Jean Plaidy - The Plantagenet Prelude

Tracy called: ‘Fly, or you are a dead man.’

‘I do not fear your swords,’ answered Thomas. ‘I welcome death for the sake of the Lord and the freedom of the Church.’

Aware that the others were wavering, FitzUrse cried: ‘You are our prisoner. You will come with us.’

‘I will not,’ answered Thomas.

FitzUrse stretched out to seize his pall. ‘Do not touch me, pander,’ said the Archbishop.

This enraged FitzUrse who waved his sword over the Archbishop’s head.

Thomas knew that the moment had come. He murmured: ‘Unto Thy hands, oh Lord …’ as FitzUrse shouted: ‘Strike!’

Tracy lifted his sword and the faithful Edward Grim tried to ward off the blow. His arm was severed from his body and he fell fainting to the ground. The sword came down in Thomas’s head and cut off the tonsured part of his crown.

FitzUrse came in and delivered another blow which sent Thomas to his knees. Brito struck out with his sword and Thomas fell dying to the floor.

FitzUrse cried: ‘The deed is done. Let us be off, comrades. This traitor will never rise again.’

His body lay on the stones and Osbert, his chamberlain, came and wept over him. Then he cut off a piece of his surplice and covered his master’s face.

The soldiers were ransacking the palace and the monks were in hiding. It was as though a terrible darkness had fallen over the cathedral; and when it was quiet and the ravagers had gone, and the news of what had happened had spread through the town, people came to the spot where he lay and they wept and knelt and called him, ‘Thomas the Saint and Martyr.’

The monks collected his scattered brains and put them in a basin as holy relics, and they found that beneath his robes he wore a long hair shirt, which was alive with vermin and which must have tormented him sorely.

All night they knelt beside him, and in the morning because they had heard that his enemies were coming to take his body and give it to the dogs, they took him to the crypt and they buried him before the altars of Saint John the Baptist and Saint Augustine the Apostle of England; and from that day it was said miracles were performed at the shrine of Thomas Becket.

When the news was brought to the King he was filled with remorse and a certain terror.

‘I have done this,’ he said. ‘I am the murderer of Thomas Becket.’

He shut himself in his bedchamber and wished to see no one. There he thought of all they had been to each other in the days of their friendship and how there was no man he loved as he had loved Thomas Becket.

And he had killed him.

They were calling him a martyr. They were calling him a saint. They said that at his shrine miracles were performed. The whole of Christendom was shocked by the murder and the whole of Christendom said: ‘Who has done this wicked deed?’

It was FitzUrse and the others. Nay, it was the King. Had he not cursed them for not ridding himself of the man?

All his life the memory of Thomas Becket would be with him. He might do a public penance but he would never forget.

Thomas lay dead, his brains had been scattered on the stones. And his body they said was inflamed with the bites of the vermin who at his will had infested his hair shirt. Thomas, who had loved silk next to his skin and had hated the cold winds to blow on him! He was dead - killed by his one-time friend.

There was not room for the two of us in England, thought Henry, because I wanted to be supreme ruler not only of State but of Church. And because of this he lies dead and I am to blame. I am the murderer who killed the martyr.

But he was a king; he had his life to lead; his country to govern.

His son Henry, whom he had crowned, he now knew unwisely, was eager to take his place. Thomas had been against the crowning. It was never wise to set up a new king while the old one still reigned.

His wife Eleanor hated him. His son Richard had turned against him.

Where could he go for comfort? To Rosamund? She would give him solace, but he could not talk to her of his troubles. She would never understand them. She would agree with everything he said, and that was not what he wanted.

What was Eleanor doing? How long before she roused his sons against him? He was unhappy. He was afraid, for he was a lonely man and his soul was stained with the blood of one he had loved.

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