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Alfred Duggan
The murder of St. Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury, in his own cathedral on December 29, 1170, shocked contemporaries in an age that was relatively used to deeds of violence. The dramatic scene is thus reconstructed by the historical novelist Alfred Duggan in his novel devoted to the Saint. His account is based upon authentic contemporary reports. A bell sounded from the Cathedral. Prior Robert turned in triumph to his lord. "That is the summons to Vespers. See, the monks form in pro cession; as they should, for the divine office is the highest duty in the world, to be carried out even in the midst of catastrophe. I shall join them, since I am absent from my own community. You, my lord, should come also. You are Abbot of Christ Church, and you should attend the regular office." Thomas permitted himself to be led to the cloister door, half pushed by the eager throng. He had a new plan, but he must keep it a secret. Henry's knights would kill him; there was no sure way of escape, and the bare chance of hurried flight was too ignominious to be risked. But his duty to the flock in his care demanded that the murderers should find him and kill him alone; otherwise they would go on to kill all his companions. Therefore he must leave this crowded hall and meet death in the cloisters. It was as simple as the answer to a problem of logic in the schools. Though he would appear to be seeking the Cathedral, he must take I care not to reach it. Shed blood pollutes a church; if he were killed on its pavement the great shrine would be desecrated, a place unfit for the I Sacrifice of the Mass. He would delay in the cloister until he was over taken, alone. The early dark of December had already fallen. At the black entrance to the cloister he halted, leaning back until his companions ceased to push him. "I will attend Vespers," he said in a level voice, "but in the proper state of my rank. Where is my cross? It must be carried before me." "But you sent Herbert of Bosham off with a letter, only this morning," expostulated Prior Robert. "Ah, there's the cross. Henry of Auxerre has it. Let him bear it, since your cross-bearer is away." "Yes, that will do. There is no hurry. These monks are too timid, like all monks. But remember: it is not fitting that a church should be polluted with the blood of a sinner. Whatever comes must be borne with patience." The great iron-bound outer door shuddered under heavy blows. A moan of terror rose from the far end of the hall as the lath-and-plaster partition fell in and an armed figure appeared in the breach. He wore complete mail, so that his face was entirely hidden by the great helm resting on his shoulders; he still carried the hatchet with which he had hewn down the party wall, and behind him another armed figure pressed forward. While the company shuddered at this first sight of naked steel Thomas was chiefly interested to identify his assailants. At dinner he had noted their faces as vaguely familiar, seen before among the knights of the King's household; but he could recognize every blazon of Normandy and England. To him men in great helms, with painted shields before them, were more clearly labeled than if they had been bareheaded. "Gules, a bear argent, muzzled sable," he muttered to himself. "That is Reginald fitzUrse. The man behind him bears Broc with a label of cadency; he must be the Robert de Broc who cut off the tail of my horse." There was something familiar about fitzUrse, or why did he at once remember his Christian name? Of course, he was one of the vassals of Canterbury. That was too much. Thomas felt the blood hammering in his temples, and his hand groped for the sword-hilt which once had rested on his hip. Here was a vassal come in arms to murder the lord to whom he had sworn homage! FitzUrse was recreant! He must be told so, to his face, in the hearing of as many witnesses as possible. Meanwhile there was no excuse for further delay. He stepped into the cloister, and at once saw that chance had intervened to keep him from the consecrated sanctuary of the Cathedral. That was all for the best. Now he would certainly die in the open, under the unconsecrated sky. For the usual passage to the Cathedral, left-handed round the cloister, was filled with armed men, the brigands of Saltwood who had ridden in with the knights. The right-hand passage appeared to offer another way, but Thomas remembered that a disused door of the servants' dormitory lay round the corner, a door that was always locked. The procession must halt when they reached it. Within the Cathedral it was already dark, save where candles glowed on the choir stalls; the great west door stood open, and the fifty or so choir-monks standing in their places glanced anxiously into the gloom outside. The chant rose and fell raggedly as nervous men questioned their neighbors in whispers. Most of these choir-monks had dined as usual in the Abbey refectory, and walked in procession to their accustomed places; but, as was customary, a few had dined in the palace as guests of the Archbishop, and when they hurried in they brought with them a spate of disturbing rumors. The King had sent an army to kill his Archbishop, sack the Cathedral, and cut the throats of all the monks in England. That was the least alarming version. Others spoke of having left the Archbishop weltering in gore at his own table. Even the level-headed, who kept their eyes on their psalters and their ears alert to the cadence of the chant, knew that armed men were mustering outside; for they could hear the trampling of horses and see the gleam of torches reflected from mail. Good monks should be ever prepared for martyrdom, and the Prior kept them to their task; but they looked imploringly into the friendly darkness of clerestory and aisle. Into this ordered ritual, which had continued in Canterbury for more than four hundred years, suddenly burst a shattering interruption. Two scullions, laymen who worked in the monastic kitchen and lodged in the loft above the cloister, dashed through the disused servants' entrance to shout that the King's men were killing the Archbishop just behind them. They had unbarred the outer door of their quarters, to offer a chance of escape to any fugitives. The chant ceased, and the monks left their stalls to peer through the narrow door by which the scullions had entered. Through this mean little door came the metropolitan cross of Canterbury, still borne by Henry of Auxerre. Then two by two the clerks of the Archbishop's household, walking hurriedly but not actually in flight. Last of all, with Grim and Prior Robert pulling at his arms, the Archbishop himself stood on the threshold, glancing behind him and clearly reluctant to come further. Beyond, in the gloom of the open cloister, which was not quite so dark as the nave of the Cathedral, the watchers could see a group of armed men, hesitating by the door of the palace. As the Archbishop was hustled into the Cathedral the Prior of Christ Church ordered the doors to be closed and barred. The same thought was in every mind: if King Henry had sent his household knights to murder the Archbishop, they might hesitate to carry out their orders if it meant the desecration of the Mother Church of England; and if, as was more likely, this was an unauthorized act of private revenge, the Sheriff of Kent or the sergeants of the Young King might arrive before the doors were battered in. But the Archbishop countermanded the order of his Prior. "The House of God should not be made a castle," he protested. "I command you, under holy obedience, to open those doors." Hearing that invocation, no son of St. Benedict could disobey his abbot. The doors were flung open to the night.... Within the Cathedral the monks were scattering, seeking dark corners in crypt or clerestory where they might escape the massacre. Henry of Auxerre, leaning on the great metropolitan cross which he had been commanded to carry, tried to discern the bearing of the leader who stood beside him. In the murk he could see nothing of his face; but his figure had stiffened, so that his great height would make him unmistakable in any crowd. What was worse, the Archbishop was not attempting to hide; instead he made a stately and unhurried genuflexion, and began to walk eastward toward the High Altar. With a sob of sheer misery Henry of Auxerre pushed the cross from him and took to his heels. As it swayed, the silver pole flashed in the candlelight, and Grim of Cambridge caught it before it could touch the ground. Holding the cross erect in both hands, Grim marched with dignity toward the High Altar, the first in a little procession of four: behind came William fitzStephen and Prior Robert of Merton, and last of all the Archbishop. They had reached the steps leading from the north transept to the choir when the doorway behind them was suddenly filled with armed men. "Where is Tom Becket?" called a mocking voice. "Where is Tom the Londoner? Where is Tom of Cheapside? Where is Tom the son of the drysalter?" The gloating voice continued its insults. Then someone shouted, more seriously: "Where is the traitor, the Archbishop of Canterbury?" Thomas recognized that voice. It came from Reginald fitzUrse, his sworn vassal. The indignity that such a felon should shout after him, a felon who drew his sword on his own lord, was more than he could endure. He turned to shout back: "Here am I, no traitor, but priest and Archbishop." . . . "What do you seek of your lord, Reginald my vassal?" he called contemptuously. The answer came from several throats: "Absolve the bishops, or you die." "I choose death," said Thomas readily; then his long training in the schools asserted itself, and a little speech followed, composed without conscious thought in his excited mind. "I accept death in the name of the Lord, and I commend my soul and the cause of the Church to God and Blessed Mary and the Patron Saints of Canterbury. But by the authority God has given me I forbid you to harm my followers." As he spoke he turned aside to stand before a little altar of Our Lady, cut off from the nave of the long church by a low party wall. Four knights, faceless in their great helms, loomed over him in the dark; they held their shields high, and their swords were raised. Before the terrible menace of those anonymous figures William fitzStephen and Prior Robert flinched away, to melt into the gloom. Only Grim of Cambridge remained by his lord, holding aloft the metropolitan cross as though it were a standard on a hard-fought field. The very air of the Cathedral reeked with the scent of fear, for the great building was full of frightened men. Only Thomas, and Grim his squire, confronted death with unmoved hearts. The attacking knights were as frightened as any monk; they had blundered into a position where the King's law would hang them, and at the same time they imperiled their immortal souls. Reginald fitzUrse, snatching at a last chance of pardon, still sought to win the King's favor by capturing the Archbishop alive, even at this eleventh hour. He threw down the hatchet which hampered his shield arm, and as he came within reach launched a swinging blow with the flat of his sword. The Archbishop's skull cap fluttered to the ground, but the blow had missed its mark. Thomas still stood erect and defiant. Three knights closed round him, tugging at his cowl to lift him bodily onto the shoulders of Tracy, who waited with bent back to carry him from the Cathedral. Grim seized him from behind, and the whole group wrestled together, grunting. Suddenly Thomas, that statue of Christian suffering, came to violent life. With both hands he caught fitzUrse by the skirts of his mail, pushing so strongly that his enemies staggered back For a moment he stood alone, save for Grim crouched at his back "Reginald, you pander," he growled through set teeth, "you have struck the lord to whom you swore service!" FitzUrse answered doggedly: "I owe you no service against the service I owe to the King my liege lord." It was the excuse that had beaten through his brain since he left Normandy, his only excuse for the supreme crime against knighthood, a crime much worse than the mere murder of an unarmed clerk. Presently the King would forgive and reward him, and after that he would be free of reproach. "Realz!" the attackers shouted again, to hold their courage to the sticking point. "In the Lord's battle I shall fight it out toe to toe!" answered Thomas, in the clarion voice of a knight calling his war cry. "Out, Holy Cross!" added Grim in English, as his grandfather had long ago cried at Hastings. Reginald heard movement at his back, and stole a hasty glance over his shoulder. There was no time to lose. The great west porch was filling with townsfolk, unarmed burgesses who feared to oppose mailed knights, but who might intervene if some brave man gave them a lead. The attackers were experienced warriors, and Hugh de Morville ran back, unasked, to hold the nave against rescue until the deed was done. As swords swung aloft for the kill Thomas raised his hands to his eyes. His racing brain showed him a little picture of all this happening a long way off, to little figures who were knights, clerks, and an archbishop; the mannikin of an archbishop must play his part worthily so long as he, Thomas, could control his actions. But no warrior trained in swordcraft, as he had been trained at Pevensey, could watch a sword descend on his head without dodging or throwing up an arm to parry. If he was to meet his doom erect he must cover his eyes. He felt a smarting rap on the crown of his head, right across his priestly tonsure. It did not seem to be death, though that could not long be delayed. His brain was still working with astonishing clarity, and he commended his soul to St. Denys and St. Alphege, choosing without hesitation from the whole Calendar two saints who were his peers as Martyrs and Archbishops. The first blow, struck by fitzUrse, had failed because Grim interposed the metropolitan cross to parry it; but the English clerk was not a trained swordsman, and he held the cross aslant; the sword glanced down the staff to bury itself in his arm. Grim fell to the ground, still grasping the cross with a hand from which blood spouted. Then Tracy swung his sword again and again, and at the third stroke Thomas pitched forward. A last shred of consciousness reminded him that he was an archbishop in the act of martyrdom. "For the Holy Name of Jesus and the safety of His Church I offer myself to death," he murmured. His legs groped as he gathered them under his cowl, that his body might lie decently until men came to carry it to burial. Reginald leaned on his sword, breathing hard. This was not what he had planned, but perhaps it might please the King. Anyway, they were all in it together. Then he recalled that Richard le Breton had not struck a blow; an eyewitness who bore no guilt for the murder might afford inconvenient evidence. "Strike," he murmured, laying a hand on Richard's shoulder; and Tracy added, "Strike, or lie with the Archbishop." Richard le Breton heaved up his sword. It was hard to hate that crumpled figure on the stone pavement, but he summoned up again the grievance which had brought him from Normandy. "Take this," he shouted "for love of the King's brother, who died of grief because you forbade his marriage." Impelled by hysterical rage, his sword smashed through the skull, striking the pavement with such force that the point snapped from the blade. With an oath, Richard flung the useless weapon to lie by the shattered body. The murderers lingered by the corpse. It was hard to imagine that this messy bundle of rags and torn flesh was Thomas, the great Chancellor, the gallant knight, the skillful falconer, the holy Archbishop; he might yet get up to denounce them. Then from the shadows of the west porch stepped Hugh of Horsea, the brigand clerk who was known as the Evil Deacon. He had followed the murderers because he delighted in murder. With the point of his sword he scrabbled inside the smashed cup of the skull, scattering white brains on the pavement. Presently the Cathedral was quite silent; until the sacristan crept out from under a choir stall to remove, as reverently as his shaking hands would permit, the pyx which might not remain in this desecrated House of God.
Courtesy of Catholic
Information Network (CIN) |
The
Murder of Becket
See also