V. Passion and Death

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THE last conflict was now at hand, and before it was won there were yet more humiliations to be passed through. Like his Lord, that Lamb of God to whom he was compared after his departure, he had entered his city in meek triumph, and he was moving forward to his cross; yet before he could die, like his Master again, he had to be set at nought, mocked, and rejected.

England was by now fiercely excited. For six years the Archbishop had been in exile, and all men knew the reason. Rumours of every sort were active. It seemed that, unless Henry struck some violent and decisive stroke all his schemes would be in vain, and the Church victorious; and, since there was but one man who stood between the King and success, it needed no great gift of 127 prophecy to guess that Thomas was in peril. Probably very few people put much trust in Henry's promises, for it was notorious that, in spite of these, the bishops still carried themselves very high and demanded the removal of the sentence under which they lay. It is marvellous that one man could shew so much courage in such danger. Here was Thomas home again, in the very lion's den itself, yet he showed no sign of faltering. He could so easily have made peace. Yet he would not on such terms. Even in smaller matters we see his resolution. Some appointments had been made in the monastery in his absence and without his sanction; and these too he set aside. He was in a position in which most men would have taken every opportunity to make friends and win popularity, but Thomas cared for none of this. He had his duty to God, and he would doit.

On the morning after his arrival messengers from the censured bishops waited upon him in his palace, demanding that the excommunication should be removed. He answered quietly that it was by sentence of 128 the Pope that they suffered, yet that he would be responsible for their absolution, as Papal Legate, if they would swear to abide the Pope's final judgement. This,, after an objection or two, was almost accepted by the bishops; but they still hesitated, and after devising a new plan to humiliate the Archbishop by causing elections to vacant sees to be made without regarding Canterbury's rights, they crossed to France, leaving representatives behind to poison Prince Henry's mind against Thomas during their absence.

This latter plan succeeded perfectly; and when the Archbishop, intending to visit the Prince at Winchester, prepared gifts for him and sent his messengers to announce his coming, they were received roughly. Matters became even worse when Thomas presently went up to London. He was received again as at Canterbury with extraordinary enthusiasm by the people, led by the Bishop of Rochester. For three miles outside the city the roads were thronged; Te Deums were sung, and the bells pealed; but the next day a curt order came from the Prince that he 129 K was to return immediately to Canterbury. Thomas did so, accompanied by half-a-dozen soldiers, visiting Harrow on the way,.and he arrived home again towards the end of the week before Christmas.

Yet, in spite of the wild welcome with which he was everywhere received, there was a strange foreboding in the air. Curious things were said and done, to be accounted for no doubt partly by the knowledge of many that the Archbishop was still in disfavour. Yet it is difficult altogether to account for them by this explanation. It seems more likely that such an event as the martyrdom of an Archbishop should be allowed, in God's Providence, to cast its dark shadow before.

For example: among all the roars of welcome that met him in London, there was one cry continually uttered by a mad woman in the crowd:

"Archbishop, beware of the knife; beware of the knife."

Again, after his return, when a message was brought to him to look to his safety as well as to the safety of his friends whose lives 130 were also threatened, he struck himself lightly on the neck.

" Here," he said, "they will find me."

And yet again, while talking to an old friend of his, the Abbot of St. Albans, after telling him what he expected, he ended:

"I go," he said, "to celebrate such a feast in my church as our Lord shall provide." And once more, a poor priest who met him with a gift of relics, and told him a strange story, was bidden to come to Canterbury four days after Christmas.

" I will provide for you then," said the Saint.

Finally, a day or two only before his death, a message reached him, uttered some while before by a hermit named Godric, who once before had prophesied his future, and was now dead. " He shall return to his see," the holy man had said, "where not long after an end shall come to him altogether and of all things — an end that shall be to many men a remedy of salvation."

Other signs also shewed the belief of his enemies as to what would happen. The De Brocs, strong King's men, dared to hunt in his preserves, to steal his hounds, and even to mutilate one of his horses, as if knowing that he could not defend himself. He answered this on Christmas Day by an excommunication, uttered with all his undying courage, against the worst of the offenders.

And so his last week began.

On the Saturday before Christmas he held an ordination in the Cathedral; he passed the following days quietly with his friends, taking up, no doubt, the old life of prayer and devotion that had been so dear to him six years before. Thursday was Christmas Eve; and that night he sang the Nativity Gospel after mattins — that is, the gospel of the generations of our Lord — and the midnight mass. For him the Crib and the Cross were not far separated. He preached at the high mass on Christmas Day, on the text: " In terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis," thinking no doubt much of that peace which he desired, but of which these men of evil will would have nothing.

At one point in his sermon he broke down altogether, as he spoke of the bodies of the martyred Archbishops that lay about him in 132 the church, and hinted that another might soon lie there too. A murmur of sorrow burst out from the crowd that listened. Then he sang the high mass himself.

On St. Stephen's Day he sent off Herbert of Bosham, and Alexander his cross-bearer who had been with him through all his troubles, with another, sending two of them to the Pope, and Herbert to the Archbishop of Sens. Finally he sent two more of his friends away on business connected with the excommunications that had caused so much trouble.

On St. Stephen's Day, and St. John's, he sang mass in the Cathedral; and on Holy Innocents' Day he received the message from St. Godric that has already been quoted; and heard mass. At midnight he said mattins privately with a few monks and priests; and when that was over stood for a long while looking out into the dark.

Suddenly he turned to his friends, asking what was the hour, and whether it would be possible to reach Sandwich before daybreak. They told him yes; but, seeming still to meditate, he said a few words in a low voice, 133 as to the doing of God's will, and his own readiness to bear whatever was in store.

Then presently he lay down for his last sleep on earth.

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While Thomas watched and prayed in Canterbury, in Saltwood Castle, a few miles away, five men also watched, but not to pray. Their names were Randulf de Broc (the owner of the castle and the head of that family which had done so much against the Archbishop), Reginald Fitz-Urse, William de Tracy, Hugh de Morville, and Richard le Breton, King's men and knights.

An account of these men is given by Dean Stanley. Briefly it is as follows. De Morville was the most important of the four strangers. He was a landowner and Justice Itinerant in the North. De Tracy was from the west-country, where he also possessed large estates, and was of royal blood on both sides. Fitz-Urse was descended from a great Norman noble of the time of the Conquest, and also came from the West. Le Breton, too, was of a Norman 134 family, also settled in the West: he was an intimate friend of Prince William, the King's brother, and was probably related to Gilbert Foliot. It is plain then that all were important persons, and from other points we know that they were in high favour at Court. It is extremely unlikely therefore that they would have acted as they did, unless they were absolutely sure that they were carrying out the King's wishes. This probability is made certain from the fact that although, as will be seen, certain reparations were demanded from them — De Tracy, at least, went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land — yet they do not seem to have lost the King's favour. Within a short while after the tragedy to which we are just coming, they were again continually in the company of Henry, and more than one was appointed to an important position. It is hard to understand this, considering the King's own repentance; and it is only possible to think that Henry, knowing himself really responsible for what happened, did not understand that his friends, who had carried out the crime, should suffer too.

These four, less than a week ago, had been present in Bur Palace, near Bayeux, in the very room where the King was when he received the three censured bishops, and had heard their complaints. "Sir," said Roger of York bitterly, "I am the only one of the three who dares address your Majesty! The rest of us are excommunicate utterly! It is for taking part in the crowning of your son that we suffer. And he that has done this, now that he is home again, marches everywhere with his army! Sir, we think nothing of perpetual vexations, and the distresses which we suffer in your Majesty's cause; but we are losing too our fortune, our dignity and our good name."

"By God's Eyes," shouted the King, "if all are excommunicate who had part in my son's crowning, then am I excommunicate too! "

"Patience, Sir," sneered Roger, "if we cannot check the storm, we can at least submit to it in peace."

"What would you have me do then?" cried the King.

"It is not for us to counsel you," said 136

Roger smoothly: "that is for your barons to do."

" We shall not have one day of peace," shouted a baron, "so long as Thomas lives."

Then the King had burst out once more into one of his insane fits of anger, and had cried out, again and again, that famous sentence:

"Ah! What sluggish knaves are these of my kingdom! Is there not one that will rid me of this troublesome priest? "

The four knights had looked at one another, slipped out, and after a consultation had separated. And now here they were at Saltwood, together again. The King upon hearing of their departure had, perhaps with a little terror at his heart, sent messengers after them; but it is difficult to know for certain with what intention. In any case they arrived too late.

Early on the morning of Tuesday, December 29th, the four knights, accompanied by the De Brocs and a servant or two, stole out of Saltwood and set out on the road to Canterbury. They entered St. Augustine's

Abbey outside the walls, and were received by Abbot Clarembald, the old enemy of Thomas', who had refused his blessing years before on a trifling plea. This abbey, which three years before had suffered a fire and lost its church with St. Austin's shrine and a large part of its immense library, stood about a hundred yards outside the postern called Queningate to the south-east of Christ-church. There they spent the morning, took some food, and with about a dozen soldiers set out again for the Palace, about a quarter to four o'clock.

The Archbishop dined that day at three o'clock. He had heard Mass in the morning and paid his devotions, as his custom was, at all the altars of the church. Then he had spent a long time in spiritual conversation in the chapter-house, and had made his confession to a monk, Thomas of Maidstone. He had also taken the discipline three times. It was a heavy day, with thunder clouds hanging over the city.

There were a few guests that day at dinner, among whom were Prior Robert of Merton, 138 his old schoolmaster and confessor, and Edward Grim, a priest from Cambridge. Other friends that were present were John of Salisbury and William FitzStephen; and among the monks two, who afterwards wrote down many of the facts contained in this book, Dom Benedict and Dom Gervase.

He talked pleasantly and ate well that day; and on being congratulated on his good spirits he smiled and answered,

" A man should be cheerful who goes to his Master."

And again, when he received a direct warning that the knights were on their way, he answered that he knew well enough that he would die, but that it would be within the church.

Then, when dinner was over and the poor were admitted to the hall, he went, according to his old custom, to his own room, sat down on the bed, and began to talk.

He had only spoken a few words when footsteps sounded in the passage, and his seneschal looked in. Behind him were the faces of others.

"My lord," said the man, "four of the 139

King's household knights are here, and desire to speak with you."

"Let them enter," said the Archbishop quietly, and continued to talk.

Then the four knights came in, passed up the room and sat down at the Archbishop's feet without a word. They were in tunics and cloaks, with mail beneath, but they bore no weapons, though they glanced once or twice at the heavy metal cross that stood by the bed.

Presently the Archbishop gave them good-day; but for a moment they gave no answer. Then —

" God keep you! " snarled FitzUrse.

Again there was silence, as Thomas' face flushed at the insulting manner.

" We are come," said FitzUrse brutally, "with the commands of the King. Will you hear them in private, or before all these folk?"

"As you please," said Thomas, softly.

' ' Nay, as you please, " snapped the knight.

Finally the room was cleared; but the instant FitzUrse began to speak of the excommunicated bishops Thomas' face changed. 140

" There is no need of secrecy for this," he said; and ordered his monks back again. Then FitzUrse poured out a string of accusations.

The Archbishop, he said, had broken his pledge of peace. He had paraded the country with " troops" (this referred to the five soldiers whom Thomas had had for escort during his journey from London). He had dared to excommunicate the bishops for obeying the King's orders. He must go at once to Prince Henry, swear fealty, and make amends for his treason. Finally, he must absolve the bishops instantly.

Thomas expostulated at each point, but it was useless. He explained that the Pope had uttered the censures, and that the Pope must annul them if any must, that he had already attempted to see the Prince and had been refused admittance; and that the King had publicly and notoriously given leave for the punishment of the bishops. He added that FitzUrse himself had been present when the King did so.

1 'What?" cried the knight, " you accuse the King of treachery?" 141

" Reginald, Reginald," said the Saint, " I do not accuse the King of treachery. He did it publicly, before you all."

FitzUrse denied it; and together all the knights broke out into oaths, "by God's wounds," that they had borne enough.

The monks were aghast at the violence.

" My lord, my lord," cried John of Salisbury, " let us speak in private! "

"There is no need," said Thomas.

Then for the last time the Archbishop repeated the facts of the case. He held a great trust from God, he said, and he could not betray it for the King's sake; while, on the other side, he was willing to yield all that was possible. But what was he to do? Since his landing in England the safe-conduct given him by Henry had proved no defence against insults and injuries of every kind. And now here were open threats!

" And if there have been injuries," shouted Hugh de Morville, "why do you not complain to the King, instead of excommunicating on your own authority? "

Thomas answered that it was his duty,.and no one else's, to defend the rights of 142 the Church, and that he would do so without shrinking.

Then the fury of the knights broke out indeed. They sprang up from the floor, they gesticulated, they roared out that it was the Archbishop who was threatening now. They abused the Archbishop to his face and defied him. Thomas once more declared his resolution to stand firm; and they rushed towards the door where a great crowd had assembled at the noise. Thomas called after Hugh, but he paid no attention; and all that FitzUrse did was to order the Archbishop's servants to keep their master under guard until the King required him.

" I am easy to keep," said Thomas, as he took a step or two after them. " Here will you find me," he said, and he laid his hand softly upon his own head.

Down into the hall again swept the knights, catching this man and that as they went. FitzNigel, the seneschal, cried up to his master as he was dragged away.

" I see, I see," said Thomas; " but this is their strength and the power of darkness."

Then, with shouts of " King's men!

King's men!" they passed through the court, and the great gates were shut.

The Archbishop went back to his room and sat down in the falling twilight; and there followed a little talk. John thought he had been too sharp with the knights. Thomas smiled.

11 1 have taken counsel," he said.... And again —

"I am ready to die... God's Will be done."

Presently a servant rushed in.

" My lord, my lord," he cried, "they are arming."

"What matter?" said Thomas. "Let them arm."

And now from all sides came sounds of confusion; wailing, voices, and footsteps; for the sudden flight of the knights and their shouts of "King's men" and "To arms! to arms! " had told all that trouble was near. Across from the hall below came the sound of running feet as the servants rushed out to find shelter, for the orchard to the west of the Cathedral was crowded with armed 144 men. Close beside this orchard was a long covered passage leading to the south-west door of the cloister, and from this direction came the sound of crashing and breaking, as if some man were seeking entrance that way back into the palace. There was no escape, then, that way, nor into the street now known as Palace Street, for this too, no doubt, was held by the soldiers.

Even in the Archbishop's room by now terror was supreme.

"To the church, to the church!" cried one; and another, that Vespers were being sung, and that the Archbishop should be present.

He was persuaded at last, and passed out of the palace, probably through a side-door behind the hall, of which the moulded arch still remains in the palace to-day, towards one that led into the cloisters at the northwest, even then refusing to move unless his cross went before him. Henry of Auxerre took it, and they went on in the falling dusk. But the door was locked. A monk beat on it in vain. Then from the silence within came running footsteps and voices; the dooi 145 L was wrenched open by two monks on the inner side, and the little procession went on through the passage between the locutory and the cellary into the cloister; then, past the refectory, turned to the right by the chapter-house, and so, with the Archbishop still bidding his terrified friends to take courage, they came into the dark Cathedral by the north cloister-door.

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Within, the great dark church was still full of the sound of singing, from where, up the steps and within the choir, the long rows of monks faced one another in their stalls. But all was falling into confusion. A moment ago a couple of boys had burst in crying that the King's men were coming; and even now the nave was filling with the frightened folk from outside, and the sound of shouts and footsteps rang nearer every moment. A few monks sang bravely on at the " Opus Dei "; some hesitated; some ran out and down to the door into the cloister as the archiepiscopal cross came in, followed by the tall figure in black. In an instant 146 they were crying out to him to make haste and come in, that all might die together.

He bade them go back to their Vespers; and while they still hesitated —

"I will not enter," he said, "so long as you remain."

Then he turned to the press behind him, and asked what they feared.

" Armed men in the cloister! " they cried.

" Then I will go out to them," he said.

The confusion increased, and yet above it all pealed the psalms from the choir, mingled now, it seems, with the thunder of the storm that was breaking over the city. Some entreated him to go into the choir; some began to drag up a great bar to secure the door. Thomas' eyes blazed.

"You cowards!" he cried. "I bid you by holy obedience not to make fast the door. A church is not a castle! "

But the door began to close, and he to be dragged towards the steps that led up into the church. He broke away from their hands.

"Let my people in," he said, and went back to the door to draw in a few who still remained clamouring outside. '47

"Come in, come in quickly now," he said.

And now through the cloister came the sound of armed feet, and, as the Archbishop drew back a step, still facing the door, there burst in suddenly the four knights, followed by soldiers and a clerk or two; and on the instant up the steps and behind the altars, mad with fear, vanished all Thomas' friends but three. These, still trusting to the dark and the confusion, tried to drag him up the stairs.

" Leave me," he said sharply. " Let God dispose of me as He will."

And then rang out a voice from the knights.

" Move not! " it cried.

(Now the place where Thomas stood was an oblong paved space, one of the north transepts of the church, roofed over with the floor of St. Blaise's chapel above. This floor was supported by a pillar. On the left, looking from this pillar towards the door, was the back of the Mary altar, with the image of our Lady against another pillar close by. In the apse on the right stood St. Ben net's 148 altar, then, further into the church were two flights of steps, the one leading into the crypt, the other into the choir. On the second flight, a few steps up, stood the Archbishop. Opposite was a window, now all but dark, as the sun had set. There remained with the Archbishop three friends — Prior Robert, William FitzStephen, and Edward Grim, the Cambridge priest; and two or three more, of whom we do not know the names, were by the door.)

"Where is Thomas Beket," cried a furious voice, "the traitor to the King?"

" Where is the Archbishop? " cried FitzUrse.

Thomas nodded to the monks behind him, who were still attempting to force him up the steps.

" I am here," he answered, " no traitor, but Archbishop."

He pulled himself free and came down the steps again, followed closely by Grim, appeared round the pillar, and faced his murderers: a little blank wall was behind him, between the altar and the steps down which he had come.

Then some soldier who had come in with the knights ran forward and struck him across the shoulders with the flat of his sword.

"Flee," he cried, "or you are a dead man."

" I will not flee," he said, and so stood.

Then again they cried out on him to absolve the bishops.

" I will do no more than I have said and done," he said. "Oh Reginald, Reginald, I have done you so many kindnesses, and you come against me with arms! "

"You shall soon know it," snarled FitzUrse. "Are you not a traitor? "

" I do not fear your threatenings," cried Thomas. " I am ready to die in God's cause. Yet let my people go! "

FitzUrse seized him, knocking off his cap with his sword.

" Come," he cried, "you are my prisoner."

Thomas tore his cloak loose.

" Do with me here what you will."

There followed a struggle. The knights seized him, shrinking even then it seemed from the horror of slaying him in that place, 150 but, with Grim's help, he clung on to the pillar.

"Do not dare to touch me," he cried, "you are my man, Reginald, and owe me fealty."

" I owe you no fealty nor homage," cried the knight, "contrary to my fealty to the King."

By now faces were looking down from the church above; others, clinging to the altar of St. Bennet close by, were watching also, terrified and bewildered; and the knights, fearing a rescue, drew back an instant from the Saint. Then, with a great crash, FitzUrse flung down the axe that he carried.

"Strike! strike! " he shouted.

Thomas, still half reeling from the struggle, bowed his head in his hands in the dying light.

" I commend myself to God, to holy Mary, to blessed Denis, to St. Elphege."

Then down came William de Tracy's sword. Grim, still standing by the pillar, leapt out to avert it with outstretched hands, and met it with his right arm; but the long Norman blade cut half through it, smashing the bone, then struck the Saint's head and fell upon his shoulder. Grim, dripping with blood, and maddened with pain, sprang aside to the altar; from where, a moment before, a monk, a native of Canterbury, named William, had run out and up the steps, clapping his hands and shouting to warn the rest. (It was this William FitzStephen who had so often been his minister at a more august Sacrifice even than this — his subdeacon at mass.)

Then those who watched saw how the Saint lifted his hand to his head, and as he saw the blood upon it they heard him cry:

"Into thy hands, O Lord, I commit my spirit."

Again a sword rose and fell; but he remained motionless; but at the third blow he fell upon his knees, and sank slowly forward on to his face with joined hands, before St. Bennet's altar; and Grim heard him say:

" For the Name of Jesus, and the defence of the Church, I am ready to die."

Richard le Breton struck the fourth blow as he lay there, shivering his sword upon the pavement, and cutting off the crown of 152 the Saint's head — as the Saint himself had seen in vision at Pontigny.

"Take that!" shouted Richard as he struck.

Then Hugh Mauclerc, a cleric that had entered with the knights, or as some say one of the knights themselves, stamping, with his foot upon the martyr's neck, probed and tore in the gaping wound, till the brains poured out, giving him thus his Fifth Wound that was needed to mark him Christ's.

"Let us go," he cried, "the traitor is dead; he will rise no more."

And so they ran from the church, crying, " King's men! King's men! "

Then the thunder pealed again overhead; and that night the sky was as red as blood.