Devil's Brood (38 page)

“Those are fragments of the sword of Richard le Bret,” the prior said, striving to sound matter-of-fact and almost accomplishing it. Another monk behind him, an anonymous voice in the shadows, volunteered that he was the knight who delivered the deathblow, striking with such force that he split the archbishop’s skull and broke his blade upon the tiles.

This unknown informant did not repeat what the knight had cried as he stood over the archbishop’s body.
Take that for the love of my Lord William, the king’s brother!
There was no need, for Henry and every man in the cathedral knew what had been said. Thomas had refused to grant William a dispensation to wed Isabella de Warenne, and when the twenty-seven-year-old William died suddenly soon afterward, his friends had contended that he’d died of a broken heart. Henry had blamed Becket, too, for Will’s death, but as he gazed at the pieces of that broken sword, it seemed so long ago to him, part of another man’s life. Kneeling, he prayed earnestly to God for forgiveness, and then leaned over and kissed the ground where Thomas died.

Rising to his feet, he looked over at the prior. “I would like to see his tomb now.”

“Of course, my liege. The stairway to the crypt is right behind you.”

With the prior again leading the way, they all descended to the cathedral undercroft. It was deep in shadows, and Henry’s eyes had to adjust before he could make out the outlines of the archbishop’s tomb. A wall had been built around the sarcophagus, rising a foot above the coffin, covered by a large marble slab. In each side of the wall two windows had been cut so that pilgrims could lean inside and kiss the coffin. Henry knelt again and began to pray.

T
HE BISHOP OF LONDON
stepped forward to join Henry beside the tomb. “It is my honor to speak on behalf of the lord king. He orders me to declare his unreserved confession on his behalf, which I and others have heard in private. He declares before God and before the martyr that he did not cause St Thomas to be slain, but freely admits that he did use such words as were the cause of his being murdered. He begs the saint to forgive his offense, and he agrees to return all her holdings to this holy church. He has already pledged to give the cathedral the sum of thirty pounds each year, and he now adds an additional ten pounds per annum, so that candles may always be kept lit at the archbishop’s shrine. He asks you to pray to the true martyr lying here, beseeching him to lay aside all anger. The king has come here to make atonement.”

When Gilbert was done speaking, Henry gave him an approving nod. “Thank you, my lord bishop.” Turning back toward the monks, he said, “I hereby affirm all that the Bishop of London has said. I ask now for your forgiveness.”

Prior Odo smiled. “Gladly, my lord king, gladly.” And embracing Henry, he gave him the kiss of peace while many of the monks applauded.

There was a lessening of tension after that, as most of the men assumed the worst was over. As Henry’s eyes moved from face to face, he saw that only two knew what was coming, Gilbert Foliot, who’d been forewarned, and Ranulf, who sometimes seemed gifted with second-sight. “I regret the Blessed Martyr’s death more than words can ever say. But actions speak louder than words. It is for that reason that I restore to the cathedral and priory all of their rights and privileges. It is my pleasure to offer to St Thomas four marks of pure gold, a silk pall, and forty librates of land in Kent. I have asked the prior to send for the archbishop’s sister so that I may make amends to her as well, and I pledge to found an abbey in honor of the archbishop. And now…so that there may be no doubts as to the sincerity of my repentance, I willingly submit to the punishment I deserve for my part in this tragedy and ask that I be scourged for my sins.” With that, he unfastened his cloak and removed his shirt.

As they realized what he intended to do, a loud murmur swept through the spectators, expressions of shock and distress and satisfaction all mingling as one, like a river fed by smaller streams. Ignoring these ripples, Henry glanced from the bishop to the prior. “I would have each of the bishops and Abbot Walter give five lashes and then three from each one of the Christchurch monks.”

Prior Odo hastily whispered to one of the monks, who quickly fetched a penitential whip, a leather thong attached to a short handle. When he offered it to the Bishop of London, Gilbert took it as if he’d been handed a live snake. Seeing that he’d have to be the one to initiate the scourging, Henry said tersely, “Do it,” and then knelt by the tomb, thrusting his head and shoulders into one of the wall openings. It was an awkward position and his back began to ache before the first touch of the whip, but it had the advantage of shielding his face from his audience, one small indulgence that he hoped the Almighty would not begrudge him.

With a murmured “
Deus vult,”
Gilbert struck his king’s bared back. It was a light blow, as were those that followed, for all of the bishops seemed determined to make the scourging a symbolic one. Prior Odo was no less gentle, and the first few monks to wield the whip were either intimidated by the circumstances or were never partisans of the archbishop, for their lashes barely touched Henry’s flesh. In the beginning, Henry was trying to keep count of the blows, but he’d soon given it up. There were at least seventy monks, which added up to more than two hundred strikes, and he decided that was enough to know. When the first blow sliced into his skin and drew blood, there were indignant protests from some of his men that subsided only when he demanded silence.

He discovered he could measure a monk’s devotion to St Thomas by the strength of his blows. Most were cautious or prudent, but occasionally one of the monks would employ the whip with enough enthusiasm to raise welts. Despite the care that the majority were taking, his back was soon stinging from the sheer number of the strokes. But his real discomfort came from his hunched posture, and before long, he felt as if his spine were breaking in two. The trapped, musty air of the tomb was bothering him, too, bringing on several prolonged coughing fits. At the start of the scourging, he’d sought solace in prayer, but it was difficult to concentrate when his body was anticipating the feel of the lash, and eventually he stopped trying to think altogether, just focused upon enduring the ordeal. It actually came as a surprise when he heard Prior Odo declare that it was done.

It was not easy to straighten up, so stiff had his body become. For a moment, he felt light-headed and had to grip the tomb for support. Staggering over to the central pillar, he squatted down upon the floor and refused those who would have offered water or wine. “My penance is not over,” he said hoarsely. “I shall stay here all night, offering up my prayers to the Almighty and St Thomas.”

After they hurriedly conferred, Prior Odo announced that they would be honored by his presence and they would make sure that other pilgrims were kept away so he might pray in private. When Henry interrupted with a curt, “No, let any enter who wish,” Odo looked troubled, but he assured Henry it would be done. He beckoned then to two new arrivals, and Henry watched as an elderly woman and a younger man timidly drew closer.

“My liege, this is Mistress Rohesia and her son John. You sent for them,” the prior added, and only then did Henry realize they were Thomas Becket’s sister and nephew. She had none of her brother’s innate assurance, the poise and polish that had made it so easy for him to walk with kings and talk with princes of the Church. When Henry had reacted with fury to Becket’s latest outrage and expelled all of his family and retainers from England, this stooped, shy woman was one of the chief victims of his vengefulness. He was shamed now by that memory, further disquieted by the recollection of a heated quarrel he’d had with Eleanor, who’d argued in vain against the expulsion, claiming that “This interminable feuding with Becket has well and truly addled your mind!”

“You may approach,” he said, as kindly as he could, called her “gentle sister,” and asked for her pardon and grace. She stammered out something unintelligible, and he realized that he was only frightening her all the more, for she did not know how to treat a king like a supplicant. “I deeply regret the wrong I’ve done to you and your family. I would make amends the only way I can—by granting you the king’s mill that stands by the River Stour. You ought to be able to collect at least ten marks a year in rental payments. Take it with my blessings.”

Rohesia looked dumbfounded, but her son’s smile was bright enough to light the darkest shadows of the crypt. He began to declare their eternal gratitude, but Gilbert Foliot accurately read the exhaustion on Henry’s face and tactfully steered them away.

“My lord king?” Willem was leaning over, looking so concerned that Henry somehow managed to find a smile for him. “What would you have us do now?”

“You may go, Willem. There is no need for any of you to remain.”

The earl frowned. “I do not want to leave you alone, my liege.”

“I will not be alone,” Henry said, stifling a cough. “I will have St Thomas to keep me company.” Once Willem would have been sure that was a jest; now he no longer knew.

A
LL AFTERNOON
and well into the evening, pilgrims were admitted to the crypt, where they made offerings to the monk keeping vigil by the shrine, prayed to St Thomas, and watched the King of England do penance. Some were surreptitious about it, others gawked openly, but Henry was always aware of their eyes upon him. Kneeling by the tomb of the man who’d once been a beloved friend, then a hated enemy, he’d silently entreated the Almighty to forgive him, interspersing these pleas with the Latin prayers he’d learned in childhood. Refusing to eat or drink or even to pass water, he lay full length upon the cold floor of the crypt as he uttered the familiar words of the Confiteor.

The other pilgrims did not share his knowledge of Latin, but they knew the responses to the Mass and so when he whispered,
“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Ioanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, et omnibus Sanctis, quita peccavi nimus cogitatione, verbo et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,”
they understood that he was confessing to God, the Blessed Mary, the archangel, the apostles, and the saints that he had “sinned exceedingly, in thought, word, and deed.”

He’d begun by alternating pleas to God and St Thomas, but after a while he’d stopped praying to Thomas, for he felt as if his words were falling into a void. The archbishop did not seem to be listening. His fatigue was beginning to affect his thinking; when he recited the Litany of the Saints, he found himself unable to remember who came first, the patriarchs and prophets or the apostles.

After Vespers, the tide of pilgrims slowed to a trickle. But a new monk had taken up the vigil and he was a talker. Introducing himself as Brother Benedict, he informed Henry that he was collecting accounts of St Thomas’s miracles so that they might be saved for posterity. Pointing to a pile of crutches stacked in a corner, he explained that they had been abandoned by cripples who’d been healed by the saint’s mercy. With his own eyes, he’d seen people cured of leprosy, blindness, the palsy. A canon of Oseney was cured of the falling sickness, and a Templar from Chester was healed of a bowel ailment. But he only included those miracles that could be verified, he assured Henry. He did not intend to report one of his favorite stories, alas, for he could find no witnesses to confirm its accuracy. He then proceeded to tell Henry a preposterous tale of a starling that had been taught to recite a prayer to the Blessed Martyr. The bird had been attacked by a hawk—a kite, he believed it was—and invoked the prayer as it was caught in the kite’s talons. The hawk was at once struck dead, he recounted breathlessly.

Henry did his best to block out that droning voice, unwilling to give way to anger during his time of penance. Brother Benedict was not making it easy, however. As the night wore on, his body ailments were becoming more and more difficult to ignore. His lacerated back was throbbing; so was his head. His gashed feet had begun to bleed again, and his bladder felt full to bursting. Although he’d eaten nothing but bread for almost a week, he was not hungry. But his thirst was well-nigh intolerable. He’d put his shirt on again; it did little to shield him, though, from the damp chill of the crypt. With a flicker of very grim humor, he recalled Ranulf’s warning and entertained himself by imagining the great scandal should he be found dead on the morrow.

With an effort, he came back to the here and now, troubled that his thoughts were wandering like this. He ought to be thinking only of his sins. His muscles were cramping and stiffening, so that he had to pull himself upright by holding on to the marble top of the sarcophagus. Brother Benedict was still chattering on, describing the drowning of a little boy of Rochester; he’d fallen into the River Medway in mid-afternoon, had not been dragged out till Vespers had rung. But his mother refused to despair and measured his body with a thread and promised St Thomas a silver thread of the same length if he saved her son. And lo and behold, the child moaned and stirred and vomited up a barrel full of river water, even though they’d first hung him by his feet and not a drop did he spit out.

“Not that the Blessed Martyr is one to be trifled with. There have been sinners who sought his aid, and then did not fulfill their vows as promised, and retribution was always swift. I myself witnessed a sad case where a lame boy fell asleep with his head on the tomb. He had a vision of St Thomas, who rebuked him for his disrespect, and said, ‘Go hence, I will do nothing for you.’ His parents pleaded, but our saint would not relent.”

Henry began to recite the Pater Noster, the first prayer to come to mind, in hope of drowning the monk out.
“Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra,”
he murmured, the words coming from memory as his thoughts began to stray again. Was there a way to murder Brother Benedict and make it seem as if he’d been smitten by the wrath of the unforgiving Thomas? A vengeful saint was surely a contradiction in terms, but he alone seemed to think so. He was no longer shivering, and when he put his hand to his forehead, it felt hot. He’d been running a fever intermittently for days now, and he supposed neither the drenching nor the hours spent on his knees had done his aching body any good. Focusing again upon prayer, he began to repeat the Litany, almost at random.
“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.”