lads his own age, the other squires were terrified of FitzUrse, but Josselin of Pontivy was a veteran of nearly thirty years age. The Breton was good enough for it to be a prestigious bout for the Bear, but not so renowned that he could scorn the challenge from a petty squire. Both men wore heavy mail coats and mittens, open faced helms with a vertical bar running down the nose to protect their faces from a slash, and both held flat topped kite shields on their left arm. Neither warrior wore surcoats in the cold weather, nor was Pontivy’s shield was adorned by any design; it was but blank battered leather. FitzUrse pulled away the cloth covering on his own tall kite shield to reveal a crude image of a black bear painted on the face of the bleached white hide. One of the other squires had painted it on for him the night before. FitzUrse intended to make a name for himself that day.

‘Give me a lance,’ said Pontivy to his manservant.

The Breton was annoyed with the impudent lad who had challenged him. FitzUrse had baited the older warrior the night before, mocking his accent and his dress, calling him ancient.

‘I am going to teach that whelp some manners. The bigger they are the harder they fall.’

The servant handed him a long white ash lance tipped with an iron point. A deadly weapon in the right hands; these Friday bouts were no practice bout or tournament jostle. Men died if they were not careful or skilled enough to survive. Pontivy was starting to regret drinking so much ale the night before.

The Bear took a similar lance from an attendant and shook free his heavy wool cloak. Enclosed in a mail hauberk and leather gambeson the bitter cold did not bother FitzUrse, but he did not want his cloak catching and causing disaster during the bout. He noted the Breton doing the same with his fur trimmed garment. The man was mounted on a brown stallion, which snorted steam and stamped its fore hooves as they waited. FitzUrse took up his position at the southern end of the field on his grey animal, perhaps sixty or so yards apart from the Breton. Once both men were ready, they saluted the King and his courtiers with their lances and kicked their horses up into a charge. There was no great ceremony, this was no tourney, but the crowd instantly started up with a great cheer at the battle.

The two armoured knights pounded towards each other on their horses, lances set, faces grim. FitzUrse aimed his weapon at the Breton’s shield, as he had been trained, standing up in the stirrups at the point of impact and thrusting through as his lance shattered into a thousand splinters. The Breton had aimed at the Bear’s head. FitzUrse felt it whistle along his the side of his helmet but only glancing.

Bastard, thought the Bear. That could have killed me if he hit. FitzUrse threw away his broken lance and drew his father’s sword, yanking on his horses reins to wheel the beast about. The Breton had turned and was charging down at him again, the lance set ready to sewer the Bear. FitzUrse tucked his head down behind the flat top of his shield, barely peeping over it as the Breton closed. Pontivy’s lance shattered on the Bear’s shield. FitzUrse swayed back in his saddle at the force of the blow, and slashed at the Breton with his sword as Pontivy whistled past. Then he turned and stuck out at him again.

The Bear was angry, he had wanted to beat the man and earn a name for himself, but he had not intended to kill him. The Breton’s strike at his face had enraged FitzUrse, insulted his standard of honour. He hammered his sword into the man’s armoured back like he was at a forge before Pontivy could wheel to face him. The Breton felt the blow, he felt his ribs crack at the power of it, and his arm went numb as he desperately tried to pull his horse around, but he was too slow. He was trying to draw his sword, and the Bear struck him plum on the top of his helm and knocked him senseless. As the Breton slipped unconscious from his saddle, FitzUrse yelled in delight and turned to face the watching King and Chancellor.

Henry and Thomas both had wide grins on their faces.

‘He is going to be a very good warrior, Lord King,’ said Thomas. ‘A champion in the tournaments.’

One of the barons behind them sneered. ‘The boy was fortunate that is all. Had the Breton’s lance been an inch to the right then he would have died on the first pass. What would a Cheapside clerk know of a warrior’s skill?’

Thomas physically flinched at the noble’s words. The King’s barons were ever set on humiliating the low born Chancellor. Henry noticed his friend’s discomfort.

‘He knew enough to wager on the youngster,’ said the King sharply. ‘Whereas I see you lost betting on the Breton, Belleme.’

‘Yes Lord,’ the Baron looked suitably chastised but shot Thomas a vindictive glance as the King turned away.

Thomas saw the look but said nothing. He knew the nobles despised him as a common clerk not a warrior. He pulled his fine new grey and red cloak about him and turned back to the King.

A new coat, said the King.

‘Yes,’ said Thomas. ‘It is most warming, and it looks good too.’

The King laughed at his Chancellor’s vanity.

‘I want some food,’ said Henry, when he had composed himself. ‘Back to Westminster to see what the kitchens have.’ The King turned his horse and led it down the track that ran alongside the Fleet River with no further discussion.

Thomas turned his white mount to follow his King, and the other barons and knights of the royal household came on behind. Thomas could feel their glares; he could hear their whispered contempt.

‘Do not let it bother you,’ said Henry as the Chancellor pulled up alongside on the road.

‘Lord?’

‘These sycophants and weasels,’ Henry gestured to the household. ‘It is only my favour you need worry on and you will ever have that, my friend. They will not divide us.’

‘Still they will do what they can to undermine me in your eyes. They seek to remove me.’

Henry grunted at that. He knew the truth of Thomas’s words. Outraged nobles had been complaining about the affront to their dignity in taking instruction from a lowborn London clerk ever since he made the man Chancellor. Archbishop Theobald had put Thomas in the King’s service, but the clerk was efficient; he got things done; he was a loyal servant to his master. More than that, Henry liked him. Thomas made him laugh and had charmed his mother the Empress Matilda. The two of them together could remake Christendom. If only the barons could be brought into line. Henry noted a small bucktoothed beggar boy shivering on the cobbles by the gates as they arrived at Westminster palace. The lad was dressed in torn ragged clothes, whatever colour they had once been had faded to a dirty grey. No hat nor cloak, a smudged dirty face, he would freeze to death in the winter’s night if he did not get some warmth. An idea suddenly occurred to the King.

‘Do you see that lad?’ asked Henry.

Thomas looked down at the ragged youth and smiled softly. ‘I do, Lord?’

‘How weak, and how poorly clad he looks!’ said Henry. ‘Don't you think it would be a great kindness to give him a thick and warm cloak?’ He gave his Chancellor a sly grin.

‘Certainly,’ Thomas answered, laughing along with Henry. He understood his King’s mind. ‘You ought to have a mind and eye for such ills, oh generous and benevolent King.

They both pulled up their horses and looked down at the beggar boy, who cringed in fear at the great men and their snorting animals towering over him.

‘Would you like to have a good cloak, Boy? To keep you warm?’

The lad looked terrified; keeping his eyes down and nodding. Was this some rich man’s cruel jest to a beggar?

The King turned back to the Chancellor, ‘Well then, you will give this great charity.’

Henry grabbed hold of Thomas’s new and precious cloak of scarlet and grey that he had been flaunting all day, trying to rip it from the Chancellor’s shoulders. Thomas was having none of the King’s assault and pushed back at his monarch. Henry almost fell from his horse, swaying in his stirrups. The two of them scuffled on horseback, giggling all the while like a pair of naughty schoolboys, pulling the cloak back and forth between them. The beggar boy watched on, incredulous and aghast. This was a very sight, the King of England and his Chancellor at fisticuffs.

The rest of the royal household were arriving. The beggar tucked his head down and tried to keep away from the rowdy nobility. Henry’s barons, knights, and soldiers looked dumbfounded at each other; all wondering what could have been the cause of such a sudden struggle, and not knowing what to do. Thomas and Henry paid them no heed as they scuffled, calling out bawdy taunts as they battled.

‘I have a plan,’ whispered Henry, as he grabbed Thomas by the head and knocked off his fur cap.

‘Yes, Lord.’

Thomas finally gave way and allowed Henry to take the cloak from his shoulders and throw it to the beggar. The boy quickly wrapped himself in the coat – white faced and still worried – and gave thanks to God and the King for the gift.

‘What is this?’ asked one of the nobles.

Henry told them that it was the Chancellor’s charity and a wondrous thing. Then he offered his own coat to Thomas. Henry had made his point to the Barons. Thomas and the King were as close as brothers. The slender Chancellor smiled at Henry’s display, but turned down the King’s offer of a cloak despite his shivers.

‘We are here now, Lord,’ he said, gesturing to the palace. ‘There are warm fires and good wines inside.’

The barons could see that the two men were fast friends; any of them who planned to drive a wedge between the King and his Chancellor were dismayed. It seemed that nothing could divide them. Some of the lords and courtiers flicked coins contemptuously at the beggar as they passed, others offered Thomas their cloaks. The Chancellor refused all offers of a coat from the nobles. He knew some would try to curry favour now. They would see him as their path to the King. It was better than their hostility, he decided. He had a job to do and a lord to serve. Thomas would need the barons’ support if he was to make Henry a great king.

FitzUrse the Bear arrived in the King’s hall flushed with the success on Smooth Field. He had taken Pontivy’s arms and horse from the victory. The animal he would keep but the arms could be traded. The young squire was not from a rich family, and his parents were both dead, but he hoped to gain an estate one day and the victory had set him on that path.

Henry saw the giant squire enter the hall. The King was sitting with Thomas at his side, on a small raised dais above the rowdiness. They had all been drinking since their return from the horse fair, and the King called the Bear to him.

‘Yes, King.’ FitzUrse bowed deeply.

‘It seems you are a born warrior, young man,’ said Henry. ‘You have cost some of my barons’ coin today with your win.’

FitzUrse did not know what to say to that. He did not wish to make enemies of the court.

‘It is of no matter.’ The Chancellor Thomas leaned forward with a wide grin on his face. ‘The King and I both gained on our wagers.’

Henry burst out laughing and drained his cup of wine, taking another from a grey servant, and then fixed FitzUrse with a hard stare.

‘You are still a squire?’

‘Yes, King.’

Henry tugged at his belt, and undid his own sword. Made of fine Damascene steel and brought from Constantinople as a gift from the Roman Emperor on his coronation. It was worth a prince’s ransom. He cast the weapon at the Bear, who deftly caught it with one hand.

‘Keep it; I think you have earned your spurs.’

There were gasps of wonder from the audience at such a rich gift. The Bear fell to his knees to thank Henry, pledging to be his loyal warrior from that day forth. FitzUrse’s eyes were shining with pride as the King raised him up.

‘You shall be my loyal Bear.’

‘I will follow you into Hell, Lord King,’ the Bear said happily. ‘Should you ever command me.’

Thomas sat back and smiled quietly to himself. Everything was turning out exactly as he had planned. He left Henry carousing with the Bear and his barons not long afterwards, and walked down to his apartments by the Thames. As a boy he had played on these streets; he had run with the London crew. His parents were buried in the churchyard of St Pauls. He was a Londoner born and bred. Thomas could never escape that, he did not want to, but the great men of the kingdom held it against him.

The common born chancellor wished his mother was there to see his success. She would have been so proud; all her sacrifices to see her son educated were not in vain, Thomas thought to himself. I will be the best chancellor England has seen.

Thomas opened the door to his chamber. His new manservant was setting the fire in its hearth and trying to spark it into life. The bucktoothed young boy turned back to face his new lord, but now he was dressed in clean woollen breeches and tunic and his face was clean.

‘You did well, Osbern of Dover,’ said Thomas.

‘The King did not recognise me, master?’

‘Kings do not take much note of beggar boys’ faces, or servants, or rabbits,’ the Chancellor told Osbern cheerfully. ‘But best to stay out of his way for a few days. There is no point in chancing fate.’

‘Your plan worked then, Lord?

‘Yes,’ said the Chancellor with a soft smile. ‘The King is easy to predict: such a display was perfect in taming my enemies and certain to appeal to his sense of humour. Particularly after the show I made of the coat earlier.’ He poured himself a cup of wine. ‘You disposed of the garment?’

‘Yes, Master. I took it to the merchant’s house as you ordered.’

‘Then you have done well, my little Rabbit.’ Thomas told the small lad. ‘You can be dismissed; get yourself some ale and food but be quiet about it. See what is being said in the halls and kitchens. From this day forth, you will be my eyes and ears about court. I shall make Henry a great king; his name will be remembered forever.’ He waved Osbern away. ‘As will mine alongside it.’

‘Yes, Lord,’ Osbern turned to leave, happy to be dismissed.

‘Osbern.’ Thomas called him back just as he reached the door, and the Rabbit turned with wide-eyed innocence fixed upon his face.

‘Yes, Lord?’

‘The coin the merchant gave you, for my fine scarlet and grey cloak?’

Osbern sighed and took the small purse from his tunic and dropped it into Thomas’s outstretched hand. He had hoped that his new master would forget that.

‘’Twas a good price for a beggar’s coat,’ he sniffed.

Historical Note.

The story of Thomas Becket’s coat and the beggar was first recorded in 1190 by William FitzStephen. Whilst it may be apocryphal, used by Thomas’s hagiographers to show the closeness of Henry and Thomas, it has always seemed to me to be the perfect stage-managed display with a ring of truth. The two men were undeniably close in the 1150s, Henry gave his son and heir to his Chancellor as a ward, so there seems little need in inventing such a tale – particularly the detail of the scarlet and grey cloak. Relations would sour dramatically after Thomas was made Archbishop of Canterbury by the King in the 1160s, leading to the infamous murder in the cathedral at Christmas 1170.

You can read more about Thomas, Osbern, Henry and the Bear in my Becket series available on Amazon.

A Beggar's Coat was first published in the HWA Anthology By the Sword published by Sharpe Books.