Time and Chance

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

December 1170

Canterbury, England

William Fitz Stephen was seated at a table in the great hall, drafting a letter to the Archbishop of Sens. Once it was done, he would take it to the archbishop and if it met with his approval, it would then be turned over to a scribe who would make a final copy. Fitz Stephen was a gifted Latinist, far better than Becket, and it pleased him greatly to put his skills at the service of his lord. He was so intent upon his task that he did not look up until his name was called close at hand.

Edward Grim was standing by the table with two full cups. “I thought you might like a cider.”

Fitz Stephen was agreeable to a work break, and after carefully putting aside his parchment, quill pen, inkhorn, and pumice stone, he made room at the table for his new friend. Edward Grim had been at Canterbury only a few days. Like many visitors to the archbishop, he was a supplicant, bearing a letter of recommendation from Arnulf, Bishop of Lisieux. A testimonial by Arnulf was suspect in some quarters, given his reputation for slyness and his closeness to the king, and Grim had been treated with coolness by several of the archbishop’s clerks. But Becket had received him cordially, and Fitz Stephen thought that he had a good chance of getting the archbishop’s help. He’d been given the benefice of Saltwood Church by the Abbot of Bec, only to be forcibly ejected by the de Brocs, and by aiding him to regain his office, Becket would accomplish two benefits: righting a wrong while injuring his foes. When Grim asked now about his prospects, Fitz Stephen was able to offer him honest encouragement.

“Your grievance is one that needs redressing and I think Lord Thomas will decide to uphold your claim to the benefice at Saltwood. But I would not want to make less of the difficulties you’ll be facing. The de Brocs are likely to maintain their greedy grasp upon Kent until the king himself comes over to evict them.”

Grim nodded morosely, and the same thought was in both their minds: the latest offense by Robert de Broc, the apostate monk. On Christmas Eve, he’d stopped a servant of the archbishop’s delivering supplies to the priory kitchens, and cut off the tail of the man’s packmare. Fitz Stephen did not doubt that he’d then gone back to Saltwood Castle to brag of his deed, for that sort of alehouse humor was sure to win favor among the riffraff followers of his uncle, Rannulph de Broc. These were men who deserved the utmost contempt, but they were dangerous, too, and one forgot that at his peril.

He said as much to Grim, who nodded again in bleak agreement and then asked him about the tension he’d observed between the archbishop and Odo, the Christ Church prior.

“The last prior died during Lord Thomas’s exile and the monks chose Odo to succeed him. But my lord does not recognize his election and plans to replace him with his own choice.”

“Ah… I see.” Edward Grim tactfully asked no more questions, thinking that this conflict between Lord Thomas and Prior Odo explained much. He’d been baffled by the obvious undercurrents at the priory, by the silent, smoldering resentment that existed between the archbishop and some of his own monks.

“Will?” Alexander Llewelyn was coming toward them, and after one look at the Welshman’s somber expression, Grim rose and politely excused himself. Straddling the bench vacated by the young priest, Alexander gestured toward Fitz Stephen’s half-finished letter. “Is that the one I’m to take?”

Fitz Stephen nodded and then glanced across the hall, where Herbert of Bosham was standing by the open hearth. His eyes glassy, his face feverishly flushed, he looked so wretched that Fitz Stephen felt a twinge of pity. Alexander was hiding his distress better than Herbert, but Fitz Stephen knew him well enough to discern his inner turmoil. By now all in the religious community knew that Lord Thomas was sending Herbert and Alexander to consult with the French king and the Archbishop of Sens, and all knew, too, that both men were obeying with extreme reluctance, loath to leave their lord in the midst of his enemies.

Trying to offer some comfort, Fitz Stephen observed that Alexander could be thankful, at least, that he’d not been the one chosen to visit the papal court, for he’d be able to return from France within a fortnight if luck and good winds were with him. Alexander did not seem much heartened by that. Absentmindedly helping himself to Fitz Stephen’s cider, he stared down into the cup as if it were a wishing well. “Listen,” he said after a long, brooding silence, “I want you to stay close to Lord Thomas whilst I am gone. I fear he is making a grave mistake to send Herbert and me and the others away. I have a bad feeling about all this, Will…”

Fitz Stephen would normally have joked about his friend’s Welsh second-sight. Instead, he said earnestly, “You must not let your fears run loose, Sander. Keep them tightly reined in, for your own sake. None would dare harm an archbishop, not even the Devil’s leavings like the de Brocs.”

Alexander’s mouth twitched down. “We both know better than that. But I am worrying about more than those Saltwood vipers. It is Lord Thomas’s state of mind that gives me concern, too. After the Christmas Mass, he spoke to me of the martyred archbishop, St Alphege, and said there would soon be another.”

Fitz Stephen blinked, and then said hastily, “He had just condemned men to eternal damnation. Is it so surprising that his mood would be low at that moment?”

Alexander muttered something which Fitz Stephen assumed to be a Welsh oath. “Lord Thomas’s anger does not drain him. If anything, it sustains him. But even if you were right, that does not explain what I overheard him say to the Bishop of Paris when he came to bid the French king farewell.”

Fitz Stephen did not want to ask, suddenly sure that he did not want to know. He said nothing, watching uneasily as Alexander set the cup down too forcefully, splattering cider onto his sleeve, the table, and even the sheets of blank parchment.

“You know that the French king advised him not to leave France without obtaining the Kiss of Peace from King Henry. The Bishop of Paris was of the same mind and sought to convince him to wait until his safety was assured.” Alexander’s eyes were shining with unshed tears. “Lord Thomas… he told the bishop that he was returning to England to die.”

Henry held his Christmas court that year at his hunting lodge of Bures, near Bayeux in Normandy. Any hopes he and his family had of enjoying the holiday were dashed a few days before Christmas by the arrival of a courier bearing the news of the censure of the Archbishop of York and the Bishops of London and Salisbury.

Eleanor was surveying the great hall at Bures with poorly concealed dissatisfaction, wondering if she’d go stark raving mad before she was able to return to Poitiers. Never had a Christmas court been so bleak, so boring, so utterly endless. Nothing had gone right so far. The accommodations were cramped and modest and not at all to her liking. She had been assured that the lodge at Bures was quite acceptable. She should have known better than to believe Harry. When he was hunting, he’d be perfectly happy to shelter in a cotter’s hut.

There was not even room enough for the royal family and their attendants and servants, much less adequate space for Henry’s barons and bishops and the inevitable petitioners trailing after the king in hopes of gaining an audience. Eleanor’s children had been quick to take advantage of the chaos. Richard and Geoffrey were soon disappearing from dawn till dark, up to mischief she’d prefer not to know about. Nine-year-old Aenor, betrothed that year to the twelve-year-old King Alfonso of Castile, was no trouble at all, though, so docile and well behaved that Eleanor could only marvel this placid child could have come from her own womb. Joanna was the daughter most like her mother; as Eleanor watched now, she was running about the hall like a small, lively whirlwind, playing a game of hunt-the-fox with the little brother she rarely saw, four-year-old John.

Eleanor had been surprised by Henry’s wish to bring John from Fontevrault Abbey for their Christmas court. When he’d mentioned that all of their children would be with them except for Hal in England and Tilda in Germany, she’d not even thought of John, destined for the Church. But here he was-dark, slight, silent-so different from the other sons she’d borne that it was difficult to remember he was hers.

She supposed she ought to collect Joanna and John before they did something to vex her husband. It would not take much, God knows. Ever since he’d learned of Becket’s Advent excommunications, his temper had been like a smoldering torch, ready to flare up at the slightest breath of wind. Before she could act upon that decision, she saw her uncle making his way toward her. Raoul’s presence at the Christmas court had surprised many, for the mutual animosity between him and Henry was well known. But he had done the king a great service in negotiating Aenor’s marriage to the young king of Castile. Only Eleanor knew that he’d acted at her behest.

“Well?” he asked. “Has the king decided where he goes from Bures? Any truth to the talk that it might be St Valery?”

Although they were speaking in their native Provencal to thwart eavesdroppers, Raoul was taking the added precaution of employing code. Eleanor smiled thinly, acknowledging his joke: that her husband would be heading for the port from which William the Bastard launched his invasion of England.

“Not likely,” she said. “He has already dispatched a protest to the Pope and, for now, plans nothing else. Although the papal letter had to be sealed in a fireproof lead casket, lest the royal courier leave a trail of flames from Bures to Frascati.”

Raoul grinned, thinking that her jest was not far off the mark. He was in sympathy with the Angevin, for once, could not blame him for reacting with volcanic temper to Becket’s latest outrage. “I think the king would do well to send a doctor to the good archbishop,” he said, “for he must be suffering from a brain fever. How else explain his behavior?”

He needed to display no discretion in speaking of the archbishop, for Becket was being damned in all quarters at Bures; men eager to curry favor with the king were outdoing themselves in the virulence of their abuse. That was not a game that Eleanor cared to play, though, and she shrugged, thinking that Harry had brought so much of this upon himself by his stubborn refusal to take her advice. She’d warned him that he was making a great mistake in entrusting Becket with such power, but Jesu forfend that he pay heed to a woman… or anyone else, for that matter.

Just then there was a commotion outside, sudden shouts penetrating the normal noise level of the hall. Eleanor turned toward the sound with jaded curiosity, wondering what fresh trouble was about to be dumped at their door.

Geoffrey Ridel and Richard of Ilchester had no compunctions about speaking their minds even as excommunicates. Lent eloquence by their anger, they had taken turns accusing the Archbishop of Canterbury of sins running the gamut from bad faith to outright treachery. But Gilbert Foliot and Jocelin of Salisbury were far more scrupulous about adhering to their proscribed status as spiritual exiles.

“My lord king,” the Archbishop of York asserted, “I was suspended from my sacred calling, but I may still defend myself and my brothers in Christ.” He gestured toward the two bishops, standing mute and miserable behind him. His dramatic declaration was needless, for everyone in the hall knew that an excommunicate was not only denied the holy sacraments, prayers, and burial in consecrated ground; he was also deprived of the right to participate in the common blessings of the Christian community.

York drew a deliberate breath, making sure all eyes were upon him. “My liege, Thomas Becket has done us a great wrong. Nor does he mean to confine his vengeance to us. It is his intent to excommunicate all who consented to the coronation of the young king, your son.”

“Does he, indeed?” Henry’s scowl put Eleanor in mind of lowering storm clouds. “If all who were involved in my son’s coronation are to be excommunicated, I am not likely to escape, either.”

“That would be an evil way to repay you for the many kindnesses you’ve done him over the years. He owes all to you. How could a man of his humble pedigree ever aspire to the most exalted office of the English Church? But he seems to know nothing of gratitude. He even dared to claim that you’d agreed at Freteval that he could cast my brethren out into eternal darkness!”

“He did what?” Henry said, in so ominous a tone that those closest to him began to back away. “He said that he had to discipline them for defying the Pope. Nary a word was said about excommunication!”

“Alas, my liege, Becket’s veracity is only one of our concerns. I have grave doubts, too, about his motives. Many believe that he has it in mind to overturn the young king’s coronation.”

“No.” Henry was shaking his head impatiently. “I gave him the right to re-crown my son. There is no need to annul the coronation.”

“I am sure you are right, my lord. It may be that these suspicions are unwarranted. But you cannot blame men for taking alarm, not after Becket has been riding about your realm with a large armed force-”

“An armed force?” Henry echoed incredulously. “This is the first I’ve heard of that!”

“Indeed, my lord. He took a large escort on his procession to and from London. Moreover, he disobeyed your son’s order to return straightaway to Canterbury and remain there. Instead he went from Southwark to Harrow to meet with the Abbot of St Albans. Once more he shows his contempt for royal authority-”

Again there was an interruption. This time it came from the Bishop of Salisbury, who was stricken by a fit of coughing. Jocelin de Bohun was elderly, not in robust health, and many in the hall began to mutter indignantly. A man darted forward from the crowd and assisted the bishop toward a seat. As he turned around, Eleanor recognized Reginald Fitz Jocelin, the bishop’s son.

Reginald was his father’s archdeacon and had once been in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s service. Salisbury’s friends had long insisted that Becket’s animosity toward him was the result of his son’s defection to the king’s service in 1164. The situation was further complicated by Reginald’s claim that he’d been born before his father’s ordination as a priest, a claim Becket hotly disputed. It occurred to Eleanor now that in the race to make enemies, her husband and his archbishop were heading for the finish line neck and neck.

Salisbury allowed Reginald to seat him on the nearest bench, but when his son attempted to help him drink from a wine cup, he shrank back, vehemently shaking his head lest that be interpreted as sharing a meal, a transgression which could taint Reginald with his own pollution.

Reginald’s face was streaking with tears, but his voice was harsh with rage. “Look, my lords,” he cried, “look how they have ill-used my father! What has he done to deserve such cruel treatment? We all know why he has been persecuted by Thomas Becket-because of me! The archbishop seeks vengeance for my loyalty to the king.”

The Archbishop of York reclaimed center stage now by saying, loudly and combatively, “Nor is that likely to change. This man Becket has naught in his heart but hatred. It spews from his lips like venom, sparing neither the righteous nor the just. His own words convict him. He has called the Bishop of London and myself ‘priests of Baal and sons of false prophets.’ He slandered Reginald Fitz Jocelin as ‘that bastard son of a priest, born of a harlot’ and he invariably refers to Archdeacon Geoffrey as ‘that archdevil.’ When he learned that the Bishop of London had been absolved of his unjust excommunication at Easter, he even reviled the bishop as ‘Satan.’ Again and again, he has resorted to the rhetoric of the gutter, the vulgarisms of infamy!”

That was too much for Eleanor’s uncle. Raoul nearly strangled trying to stifle a laugh, amazed that the bombastic York could make such a charge without even a trace of irony. He nudged Eleanor playfully, but she ignored him, unamused by what was occurring. This was too dangerous a discussion to conduct in a public forum, where collective outrage could easily ignite a veritable firestorm. She signaled to one of her children’s attendants, who swiftly gathered up Joanna and John and led them from the hall. She saw no indication, though, that her husband was going to do the prudent thing and hear the rest of this incendiary report in private. Doubting that he’d have listened to her cautionary words, she remained silent, a witness both intent and oddly detached.

“The Archbishop of York speaks true, my liege,” Geoffrey Ridel exclaimed. “We earnestly beseeched Thomas Becket to absolve the bishops, reminding him that these excommunications were contrary to the peace made at Freteval. He knows nothing of good faith, nothing of gratitude. I, too, have heard that he has been raising an army, and I cannot help wondering what use he means to make of it.”

Henry could not believe that a fire he’d thought finally quenched was flaring again. Savagely damning Becket to the hottest abode in Hell, he retained just enough control to keep from saying it aloud. Swinging back toward York, he demanded to know what they would advise him to do. Salisbury and Gilbert Foliot were looking more disturbed by the moment, but York seemed quite calm, almost complacent.

“We think you ought to take counsel from your barons and knights, my lord king,” he said sententiously. “It is not our place to say what should be done.”

Richard of Ilchester had brought a stool out for Gilbert Foliot, insisting that he seat himself. Foliot resisted at first, but he was in his sixth decade and soon capitulated. He was so flushed that he looked feverish, so obviously shaken that he aroused considerable sympathy in the hall. Richard gestured angrily toward the older man. “Here is yet another victim of Becket’s vengeful scheming. Bishop Gilbert has devoted his entire life to Holy Church, first as Abbot of Gloucester Abbey, then as Bishop of Hereford and now London. None have ever questioned his faith or besmirched his integrity-none but Becket! He even dared to accuse Bishop Gilbert of the vilest sort of treachery. His very words to Bishop Gilbert were: ‘Your aim has been all along to effect the downfall of the Church and ourself.’ Notice how he equates the Mother Church with his own selfish interests!”

Engelram de Bohun stepped forward to add his voice to the fracas. As the Bishop of Salisbury’s uncle, he felt that he had more right than most to vent his spleen against his nephew’s enemy. Like the others, he made a point of calling the archbishop “Becket,” spitting it out as if it were a curse. Eleanor understood why quite well. It went beyond denying him his rank as a prince of the Church. By making use of the surname Becket himself shunned, his foes were emphasizing the archbishop’s greatest vulnerability: his shame at being the son of a mere merchant.

As a descendant of Charlemagne, the proud daughter of a prideful and ancient House, Eleanor agreed, of course, that bloodlines were of profound significance. But she found herself feeling a growing sense of exasperation with all concerned. She had learned through painful lessons that words must be weighed with care and that actions had consequences. Looking back upon the rash, headstrong girl she’d once been, she winced at the naivete and foolhardiness of that younger, indiscreet self. How was it that Harry and Becket had learned nothing from their own mistakes?

Others were joining now in the chorus. The young Earl of Leicester admitted that his late father, the justiciar, had been too solicitous of the archbishop, but vowed that he himself would never associate with an enemy of the king. Men dredged up memories of Becket’s past offenses and dwelt upon them at considerable length. Reginald Fitz Jocelin accused the archbishop of every sin but lust, and several even cast doubt upon that exemption. Mention was often made of the archbishop’s “English army.” Arnulf, the Bishop of Lisieux, lamented the archbishop’s obstinate, willful nature, and the Archbishop of Rouen and the Bishop of Evreux expressed anger that the Holy Father had been misled by the archbishop in the matter of the young king’s coronation oath. Geoffrey Ridel and Richard of Ilchester bitterly blamed Becket for their own excommunications. The only men in the hall who did not speak against Becket were the two that he’d silenced by anathema, the Bishops of London and Salisbury.

As his court denounced and damned Becket, Henry paced before the open hearth, his anger rising with every insult, every stride. When was this going to end? Was he never to be free of Becket’s malice? How many times must he play the fool and put his trust in this faithless friend and disloyal subject?

Engelram de Bohun had worked himself up into a frenzy and was bellowing that the only way to deal with a traitor was to find a rope and a gallows. A Breton lord, William Malvoisin, was recounting a rambling story of his return from the Holy Land, saying that in Rome he’d been told of a Pope who’d been slain for his “insufferable insolence.” That brought down the wrath of several bishops upon him. While they castigated Malvoisin, the Archbishop of York drew closer to his king and said softly, as if sorrowing over his message:

“I fear, my lord king, that whilst Becket is alive, you will never have a peaceful kingdom.”

“I know!” Henry snapped. “Christ smite him, I know! No matter what I do, he betrays me at every turn. He owes all to me, but repays me with treachery and deceit.” Stalking so close to the hearth that he kicked one of the fire tongs, sending up a shower of sparks, he glared at the barons and knights milling about the hall. “What miserable drones and traitors I have nourished and promoted in my household, who let their lord be mocked so shamefully by a lowborn clerk!”

Eleanor was already in bed, her long hair braided into a night plait. Her ladies, Renee and Ella, were asleep on pallets piled high with blankets, for there was no fireplace in the bedchamber. When Henry and his squires finally came in, Eleanor was still awake, for she wanted to learn the outcome of his council. He had belatedly retreated from the turmoil in the great hall, gathering the most trusted of his barons and bishops and crowding into a small antechamber where they could determine in privacy how best to deal with the crisis. Once again Eleanor had found herself relegated to the outer perimeters of power, and she did not like it at all.

She lay still, listening as Henry’s squires assisted him in undressing and then bedded down themselves. There was a pale flicker from a solitary candle as the bed hangings were parted and the mattress shifted under Henry’s weight. As soon as he drew the hangings back, they were cocooned in darkness. Eleanor waited for several moments before saying, “Well?”

Henry started and then sank back against the pillow. “Good God, were you trying to make my heart stop beating? I thought you were asleep.”

“What did you decide to do about Becket?”

“I am going to give him an ultimatum. Either he absolves the bishops from their lawless excommunications or he shall be arrested.”

“That is likely to go well.”

“What do you expect me to do, Eleanor? Let him defy me with impunity?”

“Are you actually asking for my opinion, Harry?”

“What ails you, woman? I have troubles enough with that whoreson Becket, need none from you!”

It was a strange sort of quarrel, one conducted in utter darkness and the illusory intimacy of the marriage bed. After an aggrieved silence, Henry said testily, “On the morrow I am sending Richard de Humet to England to let Hal’s advisers know of my will. At the same time, the Earl of Essex and Saer de Quincy are to guard the ports in case Becket seeks to flee to France again.”

“Do you truly think he would?”

He exhaled an exasperated breath. “If I could penetrate the maze of that man’s brain, do you think we’d ever have come to this? I know not what he is likely to do. Nor do I care.”

That was such an obvious untruth that Eleanor chose to let the matter drop. She asked no more questions and their argument waned, a fire damped down but not entirely extinguished. They lay side by side in a suffocating stillness charged with foreboding, and it was nearly dawn before either slept.

The last Tuesday in December, the morrow of Holy Innocents, was chill and grey. The sky was mottled with clouds, and a high wind was tearing the last of the leaves from an aged mulberry tree in the outer courtyard of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s palace. William Fitz Stephen was hurrying along the south range of the cloisters, shivering in the wintry morning air, when he saw a figure slumped upon a bench in one of the carrels. Recognizing the cellarer, he swerved in that direction, for this was not a day to be enjoying the outdoors.

“Richard? Is something wrong?”

The cellarer looked up, his face as ashen as the sky, and Fitz Stephen sat down hastily beside him on the bench. “What has happened?”

“A cousin of mine is wed to a retainer of the Lord of Knaresborough, Hugh de Morville. He sought me out last night in Canterbury to warn me that the archbishop is in grave peril.”

This was even worse than Fitz Stephen had expected. “What did he tell you?”

“Hugh de Morville and three other lords and their knights landed at Winchelsea yesterday and rode straight for Saltwood Castle. They told the de Brocs that they’d come from the king’s Christmas court, that he had sent them to arrest the archbishop. But Martin-my cousin’s husband-said that he’d begun to doubt this was true. He overheard them talking amongst themselves and was no longer sure they were doing the king’s bidding. His misgivings finally became so strong that he slipped away from Saltwood and came to alert me to the danger.”

“You’ve gone to the archbishop with this?”

“Of course I did! He heard me out and seemed to believe me. Yet he has done nothing to protect himself, Master Fitz Stephen, nothing! There is no use in seeking aid from the Sheriff of Kent, for he is an avowed foe of the archbishop and hand in glove with the de Brocs. We could still rally the townspeople, summon the knights who owe fealty to the archbishop, send urgently to the young king’s court. But Lord Thomas will not even bar the gates to the priory!”

Fitz Stephen was sitting at a table in the great hall, staring vacantly off into space. It was his inactivity, so unusual in one of the most industrious of the archbishop’s clerks, that attracted the attention of Edward Grim. Although they were only recently acquainted, the two men shared much in common: an excellent education, a reluctance to demonize their foes, spiritual piety entwined with secular ambition, and an abiding faith in the rightness of the archbishop’s cause. There was concern as well as curiosity, therefore, in Grim’s quiet query.

“Will? I do not mean to intrude, but you seem sorely troubled. May I help?”

Fitz Stephen looked up dully, then gestured for Grim to join him. No sooner had the young priest seated himself than the words came pouring out, each one more alarming than the last. By the time he’d finished, Grim was staring at him, aghast.

“You talked to the archbishop about this?”

Fitz Stephen nodded. “So did John of Salisbury and Robert of Merton, his confessor. He heard us out, but paid us no heed. We are not exaggerating his danger, Ned. Either these men are plotting to murder him in the hopes of gaining royal favor or they are acting at the king’s command. Whichever is true, the outcome is likely to be the same, for I do not think Lord Thomas will allow himself to be arrested.”

Neither did Grim; even in his brief stay at Canterbury, he’d observed how mindful Lord Thomas was of his archiepiscopal dignity. “These men you named… is much known of them? Are they as ungodly and foul as the de Brocs?”

“If so, we are all doomed. Three of the four are not only known to Lord Thomas, they were his vassals whilst he was chancellor. Hugh de Morville remained for a time in his service after he became archbishop. His family is a respected one; his father was a Constable of Scotland. William de Tracy is well connected, too; his grandfather was a baseborn son of the old king, the first Henry, and he holds the barony of Bradnich. Reginald Fitz Urse’s father was Lord of Bulwick in Northamptonshire and he has lands in Somerset and Montgomery. Lord Thomas was the very one who secured for him his position at court. It defies belief, Ned, that any man of Christian faith could so reward good with evil. The fourth man is younger than the others, one Richard le Bret. I think he once served in the household of the Lord William, the king’s late brother, but I am not altogether certain of that. Richard the cellarer says that his cousin’s husband told him that they had enough men-at-arms with them to require two ships for the Channel crossing.” He paused to swallow, his mouth as parched as his hopes, and then added tonelessly, “And Saltwood Castle is just twelve miles away…”

Grim had always prided himself upon his logical thinking. He struggled now to remain calm, to subject this information to a dispassionate analysis. “So they are not lowborn rabble, but men of property, of substance. Are they of sufficient rank, though, to be dispatched to arrest the archbishop?”

Fitz Stephen pondered that for several moments. “I would think not,” he said doubtfully. “King Henry has a fearsome temper, one that has gotten worse over the years. I have witnessed several of these outbursts myself, and to hear him ranting and raving in the throes of a royal rage is to understand why men say the Angevins are of the Devil’s stock. I was told that he threw a truly terrible fit at Chinon four years ago, upon hearing that Lord Thomas had excommunicated his justiciar, Richard de Lucy, as well as Richard of Ilchester and John of Oxford. It may be that his temper caught fire at Bures, too, and these lords took him at his word-”

He broke off in midsentence, half-rising from the bench as John of Salisbury hastened toward them, his expression so stricken that they knew the news he bore was bad.

“They are here,” he panted. “They’ve just ridden into St Augustine’s!”

“The priory?” Grim was dumbfounded. “Why? Surely they could not expect aid from that quarter!”

Fitz Stephen and John looked at him in surprise, then remembered that his appointment to the benefice of Saltwood was a patronage plum and he’d probably spent little time in the parish before being ejected by the de Brocs.

“Lucifer himself could rely upon a welcome at St Augustine’s,” John said caustically. “Their prior, Clarembald, is a disgrace to the clergy and Church. He is a worldly sinner who was rewarded with an abbacy for his service to the king, a man who cares only for his carnal pleasures, feuding with his own monks, and siring so many bastards that he’s known as the stud of St Augustine’s.”

Fitz Stephen was already well acquainted with the scandalous history of Abbot Clarembald. “Let that be, John. Tell us what is happening at the priory. Does Lord Thomas know of this?”

“Yes, he knows.”

“And…?” Fitz Stephen prodded impatiently. “What did he say?”

“I told him that his enemies had arrived at St Augustine’s and were having dinner with Clarembald, and he… he said that we should make ready to dine, too.”

After dining on pheasant, Becket withdrew to his private quarters at the east end of the great hall. Once all of the monks, clerks, knights, and lay members of the household had finished their meal, it was the turn of the kitchen staff and servers to eat. By now word had spread of the arrival of the armed men at St Augustine’s Priory. William Fitz Neal, Becket’s steward, had been considering his precarious position as liegeman to both the archbishop and the king. Leaving his own dinner untouched, he followed Becket to his bedchamber and asked his permission to depart, saying candidly that “You are in such disfavor with the king and all his men that I dare not stay with you any longer, my lord.”

Becket’s clerks bristled, but he accepted the defection with surprising composure, telling his steward, “Of course you have my leave to go, William.” Fitz Neal ignored the accusing looks thrown his way and returned to the hall. It was now almost 4 P.M. and winter’s early twilight was already beginning to chase away the daylight.

While Fitz Neal was planning to abandon the archbishop’s sinking ship, a large contingent of knights and men-at-arms had left St Augustine’s and were entering the city through its Northgate. Leaving their men at a house close by the palace gateway, Hugh de Morville, Reginald Fitz Urse, William de Tracy, and Richard le Bret rode into the palace courtyard. Dismounting by the mulberry tree, they removed their swords and scabbards, then entered the great hall. Declining Fitz Neal’s polite offer of refreshments, they demanded to see the archbishop.

Thomas Becket was sitting upon his bed, conversing with one of the monks. Others of his household were seated or kneeling in the floor rushes. Fitz Neal announced the four knights, who strode into the bedchamber and sat on the floor, too. Fitz Stephen, frozen by the door, almost forgot to breathe. For what seemed forever to him, the archbishop ignored the knights and they said nothing. Finally the impasse was broken by Becket, who acknowledged their presence coolly, only to get a response so terse as to be deliberately discourteous, a growled “God help you” from Fitz Urse. Becket flushed and another silence ensued.

After exchanging glances with his companions, Fitz Urse assumed the role of spokesman and declared that they carried a message from the king. Did the archbishop want it said in private or public? To Fitz Stephen’s horror, his lord said that was for them to say, and Fitz Urse responded with a succinct “Alone, then.” As his clerks and monks started to leave the chamber, Becket suddenly changed his mind and recalled them. Still seated on the bed, he said to the knights:

“Now, my lords, you may say what you will.”

“We have been sent to escort you to the young king at Winchester, where you are to swear fealty to him and make satisfaction for the offenses you have committed against the Crown.”

“It was my dearest wish to meet with the young king at Winchester. I was prevented from doing so by his advisers, who ordered me to return to Canterbury. I will gladly swear fealty to him. But I have committed no offenses against the Crown and I will not go to Winchester to be put on trial.”

Fitz Urse seemed taken aback by the archbishop’s defiance. By now all of the knights were on their feet. “The lord king commands you to absolve the bishops, both from damnation and the bond of silence!”

“I have not excommunicated the bishops. It was the Lord Pope, whose power comes from God. And if His Holiness has seen fit to vindicate me and my Church against grave injury, I am not sorry for it.”

Fitz Urse’s jaw jutted out. “The excommunications were still your doing, so you will absolve them!”

“Indeed, I will not. Only the Lord Pope can do that. Moreover, this was done with the king’s consent.”

Fitz Urse whirled toward his companions. “Have you ever heard such deceit? He accuses the king of betraying his closest friends! This is beyond endurance.”

John of Salisbury mustered up the courage to intercede at this point, realizing that there was a great and gaping chasm between what the archbishop and the king believed to have been agreed upon at Freteval. “My lord archbishop, this serves for naught. You ought to speak privately about this with your council.”

Fitz Urse, who so far had maintained a respectful distance, now took several steps toward Becket. “From whom do you hold your See?”

“The spiritualities from God and my lord the Pope. The temporalities from my lord the king.”

“You do not admit that you owe all to the king?”

“No, I do not. We must render unto the king what is the king’s, and to God what is God’s. I will spare no one who violates the laws of Christ’s Church.”

“You dare to threaten us? You mean to excommunicate us all?”

When Fitz Urse strode closer still to the bed, the archbishop rose to his full height, towering over the knight. “I do not believe that you come from the king,” he said and at that, the other men burst into loud, angry speech. For several moments, there was chaos, all speaking at once. They cursed the archbishop for breaking the peace and seeking to uncrown the young king and foment rebellion and even to make himself king. No less wrathful himself, Becket denied those charges with passion and leveled accusations of his own, reminding them that they’d once sworn fealty to him on bended knee. This enraged them all the more, and to the frightened witnesses, it seemed as if violence would erupt then and there, in the archbishop’s own bedchamber.

“You threaten me in vain.” Becket’s voice was hoarse, his dark eyes blazing. “If all the swords of England were hanging over my head, you could not turn me from God’s Justice and my obedience to the Lord Pope. You will find me ready to meet you eye to eye in the Lord’s battle. Once I ran away like a frightened priest. Never will I desert my Church again. If I am allowed to perform the duties of the priesthood in peace, I shall be glad. If not, then God’s Will be done.”

As more members of the archbishop’s household were drawn by the commotion, the knights seemed to take silent counsel, communicating by meaningful looks. Fitz Urse turned toward their audience, saying roughly, “We warn you all in the king’s name to abandon this man!” Stunned, the monks and clerks remained motionless, and he amended his order. “Guard him so that he does not flee!”

They turned, then, began to push their way toward the door. Becket strode after them, crying out, “I am quite easy to guard, for I shall not run away. You will find me here!”

Fitz Urse swung around, his hand groping for his belt, the instinctive gesture of a man accustomed to the weight of a sword at his hip. “Thomas, in the name of the king, I repudiate your fealty!” The other knights also repeated this most solemn oath of renunciation and a chill swept through the chamber. Even Becket appeared shocked.

Shouting “To arms!” the knights shoved through the doorway, seizing Becket’s steward as they exited. As they pushed him ahead of them, he looked back over his shoulder at the archbishop. “My lord, you see what they are doing to me?”

“I see,” Becket replied. “They have the force and the power of darkness.” There were loud gasps, for those clerks and monks familiar with Scriptures at once recognized that as a paraphrase of the words spoken by the Lord Jesus Christ as He was arrested in the Garden of Gethsemane.

As the knights clattered down the stairs to the great hall, Becket returned to his chamber and sat down upon his bed. At first, there was a deathly stillness and, then, uproar. Most of the monks and clerks began to voice their opinions. Some dismissed the knights’ threats as drink-sodden posturing, for it was evident that Fitz Urse and his companions had drunk their fill at Abbot Clarembald’s table; they’d also appeared to be utterly fatigued, not surprising in light of their nonstop journey from Bures to Canterbury. Others insisted that they’d not dare to commit violence at Christmastide. Those who knew better moved to the windows on the north side of the chamber and fumbled to unlatch the shutters so they could monitor the moves of the men outside.

“My lord, it really is quite amazing that you never will take any notice of our advice.” John of Salisbury sounded fretful and reproachful and, above all, fearful. “You always say and do what seems right to yourself alone. Was there any need for a great and good man like yourself to provoke those wicked men still more by following them to the door? Would it not have been better to have given a softer answer to men who are plotting to do you all the harm they can?”

Becket regarded his clerk and friend calmly. “We all must die, John. We should not swerve from justice for fear of death. I am more ready to meet death for God and His Church than they are to inflict it on me.”

“We are all sinners and not yet ready for death. I can see no one here who wants to die needlessly, apart from you.”

Some of the clerks were offended that John should dare to speak so disrespectfully to the archbishop. Becket merely said, “May the Lord’s Will be done.”

John would have argued further had Fitz Stephen not put a restraining hand upon his arm. As their eyes met, they shared a moment of frustrated, haunted understanding, the awareness that as clay was in the potter’s hands, so were they all in God’s Hands, and they could not save Thomas Becket unless he chose to save himself.

Just then there was a sharp cry from Edward Grim, standing watch at one of the windows. With a young man’s keen eyesight, he’d seen in the fading light what the older sentinels had not, the activity under the ancient mulberry tree. “They are arming themselves!” Hanging so far out the window that he was in danger of falling, he soon reported, “Men are pouring into the outer court! They’ve seized the gatehouse and… Jesus wept! My lord, your steward has joined them! He is helping to guard the gate!”

Through the open windows, they could hear now the shouting, the Norman battle cry of “King’s men, king’s men!” Other sounds were coming from the west, the laments of townspeople gathered outside the priory walls, crying out their fear that the archbishop and his monks were “sheep for the slaughter.” The noise was intensifying, curses and heavy pounding filling the air. Within the archbishop’s bedchamber, some of the monks and clerks fled while they still could, realizing what that new clamor meant: that quick-witted servants had barred the door to the hall and the knights were attempting to force their way back in.

“My lord, we must get to the church!” Becket’s confessor was tugging at his sleeve and others at once added their pleas to his, entreating the archbishop to flee whilst there was still time. Becket refused, insisting that he would not budge a foot from this chamber, for here he would await God’s Will. The hammering suddenly stopped and Fitz Stephen darted toward the windows in the south wall, where he soon confirmed his worst fears.

“Robert de Broc has led them around the side of the hall. They are going to try to enter by the external stairway!”

Someone said that the stairway was being repaired and was not accessible, but Fitz Stephen had to puncture that faint hope. “The workmen left their ladder and tools there and de Broc is climbing up! Once he gets into the hall, he’ll take them right here!”

The monks renewed their pleading, imploring the archbishop to seek safety in the cathedral, and again he refused, scorning them for their cowardice. It was Edward Grim who finally offered a reason for leaving that Becket could not reject out of hand. “Vespers is nigh, my lord. Would you keep the Lord and your flock waiting?”

When Becket hesitated, the other men took physical action, seizing his arms and compelling him toward a long-unused door that led down to a private passageway to the cloisters. The door had to be forced, but they could hear now the splintering sound of wood and knew that Robert de Broc had broken into the hall. Shoving the archbishop into the stairwell, they fled into the corridor, fear making them fleet. But then they discovered that the door to the cloisters was barred. Some of the monks began to panic, crying out that they were trapped. When the bolt was suddenly lifted on the other side of the door, only the narrow, cramped space kept them from dropping to their knees in wonder at this miracle of God. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing the Almighty’s instrument to be none other than Richard, the cellarer.

Spilling out into the cloisters, the archbishop’s clerks and monks continued to push him toward the door leading into the northwest transept of the cathedral. He eventually stopped struggling once he realized he could not prevail against them and sought to preserve his dignity, insisting that his cross-bearer proceed ahead of them with his archiepiscopal cross. Nor would he permit the cellarer to bar the door to the cloisters.

When they reached the church, vespers for the monks was already in progress, but the service was halted in confusion. As some of them came down the steps leading up to the choir, Becket ordered them to “Go back and finish divine office.” Monks and clerks continued to crowd into the church, and a cry soon went up that there were armed men in the cloisters. Several men ran to close the door and slide its heavy iron bar into place.

“No!” Becket’s voice carried loudly and clearly across the cathedral, halting the men in the act. To their utter dismay, he commanded them to reopen the door. “Christ’s Church is not a fortress. Let anyone enter who wishes.”

They dared not disobey and he returned to the door, shoved it open, and pulled in a few stragglers seeking refuge in God’s House. He then turned and walked without haste toward the choir. He was mounting the steps when Fitz Urse and the other knights burst into the cathedral.

Darkness had fallen and the church was lit only by a few oil lamps up in the choir and candles at the High Altar. The knights peered uncertainly into the murky, swirling shadows, their task made no easier by the fact that Becket and the Benedictine monks were clad in black. Advancing warily into the transept, one of them shouted, “Where is Thomas Becket, traitor to the king and realm?”

Their demand was met with silence. Fitz Urse swore and then called out, “Where is the archbishop?”

Becket turned and slowly started down the steps. “Here I am, no traitor to the king, but a priest of God. What do you want of me?”

Some of the monks had already faded away into the blackness of the nave. Now Becket’s clerks abandoned him, too, even John of Salisbury and Henry of Auxerre, the cross-bearer substituting for the absent Alexander Llewelyn. They hid behind altars, fled down to the safety of the crypt, up the stairs to the Chapel of St Blaise. Only Robert of Merton, his confessor, Fitz Stephen, two monks, and Edward Grim stood their ground behind him on the choir steps.

The knights were a terrifying sight, having shed their mantles to reveal chain-mail underneath, naked swords in one hand, the stolen workmen’s axes in the other. Neither of the de Brocs were with them, although Robert de Broc’s renegade clerk, Hugh de Horsea, was. As they fanned out, approaching Becket from the left and right sides of the massive central column, one of the two remaining monks lost his nerve and bolted for the stairs. Hugh de Morville took up position between the nave and the choir, sword leveled menacingly at a few citizens who’d arrived early for the second Vespers service. Becket continued down the steps, moving at a measured pace, and then halted by the pillar between the Lady Chapel and the Chapel of St Benedict.

Without warning, Fitz Urse raised his sword and used its point to flick Becket’s tonsure cap from his head. There were muffled cries from the monks cowering in the shadows, but Becket did not even flinch.

“Absolve the bishops!”

“I have already said what I will and will not do.”

“If you do not, you are a dead man!”

“I am ready to die for God and the Church. But in the Name of the Almighty, I forbid you to harm any of my own.”

“Come with us, then!” When Becket refused, Fitz Urse dropped the axe and grabbed for his mantle.

Becket jerked free and shoved the other man, sending him reeling back. “Let me go, you pimp!”

Fitz Urse snarled and lunged forward, seizing Becket again. The other men moved in, too, and attempted to drag him from the church. Bounding down the choir steps, Edward Grim joined the fray, throwing his arms around the archbishop to keep them from moving him from the pillar. He was resisting so fiercely that, with Grim’s help, he was able to shake them off.

Fitz Stephen was still standing on the steps, unable either to flee or to go to the archbishop’s defense, unable to move. The scene had lost all reality for him. He heard Grim shouting that the men must be mad, heard William de Tracy calling the archbishop a traitor. And then he saw a shivering glimmer of light as an altar candle reflected off Fitz Urse’s upraised sword.

Grim flung up his arm to shield Becket and the blade came down upon them both, slicing off some of the archbishop’s scalp and all but severing Grim’s arm at the elbow. Both men began to bleed profusely. Fitz Stephen made a shaky sign of the cross, closing his eyes as de Tracy struck. The confessor standing beside him would later tell him he’d said, “ ‘The waters that were in the river were turned to blood.’ ” But he had no recollection of his own words. He remembered only what Thomas Becket said as he fell to his knees. “Into Thy Hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.”

Fitz Urse and de Tracy stood over the fallen archbishop, swords dripping blood. Hugh de Morville was still holding back the people in the nave. Richard le Bret rushed forward to deliver the death blow, almost slipping in Becket’s blood, and brought his sword down with such force that it split the archbishop’s skull and broke in two upon the pavement. “Take that for the love of my lord William, the king’s brother!”

Grim was trying to crawl toward the altar. The knights were staring down at Becket’s body as if stunned by their own deed. It was suddenly quiet, with no sound but the rasping of labored, ragged breathing. Becket’s killers raised their swords again, threatening any who would dare to stop their escape, and then plunged toward the door. But Robert de Broc’s subdeacon turned back. Setting his foot on the archbishop’s neck, he thrust the point of his sword into the gaping wound and scattered Becket’s brains over the floor.

“Let’s go,” he said. “He’ll not rise again.”

Robert de Broc had remained in the archbishop’s private chambers to watch over Becket’s treasure chests, and after the killing, his men looted the palace. They took all the papal letters and documents they found, in the hope that they’d prove treasonous. But they also took Becket’s silver plate, his gold chalice, costly vestment cloths, jewels, and silver coins. Loading their plunder upon horses from the archbishop’s own stables, they rode out of Canterbury, leaving behind a scene of utter devastation.

Men began to emerge from their hiding places in the cathedral. Few dared to approach the archbishop’s body, keeping their eyes averted as if that would somehow allow them to deny that murder had been done in God’s House. Fitz Stephen and Robert of Merton, Becket’s confessor, shook off their paralysis and rushed over to the crumpled form of Edward Grim. To their great relief, he was still alive, still conscious. They were soon joined by Master William, who set about halting the bleeding. It was not long before other victims staggered into the church, for the servants caught in the hall had been brutally beaten by de Broc’s men.

The silence was absolute, eerie. People wandered about aimlessly, faces blank and dazed. Fitz Stephen still knelt by Grim’s side, cradling his head as Master William improvised a bandage. John of Salisbury had crept out from the altar where he’d taken shelter. He sagged down upon the choir steps, and Fitz Stephen and he looked at each other across the wounded priest. Although neither spoke, Fitz Stephen knew what they both were thinking. The only one who’d tried to protect Lord Thomas was a stranger, a man who’d known him but a few days.

By now most of the monks had thronged into the nave and choir. Prior Odo had surfaced from the crypt and, striding over to them, began to ask abrupt questions about Edward Grim’s prospects for recovery. Fitz Stephen felt rage welling up. Odo was so eager to assert his authority that he could not even wait for the archbishop’s body to cool. Doubtless he felt Lord Thomas’s death had been his own deliverance, his fears of removal seeping away with the archbishop’s lifeblood.

Fitz Stephen been focusing all his attention upon Edward Grim, awed and shamed by the priest’s courage and not yet ready to accept what he’d just witnessed-an archbishop butchered in his own church. But Odo’s presumption had jarred the protective cobwebs from his brain, and his numbness began to ebb, giving way to an emotion as crippling and fierce as the most physical pain.

He was becoming aware of a low droning of disapproval. The archbishop’s relationship with the monks of Christ Church had often been a fractious one and not all had welcomed his return from exile. To some, he had remained the worldly, high-living chancellor who’d been forced upon them, never truly one of them, and a violent death, while deplorable, did not change every mind. There were monks now expressing that skepticism, implying that Becket had been an accomplice in his own demise. Several spoke of the archbishop’s willfulness, his antipathy to compromise. Mention was made of his prideful manner, his vainglory, his inability to forgive wrongs. Someone muttered: “He wanted to be a king, to be more than a king. Let him be a king now.”

Fitz Stephen, a man of the most equable temperament, found himself fighting back the urge to spill yet more blood in the defiled cathedral. Then he noticed Osbern, the archbishop’s longtime chamberlain. His face was bruised and swollen, several teeth knocked out by pummeling fists, for he had been the one who’d barred the door to the great hall. Kneeling by Becket’s body, he tore off a sleeve of his shirt and using it as a bandage, he wound it carefully around the archbishop’s shattered skull. There was such tenderness in that simple, futile gesture that Fitz Stephen’s throat closed up and his eyes burned with hot, bitter tears.

Townspeople had ventured into the cathedral and were gathering around the body, weeping and wailing, crouching to kiss Becket’s hands and feet, ripping off pieces of their clothing to dip in the puddles of coagulating blood. Prior Odo and several of the monks hurried over to disperse them, eventually managing to clear the church of all but the members of the religious community.

Slowly, haltingly, men began to function again, to deal with the immediate aftermath of the murder. Edward Grim and the other injured were ushered out to be tended at the infirmary. Fetching a bier, some of the monks lifted the corpse and carried it up into the choir and onto the High Altar. Benches were dragged into the transept and positioned to keep anyone else from stepping in the spillage of blood and brains.

It was then that Robert of Merton chose to reveal the archbishop’s secret. Lifting Becket’s black mantle and bloodied surplice and lambskin pelisse, he uncovered the monk’s habit beneath. The priory monks were deeply moved by this evidence of his camouflaged solidarity, evidence that he’d been one of them after all. But the confessor had one more surprise to disclose. Pulling up the habit, he showed them that Becket was wearing a hair shirt, even a pair of hair braies. The drawers were so tight that the seams had gouged a furrow from knees to hip and the skin was abraded and chaffed from continual contact with the rough, coarse cloth. The hair shirt had been split so that Becket could bare his flesh to daily flagellations and his back was scarred with the marks of past scourging. That very day, the confessor told them proudly, he had endured three such penitential whippings. As the awestruck, stunned monks crowded in closer, they saw that the braies were infested with vermin, swarming with lice and fleas, some of which had even burrowed into his groin.

Pandemonium resulted. Men wept at this painful proof of sanctity. Monks expecting to find the archbishop garbed in silken braies and furs of fox or vair were overwhelmed by this discovery of his daily torment. Sobbing, they kissed his hands and feet, proclaiming him “Saint Thomas, martyr unto God.” A few thought to return to the transept where they carefully scooped up as much of the blood as they could, some of it undoubtedly Edward Grim’s. The broken blade of Richard le Bret’s sword was recovered and put aside with the archbishop’s bloodied clothing, to be cherished as holy relics, and many no longer mourned, rejoicing instead that their lord had died for God and Holy Church, martyr to the True Faith.

The following day, Becket’s body was hastily buried in the cathedral crypt after the monks were threatened by Robert de Broc, who vowed that he would drag the corpse behind his horse to the nearest cesspit. The church had been polluted by the shedding of blood so there could be no funeral Mass. The archbishop was dressed in his hair shirt and the vestments he’d worn at his investiture eight years before. He was not washed, as he had already been washed in his own blood. The first miracle occurred three days later, when a woman stricken with palsy was reported to have been cured after drinking water sprinkled with a few drops of Becket’s blood.