Murder in the Cathedral

By Tonya Mitchell

Canterbury, England: 29 December, 1170

They rode through the west gate of the walled city at full gallop, restraining their mounts only when they had reached the Norman gateway that led into the monastery proper.  Atop side-stepping warhorses with swords drawn, they bellowed, “The king’s men! The king’s men!” so that their clamor resounded along Palace Street .  With great haste the porter threw wide the iron-bound doors and scrambled out of the horses’ path.  And so it was that the murderers entered the walled enclosure of the monastery, with a chill wind afoot and the sun casting slanted shadows across the court. 

In the distance, just beyond the mulberry tree which stood upon the green, were the archbishop’s palace and the cloisters, now dark shapes in the deepening twilight.  Only the upper reaches of the enormous cathedral, rising magnificently to the south of the cloisters, remained lit with the winter sun.  The soaring towers rose as if to embrace heaven itself.

Thomas Becket, archbishop of Canterbury , was in his private chambers above the great hall when the visitors arrived.  He had recently withdrawn from his attendance chamber, the large throne room he presided over for council meetings, but several monks remained seated upon benches there when the king’s men appeared.  The chatter in the room ceased of a sudden, the silence intensified by the strangers’ lack of greeting upon entering.  Past this room was the archbishop’s personal chamber and it was to this the men crossed, hesitating at the door which stood ajar.  Becket sat contentedly upon his bed, partaking in quiet conversation with a few attendants seated on the floor at his feet.  ‘Twas the hour of day, just before the evening mass, when he met with his closest companions for a short interval of mutual exchange and he enjoyed it exceedingly.

The rap at the threshold brought Becket’s attention to the door. “My lord archbishop,” fitzNeal, his steward and chief officer of the hall, said, “four knights on King Henry’s order have arrived and request an audience.”  ‘Twas little more than a warning, for the men threw wide the door and strode forth into the chamber before fitzNeal could scarce complete the announcement. 

The chamber fell silent.  The monks looked from the newcomers to their beloved abbot and archbishop, who appeared to take no notice that the knights were, save for their heads, outfitted in full mail.  They carried no weapons yet they stared at Becket with haughty superiority.  The archbishop made a motion with his hand for the monks to continue their discussions.  They did so, if haltingly, and Becket talked quietly among them for a space of time long enough to send a message to the miscreants who had so rudely penetrated his private apartments: He, Becket, ruled within the walls of his monastery, not the king nor his underlings, and he would not be hurried in his duties, nor cowed by their presence. 

Some moments later when the conversation came to a lull and it became apparent that the monks could not keep their eyes or their minds from straying to the intruders at the door, Becket turned and gazed steadfastly upon the knights.  They had about their persons the look of men who had ridden long.  The mail trimmings round their boots were slashed with mud and their eyes were swollen and red as if they had slept little, if at all.   He acknowledged each of them in turn, for none was a stranger.

There was Reginald fitzUrse, a man of middle years, ill humored and prone to violence; William de Tracy, a loyal, experienced, long-standing vassal to the king; the brute Richard le Bret, a lad of not more than one-and-twenty, quick to temper and unconscionable; and Hugh de Morville, the knight of highest rank and the only one in whom Becket felt any affection. 

When Becket had finished his cursory perusal of the men King Henry had entrusted to conduct his business, fitzUrse stepped forward and said in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “God help you.”

The archbishop felt the heat of rage warm his cheeks, for fitzUrse was his own vassal, a man who had pledged service to him and Canterbury .  How dare he burst in upon him in this fashion? Who were he and his comrades to condescend, they who did naught but deeds to curry the king’s favor!

“Sir Reginald,” Becket said, “what brings you here thus, you who have sworn homage to me?”

“We’ve a message from his Majesty,” fitzUrse said with a sneer.  “He demands you hear it in private.”

“Very well,” Becket said.  “In any case, ‘tis the hour for Vespers.”  He turned his attention to the assembly at his feet.  “Go now and prepare for the mass.  I shall be along presently.”  He turned and said, more to the knights than his clergy, “I shan’t be delayed, for I am certain these fine couriers of the king wish not to interfere in the proceedings of the church.”

The armored men before him did not miss the significance of the remark; interference in church matters was precisely what King Henry was about.  It was the essence of which that had brought about the contemptuous relationship between the king and the archbishop these many years and the reason, Becket well knew, that had brought these men to his door this night.

The knights shifted their weight and looked arrogantly at Becket as the monks withdrew.  When the door had closed behind them, fitzUrse stepped to the fireplace, his face now in profile to Becket.  With his mail aglitter in the firelight, fitzUrse grasped the poker that rested at the hearth and stirred the embers that glowed in the grate as if he were a manservant about his chores and not a servant of the king come to do his bidding. “King Henry commands you to perform your duties to him instead of taking from him his crown.” 

Becket’s eyebrows rose in surprise.  “In what manner have I taken his Majesty’s crown of late?”

“You have unjustly suspended the Archbishop of York and excommunicated the Bishops of London and Salisbury ,” fitzUrse said, sending up a shower of sparks with the poker.  “You are hereby under order from the king to release the censures.”  

Ah, so I am under the royal thumb yet again, eh Henry?  And you to your meddling.  

The resolution he had reached with the king in Normandy only recently, the one in which Henry had agreed to allow Becket to return to England after a six-year exile, was of no value.  Becket had been on English soil scarce a month and the king had failed to make good on his promises; namely, to restore Canterbury and its archbishop to their prior exulted status.  Rather, his Majesty was back to his old ways—ranting, making demands, attempting to claim power over the church that was not his to claim.  ‘Twas clear the king had never intended to keep to the treaty. 

As ever, Henry’s impiety was exceeded only by his lack of scruples.

Becket’s eyes swept from fitzUrse at the mantle to the others, who continued to regard him with open distain.  “I cannot absolve those who have been excommunicated, nor restore power to those who have been suspended,” he said.  “ ‘Tis the pope who brought the censures upon them and ‘tis he who must remove them.”

“But ‘twas you who suspended many other bishops,” fitzUrse said, replacing the poker.  “They demand reinstatement.”

“I offered to do so on merciful terms and they refused,” Becket said with a shrug.  “My offer remains open.”

“And what of the matter of his Majesty’s son?”  FitzUrse turned now and regarded Becket in full, a ghost of a smile playing about his mouth.  “You have disparaged his coronation and in doing so, threatened the validity of his succession to the throne.  Such an act is considered treasonous.” 

Becket looked to fitzUrse with interest.  So casual was his air, his words belied their import.  The man had just accused him of treason, yet amusement glittered in his eyes.  Of all the enormities Becket had endured during his exile—and there had been many—the coronation was the most inexcusable.  The archbishopric of Canterbury alone had the right to crown kings. ‘Twas apparent fitzUrse was attempting to goad him and make merry a situation that Becket considered an abomination.  Well, he would not rise to it. 

 “As you well know Sir Reginald, only the archbishop of Canterbury possesses the power to coronate a king,” Becket said.  “Roger of York has been reprimanded for his effrontery by Pope Alexander.”  He waved his hand in dismissal.  “Now, I tire of this banter.  Be gone with you.” 

The knights were as stone.  Only the crackle of flame and the shifting of a log in the grate filled the silence.  Then fitzUrse, who seemed to have taken on the role of lead prosecutor, stepped forward.  “By God’s wounds, we’ve borne enough of you, Thomas Becket.” 

“Enough?” Becket said, rising to his feet at last.  His blood was up and there was no calm within him now.  “I shall tell you what is enough.  The archiepiscopal estates—those which were to be restored to the archbishopric upon my return—have been plundered, the churches yet remain in the possession of the crown, those who have been promised have yet to see restitution for their loss of revenue whilst in exile.  In summary, there has been no satisfaction for the wrongdoings against Canterbury and its archbishop.  How dare you come here with your demands and insult me!” 

FitzUrse did not flinch and a look of satisfaction came into his face.  “You refuse them to absolve the bishops?  To obey a command from the king?”

“‘Tis not a matter the king can command,” Becket said, his eyes raking over the vassal who dared oppose him.  “I will not undo what has been done.”  

All the swords in England cannot deter me in this, Henry , Becket thought.  I’ll not bend to you.  

“Then you must come with us and answer to him at court,” fitzUrse said.

But not a one made to approach him and so it seemed the threat was an idle one.  Indeed, the discussion entire—so light and mocking—lacked teeth.  FitzUrse reacted with hostility in the most mundane of matters; he would scarce back down when openly defied.  But there was no anger about his features now, only a shrewd gleam about his eye. If they had come to arrest him, Becket had most certainly given them cause to do so.  Why then did they not lay hands on him? 

Slowly, comprehension came to him and dread quickly upon its heals.

Fitzurse and his companions had not come to threaten him on these matters.  Their demands had merely been perfunctory, a test to confirm his continued obstinacy in the affairs of the king. 

There must be something else that brings them hither. . .something else they are about.

Becket walked to the window.  Dusk had fallen in the court below and the domestic buildings and stable yard in the distance were now cloaked in a mantle of deepest gray.  Still he could discern, beneath the boughs of the great mulberry tree, the outlines of four horses at tether. A stirring in the shadows brought his attention to the gatehouse. Becket squinted, the ragged beats of his heart marking the time as he stared into the near-darkness.  Slowly, the shifting forms of men took shape.  Men clad not in clerical robes, but in hauberks and helmets.  Men prepared for violence. 

The archbishop reflected upon the conduct of the four behind him.  They had come in haste at the king’s bidding, neglected to remove their armor upon entering the palace and had rushed into his private chambers without proper leave to do so.  Whatever they had come to carry out—and Becket was now certain it was not the demand for the bishops’ absolution—required reinforcements.

Curiously, they had failed to produce a letter with the king’s seal.  Perhaps they had merely come of their own accord to abuse him, so assured were they of Henry’s support in so doing.  But he did not think so.  It was not in their natures, having so long served in his Majesty’s retinue, to be of independent mind.  Nay, if they bore no missive from the king, it was because the king had intended it so.

The archbishop knew the king would not put to parchment what was in his interest to conceal.  And his Majesty had demanded a private audience.

Becket moved away from the window and saw fitzUrse’s lips curl, the smile more chilling than his rage would have been.  He began to walk slowly round Becket as a lion might circle a lamb.  He did not stop until he was just behind the archbishop.  In that instant the mood in the chamber altered.  Arrogance and mockery shifted to something else, something foul.  Sinister.  For a moment Becket thought they might advance upon him but they did not stir. 

“His majesty has a message for you,” fitzUrse said finally.  He then leaned forward and whispered into Becket’s ear.  “You are no longer under the king’s peace and protection.”

If Becket had doubted for an instant the trickery at play, he had only to look at de Morville, the least aggressive of the four and the only one for whom Becket felt, if it could be said, some form of kinship.  De Morville’s eyes flitted about the chamber, resting fractionally upon everything in it; everything save Becket.  The knight had yet to pronounce a word against him, yet the silence which filled the room was as damning as any condemnation de Morville might have uttered.

The archbishop of Canterbury knew then the question was not if he would die, but the role he would play unto death. 

I’ll not yield to you Henry, even now, Becket vowed silently.  Cut me down if you will, but I’ll not beg to be freed only to see the church enslaved by the act.

The archbishop drew himself to his full height.  “I cannot absolve what is not mine to absolve,” he said with great calm.  “Indeed, I have violated no provisions of our treaty since my return from exile, nor behaved in any way but admirably in my dealings with his Majesty, the king.”

“Liar!” bellowed fitzUrse from behind.  “Lies before us are lies before the king!  You shall die for this, Thomas Becket!”

Of a sudden, the chamber was overcome with monks who flew to Becket forthwith.  The knights, spying fitzNeal among them, seized the officer and placed him under arrest.  With raucous cries of “To arms!  To arms!” the knights withdrew, pushing fitzNeal from the room as they went.  Immediately the clergymen lay hands upon their archbishop and urged him from the chamber, pleading with Becket as they did so to take measures to preserve his soul.  Thus he found himself exiting not at the door through which the knights had passed, but down a disused stairwell to the cloisters through the cellarer’s range.  The monks had planned this circuitous route well; by following this course, the party could reach the sanctuary of the cathedral without passing through the open court where they might be seen.

At the bottom of the stairwell, the group was forced to halt. Light from candles a few of the monks carried revealed an aged oaken door which was locked from the other side and indeed, had not been used in some time.  “Unbar the door!” one of the monks shouted, beating upon it with his fist.  ’Twas then, in the pressing darkness of the passage, the archbishop and his attendants heard the blows upon the hall door.  Wood splintered and gave way, then came the sound of men running, shouts and angry cries.  The knights had re-entered the palace and were giving chase.  Now more monks began beating upon the stairwell door. Suddenly it lurched open and there in the threshold stood the cellarers, Richard and William, blinking from the gloom.  They moved to the side and, as footsteps thundered overhead, the procession surged forth.  

Save one.  Becket was near certain that a dark-robed figure held back; had, in truth, been there when the group descended into the cellar.  Who lingered there in the shadows?  Could it be a conspirator dwelt within the monastery, one who wished him harm?  Fool.  Anger swelled within him but ‘twas prudence that quelled the cry that threatened to leap from his throat.  In the end, it would but delay them.

And yet, even now with peril at his heels, Becket would not move in haste.  He walked with measured steps along the arcaded cover of the cloister walk, the monks forced to keep to pace.  The passageway before them was illuminated only with the meager light of candle flame which cast strange shadows against the vaulted arches above.  Walking to one side of him was his prior, Robert of Merton and William fitzStephen, a clerk of his household.  Henry of Auxerre led the procession, the great cross held aloft in his hands.  

Becket was suddenly filled with joy.  He would conduct mass as if nothing had transpired.  The king’s men be damned.

The monk Edward Grim appeared at his flank, grasping firm his arm.  “Father,” he whispered, “they have with them a small army who has taken possession of the gatehouse.  No one can escape nor can anyone from the town enter to come to our aid.”

 “It is in God’s hands now,” Becket said in a voice heavy with resolve.  “May His grace be with us all.”

They at last reached the entryway to the north transept and crossed the threshold into the cathedral.  All was dark save where candles guttered on the choir stalls, for the massive west door stood open and a bitter wind swept up the nave.  Fifty monks waited in the choir, glancing anxiously down the aisle into the blackness without.

The monks behind Becket rushed past him to their places while the archbishop made a slow genuflection.  He had scarce taken a step toward the high altar when he heard the transept door being closed and barred behind him.  “Prior Robert,” he exclaimed, “the house of God shall not be made a castle.  I command you, in the name of all that is holy, to open the doors.”

The prior obeyed, albeit with great reluctance, and when the doors swung wide the entry was filled with armed knights. 

All around monks began to scatter, seeking dark corners from crypt to clerestory—any place where they might find sanctuary.  Henry of Auxerre lost his resolve to attend his lord and master and let go the mighty cross to flee in terror.  The shaft swayed, flashed in the dim candlelight and nearly clattered to the ground before Grim caught it.   Slowly and with a dignity that belied his years, Grim held the cross aloft and made toward the high altar, followed by the three souls who yet remained: Prior Robert, fitzStephen and Becket himself. 

They had climbed the small flight of steps leading from the transept to the choir when a voice behind them swept like a ghost through the galleries.  “Where is Tom Beckett?  Where is the lowly priest?”

The echo seemed to come from far away, for the darkened interior of the church was no more.  Becket was seated in a small private chamber lit only with the glow of firelight.  Christmas at Bermondsey many winters past.  The wind a wild beast thrashing at the window.  Seated across the table was the king—young, newly crowned and eager to embrace power.  There before the dancing shadows of the hearth, king and clergyman, already boon companions, spoke of rule. A fortnight later Henry appointed Becket royal chancellor. 

“Where is Tom Becket of Cheapside ?” the voice resounded from the shadows of the cathedral, its reverberation glancing off columns and arches with equal irreverence.  “Where is Tom, the merchant’s son?”

Oh, the grandeur, the ostentation, the worldliness of Becket’s life once he had established himself at the royal court and become the king’s man.  The magnificence of Becket’s household, the sumptuous furnishings, the gaming and fowling alongside the king. Yes, he would own to it now: Henry had seduced him with his power, believing Becket would be an ecclesiastical feather in his cap for the progression of his royal schemes. 

By the time, seven years later, his Majesty appointed him archbishop of Canterbury , Becket had developed his own character.  He no longer had the need to be a courtier, a slave to his master’s caprice.  Becket’s pride, even if now serving the church, had given him a dangerous audacity.   The king demanded subservience Becket could not, indeed would no longer, grant.  Friend became foe as disagreements over ecclesiastical rights and jurisdictions ensued.  Then came the royal charges to impugn him: the misappropriation of revenues, his failure to embrace the Constitutions of Clarendon—those wretched, ancient customs of the realm which gave a king the power to control, restrict and diminish the church’s authority.  

I fought, Henry, to defend the liberty of the church, and for this you banished me from my homeland. 

Becket took another step toward the high altar, the draft that crept up the nave to brush against his cheek as cold and impersonal as the kiss of a traitor upon the flesh. 

I rode to Rouen six years later to receive your cursed kiss of peace to seal our truce and you failed to meet me there. 

The candles at the choir stalls stirred, shadows pitched an eerie dance and still Becket moved with sure steps. 

And I well know that you can no more abide your enemies than I, and for this, I shall die.

The voice severed the darkness again and ‘twas no taunting jab now, but a bellow that rose as if to pierce the timbered ceiling.  “Where is Tom Becket, traitor to the king!”

 “Here I am,” Becket cried, whirling and descending the steps.  “No traitor to the king, but abbot and archbishop of Canterbury .”

Figures emerged out of the gloom.  Fitzurse first, then de Tracy, le Bret and finally, de Morville.  Becket was enraged to see them helmeted, with swords drawn and axes raised.  Not even his Majesty, the king had the right to bare arms in the house of God.  But this thought did not linger with Becket, for the whisper of robes behind the knights drew his attention to the transept door.  There, leering triumphantly from the threshold, was Hugh of Horsea.  So villainous was he, so malicious his doings, he was called Bad Clerk by the monks who had had the misfortune to suffer his injustices.  This then was the lurking form he had spied in the cellar.  A pitiless subdeacon hungry for royal favor.  Hugh grinned, his lips stretching taunt over little pointed teeth. 

‘Twas the smile of the devil himself.

The archbishop stepped back in revulsion and nearly collided with Grim who was the sole companion who yet remained at his side.  Mustering himself, Becket cried, “Would you spill blood on consecrated ground, fitzUrse?  Would you damn your soul to hell, you who owe me fealty and submission?”

FitzUrse cast away his ax and brandished his sword.  “I owe fealty to no other than his Majesty, the king.” 

Becket’s eyes sought Hugh de Morville who might yet be rallied to support him, but the knight had drawn back and was keeping the remaining monks who stood at the transept door from entering.

Then Becket straightened and heaved a sigh.  Raising his voice, so that all who hid within the church might hear it, he said, “I am ready to die for my Lord, that in my blood this church may obtain freedom from tyranny and all good things remain at peace.”

The knights were upon him in a trice.  Tugging at his robes, they tried to pull and lift him, intending to carry him from the cathedral so that they might kill him on unconsecrated ground.  Becket reached out and clung fast to a pillar which stood between the entrance to the apse and the Lady Chapel which closed the north aisle of the nave.  Grim, still holding the cross, managed to grab hold of Becket and would not release him.  So fierce was the struggle, fitzUrse fell to the ground.  By the time he managed, slowly and menacingly, to get to his feet, the others had released their grip on the archbishop.

FitzUrse advanced slowly then pronounced with ominous finality, “We’ve had our fill of you, Tom Becket.  Now God’s will be done.”

The sword’s descent was swift but Grim swifter still.  The monk thrust out the cross to ward off the blow.  Such was the flight of sword altered, the blade sliced off the top of Becket’s head, but not before it all but severed Grim’s arm from the bone.  He slithered to the floor on the other side of the pillar and was still.  The archbishop sank to his knees and clasped his hands above his head as if to make one final prayer, but de Tracy was at hand.  His blow brought Becket to the floor.  But ‘twas le Bret who delivered the coup de grace.  So forceful was the strike he dealt, it sliced through Becket’s crown in full and broke the brute’s sword in two pieces upon the floor.

Silence, utter and complete.  Darkness seemed to gather itself and, as if borne upon the draft which flitted up the nave, came to rest as a shroud upon the bloodied stones of the transept floor.  The murderers stared down at the abbot and archbishop, the holy see of the mother church of England .  Lying prostrate on the floor of Canterbury Cathedral, Thomas Becket scarcely seemed the powerful man of God who had brought such discord to king and kingdom.  As to Grim, he lay a short distance away in the recess of the apse where the light from the choir candles did not carry.

Stealthily, a figure clad in the black robes of the order advanced from the shadows.  With measured care, the silhouette put a foot to the neck of the once-archbishop and with the remains of le Bret’s blighted sword, scattered brains and blood about the pavement.

Then Hugh de Horsea turned and cast upon the knights a most brilliant smile.  “Let us away,” he said.  “He will rise no more.” 

They did not notice the labored breathing of Edward Grim who lay curled upon the floor, nor did they see the creeping forms of the monks emerging from their hiding places. 

When the agents of death had vanished and the door echoed shut behind them, the robed ones drew together, united in misery and full of the desire, above all else, to see to their lord and to the lowly monk who had defended him unto death.

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Tonya Mitchell received a BA in journalism from Indiana University.  She is the recipient of the "Best of Ohio Writer" award in short fiction and her work is forthcoming in Scribes Valley Publishing's annual short story anthology.  She lives with her husband and three sons in Cincinnati, Ohio and is currently at work on a novel.