quitted the subject, and inquired whether they would promise to observe the ancient customs of the realm.  The question was captious, as neither the number nor the tendency of these customs had been defined; and the Archbishop with equal policy replied that he would observe them, “saving his order.”  The clause was admitted when the clergy swore fealty to the sovereign; why should it be rejected when they only promised the observance of customs?  The King put the question separately to all the prelates, and, with the exception of the Bishop of Chichester, received from each the same answer.  His eyes flashed with indignation:  they were leagued, he said, in a conspiracy against him; and in a burst of fury he rushed out of the apartment.  The next morning the primate received an order to surrender the honor of Eye and the castle of Berkhamstead.  The King had departed by break of day.

The original point in dispute was now merged in a more important controversy; for it was evident that under the name of the customs was meditated an attack not on one, but on most of the clerical immunities.  Of the duty of the prelates to oppose this innovation no clergyman at that period entertained a doubt; but to determine how far that opposition might safely be carried was a subject of uncertain discussion.  The Archbishop of York, who had been gained by the King, proposed to yield for the present, and to resume the contest under more favorable auspices; the undaunted spirit of Becket spurned the temporizing policy of his former rival, and urged the necessity of unanimous and persevering resistance.  Every expedient was employed to subdue his resolution; and at length, wearied out by the representations of his friends and the threats of his enemies, the pretended advice of the Pontiff, and the assurance that Henry would be content with the mere honor of victory, he waited on the King at Woodstock, and offered to make the promise and omit the obnoxious clause.  He was graciously received; and to bring the matter to an issue, a great council was summoned to meet at Clarendon after the Christmas holidays.

In this assembly, January 25, 1164, John of Oxford, one of the royal chaplains, was appointed president by the King, who immediately called on the bishops to fulfil their promise.  His angry manner and threatening tone revived the suspicions of the Primate, who ventured to express a wish that the saving clause might still be admitted.  At this request the indignation of the King was extreme; he threatened Becket with exile or death; the door of the next apartment was thrown open, and discovered a body of knights with their garments tucked up, and their swords drawn; the nobles and prelates besought the Archbishop to relent; and two Knights Templars on their knees conjured him to prevent by his acquiescence the massacre of all the bishops, which otherwise would most certainly ensue.  Sacrificing his own judgment to their entreaties rather than their arguments, he promised in the word of truth to observe the “customs,” and required of the King to be informed what they were.