At the moment I’m in the midst of a strange personal pilgrimage from London to Canterbury. I’ll be giving a talk about it on Friday 6th September at the 4th World Congress of Psychogeography, so I’m not going to elaborate here (and I haven’t finished the walk yet) – the congress is free and will be streamed online so if you’re interested (or are wondering what the hell psychogeography is), do click the link.
But given my thoughts and research are currently revolving firmly around the story of Thomas Becket, Chaucer’s pilgrims and related matters, this week I give you the first of two connected pieces within my Histories remit of exploring first-hand sources.
It’s rare here that I go earlier than the 16th century as those kinds of sources are rare or fragmentary – diary-writing wasn’t really a thing in the medieval era, for example (with a few exceptions), and literacy wasn’t widespread. But astonishingly, the assassination of Becket (swiftly canonised as St Thomas, and the spurious ‘à’ was wrongly added in the 1590s) was witnessed by several people and there are five different eyewitness accounts.
I’m not going to go into the whole Becket story due to lack of time at the moment, but you’ve probably heard some of the basics: he was born in London (c.1120) into a middle-class Norman family, started work as a clerk then made connections in ecclesiastical circles that led to him becoming first Lord Chancellor in 1155 and then Archbishop of Canterbury in 1162, under Henry II. But the two men – symbols of Church and State – came to loggerheads, the king wanted rid of this “turbulent priest” (there are many versions of what he might have actually said), and four knights stepped up to the plate by cornering Becket in Canterbury Cathedral and killing him on 29th December 1170. Only two years later he was made a saint due to speedily alleged miracles, and by 1174 Henry himself was walking barefoot to the shrine to make penance (whether this was sincere or strategic remains a moot point). I’ll touch on the story of the shrine itself next time.
For this week, I thought it would be interesting purely to focus on how those five eyewitnesses described the actual assassination. Some of them give a lot of build-up on the conversations between Becket and the four knights – who were Reginald Fitzurse, Hugh de Morville, William de Tracy and Richard le Breton – and the story goes that they initially asked Becket to go to Winchester with them to explain his traitorous views, but he defied them, ordered the clerks of the cathedral not to bar the door to the knights (who had gone back outside to get their weapons) and then commanded the knights to leave the monks and clerks alone, saying he was ready to face his own death. Let’s cut to the nasty bit (look away if you must) – which account do you think is the most accurate?1
William of Canterbury
A monk
Fitzurse, eager for the glory of striking the first blow, and the advantage of losing his own soul quickly, bounded forward, and with all his might inflicted a wound upon the outstretched head, and shouted, as if exulting over a conquered foe, “Strike, strike!”
At this word, I who speak, thinking, like the rest, that I was going to be struck with the sword, being conscious of my sins, and far from fit for martyrdom, turned my back quickly and ran up the stairs, clapping my hands together. Thereupon, some who were still standing at prayer dispersed… So the murderers, set on by the author of confusion, heaped wounds upon the wound, and dashed out his brain.
A clerk, however, of English birth, named Edward, in loving anxiety for our father, held up his arm and caught one blow among the many; then, fearing more wounds and worse to follow, took refuge at the nearest altar, to which several of the brethren had already fled in fear of their lives… One of the brethren also received a blow while engaged in affectionate attendance upon our father… this monk was hit with the flat of the sword, and to his surprise carried his head away with him.
The knees of the martyr tottered; the house of clay was beginning to fall. While they were killing him, he prayed in silence; he sang with the understanding, he sang with the spirit also. As he fell, or actually lay prostrate, one of the murderers, not satisfied with what had been done, dashed the point of his sword on the stone floor; but the blade was shattered…
William Fitzstephen
One of Becket’s clerks
One of them had both a sword and a two-edged axe, in order to break through the church door with the axe, in case it were fastened against them. Now, keeping his sword, he put down the axe, which is still preserved there.
One of them smote the archbishop between the shoulders with the flat of his sword, saying, “Fly; you are a dead man.” He stood his ground firmly, and offering his neck continued to commend himself to God… The monks also held him back, and along with them Master Edward Grim; who, seeing William de Tracy brandishing his sword over the archbishop’s head for the first stroke, put his arm in the way and caught it. The same stroke which wounded him severely in the arm wounded the archbishop also on the bowed head…
The blood trickled down from the archbishop’s head. He wiped it off with his arm, and on seeing it he thanked God saying, “Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.” His head received a second blow, which brought him down first on his knees and then on his face, with his hands joined and outstretched to God, beside the altar of St Benedict which stood there. Care, or grace, made him fall in seemly fashion, covered with his cloak to the heels, as if for worship or prayer… As he lay there, Richard le Breton struck him with such force, that the sword broke on his head and on the church floor…
The holy archbishop received in all four strokes, all of them on the head; and the whole crown of the head was cut off.
Benedict
Another monk
With bowed head he awaited the coming of a second stroke [the first had knocked Becket’s cap off]. When the second stroke descended on his head, he fell to the ground with his body straight out, as if prostrate in prayer. A third man cut off the greater part of his head, horribly enlarging the former wound. A fourth, on being chidden by one of them for hanging back from striking, dashed his sword with great force into the same wound, and breaking the sword on the marble pavement, left both the point and the hilt to the church…
John of Salisbury
Secretary to Becket’s predecessor Archbishop Theobald and later Bishop of Chartres
Who can relate what followed without sighs and sobs and tears? Pity does not allow me to tell in detail what the ruthless slaughterers did. It did not satisfy them to profane the church and pollute the sacred day with the blood and death of the priest; they must needs cut off the crown of his head, which had been consecrated to God by the anointing of the holy chrism, and then, horrible as it is to tell, with their murderous swords they cast out the dead man’s brain and scattered it savagely over the pavement with blood and bones… But in all these sufferings… the martyr did not utter a word or a cry, nor give a groan, nor hold up an arm or a garment against the smiter, but held his head, which he had presented bowed to the swords, unflinching till all was finished…
Edward Grim
A clerk from Cambridge who happened to be visiting
He had scarcely uttered the words, when the wicked knight, fearing that he would be rescued by the people and escape alive, sprang suddenly at him, and wounded him the lamb that was to be sacrificed to God in the head. The blow shore off the top of his crown, which had been consecrated to God by the anointing of the holy chrism; and by the same blow the forearm of the narrator was cut. For when all alike, monks and clerks, ran away, the narrator clave steadfastly to the holy archbishop, clasping him in his arms and holding him fast, until the arm that he held up was cut… Then the martyr received another blow on the head, but still remained motionless. A third stroke made him bend his knees and his elbows, offering himself as a living sacrifice, and saying in a low voice, “For the name of Jesus and in defence of the church I am ready to welcome death.” As he lay thus, a third knight struck a heavy blow, by which the sword was dashed on the stone, and the crown, which was large, was so severed from the head, that the blood, whitened with the brain, and the brain, reddened with the blood, brought the colours of the lily and the rose to the face of the virgin mother church by the life and death of the confessor and the martyr. The fourth knight kept off those who approached, that the rest might accomplish the murder with greater freedom and ease.
Several of these accounts also mention a fifth man – one says he was Hugh of Horsea, a clerk to the knights – who then dashed Becket’s brains out across the floor.
Grim stuff indeed, and apologies to those of a nervous disposition. Next time: the pilgrims come.
They were all collected together in Arthur James Mason’s 1920 book, What Became of the Bones of St Thomas?
All of those accounts resembled each other more than I thought they would. I somehow thought each person would have his own account, perhaps with himself as the hero at the centre of the story, but no. Such convergence must be very satisfying for a historian...and for anyone else who sometimes worries that history might be just a lot of Just So stories.
This is fascinating, and useful to get some of the various accounts all in one place. If it's of any interest, I wrote a piece on Becket here; there are a few more related posts if you dig around a bit... https://branchlines.org/2023/11/29/the-currency-of-love/ Wishing you well with the walk.