III. Troubles in England

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IN August of the same year, upon St. Laurence's day, Thomas, barefoot before the high altar of his Cathedral, received the Pall — the little Y-shaped vestment that is the symbol and conveyer of jurisdiction from the Vicar of Christ — and set himself down to his new work.

Never was there so great a change in the life of any man, as this which befell Thomas. Yet it was not that his heart and intention were changed: there was no need for that. Before his consecration he was Chancellor; it was part of his position to spend royally, to dress magnificently, to represent his king worthily; and this he had done. Now he was a representative of the King of the kings whose glory lies in discipline and humility. As he passed out of his hall on the day of his consecration the jesters clamoured 50 round him for largesse. He shook his head, smiling.

" I am not he who was Chancellor," he said.

For a time he still dressed with his old splendour, in furs and rich stuffs, unwilling probably to advertise to the world his altered intentions. Then quietly he laid them aside; and put on him instead the frock of a monk, a surplice of fine linen, and, in memory of his old school, the great black cloak of the Augustinians, trimmed, however, with cheap lambswool in the place of expensive fur. He wore also his stole at all times, even when he slept, and, later, he received and wore the Cistercian cowl.

His life, too, was astonishingly changed. As Chancellor he had done his austerities in private — his long prayers, even at the doors of churches after dark, his sleeping upon the floor beside his rich bed, his disciplines received at the hands of priests. Now he was the superior of monks and must set an open example.

His palace at Canterbury stood at the north-west of the Cathedral, in its own orchard and garden: a covered passage, seldom used, led from it to the south end of the great cloister, and another door at the north-west end also gave entrance to the cloister. On the north of this cloister stood the refectory and buttery; on the south-east side the chapter-house, beside which a door opened into the Cathedral itself. The other great buildings of Christchurch monastery were to the eastwards again and were reached by covered passages beneath the monk's dormitory — the cloister, hall and chapel of the infirmary, the Prior's lodging, and, against the Cathedral itself the strong vestries where the treasures were kept — altar vessels, vestments, images of precious metal, ancient service-books, the gifts of old kings, bound in gold and jewels. In every court ran pipes of water, recently laid down, to form washing-places and drinking fountains, from the spring on the south of the church.

But the Cathedral itself was the glory of all; and into this, standing amongst its cemeteries and trees, Thomas would pass day by day through the cloister, going by the great cupboards where Lanfranc's books 52 were stored, and the wooden studies stood, with his cross before him and his chaplains coming behind. There he would find himself in the vast church, with its rows of round columns, its flights of steps, its twenty-six altars, its priceless relics, its towering rood beneath the central lantern, its countless images, its starry roof, and its great chair dominating all, where he sat. There he would sit, we know, as the Holy Father sits to-day, while parts of the Mass were sung, in a chasuble hung with bells like Aaron's, descending for the consecration with his Welsh crossbearer going before him. There from the high altar, mitred and coped, he would give the blessing of a saint, and there again, from the pulpit beneath, he would preach his fiery sermons, and publish the censures and remissions which he alone had a right to give.

But it was not all a life of glory. Each night, after a few hours' sleep, he would go to the night office, with lanterns, through the cloister, and sing God's praises there with the rest in the echoing Cathedral while the world slept. Next, after returning, in a small private room, as an act of humility, he washed and kissed the feet of thirteen poor men from the city, and then waited on them while they breakfasted. Then again, after a little sleep, he gave himself up to study of the Scriptures with one or two intimate friends, Herbert of Bosham or some priest. At nine o'clock he either said or heard Mass, depriving himself, as we know, sometimes, of standing at the altar out of a spirit of penitence. To see him say Mass was a wonderful sight; the tears would run down his cheeks as he handled the Body of our Lord....

A little before midday he dined, entertaining, as his custom had always been, those who came to him, waited upon by boys of noble family. There was no music played as in the old days; instead the Scriptures were read aloud. Occasionally his food would be delicate, as he suffered a little from illness. To an insolent guest one day who commented on this, he said smiling:

"I think, my dear brother, you are more eager over your beans than I over my pheasant."

After dinner, if necessary, he would make up for his short sleep the night before; and then, after conversation, either ride out with his friends or more often go over to the cloister, where the monks studied and walked; sometimes he would pass on to the infirmary and occupy himself in waiting upon any sick that were there. Later again, after supper and prayers and receiving the discipline (tearing himself with his nails, we are told, and crying " Miserrimus "), he would go to bed, or, fully as often, lie down and sleep beside his bed on the stone floor. It was an age of strong passions, and men used strong measures. (And this was the man, this careful shepherd of his sheep, to whom Gilbert, his envious rival, dared to write, "You entered into your sheepfold not by the door, but climbing up some other way.")

The rumours of all this distressed the King. It seemed as if, after all, Thomas was not so entirely a man of the world as he had hoped; and he became still more uneasy when a letter reached him from the Archbishop resigning the Great Seal. He answered with some sharpness, telling him 55 he should resign the archdeaconry too. Thomas hesitated a little, and then obeyed. A little before Christmas Henry came back to England. The Archbishop met him with the old affection, rode with him to London, and sang Mass in his presence in St. Paul's Cathedral on Christmas Day. There had been already a slight attempt on the part of some of the nobles to complain of Thomas' recovery of some alienated church lands, but it came to nothing. The bishopric of London was soon filled by the appointment of Gilbert Foliot, late of Hereford; and he with his Metropolitan soon after Easter set out immediately for the Council of Tours, called by the Pope. At present there was nothing against Gilbert; he seemed as devoted to Thomas as to Henry, and was full of zeal towards the Apostolic See. Thomas' visit to Tours was marked by extraordinary enthusiasm; he was received first by an enormous crowd, including several cardinals, and then by Alexander himself with particular attention. When the Council was over the English bishops and archbishops returned home again. 56

So time went on, quietly enough for the present until nearly the end of the year. The Archbishop took part in several great ceremonies, such as the consecration of Reading Abbey Church and the translation of the relics of St. Edward the Confessor, lately canonized. Henry was present at this last ceremony, showing great devotion to the dead and great affection to the living saints. And then at last the inevitable storm began to brew, as Thomas had pre dieted.

It began with a number of small things, like heavy rain-drops from a thunder clpud, connected with the difficult relations of Church and State. For example, two or three of them concerned the trial and punishment of ecclesiastics. Henry claimed that these should be tried and punished twice, first by the Church Courts and then by his own. Thomas flatly refused. Another case concerned the excommunication of a man who had wrongfully driven out from his church one of the priests of the Archbishop. Henry demanded that he should be absolved, and Thomas in this case yielded for the sake of 57 peace. These do not seem important matters for two old friends to quarrel about; but it must be remembered that Henry was terribly afraid of losing his dignity in the eyes of his people if he were worsted, that he was disappointed to find that his ex-chancellor could not be turned about in the direction he wished, and, finally, there were plenty of nobles about the King who, out of jealousy, spared no pains to make mischief, as well as plenty of ecclesiastics who envied Thomas his position. The story of these churchmen is a piteous one. Such men as Gilbert Foliot, Roger of York, and others, might have handed their names down to posterity as friends and supporters of a saint: they had an immense opportunity of shewing courage and loyalty; and instead of all this we know them only now as weak or timid or ambitious prelates, who preferred their own advancement and the King's friendship, to the friendship of God and His saints. This then was the situation; trouble began to brew, and finally, the first real peal of thunder broke in a council at Westminster, at which the King, losing control of himself, demanded that 58

Thomas and the bishops should take an oath to "observe the royal customs."

Now this was a clever way of putting it. If the bishops refused they would seem disloyal; if they accepted it would mean that they gave up all the rights of the Church to the King. Their answer was the one alone possible for them to make — that they would observe these customs " saving their order." Henry was furious. The council sat till late disputing. One bishop half yielded; but Thomas held the rest firm, and finally, in dead silence, white with anger, Henry rose and left the hall.

Then the storm was up. The next morning the King sent to demand that Thomas should resign all the castles he had received during his chancellorship. Thomas did so at once, for this did not touch God's honour, but his own dignity only. The bishops were thoroughly frightened; and presently not only did Hilary, Bishop of Chichester, who had half yielded in the council, go after the King to make peace, but even Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of London, Thomas' old friend, deserted him for Henry. Finally, the King demanded that Thomas should meet him near Northampton and give an explanation.

It must have been a moving scene — the two cavalcades, one of courtiers the other of ecclesiastics, filing through into a field by the roadside where the meeting was held, and drawing apart into two camps while the leaders, the King in his riding dress and the Archbishop in his cloak and stole, met like champions in the middle.

11 You are my man," cried the King, "I raised you from nothing, and you defy me."

" Peter too was raised from nothing, Sir," answered the Archbishop, " yet he ruled the Church."

" Yes, but Peter died for his Lord."

"And I, too, will die for Him when the time comes."

"And you will not yield to me, then?" cried the King.

" I will not, Sir," said the Archbishop.

The King turned his horse and rode out of the field.

Time went on, and the year 1163 was drawing at last to its close. On all sides, from ecclesiastics as well as from nobles, 60 arguments poured in upon the Archbishop; finally an abbot came from the Pope urging Thomas to make peace. Either Alexander did not send the message, or else he did not understand the situation; but it was enough for Thomas, and, riding to Woodstock, he yielded, withdrawing the phrase, "saving his order," about which the dispute had raged.

But still he was not at peace. His old enemy, Roger Pont 1'Eveque, who had been with him in Theobald's Court and was now Archbishop of York, made new trouble by demanding the right to have his Archiepiscopal Cross carried before him in the province of Canterbury. This was an old dispute, and was more serious than it seems, since it touched the question as to how far Canterbury was supreme over the Church in England.

Finally, Thomas wrote to the Pope in despair, saying that wave after wave of trouble was breaking over the Church, explaining all the disputes, and entreating for guidance. The Pope answered by a letter full of praise and encouragement, telling 61 him he must suffer cheerfully for Christ's sake, and urging him, whatever else he did, to aim at peace in all things, and not to dream for an instant of resigning his position. If Thomas could not save the situation no other man in England could do so. And so the year ended, and the new year began.

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The new year began in gloom, for a council assembled at Clarendon, called by the King to drive his demands home, and to this council Thomas went with a heavy heart. Presently once more the demands were made that the " royal customs " should be observed; and there followed a scene.

In one room the ecclesiastics sat apart deliberating; but the King, hearing that Thomas once more was doubtful as to whether he should consent or not, used every means to terrify him. Into the very hall itself where the clergy sat came armed men, wearing the King's colours. We can imagine the picture — the upper end of the high room crowded with prelates, whitefaced and nervous, with Thomas in his great 62 chair in the centre, heavy and silent; and, at the lower end, the whispering, clanking figures eyeing him and his fellows. But the armed men were not the difficulty; Thomas was ready to die, but he was not so ready to ruin those who trusted and looked to him. One by one they came up and leaned by him, talking fiercely and pathetically; Jocelin, Bishop of Salisbury, and Roger of Worcester, were two of them, entreating him for the love of God to yield and be reasonable. Nobles came in from the court outside, telling him the King was determined; finally two Templars came to assure him that the King meant no harm, but only to preserve his dignity in the eyes of the world. And at last Thomas yielded.

"My lord," he said, standing before Henry a few minutes later, "Your Excellency must remember that I have not been fighting for my own rights, but for those of God. But, believing in your moderation, I will assent to what you ask; and, in good faith, I promise to observe the customs in the word of truth."

It was done, and Henry leapt to his feet, 63 calling all to witness what had been said, demanding that the rest of the bishops should make the same promise. One by one they did so. Then the King, following up his advantage, demanded that the " royal customs " should now be written down in full, that all might know plainly what was claimed. Thomas assented and the council adjourned.

All that evening the scribes were at work, and upon the next morning the papers were ready. It would take too much space to describe all that was claimed, but, in a word, it may be said that, when written out at length, the demands made were such as no Churchman could for an instant admit. For example, all ecclesiastics were to be judged by the King; no person, ecclesiastic or not, was to leave the kingdom, even when summoned by the Pope, without the King's leave; no member of the royal household could be excommunicated without the same leave; the Pope was practically shelved as a Court of Appeal from the Archbishop, the King having the right of veto over such appeals; all vacant bishoprics and abbacies 64 were to lie in the King's hands. To each, as it came up, Thomas, dismayed and discouraged, made his answer, showing how, although some of these were truly old customs, practised from time to time, yet they had never been laws in the proper sense of the term, and that he for one would never consent to admit them, now he understood what the King had meant. Finally, in a burst of indignation, he cried aloud:

" By the Lord Almighty, my seal shall never touch these papers."

But he had promised! The officials were silent. Presently, without further comment, they handed to him a copy of the "customs," and another to Roger of York. The third they kept for the King. And so the council ended; and Thomas, mounting his horse, rode away.

Now one of the Archbishop's attendants was a Welshman named Llewellyn. (We shall hear of him again and again before the end. It was he who carried the cross before his master.) As the company of ecclesiastics rode away they noticed that Thomas rode apart, his head on his breast. Little by little 65 F they drew near him again, talking over what had been done, some doubting, some applauding. Finally, as the Archbishop still rode silently, Llewellyn cried out aloud:

"The storm has overthrown the pillars of the Church; through the shepherd's foolishness the sheep are flying before the wolf.... What virtue has he left who has so betrayed his conscience and good name? "

Thomas turned his heavy face.

" Of whom are you speaking, my son?"

"Of you, my lord," cried the Welshman, excitedly. " It is you who have joined yourself with the servants of Satan to cast down the liberties of Christ's Church."

There was a moment of awful silence; and then Thomas, bursting into sobs, confessed that it was true. He had betrayed the Church, he said, by his promise; he had enslaved her — he who had dared to enter her service from the court of the King; he was deserted by God, he cried; he was unfit to stand any longer at the altar; he was fit only to be dethroned and degraded.

"My lord, "said Herbert of Bosham, "Our Lord is merciful to those who fall. If you 66 have sinned with Peter, repent also with Peter.... If you have been Saul, persecuting the Church, become now Paul to defend her."

And now what shall we say of Thomas ourselves? It is true that he had consented, worked upon by his terrified friends, threatened by the King, urged even, it had seemed at one time, by the Holy Father himself. But we dare not judge him as hardly as he judged himself. (For forty days he abstained from offering the Holy Sacrifice.) For at least he had refused his seal when he understood what were the actual claims made by the King. He had consented generally, believing that the King was in good faith and desired no more than to preserve his dignity; but when he had understood that the King did indeed intend to bring the Church under his own authority, then without fear he had resisted. It was a fault that he had committed in promising at all; but it was a fault of judgement, not of conscience. As an old writer says of him: " He cast over the tackling to save the ship; he became poor that we might be rich: He became a fool to make others wise."

And now the King and his friends began to push home the advantage they had gained. First the King sent his men to Canterbury to confiscate Thomas' goods; but the men, meeting Thomas' stern eyes as he came out from the Cathedral, rode away again harmlessly. Next the King and his friends tried to obtain the Pope's sanction for the " Constitutions," and, very naturally, they failed, the Pope at the same time sending a message of encouragement to Thomas and telling him to resume his ministrations at the altar. Next Henry attempted to crush Thomas still further by persuading the Pope to make Roger of York Papal legate instead of Thomas; and here, too, he failed. In every conceivable direction Henry made war upon Thomas; but there was only one point in which he at all succeeded. This was with regard to a certain Clarembald, of whom we shall hear again, a man of exceedingly wicked life, who had managed to get himself elected abbot of St. Augustine's, Canterbury. Clarembald, of course with Henry's support, demanded to be installed in his abbey, at the same time refusing Thomas' blessing unless 68 it were given in St. Augustine's, and refusing also to take any oath of obedience to the Archbishop. He succeeded in persuading the Pope to order his installation, but for all that he never received his abbatial blessing. Later on he was deprived by Alexander III, and was turned out altogether by Archbishop Richard, who succeeded St. Thomas. He was a thoroughly evil man, and, as will be seen later, actually assisted the murderers of the Saint a few years afterwards.

This then was the only point in which any success was gained by the Court party against Thomas; so Henry had to set about some other means of attacking him. Finally he refused to see Thomas at Woodstock; and then, after one interview, when all else was useless, he devised a plot for the Archbishop's final humiliation. This plot was as follows.

It will be remembered that when Thomas had become Archbishop he had asked and obtained from Prince Henry a complete release from all his secular obligations. This release had been ratified in the choir of Canterbury immediately before his consecration. It was 69 this release that Henry determined to repudiate. There were, as well, other absurd charges to be brought against the Archbishop— as, for example, that he was guilty of treason in not attending the King at a time when he was too ill to travel. Now if the King was able to sue Thomas for enormous payments, or to "prove" him guilty of treason, his object would be gained and the Archbishop would be powerless. In October, therefore, he summoned a council at Northampton, and sent a command to the Sheriff of Kent that the Archbishop was to appear and answer the charges against him. Was Henry, then, simply an unprincipled bully? Probably not. He had been a good friend to Thomas a year or two before; he was capable, as will be seen, of very deep and real repentance; and a man cannot be wholly bad who is capable of friendship with a saint, and of penitence towards God. But he was a Norman. Henry was just a violent-tempered man who had determined to be master of every one in his dominions. " When he was checked in this it was all the more maddening that his opponent had once 70 been a friend of his own — one with whom he had laughed and banqueted, whom he had raised to great dignities. Henry had thought that these things would over-ride loyalty to God: he had been friend to a saint, but he had not understood that a saint was first a friend of God.

So the writs were issued; and Northampton began to fill with troops and clerks.

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It is not often that the champions of God and of the world stand out clear and distinct, each with his weapons, opposed one to the other in the open field. The battle-ground is more usually a confusion of figures, in which blows fall this way and that; friends are wounded as well as foes; right and might seem inextricably mingled; the battle sways now on one side, now on another, and only God Himself, who reads hearts and knows all men and things perfectly, sees how the conflict goes. When, however, the two armies draw apart, and a giant figure rides out on each side, each resolute and clear-sighted, each utterly determined to fight 7' with all his power, then the roar of tongues ceases, and the world stands still to stare.

It was so now in England. On one side stood Henry, representing earthly dominion, seeking, as Herod against Jesus Christ, and Nero against Peter, and the French Republic against Pius X, to bring the Kingdom of God into subjection to his own. There against him stood Thomas, loyal and obedient in all else, but utterly defiant in this, ready to die if need be, but never to yield. This is what makes the scene at Northampton one of those that history can never forget. Historians mayabuse Thomas, calling him a "turbulent priest," an ambitious Churchman, a disloyal Englishman, but they cannot ignore him. It is in these moments of history that the issue stands clear, and God's purposes emerge from confusion.

It was on a Tuesday again, October 6th, 1164, that the Archbishop's train, numbering about forty men, drewnear Northampton. He must surely have been very silent as he rode among his clerks, in his cloak and stole; for he knew what lay before him. At 72 the very gates of the city he received his first rebuff. His servants came out to tell him that his lodgings had been purposely occupied by King's men. He halted instantly, and sent a message back to the King that he would not come one step further unless his rooms were given back to him. The King yielded, and Thomas went on.

He stayed that night with the monks of St. Andrew's in their fine new buildings. In the morning he said mass and office and went to wait upon the King. The King came out from the chapel into the hall where the Archbishop stood to receive him, looked upon him, and went by without a word. Thomas sent a message or two to the King, received short answers, and went back to St. Andrew's.

On the Thursday the Council met. It was composed of ecclesiastics and nobles, who seem to have sat for the most part in different rooms of the castle; the Churchmen with their Primate and the nobles with the King, consulting apart, meeting only now and again.

We know what Thomas expected.

"If I am murdered," he said to the bishops, " I enjoin upon you to lay the interdict upon these districts."

Then the charges were brought; and for three days the Archbishop was set upon and badgered from all sides. On Sunday all men rested; in the evening Thomas was taken ill, and on the Monday could not appear. Then Tuesday dawned.

Thomas rose early as usual, vested for mass in red vestments, and went to the altar of St. Stephen. There he said that mass beginning "Princes sat and spake against me."

At the close he lifted the Blessed Sacrament, placed It in a pyx on his breast; and after his thanksgiving, putting aside his mitre and pall, threw his cloak over his vestments, signed to Llewellyn to take his cross, mounted his horse at the door, and rode to the castle. At the entrance of the hall, as he dismounted, Robert, Bishop of Hereford, advanced from the crowd that was watching, and begged leave to carry his cross. The Archbishop shook his head, took the cross into his own hand, and went on towards the presence of the King, his bishops gathering round him as he went.

11 My lord," said Gilbert of London, in the outer council-room, "you bear your cross like a sword; if the King were to draw his sword, what hope would there be of peace?"

" I bear my cross always," answered Thomas, quietly, "to preserve God's peace. But, as you say, if my Lord the King were to draw his sword there would indeed be no hope of peace."

He passed on and sat down, with Herbert of Bosham at his feet, while the bishops went in to the King.

Now it was unknown what the King would do. On the previous days sentence had been given against Thomas on one or two charges, and he had been condemned to pay enormous sums for his supposed crimes against the King; but now more than this was feared. It was thought by many that imprisonment, or even death, would fall upon the Archbishop. They were violent times; injustice, as well as justice, was short and sharp in execution; a hot word from the King, a 75 sudden gesture — these might have led in an instant to murder in the castle. Thomas sat almost alone; his men-at-arms had left him; the bishops were running to and fro in terror; his only attendants were half-a-dozen clergy and a terrified company of poor folks and beggars in the street outside, who loved him but could not help him except by their prayers.

So the minutes began to pass. Once Herbert whispered to his master to be prepared to excommunicate any who laid hands on him; but another clerk urged him to take peaceably whatever came. Once the door opened from the inner room where the King sat, and men-at-arms came out with such looks that those round the Saint crossed themselves in terror.

" I fear for you," whispered Thomas to Herbert, ' ' but fear not for yourself. You shall share my crown."

" Not one of us must fear," answered Herbert, smiling. " Are you not the standard bearer of the King of Angels, who were once the standard bearer of the King of Angles?"

Presently Fitz Stephen, who had advised patience just now, leaned forward to speak to his master again, but was hindered by a King's man; so he pointed in silence to the Crucified Figure upon the Archiepiscopal Cross; and so again they waited, while Thomas prayed quietly in his heart.

Then again, after a pause, the door opened, and a group of nobles came out, to demand in the King's name whether Thomas would accept the decision of the Court. The Archbishop answered quietly that the question was an impossible one — that he could not yield to the King except in secular matters, that to charge him with debts from which he had been solemnly released was an injustice, and he ended by appealing to the Pope.

There followed a hesitation. A few of the nobles went back to the King, a few remained eyeing the Archbishop and threatening him in undertones amongst themselves. So the time went on. Bishops came and went from King to Archbishop; some entreated, some threatened, some stood weeping apart. The nobles came again and went 77 back again; and the crowd gathered and surged. There, in the two rooms were the two pivots round which all turned, the King, apart among his men, and Thomas with his two or three. At any instant violence might break out — there were hot hearts there, and hands ready to strike. That quiet figure that sat beneath the cross was, to many there, the very sign and symbol of all they hated, of God's claim against their own. Finally that figure rose, as the murmuring grew louder.

He had been badgered beyond bearing; he had come there, hoping against hope, desiring justice rather than generosity, and he had not even been allowed to see his accuser face to face. So he spoke his full mind at last.

He was bound, he said, to obey God rather than man; he was the spiritual superior of those who were presuming to judge him, and now in God's name he bade them hold their peace. He appealed to one who was greater than them all, who alone had a right to speak in such matters — the Father of Christendom and the Vicar of Christ; he 78 placed all in the hands of God and of His Representative.

"And so," he said, " defended by the authority of the Catholic Church and of the Holy See, I go hence."

A chorus of hooting and insult broke out from the crowded hall. He turned on them like a lion, towering above them, his face alight with anger.

" If I were not a priest," he said, " I would appeal to ordeal by arms."

They shrank back as he advanced with blazing eyes through the midst, and on the outskirts a howl went up, calling him traitor and villain. Once again, as he went with FitzStephen and the Cross upraised, he turned on an armed noble who cried out on him:

" If I were but a soldier," he cried again, " my own hands should prove you false."

The great gates of the castle were locked. Behind him surged the howling mob, and from outside came the roaring of the people, who feared that their hero was dead. Even still at any moment he might have been struck down; the tension was acute. A 79 bunch of keys hung there by the door; the first key that was tried fitted the great lock, and the Archbishop passed out.

It was a strange dinner that afternoon in Saint Andrew's Monastery. Those who were the Saint's friends had suffered terrible anxiety, and now, even that their master was safe back again the danger was not over. Of those who had ridden in with him to the city scarcely six remained; and the castle, but a few hundred yards away, swarmed with armed men. Before dinner he had prayed awhile in silence before the high altar of the church, replacing no doubt in the hanging tabernacle the Blessed Sacrament which he had carried all day.

Hardly a word had fallen from him, except when FitzStephen had said, "This has been a bitter day."

"The last will be more bitter," said the Saint.

As usual a book was read aloud during the meal. During the reading two bishops came in, sat by the Archbishop, talked a while and went out. They had urged him to come to terms by yielding some Church lands to the King and Thomas had refused. The reading continued: "When they persecute you in one city, flee to another," read the monk. Thomas glanced up at Herbert and down again.

A little later a couple of men were carrying the Archbishop's bed into the church. There was no concealment about this, and a few minutes later all must have known that the Archbishop feared an attack upon his room. The terror grew even greater when it was known that the King had refused any answer to the bishops who, at Thomas' orders, had asked leave for him to go from Northampton.

In the refectory the company still sat on. The poor who had dined there were gone again; and the windows darkened as the autumn day died. Figures came and went in the gloom of the hall — lay-brothers, monks, bishops, and even King's men; but the tall, silent figure sat on at the table. At last, when night was come, he rose and passed down towards the church.

Those who saw him thought that he in- 3i G tended as before to pass the night in prayer and discipline with his friends; but he shook his head when they asked if they might be present. "Trouble not yourselves," he said, and went on into the church and disappeared behind the high altar where his bed had been placed. A servant remained in sight to warn all corners that the Archbishop was there and must not be disturbed. Then in the choir Compline was sung, in an undertone, that the sleeper might not be awakened; the monks dispersed, and the church was dark.

An hour or two later, in the pouring rain, four men went along the empty streets of Northampton towards the North Gate, outside which waited four horses. One of these men was wrapped in a black cloak, and was a head taller than the rest.

As the dawn broke they were seen again outside Grantham, twenty-five miles away, but now the tall man wore the dress of a lay-brother, and was called Brother Christian: and in the morning it was known in Northampton town that the Archbishop was gone, and three weeks later that he had left England.