Then there were visitors to the feast. I heard several versions of what happened and it was something like this:

Roger of York with the suspended bishops arrived. They had come to complain of Becket’s latest ultimatum and insistence that they obey the Pope. Henry’s first thoughts on seeing them would turn to Becket. He wanted to know that he had arrived in England and how he fared.

That gave Roger his chance. He replied that Becket was back and was the same as ever; he was roaming the countryside seeking to rally the King’s enemies against them. Becket was very popular; he only had to appear and the people were shouting for him. He had made an effort to see the new King, taking presents with him and of course intending to turn him against his father.

I could picture Henry’s brows drawn together and the color beginning to rise in his face. Perhaps even then he was realizing the folly of his act.

But before Thomas had reached Winchester he had been stopped and ordered by young Henry to go back to Canterbury and perform his sacred ministry. He now declared that the young King was no king, for the ceremony of crowning could be performed only by the Archbishop of Canterbury—himself. He cursed all those who had taken part in the coronation. All. That meant Henry himself.

The rage would have been imminent, but Henry would hold it off. He needed to know more of Thomas’s alleged perfidy.

Roger of York said: “As long as this man lives, you will have no peace in your realm, my lord.”

Henry’s rage would be getting the better of him. He shouted: “So they tell me ... a fellow who has eaten my bread now lifts his heel against me. When he first came to my Court, it was on a lame horse and he had a cloak for a saddle. And he would rule my realm. And you ... you look on ... you permit this to be. Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?”

Four of Henry’s knights listened to his words. They were Hugh de Morville, William de Tracy, Reginald Fitzurse and Richard le Breton. Their names will be long remembered.

What happened on the dismal Tuesday afternoon of December 29 of the year 1170 is known throughout the world. I often visualize the scene, constructing it from the many accounts I have heard:

Those four knights coming into Canterbury and making their way quietly and purposefully to the Archbishop “on the King’s business.”

It was about four o’clock. Thomas had already dined but the servants were at the table.

Thomas greeted the knights but they were terse in their response. Fitzurse was their spokesman. He said the King had sent them to order the Archbishop to absolve the bishops and restore those suspended from office. They accused him of attempting to deprive the young King of his crown and said he should stand judgment in Court.

Thomas’s reply was to censure the bishops and in particular the Archbishop of York. He said he had not sought to deprive the young King of his crown. He had set out to visit him and was grieved not to have been allowed to do so.

Reginald Fitzurse asked him from whom he held the archbishopric, to which Thomas replied that he held his spiritual authority from God and his temporal and material possession from the King.

“Do you not recognize that you hold everything from the King?” asked Fitzurse.

“I do not,” was the answer. “We must render unto the King the things which are the King’s and unto God the things that are God’s.”

Members of the Archbishop’s household, hearing the commotion, had come down to see what was afoot. Fitzurse commanded them, in the King’s name, to retire, but this they refused to do.

“Stop your threats and brawling,” said Thomas. “I have not come back to flee again, I wish to go into the cathedral to pray.”

He left the palace and walked to the cathedral. I could picture him clearly, calm, serene, perhaps contented, for I often thought he was seeking a martyr’s death. He entered the cathedral by the north transept and moved toward the altar as the four knights came in crying: “Where is the traitor?”

“Here am I,” replied Thomas. “No traitor but a priest of God. I do not fear your swords. I welcome death for the sake of our Lord and the freedom of the Church.”

“You cannot live a moment longer,” said Fitzurse.

“I submit to death,” replied Thomas, “in the name of the Lord, and I commend my soul and the cause of the Church to God, St. Mary and the patron saints of the Church. It is not my wish to fly from your swords.”

One of the men struck him between the shoulders. Another cried: “You are our prisoner. Come with us.”

“I will not go hence,” said Thomas. “Here shall you work your will and obey the orders of the one who sent you.”

De Tracy lifted his sword and hit the Archbishop on the head. As the blood streamed down his face he fell to the ground murmuring: “Into Thy hands, oh Lord, I commend my spirit.”

There was another blow.

He received four wounds, all on his head, and there he lay ... dead ... the Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry’s beloved and turbulent priest.

Revolt in the Family

WHEN THE NEWS WAS brought to me, my first reaction was: What will this mean to Henry?

He was still in my thoughts a great deal, and I still smarted with humiliation when I thought of him; in my heart I longed for the day when I should see him brought low.

I found a great joy in having my children with me. Young Henry was in England at this time, playing the King, but Richard was here with Geoffrey, and there was Marguerite, Henry’s young wife, who had been sent to me before Henry was crowned, presumably to get her out of the way. I could see no reason for Henry’s refusing her the honor of crowning. It could only anger Louis.

By this time I had come to a new serenity. I loved this land; I was where I belonged; I loved the people and the easy way of life and appreciation of fine things, the gracious style of living. There was no unrest now. The people knew, I was sure, of my estrangement from Henry, and applauded it. I was their Duchess. They wanted no other.

When the day was drawing to an end, I liked to go up to the ramparts of the castle and look down on my city, touched as it was by the golden light of the setting sun. I had seen it thus so many times, and it had lived on in my childhood memories—Poitiers, my city, built on the slopes of a gentle hill with the Cain and the Boivre flowing past. There was the Cathedral of St. Pierre. I remember the time it was built. How I loved it all ... the fine buildings, the flowers, the bright skies and the people.

And ... I was far away from Henry.

Richard and I were as close as two people could be for there was deep understanding between us. I was fond of Marguerite too, and she of me. I loved Geoffrey. I tried to bind my children to me, for I loved them dearly and, of course, I took a special delight in their love for me for I felt that, in giving it to me in such measure, they deprived Henry of it.

And into this happy and peaceful atmosphere came the news of Becket’s death. We were all stunned. Four knights had murdered him in the cathedral. The King’s knights. That was significant.

“What will it mean?” asked Richard.

“For that we must wait and see,” I answered.

“Do you think the King ordered them to kill him?”

I was silent, wondering. I knew that whatever the case Henry was going to be branded the murderer of Thomas Becket.

I could not sleep. I kept seeing Becket’s cold, ascetic face, that expression of calm righteousness, the martyr’s crown almost about his head even then. I saw Henry too, his face scarlet with rage, contorted with grief. He had loved the man. There was no doubt of that. The love had turned to hate but it was never entirely hate ... for love was always there.

How did Henry feel now?

We soon heard. People could talk of nothing but the murder in the cathedral. How dramatic that it should have been in such a place! It would add to Thomas’s martyrdom. It would make him more holy than if he had been struck down in the street.

Henry had, of course, been stricken with horror. Thomas dead! No longer able to plague him, to arouse that hatred which was as strong as love had once been.

How had he received the news? He had taken off his royal robes and wrapped himself in sackcloth. He had wept openly and commanded to be left alone. He had returned to his chamber, and there he had stayed for three days, refusing food; nor would he see anyone. None could comfort him; there was no comfort for him. The days wore on and, although he emerged from his chamber, he would lapse into silence and then suddenly cry out: “The pity of it! What a disaster! This is a terrible thing to have happened.”

It was indeed—for Becket ... and for him.

The whole world was against him. They said he had murdered a saint, for even those who had been against Becket in his lifetime had now elevated him to sainthood.

I almost wished I could have been there. I should have liked to talk to Henry. I was sure he must be thinking of what effect this was going to have on the future.

Louis held up his hands in horror. I was sure he believed that God would strike his old enemy in some terrible manner. The Pope threatened all the Angevin dominions with interdiction and to excommunicate Henry unless he did penance for the murder.

Henry seemed to accept the charge, and the four knights were not taken to task in any way for what they had done. Henry believed in justice; he had asked why no one would rid him of the turbulent priest and those men had taken that as an order to kill the Archbishop. They had thought it their duty in the service of the King. He could not blame them. He accepted what had happened as his fault. He, who had loved Thomas as he had loved no one else, was his murderer.