Thomas Becket. Father John S. Hogan

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СКАЧАТЬ and other officials had descended into the crypt, to the tomb covering the stone sarcophagus where Thomas of Canterbury, also known as Becket, had been laid to rest by monks in late December fifty years before. Expecting reprisals from the knights who had killed Thomas, the monks in great fear had quickly cleaned his body, dressed it in pontificals, and interred it. The body had remained undisturbed all those years. Though Thomas had been canonized three years later in 1173, there had been no recognitio,² no relics taken, just a finer tomb constructed over the original one for the edification of the pilgrims. Now, that tomb was to be taken apart and the body exhumed and made more accessible for the veneration of the faithful. The monks themselves would carry out this solemn task.

      Two accounts suggest that the body was found intact and that the monks, with tears in their eyes, lovingly carried it out of the tomb to be placed in a more appropriate casket.³ Another account, with weightier evidence perhaps, differs: It relates that the body had or was decomposing, leaving only frail bones; these had to be handled with great care, as some disintegrated easily.⁴ Archbishop Stephen took some bones for relics, not only for distribution in England, but to fulfill numerous requests from all over Europe.

      In the fifty years since the martyrdom, the cathedral had received numerous gifts and offerings for the shrine, an enormous quantity of precious gems included, and these were employed by craftsmen in the construction of a new casket. Covered in gold plate and trellised, the casket was studded with gems — diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, pearls, and other jewels such as cameos, agates, cornelians, and onyx. One of the most spectacular jewels was the great Régale de France, a most extraordinary ruby that King Louis VII of France had given to the shrine during a pilgrimage he made in 1179 — an act of homage from one of Thomas’s most ardent supporters during his exile. What the shrine was to contain, however, was even more precious. Following the recognitio, the skull and bones of Saint Thomas were placed in an iron urn, a “feretory,” which was sealed in the new casket and then taken away to a private place in preparation for the translation.

      Bishops, priests, religious, pilgrims, and officials traveled from all over England and Europe 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.

Part I

       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 СКАЧАТЬ