Who has more power: a king or an archbishop?
Who knows, these days? The two centres of power, one religious, one secular, ain’t what they used to be.
A look back to the heady days of the twelfth century reveals a man who seemed to be able to slip from one to the other. State to church, church to state.
A bridge, if you will.
He was born in 1118 or so with a foot in both camps: the son of a merchant landowner, he also knew Archbishop Theobald of Bec.
Thomas Becket’s family suffered a change of fortunes: at one point he had to take a job as a lowly clerk. But he secured a position with Theobald the archbishop in time, and did well.
He seemed to earn the trust of powerful men easily, running vital missions to Rome. And at some point he won the confidence of a king: he became Lord Chancellor to Henry II.
He faithfully extracted monies from those who would rather not cough up for the monarch, and there is evidence he was a trusted servant. Henry’s son went to stay with Becket.
Young Henry and he became very close. The King’s son alleged Becket gave him more love in a day than his father had in his whole life.
Becket was garnering power in the most incendiary of places, it seemed.
When the old archbishop died, the nobles and bishops nominated Becket Archbishop: and the king, it seemed, did not object.
Becket was ordained a priest on June 2, 1162. The next day, he was ordained an archbishop.
Talk about a rush job. Henry’s power could only grow as a result; provided, of course, Becket kept his ambitions in line with his station.
But he didn’t.
He had undergone a conversion, it seems: stepped over the line into a lifestyle of abstinence and restraint in the name of inner peace.
Fearlessly he tussled with the King: his clergymen should not be subject to secular courts, he insisted: his clerics should be independent of the state, and connections with Rome should be robust.
This did not suit Henry. The man and his church were a thorn in his side. To dispose of him would be awkward, though.
He managed to get it done anyway, whether intentionally or unintentionally.
Ask anyone what Henry said. You’ll get “Will no-one rid me of this turbulent priest?” It’s the official fairytale version. I love one of the other versions better because it rings grumpier, more thwarted, whining and plaintive.
According to Superhistorian Simon Schama, it goes something like this: “”What miserable drones and traitors have I nourished and brought up in my household, who let their lord be treated with such shameful contempt by a low-born cleric?”
Four knights listened carefully; and shortly afterwards Becket’s life ended just outside the crypt at his religious palace: Canterbury Cathedral.
And the King’s problems began in earnest.
Because now, he had a martyr, and martyrs bring pilgrims, and pilgrims bring hordes, masses, thousands upon thousands of church sympathisers.
They brought unsettling loyalties to Rome and the church, coming from far and wide throughout the Angevin empire.
Henry went to obsessive lengths to control the new threat, even building a great castle at Dover to watch them troop over from France to pay their respects to a dead archbishop more influential in death than life.
And someone had to sort out the ramshackle wooden bridge over the Thames at London, where English pilgrims traditionally began.
London Bridge had had a chequered history: it was destroyed by a tornado in 1091, and again in 1136 this time by fire. It had its own ‘Brethren of the Bridge’, a guild to look after it: but it experienced a surge in users after Thomas Becket was killed.
The wooden structure was groaning under increased demand. A stone bridge must be constructed to meet the needs of this new breed of traveller.
About 33 years, it took, to build the 19 stone arches of the new London Bridge. The arches slowed the flow of the Thames and made it much more susceptible to freezing in Winter. At the south end was a drawer bridge and a gatehouse. Water wheels at each end powered pumps and grain mills, and in the centre was a lavish chapel dedicated to Becket.
And it was covered in houses. Generations lived and died on the bridge, never travelling far afield, watching pilgrims set out and return and the merchants milk them of every possible penny.
A man could walk from one side to another in an act of penitence that would end at Canterbury.
They emulated a former clerk, who had once built a bridge to walk precariously between church and state, ending his journey by the stairs to the crypt at Canterbury Cathedral.
Kate Shrewsday 
Another tale bringing history to life in inimitable whimsical style… and may priests continue to be turbulent!
Amen, Wondering Pilgrim and hello! I haven’t been over to yours for far too long! I felt sure you would approve of Thomas Becket: for if one cares about the people, how can one be anything other than involved in the political issues of the day?
A Kate-tale of beginnings and endings. Thanks, great start to the day for me.
You’re welcome, Sidey…now to apply oneself to the weekend challenge….hmmm…
Dear Kate – I love the way you can portray a time in history and tie it all up so neatly in a few paragraphs.
🙂 All the world’s a stage, Rosemary….loved that blog on Norman Cornish….
Proving the adage: be careful what you wish for…
Quite, Tilly 🙂
At 74, I discovered I never stop learning. Thanks for another history lesson, Kate
Love Dad
You’re welcome, Dad. I feel the need to see that place outside the crypt at Canterbury once again.
A palatable history lesson with my breakfast! Thanks.
Glad it was palatable, Karen! Have a great day.
The movie remains in my top 10 favorites. O’Toole and Burton were brilliant. “Murder in the Cathedral” was quite a read as well.
Do you know, Carl, it is far too long since I last watched ‘Becket’….must look it up….
I’m telling you, by the time I finally get to make a trip to England, I’m going to need a year to see everything you’ve written about and intrigued me with. (I am making a list!)
I’ve had 44 years here and I’m still learning, Kathy! When you arrive, look me up….
Thank you for another awesome peek at history, Kate. When I was there last, I tried to imagine that bridge clogging up the river view.
Thank you for your wonderful re-telling of the story. Romero was another man made archbishop (though at least he was a priest first) who surprised everyone. We never know what’s inside a person.
We certainly don’t, Sister! Thanks for coming over to comment. Must go off and refresh my knowledge of Romero…
You know, you could be a history teacher for the masses. Have your own radio show with weekly installments, keeping the kiddies and their parents on the edge of their seats to find out what happened in the next century, then the next. I say this with admiration, Kate. It was fun to read and much more interesting that the chapter in my English history book. Wonderful!
Thanks, Penny 😀 I think I’d enjoy that.
lifeonthecutoff makes a good point. I miss Alistair Cooke, and you could slip right into his shoes and take off running. The show would have to be broadcast internationally, of course, for my benefit. And if you could manage to get the job of introducing Masterpiece Theater, I would be ecstatic. Cooke’s intros were so interesting and informative, very much like your posts.
Now. I wonder whom I should write to about this.
Kathy, you give me the greatest compliment. Alistair Cooke is one of my great heroes: I grew up listening to, and adoring, his writing and oratory style. I never missed a letter from America if I could help it. And I suppose he has influenced me more than I knew. Thank you.
Once again you inspire me to delve a little deeper and read a little more. My shelves are full of history books that could use a little dusting off! Awesome, Kate, I really look forward to reading your posts. They are mini-lessons with depth! Debra
Thanks Debra: it’s an era which is so shrouded in shadows. Ripe for storytelling.
That bit about people living out their lives in one place reminds me of a chap I met back in the eighties who lived in Portsmouth – which is an island, though many don’t know that. To the north of the city lies Portsdown Hill. Beyond Portsdown Hill lies the rest of England. He was in his mid-twenties, and he had never dared venture beyond the foot of the hill. Then one day he bought a motorcycle, and rode it to the top of the hill. What he saw amazed him. It was like he was looking into infinity. England stretched out before him like (as I once described in The Horatio Horseblanket Chronicles) a bewildering duvet. He even ventured forth for a few miles, but quickly returned to the sanctuary of Portsea island: He was afraid that he might ride all the way to London!
Wonderful, Tooty. I know Portsmouth well, trained at Highbury College as a journo. It’s a small world and The Rest Of England is a very big place. Good job there’s not a huge hill at the end of England looking out of The Rest Of The World. Might bewilder a good number of us with that duvet.
Is this where the nursery rhyme, ( London Bridge is falling down comes from)?.. Didn’t the Vikings destroy it along this time also? Or was that earlier.. God Bless You… for a wonderful history lesson…
Now you have me wading even deeper in hope to bridge the Thames…My Fair Lady…
Oh no!!! And you’ve planted an incessant ear worm in my head too,,,Oh boy, It’ll likely take me all day to stop hearing this tune. But, it could be worse, it could be something like.: “These are the people of Walmart”…Oh No, Now I’ve Done It!!!
Bless You.
paul
Good luck with the Walmart song, Paul 😀
It is the mark of the man that he “fearlessly tussled with his King” – and a mark of the king that he resorted to referring to him as a “low-born cleric” when Becket would not do his bidding. Fascinating narrative, Kate
It’s a compelling corner of history, BB.
Kate’s narrative is always brilliant.
As is yours, Tooty 😀 In an entirely different way. Keeps me sane.