Book I

I saw in a vision on the night of his martyrdom [Dn 7:13], our beloved, white and ruddy [Sg 5:10], beautiful in face and pleasing of aspect. He was dressed in the vestments and ornaments of an archbishop and going to the altar of God, as if to celebrate the mysteries of the mass. When I had seen this again on the following night or on the third, I at last began to reflect, and chiding myself, I said to myself, “Has not my lord appeared to me again and again in a vision? Why do I shy away and say nothing to him? I will go to him and let him speak with me, or I will definitely speak and he will answer me.” And so, going near to him, I asked for and received benediction, and then said, “Do not, I beg you, lord, be angry if I question you.” And he said, “Speak.” “Lord,” I said, “are you not dead?” And he, having been asked in French, responded in Latin: “I was dead, but I have risen” [Rv 1:18/Lk 24:6]. Then I said, “If you have truly risen, and should, as we believe, be counted among the martyrs, why do you not show yourself to the world?” The saint said to this, “I carry a light, but on account of the interposing cloud it cannot appear.” When I hesitated and did not understand the meaning of this, he added, “Do you wish to see?” “I do, lord,” I said. And so he held up before him, with his right hand, a great lantern with a candle burning inside of it, and he told me to look around. I looked, and I saw that the empty air had been filled with a cloud of such density that the lamp seemed to be hidden from the eyes even of those standing nearby. I considered the words that he had said and understood the vision in this way. His good works would shine out before men [Mt 5:16],1 In this part of Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus tells his followers to be like lamps on lampstands. but a cloud of persecution was intervening. The saint, having replaced the light, went to the altar, and those who were there began a festive and joyful introit for the mass, namely, as I remember, Laetare, Jerusalem, et conventum facite, omnes qui diligitis eam, etc. [Rejoice, Jerusalem, and come together all you who love her, etc.].2 This is the introit for Laetare Sunday (the fourth Sunday in Lent): Cantus ID g00776. The pious father indicated to them that it should not be performed, and in a low voice, began an office of sorrow and prayers, without musical modulation, in this way, Exsurge, quare obdormis Domine? exsurge, et ne repellas in finem; quare faciem tuam avertis, oblivisceris tribulationem nostram? adhaesit in terra venter noster: exsurge, Domine, adjuva nos et libera nos! [Arise, why do you sleep, O Lord? arise, do not cast us off to the end. Why do you turn your face away and forget our trouble? Our belly is on the ground: arise, O Lord, help us and deliver us].3 This is the introit for Sexagesima Sunday (the second Sunday before the start of Lent): Cantus ID g00640. Therefore, from him saying, “I was dead but I am risen,” I began to understand (when I had woken), that although he was dead from infirmity, yet he lived by means of the power of God.

In the same way, Bartholomew, the bishop of Exeter,4 See Biographical Notes, Bartholomew, bishop of Exeter (d.1184). was greatly mourning the martyr’s death, when he saw, in his sleep, a man standing near him. The man said, “Why do you mourn?” and the bishop responded, “For our lord of Canterbury, because he is dead.” The man said, “It is true that he is dead, but his hands and his arms live.”5 The hand and arm of God are often referenced together in the Bible: see, for instance, Deuteronomy 5:15, Psalms 43:4, Jeremiah 32:21, and Ezekiel 20:33. And so our martyr lives, since, if I may give the bishop’s interpretation of this vision, his hands live to do good works and his arms for his vindication. Concerning the vision in which I saw him praying with such devotion, I understood that he prays a great deal for the people and all the holy city of Christ, the true Jerusalem. We know that for those who love him, his prayers shall be a great confidence before the most high God [Tb 4:12]. His voice is living and effectual, and more piercing than any two-edged sword [Heb 4:12], just as was shown to a certain venerable man in his dreams.

When the martyr’s contest was completed, a certain man gave sleep to his eyes and slumber to his eyelids [Ps 131:4] when suddenly a voice resounded in his ears, as one ascending to the heavens, crying out horribly and saying, “Behold, my blood cries out more to the Lord from the earth [Gn 4:10] than the blood of Abel the just who was killed at the beginning of the world.”6 Abel and Cain were sons of Adam and Eve. For the story of Cain killing Abel, see Genesis 4:1–16. This happened at Argentan the night before the sorrowful day when the sorrowful news of the death of the martyr was first heard there.7 What Benedict does not mention here (but what he and many of his contemporaries would have known) is that King Henry II was at Argentan, a town in Normandy, when he heard the news of Becket’s death. The aforesaid man was terrified, and though he thought these things over carefully, he could not fathom what they might portend. On the next day, several people came to sit with him and talk over various events among themselves. He presented his wrapped-up mystery to them that they might unravel it, but their interior eyes were prevented from understanding it, because up to that time, nothing had been heard in that region about the death of our Abel. As they talked and discussed these things together, it happened that someone arrived who asserted that the lord of Canterbury had been killed in his church by the sword. They were stunned, and turned to the one who had told them about his dream and said, “This must be the loud voice that you heard, since there is no doubt that this innocent blood cries out to God with great force.” Therefore all of them testified that his dream was true and that this was its interpretation, and we know that their testimony is true. For from the time of the blood of Abel the just to the time of the blood of this just man, which was spilled in the temple of God, no similar noise has been heard in Bethlehem and in all its region, which has so suddenly filled all corners of the world.8 Benedict compared Becket to Abel in the Becket Office (Cantus ID 601463 and 601463a): Novus Abel/ Succedit verteri/ Vox cruroris,/ Vox sparsi cerebri/ Caelum replet/ Clamore celebri [A new Abel succeeds the old; the voice of blood, the voice of spattered brain, fills the heavens with a loud cry]. See Slocum, Liturgies, p. 190; and Reames, “Liturgical Offices,” pp. 571–2. That his sound would go forth into all the earth [Rom 10:18] and all peoples tell of his glory [Ps 85:9] was prefigured and manifestly predicted in a certain man’s dream.

A few nights, rather than days, after the setting of our sun, a boy of an innocent age, too young to be suspected of lying, was shown a multitude of both sexes and all orders convening in the choir of the church of Canterbury. He saw the martyr lying without breath before the altar of Christ, all dressed in silk, and under his head there was a cushion also made entirely of silk. A reverent person in monastic habit supported his head with his hands. And suddenly, from both sides of the martyr, two branches grew up, as if from one trunk, and in a very little time they had grown so high that they seemed ready to break through the roof of the church. Everyone stood and gazed at the rods growing so quickly, wondering greatly, when the one in monastic habit said, “Men, brothers, why do you stand here looking [Acts 1:11] and wondering at the sight of the rods? This is a prefiguration of the fame and glory of the holy martyr. For in the same way that you see them going up to heaven, so too the glory of the saint will grow and multiply in the sight of the Lord. They will grow to a great height and will shoot out branches to all the earth, and there will be no end to their length.” That man said many similar things, and worthily extoled the worthy saint to God, but the boy was only able to remember a few of the things that were said because he was young and lacked capacity. Woken from sleep, he wished to accompany his father when he went to the church of Christ,9 That is, Canterbury Cathedral, which was dedicated to Christ. and, being persistent, he received permission to do so. When they both entered the choir, he did not find anything that he had seen, and he was amazed. When the father saw his son’s troubled face, he was concerned for him. In response to his father’s questions, the boy described what he had seen and what he had heard. The father understood, and he predicted to the innermost ears of some people that the great martyr had risen among us, and that he would truly be exalted and elevated and brought to the heavens. Already we have seen that the Lord has magnified him in the sight of kings,10 This is an antiphon from the Common office for a martyr: Cantus ID 003671. Here Benedict might be making a veiled reference to the visit of the Young King Henry to Becket’s tomb in the fall of 1172. For this visit, see Strickland, Henry the Young King, pp. 116–18. and the earth is full of his praise [Hb 3:3].

How he was exalted and elevated, and crowned with glory and honor in heaven [Ps 8:6], can be considered by means of the following vision.

In the week of the octave of the martyr’s passing,11 I.e., December 29, 1170 through January 5, 1171. a brother who had died many days before appeared to a certain monk of Lewes.12 Lewes Priory, located in Sussex, was the first Cluniac abbey founded in Britain. It was a large and important monastic establishment by the late twelfth century. Bearing in mind that the one he saw was dead, the monk asked him about many things, and also closely questioned him about the state of the lord of Canterbury who had recently been killed. The brother standing before him spoke a great deal in his praise and glory, but (so that it might be said shortly), he finished his account by saying that he had been presented by the blessed Virgin Mary and the holy apostles, as well as some of the martyrs, confessors and virgins, before the great golden throne13 See Revelation 4:1–11 for John’s vision of the heavenly throne. which has two doors which open and close. From the throne there rose a most beautiful form beyond the sons of men [Ps 44:3], in whose presence alone the souls of the faithful live and are made glad. He embraced the blessed Thomas and gave him the kiss of his benediction, and then he took the martyr from the saints and placed him most reverently with the apostles. The monk who heard this marveled, and wished to know the reason for this: why the martyr would be granted a more worthy seat than the rest of the martyrs, especially the first martyr Stephen and the saints Lawrence and Vincent.14 For the stoning of Stephen, considered to be the first Christian martyr, see Acts 7:54–60. St. Lawrence (d.258) and St. Vincent (d.304) were martyred during periods of Roman persecution of Christians. They were both very popular saints in the medieval west. The brother responded that he was of a more worthy position and order. The other martyrs entered individually into single combat and fought for the cause of their own selves, but the lord of Canterbury was killed for the cause of the whole church. While the other martyrs were killed by the Gentiles, he was slain by his own sons.15 In other words, while Stephen, Lawrence, and Vincent were killed by pagan Romans (“Gentiles”), Becket was killed by Christians, his “sons” because he was their archbishop. Benedict comments on the fact that Becket was killed by Christians in the Passion as well: see above, Extract VI.

I have said these things without injury to the holy martyrs, for it has been my intent to describe simply the sum of the vision rather than to dare to claim anything about matters so unknown.16 To view Becket as better than all other martyrs, belonging instead in the company of the apostles (that is, Christ’s original disciples), is quite extraordinary. For an excellent discussion of the types and hierarchies of saints, see Robert Bartlett, Why Can the Dead Do Such Great Things: Saints and Worshippers from the Martyrs to the Reformation (Princeton, 2013), pp. 137–238, with discussion of apostles and martyrs at pp. 167–85. And yet, twelve years earlier, something happened in the uttermost ends of England which appears to offer the testimony of firm and true weight to the present vision. A certain young man, of the name of Orm, was led out of the body for several days.17 An account of the vision of Orm, a thirteen-year-old boy from Yorkshire, was written down in 1126 by a neighboring priest. For an edition and discussion of the text from the sole surviving manuscript, see Hugh Farmer, “The Vision of Orm,” AB 75 (1957): 72–82. This one known account of Orm’s vision does not contain a reference to an empty seat, so Benedict seems to have been familiar with a different version. For a discussion of Orm’s vision within the context of similar texts, see Carl Watkins, “Sin, Penance and Purgatory in the Anglo-Norman Realm: The Evidence of Visions and Ghost Stories,” Past and Present 175 (2002): 3–33. When he was returned to his body, he described what he saw in that world, marvelous things that aroused amazement in those who heard them. Among the things that he recounted, he said, “I was led to the highest order of the saints, and I said to my guide, ‘Lord, who are they?’ And he said, ‘They are the apostles of Christ.’ And I looked, and I saw an empty seat among the apostles and martyrs. I asked why there was a vacant place and who would fill it. And the angel said to me, ‘That is a seat for a priest of the English.’” As his informant stopped speaking, he returned to his body.18 The Latin of Robertson’s edition reads: “as his informant stopped speaking, he left the body,” but it seems rather that he returned to his body, as I have rendered it here. Phyllis Roberts has catalogued a fourteenth-century sermon that includes a story very similar to this. It concerns a “dead youth… [who] was miraculously restored to life after telling of how he had seen in heaven a beautiful seat standing empty among the apostles being held for Thomas Becket”: see Roberts, Thomas Becket in the Medieval Latin Preaching Tradition: An Inventory of Sermons about St Thomas Becket, c.1170–c.1400, Instrumenta Patristica 25 (The Hague, 1992), no. 151, p. 208. Many people had faith in his words, and took his unexpected death as additional confirmation. They believed that the priest he spoke of was a hermit of a most celebrated name, whose equal in religion and in merit of sanctity was not known.19 Given the Yorkshire origins of Orm’s vision, the hermit Godric of Finchale (d.1170), is the most likely candidate for the “hermit of a most celebrated name.” On Godric, see Reginald of Durham: The Life and Miracles of Saint Godric, Hermit of Finchale, ed. and trans. by Margaret Coombe, OMT (Oxford, 2022), and Tom Licence, Hermits and Recluses in English Society, 950–1200 (Oxford, 2011), pp. 100–5, 166–71, and 186–90. But now, due to the agreement of the visions, the prerogative of a martyr, and the name and dignity of a priest, we deduce that the seat in heaven was prepared for our martyr, rather than for that hermit, especially as the latter was the priest of one region only, while the former was the high priest of all England. And yet I do not assert my own opinion in these things, nor do I exalt, with great daring, our martyr above all other martyrs. Even so, as far as I can judge from his words and actions, no-one could ever have had either a more glorious cause of martyrdom, a soul more powerful in suffering adversity, nor a greater desire to die for Christ and the Church. And so his soul pleased God; therefore, the Lord hastened to bring him out of the midst of iniquities [Ws 4:14], so that the angels of God in heaven would have joy in his triumph, and that joy would be returned to the church, for so long mired in the filth of sorrowful affliction, by the flashing of miracles. A certain sleeping brother of the church of Canterbury was given future notice of the same thing in a most beautiful way.

He thought that in the choir of the aforesaid church a diverse crowd had gathered, as if for a feast day, and solemn matins had begun. After the fourth lection was read, however, there was no-one to sing the responsory.20 Such a silence would sound very strange, because a responsory always follows the reading of a lection. As they were standing as if stupefied, and there was a great silence in the choir, a young man of great beauty rose, and sang this refrain with a most sweet modulation of voice in the sight of all:

Having finished the responsory, the young man added on the verse:

When the brother woke, he told what he had heard to the rest of the brothers cast in sorrow. He warmed some with the hope of future happiness, but he renewed and increased the grief of the father’s death in others.

One monk was undone by grief to a greater extent than the rest. He said to several of us that death would put an end to his pain and his life at the same time. His pious father could not bear his sorrow for long. As a mother consoles her children, so also he consoled him [Is 66:13] and turned his sadness into joy. He visited him while he slept, and beginning the fiftieth Psalm, urged him to pray with him.22 Psalm 50 (numbered 51 in Hebrew and Protestant Bibles) was recited at the conclusion of each of the monastic offices. On the central importance of this Psalm in medieval thought and devotion, see Bruce K. Waltke and James M. Houston with Erika Moore, “Psalm 51: ‘The Psalm of All Psalms’ in Penitential Devotion,” in idem, The Psalms as Christian Worship: An Historical Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI, 2010), pp. 446–83. Having alternated verses, they were already nearing the end, when the saint little by little moved away, as if he intended to leave. The monk wailed when he noticed this. Kindled with greater desire for the fatherly presence, he tried to hold him back with tears. The father returned, as if compassionate for a crying son, and said, “Why, son, are you troubled? Do not be sad or sorrowful, but rather refrain from suffering, for before the seventh week ends, you will hear something that will make you rejoice greatly. Cease from your mourning, and be of good courage, for you will soon receive consolation” [Tb 5:13]. The promise of the saint was a true one, as became clear in Easter week, which was the fourth or fifth from that day.23 This dates the grieving monk’s vision to mid to late February 1171. For in that week, miracles clearly began to multiply, the doors of the church were unlocked, and the sick who had gathered were admitted to the tomb of the martyr. The Lord granted so much grace of healing to the ill that every single day we were able to say, with joy, the words of the gospel, “We have seen wonderful things today” [Lk 5:26].

Many signs, however, were done throughout England by the favor of the martyr before Easter – though not openly, but as if in secret. Some of these we heard as if in the ear shortly after the martyrdom, others with the passing of time, and we received them in order to preach upon the housetops someday [Mt 10:27]. We did not wish to sound the trumpet before us immediately [Mt 6:2], nor to enlarge fringes [Mt 23:5], but we were mute and did not speak of the good things,24 Writing quite soon after Becket’s death, a monk of Reading, Robert Partes, complained in a poem that Canterbury was not proclaiming Becket to be a martyr: see W. H. Cornog, “The Poems of Robert Partes,” Speculum 12 (1937): 215–50, p. 249. until the Lord stilled the tempest’s wind.25 A reference to the story of Christ calming the storm: see Matthew 8:23–7, Mark 4:35–41, and Luke 8:22–5. We awaited the father’s promise concerning what would happen to the city of Canterbury that a certain English pilgrim, returning from Jerusalem, had heard ten years before the martyr’s passion from the mouth of a monk. It seemed that this monk was like a prophet: as the spirit mounted in him, he would foretell many things that the hearers very often saw to come to pass. And so, on a day when the monk saw the pilgrim standing near him, he said, “Friend, where are you from?” “From England,” he said. And the monk replied, “O England, England! How lovely is your future!” Turning again to the pilgrim, he said, “Have you ever been to Canterbury?” When he said that he had never seen the city, the monk said, “O Canterbury! how lovely, how delightful is your future!26 Benedict echoed this idea of the good fortune of specific places associated with Becket in an antiphon in the Becket Office (Cantus ID 201809): Felix locus/ felix ecclesia/ in qua Thome/ viget memoria./ Felix terra/ que dedit presulem/ felix illa/ qua fovit exulem./ Felix pater/ succurre miseris,/ ut felices/ iungamur superis [Blessed is the place, blessed is the church in which the memory of Thomas flourishes; blessed the land that bestowed the archbishop, and blessed the land that welcomed the exile. Blessed father, help us wretched ones so that we, blessed, may be united with those above]. See Slocum, Liturgies, p. 208 and Reames, “Liturgical Offices,” pp. 573–4. For there will come a day when the people will flood to you in the same way they now visit the blessed Giles, or the blessed James, or Rome, or Jerusalem.”27 Rome, Jerusalem, and Compostela (the resting place of St. James) were the three principal pilgrimage sites for medieval Christians. The relics of St. Giles (d.c.710) were held at the Abbey of Saint-Gilles in the Languedoc region of southern France. The abbey became a major pilgrimage church, serving as a waypoint for pilgrims going to Compostela in particular, but also to Rome and Jerusalem. Returning from Jerusalem, this pilgrim told this to not a few people nearly ten years before the martyrdom of our most pious father Thomas. Moreover, when he heard that the city of Canterbury was illuminated by many miracles, he said to his lady, Bertha of Gloucester, a very venerable woman,28 See Biographical Notes, Bertha of Hereford. “Do you remember, lady, those things I heard from that monk when I was returning from Jerusalem, and that I told them to you when I came back?” And she said, “I well remember that.” Then the pilgrim said, “Surely, I believe that the things which were then told to me about Canterbury have been fulfilled in these days.” This was related to us by the pilgrim and the lady with most truthful attestation.

With whatever spirit these things were predicted, we discerned a great source of truth, for we conjectured that these things were fulfilled by the frequency of miracles and the arrival of many people. And indeed, the thronging of the people seemed to be more wonderful than the miracles, unless this too is a miracle. For what is more miraculous or more marvelous, than that the world today adores a man whom yesterday they hated; that today they run toward him, from whom yesterday they fled; that they implore his patronage in the presence of God today, when yesterday, either from fear of earthly powers or from the wickedness of their own minds, they would not associate with him. Many of the wise see this to be the greatest miracle among great miracles.29 A panel in Canterbury Cathedral window nV shows a throng of pilgrims traveling to Canterbury: see Koopmans, “Pilgrimage Scenes,” 708–15.

Since God lessened the cloud of persecution which, as has been said above, had been obscuring the light of the martyr, the discourse now passes from visions to the mention of miracles. Putting them aside, it is agreeable to add on these, lest we seem to dally over the trifles of dreams for a lack of signs. We will tell the story only of these miracles: those which we saw with our own eyes, or we heard from the actual ill people already healed and their witnesses, or those things we learned from the testimony of religious men, who had seen them with their own eyes. It is foolish to wish to conceal the grace and glory that the Lord gives and be like the impious, who sit in darkness and the shades of death [Lk 1:79] and do not wish to speak of the joy of light. For behold, the most blessed martyr of Christ, Thomas, lights up the world again, and more abundantly than he used to. He has again been made into a refuge for the world, who, for as long as he was in the world, was a light of the world [Jn 9:5] and a tower of its strength in the face of the enemy [Ps 60:4]. The setting of such a sun could not be hidden from the world’s darkness, nor did the fall of such a tower fail to make a great sound. The alabaster was broken in the church of Canterbury, and the whole house was suddenly filled with the scent of the perfume [Jn 12:3].30 For the story of the woman who came to Christ with an alabaster of perfume, see Matthew 26:6–13, Mark 14:3–9, Luke 7:36–50, and John 12:1–8. Benedict reused this imagery in the Becket Office (Cantus ID 202016): Granum cadit, copiam/ germinat frumenti,/ Alabastrum frangitur/ fragrat vis unguenti [The seed falls and puts forth an abundance of grain; the alabaster is broken, and the potency of the perfume is fragrant]: see Slocum, Liturgies, p. 204 and Reames, “Liturgical Offices,” pp. 576–7. The glorious triumph of the most constant champion was not unknown in the halls of princes, nor passed over the hovels of the poor, for everyone, far and wide, knew of his death very soon.

On the third day, the news of the accursed deed came to the house of a knight of Sussex, by the name of Robert de Sancto Andrea,31 See Biographical Notes, Robert de Sancto Andrea, with thanks to John Jenkins for this identification. whose wife Emma lay oppressed by a grievous illness and deprived of light. By the vehemence of the illness, she had been made blind. The woman heard, her belly was troubled [Ps 30:10], and her heart trembled. Sighing from deep within her chest, she said, “Truly, Christ has made for himself a precious martyr.” She did not just call him a martyr: she also invoked him, adding these words, “Holy Thomas, precious martyr of Christ, I vow myself to you. If you restore the sight taken from me and bring me back to health, I will visit your resting place to offer my prayers to you, together with gifts.” This wonderful flower of faith was followed by more wonderful fruit of faith, for suddenly, it was as if the martyr turned to her and responded with the voice of the Lord, “O woman, your faith is great, let it be to you as you wish” [Mt 15:28], for within half an hour of making the vow, she received her sight, and within six days, she rose from her bed. Having received what she wished, she delayed fulfilling her vow for a long time, either from negligence or from forgetfulness. For her correction, she was again struck with the scourge of a graver illness. She renewed her vow. She became well at once, and she hurried to Canterbury with her husband and household to give thanks to the martyr for the doubling of grace in her. This was the beginning of the signs of Jesus in Sussex of England, and the glory of his martyr was manifested to his disciples [Jn 2:11], to us, who had eaten and drunk with him [Acts 10:41] before he had been killed in the womb of the virgin and mother church.32 By this, Benedict means Becket’s death inside Canterbury Cathedral, the mother church of England. His miracles began, quite beautifully, on the third day.33 That is, December 31, 1170. In the same way that the saint had fixed himself to the cross of Christ in circumstances marvelously similar to Christ’s, because he suffered similar kinds of treachery and ignominy, so too he merited the honor of a swift manifestation.34 In other words, Becket died a Christ-like death, and in the same way that Christ rose three days after his death, Becket’s first miracle came three days after his death.

The glory of a second sign made the fifth day from the martyrdom noteworthy.35 January 2, 1171. A great length of distance was traveled in a short space of time, for on this day the lamentable news arrived in Gloucester. Huelina, the daughter of Aaliza of London, was beginning her sixteenth year. From her fifth year, her head had swollen up every month and had almost immobilized the rest of her body. In the winter months, the pain and swelling went away after two or three days, but in the summer, it would often remain for a whole week. Lying with her head supine, the girl would not be able to turn or move onto her side. She had no rest while she was awake and very little or no ability to sleep. Although she was still of a tender age, she was given many medicines and draughts and bore many caustics, but they did not correct or expel the disease. The mother of the ill girl heard of the passion of the venerable father, and she believed and trusted in the martyr, thinking that the land had received rather than lost a patron. The mother made a promise to the martyr for her daughter, and obligated her by a vow to a devout pilgrimage if the martyr would unbind her from the tie of such an infirmity. She had hardly finished speaking when the girl, who then happened to be suffering in the usual way, turned herself onto her side and slept. When she woke, the disease was plucked out from its roots, such that she felt no remnants of it remaining in her. Afterwards, we heard and looked upon them both with our eyes, and we judged that this miracle, corroborated by irrefutable testimony, was worthy of faith. Otherwise, the miracle of the following day would accuse us of incredulity, since it seemed to support the preceding sign with unshakeable testimony. Yet because of others, and mainly because of the belittling of those speaking evil, it was not useless that we doubted each one. They are doubted by us, lest they be doubted by others: we showed ourselves hard and as if unbelieving in the examination of the truth, so that the adversaries of the truth might be ground down into believing, or proved wrong by a strict examination of the truth and so confounded.

The Lord Jesus again revealed his martyr on the sixth day in a town of Berkshire, which the English call Enborne; he revealed in this way [Jn 21:1]. In that place there was a venerable knight, William Belet,36 See Biographical Notes, William Belet. well known and of good repute. For three months, he was tortured by pain in his left arm and had endured the heavy burden of being confined to bed. His arm was so swollen that it grew to the size of his thigh, while his hand expanded so much that it looked like a fist rather than a hand. His fingers were so thick that they no longer seemed to have the shape of fingers. Then came the third nones of January, a Sunday and the sixth day from the martyr’s triumph,37 January 3, 1171. when the mother of the household, returning from church, began to cry most bitterly. Thinking that she wept out of compassion for him, he urged her to hold back her tears, chiding her with soothing words and saying that the scourge of the Lord would be to his good: he would improve when the divine piety willed it. But the woman replied, “It is not what you think, most dear lord. I am not only distressed on your account. I weep for our father and the father of our whole land, the lord of Canterbury, who was killed in his own church by the swords of the most wicked knights.” And so, having begun, she told him everything that she had heard about it. Then he said, “Truly, he is a precious martyr of God,” and turning to prayer, he said, “Precious martyr Thomas, since it is true that you underwent your passion for the love of God and the defense of the liberty of the church, and since I believe that you are a martyr of Christ, so may you deign to release me from the misery of this illness that I am suffering. If you grant me the grace of this release, you will have me as a pilgrim to your holy tomb.” Oh how firm was the faith of the ill man, how full of merit, how quickly rewarded! With the end of the prayer came the beginning of the end of pain. On the following night, eased by a sweet and sufficient sleep beyond that which was usual, he woke to find himself restored. The pain was expelled, the swelling gone, and his left arm again had the appearance of his right. This was the third time that Jesus revealed himself in his martyr [Jn 21:14], after he was in him again crucified.

On the next day,38 The Latin reads altera autem die, which is generally translated as “a few days ago” or “the second day.” What Benedict appears to be saying here is that Brithiva’s miracle happened the “second day,” by which he means the day following William Belet’s miracle. This would place Brithiva’s miracle on the seventh day after Becket’s martyrdom. To avoid confusion, the translation for altera autem die adopted here is “the next day.” at Canterbury, the light of the fourth miracle shone forth. A poor woman named Brithiva had become blind. As it was her darkness, so it was also her light. She was touched by the spirit of majesty, for despite being simple, illiterate, and blind in body, yet she saw that someone who was killed in such a way could be nothing other than a martyr. And so, grounded and rooted in faith, she went to lodgings in the vicinity. She asked the mother of the household if she had procured something of the martyr and whether she would lend it to her, so that she might touch it to her eyes lacking light. She produced a reddened cloth that was still moist with the martyr’s liquid blood.39 In the Passion, Benedict described how people dipped pieces of cloth of Becket’s blood: see above, Extract VIII. The blind woman wiped her eyes and wiped away the fog of blindness. She had come being led; she left without any guide.

And after eight days,40 I.e., eight days after Becket’s martyrdom (counting the martyrdom day as the first day): Tuesday January 5, 1171. the joy of the fifth miracle came to us. When William, a priest of London,41 See Biographical Notes, William, priest of London. William’s miracle is pictured in two panels of Canterbury Cathedral window nV: see Caviness, Windows, p. 179 (where the first of the two panels is incorrectly identified as the miracle of William Patrick with Toothache). a man of innocent simplicity and simple innocence, had sat down to dine on the fourth day before the death of the blessed Thomas, namely on the feast day of the protomartyr Stephen,42 Stephen’s feast is held on December 26. a sudden paralysis took away his tongue’s function. Two experienced doctors were called and he engaged them both. The ill man received an antidote from each of them individually, antidotes recommended by them as most excellent, but they had no effect and gave the ill one no improvement. When the most holy priest of God offered himself as a sacrifice to God to Christ, in Christ’s church and for Christ’s church, and by his own blood entered in the holy of holies [Heb 9:12], a man of most illustrious and reverend aspect appeared to another clerk of London in his sleep, saying, “Rise, go and tell William the priest that he is to hasten to Canterbury to the new martyr of Christ. If a drop of the holy blood is placed on his tongue, his speech will be restored.” And again, when he was departing, he said, “Do you hear what was said to you? Beware lest you neglect the command.” He went and spoke to the priest as he had been ordered to do. The man believed the word which the messenger said to him [Jn 4:50], and he immediately set out and went to Canterbury. Having asked for permission, he kept vigil overnight in prayer at the tomb of the martyr.43 The doors of the crypt were kept locked until the Friday of Easter week (see below, II.6). Anyone seeking access to Becket’s tomb would have needed the monks’ permission. A drop of blood was given to him, as he asked. Moreover, a drink of water made holy by a similar drop was given to him, which was without doubt begun by divine will and is done frequently to the present day. For he who said, “every one shall be perfect, if he be as his master” [Lk 6:40], and made the blessed Thomas a most perfect imitator of himself in his life and passion, also wished to give Thomas a perfect and admirable resemblance to himself after his death. In the same way that the blood of Christ with water benefits the growth of souls,44 Benedict is referring here to the practice of mixing wine with water in the Eucharistic ritual, in which the wine/water mixture was considered to be the blood of Christ. so also, when the blood of his servant is drunk with water, it benefits the health of bodies. We do not believe that there has been anyone else to whom God has granted this special privilege of resemblance: it is observed that only the blood of the lamb of Bethlehem and the blood of the lamb of Canterbury is drunk in the whole world.45 On “the blood of the lamb,” see above, Prologue, p. 78, n.8, and for the weight Benedict places on William’s miracle as supposedly the first time anyone drank Becket’s blood, see the Introduction, pp. 16–18 and 49. Yet this was not begun without great fear; but, seeing that it gave profit to the ill, fear receded, and little by little security came.

And so, this priest was the first of all to taste the blood of the martyr, and he received the grace of speaking, although at first less than perfectly. When he was at Canterbury, less was restored to him, but when he turned back, his speech was granted more fully. And so he returned exulting and greatly praising the Lord in his martyr, yet secretly, on account of the fear of the Judaizing persecutors – Judaizers, since in the same way the Jews endeavored to extinguish the name of the slain Christ, so also those people endeavored to extinguish the glory of the murdered martyr and to erase his memory from the earth.46 For other markedly anti-Semitic statements made by Benedict, see below, II.20 and II.76. And so, no one yet spoke openly about him, nor confessed his marvels in public, but there was much murmur about these things among the people [Jn 7:12–13]. At this time, God’s and the martyr’s enemies conspired that wherever they found men of such conviction, they were either immediately punished or led in chains to their prisons. An edict went forth from them [Lk 2:1], as if under the name of a public power, lest anyone speak further of him. But they tried in vain to hide the rays of the sun. They were able to give pain to his glory, but not to destroy it, for his magnificence was elevated above the heavens, and his glory above all the earth [Ps 107:6]. So also we, since we ought to serve God rather than men [Acts 5:29], cannot but speak about the things which we have seen and heard [Acts 4:20].

We saw a knight of Holland by the name of Stephen,47 See Biographical Notes, Stephen of Holland (Lincolnshire), knight. I am grateful to John Jenkins for this identification. A panel in Canterbury Cathedral Trinity Chapel window nV pictures this miracle: see Caviness, Windows, pp. 178–9 and Rachel Koopmans, “Demons and Discoveries in a Miracle Window of Canterbury Cathedral,” Vidimus 123, January 2019 issue (online journal), https://vidimus.org/issues/issue-123/feature. who was notable both by name and by his great devotion to the blessed Thomas. For no less than thirty years, he had been afflicted by a demon every single night as he slept, such that he was so pressed down and suffocated that unless he woke up quickly, he would die. Oppressed in this way, he used to cry out in his sleep and call to his servants by name, ordering them to run to his aid. Woken from sleep, or sometimes even keeping watch around him on his orders, they shook the shouting man roughly, and sometimes raised him up so that he sat or stood erect. He had told them many times that he should be made to stand on his feet, and he asked them to wake him by pulling hard on his hair. In such distress he passed around thirty years, to the point that he would have preferred to renounce all of his possessions than continue to be vexed by this terrible phantom. He spoke to many doctors, increased his gifts to them and offered them still greater ones, but it brought him no benefit at all. For they said it was ephialtes (what we would term, in Latin, over-lying)48 Ephialtes is a transliteration of Greek term meaning a nightmare of crushing or throttling: see DMLBS, entry for ephialtes. In one manuscript, there is additional explanation: “which the common people call an incubus, the literate an oppressor” [quod vulgus incubonem, Latini oppressorem, appellant]: see Robertson’s note, MTB, vol. 2, p. 44 n. 6. For discussion of this story and its vocabulary for an incubus, see William F. MacLehose, “Fear, Fantasy and Sleep in Medieval Medicine,” in Elena Carrera (ed.), Emotions and Health, 1200–1700 (Leiden, 2013), 67–94, at pp. 67–8. See also Stephen Gordon, “Medical Condition, Demon or Undead Corpse? Sleep Paralysis and the Nightmare in Medieval Europe,” Journal of the Social History of Medicine 28:3 (2015): 425–44. but he always insisted that it was a demon. Our lord of Canterbury still lived in the flesh beyond the flesh,49 In other words, he was living a heavenly life while still on earth. See Romans 8:3–9 and compare with a widely cited quotation attributed to Jerome: Profecto in carne praeter carnem vivere non terrena vita est, sed caelestis [Truly, to live in the flesh beyond the flesh is to live not the earthly but the heavenly life]. and, having been called back from exile, he was in his patriarchal see awaiting the reward of his struggle. At one time before that same lord’s passion, the knight was sleeping and suffering his usual affliction, when it seemed to him that he begged the Lord by the merits of each of the saints whose names he was able to remember that the demon would be cast off and he would receive the benefit of rest. This had done nothing for him, when by chance, or rather by divine will and instigation, he added, “Lord, free me for the love of the archbishop of Canterbury who was exiled for you and the freedom of your church!” When nothing resulted from this request, he thought that many of the archbishops of Canterbury had been banished for the same cause, and he added, “Lord, for the love of the archbishop Thomas!” But when no peace came to him from this, he thought that many of the lords of Canterbury had the same name. So that there would not be any uncertainty and to avoid any ambiguity, he said, “The Thomas who was last exiled for you!” Immediately, that which had harassed him disappeared and he was freed.

On another night, suffering from the same trouble, he rejoiced to find himself freed at once with an invocation of the same name. But after the passion of the saint, when, having heard [the news] of his death which had immediately filled the whole world, he had a mass celebrated for him, and he wholly escaped the punishment which had been inflicted on him since his boyhood. On another occasion, the same demon appeared to him in the form of a bird.50 The manuscripts differ in the form the demon took at this point. Some read “bird,” others “ship,” and others “dwarf”: see Robertson, p. 45 n. 1. Robertson follows the manuscripts reading “dwarf,” but a bird would seem to be more likely to “circle from afar.” The late twelfth-century stained glass picturing this miracle in Canterbury Cathedral shows a demon flying down from above, supporting the reading of bird. It seemed that it was unable to approach him in his bed, and so circled him from afar. The knight spoke to and taunted it, saying, “I trust in the merits of the blessed martyr Thomas and do not fear you: his grace will protect and recover me from your control.” From this hour, no phantom troubled the knight in this way. After a period of time in which he made certain of his liberation, he went to the memorial of the saint on foot. The humble dress he wore indicated the humility of his heart, and the way he told the story suggested the wonderful happiness of his mind. In our presence, he praised the martyr with wonderful affection, the martyr who, while living, had delivered him from this terrible distress once and then twice. After his death, he delivered him once more, and then there was no need to do it again.

There was no less cause or abundance of joy for William Patrick, the servant of William of Warbleton, who was miraculously released not from the illusion of a phantom, but from a real and terrible toothache. He had a very large swelling on his jaw, and was in such unbearable pain that those not knowing the reason for his cries and gestures might think that he was mad rather than in pain.51 Benedict frequently states that people in extreme pain look as if they were insane. For these references, and for analysis of Benedict’s stories about cures of the insane, see Claire Trenery, Madness, Medicine and Miracle in Twelfth-Century England (New York, 2019), pp. 79–109, esp. 86–8. Except for the fact that the Lord had quickly stayed his hand and lifted him up, he would have been placed in chains as a madman. By divine mercy, he escaped the hardness of chains by the pleasant embrace of the sweetest dream. When he was asleep, he saw a young man of most elegant appearance standing near him, and when he asked him who he was, he said he was a clerk of the lord of Canterbury. The dreamer warned and advised him not to tell this to anyone, for it was not safe for anyone in England to make an avowal of this sort on account of the martyr’s enemies. But he said, “I am not afraid of them. I should not quake with fear – they should. Look, I carry letters from the lord pope. Those who transgressed by the death of the martyr are to be punished: the rest, where-ever they might be in England, are free from punishment to the same degree that they are free from guilt.”52 This appears to be a reference to Alexander III’s proclamation of March 25, 1171 that Becket’s murderers and all who helped them were excommunicated. See Vincent, “Murderers,” pp. 252–3 and MTB, vol. 7, no. 751, pp. 475–8. And when the ill one said the name of the person whom the blessed Thomas used to call “the son of perdition” in his writings,53 See Biographical Notes, Ranulf de Broc. the other said, “He is heading straight into the pit of hell. But you, young man, what is wrong with you?” He spoke of what he suffered, and he heard him reply in this way: “Open your mouth, and I will bring comfort to you by means of the lord of Canterbury’s cloak in which he was dressed in the hour of his passion.”54 For more on this cloak, see Extract VIII of the Passion and I.19 and I.21 below. Taking up the edge of the cloak, he waved a little air into his mouth. He placed that same cloak on the swelling on his face. When the dreamer woke, he found himself freed from all pain. What was to him even more marvelous, which those listening to him heard with great admiration, he could accurately describe what the cloak of the saint was like, though he had never seen it. These things his disciples did not know at first [Jn 12:16] but after miracles were multiplied, and many bodies of the saints, which seemed to have slept in an idleness of torpor or fear, rose on account of devotion and flocked in crowds to the martyr, the young man, too, came into the holy city of Canterbury with his lord, and he appeared to many [Mt 27:52–3]. He removed a swelling of doubt from our hearts about this event, the fame of which had preceded his arrival. This miracle was done around the time of Lent and was revealed to us around the sacred day of Pentecost.55 Lent fell between February 10 and March 28 in 1171; Pentecost Sunday was May 16.

In those days, when the church of Canterbury already shone forth with many miracles, and I was directing my attention to the ill people suffering throughout the entire church according to the task assigned to me, I came upon a clerk nearing the age of an adult, who, having completed his prayer, was leaving the memorial of the martyr. He said that he was Robert, the son of a knight called William of the province of Surrey: the humble name of the village has not remained in my memory. The young man asserted that he had been suffering from fever for some weeks. Having been advised to flee to the merits of the blessed Thomas, he ignored the admonition. At length, he had himself carried to London so that he might be cured by the doctors there. He had been in a dangerous position from fevers for a long time, and he learned, by the judgement of the doctors, that he had a hepatic complaint.56 Benedict uses the word hepaticus, a transliteration of a Greek word meaning liver, to describe Robert’s condition: see the DMLBS entry for hepaticus. Pain occupied the right side of his body from his shoulder to his groin, his face was parched with pallor, the fevers ate up his body, a dry cough exhausted his panting chest, and the hardness of his liver, which the doctors term sclerosis,57 Sclerosis is a Greek term meaning hardening: see the DMLBS entry for sclerosis. This word is spelled sclirosim, scliorsin, sclyrosyn, and scyrosim in different manuscripts: see Robertson, MTB, vol. 2, p. 48 n. 1 and Duggan, “Santa Cruz,” p. 47. was such that if one were to lay a hand on it, it felt like a stone, and fingers could not press in under the ribs. By these indications, he was understood to have a hepatic complaint, a condition that cannot be cured by the work of any doctor, no matter how industrious. And so, with the fevers only moderated, and despaired of by all, he was sent back to his own home, and for several weeks he was confined to the tedium of bed. However, he changed within himself and was converted to the holy Thomas: he began to ask that he be favored by his merits. O, what a worthy spectacle, delightful to relate! In the same hour that he poured out his prayer, he began to feel better. Brought back to vigor, that same day he left his bed, and he did not need to lie down again due to any weakness. This strength and health was granted to him around the middle of the days of the period of Lent,58 That is, about the beginning of March 1171. and in his heart he wished to go to Canterbury with all haste. But seeing that the wind of persecution was still strong, he feared to go there, and put off the accomplishment of his desire until a less dangerous time. For the Lord had not yet commanded the wind and the sea that they might be calm.59 For the story of Christ calming the wind and the sea, see Matthew 8:23–7, Mark 4:36–41, and Luke 8:22–5. The ship was still tossed in the midst of the waves, and the persecutors of the martyr attempted to erase his name from the earth, though the Lord added glory to his saint against them.

A pregnant woman, Alditha of Worth, came to the time of birth, but did not have the power of birthing. She was in labor for three full days and nights, but did not give birth. From the distress of so much pain, she was approaching death. Her priest was called, a man who was also her kinsman. She received the viaticum and commended herself most strongly to his prayers, worrying that though he had loved her chastely when she was alive, he might forget her when when she was dead. Having compassion on the sufferer’s pain, the priest said, “Look, I have a stole blessed by the martyr of God, Thomas the archbishop of Canterbury.60 When priests were ordained, archbishops would bless their stoles, long strips of cloth that hung around priests’ necks and were worn whenever priests conducted a service. Trust that you can be freed by his merits, and without any doubt, you will be freed.” She applied herself to faith. With faith, she invoked the name of the martyr, and the stole was wrapped around her. The priest had hardly gone a mile from the home when, brought back by her husband, he knew the woman had brought forth, and already she remembered no more the anguish, for a person was born into the world [Jn 16:21].

A certain religious woman, Wlviva, acquired a portion of the precious blood that had been shed in the church of Christ in Canterbury for Christ. It was as much as could have been held in the shell of a hazelnut. At this time, this woman was the custodian of an almshouse ministering to the poor and pilgrims. Afterwards, she took upon herself the chains of a harsher service, given over to the service of lepers, until at length she transferred herself to the repose of an anchorage. Having acquired, as we said, a portion of the precious blood, she returned to her almshouse, rejoicing for the precious relic, but anxious on account of its small amount. She worried that the wooden vessel would drink up all the liquid of the blood, or that it would diffuse through the bottom of the vessel and congeal, such that she would not be able to remove the blood when she wished to. Having thought these things over, she wiped out the blood from the wood most carefully with a cloth. She thought that if the cloth were stained with the relic, it would serve more bountifully for those desiring a part of it, and that the vessel itself might be necessary for another purpose. And so she wrapped up the vessel in a cloth and placed it back in a chest. The next day, she unlocked the chest and opened the little vessel in order to see the relic. She found liquid blood in it, about the same amount, as far as she could judge, that she had, the day before, wiped out from its base. Stupefied and marveling at the new thing, she secretly told one of her familiars what had happened to her, as happy at the duplication of the blood as she was certain she had carefully wiped it all out. When this came to my notice, I called the woman to me, and demanded that she show me both the blood and the cloth stained by the blood. In order to be certain, I began to adjure her, by the name of the Lord, that she was certain that she had wiped out the blood such that nothing remained in the little vessel. She proved herself to be most certain by such assertions that to fail to put faith in her words would seem to be a sign of incredulity. Yet, lest the scrupulous be brought to doubt by these things, it has pleased divine piety that those who do not give much weight to the first sign might marvel at the second.

When the lord of Canterbury had been exiled, the Lord, who sits to purge and cleanse the sons of Levi [Mal 3:3], who makes good the elect like gold in a furnace [Ws 3:6],61 This phrase is part of an antiphon from the Common office for several martyrs: Cantus ID 005100. who looks away in opportunities and in tribulation [Ps 9:22], imposed upon our heads men who mocked the name of the exiled martyr, detested his works and hated his person.62 See Biographical Notes, Ranulf de Broc and Robert de Broc. Kindled like fire in thorns [Ps 117:12], they questioned the friends of the martyr and most cruelly persecuted all those who favored him. Many were mute and would not speak to the good, such that no one dared even to mutter against them. But even if they had spoken, they would have inflicted harm on our party and done nothing to promote the business of the lord of Canterbury. While their malice prevailed, Ralph, a monk of the church of Canterbury, was driven by this tempest to the church of Colchester.63 That is, St. John’s Abbey, a Benedictine monastery in Colchester. There were least two Christ Church monks named Ralph in the late twelfth century: see BR, p. 260. One Ralph became the abbot of Shrewsbury in 1175; another is recorded as a subsacrist in a charter dated 1175–7: see Urry, CUAK, no. XXIII, pp. 402–3. Having a special love for his lord of Canterbury, Ralph was zealous in his resistance to his enemies, even though his zeal profited neither himself, nor us, nor our father.64 In one manuscript, the phrase about the uselessness of Ralph’s zeal for Becket was omitted by the scribe: see Robertson, MTB, vol. 2, p. 51 n. 3. When the lord was reconciled to us, he was recalled with honor, and when he saw that the martyrdom was accomplished, with blood shed for the liberation of the church, he acquired a small amount of the blood of the church’s liberation. He sent it to the church of Colchester, giving it to them out of a debt of honor and sense of mutual affection. In his glass ampulla, there was such a small amount of blood that it could hardly make a circle on the bottom. He had stopped up the fragile vessel with care. Fearing that it would be broken, he had closed and encased it in very dense wax. It was presented to the abbot of Colchester65 See Biographical Notes, Walter de Walensis. by means of master Raymond, a man of good repute. With the ampulla sealed up in this way, it was kept in careful custody until the abbot was free to turn his attention to viewing and displaying the relic. The vessel was brought forth the next day and the wax was removed. The ampulla was found most full, the blood having increased. Likewise, the wax that had stopped up the vessel was stained with the superfluity of blood. This was seen, but it was not yet marveled at, as they believed that Ralph had filled it up entirely. They were wholly ignorant that a miracle had occurred and ascribed to his benevolence and generosity what was the work of divine majesty. When he later heard from the sacrist of that church that they had received the ampulla full of blood, he did not dare to reject these tantalizing rumors as false, nor to believe them as being true, until the opportunity arose that he could go to Colchester in order to examine and be certain of the cause. When they were reunited, he showed them how much he had sent, and they showed him how much they had received. By the testimony of their eyes, both parties were made certain and amazed. They also told him that they had given the water that had been used to wash the wax of the ampulla to a neighbouring church. The priest had put a pyx with the water upon the altar, but then, taking it off the altar, he brought it to his home. When he got up the next day, the pyx had split open and not a single drop could be found. And so, to those to whom the will of God wished it, blood that was given increased, and to whom it was not given, even that which he seemed to have was taken away from him [Mt 25:29].

Another miracle of the augmentation of the blood, no less glorious than the two described above, was told to us by a priest of Bourne, William,66 See Biographical Notes, William, priest of Bourne. a man of honest conduct and commendable religious bearing. He was very well known to those of Canterbury both on account of his close proximity as well as his goodness. When he heard that the athlete of Christ had offered sacrifice of himself to God, he began to consider how patiently he had endured his injuries and seven long years of exile, how calmly he had borne the deportation of his relatives, his friends, and even their infant children at the breast,67 The exile of Becket’s relatives and friends was described with horror by contemporaries. John of Salisbury wrote, “what is unheard of anywhere in history, [the king] sentenced to exile all the archbishop’s kinsmen and all who were connected to him by friendship or any pretext at all, without distinction of rank or order, of status or fortune, of age or sex, for both women lying in childbirth and infants wailing in their cradles were driven into exile”: Ronald E. Pepin, trans., Anselm and Becket: Two Canterbury Saints’ Lives by John of Salisbury (Toronto, 2009), p. 87. and how resolutely, for Christ, he had offered his head to the blows of the knights. Thinking over all the circumstances of his passion, he foresaw with clarity that everything pointed to the martyr’s glory and earned him the title of a glorious martyr. From this contemplation of the past, he considered what would happen in the future, and in his heart he became convinced that it was impossible that he would not be glorified by manifest miracles soon. He conjectured that the relics of such a martyr would, in a short time, be precious in the future, and so he devoted himself entirely to acquiring them, fearing that if he awaited the time of miracles, the very abundance of miracles would deny him the opportunity of acquiring them. The Lord gave this desire to his heart, and he was not cheated of his desire [Ps 20:3]. When he found the cloak of the holy martyr for sale, the cloak in which he was martyred, such that it was blood-stained, and which had been given away for his soul,68 See above, Passion, Extract X. he purchased it, and he also acquired an ampulla full of liquid blood. When another priest, an acquaintance of his, heard about this, he asked that he be found worthy to be given a portion of the blood. When he was preparing to give this portion to him, he transferred the liquid blood into a clean vessel in order to see its quantity. He put the gritty mixture he found at the base of the ampulla into the basin of the altar. Then, having set aside a large portion of the blood for the petitioner, he poured the remainder back into the ampulla. He who had multiplied the oil for the widow under the direction of the prophet69 See 2 Kings 4:1–7 for the story of Elisha and the widow’s oil. so augmented the blood that he found that the ampulla was as full as it was before.

The same venerable man granted a small portion of the blood to a certain preacher, one of those who travel the earth and walk about,70 That is, a wandering preacher. Such preachers were becoming a common feature of medieval society by the late twelfth century. They were frequently viewed with suspicion by the ecclesiastical hierarchy: see Giles Constable, The Reformation of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, 1998), pp. 62–5. in a boxwood pyx. When contacted by the holy relic, the pyx instantly split. To prevent the blood from pouring out onto the ground, the pyx was reinforced with wax. The preacher returned to his inn and put down his pyx, but the next morning, when he opened it, he found no blood or trace of blood in it, though the wax had not allowed it to pour out, nor could the hard solidity of the boxwood absorb it. Many were in doubt as to the reason why such a grace was taken away from the preacher, although several conjectured that it was likely and probable that he was guilty of greedy intention.

The same man of God came upon the sickened daughter of Ralph of Bourne, an honorable man. She was so ill that she had lost the use of all her senses. She lay as if she were insensible, and her parents despaired of her: she brought nothing to them except a cause for mourning. But he brought our martyr’s cloak and wrapped the girl in it. With those caring for her at watch around her and expecting the mercy of God, she began little by little to feel the power of the cloak and to recover her senses. What is the use of words? The next day the priest came in order to visit the ill girl, and he found her secure in her health and at play with other children.

For nearly a year, a quartan fever71 A quartan fever is one that recurs every fourth day, that is, every seventy-two hours. Etheldreda’s miracle is portrayed in two panels in Canterbury Cathedral window nIV: see Caviness, Windows, pp. 184–5. had oppressed a certain Etheldreda, who lived in Canterbury but had been born elsewhere. Her bluish color and wax-like appearance indicated that she was near death. Coming, therefore, to the monk attending at the martyr’s tomb, she asked that she might drink the blood of the martyr. The monk mixed it [with water], as it was done for the rest, lest the taste or the color of blood induce horror in the drinker. Having drained what was in the cup, the woman’s usual color returned and her former vigor was restored. Afterwards, she was neither touched nor saddened by fevers, nor troubled by any vexation.

On the day of the Lord’s Supper,72 That is, Maundy Thursday, which fell on March 25 in 1171. William, a son of a citizen of Canterbury, was snatched from the jaws of death by the same experiment. Although many had already experienced the efficacy of this medication, yet it was not given without fear to those seeking it – and no wonder, for it is very unusual for humans to drink human blood. But it was made known to us in the following way that the ill might faithfully drink the purest blood of the vine of Canterbury,73 “Blood of the vine” is a reference to the Eucharistic ritual in which wine becomes Christ’s blood (see John 15:5 for Christ’s declaration that he is a vine). With “blood of the vine of Canterbury,” Benedict draws yet another parallel between Becket and Christ. and also that a great boldness might be granted to us to mix the same with water.

This adolescent of whom we speak was struck with a grave illness. After he had most gravely suffered from it for about fifteen days, in his sleep the precious martyr of Christ and the glory of the martyrs showed himself to him, as if he stood at the altar of Christ in the choir of the church of Canterbury and celebrated the solemnities of the mass with many reverend and glorious persons ministering to him. Catching sight of the ill boy, he seemed to speak to a monk holding a vessel full of his blood among those who were standing about him, saying, “A grave illness oppresses that boy. Bring a little drink of my blood to him, so that he might drink and become well.” It seemed to the boy that he drank, and that the drink of holy blood delighted him as in all riches [Ps 118:14], for it seemed to him like the sweetness of honey in his mouth. Illness soon woke the sleeper, and from the sweetness of the vision, he returned to pain. When he was awake, he described the joy of the vision to his parents, asserting that he had hope of recovering his health if he merited to receive a drop of the precious blood in a drink. The father thought to satisfy his son’s desire, but he spent that day and the next in fruitless work. Finally, on the third day, the day on which the Lord’s Supper is annually celebrated, the adolescent swelled so much about his stomach and vitals that he wholly lost the ability to speak. It was remarkable that he had swollen to such an extent; it was even more remarkable that his middle had not burst. And so the anxious father ran about here and there, until, by the clemency of divine mercy, he obtained the health-giving water that he had sought. Hastening home, he offered the little drink to the ill boy. The pain immediately eased, the swelling decreased, and such vigor, along with health, was restored to the boy that on the fifth day74 Counting from Maundy Thursday, this would be March 29, 1171, the Monday after Easter. he was able to present himself to the martyr to give thanks.

Goditha, of a certain Matthew of Canterbury, also presented herself, though she was supported on the feet of others rather than her own: two women held up the third.75 Goditha’s miracle is portrayed in two panels in Canterbury Cathedral window nIV: see Caviness, Windows, p. 182 (where the panels are incorrectly identified as the story of Petronella of Polesworth), and Koopmans, “Water Mixed with the Blood of Thomas,” pp. 545–50. A terrible swelling was seen from her knees on down. The medicine of the blood and water was applied and the swollen members were brought back to their original size. The woman was brought secretly, and she left secretly as well. Improving continuously each day, she was soon brought back to full strength.

The Lord worked these and many other miracles before the days of Easter and so showed the beginning of the glorification of his champion. However, these are small things, and in comparison to those that followed, almost deserving of scorn.