The Pillars of the Earth

was desperately keen to agree. Not only would this solve all his problems: the king would probably give him an earldom for it. "But to kill an archbishop must be a terrible sin!" he said.

"Don't worry about that," Waleran said. "I'll give you absolution."



The enormity of what they were going to do hung over William like a thundercloud as the group of assassins traveled to England. He could think of nothing else; he could neither eat nor sleep; he acted confused and spoke distractedly. By the time the ship reached Dover he was ready to abandon the project.

They reached Saltwood Castle, in Kent, three days after Christmas, on a Monday evening. The castle belonged to the archbishop of Canterbury, but during the exile it had been occupied by Ranulf de Broc, who had refused to give it back. Indeed, one of Thomas's complaints to the pope was that King Henry had failed to restore the castle to him.

Ranulf put new heart into William.

Ranulf had ravaged Kent in the absence of the archbishop, relishing the lack of authority rather in the way William had in years gone by, and he was willing to do anything to retain the freedom to do as he pleased. He was enthusiastic about the assassination plan and welcomed the chance of taking part, and he immediately began to discuss the details with gusto. His matter-of-fact approach dispelled the fog of superstitious dread that had clouded William's vision. William began once again to imagine how it would be if he were an earl again, with no one to tell him what to do.

They stayed up most of the night planning the operation. Ranulf drew a plan of the cathedral close and the archbishop's palace, scratching it on the table with a knife. The monastic buildings were on the north side of the church, which was unusual--they were normally to the south, as at Kingsbridge. The archbishop's palace was attached to the northwest corner of the church. It was entered from the kitchen courtyard. While they worked on the plan, Ranulf sent riders to his garrisons at Dover, Rochester and Bletchingley, ordering his knights to meet him on the road to Canterbury in the morning. Toward dawn the conspirators went to bed to catch an hour or two of sleep.

William's legs hurt like fire after the long journey. He hoped this was the last military operation he would ever do. He would be fifty-five soon, if his calculations were right, and he was getting too old for it.

Despite his weariness, and the heartening influence of Ranulf, he still could not sleep. The idea of killing an archbishop was too terrifying, even though he had already been absolved of his sin. He was afraid that if he went to sleep he would have nightmares.

They had figured out a good plan of attack. It would go wrong, of course: there was always something that went wrong. The important thing was to be flexible enough to cope with the unexpected. But whatever happened, it would not be very difficult for a group of professional fighting men to overpower a handful of effeminate monks.

The dim light of a gray winter morning leaked into the room through the arrow-slit windows. After a while William got up. He tried to say his prayers, but he could not.

The others were up early too. They had breakfast together in the hall. As well as William and Ranulf, there were Reginald Fitzurse, whom William had made leader of the attack group; Richard le Bret, the youngster of the group; William Tracy, the oldest; and Hugh Morville, the highest-ranking.

They put on their armor and set out on Ranulf's horses. It was a bitterly cold day, and the sky was dark with low gray clouds, as if it might snow. They followed the old road called Stone Street. On the two-and-a-half-hour journey they picked up several more knights.

Their main rendezvous was at Saint Augustine's Abbey, outside the city. The abbot was an old enemy of Thomas's, Ranulf had assured William, but nevertheless William decided to tell him that they had come to arrest Thomas, not to kill him. That was a pretense they would keep up until the last moment: no one was to know the true aim of the operation except for William himself, Ranulf, and the four knights who had crossed from France.

They reached the abbey at noon. The men Ranulf had summoned were waiting. The abbot gave them dinner. His wine was very good and they all drank plenty. Ranulf briefed the men-at-arms who would surround the cathedral close and prevent anyone from escaping.

William kept shivering, even when he stood beside the fire in the guesthouse. It should be a simple operation, but the penalty for failure would probably be death. The king would find a way to justify the murder of Thomas, but he could never support the attempted murder: he would have to deny all knowledge of it and hang the perpetrators. William had hanged many people, as sheriff of Shiring, but the thought of his own body dangling at the end of a rope still made him shake.

He turned his mind to the thought of the earldom he could expect as a reward for success. It would be nice to be an earl again in his old age, respected and deferred to and obeyed without question. Perhaps Aliena's brother, Richard, would die in the Holy Land and King Henry would give William his old estates again. The thought warmed him more than the fire.

When they left the abbey they were a small army. Nevertheless they had no trouble getting into Canterbury. Ranulf had controlled this part of the country for six years and he had not yet relinquished his authority. He held more sway than Thomas, which was no doubt why Thomas had complained so bitterly to the pope. As soon as they were inside, the men-at-arms spread out around the cathedral close and blocked all the exits.

The operation had begun. Until this moment it had been theoretically possible to call the whole thing off, with no harm done; but now, William thought with a shiver of dread, the die was cast.

He left Ranulf in charge of the blockade, keeping a small group of knights and men for himself. He installed most of the knights in a house opposite the main gateway to the cathedral close. Then he went through the gate with the remainder. Reginald Fitzurse and the other three conspirators rode into the kitchen courtyard as if they were official visitors, rather than armed intruders. But William ran into the gatehouse and held the terrified porter at sword point.

The attack was under way.

With his heart in his mouth, William ordered a man-at-arms to tie up the porter, then summoned the rest of his men into the gatehouse and closed the gate. Now no one could enter or leave. He had taken armed control of a monastery.

He followed the four conspirators into the kitchen courtyard. There were stables to the north of the yard, but the four had tied their horses to a mulberry tree in the middle. They took off their sword belts and helmets: they would keep up the facade of a peaceful visit a little longer.

William caught up with them and dropped his weapons under the tree. Reginald looked inquiringly at him. "All's well," William said. "The place is isolated."

They crossed the courtyard to the palace and went into the porch. William assigned a local knight called Richard to stay in the porch on guard. The others entered the great hall.

The palace servants were sitting down to dinner. That meant they had already served Thomas and the priests and monks who were with him. One of the servants stood up. Reginald said: "We are the king's men."

The room went quiet, but the servant who had stood up said: "Welcome, my lords. I'm the steward of the hall, William Fitzneal. Please come in. Would you like some dinner?"

He was remarkably friendly, William thought, considering that his master was at loggerheads with the king. He could probably be suborned.

"No dinner, thank you," said Reginald.

"A cup of wine, after your journey?"

"We have a message for your master from the king," Reginald said impatiently. "Please announce us right away."

"Very good." The steward bowed. They were unarmed, so he had no reason to refuse them. He left the table and walked to the far end of the hall.

William and the four knights followed. The eyes of the silent servants went with them. William was trembling the way he used to before a battle, and he wished the fighting would start, for he knew he would be all right then.

They all went up a staircase to the upper floor.

They emerged in a roomy attendance chamber with benches around the sides. There was a large throne in the middle of one wall. Several black-robed priests and monks were sitting on the benches, but the throne was empty.

The steward crossed the room to an open door. "Messengers from the king, my lord archbishop," he said in a loud voice.

There was no audible reply, but the archbishop must have nodded, for the steward waved them in.

The monks and priests stared wide-eyed as the knights marched across the room and went into the inner chamber.

Thomas Becket was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in his archbishop's robes. There was only one other person in the room: a monk, sitting at Thomas's feet, listening. William caught the monk's eye, and was jolted to recognize Prior Philip of Kingsbridge. What was he doing here? Currying favor, no doubt. Philip had been elected bishop of Kingsbridge, but had not yet been confirmed. Now, William thought with savage glee, he never would be.

Philip was equally startled to see William. However, Thomas carried on speaking, pretending not to notice the knights. This was a piece of calculated discourtesy, William thought. The knights sat down on the low stools and benches around the bed. William wished they had not: it made the visit seem social, and he felt they had lost impetus somehow. Perhaps that was what Thomas had intended.

Finally Thomas looked at them. He did not rise to greet them. He knew them all, except William, and his eye came to rest on Hugh Morville, the highest-ranking. "Ah, Hugh," he said.

William had put Reginald in charge of this part of the operation, and so it was Reginald, not Hugh, who spoke to the archbishop. "We come from the king in Normandy. Do you want to hear his message in public or in private?"

Thomas looked irritably from Reginald to Hugh and back again, as if he resented dealing with a junior member of the delegation. He sighed, then said: "Leave me, Philip."

Philip stood up and walked past the knights, looking worried.

"But don't close the door," Thomas called after him.

When Philip had gone out, Reginald said: "I require you in the name of the king to go to Winchester to answer charges against you."

William had the satisfaction of seeing Thomas go pale. "So that's how it is," the archbishop said quietly. He looked up. The steward was hovering at the door. "Send everyone in," Thomas said to him. "I want them all to hear this."

The monks and priests filed in, Prior Philip among them. Some sat down and others stood around the walls. William had no objection: on the contrary, the more people who were present, the better; for the object of this unarmed encounter was to establish before witnesses that Thomas refused to comply with a royal command.

When they were all settled, Thomas looked at Reginald. "Again?" he said.

"I require you in the name of the king to go to Winchester to answer charges against you," Reginald repeated.

"What charges?" Thomas said quietly.

"Treason!"

Thomas shook his head. "I will not be put on trial by Henry," he said calmly. "I've committed no crime, God knows. "

"You've excommunicated royal servants."

"It was not I, but the pope, who did that."

"You've suspended other bishops."

"I've offered to reinstate them on merciful terms. They have refused. My offer remains open."

"You've threatened the succession to the throne by disparaging the coronation of the king's son."

"I did no such thing. The archbishop of York has no right to crown anyone, and the pope has reprimanded him for his effrontery. But no one has suggested that the coronation is invalid. "

Reginald said exasperatedly: "The one thing follows from the other, you damn fool."

"I've had enough!" Thomas said.

"And we've had enough of you, Thomas Becket," Reginald shouted. "By God's wounds, we've had enough of you, and your arrogance and troublemaking and treason!"

Thomas stood up. "The archbishop's castles are occupied by the king's men," he shouted. "The archbishop's rents have been collected by the king. The archbishop has been ordered not to leave the city of Canterbury. And you tell me that you have had enough?"

One of the priests tried to intervene, saying to Thomas: "My lord, let's discuss the matter in private--"

"To what end?" Thomas snapped. "They demand something I must not do and will not do."

The shouting had attracted everyone in the palace, and the doorway to the chamber was crowded with wide-eyed listeners, William saw. The argument had gone on long enough: nobody could now deny that Thomas had refused a royal command. William made a signal to Reginald. It was a discreet gesture, but Prior Philip noticed it and raised his eyebrows in surprise, realizing that the leader of the group was not Reginald but William.

Reginald said formally: "Archbishop Thomas, you are no longer under the king's peace and protection." He turned around and addressed the onlookers. "Clear this room," he ordered.

Nobody moved.

Reginald said: "You monks, I order you in the name of the king to guard the archbishop and prevent his escape."

They would do no such thing, of course. Nor did William want them to: on the contrary, he wanted Thomas to attempt an escape, for that would make it easier to kill him.

Reginald turned to the steward, William Fitzneal, who was technically the archbishop's bodyguard. "I arrest you," he said. He grabbed the steward's arm and marched him out of the room. The man did not resist. William and the other knights followed them out.

They ran down the stairs and through the hall. The local knight, Richard, was still on guard in the porch. William wondered what to do with the steward. He asked him: "Are you with us?"

The man was terrified. He said: "Yes, if you're with the king!"

He was too frightened to be any danger, whatever side he was on, William decided. He said to Richard: "Keep an eye on him. Let no one leave the building. Keep the porch door closed."

With the others he ran across the courtyard to the mulberry tree. Hastily they began to put on their helmets and swords. We're going to do it now, William thought fearfully; we're going to go back in there and kill the archbishop of Canterbury, oh my God. It was a long time since William had worn a helmet, and the fringe of chain mail that protected the neck and shoulders kept getting in the way. He cursed his clumsy fingers. He did not have time to fumble anything just now. He spotted a boy watching him openmouthed and shouted to him: "Hey! You! What's your name?"

The boy looked back toward the kitchen, unsure whether to answer William or flee. "Robert, lord," he said after a moment. "They call me Robert Pipe."

"Come here, Robert Pipe, and help me with this."

The boy hesitated again.

William's patience ran out. "Come here, or I swear by the blood of Jesus I'll chop off your hand with this sword!"

Reluctantly the boy came forward. William showed him how to hold up the chain mail while he put on the helmet. He got it on at last, and Robert Pipe fled. He'll tell his grandchildren about this, William thought fleetingly.

The helmet had a ventail, a mouth flap that could be pulled across and fastened with a strap. The others had closed theirs, so that their faces were hidden and they could no longer be recognized. William left his open a moment longer. Each of them had a sword in one hand and an ax in the other.

"Ready?" William said.

They all nodded.

There would be little talk from now on. No more orders were necessary, no further decisions had to be made. They were simply going to go back in there and kill Thomas.

William put two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle.

Then he fastened his ventail.

A man-at-arms came running out of the gatehouse and threw open the main gate.

The knights William had stationed in the house across the road came out and poured into the courtyard, shouting, as they had been instructed, "King's men! King's men!"

William ran back to the palace.

The knight Richard and the steward William Fitzneal threw open the porch door for him.

As he entered, two of the archbishop's servants took advantage of the fact that Richard and William Fitzneal were distracted, and slammed the door between the porch and the hall.

William threw his weight against the door but he was too late: they had secured it with a bar. He cursed. A setback, and so soon! The knights began to hack at the door with their axes, but they made little headway: it had been made to withstand attack. William felt control slipping away from him. Fighting back the beginnings of a panic, he ran out of the porch and looked around for another door. Reginald went with him.

There was nothing on this side of the building. They ran around the west end of the palace, past the detached kitchen, into the orchard on the south side. William grunted with satisfaction: there on the south wall of the palace was a staircase leading to the upper floor. It looked like a private entrance to the archbishop's chambers. The feeling of panic went away.

William and Reginald ran to the foot of the staircase. It was damaged halfway up, and there were a few workmen's tools and a ladder nearby, as if the stairs were being repaired. Reginald leaned the ladder against the side of the staircase and climbed up, bypassing the broken steps. He reached the top. There was a door leading to an oriel, a little enclosed balcony. William watched him try the door. It was locked. Beside it was a shuttered window. Reginald smashed the shutter with one blow of his ax. He reached inside, fumbled, then opened the door and went in.

William started to climb the ladder.



Philip was scared from the moment he saw William Hamleigh, but the priests and monks in Thomas's entourage were at first complacent. Then, when they heard the hammering on the hall door, they became frightened, and several of them proposed taking refuge in the cathedral.

Thomas was scornful. "Take refuge?" he said. "From what? Those knights? An archbishop can't run from a few hotheads."

Philip thought he was right, up to a point: the title of archbishop was meaningless if you could be frightened by knights. The man of God, secure in the knowledge that his sins are forgiven, regards death as a happy transfer to a better place, and has no fear of swords. However, even an archbishop ought not to be so careless of his safety as to invite attack. Furthe