A Knights Tale

William urges his horse to keep up with Sir Richard and Sir Reginald. The knights break from the trees; the air is loud with thundering hooves and the squawk of disturbed birds, flying to scatter in the thicket.

‘Canterbury,’ says Richard, steering his horse to a halt at the road's edge. He points at the great tower of the cathedral, standing above the stone walls surrounding the city. The sweat of Williams' horse is in his nose, the smell of warm saddle leather bristled with the scent of winter. Dead leaves curl under hooves, whipped up by the wind and thrown as they pass down the road between the fields. The weight of a sleepless night closes Williams's eyes; shadows shift, and black shapes move across his face. The cold wind touches his cheeks and blows through his hair. He opens his eyes to the backs of the many men, jolted up and down with the rhythm of their horses. Stirrups clink, and shields slap on backs. The old stonework of the gateway is weathered, worn, and in need of repair. William wipes the sweat from his brow and smiles at Richard, who removes his coif to reveal a tangle of wet black hair. He laughs and rubs the sweat and mud from his eyes.

‘Let us make for the cathedral,’ says Sir Hugh. ‘A word of warning may have travelled faster than our horses.’

‘I shall send men to each gateway,’ says Ranulf.

Hooves squelch and fight in the thick mud, and Ranulf and his brother, Robert lead them towards the lone stone tower, standing tall above the thatch and shingles. The Knights pass through an arch into the precinct and spread out across the green. The sounds of snorts and squeals and hooves, thumping on the churned earth announces their presence as they spread out under the windows of the Cathedral. William halts his horse, straining on the reins to bring him to a stop. Stirrups and buckles clink restlessly as the horses throw their heads, gnawing on their bits. Reginald kicks his mount forward and says: ‘Dismount, and spread out. Good knights with me.’

William slips down from the saddle. He leans up and runs the back of his hand down the horse's face and nose, the hairs soft and short under his touch. The horse snorts, blowing its hot breath down his inner arm. Steam rises from his flanks and William inhales the stench of sweat. He looks up to see the stone-faced saints watching from up high. He shivers, bracing as a cold wind blows across the close. The light is fading from the stonework. 

‘You know where he can be found?’ asks Hugh.

‘I do,’ replies Reginald. 

The sounds of talking can be heard from the city streets.

‘They may try to stop us,’ says William, glancing at the men and women gathering outside the precinct. They stand and stare and murmur.

‘They would be stopping the business of the King,’ replies Richard, rejoining them after sending his men to keep the people back.

‘No weapons, nor mail,’ says Reginald.

William goes to speak but relents a nod. He drags free his heavy mail coif from around his ears and, heaves from his body his hauberk, the iron cold, slipping and falling between his fingers. The Knights place their armour and swords down under the gloom of a mulberry tree, standing in the middle of the green. ‘This way.’

Reginald leads them under the dark walls of the cathedral into the cloisters towards the Archbishop's great hall. All is quiet. A thin layer of white covers every surface, glistening. Their shoes slap and scuff on the polished stone underfoot. The four knights enter the great hall, greeted by the smell of woodsmoke and the clatter of knives on plates. Pale faces look up, wide-eyed as the seated monks go to stand. A cup is spilt, and a dark mass of wine pools across the tabletop. Thomas Becket does not move, seated at the table's end he rests his chin on his hands, clasped together as if in prayer, and eyes the knights, each in turn. His face is half-lit by the flicker of flames. He is a tall man, wide chested and comely. Black rings shroud his eyes. 

‘God help you,’ says Reginald. ‘We have bought you a message from the King, will you hear it here or in private?’

‘Whichever you desire,’ replies Thomas. ‘Have we met before? Reginald?’ He clears his throat, grunting down his supper. Several of the monks and clerks begin to gather their plates, and stand, removing themselves into the gloom. William walks over to the fire and holds out his hands to the flames. Thomas is watching him. ‘Do not leave me,’ adds Thomas, looking to the men who were set to leave. ‘Stay.’

The men nod, glancing at the Knights before returning to their seats.

‘My lord, let us discuss this in private,’ says a monk who had not moved.

‘I think that would be unwise,’ replies Thomas. ‘Such things are better discussed in public, for all to hear.’

‘When the King made peace with you,’ says Reginald. ‘He sent you back here as you had requested. But you, to add insult to injury, have broken peace and excommunicated those whose very hands had anointed and crowned the head of the King's son, for which it is clear to all to see that your intent was to remove his power and take it for yourself.’

‘Never was it my wish, as God is my witness,’ replies Thomas. ‘To diminish the power of my good lord and friend, the King's son, nor take from him what is his by right. Even now I am at his side, in goodwill to offer him loyal council, but he refuses me. And besides, it was not me who ordered the Bishops to be excommunicated, but the Pope.’

‘You were behind it,’ spits Reginald.

Thomas holds his gaze and replies: ‘I can not deny that it was done through me, but the sentence was passed by a hand greater than mine, and even if I wished to have it rescinded I could not. It is now beyond my power. I made an offer to the Bishops, Salisbury, and London, but they refused.’

‘The King orders you and your men away from his realm, for good, from this day there can be no peace, for you have broken it,’ says Reginald.

‘I shall hear no more threats, Reginald, for I shall from this day forth put my trust further in the King of heaven, and refuse to leave my church. Once I fled, timid, and scared, but no longer shall I be. I have returned in the good guidance of my Pope and with the goodwill of my King. For, it was on the day of Saint Mary Magdalen that such a promise was made, and I know several of you were there as witnesses.’

He looks to William.

‘From whom, then, do you hold your Archbishopric?’ asks Reginald.

‘My authority of the divine I hold from God and the Pope, my earthly materials I hold from our good King,’ replies Thomas.

‘You hold everything from the King, is that not clear to you?’ asks Reginald. He steps forward to rest his weight on the table.

‘By no means; we must render to Caesar, what is his, and to God the things which are his,’ replies Thomas. ‘That is clear for all to see.’

‘I tell you what the King says. You dared to expel his ministers, after the King had shown such clemency and goodwill,’ says Regianld, slamming a hand down onto the table. A cup rolls, to fall and clatter across the flagstones. ‘He will have you pay.’

Thomas rises from his seat, unbending to stand at his great height.

‘You fail to threaten me. If all the swords and lances in England were aimed at my good heart, your words could not dislodge me from the observance of God's justice and my obedience to my lord Pope. I shall strike at anyone, who dares to cross the Pope or the rights of Christ's Church. I shall not spare him a sentence of damnation.’

‘You would excommunicate us all?’ asks Hugh, stepping up to stand beside Reginald. ‘You have risked your head by saying that.’

‘Are you then come to slay me? If so, I commit my body and soul to the good judgement of all mankind. So be it,’ replies Thomas, slamming his palm down on the table. ‘I am not moved by idle threats, nor are your swords more ready to strike than is my soul for martyrdom. Find another to frighten, for I stand steadfast in my will.’

‘We are Kings men,’ says Reginald. He points at the monks seated at the table. ‘In the name of King Henry, I command you all to seize that man.’ He stabs the air in the direction of Thomas. ‘Now.’

The men look at one another, lips twitching. No man moves. ‘Seize them, and let us return with our swords.’

William grabs at a monk standing watching from the shadows and takes him by the throat, dragging him out towards the door. Richard has taken hold of another. Thomas is after them, striding down the hall, he says: ‘Release my men. Bring them back.’

‘King's men! King's men!’

Ranulf runs up to them as they step back out into the cold.

‘I have put Simon de Croil on guard at the porter's lodge to stop anyone from entering. More men are with us. What does he say?’

‘He is a fool,’ replies Hugh. ‘He threatens us.’

‘Who is he to make such threats?’ asks Ranulf. ‘I shall have his head, for he excommunicated me and my brother. He shall pay.’

William and the three other Knights return to the tree and put back on their armour. The heavy mail rings are cold to his touch as he guides it over his head. He loops his sword around his stomach and rests a hand on the pommel of his sword, looking at Reginald.

‘What do we intend to do with him?’ he asks.

‘Take him.’

They return to the Archbishop's great hall, stopping short of the large weather-beaten doors on the porch. Crowded with the King's men, the iron rings clinking on the stones. ‘He must not be allowed to escape.’

Swords are drawn. Axes and maces are held low by their sides. William teases his blade untucked from his scabbard, meeting the eyes of Richard as they step up to the doors. They are locked. He hears the chime of bells. 

‘There is another way,’ says Robert, heading out back towards the cloisters. He is gone for a short time and the great hall doors are soon unbolted. They squeal open and Reginald, William, Hugh, and Richard enter, followed closely by their men.

‘He has fled,’ says William.

‘It will be vespers in the Cathedral,’ replies Robert, fighting to regain his breath as he holds the door back. ‘I know.’

‘Come, let us after him,’ says Reginald, leading them from the hall, back through the cloisters into the cathedral. They enter through an open door, passing into the gloom, heavy with smoke and the smell of incense. Whispers and chants echo from another world. Williams's lips are dry, and his chest heaves as he struggles to find his breath. The sides of his nose are wet with sweat. Hushed voices. The light behind the windows is grey with the coming night. Williams breathes clouds around him as he looks at Hugh and Richard, their steps light as they follow behind Reginald. He looks up to see the vaulting, suspended perilously in the dark above their heads.

‘God,’ he whispers.

‘Where is Thomas Becket, traitor to the King and the Kingdom?’ asks Reginald. He draws his sword. William draws his own, the blade gliding clear of the wool lining. The glint of candlelight in the iron. Silence. ‘Where is the Archbishop?’

‘Here I am, what do you want with me?’ replies Thomas from the dark. The Knights step out from behind the pillars and look down the nave to see Thomas, encircled by his monks beside the east wall of the transept. ‘I am not a traitor to the King, but a priest.’

‘Absolve and restore to communion those you have excommunicated,’ says Richard.

‘I shall not until they have repented.’

William walks closer behind Reginald, aware of every step and sound.

‘Then now you will die, and receive your just desserts,’ replies Hugh. The monks eye them, toying with the dark wool of their robes as they near.

‘I am ready to die for my Lord, so that in my blood the church may obtain peace and liberty. ‘But in the name of almighty God, I forbid you to hurt my men, I declare it, all laymen in any way shall be spared your wrath and sword.’

‘So be it,’ says Reginald. ‘Take him.’

William rushes towards Thomas, pushing past Reginald to take hold of him by an arm. Hugh leans over to try and lift him. The monks shout while several flee into the dark. Richard heaves back on Thomas's other arm, slipping to fall back onto his side. His sword clatters on the stone. ‘Lift him up.’

‘Reginald,’ says William, looking back to see him watching. Spittle flies from Thomas’s lips as he takes hold of a pillar beside an altar. His mouth opens and closes like a fish stole from the sea. He gasps as Hugh takes him by the waist and tries to pull him free.

‘Let go of him,’ shouts a monk.

‘Get him up,’ says Richard, rising to his feet from retrieving his sword. He kicks down to strike Thomas in the stomach. Reginald takes hold of Thomas by the hair and yanks back his head. The priest wails, his guttural cries deafening. Reginald grimaces as his hand comes away holding a clump of hair.

‘In the name of God-’ spits Thomas. ‘Do not touch me Reginald, who owes me faith and obedience, who foolishly follows his accomplices to-’

Reginald, sword in hand, replies: ‘I owe you no obedience priest, that is in opposition to that of my King.’

William stands back as Reginald lunges, swinging down at Thomas’s head. Blood wets the air and fills William's eyes as Reginald stumbles aside to reveal the red hole in Thomas's scalp. Reginald shouts, his chest rising and falling. At his feet, Thomas lets go of the pillar and tries to stand, behind him his devout servants try to reach him. Wide-eyed they take hold of his robe and pull him back across the blood-wet floor. Blood fills the gaps between the tiles.

‘Get back from him,’ says a monk, armed with a golden cross, shoving his way to shield Thomas with his arms. ‘-You must run my Lord.’

William hacks down, burying his sword in the arm of the monk, who gasps, his large jaw gaping as he looks up pathetically, pleading with his eyes as William takes another swing to sever the bone. The arm falls, slithering down Thomas's back to slap down at his feet. The monk collapses, cradling his black red spitting stump as he tries to touch Thomas with his remaining hand.

‘God have mercy,’ he says, his cheeks slick with falling tears. ‘Thomas you must flee from here.’ 

Thomas tries to stand once more, his eyes wild and empty, he looks up towards the faint light falling from the windows and limply lifts his hands together. Reginald's sword cuts down into the back of his skull and Thomas falls down to his knees. The hot smell of iron catches in Williams's nose and throat. Richard shoves Reginald aside, lifting his sword up above his head, and stops. A croak of life leaves Thomas's lips and he says: ‘For the name of Jesus and the protection of the church, I am ready to embrace death.’ He attempts to stand once more. ‘God embrace me.’

Richard swings and slices the top of Thomas's head, and slips, dropping his sword to splash in the blood under his feet. Thomas falls down. White blood slips from around his brain to run and merge with the red blood across the floor. Richard staggers, leaning back against the altar of Saint Benedict, knocking a candle to the floor to be extinguished in the blood. 

‘Take that, for the love of my lord William, the king's brother,’ he says, wiping away the blood from his eyes and mouth. He stoops to retrieve his sword and sees the blade has shattered. Reginald wipes a hand over his eyes and through his hair, matted with blood and dirt.

‘Curse him,’ he whispers.

Hugh shoves past William and presses the toe of his boot onto the neck of Thomas, forcing the grey knots of his brain to slap down and pool around his head. He returns his sword to its scabbard and says: ‘We can leave this place, Knights, he will not get up.’

He walks from the cathedral, his heavy footfall fading as he throws back the front doors of the cathedral to welcome in the cold half-light.

‘It is done,’ says Richard, wiping his shattered sword on his dampened surcoat. He fails to stop his hands from shaking and turns to leave. The cold air greets William, the wind whipping up his hair and wiping away the tears that fall and smear the blood. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve, staggers, his head swimming, and reaches out to take his horse by the bridle. He heaves himself up, the leather creaking under his weight as he settles and takes hold of the reins. The stirrups rattle as he finds his footing and urges the horse forward. The large hooves eat away at the softened earth as he rides in a half circle and follows Hugh.