London Folk Tales by Helen East

was two men inside one skin. But there was no conflict between them. King and Church, he could serve both, equally devotedly.
    Until Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury, the head of the Church in England, died. And then Henry asked his friend to take up this position. However much Thomas refused, the king wouldn’t listen, even when Thomas tried to explain that this would put them in opposition. ‘You would require of me what I could not agree to,’ he said. ‘Then the envious would make strife between us.’ But Henry could not understand why things between them would have to change.
    To clear the air and restore high spirits, they went, as always, out hawking. It was a clear day and as they rode along beside the river, Thomas caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the water. Close behind his king, with his leather-clad arm raised, falcon on his wrist, he remembered with a wry smile a comment a fellow clergymen had said to him once: ‘You look more like a falconer than a cleric.’
    At that moment three ducks flew overhead, and both men turned and loosed their hawks, watching them fly, climbing the sky. Both were after the leader duck, Thomas’ slightly ahead. ‘You have the better of me, my friend,’ the king said. But as Thomas’ falcon swooped, the duck plunged down towards the river, and with the bird of prey hard on its tail, it dived. Too late to stop itself, the falcon hit the water, and unable to swim or rise again, it was swept away before their eyes.

    Without a moment’s hesitation Thomas leapt in after, but the current was stronger than he expected. The king called out in horror, but was unable to help him. Thomas caught his hawk and managed to throw it free up into the air, but he himself was dragged away by the river. He was able to keep himself upright, and swim after a fashion, but could not get to the bank on either side. And it was then that he remembered the mill. It was only half a mile downstream. If he could not get out before then, he would surely be caught in the wheel. But hard though he tried, it was hopeless. He could only accept the inevitable, and give himself up to God above. There was even a feeling of relief as he closed his eyes.
    Just before the mill there was a bend in the river. The water was swirling, already caught in the race. But as he turned the curve Thomas sensed it slow, circling on itself, stilling, suddenly sluggish. Looking up, he saw the king hurrying to the mill, just as the miller, shaking his head, came out to meet him. Catching sight of Thomas then, the man ran instead for a pole and, grabbing hold of it gratefully, Thomas was brought to dry land.
    â€˜Well, there is a lucky man,’ the miller said. ‘Though how and why it happened, I cannot say.’
    â€˜At least you managed to stop the mill in time,’ said Thomas. ‘That was quick work.’
    â€˜But I didn’t,’ said the miller, scratching his head. ‘It was an accident. The wheel just stopped.’
    The message to Thomas was clear. If it was time for him to choose one side or the other, then he knew what he must decide. He was in God’s hands. And so when the Pope’s legate overrode his scruples, he accepted his lot, and became the Archbishop of Canterbury.
    Then Thomas went into his cathedral, and took off the jewels and silk clothes of the court, and put on a plain linen surplice and rough cloth cassock. As he did so, he thought of his mother, and how she too had dressed anew when she moved from one life to the other: Damascus to London. Two sides of the same coin. Would that be true for him too? He hoped it would prove so. But he had few illusions. Now he would be answerable to the Pope, his master, over and above his friend, the king. Whether or not that would cause conflict was not up to him, but if it did so, he would have to stand firm. To strengthen his resolve, beneath his cleric’s clothes, he now put on a hair