These arms that hang over the prince’s tomb are all that are left of two distinct suits, one for war, and one for use in the joust and the ceremonials of peace, which were, according to directions given in the will, carried in the funeral procession through the West Gate and along the High Street to the cathedral. The pieces which remain all belong to the suit worn in actual warfare.
The centre of the chapel looks curiously blank, being left so by the thoroughness with which all trace of Becket’s shrine was removed by the reforming zeal and insatiable rapacity of Henry VIII. and his minions. The effect of the bare stone pavement presents an impressive contrast to the vanished glories of the shrine blazing with gold and jewels, as we read of it. (For a description of the shrine and its history, see Chapter I.) The exact place on which it stood is plainly shown by the marks worn in the stones by the knees of generations of pilgrims as they knelt before it, while the prior, with his white wand, pointed out the choicest of its treasures. To the west, between the altar-screen—the unhappy effect of which is painfully conspicuous from this point—and the site of the shrine, there is some very interesting mosaic pavement, containing the signs of the zodiac, and emblems of virtue and vice, an example of the Opus Alexandrinum, which appears in the floors of most of the Roman basilicas. A similar piece of mosaic work may be seen round the shrine of Edward the Confessor at Westminster. Above the eastern end of the shrine a gilded crescent was fixed in the roof, which still remains; the origin and meaning of this emblem have been disputed with considerable heat, and many ingenious conjectures have been framed to account for its presence here. One theory regards it as an allusion to the tradition according to which Becket’s mother was a Saracen. But this legend is believed to be comparatively modern, and, as Mr. George Austin points out, “even if the legend of Becket’s mother had obtained credence at that early period, it may be observed that in the painted windows around no reference is made to the subject, though evidently capable of so much pictorial effect.” Another solution would connect the crescent with the worship of the Virgin Mary, who is often pictured as standing on the moon (comp. Rev. xii. I). Supporters of this theory lay stress on the fact that the Trinity Chapel at Canterbury occupies the extreme east end of the church, which is generally the site of the Lady Chapel, and that therefore the presence of this emblem—if it can be connected with the Virgin—would be peculiarly appropriate here. Mr. Austin propounded the explanation which is now most generally accepted. “When the groined roof,” he says, “was relieved of the long-accumulated coats of whitewash and repaired, the crescent was taken down and regilt. It was found to be made of a foreign wood, somewhat like in grain to the eastern wood known by the name of iron-wood. It had been fastened to the groining by a large nail of very singular shape, with a large square head, apparently of foreign manufacture.” He comes to the conclusion that the crescent is one of a number of trophies which he supposes to have once decorated this part of the cathedral, and he is led to his conclusion by the fact that “more than one fresco painting of encounters with the Eastern infidels formerly ornamented the walls (the last traces of which were removed during the restoration of the cathedral under Dean Percy, afterwards Bishop of Carlisle), and in one of which the green crescent flag of the enemy seems borne away by the English archers. Might not these frescoes have depicted the fights in which these trophies were won?” Also, in the hollows of the groining which radiate from the crescent, there were a number of slight iron staples, which Mr. Austin, having shown that they cannot have supported either hanging lamps or the covering of the shrine, believes to have upheld flags, horsetails, etc., which formed the trophy of which the gilded crescent was the centre. We know that Becket received the title of St. Thomas Acrensis owing to his close connection with the knights of the Hospital of St. John at Acre. But none of these explanations seem very convincing, and the history and significance of the crescent in the roof seem likely to remain a mystery.
Before we turn from Becket and his shrine to the other monuments in the Trinity Chapel, we must call the attention of our readers to the stained windows which depict the miracles of the sainted martyr. The chapel was at one time entirely surrounded with glass of this sort, but only a portion has survived the ravages of the Puritans. “Of these windows,” says Austin, “unfortunately but three remain, but they are sufficient to attest their rare beauty; and for excellence of drawing, harmony of colouring, and purity of design, are justly considered unequalled. The skill with which the minute figures are represented cannot even at this day be surpassed; it is extraordinary to see how every feeling of joy or sorrow, pain and enjoyment, is expressed both in feature and position. But in nothing is the superiority of these windows shown more than the beautiful scrolls and borders which surmount the windows, and gracefully connect the groups of medallions.” Most of these windows probably contained representations of Becket, and so were doomed to destruction by the decree of Henry VIII., in which “his Grace straitly chargeth and commandeth, that henceforth the said Thomas Becket shall not be esteemed, named, reputed, nor called a saint, but Bishop Becket, and that his images and pictures throughout the whole realm shall be put down and avoided out of all churches and chapels, and other places; and that from henceforth the days used to be festivals in his name shall not be observed, nor the service, office, antiphonies, collects and prayers in his name read, but rased and put out of all books.” This proclamation was rigorously carried out though the stained windows which come within its terms have, in some cases, escaped destruction. For instance there remains a window in the south transept of Christ Church Cathedral, Oxford, representing the martyrdom of Becket, but it is interesting to note that even here the archbishop’s head was removed from the glass. Three of the windows of the Trinity Chapel have survived, and fragments of others are scattered over the glass of the building. They are entirely devoted to depicting the miracles of the martyr, which began immediately after his death and reception—according to a vision of Benedict—in a place between the apostles and the martyrs, above even St. Stephen.
The window towards the east on the north side of the shrine is divided into geometrical figures, each figure composed of a group of fine medallions; every group tells the story of a miracle, or series of miracles, performed by the influence of the saint. The lower group portrays the story of a child who was drowned in the Medway, and afterwards restored to life by the efficacy of the saint’s blood mixed with water. The first medallion shows the boy falling into the stream, while his companions pelt the frogs in the reeds by the river side; the next shows the companions relating the story of the accident to the boy’s parents, and in the third we see the grief-stricken parents watching their son’s corpse being drawn out of the river. “The landscape in these medallions is exceedingly well rendered; the trees are depicted with great grace” (Austin). Unfortunately the medallions which complete this story have been destroyed. The next group depicts the quaint story of a succession of miracles which were wrought in the family of a knight called Jordan, son of Eisult. His ten year old boy died, and the knight, who had been an intimate friend of Becket in his lifetime, resolved to try to restore his son with water mixed with the saint’s blood. At the third draught, as Benedict tells the story, the dead boy “opened one eye, and said, ‘Why are you weeping, father? Why are you crying, lady? The blessed martyr, Thomas, has restored me to you!’ At evening he sat up, ate, talked, and was restored.” But the father forgot the vow which he made in the first moment of joy at his son’s recovery, namely, that he would offer four silver pieces at the martyr’s shrine before Mid Lent. And once more all the household was stricken with sickness, and the eldest son died. Then the parents, though sore smitten themselves, dragged themselves to Canterbury and performed their vow. The whole of this story with other details for which we have no space may be accurately traced on this unique window. The most striking is the central medallion of the group in which the vengeance of the saint is shown forth. In the middle of a large room we see a bier on which lies the dead son; the father and mother, overcome with despair, stand at the head and feet of the body. Behind the bier are several figures, which, from their “unusually violent attitudes expressive of grief,” Mr. Austin considered to be professional mourners. Above, unseen by the group below, the figure of St. Thomas, clad in full episcopal robes, holding a sword in his right hand, and pointing to the corpse with his left, is seen appearing through the ceiling. “The expression,” says Austin, “of the various figures in the above compartments, both in gesture and feature, is rendered with great skill. In the execution of this story, the points which, doubtless, the artists of the monastery were chiefly anxious to impress upon the minds of the devotees who thronged to the shrine are prominently brought out: the extreme danger of delaying the performance of a vow, under whatever circumstances made, the expiation sternly required by the saint, and the satisfaction with which the martyr viewed money offerings made at the shrine.”
One of the other groups is noteworthy as proving that severe penances were sometimes performed before the shrine. One medallion shows a woman prostrating herself before a priest at the altar, while two men stand near, holding formidable-looking rods. The next picture represents the two men vigorously flagellating the woman with the rods; while, in the third, one of the men is still beating the woman, who now lies fainting on the ground, while the other is addressing the priest, who sits hard by composedly reading his book. The other two windows contain representations of the healings effected by the saint, which seem to have been of a very varied character, to judge from the catalogue with which Benedict sums them up. “What position,” he asks, “in the Church, what sex or age, what rank or order is there, which could not find something beneficial to itself [aliquid sibi utile] in this treasure-house of ours? Here the light of truth is furnished to schismatics, confidence to timid pastors, health to the sick, and pardon to the deserving penitent [pænitentibus venia ejus meritis, the last two words probably implying an offering]. The blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead rise again, the dumb speak, the poor have the gospel preached to them, the paralytic recover, the dropsical lose their swellings [detumescunt hydropici], the mad are restored to sense, the epileptic are cured, the fever-stricken escape, and, to sum up, omnimoda curatur infirmitas.”
The last of these windows to which we must call the special attention of our readers is one on the north side, representing a vision which Benedict tells us that he saw himself. The martyr is seen coming forth from his shrine in full pontifical robes, and making his way towards the altar as if to celebrate mass. This window is noticeable as containing the only representation that now exists of the shrine itself—for the picture in the Cottonian MSS. evidently shows us, not the shrine, but its outer shell, or covering. “The medallion,” says Austin, “is the more interesting, from being an undoubted work of the thirteenth century; and having been designed for a position immediately opposite to and within a few yards of the shrine itself, and occupying the place of honour in the largest and most important window, without doubt represents the main features of the shrine faithfully.”
On the north side of the Trinity Chapel, immediately opposite the tomb of the Black Prince, is that of King Henry IV., who died in 1413, and his second consort, Joan of Navarre, who followed him in 1437. This king had made liberal offerings towards the rebuilding of the nave of the cathedral, and it has been conjectured that one of the figures on the organ-screen represents him: his will ordered that he should be laid to rest in the church at Canterbury, and here accordingly he was buried on the Trinity Sunday after his death. The tomb, with its rich canopy, is a beautiful piece of work, and the figures of the king and queen are probably faithful representations. A curious story was circulated by the Yorkists, to the effect that Henry was never buried here, but that his body was thrown into the water between Gravesend and Barking, during the voyage of the funeral cortège to Faversham, and that only an empty coffin was laid in the Trinity Chapel. That this point might be cleared up, the tomb was opened in 1832 in the presence of the Dean, and there the king was found in perfect preservation, and bearing a close resemblance to the effigy on the monument—“the nose elevated, the beard thick and matted, and of a deep russet colour, and the jaws perfect, with all the teeth in them, except one foretooth.”
In the wall of the north aisle, just opposite the king’s tomb, is a small chapel, built according to the directions contained in his will “that ther be a chauntre perpetuall with twey prestis for to sing and prey for my soul.” The roof shows the first piece of fan-vaulting admitted into the cathedral. On the eastern wall an account is scratched of the cost of a reredos which once stood here, but has been entirely destroyed: it tells us that the cost of “ye middil image was xixs 11d.” This chapel was doubtless used at one time as a storehouse of sacred relics. Two recesses in the west wall have lately been chosen to receive certain archiepiscopal vestments which were discovered in a tomb on the south side of Trinity Chapel, which was long believed to be that of Archbishop Theobald.
To the east of Henry IV.’s monument is the tomb of Dean Wotton, adorned with his kneeling figure. He was the first Dean of Canterbury after the reorganization by Henry VIII. Opposite to him is an unsightly brick erection which was once intended as a temporary covering for the remains of Odo Coligny, Cardinal of Chatillon and brother of Admiral Coligny, who was one of the victims of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. The Cardinal fled from France in 1568, on account of his leanings towards the tenets of the Huguenots, and was welcomed by Queen Elizabeth. It is believed that he died from the effects of a poisoned apple given to him by a servant. It seems curious that the French Huguenots who settled in Canterbury never provided him with a more fitting monument.