England’s not very warm at the best of times, and on the 29th December 1170, it was very cold indeed. A glittering frost ripped straight through my thermals, thick woollen dress, surcoat, and two cloaks. I had gloves and boots as well and they were of no use whatsoever. So I started the evening cold and rapidly became even colder as we entered the huge, echoing, very dark, but above all, really, really cold Canterbury Cathedral.
I’m not especially religious. The odd blasphemous curse or a hasty appeal to the god of historians is about as far as I’m prepared to go so I’m not that familiar with the inside of churches. Plus, of course there’s always the fear that I’ll burst into flames as I cross the threshold. And I know churches aren’t supposed to be comfortable. Most gods seem to like their followers to suffer. Very few religious ceremonies take place on a tropical beach with the congregation benefiting from warm breezes and a continual supply of Long Island Tea. But until now, however, I’d had no idea how much of a difference Victorian pews and modern heating and lighting made towards actually surviving the service long enough to worship another day.
For a start, the interior was very, very dark. Churches are, anyway, but this was real Stygian gloom. Flickering candles and the odd lamp threw out small pools of wavering light. We stumbled in the murk, moving from one insubstantial puddle of light to the next, following the press of people as they assembled to hear the Archbishop celebrate vespers.
And it was so cold. Worse than cold. The damp stones gave off a chill that penetrated my very bones. I could feel it striking up through the flagstones and numbing my feet. The chill radiated out from the walls, effortlessly penetrating my clothes. I began to shiver.
Peterson glanced down. ‘It’s not that cold.’
Sometimes I think he inhabits his own universe.
Around us, people shifted and muttered, their echoes bouncing around this giant stone cavern, the height and width of it lost in the leaping dark shadow. Peterson and I moved towards a pillar. Evan and Theresa were opposite – their view was better than ours, but it was Evan’s assignment. He was in charge. He’d allocated positions.
He’d stationed two more people outside to cover the knights’ entrance and exit and the rest were scattered around the congregation to record reactions.
I got some establishing shots, while Peterson shielded me, although my hand shook so much that IT were going to have their work cut out to refocus this footage.
As far as I could see, the Archbishop had not yet arrived. People waited patiently, as soft chanting echoed gently around the building. Slowly, everything grew still. There was silence, apart from the odd cough or shuffle.
‘A few minutes yet,’ whispered Peterson and I nodded. Thomas Becket would make his entrance, resplendent in the magnificent regalia of the church and escorted by a full complement of clergy.
In the Middle Ages, the Church was the most powerful institution in the western world. In England, the struggle between church and kings would take centuries to resolve. Interestingly, in the end, neither institution came out on top. Today, each is as powerless as the other. As people power emerged, we invented politicians. We’re not bright.
Tonight, however, would be a major episode in that struggle. We were about to witness the event of the century.
With the power to appoint England’s leading cleric, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry II, whose realm stretched from Hadrian’s Wall to the Pyrenees, was determined to exert himself against the power of the Pope and so appointed his good friend, drinking companion and fellow bad-boy, Thomas Becket to the post, confidently expecting Thomas would assist in undermining the power of the church and generally playing the game according to Henry’s rules.
It didn’t happen.
No one seems quite sure why, but Becket embraced his new job with enthusiasm and devoted his considerable talents and abilities to the benefit of the Catholic church and the service of God.
Henry was not impressed and when Becket went so far as to excommunicate the Bishops of London and Salisbury – the message being that anyone who supported the king against the church would go to hell – Henry lost his famous temper. Furious at what he saw as Becket’s betrayal and realising he himself had provided his enemy with a powerful weapon, he uttered the immortal words: ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’
Four knights caught each other’s eye and slipped out of the room.
To do Henry justice, he regretted his hasty words and sent after them almost immediately. Too late. They’d already sailed for England.
And now they were on their way here. In fact, they had already arrived. Faintly, in my ear, I heard James. ‘They’re here. Four of them. Heading towards the cloister door.’
Away, out of sight in the gloom, the congregation stirred. A brighter light approached. The rhythm of the chanting changed.
The Archbishop was on his way.
He had only minutes to live.
‘Heads up, everyone,’ said Evan in my ear. ‘We only get one chance.’