Louis threw himself on his knees, crying out, “My father, forgive me;
you were the only wise man among us. We were all blinded and besotted,
and advised you to make God’s honor give way to a man’s will! I repent
of it, my father, and entreat you to bestow on me absolution!”
Louis had been brought to this change of mind by a breach of promise on
Henry’s part, but he never again wavered in his confidence and support
of Becket.
In the November of the same year there was another interview between the
two kings and Becket, at Montmartre, near Paris.
By this time, the Bishops of London and Salisbury had been
excommunicated for disobedience to their primate; and Henry, expecting
the same stroke to fall on himself, was resolved to put an end to the
quarrel, and, bringing back Becket to his kingdom, to deal with him
there as best he might.
Becket did not, by any means, trust the King’s intentions, and had
written to ask the Pope what pledge for his security he had better
require. Alexander answered, that it was not accordant with the
character of an ecclesiastic to stipulate for such pledges, but that
he had better content himself with obtaining from the King a kiss of
peace.
Now this kiss Henry would not give. He said he had sworn an oath never
to kiss the Archbishop, and this refusal immediately convinced every one
that evil was intended. Louis and all the Archbishop’s friends concurred
in advising him never to come to any terms without this seal of friend
ship, and entirely on this ground the treaty was broken off. One of
Becket’s clergy remarked, that the meeting had taken place on the spot
where St. Denys was put to death, adding, “It is my belief that nothing
but your martyrdom will insure peace to the Church.”
“Be it so,” said Becket; “God grant that she may be redeemed, even at
the sacrifice of my life.”
He began to make up his mind that, since the King had given up the point
at issue, he ought to allow no regard for his personal safety to keep
him away from his flock; but just at this point the quarrel became
further complicated. Henry, in dread of excommunication, resolved
to have his son Henry crowned, to reign jointly with him, and the
difficulty arose that no one could lawfully perform the coronation but
the primate. Letters prohibiting the bishops from taking part in the
coronation were sent by Becket, but, in the meantime, Gilbert Folliot
had been appealing to Rome against his own excommunication. The Pope,
who had been shuffling throughout, would not absolve him himself, but
gave him letters to the Archbishops of Rouen and Nevers, and they
granted him absolution; on which he returned triumphant to England, and
joined with Roger of York and Hilary of Chichester in setting the
crown on the head of young Henry. It was a measure which every person
concerned in it had bitterly to rue--king, prince, bishops, every one,
except Margaret, young Henry’s wife, who steadily avoided receiving the
crown from any one but her old tutor and friend, the primate.
Pope and Archbishop both agreed that this contempt of prohibition must
be visited by excommunication; and as Alexander had about this time
effectually humbled the pride of the Emperor Frederick, Henry thought it
time to submit, at least in appearance, lest his realm should be laid
under an interdict. At Freitval, therefore, he met the Archbishop in
the autumn of 1170, and all was arranged. He consented to the
excommunication of those concerned in the coronation; he held Becket’s
stirrup; he did everything but give the kiss of peace, but that he
constantly avoided. Even when they went to church together at Tours,
when, in the course of the communion service, Henry must have received
the kiss from the Archbishop, he contrived to change the service to the
mass for the dead, in which the kiss did not occur. The last time the
King and Archbishop met was at Chaumont, near Blois, and here they had a
return of old feelings, talked cheerfully and in a friendly manner, and
Henry was so much touched by his remembrance of his happiest and best
days, when his noble Chancellor was his friend and counsellor, that
he exclaimed, “Why will you not do as I wish you? I would put all my
affairs into your hands.”
But Becket told his clerks that he recollected, “All these things will I
give Thee, if Thou wilt fall down and worship me.”
They parted for the last time, and Becket prepared for his return,
after his seven years’ exile, sending before him letters from the Pope,
suspending the Archbishop of York, and excommunicating the other bishops
who had assisted at the coronation. At every step warnings met him that
the English coast was beset with his foes, lying in wait to murder him;
but he was resolved to proceed, and bold Herbert helped to strengthen
his resolution by his arguments. On the 3d of December he set sail from
the Boulogne coast. “There is England, my lord!” cried the rejoicing
clerks.
“You are glad to go,” he said; “but, before forty days, you will wish
yourself anywhere else.”
With extreme joy did the people of Sandwich see, for the first time for
seven years, the archepiscopal cross, as it stood high above the prow of
the ship. They thronged to receive their pastor and ask his blessing,
and in every village through which he passed the parish priest came
forth, with cross or banner, his flock in procession behind him, and the
bells pealing merrily, while the road was strewed with garlands.
At Canterbury the joy was extreme; anthems were sung in all the
churches, and the streets resounded with trumpets and the shouts of the
people in their holiday robes. The Archbishop rode through the midst,
saluted each of the monks of Christ Church on the cheek, and then went
straight to his own cathedral, where his greeting to his flock was a
sermon on the text, “Here we have no abiding city.”
After taking possession of his palace, Becket set out to London to visit
his pupil, the young King, taking him a present of a fine horse; but he
was not allowed to see him, and the courtiers threatened him severely,
because of the rejoicings of the citizens of London. At home he was much
annoyed by his old enemy, Ranulf de Broc, who from Saltwood Castle made
forays on all that were going to the archiepiscopal palace, stole his
baggage, and cut off the tail of one of the poor horses that carried it.
The bishops who had been placed under the censures of the Church were,
meanwhile, in violent anger. Roger of York said he had 8,000 crowns in
his coffers, and would spend every one of them in beating down Thomas’s
insolence: and together they all set out to make their complaints to the
King, who was at Falaise.
It would seem that Henry either forgot, or did not choose to tell them,
of the permission he had given Becket at Freital, and he went into a
passion, saying, if all who were concerned in the coronation were to be
excommunicated, he ought to be one. The Archbishop of York talked of
patience and good contrivance. “What would you have me do?” said Henry.
“Your barons must advise you,” said one of the bishops (which, is not
known); “but as long as Thomas lives, you will never be at peace.”
Henry’s eyes flashed. “A curse,” cried he, “on all the false varlets I
have maintained, who have left me so long subject to the insolence of a
priest, without attempting to rid me of him!”
A council of the barons was called, and Henry found them willing enough
to advise him as he wished. “The only way to deal with such a fellow,”
said one, “is to plait a few withe in a rope, and have him up to a
gallows.” In the midst of the council, however, it was observed that
four of the King’s knights were missing--Reginald Fitzurse, William
Tracy, Hugh Morville, and William Brito. It was remembered that they had
heard the King’s words about the insolent priest, and, becoming alarmed
for the consequences, Henry sent off the Earl of Mandeville, and some
others, with orders to overtake them, and arrest the Archbishop.
The four knights had held a hasty council, after which they set out
separately, agreeing to meet in Saltwood Castle, where they were sure
of assistance in their designs from Randolf de Broc. They reached it on
Innocents’ day, and the next day set out for Canterbury, accompanied by
several of the Broc family and their armed retainers. In the meantime,
Becket had been keeping Christmas, and preaching his last sermon on
the text, “Peace on earth, good-will to men.” He had sent away his
cross-bearer, Alexander Llewellyn, and his high-minded friend, Herbert
de Bosham, with letters to the Pope--perhaps because he was afraid that
Herbert’s boldness might bring him into peril; and he was sitting in his
own chamber writing, when the four knights arrived, and desired to speak
with him.
He received them with his clergy about him, and they began to threaten
him in the name of the King, and order him to leave the kingdom. He must
fully have understood the meaning of all this; but he stood firm, and
quietly answered all their railing. They then told him his doings should
recoil on his own head; and on his replying that he was ready to suffer
martyrdom, they noisily left the room, Fiturse shouting out, “Ho! clerks
and monks, in the King’s name seize that man, and keep him till justice
is done.”
“You will find me here,” answered Becket, standing by the door.
The knights had gone back to arm themselves and join their retainers.
In the meantime the terrified clergy fastened all the doors of the
monastery, and besought the Archbishop to take shelter in the church;
but he seemed the only person present who had no fear, and replied
that he would not flee--he would remain where he was. At last he was
persuaded to come into church, as it was the hour for vespers, and set
off, with the cross borne before him.
“My lord! my lord! they are arming!” cried one frightened monk; and
another brought word that they were upon them--Robert de Broc having
shown them the way through the orchard. Still Becket was calm; and as
the monks tried to drag him into the church, he stood at the door,
saying, “Go on with the holy service. As long as you are afraid of
death, I will not enter.”
They proceeded, and he advanced up the aisle. As he was going up the
steps to the altar, there was a rush of monks into the church; for
Reginald Fitzurse, with a drawn sword, had just come through the
cloister door, the other murderers following. Becket turned, on seeing
the monks trying to bolt and bar the church doors. “It is not right,”
said he; “to make a fortress of the house of prayer. It can protect
its own, even if its doors are open. We shall conquer our enemies by
suffering, not by fighting.”
The vespers ceased; the clergy threw themselves on the altars for
protection; the Archbishop stood alone with one canon, with Fitzstephen
and Edward Grim, a priest who had come to visit him. In rushed the band
of armed men, crying out, “Where is the traitor, Thomas Becket?” To this
he made no answer; but when the cry was, “Where is the Archbishop?” he
came down the steps, saying, “Here I am; no traitor, but a priest of the
Lord. What would you of me?”
“Absolve those you have excommunicated.”
“They have not repented, and I will not.”
“Then you shall die.”
“I am ready, for the Lord’s sake; but, in the name of Almighty God, I
forbid you to harm these, whether priests or laymen.”
“Flee, or you are a dead man!” cried one, striking him with the back of
his sword, and unwilling, apparently, to slay him in the church. They
tried to push him away from the pillar against which he was standing,
but in vain. Becket was a tall, powerful man, expert in the use of
weapons. Had he snatched a sword from one of these, he might have saved
his life; but temporal arms he had long since laid aside, and he only
stood still, clasped his hands in prayer, and commended his soul to his
God. Reginald Fitzurse began to fear the people might break in to his
rescue, and struck a blow which wounded his head, as well as the arm
of Edward Grim, who fled to the altar; but Becket did not move hand or
foot--only, as the blood flowed from his face, he said, “In the name of
Christ, and for the defence of the Church, I am ready to die.” Tracy
struck him again twice on the head: he staggered, and, as he was
falling, the fourth stroke, given by Brito, cleft off the top of his
skull with such violence, that the sword broke against the pavement.
The murderers, after making sure of his death, left the church; the
monks took up his corpse, unwounded, save the crown of his head, which
was shattered to pieces above his tonsure, and laid it out on the high
altar, deeming that he had indeed been a sacrifice, and weeping as they
beheld the beauty of his peaceful expression, as if he had calmly fallen
asleep. They folded outward the haircloth shirt he had always worn
secretly; and as the blood still trickled from the wound, it was caught
in a dish.
The threats of Randolf de Broc obliged them to bury him in haste the
next morning; and they were strictly forbidden to place his coffin among
those of the former archbishops--a command which they obeyed, from the
dread that otherwise his remains might be insulted. They had not long to
fear. Europe rang with horror at the crime, and admiration, rather
than compassion, for the victim. No one was more shocked than the King
himself, who was at Bure, in Normandy, when the news reached him. For
three days he remained shut; up in his room, taking no food, and seeing
no one, in an agony of grief and dismay at the consequence of his hasty
words, and dwelling on those days of early friendship which he had
passed with the murdered Becket. Not till these first paroxysms of grief
were over was he even able to think of the danger he was in; and he then
sent off an embassy to explain to the Pope how far he was from intending
the bloody deed, and to entreat forgiveness.
He was at a loss how to treat the murderers. He could not punish what
his own words had been supposed to authorize, and he dared not let them
escape, lest he should be supposed to be their defender. He therefore
let them reap the benefit of the liberties for which Becket had died:
their crime was done on the person of a clerk; therefore it was left to
the censures of the Church.
They had, in the meantime, fled to Morville’s Castle, in Cumberland,
where they found themselves regarded with universal execration; their
servants shrank from their presence, and, in the exaggerations of
tradition, it was said that the very dogs would not approach them.
Overwhelmed with remorse, they set out for Italy, and dreaded and
avoided, as if they bore a mark like the first “murderer and vagabond,”
they threw themselves at the feet of the Pope, and entreated to know
what they should do to obtain mercy. He ordered them to go on pilgrimage
to Jerusalem; and they all went except Tracy, who, lingering behind, was
seized with a dreadful illness, and died at Cosenza. The others all died
within three years, with deep marks of penitence, and were buried before
the door of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
Henry obtained pardon from the Pope on giving up all attempts at
subjecting the Church to the law of the State, and on giving a large sum
of money to maintain 200 knights for three years in the Holy Land. He
also largely endowed Mary and Agnes Becket, the Archbishop’s sisters,
with possessions in his newly-conquered domain in Ireland; and one of
them became the ancestress of the noble family of Butler, Earls of
Ormonde.
The cathedral at Canterbury had, in the meantime, been sprinkled with
holy water, to purify it from the crime of sacrilege and murder there
committed, and for which it had been a whole year left neglected, and
without the celebration of Divine service. On its reopening, gifts
poured in from all quarters, in honor of the Archbishop, and it was
repaired and beautified to a great degree. The beautiful circular chapel
at the east end was named Becket’s Crown, and the spot by the north
transept, where he fell, was termed The Martyrdom. Reports of miracles
having been performed at his intercession were carried to Rome, and Pope
Alexander canonized him as St. Thomas of Canterbury. The next year,
1174, Henry II., who was broken down with grief at the rebellion of his
sons, rode from Southampton to Canterbury without resting, taking no
food but bread and water, entered the city, and walked through the
streets barefoot to the cathedral, and into the crypt, where he threw
himself prostrate on the ground, while Gilbert Folliot preached to the
people.
In the chapter-house Henry caused each of the clergy present, to the
number of eighty, to strike him over the shoulders with a knotted cord,
and afterward spent the whole night beside the tomb. He heard mass the
next morning, and returned to London.
A few years after, Louis VII. came to pray at the tomb of his friend for
the recovery of his son Philippe Auguste, who was ill of a fever. He
made splendid gifts to the cathedral, and in especial a very large
diamond, and a golden cup. In Italy Thomas was equally honored. William
the Good, of Sicily, who married Joan, daughter to Henry II., placed a
colossal statue of St. Thomas of Canterbury in his new foundation,
the Church of Monreale; and at Agnani there is still preserved a
richly-embroidered cope, presented by Pope Innocent III., bearing
thirty-six different scenes in delicate needlework, and among them the
death of the English Archbishop. There are also many German and French
representations of the subject; the murderers, in the more ancient
ones, carefully distinguished by their shields: Morville, _fretty
fleur-de-lis_; Tracy, _two bars gules_; Brito, _three bears, heads
muzzled_; Fitzurse, _three bears passant_.
In Henry III.’s reign a new shrine was built at Canterbury, and the
Archbishop’s relics were thither translated. No saint in England was
more popular than St. Thomas of Canterbury, and frequent pilgrimages
were made to his shrine. The Canterbury Pilgrims of Chaucer are thither
journeying, and Simon of Sudbury, the archbishop killed by Wat Tyler’s
mob, is said to have made himself unpopular by rebuking the superstition
that made the ignorant believe in the efficacy of these pilgrimages.
Then came the reaction. Henry VIII., little able to endure such a saint
as Becket, sent the spoilers to Canterbury. Lord Cromwell burnt his
relics, and carried off the treasures of gold and jewels, which filled
two chests, so heavy that six or eight men were wanted to carry each of
them. Henry wore Louis VII.’s diamond in a ring. The costly shrine was
destroyed, and the pavement, worn by the knees of the pilgrims, alone
remained to show where Becket’s tomb had been. In London, the house of
Gilbert à Becket, in Southwark, where the Saracen lady had ended her
toilsome journey, and where Thomas had been born, had, in Henry III.’s
reign, been made a hospital; Edward VI. granted it for the same use; and
thus it still remains, by its old name of St. Thomas’s Hospital, which
perhaps would not so generally be given it, if it were known after what
saint it was so called. His likeness was destroyed in every church and
public building, so that but one head of St. Thomas à Becket is known
to exist in England--namely, one in stained glass, at the village of
Horton, in Ribblesdale--and even in missals and breviaries it was
defaced.
No one has met with more abuse than Becket, ever since the Reformation.
Proud, ostentatious, hypocritical, and rebellious--these are the terms
usually bestowed on him. How far he deserves them, may be judged from a
life detailed with unusual minuteness by three intimate companions, none
of them treating him as faultless. Of the rights of the struggle we will
not speak. No one can doubt that Becket gave his life for the cause
which, in all sincerity, he deemed that of the Church against the World.
The fate of the murderers has been questioned in later times. It is said
that they died at home, in peace and fair prosperity; but the evidence
on either side is nearly balanced.
CAMEO XXII. THE CONQUEST OF IRELAND. (1172)
Few histories are more strange and confused than the Irish. The
inhabitants of Ierne, or Erin, as far as anything credible can be
discovered about them, were of three different nations, who had in turn
subdued the island before the beginning of history. These were the Tuath
de Dunans, the Firbolg, and the Scots, or Milesians. Who the two first
were, we will not attempt to say, though Irish traditions declare that
some of them were there before the Flood, and that one Fintan was saved
by being transformed into a salmon, and so swimming about till the water
subsided, after which he resumed the human form, and lived so long that
the saying was, “I could tell you much, if I was as old as Fintan.”
The Milesians are not much behind their predecessors in their claim, for
they say they are descended from a son of Japhet, and first discovered
writing, and all the arts commonly said to have been derived from Egypt,
but which they assert were carried thither by one Neill, who gave his
name to the river Nile, as well as to his sons, all the O’Neills of
Ireland.
It is more certain that these Milesians were Kelts, and were in early
times called Scots. A colony of them conquered the Picts; drove the
Caledonians into Galway, and gave North Britain, or Albin the name of
Lesser Scotland, while their own country, or Greater Scotia, returned
to its former name of Erin, called by the Romans Hibernia, and by the
English, Ireland.
The Erse tongue is nearly the same as the Gaelic, and there was much in
the Irish and Highland institutions showing their common origin. The
clan system prevailed in Ireland, the clans being called Septs, and
all having, as a surname, the name of the common ancestor. His
representative, the chief, was known as the Carfinny; but the succession
was not determined by the rules of primogeniture. It was always in one
family, but the choice was made by election of the next heir. When a
Carfinny died, another came into office who had been chosen on his
accession as heir, or Tanist, and at the same time another Tanist
was chosen to succeed him as Carfinny at his death. The land was the
property of the tribe, divided into holdings; and whenever the death of
a considerable proprietor took place, there was a fresh allotment of
the whole, which, of course, as well as the choice of a Tanist, set the
whole population at war.
There were four kingdoms--Ulster, Munster, Leinster, and Connaught--to
which the chiefs succeeded by tanistry, besides Meath, another kingdom
which always belonged to the principal king, or Toparch, who was in
like manner elected as Tanist on each new accession; and the number
of battles and murders among these wild Irish princes is beyond all
estimate. Out of 178 kings, 71 were slain in battle, and 60 murdered.
Christianity was brought to Ireland about the year 400, by St. Colman
and St. Patrick. It does not seem to have materially softened the
manners of the people at large, whose wars went on as fiercely as ever;
but the churches were seats of peace and learning, whence teachers went
forth in numbers into Gaul, and among the heathen Saxons of England. The
Roman calender shows so many names of Irish hermits, priests, and nuns,
that we do not wonder Erin once was known as the Isle of Saints.
The Northmen made their cruel inroads on Ireland, and swept away much
of the beginnings of civilization. Turges, a Danish chief, was, in 815,
King of all Ireland; and having forced Melachlin, or Malachy, King of
Meath, to give up his daughter to him, Melachlin sent with her, in the
disguise of female attendants, sixteen young men armed with skeynes, or
long knives. They killed Turges, and brought the princess back to her
father, who was waiting in ambush at no great distance with his armed
men, set upon the Danes, defeated them, and, being joined by the other
Irish princes, destroyed them all.
It is said that shortly before, Melachlin, when at the court of Turges,
had told him that Ireland was full of a kind of foul, ravenous bird, and
asked his advice how to get rid of them; to which Turges answered, that
he had better destroy the nests--eggs, nestlings, and all--counsel which
the Irish hardly needed; and the massacre of the Danish raven’s brood
was frightful.
During the lull brought about by Alfred’s conquests, the Irish enjoyed
the halcyon days remembered as those of Malachy with the collar of gold
(which he had torn from the neck of a conquered Dane), and those of
Brien Boromhe, or Boru, the great Brien, in whose reign a maiden, though