to be present at the translation. The numbers were so vast that there was soon no room in the inns, and a sea of tents rose up in the fields surrounding the city. A papal legate, Pandulf Verraccio, was present.5 No stranger to grand occasions, Pandulf, now also bishop of Norwich, had been present at Runnymede in 1215 when King John was forced to sign the Magna Carta. Not the most humble of men, Pandulf had seen off the legate who had been sent to replace him when his term of office was over. Once the rival was routed, he took up the position again; his confidence and overbearing nature were trying the patience of England, Church and state. As Archbishop Stephen greeted him with the kiss of peace, Pandulf had no idea that the archbishop was plotting to oust him again, this time for good, and that the plot would prove successful.
Young King Henry III, King John’s son, was also present. The participation of this grandson of Henry II, the king who had clashed with Thomas, symbolized reconciliation and peace. Just four years into his reign, the thirteen-year-old king was very much under the governance of his regent and mentor, Hubert de Burgh, who was also present. The young king would assume governance in 1227 but would remain highly influenced by de Burgh, then Earl of Kent, and launch out into what would be a very unpopular reign. Though he was personally pious, Henry III’s early reign would be marked by debacles and revolts, his later reign by crises, conflict, and defeats. Ironically, he would prove a poor substitute for his grandfather in his governance; but in terms of his faith, he was a more amenable man who needed the Church to help him out of tight spots.
The archbishop and his entourage approached the place where the casket rested. Bishops took hold of the casket, and the great procession began. To a glorious chant, the body of the saint slowly made its way through the crowds into the great nave of the cathedral and then ascended a mighty staircase into the Chapel of the Holy Trinity. Brought before the new shrine, the casket was carefully raised up and placed atop the plinth. The summer sun shone through the windows, and the assembled congregation marveled at the colors of the gemlike panes in the light now reflecting off the casket; the whole cathedral was filled with what seemed a celestial celebration of light. Beneath the casket, on one side of the plinth, an altar had been constructed for Mass, and so the Holy Sacrifice was offered, the first of many for the next three hundred years. After Mass and Office had been sung and the dignitaries withdrew to their own festivities, the pilgrims ascended the steps and crept under the arches of the arcade, which now seemed to resemble an ark of refuge, to touch the tomb above and offer their prayers. The miracles that had begun at the old tomb in the crypt would continue from this splendid setting.
The Shrine of Saint Thomas of Canterbury was one of the most magnificent in all of England. The pilgrims gazed in awe at the magnificence of the new tomb, but the magnificence of the life and witness of the man who rested within was of even more significance. Greater again, perhaps, were the miracles and favors that poured out like sweet wine or soothing oil upon the sick and the troubled, the fearful and the desperate. The humble men and women of England and Europe knew that in Saint Thomas of Canterbury they had an intercessor, one who was powerful with God because he had stood up to the powerful of this world; a man who knew exile and abandonment, pain and calumny; a man who had stood alone for what was right. Whatever cause the pilgrim brought to Canterbury, Thomas would know what to do, how to help and even obtain a grace from God. No longer occupied with the affairs of Church and state, Saint Thomas took up the affairs of his devotees — and he was so successful in this endeavor that his shrine became the third most important pilgrimage destination in medieval Europe, after Rome and Santiago de Compostela.
For 318 years, this shrine was the jewel in the crown of English Catholicism. But in 1538, it was violently dismantled, the ark of the inter cessor for the people torn down, the relics burned as another King Henry sought to wipe out the memory of a man he considered an enemy of the realm, a treasonous subject, a stumbling block to the freedom and dignity of England.
This man was Thomas Becket, Thomas of London, Thomas of Canterbury: deacon; priest; archbishop; sometime royal chancellor; friend of the king; troublemaker; penitent; exile; turbulent enemy of the king; unyielding, ungrateful wretch; shepherd; murdered priest; martyr; saint; wonderworker; enigma.
1
The Ship
The trouble began with the sinking of a ship. Quite apart from the appalling loss of life, such disasters often bring endless problems, with varied tribulations surging out from the original calamity. This was certainly the case with the sinking of the White Ship off the coast of Normandy on November 25, 1120. Dan Jones, in his history of the Plantagenets, describes the events.1 The owner and captain of the ship, Thomas FitzStephen, had rented the vessel to William the Ætheling,2 Duke of Normandy and the only legitimate son and heir to the throne of Henry I, king of England.3 With his half-siblings Richard of Lincoln and Matilda, Countess of Perche,4 and dozens of the young set of the Norman realms, William was leading a pleasure cruise across the English Channel from Barfleur in Normandy to the English coast. Dashing and gregarious, William was seventeen, recently married, and the hope of his father and kingdom. William was returning to England from having paid homage to the king of France. His father had just conferred the Duchy of Normandy on him, and as a duke of the realm of France, William owed an act of obeisance to his feudal lord, King Louis VI, nicknamed “the Fat.”5
At the moment the ship raised anchor, William was drunk, as were his guests and, much more worryingly, the crew. There was a good wind. The White Ship was a large vessel capable of dealing with choppy waters, so the crossing promised to be nautically uneventful, if not so in other ways. The captain, who had already imbibed too much alcohol to offer a sound proposition, never mind steer a ship in any direction, swore they would fly across the channel, even overtake the other boats that had already set sail. Priests arrived to bless the boat, but the carousers jeered at them and waved them away. There was no need for holy water, for the roisterers had a more potent liquid to fortify them, and besides, surely this ship was unsinkable.
With passengers in such high spirits, the ship was ready to set off at high speed. One passenger, however, was getting nervous: Stephen of Blois, William’s cousin. Catching a whiff of the wind and the unruly celebrations on board, he excused himself and disembarked — a ship sailing at top speed with a well-oiled crew and a wild party in full swing seemed too much like tempting fate. He and a few companions would set sail on a more sober vessel. One contemporary historian maintains that Stephen was actually struck with a case of diarrhea and needed urgent relief, which was unobtainable at that particular moment on the White Ship, so he quietly excused himself.6 No matter whether Stephen’s departure was in response to a premonition or to afflicted bowels, it changed the course of history.
It was after midnight when the ship weighed anchor and, at full speed, launched headlong into the bay to the cheers of its intoxicated passengers, three hundred in all. Determined to race the other vessels to England as the captain had promised, all sails unfurled to catch the full force of the wind, and the crew drove the ship toward the channel and right onto the Quillebeuf, a submerged rock at the mouth of the harbor, tearing an enormous hole in the prow. Water poured into the ship, and as a quickly sobering crew desperately attempted to bail it out, panic broke out among the passengers. Those with their wits about them realized that few might survive this disaster, and one of them must be the heir to the throne. As passengers fell into the icy waters, inebriated and unable to swim, their fine, thick clothes pulling them down into the depths, a single lifeboat was launched with a small crew to take William back to shore.
Whatever his state, William showed some courage and chivalry. As he looked back at the sinking ship, he spied his half-sister Matilda desperately treading water and about to go under. She was screaming for her life, and William could not ignore her. He ordered the boat back to pick her up. As they approached her, other desperate souls attempted to scramble onboard, causing the lifeboat to capsize, and William, Duke of Normandy, heir to the throne of England, was tossed into the icy waters and disappeared down into the abyss. For all his efforts, Matilda also drowned, as did their brother Richard and everyone else except one man: a butcher