It is one of the great set-pieces of high drama in English history. The king, shamed by his part in the murder of his one-time friend turned implacable enemy, the Archbishop of Canterbury, agrees to come as a penitent to the holy site of the archbishop’s death to seek forgiveness and, in a conspicuously unkingly gesture, to prostrate himself at the martyr’s tomb. By the time he does so, the innocent blood spilled in the cathedral has begun to attract pilgrims from all over Europe, drawn by the miracles performed at the place where royal anger unleashed such unprecedented violence. In the words of Matthew Strickland, the king showed himself to be ‘overcome with feelings of guilt and remorse’.
The Archbishop, of course, is Thomas Becket, murdered in Canterbury Cathedral by four knights acting on what they interpreted as the wishes of Henry II. But the first royal visitor to lie before the tomb, and to ‘humbly beg pardon for the injuries’ Thomas suffered, was not Henry II himself but his son, Henry ‘the Young King’, who by the time of his journey to Canterbury in 1172 had been anointed, crowned and established as ‘associate ruler’ for two years, in a ceremony every bit as lavish and filled with ritual significance as his father’s coronation.
Though only 17 years old when he made the pilgrimage to Canterbury, his most significant intervention on the political stage so far, Henry the Young King had been entrusted with more than a measure of authority by his father, as Strickland shows in this scrupulous and vivid life. He had been appointed regent during his father’s absence in Normandy, with nominal power to exercise ‘all rights and justices’, even if in practice the old King also left more experienced heads behind to govern policy.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in