Becket Page #4

to discuss.

I've been studying

the dispatches from England.

You love work, don't you?

If you love anything.

I love doing what I have to do

and doing it well.

You'd be as efficient against me

as for me, wouldn't you?

If fate had arranged it that way.

So what in most people is morality,

in you it's just an exercise in...

What's the word?

- Aesthetics.

- Yes, that's the word.

- Always aesthetics.

- Yes.

Well, now...

Look at that.

Isn't that aesthetic, too?

Some people go into ecstasies over

cathedrals, but that's a work of art.

Look at it.

Round as an apple.

Want her?

Business, My Lord.

All right, business. Sit down.

Listen carefully, Marie, to the droppings

of the greatest brain of our day.

(chuckles) I'm piecing together all

the information I've received from London.

There are unpleasant deductions

to be made.

The power of the bishops is increasing

like the pestilence.

- Soon it will rival your own.

- Talk sense, Thomas.

Priests are always intriguing,

but I can crush them anytime I wish.

If you don't crush them now, in five years'

time there will be two kings of England -

the Archbishop of Canterbury and you.

In ten years' time, there will be only one.

And it won't be me?

I fear not.

Grant to horse, Thomas, to horse.

War on the clergy, death to the archbishop.

My Lord, I can't breathe.

What are you doing down there,

spying for the clergy?

Be off with you.

Put on your clothes and go home.

My Lord, am I to come back

to the camp tonight?

Yes. No.

I don't know. I'm thinking of priests,

not you. Go away.

Wait. I'd rather be sure

I'm getting another one as good.

Yes, come back tonight.

You're adorable.

(giggling)

You must always tell them that,

even when you pay.

That's high politics, too.

Only one? It won't be me?

It won't be you.

But what will God say if I attack his

church? After all, they're his bishops.

We must manage the church.

One can always come to

a sensible little arrangement with God.

(laughs)

Becket, you're a monster.

You flatter me, My Lord.

But please, My Lord, dress quickly.

It's inelegant for conquerors to be late.

(laughing) You're a monster!

(crowd cheering)

You see, they love us dearly,

these French.

(laughs) So they should.

We paid them enough.

In that case, we should have found some

that didn't dress out of a rag barrel.

(cheering continues)

- The rich are at home sulking.

- Supporters of King Louis of France?

- No, it just would've cost too much.

- That sounds real.

Yes, we have soldiers disguised

in the crowd to encourage enthusiasm.

Why must you destroy

all of my illusions?

Because you should have none,

My Prince.

- What do you see?

- Reality.

Stop here!

- The bishop is waiting.

- As if it mattered what I do

- with a bishop whose city I've taken.

- It matters.

- Am I the strongest, or am I not?

- You are today.

But one must never drive one's enemy

to despair. It makes him strong.

Gentleness is better politics.

It saps virility.

A good occupational force

must never crush. It must corrupt.

Make a note of the house.

Oh, never mind.

- My Lord, the bishop.

- Yes, Papa. No, Papa.

Put your men at rest, Captain.

- Is this William of Corbeil?

- Yes, sire.

I hardly recognized you

without a tankard covering your face.

How did they pry you away from it?

I had urgent messages from London

for you, My Lord.

It seems that God

is on our side after all, Thomas.

What is that, My Prince?

He's just recalled the Archbishop

of Canterbury to his bosom.

That frail old man. He was the first

Norman to take an interest in me.

God rest his soul.

He will, he will.

And he'll be much more use to God

than he ever was to me.

Thomas.

An extraordinary idea

is creeping into my mind.

A masterstroke.

I'm suddenly very intelligent.

It probably comes from making love

to that French girl last night.

I'm subtle.

I'm even profound.

Oh, I'm so profound,

it's making my head spin.

(Thomas laughs)

- Are you listening to me, Thomas?

- I'm listening, My Prince.

We need a new

Archbishop of Canterbury.

I think there is a man we can rely on.

No matter who it is, once

the archbishop's miter is on his head,

he will not longer be on your side.

But if the archbishop is my man,

if Canterbury is for the king,

how could his power

possibly get in my way?

My Lord, we know your bishops.

Once enthroned at Canterbury, every

one of them will grow dizzy with power.

Not this man.

This is someone who doesn't know

what dizziness means,

someone who isn't afraid of God.

I'm sorry to deprive you

of the French girls

and the other spoils of victory, but...

- Are you listening to me, Thomas?

- Mm-hmm.

- You're leaving for England tonight.

- On what mission, My Prince?

You are going to deliver a letter

to all the bishops of England.

Uh-huh.

My royal edict nominating you,

Thomas Becket,

Primate of England,

Archbishop of Canterbury.

(laughing)

Shut up.

Thomas, I'm in deadly earnest.

My Lord,

don't do this.

You have an odd way

of taking good news.

I should think you'd be triumphant.

But I... I'm not even a priest.

You're a deacon.

You can be ordained priest

and consecrated archbishop the next day.

Have you considered

what the Pope would say?

I'll pay his price.

My Lord,

this frightens me.

I thought you had God

in the palm of your hand, Thomas.

I beg of you,

do not do this.

You've never disappointed me,

Thomas,

and you're the only man I can trust.

You'll leave for England tonight.

Becket?

Thank you for returning to us

the keys of our city.

The die is cast, Thomas.

Make the most of it.

And if I know you,

I'm sure you will.

(bell ringing)

- There you are.

- Thank you, My Lord.

- Thank you, My Lord.

- You're welcome. It will keep you warm.

- He'll only sell it for drink.

- Then that will keep him warm.

- Yes, Your Grace.

- No, not "Your Grace."

I will not be consecrated archbishop

until tomorrow.

- I'm sorry. Father.

- That is temporarily correct.

You don't really intend

to give away your winter cloaks?

Everything.

Has the gold plate been sold?

Yes, the money from the sales

is in those purses.

Excellent.

Bring me the rest of the money.

- But Your Grace, sir... I mean, Father...

- Everything.

Well, welcome to Canterbury,

My Lord Bishop. Is anything wrong?

May I ask what is happening here?

"Go sell all that thou hast

and give it to the poor,

- and thou shalt have treasure in heaven."

- I doubt if the Lord Jesus

meant that to apply to a chancellor

about to be consecrated archbishop.

Perhaps then it's a touch of vanity.

A truly saintly man I know

would never do all this in one day.

Let us call it the clumsy gesture

of a spiritual gatecrasher.

Most clever, an archbishop

who gives all so dramatically

to the people would be

most popular with them.

Oh, no, Folliot.

I'm simply enjoying all of this.

I'm beginning to believe he's not

a sad God after all.

Forgive me, I fear

my inexperienced methods

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