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  ‘Get the jewels out first,’ Layton told him. ‘Prise them all out of their settings. Once you’ve done that, we can break the coffin open and see what’s inside.’

  The goldsmith nodded. Kneeling down beside the chest, he started work at once. The others took their sledgehammers and began to demolish the tomb.

  The cathedral’s monks watched appalled from a distance. Their whole world was falling to pieces. They had already been forced to sign an agreement accepting King Henry VIII as head of their church, rather than the Pope. Now they had to stand and watch as the King’s men stormed into the cathedral and destroyed everything they held most sacred. The monks were in despair.

  ‘They can’t do this.’ Brother Francis was a young monk, full of idealism. ‘Surely they can’t? Isn’t there anybody who can stop it?’

  ‘Who?’ Father Robert was his older friend. ‘Who can stop the King?’

  ‘Somebody must be able to. It’s sacrilege. He can’t just send his men in here and destroy the Martyr’s tomb. Nobody can do that.’

  They watched helplessly as the demolition continued.

  ‘We have to stop it,’ Francis insisted. ‘We can’t allow them to just walk in here and smash everything. We have to stop them somehow.’

  ‘How, though? What can we do?’

  ‘Where’s the Prior? It’s his job. Why isn’t Prior Goldwell here? He’s the man in charge.’

  Prior Goldwell was the senior figure among the monks. He shared their disgust at what was happening, but he had reasons of his own for not doing anything about it. Prior Goldwell was nowhere to be seen as Brother Francis went in search of him.

  It was a while before the goldsmith had managed to prise all the jewels off the iron chest. He stuffed them into bags when he had finished. Then Layton told the rest of the men to smash the chest open with crowbars.

  They did so at once. The chest was quickly forced open and the contents spilled out. In no time at all, the bones of St Thomas the Martyr had seen the light of day for the first time in almost three centuries and lay strewn all over the cathedral floor.

  ‘There he is.’ Layton kicked the bits with his boot. ‘The remains of Thomas Becket. The man who was a traitor to his king.’

  The skeleton wasn’t complete. There was no skull, for a start. Other parts were missing too. All that remained were a few mouldering old bones amid a heap of detritus on the flagstones.

  ‘Now for everything else,’ Layton ordered. ‘All the other relics. Make a pile of them on the floor.’

  The relics were displayed at various points around the cathedral. Layton’s men collected all the bits and pieces and stacked them up on top of Becket’s bones. When everything was ready, Layton took a lighted taper from one of the tall candlesticks beside the shrine.

  ‘No!’ Brother Francis had found Prior Goldwell in hiding and brought the reluctant man to the shrine. ‘You can’t do that. You cannot burn St Thomas’s bones. You have no authority to do that.’

  ‘We have all the authority we need.’ Layton flourished his commission. ‘We have our authority from the King himself. What we do is by order of the King’s Majesty.’

  ‘It’s a crime against God. The King will be excommunicated by the Pope if you burn St Thomas’s bones.’

  ‘What the Pope does is his affair, but St Thomas is certainly going to be burned. All the other bones too. This whole relic business has gone on far too long.’

  Brother Francis turned desperately to the Prior. ‘Tell him,’ he implored. ‘Tell him he can’t burn St Thomas. It simply isn’t possible.’

  Prior Goldwell said nothing. The priory was going to lose all its lands and income under the King’s reforms. There would be pensions in compensation, for those who held their tongues. The Prior needed a pension, if he was going to lose everything else.

  ‘We’ll never get the bones back if they’re destroyed now,’ Brother Francis told him distraughtly. ‘They’ll be gone for ever, once they’ve been burned.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s God’s will,’ Goldwell shrugged. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘Of course there is. We can try to stop it.’

  ‘Too late now,’ Father Robert pointed out. ‘The bones have already been scattered.’

  But Francis wasn’t having that. Stepping forward, he confronted Layton once more.

  ‘You will be damned for all eternity if you do this.’ He pointed to the lighted taper. ‘Your soul will remain in hellfire for evermore if you set fire to St Thomas now.’

  Layton wasn’t impressed.

  ‘You monks,’ he said. ‘It’s the same wherever we go. You live off the people. You’re dreadful landlords. You take everyone’s money and spend it on whores and idle distractions. And then you claim you’re doing God’s work, when actually you’re just living off other people’s earnings.’

  He lit the pile before Francis could reply. It took a while to catch. The monks watched in horror as the flames took hold at last and the relics began to burn. Brother Francis was in tears as the smoke drifted slowly upwards towards the vast roof of the cathedral.

  ‘Hellfire,’ he told Layton’s men. ‘You will all burn in hellfire for this.’

  ‘Like St Thomas?’ The men laughed.

  They stood watching the fire for a while and then went back to demolishing the shrine. It was hard work, even with sledgehammers. The men took several hours to reduce Becket’s tomb to an enormous pile of stone and rubble lying forlornly on the flagstones in the middle of the cathedral.

  ‘Hellfire,’ repeated Francis. ‘You’re going to regret what you’ve done on the Day of Judgment.’

  ‘Come away,’ Father Robert urged him. ‘No point watching anymore. We’ve seen everything there is to see.’

  Still tearful, Brother Francis allowed himself to be led away. Prior Goldwell went too, and the other monks. None of them could bear to watch as the King’s men laid waste everything they held dear.

  The process took several days by the time the relics had been reduced to ash and all trace of the shrine had been removed. The jewels had to be bagged up as well, and all the gold and silver taken down from the shrine. A column of wagons was parked outside the cathedral door, waiting to carry the valuables to London as soon as everything had been done.

  Layton had a visitor on the third day, a fat little man with a sly face. The man kept his distance from the shrine, preferring not to get too closely involved. He stood watching from afar, waiting for Layton to spot him. Layton hurried over as soon as he did.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Francis asked Father Robert.

  ‘The Lord Privy Seal.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Thomas Cromwell. The King’s man. He’s King Henry’s eyes and ears in the cathedral.’

  They all knew the King was somewhere close by. He had been seen going in and out of St Augustine’s abbey, one of his new possessions. Henry was planning to demolish the abbey, now that it belonged to him. He was going to turn the rest of the place into a royal palace with accompanying deer park.

  ‘The King isn’t coming himself?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it. He was here last year with Jane Seymour. I imagine he’s staying away this time, in case there’s any trouble.’

  ‘About the shrine?’

  Father Robert nodded. ‘He’s keeping a low profile. The King wouldn’t want to be involved, if there were any protests about the shrine.’

  ‘So he’s sent Cromwell instead to see how it’s all going?’

  ‘It certainly seems that way. Cromwell will report everything back to the King, like he always does.’

  The Lord Privy Seal returned next morning. He was there to watch as the loot from St Thomas’s shrine was carried outside to the waiting carts. Two wagons were needed just for the jewels alone.

  Everything else – the gold, the silver, a wooden throne, four precious mitres and Becket’s ornamented crozier – was loaded onto the other wagons. The convoy stretched half the length of the cathedr
al, waiting to transport everything to the Tower of London.

  The treasure was loaded aboard and secured with rope and tarpaulins. Layton gave the signal to move when all was ready. Armed guards shouldered their pikes and walked alongside as the wagons started off, rumbling through the Christ Church gate and out into the city. Brother Francis couldn’t bring himself to watch as they disappeared in the direction of London.

  He turned on Prior Goldwell as soon as the convoy had vanished.

  ‘You should have done something,’ he accused him. ‘You’re the Prior. It was your duty. You should have stood up to them when you had the chance.’

  Goldwell sighed. ‘If only it was that simple.’

  ‘We’ve lost St Thomas now. We’ll never get him back. We’ve lost our saint for ever and it’s all your fault.’

  ‘That’s a bit hard,’ said Father Robert. ‘There was nothing the Prior could do.’

  ‘He could have tried! He could have made the effort. He just stood there and let the King’s men do what they wanted. He didn’t even try to stop them.’

  The Prior was about to say something in reply, but thought better of it. He remained silent instead.

  ‘I don’t think I want to be a monk anymore.’ Francis was visibly distressed. ‘Not here, anyway. How could you all just stand there while St Thomas’s bones were burned in front of your eyes? I can’t believe you did that.’

  The monks looked uncomfortable. They were all a bit shamefaced. It was the Prior who spoke at length.

  ‘We have to make the best of it,’ he told Francis. ‘None of us likes what has happened, but there’s nothing we can do. We just have to put it behind us now and carry on as best we can.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Francis. ‘I don’t think I can. Not after what has happened.’

  He was still upset next day, and the day after. He was rude to the Prior again, and to the senior monks. Francis had all the certainty of youth in his disdain for his colleagues and their failure to stand up to Layton and his men. When he continued to show his contempt for them all, Father Robert decided to take him aside and have a quiet word in his ear.

  ‘There’s something you ought know,’ Robert told him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘About St Thomas.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Promise me on the Holy Cross that you won’t breathe a word of what I’m about to tell you.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You swear you won’t tell a soul?’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘All right, then. St Thomas’s bones haven’t been burned.’

  ‘Yes, they have. I saw them.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. St Thomas is quite safe.’

  Francis was swift to grasp the implications. ‘You mean somebody else’s bones were burned instead?’

  Robert nodded. ‘We knew this was coming,’ he said. ‘It was only a matter of time. The bones were switched quite some time ago. That’s why Prior Goldwell wasn’t bothered when the shrine was attacked. He knew it wasn’t St Thomas who was being destroyed.’

  Francis was stunned. There was more to Prior Goldwell than he had realised.

  ‘So where are the bones now?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re safe. Still here in the cathedral. They’ve been hidden where no one will ever find them.’

  ‘And you’re not going to tell me where?’

  Robert shook his head. ‘It’s a secret. Only two or three people know. I’m not one of them.’

  Francis was enormously relieved to hear it. St Thomas was safe! Hidden somewhere in the cathedral. All his anger and bitterness had been for nothing.

  He was still feeling embarrassed about his behaviour when Dr Layton reappeared the following day. He had Thomas Cromwell with him. They demanded to see Prior Goldwell at once.

  ‘The Régale de France,’ Layton told the Prior, as soon as he came.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘King Louis’s great ruby, the one from the shrine.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s gone missing.’

  ‘Missing?’

  ‘It isn’t with the other jewels. We’ve searched through everything on the wagons that left the cathedral, but we couldn’t find it anywhere.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.’ The Prior was shocked. ‘It was certainly put on one of the wagons. One of your people must have stolen it.’

  ‘We don’t think so. We don’t think the ruby ever left the cathedral. We think it’s still here somewhere. We think one of your monks has taken it and hidden it from us.’

  Goldwell was outraged. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say,’ he told Layton. ‘Our monks would never do anything like that. If somebody has stolen the French king’s ruby, I can assure you, it certainly wasn’t one of us.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Christopher Marlowe and Queen Elizabeth’s Birthday Party

  Queen Elizabeth was due to turn forty in September 1573. The daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn had decided to celebrate her birthday in Canterbury, during her annual summer progress through the realm. Even without St Thomas’s shrine, Canterbury was still the best place in Kent for a big birthday party.

  Archbishop Parker had rashly agreed to host the event at his palace beside the cathedral. It had seemed a splendid idea when he first suggested it. As the day drew nearer though, Parker was beginning to have serious doubts. He was a worried man as he approached the Queen’s high treasurer for advice on how to handle it.

  ‘You’ll certainly have to push the boat out for her,’ Lord Burghley warned him. ‘She likes a splash. The Queen’s Majesty will be expecting something pretty spectacular for her fortieth birthday.’

  ‘I’m an old man. I don’t know much about parties.’

  ‘No worries. Just find out how everyone else entertained her in the past and do it much more lavishly. The Queen will love that.’

  ‘Where is she going to stay?’

  ‘St Augustine’s, I imagine.’ The Queen had leased the abbey to Lord Cobham, but still kept rooms there for her own use. ‘That’s probably best.’

  ‘She could stay with me, if she wanted.’

  ‘In the Archbishop’s palace?’

  ‘It’s right by the cathedral. I’m not sure it’s suitable, though. It would be difficult for ordinary people to see her there. I could have you and the Earl of Leicester too, if you brought your own furnishings.’

  ‘St Augustine’s would be better,’ said Burghley.

  The Queen was due to arrive on 3 September. An advance party arrived twelve days earlier to take over the abbey and prepare it for her occupation. Her household staff needed that long to tidy the place up, make any necessary repairs and ensure that everything was properly arranged, ready for Her Majesty’s arrival.

  The advance party booked every spare bed in the city as well, to accommodate all the people who were accompanying her on the visit. It wasn’t just the Queen who was coming to Canterbury for two weeks summer holiday. It was her court too, and most of the government.

  ‘We’re expecting about 350 people in all,’ one of them warned the Archbishop. ‘And more than two thousand horses. A lot of the courtiers are very particular about where they sleep. It’s going to be a nightmare, trying to fit them all in.’

  ‘We’ll manage,’ the Archbishop said. ‘We shall have to, somehow.’

  Preparations in his own household had begun in July. Large quantities of wine and beer had been brought in, ready for the party. The Archbishop had spent a lot of his private money on the palace over the years, doing it up and making it a fit place to entertain a queen. It looked as if his investment was going to pay off at last.

  ‘We’d better take that picture of Cranmer down,’ he told one of his staff, as they went through the arrangements for the Queen’s reception. ‘Her Majesty won’t want to see it. Or at least, I don’t want her to.’

  Poor Cranmer. Parker’s predecessor as archbishop had been burned at the stake for heresy during the reign of Qu
een Mary, Elizabeth’s older sister. He had died bravely, thrusting his guilty hand into the flames without flinching. Parker didn’t want to put ideas into the present Queen’s head.

  Elizabeth was coming to Canterbury from Dover. She had arranged a meeting at the port with a delegation from France. A marriage between Elizabeth and the King of France’s brother had been proposed. Elizabeth had gone to Dover to meet the young Duke d’Alençon off the boat and see if there was any possibility of the marriage happening.

  In the event, the Duke hadn’t turned up. The French had sent an ambassador instead. The Comte de Retz and his whole party were so ill from the sea crossing that the meeting had had to be postponed. Elizabeth had told the French to come and see her in Canterbury in a few days’ time, after they had recovered from their ordeal.

  She herself set off for Canterbury on 3 September, as arranged. Her progress via Sandwich made for an astonishing sight. The column of carts and coaches bearing her courtiers and their luggage was fully a mile long. There were more than 400 wheeled vehicles in all, escorted by outriders and heralded by trumpets and flying banners. Queen Elizabeth of England never travelled lightly when showing herself off to her people.

  She was bringing all her servants with her, whether she needed them or not. Heralds, trumpeters, messengers, coachmen, footmen, porters, drummers, flautists, musicians, tipstaffs, sergeants at arms, a yeoman of the bottles, a surveyor of the ways, a bear master for bear-baiting and Walter, the court jester. Her staff could all be maintained at Canterbury’s expense while they were staying in the city.

  The Queen was expected to reach Canterbury at about three in the afternoon. The Archbishop and his senior priests gathered at the west door of the cathedral to await her arrival. Heralded by a fanfare, she appeared soon after the hour, riding on horseback through the Christ Church gate. Parker went down on one knee as she came to a stop in front of him.

  ‘Welcome, Your Majesty. Welcome to our fine city.’

  A boy from the King’s School in the precincts was standing at his elbow, ready to greet the Queen in Latin. Elizabeth remained in the saddle as the boy gave her the traditional oration. When he had finished, she dismounted and joined the Archbishop and the other priests in a psalm and a prayer of thanksgiving for her safe arrival. Then they all rose to their feet again and went into the cathedral for evensong.