Lilly's Stories

“A martyrdom is always the design of God, for His love of men, to warn them and to lead them, to bring them back to His ways. It is never the design of man; for the true martyr is he who has become the instrument of God, who has lost his will in the will of God, and who no longer desires anything for himself, not even the glory of being a martyr.” Interlude, Murder in the Cathedral, T. S. Eliot

December 24, 1170

I tugged on the ends of my veil that brushed my elbows every now and again. My head hurt from straining to see around the taller woman standing next to me. I had been attempting to catch my husband’s eye on the men’s side of the church, to see if he heard the same words I did. The Archbishop’s preaching was uncharacteristically dark, far less pleasant than the usual Christmas Eve sermon. For such a feast day as this, should there not be a brighter homily?

And yet, he preached on death. From what I could deduct, the Archbishop of Canterbury was not in a festive mood. Something did not feel right. 

“I do not think you will ever hear me preach again,” his deep voice echoed throughout the cathedral. 

What? my head screamed. I couldn’t hear another word he said. What could he possibly mean? 

I caught my husband’s eyes as the woman next to me swayed back and forth on the balls of her feet. His face displayed the same panicked confusion I felt. 

“May the Lord’s peace be with you,” the archbishop finished, and my blood ran cold in my veins.

***

I tried to catch the archbishop outside after Mass, but I had no time to reach him before the rest of the crowd. He was swallowed up by the swarm of others who needed an explanation. What did he mean? Was he going to leave? He had only just returned!

“Cicily—” I heard my husband, Eustace, behind me. I turned to find him squeezing through the sea of babbling parishioners. 

“There is no chance to speak with him,” he said when he reached me. “We should return home.”

I nodded my agreement, and he pulled me through the crowd down the cobblestone street that led into town where our warm house awaited us. 

Although we were out of earshot, Eustace lowered his voice and said, “I managed to speak with Brother Edward Grim. You remember him from the Easter celebration?”

“Yes, whom Lucius introduced?”

“That’s the one. He informed me of some troubling thoughts he has had of late, especially concerning the archbishop.”

“What did he speak of?”

Eustace turned his head to see if anyone was near. “He said that Archbishop Becket and the king are no longer on friendly terms.”

“Well, yes, since he was forced to flee.” Nearly everyone knew of that.

“Yes, but recently tensions have increased between them—since the archbishop’s return. Brother Grim believes that something bad may arise. Something potentially dangerous.”

“Dangerous—how?” My heart began to pound again. 

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

***

On the morning of the fifth day of Christmas, I sat perched on the edge of a velvet cushion on the floor, plucking at my lyre. Eustace, being one of Canterbury’s most well known physicians, had left a few hours ago after being called to a nearby home, and I enjoyed the blissful ambience of a Christmas morning with my lyre. 

The sound of the instrument brought a peace to the room that I treasured greatly. My older sister, Marian, who had been fortunate enough to marry the wealthiest baron known within a thirty mile radius, had gifted it to me on my own wedding day. Previously I had been studying the art with my oldest brother, Lucius, who had entered the friary. After a few years and many hours of diligent practice, I had grown to cherish playing it.

The Christmas celebrations had continued, with so many feasts and social gatherings that I could hardly keep them straight. Every day had been filled to the brim, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was going to happen next. 

I didn’t have to wonder for long. Not quite in the way I had been expecting, my day quickly took a dramatic turn.

An incessant banging began on the front door—so strong I felt sure it would break. I jumped backwards, clenching my hold on the lyre. Who could it possibly be? 

I pushed myself up off the floor and timidly walked toward the window next to the door. Brushing the curtain aside, I caught sight of Lucius standing anxiously with his face red and his hands trembling as he raised his fist to knock again. 

I hurried to unlock the door. 

“Lucius!” I exclaimed.

“It’s the archbishop,” he panted. “He’s—he’s been murdered.” 

“What?” My head began to spin. 

“The king sent his men to kill him. This morning.”

No. It couldn’t be true. 

“How…?” I whispered. 

“Brother Grim told me. He was badly injured himself, and—”

“Where are they?” I reached for my cloak off of its hook. 

“The cathedral.”

I clasped the cloak around my neck, shoved my brother aside, and took off in a sprint for Canterbury Cathedral. 

How could I not have seen this coming? I had sensed the tensions days before, yet hadn’t acted on them. When would I learn? 

A hand grabbed my forearm and I almost screamed before I heard Lucius’ voice. 

“What are you doing?” my brother gasped. 

I yanked my arm out of his hold. “Someone is suffering. Will no one help?”

“It’s not a pretty scene,” he cautioned me. “You should wait for someone else—”

“Am I supposed to leave them in their pain? If I can help then I will.” 

I turned before he could say anything more and continued running towards the cathedral. 

When I finally arrived at the church, out of breath and heart pounding, I found the doors left open and candlesticks strewn about the floor. A cluster of silhouettes was huddled by the altar, inciting a rush of panic coursing through my veins. 

One looked up after hearing my footsteps, and voiced incredulously, “Cicily?” 

“Eustace?” I gasped. What was he doing here? Was he injured? I didn’t know what I would do if he was. 

He stood up as I lunged forward and raced towards the altar. Halfway to meeting him, I noticed his white tunic he had left this morning wearing was stained red. My stomach dropped.

I stopped inches before him, hesitant to touch him if he was injured. But before I could speak he pulled me into a tight embrace. 

“Are you alright?” he choked. “I heard the knights had left here and we didn’t know where they would go next. I worried for your safety.”

“I’m well, but what of you?” I took a step back and scanned his face for pain. 

He looked down at his tunic and laughed lightly. “I suppose that does look concerning, but it’s not mine.” He gestured to the altar behind him, where two men lay on the ground. A wave of nausea hit me and I covered my mouth with my hand. 

I swallowed my fear and edged towards the bodies. 

“Cicily, don’t—” Eustace warned. 

I didn’t stop my advance. “How did you get here?” 

My husband sighed and said, “Brother Grim came and found me after the attack. He brought me back here to the archbishop, not knowing he was already gone.” 

His words stopped me in my tracks and I sucked in a breath. 

“It is not a pretty sight, Cicily.” 

He was correct. Even from where I stood I could see the mass amounts of blood surrounding the figures, as well as which shadow belonged to Brother Grim. 

“You should return home,” Eustace said gently. I looked up at him and saw the worry in his eyes. I knew he didn’t want me to see whatever horrors likely awaited me at the altar, but I had to do something. 

“I can’t leave them,” I began. 

“What will you do?” 

I heard footsteps at the back of the church and turned to see Lucius entering. I whirled back around to Eustace. 

“I can assist you with Brother Grim. Please, let me help you.”

“Lucius can aid me with him, and I will speak with the other clergy about a funeral for the archbishop.”

“But someone needs to help him now,” I protested. 

“I have laid a cloth over him. All will be well.”

“Are we truly going to leave him there?”

“What else can we do? Everyone is afraid, and I doubt anyone will help.”

“I can help.”

Eustace shook his head and glanced at Brother Grim who was battling his own gruesome injury. “I need to help Brother Grim before it is too late, and I fear what you will see. There is nothing much that we can do except help him and arrange a funeral for the archbishop. Please, Cicily, return home.”

He stood in front of me, blocking my view of the mess by the altar. Did he doubt my competence? But no, he was right. Truly, there wasn’t much I could do. And if Lucius would be there, then perhaps it would be alright. 

I sighed. “I wish I could do something.”

“I know. But the best thing now is for you to return home. Perhaps even better, visit Marian for the day until I can join you. You will be safe there.” 

The last thing I wanted to do was leave him, the injured friar, or Archbishop Becket. But, alas, I knew I could not have my way, so I allowed Eustace to have his. 

“Alright,” I sighed, and tried to present a mask of acceptance. “I will visit with Marian. Please stay safe.”

***

When Eustace came to get me, I had been conversing with my sister about an idea that had planted itself in my mind. She had been just as shocked as I had after I told her the news, and nearly as anxious to take action. I was aware there was not much we could do, but if there was even one small thing that I could take part in, I knew I had to. I knew that somehow, I had to do something to honor our beloved archbishop and his noble sacrifice. Any other person would have fled, yet he did not. For something so courageous, surely he should deserve something more than simply a funeral. 

After many long hours, we finally decided what I could possibly do for him, and Eustace arrived to let me know we could return home. 

Marian reached from her chair and squeezed my hand as I stood to leave. “All will be well,” she said gently.

As soon as we left her house, Eustace told me of the plans he coordinated with the church, and of a few other matters. 

“We are hoping the funeral will take place tomorrow, although it is hard to say if it will,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“The news of the archbishop’s death has spread very quickly. After you left, many people came in to dip pieces of their cloth into his blood to save, because they believe that he will be canonized.”

I sucked in a breath. It did not surprise me. And after all, was he not a martyr? But the fact that someone so close to me could possibly be a saint was staggering. 

“So, the funeral is uncertain because of this?” I asked.

“Maybe. I doubt it is the sole reason. The other clergymen were also very shocked after hearing the news. I believe it is hard news to take in, and there is great chaos at the cathedral.”

“What of Lucius? Where is he?”

“He returned home after finding there was nothing much we could do.”

“Is Brother Grim alright?”

“I believe he will be well. Apparently he tried to block Archbishop Becket from the king’s men. He took a very hard blow, severing his arm,” Eustace admitted. I gasped. “I managed to cauterize the wound, so it will eventually heal. But he is in much pain, and life will be significantly harder with only one functioning arm. But I praise God he is still alive.”

I did too, silently, and prayed for his healing. That kind of bravery was beyond anything I could imagine myself doing. I aspired to be like him. 

“You are well, though?” my husband asked me. 

“Yes, I am fine. Only a bit shaken, but nothing in comparison to the others.” For this, I thanked the Lord. 

Later that evening, my fingers ached from practicing my lyre. Since I found no other way to occupy my time, and anxiety was consuming me from the inside out, I had returned home and paced with my instrument. I knew that I had to tell Eustace of the small proposal that Marian and I had come up with. It would not be of great importance, and perhaps it was not even necessary, but yet the idea stirred in my heart and I knew that it was something I wanted to do.

“Eustace,” I called out. 

“Yes?” his voice came from around the corner.

I looked down at my lyre as my husband walked into the room. “I have an idea to honor the archbishop.”

***

I wiped away the stream of tears spilling down my cheeks. The funeral had finished over an hour ago and I hadn’t even made it halfway through the Mass before needing to make use of my handkerchief. 

We stood around his grave, offering our prayers to the sunless sky. All other mourners had returned home; only Eustace and I remained. Neither of us could speak a word, but none were needed.

I stepped forth with my lyre towards the archbishop’s gravestone and knelt before it. I gave a shuddering breath and tried to begin, but couldn’t find the strength. My fingers hovered above the strings, yet I could not help but remember the traumatic events of the day before. His words from the last homily he preached haunted me, and all I could think of was the way he spoke, as though he knew what was coming. 

I sensed a hand on my shoulder and glanced up to see my husband. Eustace had seen the same horrors as I had, and more. He knew what thoughts were racing around my head. Somehow, this comforted me. That someone else was facing the same trials as I. That I was not alone.

So I closed my eyes and began to play. It was a prayerful song—a light that crescendoed slowly into the dark atmosphere. The tune glided from my fingertips and became a beacon of strength around us. I heard Eustace inhale gently beside me, as if giving a sigh of relief. I smiled at this, and imagined the archbishop doing the same. 

When the song ended, I opened my eyes and stood with a newfound peace that I was not expecting. I reached for Eustace’s hand, and he gave it a squeeze. 

As a final thank you and farewell, I leaned forward and whispered the words he left us all with in his last homily. 

“May the Lord’s peace be with you.”

A huge thank you to my amazing friend, Madison, for all of her incredible insight and help with this story! Check out her website at madisonesshaki.com