Canterbury Papers by Judith Koll Healey

perhaps not. But—if you recall your Plato—what is important is the ideal, not the actuality. If any one of us can call others to greater holiness after our death, who is to speak against it? And given our lives of imperfection”—he flashed a look in my direction and winked—“who of us is fit to cast the first stone against Becket?”
    â€œNonsense.” Charlotte speared a fish with her Italian fork and nibbled at it. “If he hadn’t been killed by those hotheaded knights of Henry’s, he would be remembered in the chronicles as an ecclesiastical troublemaker. He nearly wrecked a kingdom with his pride.”
    â€œI was just asking the princess the purpose of her visit when you arrived.” William had decided to move the conversation along. He was, after all, prior of Becket’s abbey. Yet, withal, he seemed reluctant to embrace the role of defender of its hero.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, there is a definite purpose for my visit at this time.” Suddenly I was inspired. “It’s been nearly twenty years since King Henry and I were here. He came then to do penance for Becket’s murder. I thought I would come to renew that penance in his name, as well as do penance for my own misdeeds. It is in honor of King Henry that I make this visit.”
    Both heads snapped up in surprise.
    â€œI thought Henry denied responsibility for Becket’s death,” Charlotte said. “I heard him say so himself, on more than one occasion. In fact, that is the only reason we allowed him to be buried at Fontrevault Abbey.”
    That and a substantial endowment, I’d wager, I thought. But I said only, “Henry did not believe he was responsible for Becket’s murder. Those knights of his who crossed the Channel were rogues. He never ordered that killing. They misinterpreted his words.” I took a swallow of wine to calm my rising voice.
    â€œImagine the scene,” I continued. “The happy Plantagenet family keeping Christmas at Bures, feasting and laughing, when suddenly the whole contingent of English bishops trails in, led by an angry Roger of York. They told the entire court their astonishing tale. It seems when Becket arrived back in England, he had immediately excommunicated them all. That had been no part of his agreement with Henry to end his exile. The bishops demanded immediate redress from the king. Henry flew into a fury. But he never told his knights to kill. I was only a child, but I witnessed the scene. He did not order the killing.”
    â€œStill, it was Henry’s knights who did the deed.” William passed a silver platter of herbed greens to my aunt.
    â€œYes, but you know he would never have touched Becket. Above all else, Henry was too skilled a politician. He knew that if Becket were martyred, it would make more trouble for him in England than ever Becket could make if he were alive.” I licked the almond cream from my spoon, feeling quieter now. “And the last thing he wanted was the satisfaction of seeing Becket made a martyr, after all he did to polarize the kingdom.”
    â€œPeut-être tu as raison,” the abbess said, looking thoughtful. “So why do you think he did the penance here all those years ago?” She was looking at me, but it was William who answered.
    â€œHe needed to placate the people. Becket’s popularity was growing, the myth of the saint was spreading. And Henry was considered guilty of the murder by most people. So a few years later, he agreed to abase himself here and allowed the monks to apply the discipline, in penance for whatever role his thoughtless words had played.”
    The abbess wiped her fingers daintily on her napkin. “That corresponds with what I was told at the time,” she offered.
    â€œAnd being King Henry”—I shook my head—“when he came to atone, he held nothing back. I could draw for you the picture right now if I had