University of Virginia Library

THE SAXON PRELATE'S DOOM.

The mightiest monarch of his age, sovereign of England —
as his proud grandsire made his vaunt of yore — by right of the
sword's edge; grand duke of Normandy, by privilege of blood;
and liege lord of Guienne, by marriage with its powerful heritress;
the bravest, the most fortunate, the wisest of the kings
of Europe, Henry the Second, held his court for the high festival
of Christmas in the fair halls of Rouen. The banquet was
already over, the revelry was at the highest, still, the gothic
arches ringing with the merriment, the laughter, and the
blended cadences of many a minstrel's harp, of many a trouvere's
lay. Suddenly, while the din was at the loudest, piercing
through all the mingled sounds, a single trumpet's note was
heard — wailing, prolonged, and ominous — as was the chill it
struck to every heart in that bright company — of coming evil.
During the pause which followed, for at that thrilling blast the
mirth and song were hushed as if by instinct — a bustle might
be heard below, the tread of many feet, and the discordant
tones of many eager voices. The great doors were thrown
open, not with the stately ceremonial that befitted the occasion,
but with a noisy and irreverent haste that proved the urgency
or the importance of the new-comers. Then, to the wonder

of all present, there entered — not in their wonted pomp, with
stole, and mitre, crozier dalmatique and ring, but in soiled vestments,
travel-worn and dusty, with features haggard from fatigue,
and sharpened by anxiety and fear — six of the noblest
of old England's prelates, led by the second dignitary of the
church, York's proud archbishop. Hurrying forward to the
dais, where Henry sat in state, they halted all together at the
step, and in one voice exclaimed:—

“Fair sir, and king, not for ourselves alone, but for the holy
church, for your own realm and crown, for your own honor,
your own safety, we beseech you —”

“What means this, holy fathers?” Henry cried, hastily, and
half alarmed, as it would seem, by the excited language of the
churchmen. “What means this vehemence — or who hath
dared to wrong ye, and for why?”

“For that, at your behest, we dared to crown the youthful
king, your son! Such, sire, is our offence. Our wrong —
that we your English prelates are excommunicated, and —”

“Now, by the eyes of God!”[1] exclaimed the king, breaking
abruptly in upon the bishop's speech, his noble features crimsoned
by the indignant blood, that rushed to them at mention
of this foul affront, “Now, by the eyes of God, if all who have
consented to his consecration be accursed, then am I so myself!”

“Nor is this all,” replied the prelate, well pleased to note
the growing anger of the sovereign, nor is this all the wrong.
The same bold man, who did you this affront, an' you look not
the sharper, will light a blaze in England that shall consume
right speedily your royal crown itself. He marches to and
fro, with troops of horse, and bands of armed footmen, stirring
the Saxon churls against the gentle blood of Normandy, nay,
seeking even to gain entrance into your garrisons and castles.”

“Do I hear right,” shouted the fiery prince, striking his
hand upon the board with such fierce vehemence, that every
flask and tankard rang. “Do I hear right — and is it but a
dream that I am England's king? What! one base vassal;
one who has fattened on the bread of our ill-wasted charity;
one beggar, who first came to our court with all his fortunes on
his back, bestriding a galled, spavined jade; one wretch like
this insult at once a line of sovereign princes — trample a realm
beneath his feet — and go unpunished and scathe-free? What!
was there not one man, one only, of the hordes of recreant knights
who feast around my board, to free his monarch from a shaveling
who dishonors and defies him? Break off the feast —
break off, I say! no time for revelry and wine! — To council,
lords, to council! We must indeed bestir us, an' we would
hold the crown our grandsire won, not for himself alone, nor
for his race — who, by God's grace, will wear it, spite priest, cardinal,
or pope — but for the gentle blood of Norman chivalry!”

Rising at once, he led the way to council; and, with wild
haste and disarray, the company dispersed. But as the hall
grew thin, four knights remained behind in close converse —
so deep, so earnest, that they were left alone, when all the rest,
ladies, and cavaliers, and chamberlains, and pages, had departed,
and the vast gallery, which had so lately rung with every various
sound of human merriment, was silent as the grave. There
was a strange and almost awful contrast between the strong and
stately forms of the four barons — their deep and energetic
whispers, the fiery glances of their angry eyes, the fierce gesticulations
of their muscular and well-turned limbs — and the
deserted splendors of that royal hall: the vacant throne, the
long array of seats; the gorgeous plate, flagons, and cups, and
urns of gold and marquetry; the lights still glowing, as it were,
in mockery over the empty board; the wine unpoured — the
harps untouched and voiceless.

“Be it so — be it so!” exclaimed, in louder tones than they
had used before, one, the most striking in appearance of the
group; “be it so — let us swear! Richard le Breton, Hugues
de Morville, William de Traci — even as I shall swear, swear
ye — by God, and by our trusty blades, and by our Norman
honor!”

“We will,” cried all, “we swear! we be not recreant, nor
craven, as our good swords shall witness!”

“Thus, then,” continued the first speaker, drawing his sword,
and grasping a huge cup of wine, “thus, then, I Reginald Fitz-Urse,
for mine own part, and for each one and all of ye, do
swear — so help me God and our good Lady! — never to touch
the winecup; never to bend before the shrine; never to close
the eyes in sleep; never to quit the saddle, or unbelt the brand;
never to pray to God; never to hope for heaven — until the
wrong we reck of be redressed! — until the insult done our sovereign
be avenged! — until the life-blood of his foeman stream
on our battle-swords as streams this nobler wine!”

Then, with the words — for not he only, but each one of the
four, holding their long, two-handed blades extended at arms'
length before them with all their points in contact, and in the
other hand grasping the brimming goblets, had gone through,
in resolute, unflinching tones, the fearful adjuration — then, with
the words, they all dashed down the generous liquor on the
weapons, watched it in silence as it crimsoned them from point
to hilt, and sheathing them, all purple as they were, hurried,
not from the hall alone, but from the palace; mounted their
fleetest war-steeds, and, that same night, rode furiously away
toward the nearest sea.

The fifth day was in progress after King Henry's banquet,
when, at the hour of noon, four Norman knights, followed by
fifty men-at-arms, sheathed cap-à-pie in mail, arrayed beneath
the banner of Fitz-Urse, entered the town of Canterbury at a

hard gallop. The leaders of the band alone were clad in garbs
of peace, bearing no weapon but their swords, and singularly
ill-accoutred for horse-exercise, being attired in doublets of rich
velvet, with hose of cloth of gold or silver, as if in preparation
for some high and festive meeting. Yet was it evident that
they had ridden miles in that unsuitable apparel; for the rich
velvet was besmeared with many a miry stain, and the hose
dashed with blood, which had been drawn profusely by the
long rowels of their gilded spurs.

Halting in serried order at the market-cross, the leader of
the party summoned, by an equerry, the city mayor to hear the
orders of the king; and, when that officer appeared — having
commanded him, “on his allegiance, to call his men to arms, and
take such steps as should assuredly prevent the burghers of the
town from raising any tumult on that day, whate'er might come
to pass” — with his three friends, and twelve, the stoutest, of
the men-at-arms who followed in their train, rode instantly
away to the archbishop's palace.

The object of their deadly hatred, when the four knights arrived,
was in the act of finishing his noonday meal; and all
his household were assembled at the board, from which he had
just risen. There was no sign of trepidation, no symptom of
surprise, much less of fear or consternation, in his aspect or
demeanor, as one by one his visiters stalked unannounced into
the long apartment. Yet was there much indeed in the strange
guise wherein they came — in their disordered habits, in the
excitement visibly depicted on their brows, haggard from want
of sleep, pale with fatigue and labor, yet resolute, and stern,
and terse, with the resolve of their dread purpose — to have
astonished, nay, dismayed the spirit of one less resolute in the
defence of what he deemed the right than Thomas à-Becket.
Silently, one by one, they entered, the leader halting opposite
the prelate, with his arms folded on his breast, and his three

comrades forming as it were in a half-circle around him. Not
one of them removed the bonnet from his brow, or bowed the
knee on entering, or offered any greeting, whether to the temporal
rank or spiritual station of their intended victim; but
gazed on him with a fixed sternness that was far more awful
than any show of violence. This dumb-show, although it needs
must occupy some time in the description, had lasted perhaps
a minute, when the bold prelate broke the silence, addressing
them in clear, harmonious tones, and with an air as dignified
and placid as though he had been bidding them to share the
friendly banquet.

“Fair sirs,” he said, “I bid ye welcome; although, in truth,
the manner of your entrance be not in all things courteous, nor
savoring of that respect which should be paid, if not to me —
who am but as a worm, the meanest of His creatures — yet to
the dignity whereunto HE has raised me! Natheless, I bid ye
hail! Please ye disclose the business whereon ye now have
come to me.”

Still not a word did they reply — but seated themselves all
unbidden, still glaring on him with fixed eyes, ominous of evil.
At length Fitz-Urse addressed him, speaking abruptly, and in
tones so hoarse and hollow — the natural consequence of his
extreme exertions, four days and nights having been actually
passed in almost constant travel — that his most intimate associate
could not have recognised his voice.

“We come,” he said, “on the king's part, to take — and that,
too, on the instant — some order with your late proceedings:
to have the excommunicated presently absolved; to see the
bishops, who have been suspended, forthwith re-established;
and to hear what you may now allege concerning your design
against your sovereign lord and master!”

“It is not I,” Thomas replied, still calmer and more dignified
than the fierce spirits who addressed him, “it is not I who

on the night-wind pealing from some unseen clock-tower the
last hour before midnight.

“There! there! beau sire, we are in time; that is the ban
cloche of the chateau; when we shall pass the second turn,
we shall be in the hamlet!”

“Ha!” cried the baron, “on, then, on! we have no time to
lose, for all it is not midnight.”

The road swept down a little sandy pitch, at the foot of
which ran a clear brawling trout-stream, wheeled short to the
left hand, and having crossed the stream by a steep, one-arched
bridge of brick, scaled the ascent on the opposite side, and
winding abruptly to the right, the dark ever-green pine-trees,
which clothed the banks of the gully scattering off diversely,
burst out into the little plain whereon were clustered round a
small rustic chapel, some twenty tidy-looking cottages with
cultivated stripes of garden-ground before the doors, and several
orchards interspersed with apple-trees, and a few vines
trained upon the latticed screens, the whole presenting a calm
and gentle picture of peaceful and domestic comfort. Scarcely
a bow-shot beyond these, its base and outer wall concealed
from the road by the close foliage of the still verdant orchards,
rose the gray weather-beaten tower of the keep, a tall square
building with a steep, flagged roof and projecting battlements,
having a circular bartizan at every angle, with a high flagstaff
rising from the ridge of the main dongeon. A loud vociferous
barking was set up by a dozen of deep-mouthed mastiffs,
as the little band of De Coucy rode clanging and clattering
round the hamlet, and many a male and female head was
thrust out of the latticed casements to note the character of
the intruders, and was as speedily withdrawn, reassured by the
appearance of the baron clad in his splendid surcoat. Within
five minutes they had cleared the village and its scattered
shrubbery, and stood before the barbacan of the chateau in full

their triangular steel-plated shields hanging about their necks;
their legs protected by mail-hose, fitting as closely and as flexible
as modern stockings; their huge two-handed swords belted about
them in such fashion, that their cross-guarded hilts came over
their left shoulders, while their points clanked against the spur
on their right heels.

There was no pause; for, snatching instantly an axe from
the hands of a carpenter who chanced to be at work in the
courtyard, Fitz-Urse assailed the gate. Strong as it was, it
creaked and groaned beneath the furious blows, and the long
corridors within rolled back the threatening sounds in deep and
hollow echoes. Within the palace all was confusion and dismay,
and every face was pale and ghastly, save his alone who
had the cause for fear.

“Fly! fly, my lord!” cried the assistants, breathless with
terror; “fly to the altar! There, there, at least, shall you be
safe!”

“Never!” the prelate answered, his bold spirit as self-possessed
and calm in that most imminent peril as though he had
been bred from childhood upward to the performance of high
deeds and daring; “never will I turn back from that which I
have set myself to do! God, if it be his pleasure, shall preserve
me from yet greater straits than these; and if it be not
so his will to do, then God forbid I should gainsay him!” Nor
would he stir one foot, until the vesper-bell, rung by the sacristan,
unwitting of his superior's peril, began to chime from the
near walls of the cathedral. “It is the hour,” he quietly observed,
on hearing the sweet cadence of the bells, “it is the
hour of prayer; my duty calls me. Give me my vestments —
carry my cross before me!” And, attiring himself as though
nothing of unusual moment were impending, he traversed, with
steps even slower than his wont, the cloister leading from his
dwelling to the abbey; though, ere he left the palace, the din

of blows had ceased, and the fierce shout of the assailants gave
token that the door had yielded. Chiding his servitors for their
excess of terror, as unworthy of their sacred calling, he still
walked slowly onward, while the steel-shod footsteps of his
foemen might be heard clashing on the pavement but a few
yards behind him. He reached the door of the cathedral;
entered without casting so much as one last glance behind;
passed up the nave, and going up the steps of the high altar,
separated from the body of the church by a slight rail of ornamental
iron-work, commenced the service of the day.

Scarcely had he uttered the first words, when Reginald,
sheathed, as has been heretofore described, in complete panoply,
with his two-handed sword already naked, rushed into the
cathedral.

“To me!” he cried, with a fierce shout, “to me, valiant and
loyal servants of the king!” while close behind him followed,
in like array, with flashing eyes, and inflamed visages, and
brandished weapons, his sworn confederates; and without the
gates their banded men-at-arms stood in a serried circle, defying
all assistance from the town. Again his servitors entreated
Becket to preserve himself, by seeking refuge in the dark crypts
beneath the chancel, where he might rest concealed in absolute
security until the burghers should be aroused to rescue;
or by ascending the intricate and winding turret-stairs to the
cathedral-roof, whence he might summon aid ere he could possibly
be overtaken: but it was all in vain. Confiding in the
goodness of his cause, perhaps expecting supernatural assistance,
the daring prelate silenced their prayers by a contemptuous
refusal; and even left the altar, to prevent one of the monks
from closing the weak, trellised gates, which marked the holiest
precincts. Meanwhile, unmoved in their fell purpose, the
Normans were at hand.

“Where is the traitor?” cried Fitz-Urse, but not a voice replied;

and the unwonted tones were vocal yet beneath the
vaulted roof in lingering echoes, when he again exclaimed,
“Where — where is the archbishop?”

“Here stands he,” Becket answered, drawing his lofty person
up to its full height, and spreading his arms forth with a
gesture of perfect majesty. “Here stands he, but no traitor!
What do ye in God's house in such apparel? what is your
will, or purpose?”

“That you die, presently!” was the reply, enforced by the
uplifted weapon and determined features of the savage baron.

“I am resigned,” returned the prelate, the calm patience of
the martyr blent with a noble daring that would have well become
a warrior on the battle-field. “Ye shall not see me fly
before your swords! But in the name of the all-powerful God,
whom ye dishonor and defy, I do command ye injure no one
of my companions, layman or priest.” His words were interrupted
by a heavy blow across his shoulders, delivered, with
the flat of his huge sword, by Reginald.

“Fly!” he said, “fly, priest, or you are dead!” But the
archbishop moved not a step, spoke not a syllable. “Drag him
hence, comrades,” continued the last speaker; “away with him
beyond the threshold — we may not smite him here!”

“Here — here, or nowhere!” the archbishop answered —
“here, in the very presence, and before the altar, and the image,
of our God!” And, as he spoke, he seized the railings
with both hands, set his feet firm, and, being of a muscular and
powerful frame, sustained by daring courage and highly-wrought
excitement, he succeeded in maintaining his position, in spite
of the united efforts of the four Norman warriors.

Meanwhile, all the companions of the prelate had escaped,
by ways known only to themselves — all but one faithful follower
— the Saxon, Edward Grim, his cross-bearer since his first
elevation to the see of Canterbury — the same who had so

boldly spoken out after the conference of Clarendon; and the
conspirators began to be alarmed lest, if their purpose were not
speedily accomplished, the rescue should arrive and frustrate
their intentions. Their blood, moreover, was heated by the
struggle; and their fierce natures, never much restrained by
awe or reverence for things divine, burst through all bonds.

“Here, then, if it so please you! — here!” cried William de
Traci, striking, as he spoke, a blow with the full sweep of both
his arms wielding his ponderous weapon, at the defenceless
victim's head. But the bold Saxon suddenly stretched out his
arm to guard his beloved master. Down came the mighty
blow — but not for that did the true servitor withdraw his naked
limb — down came the mighty blow, and lopped the unflinching
hand, sheer as the woodman's bill severs the hazel-twig!

Still, Becket stood unwounded. “Strike! strike, you others!”
shouted the Norman, as he grasped the maimed but still-resolved
protector of his master, and held him off by the exertion
of his entire strength; “strike! strike!” And they did strike,
fearlessly — mercilessly! Hugues de Morville smote him with
a mace upon his temples, and he fell, stunned, but still alive,
face downward on the pavement; and Reginald Fitz-Urse,
whirling his espaldron around his head, brought it down with
such reckless fury upon the naked skull, that the point clove
right through it, down to the marble pavement, on which it yet
alighted with a degree of violence so undiminished, that it was
shivered to the very hilt, and the strong arms of him who
wielded it were jarred up to the shoulders, as if by an electric
shock. One of the men-at-arms, who had rushed in
during the struggle, spurned with his foot the motionless and
senseless clay.

“Thus perish all,” he said, “all foemen of the king, and of
the gentle Normans — all who dare, henceforth, to arouse the
base and slavish Saxons against their free and princely masters!”

Thus fell the Saxon prelate, ruthlessly butchered at the very
shrine of God — not so much that he was a Romish priest, and
an upholder of the rights of Rome, as that he was a Saxonman,
a vindicator of the liberties of England! Yet, though the
pope absolved that king whose cruel will had, in truth, done
the deed, yet was that deed not unavenged. If the revolt and
treachery of all most dear to him, the hatred of his very flesh
and blood, the unceasing enmity of his own sons, a miserable
old age, and a heart-broken death-bed — if these things may be
deemed Heaven's vengeance upon murder — then, of a surety,
that murder was avenged!