by Helen East
She rode until dawn, and then sold her horse, knowing she was not getting a good enough price for such a beautiful beast, but hoping that the man who bought it would keep it well hidden, for fear it was stolen. Around the corner she bought a nag that would do for a while, and so arrived at Constantinople, and the sea passage to Venice. Mostly she kept herself to herself on the ship, her oud held close but silent, as she stared out at the water endlessly.
But in Venice she met with a group of minstrels travelling in the right direction, and tagged along with them. Since she could play well, and had a sweet voice too, and asked for nothing but their company along the road, they were happy enough to have another boy in the troupe for a while, though she seemed strangely aloof from the others.
In France she paid for a ride to the port, and nearly had her oud stolen, and the passage to England took almost the last of her coins. The sea was grey and rough, but England was greyer and colder too. And it was the hardest place of all, for here she could hardly speak. She and Gilbert had spoken in French, so all she had learnt from him was snatches of songs. And people stared at her so. For the first time she was truly afraid. She paid for a cart ride to London in exchange for her oud. The last of her jihaz, she thought sadly; the end of her dowry. The carter had no idea what it was, but he saw from the wood and the workmanship that he would make some money from it. So he was inclined to be nice to this delicate little lad, help him out if he could. But the strange little creature did not even seem to know where he was going. ‘London,’ was all he could say. And ‘Gilbert Beckett’, which didn’t make any sense at all. The carter did his best. He took his passenger across London Bridge, and pointed to the east; that seemed the most likely possibility for whatever it was the boy was after.
The amir’s daughter wandered along by the city walls. At least she knew what they were. But she’d never expected London would be so big. She didn’t know where to look. All she could do was ask passers-by for Gilbert; Gilbert Beckett.
It was Richard who heard the boys laughing outside the shop. He’d stepped out to get something to eat, but also, to be honest, to have a break from Gilbert. Much as he liked him – and he was more a friend than master now, after all the two had been through together – Gilbert was maddeningly miserable these days. And he had everything too, as far as Richard could see. The shop was doing well and all London was open to him – he’d even been invited to the court. Going on the Crusades had done nothing but good for his status as a mercer and a dashing young man. But all he could do was mope about the girl he had left behind. Some people didn’t know when they were lucky!
But there was definitely something going on right then. Cheapside was always noisy, full of carts going past and traders’ cries, but this was a different kind of shouting. Half the street was blocked by a tight ring of boys standing around someone, taunting and teasing. Then he heard an answering outburst from whoever was in the middle, a torrent of strange words, which he suddenly recognised as Arabic. And the voice? It was oddly familiar. He pushed his way through, just as she, like a badger at bay, swung around. Even disguised as a boy, he knew at once who she was.
So the amir’s daughter found her Gilbert at last. And the two sides of the coin were united. She was christened before they were married in St Paul’s, but although she joyously embraced her new life, she never lost her love and respect for the old. And when their son was born, both parents brought him up to recognise the best of both their worlds, East and West. They also taught him to be wise and see the evils on both sides.
Some say that is how their son, Thomas à Becket, grew up to be so just; and in the end he joined St Paul as patron saint of London. A place that was to be, like his father’s dream of Ragusa, a centre for all people, all languages, and all creeds to come together.
There’s space for us all
Say the bells of St Paul’s
9
LEGENDS OF
THOMAS À BECKET
The likelihood of Thomas’ mother finding Gilbert was so small that it was declared a miracle by the bishops of St Paul’s. That such a marriage might last between a couple as alike as chalk and cheese was – according to London ladies – a miracle beyond belief.
And so a double miracle ensured that Thomas à Becket was born. A fitting start, you might say, for a saint. Go on as you begin. But Thomas wasn’t looking for miracles; they were looking for him. He wasn’t born a saint. He wasn’t even a saintly child. He grew up like other young men, sometimes reckless and wild. And since he was wealthy, healthy and strong, he had more of those times than some.
But he was in good company there. Some might say the best. He had a friend, a youth a little younger than him, equally fond of hawking and hunting, equally ready to spare no expense in maintaining a state of magnificence. Equal in so many things. Some said they shared a single heart and mind. But there was one great difference. Thomas’ friend was the king. Henry II of England, great-grandson of the Conqueror.
Thomas was Henry’s Chancellor. Eloquent, loyal and wise. He had helped to put him onto the throne, and he gave him good advice. The two worked together on many good reforms. And the king’s son was fostered out in Thomas à Becket’s house. It was obvious to everyone the two were very close. And inevitably many in the court grew envious.
They resented Becket’s lifestyle too. When he had to travel, he took hundreds in his retinue. Knights, squires, clerics, and 100 household servants, minstrels, poets, and entertainers of all sorts. But also kennelmen, falconers, huntsmen – with horses – hawks, hounds, and even monkeys. Some said the chancellor’s entourage rivalled that of the king.
But Thomas had another side, which most of the court didn’t see. For he was a cleric, a learned clergyman, practicing austerities, and, when he could, retreats. He’d begun at Merton Priory and, rising rapidly, was Archdeacon of Canterbury by the time he was thirty-six. And his charity was as generous as any royal gift. Many poor Londoners blessed him for it. If Thomas came to preach at the cathedral in Southwark, beggars blocked the bridge to watch when he came out. And the ferrymen would fight to ferry him across; they knew he remembered who each man was. He gave alms to everyone, and prayed for them too. Couldn’t ask for more than that from anyone, could you?
Sometimes Thomas wondered how it came to be, that he seemed to be split between two different worlds. Was it just what his parents taught him? Or maybe it was due to his name. Thomas means ‘twin’, but there was only one of him. Perhaps he was two men inside one skin. But there was no conflict between them. King and Church, he could serve both, equally devotedly.
Until Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury, the head of the Church in England, died. And then Henry asked his friend to take up this position. However much Thomas refused, the king wouldn’t listen, even when Thomas tried to explain that this would put them in opposition. ‘You would require of me what I could not agree to,’ he said. ‘Then the envious would make strife between us.’ But Henry could not understand why things between them would have to change.
To clear the air and restore high spirits, they went, as always, out hawking. It was a clear day and as they rode along beside the river, Thomas caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the water. Close behind his king, with his leather-clad arm raised, falcon on his wrist, he remembered with a wry smile a comment a fellow clergymen had said to him once: ‘You look more like a falconer than a cleric.’
At that moment three ducks flew overhead, and both men turned and loosed their hawks, watching them fly, climbing the sky. Both were after the leader duck, Thomas’ slightly ahead. ‘You have the better of me, my friend,’ the king said. But as Thomas’ falcon swooped, the duck plunged down towards the river, and with the bird of prey hard on its tail, it dived. Too late to stop itself, the falcon hit the water, and unable to swim or rise again, it was swept away before their eyes.
Without a moment’s hesitation Thomas leapt in after, but the current was stronger than he expected. The king called out in horror, b
ut was unable to help him. Thomas caught his hawk and managed to throw it free up into the air, but he himself was dragged away by the river. He was able to keep himself upright, and swim after a fashion, but could not get to the bank on either side. And it was then that he remembered the mill. It was only half a mile downstream. If he could not get out before then, he would surely be caught in the wheel. But hard though he tried, it was hopeless. He could only accept the inevitable, and give himself up to God above. There was even a feeling of relief as he closed his eyes.
Just before the mill there was a bend in the river. The water was swirling, already caught in the race. But as he turned the curve Thomas sensed it slow, circling on itself, stilling, suddenly sluggish. Looking up, he saw the king hurrying to the mill, just as the miller, shaking his head, came out to meet him. Catching sight of Thomas then, the man ran instead for a pole and, grabbing hold of it gratefully, Thomas was brought to dry land.
‘Well, there is a lucky man,’ the miller said. ‘Though how and why it happened, I cannot say.’
‘At least you managed to stop the mill in time,’ said Thomas. ‘That was quick work.’
‘But I didn’t,’ said the miller, scratching his head. ‘It was an accident. The wheel just stopped.’
The message to Thomas was clear. If it was time for him to choose one side or the other, then he knew what he must decide. He was in God’s hands. And so when the Pope’s legate overrode his scruples, he accepted his lot, and became the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Then Thomas went into his cathedral, and took off the jewels and silk clothes of the court, and put on a plain linen surplice and rough cloth cassock. As he did so, he thought of his mother, and how she too had dressed anew when she moved from one life to the other: Damascus to London. Two sides of the same coin. Would that be true for him too? He hoped it would prove so. But he had few illusions. Now he would be answerable to the Pope, his master, over and above his friend, the king. Whether or not that would cause conflict was not up to him, but if it did so, he would have to stand firm. To strengthen his resolve, beneath his cleric’s clothes, he now put on a hair shirt, to remind his skin of the man who was within. But he also took his mother’s crescent moon, a golden scimitar, to remind him of her, and the joyous resolution that she found. And this he hung over the high altar of Canterbury Cathedral. They say, too, that as he spent his first night there, in solitary vigil and prayer, the Virgin Mary came to visit him. In the morning, when she’d gone, as proof that she had been she left him the Golden Eagle Ampulla, to hold the oil for royal coronations ever after.
But despite these comforts, it turned out as Thomas feared. For Henry wished to strengthen the powers of the State, and that pressed hard against the powers of the Church. It seemed to Thomas that the games of chess, which he and Henry had enjoyed playing together at court were now fought out in real life. First came the struggle over payment of landowners’ tax; and then over clerics’ right to choose ecclesiastic trial. The first, played on a board, might have called on knights and castles; the second on the full force of the bishops and the Queen. Money and laws; quarrels lead to wars – as Thomas knew only too well. The issues could not be resolved and Henry was furious that Thomas should so obstinately support the Church against him. He exiled him, and Thomas went to Rome, and the Pope.
Arriving at the Apostolic Lateran Palace after a very long journey, Thomas was hungry. Expecting the Pope to send for him at once, he called for food to be brought quickly and, since it was a fast day, he asked for carp, which, being fish, was permitted. Instead, in an attempt to discredit him, he was served a capon just as the Pope’s messengers arrived to collect him. Deeply shocked by his behaviour, they insisted on taking the bird as well as Thomas straight to the Pope. But on arrival, when they took the lid off the dish, they found the capon had turned into a fish.
But minor miracles could not protect Thomas forever. At the Pope’s request he was allowed to return from exile, but again refused to give into Henry’s demands. ‘Oh who will rid me of this troublesome priest?’ the king exclaimed in an outburst of hurt rage, and so set the stage for the end. Four knights were ready to take him at his word, and made their way to Canterbury immediately. And although Becket received letters of warning, he refused to allow the cathedral to be locked against any who wished to enter.
It was twilight and vespers were being sung. As Thomas came into the cathedral, the king’s knights, strongly armed, came behind. ‘Away, you cowards,’ Becket said calmly, pointing to their weapons. ‘A church is not a castle.’ He went towards the choir, and a monk, Edward Grim, stood beside him. The knights pushed after them.
‘Where is Thomas the traitor?’ they shouted.
‘Here I am,’ he replied, coming down the steps to stand between the altars. ‘No traitor, but archbishop and priest of God. I am ready to die, but God’s curse on you if you harm my people.’
Fitzurse struck first, then Tracy. Grim intercepted the blow with his own arm, but it forced Thomas to his knees, and blood ran down into his eyes. ‘Into Thy hands, O Lord,’ he cried, ‘I commend my spirit!’ Le Bret struck deep into his head, breaking his sword against the pavement, and Hugh of Horsea added the final blow.
‘Let us away,’ he cried, ‘this man will rise no more.’ Red blood, white with brain, stained the floor of the cathedral, and marked the footsteps of the knights as they ran out. A thunderstorm broke in full fury overhead.
Trying to run from the sky itself, the murderers hurried to a manor house nearby. As they went in they threw their weapons on a table in the hall. But the table trembled from the touch of this awful burden, and then violently hurled it all to the floor. And when they ate and threw their scraps and bones to the dogs, they curled their lips and slunk away, refusing to take food from such bloodied hands. And so they went from place to place, to try to hide. But there was no escape for they were excommunicated, and the curse of the Pope followed them, on land, sea and air, above, below and everywhere.
As for the king, when the news came to him, he knew his own words had killed his best friend. He shut himself away, and fasted for forty days. Later he was absolved by the Pope. But many never forgave him, including his own son, who had felt more love from Thomas in one day, he said, than his father had given him all his life.
Thomas à Becket was hailed as a holy martyr, and the Pope had a requiem mass said for him. Within three years he was canonised, and became a patron saint of London on a par with St Paul. On London Bridge, where the beggars used to wait for him, a chapel was built in his memory, and all who came to London went there first to give thanks for a safe journey.
The old Roman road from London Bridge to Canterbury soon became known as the ‘Pilgrim’s Way’. And St Thomas à Becket’s tomb was covered with gold, silver, and jewels, and became famous for its many miracles. The blood from his head that spilt upon the floor was wiped up by the monks and laymen. One of these men took a bloodied cloth home to his sick wife, and she was instantly well again. Then the cloths were used for everyone, and the blood was watered down to make healing water, and hundreds reported cures from it. Adam the Forester was shot in the throat by a poacher, but drank the holy water of St Thomas and was healed. Hugh the cellarer was receiving the Last Rites, but the water restored him to life.
Many did not even need the water. Jordan of Plumstead, who had served Thomas in London, prayed to him to help his daughter who had wasted right away. St Thomas took pity on her, and she sat up in her bier whole and well. While William the carpenter, who cut his leg with an axe, dreamt of St Thomas and, when his bandages were taken off, found there was no wound there at all. To this day his healing powers are remembered in the naming of south London’s St Thomas Hospital, close to the place where he once gave alms to all, after his sermons at Southwark Cathedral.
Nearby in Lambeth Palace, the London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, built soon after Thomas died, they put St Thomas’ statue in the Water Tower. It was facing the river, so the
ferrymen could salute him, which they did whenever they passed. Even today, though the statue is long gone, the boatmen doff their caps there.
10
BLIND BEGGAR’S
DAUGHTER
Rags make paper
Paper makes money
Money makes rulers
Rulers make wars
Wars make want
Want makes beggars
Beggars make rags …
There was a time, and it wasn’t my time, and it wasn’t your time, but it was in hard and hungry times when London town had beggars whichever way you turned. Even if you wandered out to pleasant villages round about, such as Bethen Hall Green, to the east, with its ponds and mansion houses and trees, and sense of leisurely ease, there were still more seeking alms than there were almshouses to dispense them. Although the strong and handsome Edward ‘Longshanks’ was on the throne, there had been many troubled years before when England had been split by civil war – barons against their liege lord, cousin against cousin, even godfathers in mortal combat with their own godsons. And afterwards, though peace had come, the country was still carrying its scars. So the lamed and maimed, the homeless, widowed, orphaned, old, and young, were beggars all, though they held nothing in common but their want.
Yet amongst the crowd some did stand out. And one such man lived quietly in Bethen Hall Green. He was old, blind, ragged and thin, he was certainly poor, and yet he had a gentleness about him that made people careful about how they spoke when he was about. Especially because he had a very beautiful daughter, with a clear sweet singing voice and a smile that melted everyone’s heart. Her name was Bessie.
These two were always together, although it was clear sometimes that the old man was unhappy that his daughter should always be in such rough company. But whenever he suggested to her that she should try and find a better situation for herself, she would just laugh, and shake her head. For she could never leave him to fend for himself.
