A Symphony of Echoes (11 page)

I backed out quietly and Mrs Partridge shut the door. We picked up the table, threw the food away, wrapped everything else in the tablecloth Dick Whittington style and sat down to await the return of our failed expeditionary force.

Team Techies were the first back, proudly displaying a small collection box, which they opened with a flourish. We peered inside.

‘It’s a pigeon,’ I said.

‘It’s a young dodo,’ they said.

‘It’s a pigeon.’

‘Are you sure? It could be a new strain of dodo.’

‘It’s a pigeon.’

They let it go.

Next back was Team History, clutching a wriggling bundle.

It was a monkey. It stuck an out an indignant head, bit someone, and shot up a tree.

‘Get a tetanus shot,’ I said.

Team Security weren’t speaking to each other. Russell had a black eye.

Team R&D brought back a small rock on which they had attempted to glue a few feathers. Someone had drawn a face on it in pencil.

I stared at it in disbelief.

‘What?’ they said.

I sighed loudly, trying very hard not to laugh.

They were, all of them, covered in mud, shit from various forest-dwelling species, leaves, crushed fruit, and something viscous that should always remain nameless.

‘So,’ they said. ‘What now?’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘I present the trophy to the winner, and we all go home, and many of us have a really good bath before presenting ourselves for the party this evening.’

Hearing there was a winner perked them all up. The teams jostled for position. I picked up the cup.

‘For successfully accomplishing our mission – which was to locate and collect twelve dodos; in fact, for more than accomplishing our mission and for providing a very excellent tea, I am pleased to award this cup to – Mrs Partridge.’

I thoroughly enjoyed the looks on all their faces.

‘But …’ they said, looking around the dodo-less clearing. Then it dawned on someone; the ramp was up.

Evan got it first. ‘How many?’

‘Seventeen.’

You’d have thought they’d caught all seventeen themselves.

We jumped back and decanted seventeen dodos into their beautiful new home. They rushed around, bouncing off walls and each other, grockling ear-splittingly. One cage already had an egg in it, which we gently placed in a nesting box. One of the parents immediately nudged it back out again. It bounced heavily onto the floor. We winced, but it survived. An anonymous dodo sat on it and all the others milled around, pushing and shoving. I was rapidly concluding that their extinction might not have been completely man’s fault. Dodos – our dodos anyway –displayed the parenting skills of a brick.

With Mrs Partridge proudly clutching her trophy and the others bickering about who got custody of the Losers’ Ladle, we made our way back to the main building.

I caught Tim counting heads.

‘No need for that. They’re all present and correct.’

He grinned. ‘Just checking. How did it go?’

‘Well. Very well.’

‘In that case …’

In that case – the time had come for the final test. The real deal.

‘Do you have the details for me?’

‘On your desk.’

‘What did you go for in the end?’

‘Thomas Becket.’

I said nothing for a while.

‘Too much too soon?’

I shook my head. ‘No, It’s perfect. They’re going to have to face violent death sooner or later. Let’s make it sooner. Find out what sort of job we’ve done.’

‘OK. I’ll set it up.’

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.’

He sounded nervous but calm. As he should be. As they all should be.

Becket was a very tall man – a good head taller than most of those around him. His face, austere but serene, glowed in the candlelight. Although many of the paintings of the scene have depicted him dressed in red robes, in fact he wore an outer robe of shimmering emerald green, with a white cross on its front, formed by bands of white from shoulder to shoulder and from neck to hem. He was bare-headed. I took a deep breath and tried not to remember that in a few minutes this man would be dead. And there was nothing we could do. Or should do. St Mary’s job is to observe and record. The trainees would observe events as they unfolded. Tim and I would observe them. This was their last test. A violent death was about to occur. How would they react?

The procession passed us, gently chanting and disposed themselves for vespers. A slight pause of expectation before the service began – and then, in the silence, a door boomed back against a stone wall, disturbingly loud in the darkness. Hasty footsteps sounded.

The singing faltered, but Becket appeared unmoved and unworried. Had he any idea what was about to happen? None of the eyewitness accounts, including that of Edward Grim, himself wounded, make any mention of Becket attempting to flee or defend himself in any way. I’ve often wondered if he took a deliberate decision to sacrifice himself, assure himself of martyrdom, and deal Henry a blow from which he would never recover.

We were about to find out.

The four knights emerged out of the darkness, like something from a bad dream. They had not, at this stage, drawn their weapons. One strode forwards and faced the congregation, hand suggestively on his sword hilt. Crowd control.

Two of them laid hands on Becket, attempting to drag him away from the altar. He clung to something – the altar, a pillar – I couldn’t see clearly. He shouted defiantly, his words lost in the echoes.

The third knight, clad in a red cloak, whom I took to be Reginald FitzUrse from the bear on his badge, roared an order and again they tried to dislodge the Archbishop’s grasp. At this point, it was unclear whether they simply wanted to remonstrate with him or remove him from consecrated ground and away from witnesses. They were in a difficult position and they knew it. For all they knew, the congregation would rally to Becket’s defence. Someone might already have gone for help. They were running out of time.

I saw FitzUrse draw his sword, as it glinted dully in the candlelight. He paused, possibly to gather his courage, and then struck.

The blow caught the monk, Edward Grim on the arm as he threw himself protectively at his archbishop.

With the courage of one who has not struck the first blow, William de Tracey closed in and struck harder. This time the archbishop staggered. De Tracey stepped back, I could hear his breath coming out in gasps. He waited, sword raised.

The crowd gasped in disbelief, but no one moved.

There was no going back now. Blood had been shed. And on consecrated ground. Another blow drove Becket to his hands and knees but he still would not give in. Bleeding heavily, he twisted his head and tried to speak, but I couldn’t make out what he said.

The third knight, Richard le Breton, who had chain mail under his brown cloak, probably wanting to get it over with, impatiently shoved his fellows aside, lifted his sword high and struck with all his might. The fearsome blow passed straight through Becket’s skull, completely severing the top of his head. The sword shattered on the flags beneath. Blood and brain matter exploded into the air.

Now the crowd shouted and tried to surge forwards. The fourth knight, who must have been Hugh de Morville, stepped into the light and drew his sword. The ring of metal on metal rang around the dark cathedral. The message was clear. They’d killed the Archbishop. No one had anything to lose now.

The scene was appalling. Three knights stood over the body, motionless, swords dripping blood. Their breath puffed in the icy air, forming a cruelly ironic halo around their heads. Edward Grim, that brave man, still tried to protect his Archbishop. His bloody arm hung uselessly as he weakly called for aid.

The Archbishop of Canterbury lay face down in his own cathedral. Blood, red and wet and bright in the candlelight spilled out across the reddish-brown flagstones in a dark, widening pool, the only movement in this frozen tableau.

And then, to pile horror upon horror, another man, a clerk, dressed all in brown, known everlastingly as Hugh the Evil, appeared from the shadows. He put his foot on Becket’s neck and grinding the remains of his face down into the flags, scattered brain tissue and blood even further across the stones. His voice carried clearly. ‘Let us away, knights. He will rise no more.’

Still with swords drawn, they wheeled about and were gone, back into the darkness whence they came. The door boomed closed behind them.

The spell broke.

Panic and confusion reigned. People screamed and wailed. Some ran from the cathedral, whether in pursuit or to spread the news was not clear. Others ran to help Grim rise to his feet. Tears ran down his face. He was covered in blood. His own and his archbishop’s.

I could hear a voice in my ear, dutifully reporting the knights’ departure. I saw Evan nod and speak. They’d all kept their heads. Tim exhaled with relief. I rubbed his shoulder and said, softly, ‘Good job, Tim.’ He nodded but before he could speak, people ran forward and began to tear off pieces of the archbishop’s robes. At first I thought they were attempting to staunch the flow of blood, but they dipped the rags carefully in the red pool and stowed them away.