The Devil's Grandson

"Flee!" William Marshal yelled to the Archbishop. The warning met with a defiant look from the churchman. Will was not fond of the trouble-maker Becket, but he did not want to see the man hacked to pieces. Marshal struggled with a greasy rope that bound his wrists in front. The hard fibre cordage dug deeper into his bloody, swollen flesh. His inability to influence the outcome of this bestial event ate away at him as he frantically tried to gnaw a knot loose. Seeing Marshal’s efforts to escape the bonds, one of the conspirators slugged him in the belly. Will doubled over, but stayed on his feet. He caught his breath, struggled harder against the rope. Will heard Sir Reginald FitzUrse lash out at Becket with harsh words: "Christ himself never pretended to be God. Yet you yourself do." "Fool," the angry Archbishop called back. FitzUrse was the leader of the self-appointed executioners. The others were Hugh De Moreville; William De Tracy; and Richard Le Breton, known as "Brito." They were indistinguishable one from another in their eagerness to prove themselves useful to Henry the Second, in their lust for land, and in their state of drunkenness. Marshal gasped as he saw the Archbishop raise a fist. "Were I not a priest, this hand would show you how I fight," the Archbishop threatened FitzUrse. Becket might have been any angry man in any ugly brawl, Will supposed. The Archbishop was no true Christian martyr; although it was clear he intended to die like one. A true martyr died in order to defend the belief that Jesus was the son of God. Instead, Becket had died in order to try to win a political struggle over power. FitzUrse, who had set down his axe, slowly raised his sword high, pointing it toward the ceiling. The sword was poised upward over-long, Will thought. He would realize later that the gesture had been a signal. How odd to hear monks chanting at this hour outside Canterbury Cathedral instead of inside, thought Marshal. How remarkable it seemed that, just now, a rat scuttled around the foot of St. Benedict's altar, and a candle spluttered out. Then, how slowly Reginald’s blade began its evil fall. Faster than anyone could say what was happening, the Archbishop covered his face with one arm. The monk Edward Gryme dropped the huge double-armed cross he’d been steadying, blocking FitzUrse’s blow with an arm. Gryme screamed in pain. The cutting edge of Reginald’s sword had been deflected. But the blade continued toward the Archbishop’s head, knocked off Becket’s skullcap. It sliced away a saucer of flesh from the bald spot where the churchman's hair had been tonsured. A bright stream of blood appeared on Thomas’s forehead, ran down his nose, dripped onto his chin. The Archbishop lowered his arm. He looked as surprised as Will to find himself still standing. He seemed doubly angry now. Becket looked about, fixated on Gryme. The faithful monk had dropped to the floor. A spike of broken bone protruded through Edward’s skin. "Don’t defend me!" the Archbishop yelled at the wounded cross-bearer. The monk got to his feet and fled, leaving the metropolitan cross on the floor. Now William De Tracy pulled a dagger and advanced on the Archbishop. Becket stood unmoving. De Tracy thrust at Thomas’s chest. The blade glanced off a silver cross that hung from Becket’s neck. "Run! Hide!" Marshal yelled to the Archbishop. Ignoring Will, Tom Becket turned toward the altar, leaving his back open to attack. He knelt, raised up his arms, folded his hands, and bowed his head. He whispered, "Into thy hands, Lord, I commend my soul." Hugh De Moreville stepped forward, approaching the Archbishop from behind. With the flat of his sword, he swung at Becket’s head. There was a dull thud. A smirking Hugh yelled, "In the King’s name!" and tossed away his sword. The blow sent the Archbishop forward. His head nicked the altar. Becket spoke his last words to God, "In the name of Jesus, I submit to death." Becket fell on one side, his body curled toward the altar, arms extended. He twitched and his folded hands fell away from each other. Eyeing Le Breton, FitzUrse told the young man to strike Becket, just as he, De Moreville, and De Tracy had done. Le Breton hesitated. "Strike!" Reginald shouted. "No!" yelled Will. "Brito, think of your soul. You'll be a long time in hell." Le Breton, grinning, raised his sword. "This blow is for the life you took from the King’s brother!" he yelled at Becket. Brito delivered a strong horizontal chop that sheared away the crown of Becket’s head. If the Archbishop had not been dead before, now he was, Will realized. Brain matter, bathed in blood, spilled hot from Becket’s skull. The colors of the lily and the rose. Brito took a step closer. He pressed the toe of one boot into the gelatinous mass, smeared a semi-circle of Becket’s gore onto the limestone floor. In triumph He advanced and used both hands to break his sword against the altar, then fling away the two pieces. The hideous clang marked the end of it. The strife between the King and the Archbishop had imploded to a darkened blot on Canterbury’s floor. "Coward!" Marshal yelled to Brito. "You killed a dead man." Will stared at the body. A blast of rain landed drop by drop against a near-by window. Each sad, wet bead splatted against the glass and trickled downward. Will wondered if it was his imagination, or could he actually hear the stone floor lapping up the stuff of Becket's life. He steadied himself. The air in the Cathedral felt as though it had been replaced by a substance other than air. Had angels come to claim Becket's soul — or maybe the devil? Marshal himself felt the heavy comfort of finality. One of Canterbury’s clerks, armed with a kitchen knife, pushed through the conspirators. He put his foot on the neck of the Archbishop. No one moved as the clerk severed the large veins in Becket’s neck. The lacerations spurted blood, which pooled around the Archbishop’s ear. The clerk bent down, scraped Becket’s skull clean, smearing more residue of brain and blood upon the pavement. Will averted his eyes and felt his gorge rise. Years later Marshal would still be wondering why the murder had taken place. Centuries later, men would mark the murder as an opening blow in the battle between church and state. The King had made it clear he’d stop harassing the Archbishop if Becket promised to give churchmen the same criminal sentences as non-clerics. Many men could see the justice of equal sentences for criminals where murderers, rapists, usurers, and thieves were concerned. Why should a pederast, for instance, go free because he wore a robe of black? Whatever they thought of criminal sentences, a few of the younger clerics had liked the Archbishop and supported the idea that God meted out justice through Becket’s mouth. Becket always paid special attention to the young men in his fold. Others of the young, though, felt Thomas's intransigence made him unfit for the archbishopric. Whatever they thought of the court system, most of England’s barons and landed men thought the Archbishop had been disloyal to Henry. The bishops had turned against Becket because, as Chancellor, he had taxed them heavily. That and because the King had over-stepped custom by appointing his good friend Becket in the first place. It was a time before England had a written law – a time when custom was the law.