Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘If necessary, the boy said. If necessary,’ FitzUrse jumped to his sycophant’s defence.

  ‘Why should it be necessary?’ Morville asked.

  ‘Thomas Becket stands against not only the Young King, but King Henry himself. He has just returned from exile. Look what he has done already, who knows what he would do when called to account? We must be ready for anything.’

  ‘But we leave swords and mail here,’ Morville insisted. Despite FitzUrse’s bluster, as Baron of Burgh-on-the-Sands, Sir Hugh de Morville held the highest status amongst the four men.

  FitzUrse hesitated, then succumbed to him. ‘Very well, if it shall make you happy. Arms and mail stay here.’

  Mauclerk, Morville’s clerk, helped the knights out of their heavy hauberks and mail hoods and piled the armour, along with their long blades, under a nearby mulberry tree. ‘They will be safe here with me,’ he said.

  FitzUrse glanced round the knights. William de Tracy in particular looked nervous and vulnerable without his arms or armour. Despite his thirty seven years and own barony, he appeared younger with a boyish clean-shaven face, copper curls and slim build. At this moment, if one ignored the lines of worry around his eyes, he appeared a child.

  FitzUrse passed him the wine. ‘Who are we?’ he called.

  ‘The King’s men,’ the other three chorused.

  ‘Who are we?’ FitzUrse shouted louder.

  ‘The King’s men!’

  ‘Who are we?’ Louder still.

  ‘The King’s men!’

  ‘Á Henry Plantagenet!’ FitzUrse roared, and the others joined in, the wineskin forgotten and trampled on the cobblestones.

  FitzUrse crossed to the door of the great hall and banged his clenched paw upon it. ‘In the name of the King, open up!’ Then again, and again, the other knights joining in the cry and the thumps on the door – even Morville was carried away now with the purpose of their mission.

  ‘Thomas Becket, in the name of King Henry, permit entry or we shall break down this door!’ Tracy yelled, then stumbled back at the sound of bolts being drawn.

  Chapter 2

  ‘This is an insult,’ FitzUrse fumed. ‘He affronts the King by keeping us waiting.’

  ‘I suspect it is the four of us he intends to disrespect,’ Morville countered.

  FitzUrse glared at him. ‘We are the King’s men. He affronts us, he affronts King Henry.’

  The entrance of a monk interrupted the resultant awkward silence. ‘The Archbishop shall see you now.’ He backed against the open door as the knights passed through.

  Thomas Becket was still seated at table in the company of near half a dozen men, and Morville recognised John de Salisbury, Benedict de Peterborough and William de Canterbury. A monk seated at Becket’s right hand glared at them, but the knights dismissed him. He was of no consequence.

  ‘Ahh, Hugh, Reginald, William, how good of you to welcome me back to England’s fine shores. It has been long that I have been away, and there is no sweeter pleasure than returning home and reuniting with old friends.’

  The knights faltered, unsure of how to proceed in the face of this effusive and seemingly sincere welcome. Then FitzUrse stepped forward.

  ‘We are not here to welcome you, Becket.’ The Archbishop’s brows rose at this calculated insult; the proper form of address was Your Grace. ‘We are here to return you to Normandy. You have grievously wronged the King.’

  ‘Wronged the King? My Lord, what do you mean? What evil and disgusting lies have been told of me?’

  ‘No lies, Becket.’ FitzUrse’s face reddened further under the mass of hair that covered it. ‘Do you deny that you have excommunicated three loyal subjects of King Henry? Roger de Pont l’Évêque, Gilbert Foliot and Jocelin de Salisbury – the King’s most loyal Archbishop of York and two of his most loyal bishops. What say you to the charge?’

  ‘Those facts are correct. Pray, what is your complaint?’

  ‘What is my complaint?’ FitzUrse’s voice rose and he stepped forward, then glanced back at his fellow knights who stayed where they were and showed no sign of speaking. He grunted in exasperation.

  ‘Those three honourable, devout and loyal subjects met the King’s wishes in crowning his son, Henry the Young King, as his successor. As you know this is normal practice in France and a custom that our king desired to be enacted on England’s shores. Yet you bring down the worst punishment on these good, God-fearing men – a punishment worse even than torture and death, for it will condemn their souls to reside in Hell for eternity.’ FitzUrse paused for breath, and Archbishop Becket waved him to continue with a smile. He looked as relaxed as if he were enjoying a much anticipated reunion with the friends he had claimed them to be.

  FitzUrse continued with another aggravated glance at his silent companions, ‘By excommunicating them for the crowning of the Young King, you have declared yourself against not only the Young King, but King Henry himself.’ FitzUrse pushed himself to his tallest and thrust out his chest. ‘As such, by the command of King Henry, I arrest you for the good of England, and charge you with sedition and treason.’

  ‘Sedition and treason? Surely it must be one or the other, Reginald. Committing treason or inciting others to commit treason. King Henry would know that you cannot charge me with both. Which tells me that you and your friends are here on your own recognisance, perhaps to find favour with Henry, hmm?’ Becket stood as he spoke and planted his fists on the table before him, pulling the full force of his position as Archbishop of Canterbury about him. FitzUrse stood his ground, but the others shrank back.

  ‘Henry also knows that it is the duty of the Archbishop of Canterbury to crown a king, an obligation not given to the Archbishop of York nor any other man. King Henry accuses you as traitor. You shall come with us.’

  ‘Do I need to remind you that you are my sworn vassal, Reginald? Your good self, Hugh de Morville, and you, William de Tracy, all swore fealty to me. You,’ he peered at Brett, ‘you have not, although I know you, do I not?’

  Brett ground his teeth, but said naught.

  ‘No matter. As my sworn vassals, I demand you leave my presence. I shall hear no more of this nonsense.’

  FitzUrse strode forward to Becket’s table and planted his own fists upon it. ‘Yes, we swore fealty to you, but as Chancellor of England, not as Archbishop of Canterbury. Yet even so, the fealty sworn was second to King Henry. I – we—’ he glanced behind him, disgusted that his fellow knights still hung back, ‘—serve the King above all others. Including you.’

  ‘Then tell Henry I have no issue with either himself or the Young King. Coronations in England are performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury and no other. Now leave my presence and explain to our king that I am his loyal servant still. The excommunications stand and are an issue between myself, the bishops concerned, Pope Alexander III, and no other. King Henry has my love and fealty, as he has yours. Please try your best to understand that and depart. This has grown tiresome. I bid you goodnight, My Lords.’

  Becket turned, his green robes swirling, and left by a door the knights had not noticed, followed by his clerics. At a loss and alone in the great hall, the four knights turned to depart.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Where is he?’ Broc – standing at the head of a column of men-at-arms – demanded. The knights looked at each other and said naught. ‘Are you telling me that four knights of the realm, four of the King’s own warriors, were no match for one paltry churchman?’

  FitzUrse stepped forward. ‘We offered Becket a chance to come gracefully. He refused. Now we shall take him.’

  Broc glanced at the pile of swords and mail with contempt. ‘You had better dress yourselves then.’

  The knights hurried to the mulberry tree and Brett hauled up the first heavy hauberk: FitzUrse’s. He held the coat of mail wide, heaved it up, and dropped it over FitzUrse’s outstretched arms and shoulders. The Bear grunted as the weight landed on him, then straightened up and shrugged it over his tors
o. Mauclerk did the same for Morville, then Tracy and Brett helped each other into theirs.

  ‘Ready boys?’ Broc taunted.

  ‘Always, My Lord,’ FitzUrse replied, hefting his sword, then strode back to the door of the great hall of the Archbishop’s Palace. It remained barred to them.

  Tracy glanced behind at the smirking Broc, and called, ‘Round the back! There must be another way in.’

  Without a word – or a glance at his master – FitzUrse led the way round the great building to the administration buildings attached to the north side of the cathedral.

  ‘There.’ Tracy pointed at a window under repair. ‘The masons have left it incomplete!’

  ‘Up you go then, William,’ FitzUrse said. ‘Climb in and unlock the door.’

  Tracy glanced at him, then back at the window. His fear of FitzUrse was greater than his fear of heights, however, and he searched the stonework for a path up to the open invitation.

  Just as he was about to start his climb, Brett called, ‘One moment, William.’

  Tracy turned and smiled when he saw the young knight dragging a ladder.

  ‘The masons must have thrown it into the shrubbery and fled when they saw the men.’ Brett nodded at the score of men-at-arms behind Broc.

  ‘Your lucky day,’ Broc said. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  Tracy glanced at him, then led the way up to the window, followed by Brett. Morville was the only man to think to hold the ladder steady for them.

  When both had disappeared through the narrow aperture into the archive building, then made their way downstairs to let the others in, FitzUrse led the way to the chancel door to gain entrance to the cathedral itself, sword drawn.

  ‘It’s locked,’ Tracy said.

  ‘Then we’ll break it down,’ FitzUrse said. He raised his hand to bang for entry but the door swung away before his fist connected, causing him to stumble.

  He glared up at the monk, expecting to see mirth, which he would have sliced off his face in an instant. Instead, he saw fear.

  ‘The cathedral is open to all,’ the monk at the door said in a shaky whisper, blanching at the sight of steel. FitzUrse ignored him and brushed past, searching the gloom of the great cathedral for his quarry. His eyes lit on a huddle of men. ‘North transept. By the high altar. Onward.’

  He strode forward, heartened by the sound of purposeful boots on flagstones behind him.

  ‘Becket! Traitor! You will come with us by the order of the King.’

  ‘I am no traitor, Reginald. The traitors here are you and your friends. You are my sworn vassals yet you dare enter the sanctuary of Our Lord with swords drawn?’

  ‘We are the sworn vassals of the King, above all other men!’

  ‘And what about God? You insult Him by entering His house so armed?’

  ‘Traitor!’ FitzUrse accused again, unable to conjure a more ribald riposte.

  ‘And what are you?’ Becket taunted, pushing past two of his monks who were doing their best to shield him. ‘A procurer! And I see the Lord Broc, the King’s most senior whoremaster is here too. Good afternoon, Sir Ranulf. Has the King really sent his pimps to procure an archbishop rather than whores? He must think highly of you after all!’

  FitzUrse roared with rage and rushed forward, his impetus enough to carry Morville, Tracy and Brett in his wake.

  ‘Reginald, are you mad?’ Becket’s voice at last portrayed fear, but it only drove the knights on and broke the paralysed terror of Becket’s men as half of them fled. Now it was four against four, although the knights had an army at their backs; the clerics had naught but an altar.

  FitzUrse and Brett grabbed the priest. ‘Tracy, bend over,’ FitzUrse ordered. At Tracy’s bewildered look, he explained further. ‘We shall get him on your back, then carry him outside.’

  ‘No!’ Becket lunged at the nearby pillar, clutching it to his bosom as if his life depended on it.

  FitzUrse burst into bellows of laughter as Brett tried to pull the Archbishop’s grip from the pillar and Tracy attempted to heave the man away. Morville stood, sword raised to keep those clerics who had stayed under guard, whilst Broc and his men stood back, seemingly viewing the proceedings as a mummers’ show.

  FitzUrse flicked out his sword and caught the Archbishop’s fur cap which he flung towards the altar, then smacked the holy man’s rump with the flat of his blade. Becket roared in outrage and Tracy gave up the tug of war, dumping the Archbishop in an ungainly heap on the floor.

  ‘Sire!’ one of the monks, Grim, cried out, and escaped Morville to rush to his master’s side.

  Becket jumped to his feet, his face red, and confronted FitzUrse. ‘You have gone mad, Reginald. You have lost what few wits you were born with! This is no way to treat any man, especially in God’s house, never mind me. You swore fealty to me! Yet you make a mockery, not only of yourselves, but of My, Our Lord, and His sanctuary! Leave this place and do not return!’

  In reply, FitzUrse took hold of the Archbishop’s cloak and pulled the man closer. Before he could speak, however, Becket spat in his face.

  ‘Unhand me, pander. You are not worthy to touch this cloth.’

  ‘By God, men, if you do not shut him up, I shall rip the very head from his body,’ FitzUrse roared. He let go his hold of the holy cloth and stood back to give himself room to swing his sword. Becket bent forwards, clasping his hands before his face in prayer, beseeching God to be ready to welcome him through the gates of Heaven.

  Tracy lunged before FitzUrse finished his backswing. The monk – Grim – raised his arm to protect his master, but Tracy did not flinch. His blade glanced off the top of the Archbishop’s head, sliced a deep gouge through Grim’s upper arm, and parted the flesh of Becket’s shoulder until he struck bone.

  Grim screamed in agony, yet Becket barely paused in his prayers. ‘Into Thy care, Lord, I commend my spirit.’ He sank to his knees as the blood flowing from his wounds weakened him.

  Tracy struck at his head once more, screaming as he swung his blade and the priest fell.

  Tracy rested on his sword, the effort of such a heavy swing winding him, and Brett stepped forward.

  Shrieking in rage, he thrust his blade at Becket, slicing the crown of his head clean away. Sparks flew, momentarily gracing Becket with a halo as the steel blade shattered. ‘That’s for William, my friend, the King’s brother! He died of a broken heart when you refused his marriage. Now you have paid the price for his suffering,’ Brett shouted.

  Grim fell over his master, weeping, and Hugh Mauclerk – Morville’s clerk – stepped forward. With the tip of his sword, he scraped the pinkish-white brain matter from the holy skull and smeared it over the bloody flags. ‘That’s one pesky priest who shall give no further trouble.’

  Morville grabbed him, horrified at the callousness of his man – a man who had played no part in the actual deed. ‘Hurry, we must depart.’

  The knights turned to leave but paused at the glare of Broc and the horrified faces of the men who stood with him. ‘What have you done?’ Broc said.

  ‘We have cured the King of his priestly troubles,’ FitzUrse said, ‘and you stood by and watched.’

  Broc gritted his teeth in thought then said, ‘Go. Back to Saltwood Castle. Take your belongings and ride north. Scotland may be safe for you.’

  ‘And you?’ Morville enquired.

  ‘Me? I shall go to the King and plead your case.’

  A man burst into the cathedral and hurried to his master. He hesitated at the sight before the high altar, then whispered into Broc’s ear.

  ‘Mandeville and Humez have beached. Hurry, you must leave.’

  Chapter 4

  12th June 2015

  Friday night rehearsal over, the cast and crew of Knaresborough’s amateur drama group – The Castle Players – headed out of the Castle Theatre to the Borough Bailiff for a pint or few and the debriefing. The rehearsal had not gone well and everyone had more anticipation for the alcohol than the discussion.


  Helen Forrester’s phone rang. She checked the display, then called to the others to order her a large gin and tonic and she’d catch them up.

  ‘Hello?’ she said into the phone, a mass of nerves as she prepared to hear the verdict on her proposal.

  *

  Half an hour later she joined the rest of the group in the pub. ‘That was Richard Armitage from feva. They want us to perform Knight of Betrayal.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s fantastic news,’ Paul Fuller said, ‘well done, Helen!’

  Feva was Knaresborough’s annual festival of entertainment and visual arts, attracting authors, poets, musicians and artists of all persuasion from all over the country, as well as hosting a number of local attractions. It was quite a coup to have been chosen to put on a play as part of the event – and would be a definite boost to the Castle Players’ status.

  ‘They liked the idea of a play about Thomas Becket’s death, given that the knights responsible hid out here afterwards. Apparently the BBC set a play here about fifty years ago, but since then nothing. Most events have been centred on John of Gaunt or Isabella – Edward II’s queen.’

  ‘But Morville and the others are barely acknowledged here – did you know there’s not one book about them in the bookshop?’

  Helen shrugged. ‘I guess the feva committee aren’t so eager to brush history under the carpet.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that,’ Charlie Thorogood said. ‘Otherwise we’d have been wasting our time with the play.’

  ‘Charlie! We’ve only just started rehearsals,’ Sarah Stoddard said.

  ‘True, it’s Helen who’s put the time in writing the script,’ agreed Sarah’s husband, Dan.

  ‘The main thing is we’ve got the green light,’ Helen said. As writer and director, the hardest part of her role was to keep the egos of her actors in check, and she was well used to intervening before squabbles erupted into full-blown fights.