Henry II and Becket

Other things happened on February 21st, but the one that matters the most to me is what occurred on this date in 1173, when Thomas Becket was canonized as a saint by the Catholic Church. Since he’d only died in 1170, clearly they fast-tracked it. I think it is safe to say that it would not have been a red-letter day for Henry, even though he’d managed to make peace with the Church by then—and he would also manage to avoid some of the penances imposed upon him at Avranches. His true penance occurred two years later when he was driven by despair and desperation to the tomb of the martyred archbishop at Canterbury, reeling from the betrayal by his wife and sons. I’ve often admitted that Henry is my favorite king and his scene in the cathedral crypt is one of my favorites because I think it reveals Henry in all of his Angevin complexity. So here is The Devil’s Brood, pages 246-247, with some omissions due to length. Henry has been kneeling before Becket’s tomb for hours. The garrulous monk finally departs:
* * *
leaving Henry alone in the crypt with the dead and the ghost of the murdered archbishop.
At least it seemed that way to Henry. He had not been able to invoke the saint’s presence, but it was easier to imagine Thomas’s earthly spirit lurking in the shadows, watching his abasement with sardonic amusement. For Thomas had once had a quick wit, a playful humor, a droll sense of mockery. He’d lost that humor, though, as soon as he’d put the sacred pallium about his neck, yet another mystery Henry could not fathom. Had the man he’d known and trusted and loved ever truly existed? (omission)
“It is just the two of us now, Thomas. No one else can hear our secrets, so why not talk to pass the time? We have hours to go till dawn, time enough for honesty if nothing else.”
(omission)
He cocked his head, hearing only the silence of the grave. “I suppose you’re rather talk about the killing. Fair enough. I never wanted your death. I swear this to you upon the lives of my children. But you know that already. Why am I so sure? Because Roger showed me a letter written by your subdeacon, William Fitz Stephen. I’ve restored him to royal favor, by the way. In fact, he and his brother are co-sheriffs of Gloucestershire now. Life goes on.
“What was I saying? Ah, yes, the letter. Fitz Stephen wrote that you told the killers that you did not believe they came from the king, from me. So there really is no reason to swear my innocence upon holy relics, is there? You know the truth. Of course Roger knew the truth, too, and was the one man with the ballocks to say it straight out to my face. I may not be guilty, he pointed out, but neither am I innocent. I daresay you agree with him, no?”
He waited, heaving a sigh that echoed in the stillness. “Come, Thomas, hold up your part of the conversation. You need not do anything dramatic, like loosing a thunderbolt or performing one of your miracles. But at the least, you could extinguish a few candles to show me you are paying attention. Surely that is not too much to ask?”
He was feeling light-headed again, and sank down upon the floor, slumping back against one of the pillars. “I sound like a drunkard or a madman…mayhap both. But just between you and me, talking to a ghost makes as much sense as talking to a saint. What else do you want to know, Thomas? Did I grieve for you? No, I did not. My grief was for myself, for I knew at once that you’d trapped me well and truly. For you are not innocent either, my lord archbishop. You sought your martyrdom, you craved it, even lusted after it for all I know. You could have escaped, Thomas, had so many opportunities to evade your killers. But you did not, did you? You had to confront them, had to taunt them. Was it true that you called Fitz Urse a pimp?”
(omission.)
Henry leaned forward, rested his head upon his drawn-up knees. He was either burning up with fever or losing his mind. “Sancte Thoma,” he mumbled, “requiescat in pace.” But there was as much pain as mockery in his voice, and when he looked up, he saw the crypt through a haze of hot tears. “Do you know why I did not grieve for you when you died? Because I’d already done my grieving. I trusted you, I had faith in you, I loved you more than my own brother. And then you turned on me. But it need not have been that way. You could have served both me and the Almighty, and what a partnership we could have forged, what we could not have done together!”
Getting to his feet with difficulty, he had to hold onto the pillar, for his head was spinning. “When I told you that I would raise you up to the archbishopric, you said you would not want to put our friendship at risk. And I assured you that it would not happen, that I was not so prideful that I saw God as a rival. Do you remember what I said? That the Almighty and I would not be in contention for your immortal soul. Why could you not believe me, Thomas?”
His tears were falling faster now, but there was no one to see them. “I am truly and grievously sorry that our paths led us to this place, this night. I do mourn you, Thomas. But do I think you are a saint? God’s Truth, I do not know. You are the only one who can answer that question, my lord archbishop. We both know you could never resist a challenge. So take it up. Prove my doubts are unfounded. Prove me wrong.”
Dropping to his knees, he winced at the pain that action caused his fevered, battered body. “St Thomas,” he said in a low, husky voice, “guard my realm.”
* * *
And, of course, Thomas did, at least in the eyes of medieval men. For as Henry did penance in the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral, the king of the Scots was being captured at Alnwick Castle, which effectively ended the rebellion—and certainly convinced Henry’s contemporaries that he had God and the martyred archbishop on his side.