Book III

The great festival day on which Mount Zion glowed with heavenly fire and the Holy Spirit descended on the disciples of Christ in tongues of fire was already near at hand.1 Benedict is referring to the Christian feast of Pentecost, when, after Christ’s resurrection, his disciples received the Holy Spirit in the form of tongues of fire appearing above their heads: see Acts 2:1–4. The traditional understanding was that this happened on Mount Zion in Jerusalem. Oh happy day, not only because of the feast’s celebration, but also because a miracle that preceded the feast was similar to it, making us happier still. The kindness of the Lord Jesus would not allow a delay of the glory of such a miracle until the day of the feast. Anticipating that day of glory with this day of glory,2 Which day that was Benedict leaves unclear. It must have been sometime shortly before Pentecost, which is celebrated on the Sunday falling fifty days (effectively seven weeks) after Easter. In 1171, Pentecost Sunday fell on May 16. he sent heavenly fire upon the tomb of the saint. By the similarity of the miracle, he pointed out that Thomas was the co-disciple and co-heir of those apostles3 For another story linking Becket and the apostles, see I.4 above. and gave to the still grieving church the grace of a new consolation.

For two entire days, the daughter of Aylward, a citizen of Canterbury, had fallen on the ground, unwittingly struck herself, and filled the church with her cries. By means of an invocation of the saint, the illness that she had was at last taken away, but she remained concerned about an offering which she did not have. A certain matron who chanced to be passing by and carrying a small amount of wax in her hand took pity on her. She took some thread for a needle from her garment, doubled it over on itself and pressed a good deal of wax around it. Then she gave it to the girl so that she could offer it to the martyr. The candle was lit, and, by the order of the superintending monk, it was placed in the middle of the sepulchre in order to burn there – though the happiness of the ensuing miracle altered his design. A short time later, a light wind blew in the window opposite. Among all the candles placed around there, it only extinguished the girl’s candle: its wax was thicker and its wick more slender. Since the abundance of wax and thinness of the wick were not in due proportion to one another, the candle was barely able to burn and was easily extinguished. The monk saw the smoking wick, called a servant and said, “Do you see that the girl’s candle has been extinguished? Relight it.” He hastened to do so, and as he was putting down what he had in his hands, the candle was seen to relight without any human assistance. Not just one man, I say, was present at this glorious vision, but the people, who had seen that candle so far extinguished that it was sending up a lot of smoke. It appeared to be divinely relit such that its flame produced a long tail. Although the wick was thin and the wax dense, as was said above, it was so quickly consumed by fire that it was nearly all devoured. It was extinguished as quickly as possible so that at least some of it would be left, in order that the wax too would not be lost along with the flame.

Now let those traitors and parricides who killed the saint, accusing him of being a traitor, say where they have ever read or heard that any traitor or criminal has ever been been glorified by such a miracle. Fire from the Lord descended on Nadab and Abiud, the sons of Aaron, but it destroyed rather than dazzled them.4 See Leviticus 10:1–2. Nadab and Abiu were destroyed by the Lord’s fire after they made offerings of “strange fire” against the Lord’s commands. The fire of the Lord was kindled against the murmurers in the desert, but it was a devouring rather than life-giving fire.5 See Numbers 11:1–3. During the exodus, the people of Israel complained about fatigue. The Lord became angry and sent down fire that killed a number of them. Heavenly fire fell down on two hundred and fifty supporters of Korah, but it killed them all.6 See Numbers 16:35. In the course of the exodus, a man named Korah challenged the authority of Moses. Two hundred and fifty of his followers were destroyed by fire sent by the Lord. At the time of Elijah, fire from heaven surrounded the two battalions of fifty, but it destroyed rather than illuminating them.7 See 2 Kings 1:10–12. When the king Ahaziah sent a commander in charge of fifty men to the prophet Elijah, Elijah called down heavenly fire on them, and he did so again when Ahaziah sent a second delegation of fifty men. Light from heaven shone about Saul, but it did not illuminate him: it blinded him.8 See Acts 9:3, the famous story of Saul (the future apostle Paul) being blinded on the road to Damascus. But when fire descended from the Lord upon our Thomas, it fell not on a criminal for punishment, but rather upon the innocent for his glory. And so let the evil ones cease persecuting the glorious friend of God even when he is dead, and reckon up the brightness of his innocence and the fervour of his charity from his miraculous deeds. For what does light descending on light mean, unless that the martyr was the son of light, a lamp of the whole church, a dwelling of the Holy Spirit, in whom the fire that the Lord came to cast upon the earth had burned?9 In this passage, Benedict draws on very familiar Christian imagery: for “son of light” see Matthew 5:14, Luke 16:8, John 12:36, Ephesians 5:8, 1 Thessalonians 5:5, etc.; for “lamp of the church” see Matthew 5:15, Mark 4:21, Luke 8:16–18 and 11:33–6, etc.; for “dwelling of the Holy Spirit,” see John 14:17; Romans 8:11; 1 Corinthians 3:16, etc. At the end of the sentence is a reference to Luke 12:49, in which Christ says, “I am come to cast fire on the earth.” It seems to mean for our Thomas what it meant long ago for the wondrous Martin, for a heavenly light appeared upon Martin as well, though he was then standing at the altar, not lying in his tomb.10 For this miracle of St. Martin of Tours (d.397), see Sulpicius Severus: The Complete Works, trans. Richard Goodrich (New York, 2015), II.2, p. 213. See also IV.58 below, where Benedict references another miracle of St. Martin. The Lord gave glory of this kind to Martin only once, to Elijah twice,11 Here Benedict refers again to 2 Kings 1:10–12. but he privileged our Thomas with four occurrences of this miracle.

The martyr favoured the second day of Pentecost for us in a similar way.12 By the “second day of Pentecost,” Benedict means the day following Pentecost Sunday. In 1171, this was May 17. He deigned to bestow on us and allow us to conserve that heavenly light which we mourned to have lost earlier. A teenage girl, Goditha, whose father was Baldwin of Wye, was seriously ill, and on that day the saint gave her the gift of his customary mercy. The girl had two lit candles. One was resting on the pavement and the other was affixed to the wall. Unsteady on her feet and weak in body, she was unable to stand, and collapsing to the ground, she extinguished the candle on the pavement. When she got up to relight it, her hand shook, and she knocked off the candle fixed to the wall. She took up the candles deprived of light in both her hands and turned to the multitude that had assembled, saying, “Oh woe is me! Look, both of my candles have gone out!” Becoming more upset as she saw no light in that entire crowd of people, she saw her sister far off in the church and said, “Sister, don’t you see? Light my candles.” Her sister refused, saying that she was afraid to touch her or to come near to her. Sighing and moaning, the girl said, “Oh most sweet Lady, virgin Mary, oh holy lord Thomas, martyr of Jesus Christ, what am I to do? Look, my candles have gone out.” Oh, the kindness of the martyr! Oh, his compassion, as sweet as honey! Truly, his eyes are on the afflicted, and his ears are held to their prayers [Ps 33:16]. As the girl looked here and there, and between her plaintive groans turned her eyes back to the candles, they were both aflame with new fire. She looked at the great crowd which had come to the feast day and had seen the glory of this miracle, and she said, “Did you see, my lords? Look, the blessed martyr Thomas has relit my candles.” It would be most difficult to relate how great was the exultation of all, how many showers of tears they shed, and how many thanks were rendered to God. With bent knees and hands held high, they gave glory to God. After many expressions of thanksgiving, they dispersed in order to communicate their joy to the whole city of Canterbury. From the fire of the candles, all the lights of the church were lit. The candles were preserved in part: what was left was divided and handed out to petitioners. Through it all, the Lord was blessed, whose fire is in the Zion of Canterbury, and furnace in the Jerusalem of heaven [Is 31:9].

At once, the gift of grace which he had given he doubled in the same moment, so that a subsequent miracle would confirm the earlier one. The people were rushing in throngs to the new fire and bringing back the heavenly sign with them to their own homes. A woman was hastening with the rest with her lit candle intending to light the hearth of her home. A gust of wind at the door of the church extinguished the candle she carried. “Saint Thomas, martyr, help!” she said, “I have lost the light I was carrying.” Hardly had she called upon the saint when suddenly, by divine will, she received a flame. The priest Frederick, a most reliable witness to this event, was there, as well as several clerks and a great crowd of the laity. But as to the rest of the candles upon which the divine fire came, though we have countless witnesses, we have not recorded in writing due to the crudeness of their names.

The third day of Pentecost was marked by the same sign in our presence. A certain Alan was praying at the sepulchre of the martyr, assisting his little son, whom he had brought contracted. The boy was holding a candle in his right hand. So that it would not slip from his weakened hand, the father was helping him by placing his own hand under his son’s. By chance, the candle went out. The man was standing without light before the lamp of England, and it was as if in that moment light came forth from our light: a new fire lit the extinguished candle. And so in the festival of the Paraclete of the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete13 “Paraclete,” a Greek word meaning counselor or comforter, is found a number of times in the Gospel of John (see John 14:15, 14:26, 15:26, and 16:7). The Greek term was retained in the Latin Vulgate translation. Medieval Christians interpreted the Paraclete to be synonymous with the Holy Spirit, the third member of the Trinity. caused those upon whom He looked favorably to rejoice four times by means of fire, the miracles in beautiful harmony with the feast.14 Benedict included an antiphon celebrating these relighting miracles in the liturgical Office for Thomas Becket (Cantus Database ID 200111): Ad Thomae memoriam/ quarter lux descendit/ et in Sancti gloriam/ cereos accendit [At the tomb of Thomas, light descends four times, and lights candles to the glory of the saint]. See Slocum, Liturgies, p. 206, and Reames, “Liturgical Offices,” p. 577.

In those days, there was no lack of the grace of healing for the sick as well. For about two and a half years, a grave illness ate away at the wretched limbs of Gunnilda, from the village which the English call Elfiestun.15 The place is unidentified. Robertson suggested that this might refer to Elvaston in Derbyshire. It could also be Alfriston in East Sussex (I am grateful to John Jenkins for this suggestion). In the end, all the substance of the disease settled in her feet, and she was unable to walk at all or to stand for a moment, not even on a pillow. The soles of her feet were so tender and painful that they were oppressed by the lightest touch. Confined to her bed, for six months she had lived a hateful life, as if she were passing through a continual death. She was carried by two servants to the place where the martyr exchanged temporal death for life eternal. Resting there awhile, she had pressed on with her prayers when suddenly, her strength restored, she rose to her feet. Her servants hastened to hold her up, but she said, “Go and leave me to myself. I will try to go the sepulchre of my lord on foot.” She came, though with a slow and faltering gait, and she produced witnesses to her illness to those of us sitting there. Having made her prayer, she went to her inn, which was located a considerable distance away, with a firmer step. She regained her health and left.

Albreda, the wife of Eustace of Malling, had a miscarriage due to an injury to her side. Taking to her bed, she wasted away with sickness for about a year. After this, although she was delighted that her ability to rise from her bed returned, she was unable to walk about both from weakness of heart and from distress of body. She was brought to the place made holy by the blood of the martyr and gave herself to prayer. She rose healed and able to walk correctly and steadily. We both saw and spoke to her, and she declared to us that she was not distressed by any impairment due to illness or weakness.

A young man of Canterbury, Ailmer, was completely paralyzed from his navel on down and was carried about in a basket every day. For nearly two years, he had lived only half alive. If you were to thrust a red-hot knife through the deadened parts of his body, you would have seen him carrying on with his face unchanged, demonstrating by an absence of signs that he felt nothing at all. His feet were once placed in the fire, and he did not pull them out or show any terror of the flames. For some days, as was said, he was brought in a basket to the saint. He was placed on the marble pavement of the church and gradually received the motion and use of his limbs. The martyr set his feet upon a rock and directed his steps [Ps 39:3]. Because he was weak from the long illness, he took up crutches as aids at first. In a short time, he became so strong that he left them with the one who had made him strong. And so the Lord put a new canticle in the mouth of the people, a song to our God. Many saw this and feared and hoped in the Lord [Ps 39:4].

Eilwin of Berkhamsted was afflicted with pain in the kidneys and the thighs. Eventually he became unable to do any work and was made physically incapable. For more than sixteen years, he moved about relying wholly on two crutches. We thought he was varicose on account of the curvature of his back, for he was bent over and was not able to look up.16 It is difficult to understand why Benedict speaks of Eilwin as being “varicose,” as varicose veins usually impact the legs and not the spine. Perhaps he meant gibbosus [hunchbacked] or some version of scoliosis. He had wrapped leather and rags on the tops of his crutches to prevent them from abrading or injuring his armpits, and also put iron on their tips to keep them from being worn away from constant use. After about sixteen years, as noted above, without any improvement in his condition, he saw very many people return in good health from the memorial of the martyr, who is most deserving of praise and commemoration. He knew these people had gone there ill and infirm. He set out on the journey in the company of others and headed to Canterbury, though he could not travel as far each day. He finally arrived at the place and, kneeling as best he could before the sarcophagus of the martyr, he undertook with offering and prayer to appease God and the martyr in order to escape the infirmity inflicted on him for his sins. Right after he made his oblation, he rose up from the ground, and then, with his whole body trembling, he again fell prostrate on the ground. He immediately got up again and stood upright on his feet without using a crutch. I was there, and when I saw this, I led him and another ill man from his neighborhood (of whom I will speak more subsequently), apart from the crowd, though he was still leaning on one crutch as he walked. He lay for a time in prayer, and then called over a boy, giving him the crutches to carry to the martyr. And so, with his hands held up to heaven, he followed the boy who went before him carrying the crutches. When the people saw this, they fell to the earth on bended knees and dissolved in tears for joy. He left his crutches with the saint in thanksgiving and departed rejoicing, healed and whole.

He had a companion for his journey from his neighborhood, Walter, who had come being led by his wife on account of the darkness of his eyes. His genitals had swollen to an immense size, and against his will he had lived a life that for ten years had become a sort of living death. Incurable by men, he sought a cure from the martyr. With such offering as he was able to make, he was honoring God in his martyr, God, who does not attend to the mere size of a gift, but rather to how much is given out of the giver’s means. Just as he was the companion of his neighbor in the labor of the journey, so too he became his companion in the joy of health restored. He confessed himself to have as much restoration of sight as he had absence of pain, and his genitals were no longer swollen as well. To tell it briefly, these two needy men came to the tomb together. Both fell to the ground together, both rose together, together they were cured by divine mercy, and together they departed with great joy. All of us who were there and witnessed this event were left by them rejoicing, or, rather, weeping with joy. I saw both of them later. They were not clad in rags as before, but were well-dressed men of robust strength.

The fingers on both hands of the seven-year-old daughter of Wedeman of Folkestone were bent to their base. She was fed by the hands of others: her sinews had been contracted since her birth and she had never been able to feed herself. Her father put her on a horse and brought her to the martyr. He placed her in the middle of the church and assiduously commended her to God and the martyr. The following day, all her fingers were stretched out with the exception of the middle finger of her right hand, which heavenly power left somewhat curved. Through confession of his sins and suitable penance, the father had taken precaution lest his sins or those of the girl hinder her healing, or lest he fail to escape the sorrow he had suffered on her account for so long a time.

In this way, through the merits of his blessed and glorious martyr, the mercy of the Almighty makes even more provision for the health of souls than for the health of bodies. Now hardly anyone presumes to approach the saint’s sepulchre to ask for anything, or even to enter the doors of the church of Canterbury, unless such person is first rebaptized in the fountain of confession and of shed tears, promising a more correct form of life in the future. We dare say without any doubt in the word of truth17 “The word of truth” is a phrase found in the New Testament: see 2 Corinthians 6:7, Colossians 1:5, and James 1:5 and 1:18. that many enmeshed in sin for many years had sickened spiritually without the medicine of confession. On account of their reverence for the martyr, they renounced their old lives and the darkness of their sins before they dared to approach his most holy body, fleeing for refuge to the light of innocence by the way of confession. It does not seem to be off subject to have touched on this briefly. Since the soul is humanity’s greater part, so likewise its cure constitutes the more glorious miracle.

Among those who had eyes but saw not [Ps 113:13] was Liveva, the wife of Godric de Lefstanestun.18 The place is unidentified. Robertson suggested it was Leytonstone, but it could also be a similarly named manor near Rayleigh, Essex: see Percy H. Reaney, “Lestenston or Harberts in Rayleigh,” Transactions of the Essex Archaeological Society 20:1 (1930): 95–6. We saw that once her blindness was wiped away, she could see so clearly that she was able to thread the narrow eye of a needle in our presence, a feat that many onlookers asked her to repeat again and again for the sake of curiousity or delight. In addition, her hands, which were once dreadfully swollen, she brought home slender and thin, the swelling reduced.

A certain Robert of London, who had not been able to see the soil nor the sun for four years, received light at our light. It came out well for him in the right eye and badly in the left, for the right eye was given light, but the left he took home in the same condition as when he came.

Much the same thing happened to a boy of the marshes,19 Benedict likely means Romney Marsh in Kent. Henry the son of Elias. He came with both eyes blind. When he returned home, one eye had sight.

Avisa of Goshall,20 This probably refers to Goshall near Ash, Kent. the daughter of Ordgar the skinner, was rolling around, shouting and wailing, with the others in the church. Her mother had brought her into this light lame on both sides. The pain she had been suffering from the lengthening of her sinews ceased, and in a panting voice she declared that she had been straightened. We sought witnesses of her illness and found two trustworthy ones. Moreover, since what sight proves is more credible than that which is received by hearing, she was ordered to walk here and there in the churchyard, and she left us in no doubt at all. The girl was already of marriageable age, about sixteen years old.

The woman Godiva, coming from Stratford, had become like one who hears not [Ps 37:15]. She heard a roaring in her head like the sound of loud thunder, which kept out the sound of voices and all other sounds from her ears. She did not know how to describe the pain in her head precisely. A drop of the water that expels every kind of illness was placed in her deaf ears. As she prayed for a short while at the tomb, an adequate and complete cure of her former pain was given to her by God. With her ears restored to their use and quiet restored to her head, she went home cured, carrying back a worthy reward of deserving devotion and faith.

If the saint should love those who love him, how could this be said to be great? Even the publicans and heathens do this [Mt 5:46–7]. Charity’s embrace is narrow if it admits only the friend and excludes the enemy. The honey-sweet benevolence of our most kind father Thomas not only patiently bore with his enemies and brought them to repentance, but also most kindly converted and admitted them to grace. Robert de Broc, the usher of the king’s chamber,22 See Biographical Notes, Robert de Broc. had a brother of the same surname, William, whose members had been wasted by severe fevers for four years. In addition, he was tortured by sharp pains of the stomach and vitals: it seemed as if he were being cut into small pieces by sharp razors. With the disease rooted in him, he was frequently, though not continuously, confined to the tedium of bed, at one point for three weeks, at another for four or five weeks, and then he lay there for the space of an entire year. Both his chest and his stomach swelled up in an unusual manner and he felt no benefit from any medication. Then, when the glory of miracles by which the Lord exalted his saint was made known to him, he was contrite at heart, because he had denigrated the saint both when he lived in the flesh and when he was glorified after the deposition of his flesh. He hastened to Canterbury to make amends so that he might gain his health. He drank the health-giving liquid, and had hardly returned to his inn when he vomited out the material of the disease, a green and multi-colored poison. On the next day, he used the same medicine again, and merited to experience the same efficacious grace. After he received the water on the third day, his nausea ceased, and he did not vomit. Having been given his former health back, he promised not to deny any of these things to any of the evildoers.

A marvel that I ought to have told earlier, but which I had forgotten, I will tell as it has now come back to mind. At dawn on a Sunday, Richard, the son of a certain Roger of Salisbury, rose and left Salisbury on his way to Marlborough, bringing to his uncles and friends the news of his mother’s death. Having left the city, he came across an old woman who asked him for alms. The boy had purchased two loaves, one smaller than the other; of these, he divided the larger one and offered it to the poor woman. When he was on the great plain, having gone about five miles along his way, he encountered three men of tall stature who were dressed in white woolen clothing as if they were hermits. The one in the middle was a little taller than the others. He had a small amount of grey hair and held in his hands a bronze vessel full of blood. When the boy saw them, he was terrified and his hair stood on end, especially when he saw the blood. He thought that they had killed someone, for the plain was very large, and the place was far from any human dwelling. Yet they seemed like very venerable and religious persons, especially the one who carried the blood. He alone spoke to the boy, and he proceeded to ask him where he came from and where he was going. “Do you carry bread?” he added. “I am carrying it, lord,” he said. Then he said, “Offer part of it to us.” The boy, looking on the speaker’s face that deserved reverence, showed reverence to him as he was able, and gave him the loaf of bread that was whole. Then he said to him, “I do not want the whole one, but the divided loaf, the other half of which you gave to the old woman this morning.” To the boy wondering at this, he then said something of greater admiration: “Do you remember what was shown to you this night in your dreams?” The astounded boy said, “I remember well.” In his dreams, he had seen a young man with an angelic face who had guided him and had showed him, as if he were standing on a high wall, the torments of hell and the delightful house of Paradise. The boy said that he remembered these things and marvelled that he knew all of it. Emboldened, he questioned the one who had questioned him: “What is it, lord, that you carry?” He said, “The blood of the blessed Thomas, archbishop of Canterbury,” and added, “Do not go on, son, but turn back immediately, and say to the dean and canons of Salisbury that they are to make a procession around the city. If they do not do this, let them know that a great storm will come to the town.” And when the boy was leaving, he said, “go quickly, and beware lest you look back before you have gone a furlong from us.” The boy looked back, therefore, only after he had gone a furlong, and he found that he alone was on the plain. No matter how far or where he looked about him, he was able to see no-one, in a place where for five or six miles not even a little fellow could have hidden himself. And he returned, marvelling over this more than anything else. He told the canons what he had seen and heard, and they believed him.

These things happened in the first days of miracles, namely on the Sunday before the first Ascension of the Lord after the passion of the martyr,23 I.e., Sunday May 2, 1171 (in 1171, Ascension Day fell on May 6). before the blood and water of the martyr had been carried to distant regions. He who wishes to ascribe these things to a miracle, let him do so. Having pondered these things as I am able, it seems to me that the blood that the three men carried could be meant to signify that the blood of the lamb of Canterbury24 In the New Testament, Christ is frequently compared to a sacrificial lamb: for references to “the blood of the lamb,” see Revelation 7:14 and 12:11 and 1 Peter 1:19. See also p. 78, n.8 above. would be carried through the entire earth, as is the case in the present day. Indeed, in a short time his miracles were greatly multiplied, the fame of the martyr spoken of far and wide, and the water with his blood carried off to all the regions of England.

All eagerly drank in joy from the waters of our health-giving fountain and carried the water home with them in vessels of wood or clay. In the multitude, a young woman of Darenth, Liveva, put forward her pyx and asked that it be filled with the life-giving drink. But when the brother who was preparing it for the ill ones at that hour raised his eyes and saw the great crowd coming to him, he apportioned a smaller amount than usual to each one. He was fearing and guarding against a scarcity of the water, which was already insufficient. The young woman, having received a portion of the water in her vessel, insisted that she receive more. When he refused and attended to the others, she stole what he had denied her. She secretly took up a cup that she had seen placed near her and poured the liquid it held into her vessel. As soon as the pious theft of the water touched the pyx, the pyx split in the midst of the crowd of people, and she lost both what she had been given and what she had stolen. Reproached by the monk, she mourned greatly. Having left the vessel to be hung up with the others similarly broken, she left most sad and weeping, and not a little perplexed on account of this.

Something of considerably greater, or at least of equal shame happened to my schoolfellow, who was commended both for his knowledge of letters and the grace of his manners. For nothing is altogether blessed.25 Horace, Odes, book II, poem 16, lines 27–8. There is no man who lives who does not sin. Even the just fail seven times in a day [Prv 24:16]: all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God [Rom 3:23]. So let him not be aggrieved with me, as I do not write this to disturb him, but rather for the glory of the martyr, especially as he who says he has not sinned is a liar, and there is no truth in him [1 Jn 1:8]. This young man, having received water in his pyx before the altar next to the tomb, was holding it in his hand when the water boiled up through the mouth of the vessel. He was not able to retain or stop it. The monk who had filled it with water said, “Put the pyx back down on the altar: it does not seem to want to be held by you.” He put it down and immediately the water subsided. Wiping and drying off the exterior of the vessel and the interior of the lid, he received the relic in his hand and moved away, but he found he could not go freely through the mausoleum of the martyr. He had hardly gone two or three steps when the water again came out of the vessel. It was like a boiling pot that cannot subside. The monk said, “What is this? Where are you coming from? I think you were in a place of ill repute. Take your hands off the vessel.” He put it back on the altar again, and when it stood there, the overflowing water and the waves were stilled [Ps 106:29]. Having carefully turned and dried the vessel, the cleric picked it up for a third time, and with slow steps he reached the middle of the tomb. The waters leapt up and flowed out in abundance, with much more force than the first or the second time. The monk called to him and said to bring back the vessel. He disregarded this and went to the man from whom he had received it. He gave it back to him, and hardly had it come into the hand of the other man when all the force of the waters stilled and the water stayed within the vessel. We all marvelled, and we did not find a cause for the unnatural event. Yet there certainly must be a cause, for nothing happens on earth without a cause. There was a clear enough cause when a no less delightful miracle happened in the hand of the aforesaid monk. This monk, who had earlier laughed at the clerk, was later himself made an object of laughter for all.

There were already many vessels split open by means of contact with the water that had been hung on the wall as a sign. In the first days of miracles, they split to a greater degree, then less so as time passed. The aforesaid brother was holding in his hand a vessel with a little crack that a woman had left with him. He was silently thinking to himself: “Why is it that the martyr shows the glory of his strength to a lesser extent and exercises the power of his forces to a lesser degree than usual? At first, the pyxes cracked open with such great fissures that everyone was amazed. Some of them even broke into pieces. But now, the clefts are hardly the width of a needle or straw. Why should this one be hung up with the rest? If the saint had split this one to the same degree as the others, it would be worthy, I confess, to be numbered with the others, but it will stay with me: I will not hang it up. Is it not very beautiful, and could it not be useful for me for another purpose? I will not hang it up for such a tiny fissure.” While he was silently reflecting on these things, the lower part of the pyx, which, by turning it upside down, he had made into its top, was suddenly torn out of his hand by a divine impulse, such that he only held on to the lid. It tumbled a long way upon the straw and made such a sound that the brother marvelled and trembled along with the others who were there. He quickly threw the lid onto the ground as well and said, “Go from me, devil, you are from the evil side!” At length, later on, when he picked the pyx up from the ground, he found it marvellously cracked from the top down. We asked the brother what he had done, that he had become like one of the people? Fearing that he would be suspected of having done something worse, he revealed his greed, if this ought to be censured by the word greed, to everyone. And so, this miracle was as much a joke and source of laughter to many as of admiration.

I would bore my readers if I put each case of a broken vessel into a separate chapter. In order to move on to different stories, many must be condensed and discussed briefly. Some vessels were cracked, some were split into parts, and the water of others boiled, either upwards through the mouth or through the medium of the solid wood. In others, the water suddenly disappeared. In order to test whether the breaking of their vessels should be credited as a miracle, many people kept them full of water overnight, but when these pyxes were filled with the holy water, the people lost both the water and the pyxes. In the lids of many of the broken pyxes, we found women’s mirrors. Even a pyx made of boxwood did not remain intact when contacted by the water. Many people did not trust vessels made of wood and relied instead on ceramic vessels, but they found themselves leaving equally confounded, because when the pots were filled with the liquid, some immediately shattered. In others, the liquid suddenly disappeared. There was, therefore, great fear and anxiety in all who came to the water. They worried that the water would be subtracted in some way or that they would be the subject of mockery or derision to those looking on. At last, so that the special and greatest cause of the breakings be brought to people’s notice, and the will of God and the martyr be known to all, it came into the heart of a young man that he should make ampullas out of lead and out of tin by the work of casting, and the miracle of breaking ceased. We know that this was the divine will, such that the ampullas of the physician of Canterbury might be carried throughout all the earth, and that the whole world might know his sign in his pilgrims and in those he cured. For the first vessels were carried hidden under their clothing, but the ampullas were openly hung around the neck.26 A panel in Canterbury Cathedral window nV shows pilgrims with ampullas around their necks queuing to receive the water relic: see Koopmans, “Pilgrimage Scenes,” 708–15. On these ampullas, see Jennifer Lee, “Searching for Signs: Pilgrims’ Identity and Experience Made Visible in the Miracula Sancti Thomae Cantuariensis,” in Sarah Blick and Rita W. Tekippe (eds.), Art and Architecture of Late Medieval Pilgrimage in Northern Europe and the British Isles (Leiden, 2004), 473–91.

Even in some people’s ampullas, the water disappeared. A man in Bedfordshire refused a pauper who asked him for a portion of the water. The next day, a rich man asked for the water. He wished to give him some, but he found that his ampulla, despite being sealed up, was empty. Although I learned about this from a venerable knight to whom this man had confessed it, yet because this man did not return to us nor send back his ampulla, I prefer to pass over it than to assert it by writing.

Another person who was carrying an ampulla filled with the same relic came upon a pauper who asked for a portion. When he opened the little vessel that he thought was full, he too found it empty. When he was going to show the empty vessel to another asking for the water, he found it full to the top.

A third who had carried away two filled ampullas lodged with a man named Simeon who was an enemy of the martyr. When Simeon saw them hanging on the post of the house, he said, “What do you have in those ampullas?” “The water of the blessed martyr Thomas,” he replied. The enemy of the martyr supplied some mocking statements, and said, “Give me one of those so that I can pour it into my lake. The fish will fatten and multiply, the water of the lake will be sanctified, and no-one in our neighborhood will have to take the trouble to travel to Canterbury to draw it up.” After he said this, he took up the ampullas, and he found one to be empty and the other, too, without any liquid. The enemy of the martyr confessed this to the sacrist of the church of Canterbury,27 See Biographical Notes, Robert, sacrist and monk of Christ Church, Canterbury. compelled by the dean Simon, his uncle.

The stomach of Gunnilda de Hameldene,28 The place is unidentified. Robertson suggested Hambledon. married to William, the son of Leuric, swelled up tremendously after her first delivery, so much so that it seemed that she was again great with child and inflicted with the distress of childbirth. It was not a case in which the swelling and pain evaporated after a short time. Instead, this condition, rooted and fixed within her for many years, grew old along with her. It was restrained many times with draughts and different kinds of medications, but never driven off. When the doctor who had labored for her cure put aside the burden of the human condition, the swelling grew distinctly and with so little restraint that when she was sitting, her uterus nearly protruded to her knees. A messenger was sent to Canterbury to bring back the water of unusual power to her. The woman tasted it and immediately felt some relief, such that she took up the journey and labor of a pilgrimage to the saint. Once she was stationed in Canterbury and first tasted the relic there, the swelling of her stomach subsided through frequent vomiting and an unexpected flux. This improvement made her very happy, yet the runs shamed her even more, so much so that she regretted, with feminine bashfulness, that she had come to Canterbury. Just as nothing is too impudent for dishonest women, so too nothing is without shame to the modest. She wished to be in the church, but she could not remain there for an hour, for she was frequently compelled to run out by her stomach flux. The remedy of the flux did not cease until her stomach returned to its natural limits and usual slenderness. And so, made thin and slender, she returned home. She most devoutly blessed the Lord God of Israel, who has raised up a horn of salvation to us in the house of David his servant [Lk 1:68–9].

The same power that brought healing by loosening the stomach of the aforesaid woman restrained the flux of a certain man no less favorably. For nine months, a certain Richard with the surname Wise, a man of the household of the Countess Rohese,29 See Biographical Notes, Rohese de Vere, and IV.51 below. had been exhausted by a diarrhea or dysentery and brought to a desperate condition. Any night on which he only had to rise seven or eight times seemed – by his own judgment – to be merciful. As he journeyed to that place made most celebrated by the memorial of our martyr, that vexation forced him to draw apart to answer nature’s call fifteen times between London and Rochester. Yet on the following day, when he traveled twenty-five miles along the route, he only had to withdraw seven times for the same purpose. When he could see the church of Canterbury some two miles away, he dismounted from his horse and walked the rest of the way. Entering the church of God, he was troubled above all by the fear that he would be frequently called away from prayer by his usual trouble. However, the martyr approved of his pious desire, and having tasted the relic, it did not go as he had expected. For all of that day, all of the following night, and much of the following day, he remained in the church, and he did not feel anything adverse at all. And so, healed, he returned to his own people giving thanks to the Lord for grace and glory.

A villein from a village called Higham Ferrers near Northampton was named, as I remember, William. He constantly carried about that which carried him for at least three years, for his sinews were so constricted and contracted that the power of walking had been taken from him. He was taken to Canterbury on a horse, and as he stretched out his prayers in the course of his vigil, the sinews of his knees were stretched out. Gradually, without much distress, he extended them their full length and a most sweet sleep stole upon him. When he woke, he ran to the tomb of the saint at a rapid pace. He offered his crutch on which he had supported himself so long, and so the obligated one eagerly paid his thanks to the martyr.

We believe that the miracles that have been written down are few and insignificant in comparison to those that have not reached our notice. We do not know how many of the simple and ignorant received the benefit of health and departed secretly without our knowledge: only God knows their number. At that time, the office of reeve in the city of Canterbury was held by John son of Vivian.30 See Biographical Notes, John son of Vivian, borough reeve. When he saw a driver passing by on his cart, he said, “Friend, take care: if you have sold your goods, pay the tolls required by law.” The driver said, “I paid a toll that the blessed and admirable martyr Thomas has received. In this cart, I brought in people weighed down by various illnesses, of whom only two remain for me to carry back. The rest lead the way, scorning the cart, and I follow them alone. I brought in a burdened cart and leave with it nearly empty.” And so, unknown to us, these and many others are very often cured.

A certain knight, surrounded by a multitude of witnesses, showed himself among the rest of those cured by the martyr. Godfrey, son of Adam of Lillingston,32 See Biographical Notes, Godfrey, son of Adam of Lillingston. came to Canterbury with the intention of discharging a vow. He said that the vision of one of his eyes had been disabled by a diseased spot in the pupil to the point that he had eventually lost its use. But the spot had shrunk immediately after his vow, and in a short time, against all expectation, it had vanished. And so, he did not come to be cured. Instead, he was cured so that he might come.

It is a wonder, a most pious thing worthy of record among many pious things, that our most pious father’s grace anticipates the vow of some people, so compelling them to the obligation of a vow. For others, it provides health immediately after a vow. It encounters some when they are on their journey and still far from the city of Canterbury. It takes up some when they enter the city, and it awaits others at the point when they stand in the church or at his sepulchre. It takes hold of some when they leave. Still others are kept waiting for a long time, and it restores them to health when they have returned home.

A certain pauper of Woodstock, Beatrice, took on the labor of a pilgrimage, and she had not completed half of the journey before she was set free along the way. One of her eyes had been entirely blind for seven years; the other had been similarly plagued for four years. As she made her way, holding the same hope with which everyone else in the four regions of the world was now accustomed to come to Canterbury, the splendor of the sun gradually began to shine on her. At first she wondered, and fluctuated between truth and falsity, hope and fear, joy and sadness. She summoned the girl by her own name who was leading her and asked whether the sun’s ray had appeared on the earth. And so that which we read, draw near to God, and he will draw near to you [Jas 4:8], seemed to happen to her, though in a different way and sense. The closer she came to the church of Canterbury and the memorial of the martyr, the more her vision improved and the blindness receded. In one of her eyes, she felt only the beginnings of health as she came. During the night she spent in vigil in the church, she rejoiced to have received its use back entirely. There was also a most fetid ulcer on her lip. It itched constantly and flowed with putrid matter each and every night, alternating from bloody matter to blood. When she washed it with the holy water, it dried up then and there and was no longer polluted with a flow of corruption or blood.

I confess my incredulity, if indeed it is to be called incredulity as I did not doubt for myself but for others, so that the bar of incredulity might be thrown away from everyone’s heart. Doubting in myself over those things that she said had happened to her, who was despicable by clothing and appearance, and who had no witness to commend her except the girl, now I demanded more harshly for witnesses, now I presented to her an unmerciful appearance as if I were contradicting her. She answered back with hard and bitter words, as if they came from the action of an angry soul. She called me hard and bad and incredulous, and ill-advisedly and unworthily appointed to the service of such a martyr, as I seemed to envy his glory, and to impugn his miracles with too much care for the investigation of truth.

Thomas of St. Valery,33 St. Valery [Sancto Walerico] refers to St. Valery, Normandy. There was a family living in England in the late twelfth century that termed itself de Sancto Walerico, as Thomas is described here, so he could well have lived in England rather than Normandy. who had already reached the age of adolescence, had borne a painful injury for more than half a year. He was carried by one foot; he carried the other suspended above the ground. When he was before the sepulchre of the saint, he tasted the water and washed his foot. He rejoiced that he then received the gift of perfect health without feeling any torment or distress or any preceding suffering whatsoever. As a memorial of the grace given to him, he gave a wax foot in the shape of his own foot.

The arm of another, William, the son of Payne de Pech,34 The place is unidentified. It is spelled Peth and Beth in some manuscripts: see Duggan, “Santa Cruz,” p. 52. who had reached the age of boyhood, had hung useless at his side from paralysis for nearly three years. He had hardly come into the church, with his mother as his companion, when he fell on the earth shouting and crying. When he at last got up again, he reported that the favor that he had come to ask for had been granted.

The loss of sight saddened Alvida, the daughter of Edith de Eggerdintuna.35 The place is unidentified. It is spelled Aeggerdintona and Eggearduitona in various manuscripts: see Robertson, MTB, vol. 2, p. 141 n. 3 and Duggan, “Santa Cruz,” p. 52. Robertson suggested Egerton in Kent. She turned to the saint, and by means of a devout vow, she accomplished the recovery of one eye, though its sight was not perfect. She was led to Canterbury by the guidance of her mother’s eyes. When she poured out prayer at the tomb of the martyr, she obtained full and perfect restitution of both eyes, though not without much torment.

Godwin of Braithwell, a manor in the diocese of York, was bedridden due to pain from swelling of his legs, shins, and feet. Nearly a year went by before he regained a small measure of his strength and left his bed. With the help of two crutches, the fault of one foot was amended, and he went to the martyr. For some days he sought the gift of sound health through urgent prayers, but, having no success, he thought of returning home. He had hardly gone a mile, which was the whole of his first day’s journey, when in the silence of the dead of the night the saint appeared to him in his sleep and spoke with him, saying: “Godwin, where are you going?” He replied, “I endured the pains of a long journey and came to the holy martyr Thomas with the hope of procuring good health. Now I am miserable, because I am returning not only without improvement, but also in considerably worse condition from the effort.” Then the saint said, “Return to Canterbury, return, and plead with the saint more earnestly.” When he woke, he ignored this great admonition and returned to the labour of the journey he had begun. By chance, he came across two knights from his region. When they asked how much success he had found, he told them everything that had happened to him in order. They vehemently insisted that he should return to the town when they heard about the vision. They wished to see a sign with their own eyes, and from the pauper’s vision they had conceived a hope of doing so. And so he returned with them, and he had hardly bent his head to the martyr’s feet when all of his pain was expelled and the swelling reduced. Healed, he sprang up. It would be difficult to say whether the knights’ wonder was deeper or whether their joy was more abundant. Of this one thing we can be certain, that each and all of us felt joyful admiration and admiring joy. The man walked and jumped up before everyone and greatly praised the Lord in his martyr. He threw down his wooden feet and returned to his own region on his own feet, one of which he had previously not been able to bend or to move.

We also saw a knight of Peterborough, named Henry de Longavilla,37 See Biographical Notes, Henry de Longavilla. present to the holy martyr Thomas his daughter Iselda, who heard no more with her ears than she did with her elbows. She had been wholly deaf for at least six years, as we learned from the testimony of Henry, his son-in-law Richard, and those who came with them. After she had persisted in her prayers to the ninth hour,38 That is, until mid-afternoon. she returned to her inn, and as she was eating she exclaimed, “I hear the whistling of a pipe, though it is far away’. Her father said, ‘It is not far off, but nearby – but whether it is far or near, does this mean, daughter, that you think you can hear?” “I can hear,” she said, “thanks to God and the martyr.” Everyone congratulated her, and the feasting was intermingled with tears of joy. The following day, the woman returned to the memorial of the saint. As a sign of devotion and humility, and as testimony to the reception of her health, she did not delay to offer the hair cut from her head to the martyr.

This same Henry returned to his own fields, rejoicing over his daughter, but concerned for his wife espoused to him. She had been vexed with epilepsy nearly every single day, and she was not able to perceive immediately whether the Lord had heard her petition [Ps 6:10]. And the woman went, and she became well. Her face was no longer changed by the epilepsy into different expressions except for one single occasion, when the Lord took the disease from her and gave her perfect health.

The menses of a woman of Luton by the name of Gunnilda had entirely ceased. Her menstrual blood had been turned into vomit, and for eight months she was not able to stop herself from coughing up blood. Pressed by the distress of such an affliction, she came to the martyr. When she entered the gates of the Lord in confession [Ps 99:4], she smelled an inexpressibly sweet scent, as if it were wafted out of the church. She was so refreshed by this great sweetness that she wondered whether she had already changed from how she had come. She progressed step by step, and a second and then a third time she smelled the same fragrance. Having profited from this remedy, she returned with the joy of recovered health. She was struck again by the same illness, again sought out the martyr, and from the martyr she returned healed.

With the same ease, the martyr drove away the inverse infirmity of the woman just mentioned. The miracles concerning the two opposing evils do not differ greatly because the infirmities themselves are not very different in their quantity of danger. Both too much flux and none at all summon the payment of death from women. Too much empties to the point of death, while none at all engorges to the point of death. While the aforesaid woman was in danger due to the cessation of her menses, a flux seized Emelina and brought an overflow of the woman’s discharge. It was too great and continuous. She invoked the martyr, renounced the pleasures of her old life, and for the rest, she promised that she would be more anxious of her virtue in the future. She vowed to go to the sepulchre of the saint if she were able to escape this shameful malady. Very soon, about two or three hours later, the flow of her blood stopped. She rose from her bed and hastened to Canterbury, intending to give thanks and fulfil her vow. She told us what had happened to her, not without shame, and in what manner she was quickly healed. She also disclosed to us that the horse on which she rode had been struck on the eye, causing a swelling so great that all those seeing it thought that the eye would be permanently blinded. However, when she made a wax eye in the shape of the injured eye of the horse and marked it in the name of the martyr, on the next day, the horse was found wholly healed, beyond everyone’s expectation.

William son of Ranulf,39 See Biographical Notes, William, son of Ranulf (d. after 1203). a nobleman of not inconsiderable power in the province of Cheshire at Whitchurch, came to Canterbury in part in order to pray and in part for the purpose of acquiring relics. As he was situated on the border of the Welsh, he was sometimes attacking them and sometimes being attacked by them. He believed that the presence of such relics would bring him the benefit of greater safety. The aforesaid race of people are as uncouth in mind as they are in body. They thirst, with savage hearts, for the blood of those living near them.40 For another notable case of the vilification of the Welsh in the context of Anglo-Norman colonization and the Becket cult, see David Winter, “Becket and the Wolves: Imagining the Lupine Welsh in a Thirteenth-Century Latin Preaching Exemplum from Llanthony Secunda Priory,” in Tristan Sharp with Isabelle Cochelin, Greti Dinkova-Bruun, Abigail Firey, and Giulio Silano (eds.), From Learning to Love: Schools, Law, and Pastoral Care in the Middle Ages, Essays in Honour of Joseph W. Goering (Toronto, 2017), pp. 590–612. See also Kathryn Hurlock, Medieval Welsh Pilgrimage c.1100–1500 (New York, 2018) and Keith Williams-Jones, “Thomas Becket and Wales,” Welsh History Review 5 (1971): 350–65. However, they have great reverence for relics of the saints and especially for those that they know without doubt have performed some miracle. He was given several portions of the hairshirt of saint Thomas and of his vestments stained with his blood. We asked him to report back to us in writing whether the Lord thought it worthy to grace these relics with miracles. This was done. The aforesaid William notified us after a very few days that Whitchurch had received the relics with great honor and a solemn procession. On the following Sunday, the one that precedes the nativity of the blessed John the Baptist, five men were freed from various illnesses.41 The nativity of John the Baptist (the “precursor of the Lord”), is celebrated on June 24. In 1171, the Sunday preceding this feast fell on June 20. Three more were liberated on the feast-day of the precursor of the Lord, and fourteen more on the feast of the apostles Peter and Paul.42 The feast of the apostles Peter and Paul is celebrated on June 29. Benedict’s description suggests that William son of Ranulf requested the relics in the early summer of 1171 and wrote a letter (or had a priest or local religious man write a letter for him) concerning miracles at Whitchurch sometime in July 1171. Perhaps the letter was carried to Canterbury by Griffin, whose miracle is related at length in the following chapter. Among them, a paralytic woman who had been brought there left her bed and returned perfectly healed to her own region.43 For the relics held at Whitchurch, see also William of Canterbury, Miracula, II.82, pp. 244–5.

A Welshman named Griffin was brought to that monastery.44 The Latin name for Whitchurch was Album monasterium, so by “monastery” [monasterium], Benedict likely means a church or chapel at Whitchurch rather than a monastery as such. After he spent three days in vigils and prayers, he left improved on the fourth day. His right leg had swollen up immensely and the sole of his foot had lost its skin and seemed to be eaten away. It appeared to be seized by the foulness of a cancer. He returned home from the monastery, and when he rested his tired limbs in sleep, he saw a bird as large as a swan, very beautiful and whiter than snow, which was perched in the branches of a nearby tree. He took up a bow, bent it, and shot an arrow at the bird, though without using his full strength. The bird flew up and perched further off. When he saw this, he attacked it with a second arrow. Then the bird seemed to speak to him, as if in a human voice, saying, “Why are you shooting arrows at me, Griffin? Stop, no more.” Then it seemed that the bird brought him a most beautiful lance, and it spoke again, saying, “Take this lance, Griffin, and care for it well.” Amazed, he took it up eagerly and with great joy. When he woke, he thought over the dream silently within himself, wondering what this vision meant. He began to think that the bird signified a powerful man, perhaps his lord or some other person, and that the gift of the lance meant that he would receive the power or strength to take back lost possessions of his inheritance from the hands of his enemies. This made him very happy and hopeful. When he again fell into a light sleep, he saw a person standing by who was splendidly clothed and of venerable appearance. He said, “You saw a vision, Griffin, and how are you interpreting it? You do not know how to conjecture wisely. This is its interpretation: the snow-white bird signifies the new martyr of the English, Thomas the archbishop of Canterbury. The short flight of the arrow, the first one you shot when you held your strength in check, you should understand as the short journey you made to Whitchurch to the relics of the martyr. The second shot of the arrow, of greater length, means the toil of the greater journey to the martyr’s sepulchre that you must undertake in order to receive your health. As for the lance kindly given to you, know that it means that the saint will give you the perfect strength that you desire.” This was the end of speaking for the one, of sleeping for the other. He got up, and he started the journey on foot having asked for and received the blessing of his father. Since he spurned the ease of a vehicle, he did not think that he would be able to go as much as a mile a day, yet he journeyed five miles on the first day, twenty on the second, and then forty or even more on every following day. He did all this without weariness. When he came to Canterbury, we saw him so improved that hardly any vestige of the disease remained under the new skin.

Others of the Welsh came to beg for the help of the martyr. We learned that one of them, who had already passed through some years of his youth, had been mute from birth. When he was returning from Canterbury and had passed through the city of Rochester, the chain on his tongue was loosened [Mk 7:35] and he began to speak in English as well as Welsh, though he spoke the Welsh language more easily because he had learned it by hearing it from his earliest years. A man esteemed of religion, Richard, canon and abbot of the church of Sulby in Welford,45 See Biographical Notes, Richard, abbot of Sulby. met the Welsh along the way as they were departing. They were dancing about in such exultation that language would hardly suffice for someone wanting to explain it fully. A woman among the Welsh had also received her sight, increasing their happiness still further. Though they wished to return to the martyr, they did not have enough money to do so, and so they sent us word about what had so delightfully occurred to them along the way by means of the aforesaid abbot.

On an occasion when this same abbot was going on a journey, he was carrying the health-giving water of the martyr with him. He had carefully closed the mouth of the little vessel with wax and held it inside his shirt with reverence. The vessel was upright on the middle of his chest, but as he was going along he discovered that it had fallen onto its side. Thinking little of it, he continued his journey, negligently confident that the wax was doing its work, or, rather, confidently neglecting the relic. Very often he tried to right the vessel as it was lying on its side, but, driven by negligence, he left off his intent. Rebuking himself as lazy, he put his hand to his chest, and was sadly shocked to find the vessel without its cork. He thought it would be entirely empty, but when he pulled it out, it was full to the brim. The man of the Lord was not able to contain himself, immediately showing to those traveling there the glory of God and the power of the relic. It was a great marvel to them that not a drop of the liquid placed inside of the vessel had come out of its mouth’s wide opening. We confess that to us, it appears indisputable that He who caused the vessels of those less worthy to break open by the power of the relic, or for the relic to be suddenly extracted from the vessels, was also able to stop up the open mouth of the man of God’s vessel invisibly and prevent any of the relic from being lost.46 For stories about these other vessels, see above II.19–22, II.50, and III.19–22.

A man of Gloucester in the darkness of blindness, a condition settled in him for many years, desired to escape it. The blood of the martyr was placed in his eyes by us. He received it with hope for his health, but it was the cause of swelling and anxiety for him. He had expected a good result from the holy medicine, yet he went away with unexpected pain. He came full of hope that he would see, but his hope vanished when this did not happen. On his return journey, he went into the church of Rochester, emitting sharp cries of pain and terrible groans. Fearing that his life was coming to a sudden end, he anticipated the moment of death by summoning a priest to make confession. He was then taken up by the monks of that church and placed before the memorial of the blessed confessor Ithamar. There, praying in the midst of the secrets of the divine sacrifice,47 In other words, during the liturgy of the Eucharist. St. Ithamar was appointed as the first bishop of Rochester in the seventh century. he unexpectedly received the divine grace of sight. Though we believe this to have happened through the power of our relic, yet the aforementioned servants of God ascribe it to the blessed Ithamar. We do not contradict them, but we know of a similar miracle that unquestionably happened in the middle of the public street that no-one can presume to steal away or extort from the glory of our martyr.

Several pilgrims of the martyr once came upon Gilbert Foliot, related by blood to Gilbert, the bishop of London.48 See Biographical Notes, Gilbert Foliot, bishop of London. This Gilbert was then the steward of all the external matters in the bishopric and on a journey.49 See Biographical Notes, Gilbert Foliot, steward of Gilbert Foliot. A man blind from his mother’s womb was being led among them with his eyes covered up. Having finished the years of youth, he already seemed to be entering the age of maturity. Asked where he was coming from, the blind man answered that he was returning from the martyr of Canterbury. Asked what he had done there and with what profit he might be returning, he said, “I have nothing to report, lord, except what is detrimental to me. I was brought forth blind from my mother’s innards, and thus far I have remained blind. I was led blind to Canterbury, but my eyes were unharmed and painless; I return blind with the distress of incalculable pain. That relic, in which I had hoped to find a remedy, made my eyes swell up with incredible pain, and to this day fouled my face with a constant flow of bloody matter.” The aforementioned Gilbert went to the blind man, and, impelled by curiosity, lifted the veil that had been put before his eyes to protect them from wind and dust. Suddenly the blind man began to cry out, as if overwhelmed by pain, repeating in a great loud voice, “Holy Lady Mary, Holy Lady Mary!” Frightened by these cries, the steward was concerned that he had injured him in some way by his touch. He asked him whether his cries meant that he was hurt. But he said, “Not at all, lord, I am not hurt at all: rather, I can see. Lord God!” he said, “the human form is so beautiful. This is the first day in which the beauty of the human face has appeared to me.”

And so, the seeing man greatly exulted, the companions of his journey rejoiced, and the enemy of the martyr, namely Gilbert, clung to doubt, but a great amazement seized them all. The man distinguished the shapes and colors of things, though he had not been taught which names to put to them. Tested by many questions, he brought satisfaction to the doubting steward, and by the suitability and truth of all his answers, the man born blind proved that innate sight had been given to him. Truthful and religious men heard these things from the mouth of the same steward and poured them into our ears to be committed to writing. For just as these things are worthy to relate for his glory, so also, by the testimony of the said Gilbert, they very often compel faith, because no-one ought to doubt the glory of the martyr when even his enemy is compelled to declare it.

The prior of Folkestone came across a man near Winchester.50 The alien Benedictine priory of Folkestone, which originated as a community of nuns, had been made a dependent of the Benedictine abbey of Lonlay in France in the late eleventh century. The name of its prior in the 1170s is unknown. He asked him who he was, where he had been, and where he was going. He said that he was born and brought up in Cornwall and had been blind for seven years. By another person’s eyes he had been led to Canterbury, he had received his sight at Canterbury, and now he was returning home from Canterbury. The redness and disfigurement of his eyes seemed to contradict his tale that he had received his sight, and so the prior, with many questions, aimed to get at the truth of the matter. In addition to answering his questions satisfactorily, he also described the trees, groves, and everything about them in that area. He said that his neighbours and acquaintances had preceded him home and had left him at Canterbury. He had remained for two weeks, at last received his sight through the urgency of his prayers, and now was returning. We know of many others cured by the merits and intercession of the blessed martyr, for whom, although with different numbers, it seems to be as it said in the gospel: Were not ten made clean? And where are the nine? There is no one found to return and give glory to God [Lk 17:17–18].

The entire head of Wivelina, a poor little women of Littlebourne, was horribly swollen and hardly retained the appearance of being human. Having received the heavenly sacraments, she was lying as if she were dead when her only daughter came to her. She bent a coin over the head of the dying woman to be offered for her to the blessed martyr. The mother was healed by the faith of the daughter, for, as the horror of the night receded, so too did the horror of the swelling. And so she fulfilled with devotion the vow of the daughter made for her, and showed herself cured in our presence among the others cured by our father.

The sickness of Matilda, wife of Silewin of Thornbury, had progressed into its thirteenth year and worn her out with pain and misery. For all this time she had either been confined to her bed, or could get up and walk, but not without the support of a crutch and only for two or three steps. She longed to go to Canterbury, but when she told her neighbours of her desire to go on pilgrimage, she seemed to be deranged. They knew that she was not able to walk a furlong with a crutch nor cross the threshold of her home without its support. The hardship of a dangerous and unbearable journey could not dissuade her. She trusted in the martyr and was not confounded; she went in faith and did not fear. On the first day, she went sixteen miles with no pain. On each day that followed, her strength increased. She took on the labor of the journey with no labor, and when she entered the city of Canterbury, she felt no debility in her body. Rather, she had obtained the joy of perfect health from the martyr before she came to his tomb to fulfill her vow.

This woman, therefore, was saved from a great bodily detriment by means of her own faith, but Aeliza, wife of Alan of [Ratling],52 The caption reads uxore Alani de Retlinges (wife of Alan of Ratling) whereas Benedict’s text describes him as Alani uxore de Redingis (wife of Alan of Reading). Though usually the caption writer is in error, here “Ratling” seems to be the best reading. See Urry, CUAK, p. 56 and Biographical Notes, Alan of Ratling. was saved from a more perilous danger by means of another person’s faith. She was thought to be at the brink of death on account of sudden and almost unbelievable torments. Her friends were called and came together, including those who were related to her by blood and those made like family by the strength of their friendship. They were able only to sigh with desperation, having no hope for a remedy for her. All of them predicted a death for her which she could neither evade nor delay. At last it happened that the water of holy memory came into the mind of one of them, the water that had brought unexpected help to so many desperate people, even to those who were already dying. It was fetched and brought into the house, accompanied by a manifest power. It was poured into the mouth of the ill woman, and it flowed back in return by a sudden ensuing nausea. By vomiting she returned to health, and, speeding to the tomb of the martyr, she obligated herself to an annual payment for her life.

A large bulging pustule suddenly broke open in the middle of the left side of the face of the infant daughter of Edric, priest of Ramsholt. It emitted bloody matter that hardened on her face. Other pustules then grew up around it and her entire face was covered with them. The parents applied medicines and charms, and while they awaited her improvement, the pestilence constantly grew, such that they began to lose hope for her life. Finally, they measured around her head, made a candle in honor of the martyr, and awaited the mercy of the Lord. That was around the tenth hour. As the evening was drawing on and the day had already come to a close, a large portion of the hardened bloody matter fell off. Underneath it, her skin appeared white and healthy. On the third day, they found her cured, such that her face was not darkened by even a tiny mark.

In the same village, there happened a miracle of a more minor affair, but much more amusing in the telling. A certain person had presented a cheese to the wife of a man named William. She entrusted its care to her small daughter, Beatrice. Having put away the cheese, she turned her attention to the amusements and games one plays at that age and immediately and entirely forgot about it. Several days went by before the cheese came back to the girl’s mind, but she could not remember where she had put it. With the cheese lost, she feared that she would receive a beating in punishment, and she told her secret to one of her brothers, also a young child, whom she loved above the rest and by whom she was especially loved. She asked him whether he could remember where the cheese had been put. He answered that he didn’t know. It was now nearing the Friday of the following week. They feared that the cheese would be asked for, and again and again they searched everywhere, turning their home upside down. They sought the cheese but could not find it. Though they deliberated together frequently and for long periods, no ideas came to them. Then something that seemed good to her came into the girl’s mind, namely that they should go to the aforesaid man, although he lived far away, and ask him for a cheese like the first one. But the boy said, “We definitely should not do that. God willing, it would be much better if we did this. I have heard – already it is well known everywhere – that the holy martyr of God, Thomas, shines forth with countless miracles. If we decide to flee with devotion to his aid, we will certainly not be saddened by the rejection of our request. So, let’s pray for his mercy, so that he will make us dream about where the cheese is.” This childish plan pleased them both, and having said the Lord’s Prayer, they hastened to their beds.

And so the saint stood before the sleeping girl, his appearance and clothing most beautiful, and said to her, “Why are you sad?” She told him the cause of her sorrow, namely, the missing cheese and the fear of punishment. The saint indicated a very old vessel that was once used for the making of butter and said, “Don’t you remember that you put the cheese into that old vessel? Get up, you will find it there.” Waking from the dream, she ran to the place he indicated. Taking up the cheese, she ran even faster to her brother, saying, “Hugh, I found the cheese.” The boy said to her, “To be sure, I know where you put it.” When she asked where, he stated the place correctly and emphatically. Marvelling over his answer, the girl said, “How did you know?” The boy said, “A man of pleasing appearance who was dressed like a priest stood before me and asked me the reason of my sorrow. When he had learned about it from me, he showed the cheese to me, saying, ‘Get up, you will find it in that old vessel.’” The girl said, “To be sure, the same man also appeared to me in my sleep and used the same words.” And so they went to their mother and explained how everything had happened, and she did the same with the village priest Edric. The priest met with the boy and the girl separately, and he heard the same story without the smallest difference from them both. When he came to Canterbury, nearly everyone to whom he told these things burst out in laughter.

An abscess that seemed to be a type of quinsy grew in the throat of John of Bennington, a village in the diocese of Lincoln. The swelling filled his whole face, and the mounting pain took away his ability to hear in his left ear. For about fifteen days, he found all food abhorrent: only the refreshment of water brought any relief to his fasting innards. The water of the blessed martyr was brought from nearby and he was doused in both his ear and his mouth. Suddenly, the pain completely vanished. With the sudden easing of pain, he thought, until he felt it, that the swelling had left too. When he woke after being refreshed by a sweet and unaccustomed sleep, the interior of the abscess ruptured and a great deal of bloody matter flowed down his throat. It was thought that this was leading him to his end, and accordingly, friends and acquaintances came to the dying man. As is the custom in that region for those about to die, he was laid out on the ground on ashes and a burning candle was placed in his hand. But after a little while, he got up, something beyond the hope of those sitting there. After coughing up a great deal of corruption, he told them that he heard a voice while he slept that said, “Behold, you will be given back your health through St. Thomas the archbishop of Canterbury.” At once, he got up healed, and in a short time, with his vigor re-established, he did not delay to go to give thanks to the martyr.

There was a young man named Curbaran from the port of Dover who sought the necessities of life for himself through the shoemaker’s craft. With a wonderful and pure simplicity, he used to say the Lord’s Prayer every day for the soul of the holy martyr, not understanding that he who prays for a martyr does injury to the martyr. He did this without any interruption until the saint thought it worthy to show himself to him in his dreams, saying, “Curbaran, are you sleeping or awake?” He declared himself to be awake, and the saint pointed out a mill to him and spoke again, “Do you know that mill?” And the young man said, “I do, lord – who are you?” “I am Thomas, archbishop of Canterbury. Go to that mill, and take up that which you will find there under the elder tree, for it is right that I repay you something for your devoted service.” At dawn he got up, and according to the precept of the Lord, first seek the kingdom of God and his justice [Mt 6:33], he hastened to the church to pray. When he returned, the vision came to his mind and he turned to the mill. When he was under the elder tree, he immediately found a very thick and rusty coin. At first he thought it was made of brass or copper, but when he showed it to a man who was a good deal more shrewd than him, he discovered it to be gold when he bit into it with his teeth.55 Biting (or cutting into) a coin was a way to determine whether a coin was made of precious metal or whether it was merely base metal that had been plated to appear gold or silver. When he carefully cleaned the rust off the coin, he found it to have the image and inscription of Diocletian Augustus. It was clear that its worth was more than forty pieces of silver, for it was pure gold of the highest quality and weighed as much as five silver coins.56 During Diocletian’s reign as Roman emperor (284–305), a heavy gold aureus with the inscription “Diocletian Augustus” was minted. This coin circulated in Britain.

The martyr who gave gold to this man with pious kindness, rather wittily extorted silver from another. One of our servants would ask us daily for a penny for himself, not because any need compelled him, but rather due to shameless greed. He unexpectedly came down with fever and was exhausted to the point of death. He slept and saw the martyr saying to him, “Get up quickly and offer a penny upon my tomb, and the fever will not seize you again.” He got up and did what he had been ordered without delay: willingly or unwillingly, he put a penny on the tomb. We were amazed to receive money from the man who had daily stated that he wished to take away rather than offer anything to us, and we wished to know about this man’s new devotion and the reason for it. We asked, and, marvelling, we heard. In this way the martyr suppressed both the heat of the fever and the heat of greed in him.

The daughter of Ralph, a fowler of Flanders,57 Ralph and his family may well have lived in England rather than Flanders. A number of people from Flanders lived in Canterbury at the time Benedict was writing: see Urry, CUAK, p. 171 and above, II.30. had fallen, and her broken leg would not heal. “What are we to do,” the parents asked themselves, “since the broken bone will not mend, and the little girl is perishing?” They made a plan: they wrapped a farthing of oblation onto the broken leg, invoked the martyr’s aid, and promised a farthing to the martyr every year. Before the eighth day, the girl was perfectly cured by means of the silver poultice. She ran about everywhere with a firm and steady step. She was brought to Canterbury by her parents, and she gave the medicine that had made her well to her physician for his reward. And so, the one and the same farthing served both as medicine and oblation.

The father of the same child had attempted to capture a hawk for eight days without success. He made a vow to the martyr and said, “Blessed Thomas, glorious martyr, I offer you a penny if you will give me a hawk.” At that moment, one came to the fowler as if it had been broken to his hand. We saw the hawk, and we received the penny of oblation.58 On this miracle, see Gesine Oppitz-Trotman, “Birds, Beasts and Becket: Falconry and Hawking in the Lives and Miracles of St Thomas Becket,” in Peter Clarke and Tony Claydon (eds.), God’s Bounty? The Churches and the Natural World (Woodbridge, 2010), pp. 78–88.

Edric, a man from the region of Worcester, endured a dislocated upper arm for five weeks. The head of the bone was separated from the shoulder. Every time he moved it, it struck against his ribs. Although the arm was pulled every day, it was not possible to move it back into place. At last, after five weeks, he made a vow to the saint on the advice of a doctor. Then the arm bone sprang back into place when pulled by the doctor, even though he had hardly touched it. The doctor was amazed, because before the vow was made, he had often pulled on the arm without success.

A noble matron of the diocese of Lincoln by name of Constance,59 From other documentation, we know that her name was actually Matilda: see Biographical Notes, Robert, son of Gilbert (d.1166). the widow of the illustrious man Robert son of Gilbert,60 See Biographical Notes, Robert, son of Gilbert (d.1166). told us about her daughter, Constance, a nun of Stixwould.61 Stixwould Priory, founded in 1135, was located about fifteen kilometers east of Lincoln. She was struck by a grave illness, and at the end she had no use of her limbs. For about fifteen days she was entirely mute. It happened by chance – or rather by divine arrangement, which leaves nothing to the rule of fortune – that a certain person traveling through and lodging there boasted that he had a glove that was once the blessed martyr Thomas’s. When he made this known to the nuns, they obtained the glove and placed it upon the bosom of the sick virgin. Hardly had it touched the naked chest of the handmaiden of God when she opened her eyes. Her speech returned, the condition of her entire body was restored, she sat up, and she felt no further annoyance from that illness. She would have visited the sepulchre of the martyr herself, but the rigor of her order would not allow anyone to leave after she had once entered and taken up the holy habit.62 Stixwould was a Cistercian priory. Her mother devotedly took up her place. She came to Canterbury with her son Robert and daughter-in-law Matilda, who had also been cured by the martyr.63 Here again, Benedict seems to have made a mistake with the names of this family. The first son of Robert son of Gilbert and his wife Matilda was named William, not Robert. William was married to a Matilda and is very likely the son referred to here. See Biographical Notes, Robert, son of Gilbert.

After she was freed from the tribulation of childbirth, the uterus of this Matilda64 This is most likely the daughter of Robert of Ropsley named Matilda who married Robert son of Gilbert’s son William. See Biographical Notes, Robert son of Gilbert. swelled up again: it was so much greater than the previous swelling that it appeared to be double the size. Physicians tried to help her, but their work failed. Praying many prayers, she asked that true doctor of all doctors, whom all nature obeys, would turn his face away from her sins [Ps 50:11] and look to the merits of his holy martyr, that with his mediation he might help her in her peril. She heard that an anchorite serving God in her vicinity had a portion of the holy water. She first employed the remedy of confession, and then had herself brought there. By having herself carried to the saint, she declared that she was not worthy to receive the relic if it were brought to her. And so she drank from the hands of the religious man, and immediately, without any voiding or bouts of nausea, she deflated to such an extent that when she returned home, she could put on her tightest clothing without any difficulty – the clothing she was not able to wear unless she was slim and well. In a marvellous way, she was made slim in less time than it would have taken her to gallop a mile on a horse.

A doctor devoted himself to the cure of the gravely ill Hugh, cellarer of the church of Jervaulx.65 Jervaulx was a Cistercian abbey in Yorkshire. This miracle is portrayed in three panels of Canterbury Cathedral window nIII: see Caviness, Windows, pp. 191–2. Warned again and again not to disregard the merits of the blessed Thomas or to put his hope in mortal man rather than in one skilled in medicine, he did not acquiesce, but trusted instead in the power of herbs. However, after much time, much expense in medications, and much zeal and labor, the doctor left Hugh in a desperate state, showing all the signs of approaching death. In that same monastery, several men suffering fevers had already become well by tasting the health-giving water. Hugh was getting worse by the hour when John, the abbot of that place,66 See Biographical Notes, John of Kinstan. seeing both the benefit to the other ill men and his deterioration, came to him and tried to impress upon his mind the memory of the martyr. Finally he acquiesced, and with an invocation of the martyr, he tasted the water. With a sudden and violent outpouring of blood from his nose, he became well. The aforesaid abbot came to us and left certification concerning these things.

The same abbot also described how he went to the place which is called Byland by the inhabitants, which in Latin means “beautiful glade,”67 Before becoming abbot of Jervaulx, John of Kinstan had been a monk of the Byland community. It was located about forty-five kilometers from Jervaulx. and found there Radulf, a monk who was already breathing his last. He had taken the viaticum and had been anointed with oil, as is the custom of those in the church. Having already lost the ability to speak, he appeared to be insensible to everything: those who were present awaited only the hour of his death. By chance this abbot had brought with him the little piece of the hairshirt of saint Thomas that had been furnished to him. He placed it in water and made the sign of the life-giving cross over it. They opened the mouth of the dying man and poured in the water. Shortly thereafter, the man who was ill not only received the ability to speak, but he also rejoiced that his appetite had been restored. To everyone’s astonishment, he asked that food be brought to him. And so, his vigor returned, he was given back his former health.

We have commended to memory a third miracle by the certified testimony of the same abbot. A knight of the region of York, Richard of Stanley, was being housed at the abbey of Jervaulx.68 Richard of Stanley’s miracle is pictured at the top of Canterbury Cathedral window nIV: see Caviness, Windows, pp. 181–2. He was feverish and in excruciating pain from a trouble of the kidneys. He had, moreover, lost the natural flexibility of the fingers of his hands. They were bent, although not curved all the way to the palm of his hand. He had heard that many people there, both laymen and monks, had been restored to health by a taste of the water, and so he too tasted the water. On the next night, when he lay fast asleep in the first part of the night and the hour of his fever’s onset had come, he thought that he saw in his dreams the true presence of saint Thomas. With the gentlest touch of his hand, he smoothed his head as well as the rest of the members of his body. This vision did not fail to be fruitful for him. He went to sleep surrounded by many troubles, and when he woke, he was cured of them all. When he dined with the abbot the next day, he told him about the manner and the result of the vision, and by displaying his spread-out fingers, he compelled faith to be had in him.

A knight and Henry of Houghton,69 See Biographical Notes, Henry of Houghton, master and clerk of Thomas Becket. a clerk of the holy martyr, were once both traveling in the territory of the blessed Alban.70 Killed sometime in the third or the beginning of the fourth century, Alban was renowned as Britain’s first Christian martyr. The monastery of St. Albans, located about thirty-five kilometers northwest of London, was one of England’s great Benedictine establishments. As they approached each other, they exchanged greetings, and the knight was asked which region he lived in or where he had come from. He answered that his native land was the county of Berkshire and that he was returning there from Canterbury. Asked what he had seen in Canterbury worthy of telling, he said, “I saw the manifest glory of God in others and I sensed grace in myself. After a long illness, I was conveyed to Canterbury, partly in the bed of a soft litter, and partly in the more comfortable transport of a ship. And look, as you see, I return rejoicing and entirely recovered. I boldly dare to declare that I do not remember ever being more well or agile. My servant boy, whom you see here, was no less successful. In fact, although I am grateful beyond words for my own healing, yet I am struck with a greater amazement concerning the remarkable grace divinely granted to him. Some years earlier, as he slept under a bramble-bush as shepherds customarily do, a large blister covered the entire pupil of one of his eyes.71 On waking ill after sleeping outside, see also II.1, II.28, and IV.76. In the days that followed, it grew and became hard as stone. From a distance, it looked to be much larger than the size of a very large acorn. Two years went by, and after that, due to how much it protruded from his eye, he could not close his eyelid. After he had received no profit at Canterbury, he came back with me, in pain and groaning, as far as the city of Rochester. He was satisfying his body’s need for sleep when the saint showed himself in a vision. It seemed as if the boy’s eye received the touch of the most holy hands, and at length he marked it with the sign of the cross, as it pleased him, and he slipped away from his sight. The boy woke up with an itching eye, and suddenly, with the little sack of the swelling having broken, he felt putrefaction flowing. Waking those of us who were there with his persistent cries, we ran to him with lit candles. We thought that we were running to some sorrowful scene, but divine grace met us with joy. From that hour, it has not stopped constantly leaking bloody matter and blood mixed together, which we and the boy hope will bring a remedy.”

When Henry had heard these things from the knight, he dismounted from his horse and uncovered the boy’s eye, which had been covered to protect it from the wind. He found the eyelids already able to close themselves together. When he separated the eyelids, he used a thorn to lift out the little sack, which was deflated and emptied of putrefaction, and he found the pupil of the eye to be pure, healed, and entirely without corruption. The boy cried out that he could see perfectly, and the boy’s lord and Henry also both exclaimed and rushed to perform thanksgiving. Although our eyes did not see these things, yet, since they are certified by the mouth and eyes of this Henry, we have no doubts about incorporating them as if our eyes had seen them.

There was a time when a group of the great men of the kingdom of England had come together and were discussing among themselves the diverse marvels of the martyr. That same clerk testified that he heard one of the men, who had once been an enemy of the holy martyr, to have responded in this way: “The things being described are wonderful and utterly exceed the bounds of faith. My mind would retreat and draw back from belief in them all, except for the fact that eyewitness faith has made me certain about one of them. For I know and am certain that a priest, who dwells at one of my fortifications, had a right hand and arm made useless for a long time from an unusual malady of paralysis, to the point that he could not move his hand nor put it to his mouth. This suffering kept him from the office of the altar for some years. But now that he has come back from Canterbury, not only does he perform a priest’s duties freely and without encumbrance, but he also competed with my squires and sergeants to determine who could throw the heaviest stone. In this game, he was seen to carry off the victory from them all.” Having said these things, the magnate turned to Henry and asked, “Henry, how can we regard the wonderful occurrence of these things to be just and reasonable? How can it be that the man who, when he was chancellor, was the most severe of any of us on the church of God, now surpasses every single saint of whom the church reads or sings in both the multitude and the magnitude of his miracles?” Although he would have been able to object to the question by pointing out the arduous and most saintly life of the holy martyr, he assumed a more humble principle for speaking72 With reference to a question [quaestio] and principle [principium], it looks as if Benedict (or possibly Master Henry himself, who might have written this for Benedict) intended to evoke the method and language utilized in late twelfth-century schools. and explained it in this way: “Which seems to you to be a greater crime: to renounce Christ, or to exercise severity on the church of Christ, which is what you accuse both yourself and the saint of doing? If Peter could be absolved of such a great crime by such a short lament;73 A reference to the story of Peter renouncing Christ three times before he heard a rooster crow in the morning (Matthew 14:66–72, Mark 26:69–75, Luke 22:60–1, and John 18:16–27). if the thief, sanctified by the confession of his crime and a momentary penance, could be taken up to paradise before the remaining saints,74 A reference to the story of the thief crucified alongside Jesus who asked to enter the kingdom of heaven (Matthew 27:38, Mark 15:27, and Luke 23:32–43). then what ought to be conferred on the Lord’s anointed and the defender of the church? He suffered the injury of nearly seven years of exile, the violent dispossession of his goods, the deportation of his parents and the imprisonment of his friends, a hairshirt, and, at the end, that which is greater than all of these things, such a cruel cause, time and place of death. Surely divine mercy did not expend itself entirely on Peter and the thief and leave nothing remaining for the future? That mercy is wholly what it was: it suffers no decrease.” After the clerk discussed these things and more in this way, the magnate became so satisfied that he gave him the reward of his blessing, crying out, “Truly, you have removed a tumor from my heart that I would not have wished to have remained rooted there for twenty pounds.”75 Twenty pounds – equivalent to 4,880 silver pennies – was a tremendous amount of money. Though Benedict does not name this magnate, the “renowned enemy” in the next part of the chapter can be identified as Richard de Lucy (see Biographical Notes), so perhaps Henry of Houghton’s conversation was with him.

In respect to this, I wished to add the following briefly, so that it might be known to the readers by what compassion the most kind martyr has heaped coals of fire on the heads of his enemies [Rom 12:20]. Not ceasing to pursue him, even when he was dead, with old hatreds,76 The text edited by Robertson reads: “ceasing to pursue him, even when he was dead, with old hatreds,” but the sense requires a negative. I have emended the text to read: “not ceasing to pursue him, even when he was dead, with old hatreds.” they were brought to charity by the sweetness and certitude of miracles, lest by adding sin to sin they be brought to death. In order to insert his love into the mind of his renowned enemy, the saint worked wonderful grace of healing in one of his villages, which is called Newington in English, or “New-Village” in Latin.77 Newington is located about thirty kilometers west of Canterbury on the road to London. In the early 1170s, it was held by Richard de Lucy (see Biographical Notes). In the first recension of his Life of Becket, Edward Grim discusses the healing miracles that occurred in the place where Becket had confirmed children (Grim, Vita, pp. 427–8). Newington appears three times in William’s collection: see William of Canterbury, Miracula, pp. 168, 188, and 310. On Newington in the late twelfth century, see Diana Webb, “The Saint of Newington: Who Was Robert le Bouser?” Archaeologia Cantiana 119 (1999): 173–87, at pp. 176–7. In the first days of miracles, a cross was erected in the middle of this village, although by whose direction it is not known. The place where the cross stands is holy ground, full of grace and renowned for the glory of miracles. When the saint had been called back from exile and was going to London, he dismounted from his horse at Newington, and he stood on that spot while he placed his hand on children, confirmed them with the chrism, and invoked the presence of the fullness of grace. For it was not his custom, as it is for many, in fact nearly all bishops, to perform the ceremony of confirmation while sitting on his horse. Instead, on account of his reverence for the sacrament, he would dismount and stand as he placed his hand on the children. Moreover, in two other places where he dismounted for the same reason, he devoutly satisfied the needs of the people coming there. On account of the frequency of miracles and admonition of the martyr in dreams, a wooden cross was erected in each place. There is so much glory of signs in these places, so much grace of healing, such a great concourse of the people, and such great feeling of devotion from those coming there, that the church can sing of its servant as it does of the Lord: those who slandered you will come and worship the prints of your feet [Is 60:14], for even the enemies of the martyr ran there in groups, vying with one another, and they worshipped in the place where his feet had stood.

We know of an old woman of Southwell, Odilda, who was coming to Canterbury to ask for the honey-sweet grace of the martyr when she obtained it at that place, namely, at Newington. She had been deprived of the sight of her eyes for four years. Three years before, moreover, her eyelids cohered together, such that her eyes were stuck shut as well as blind. When she threw herself down along with her other co-sufferers next to the above-mentioned cross, her head was filled with pain. In the midst of the torment, she thankfully received the opening of her eyes and the delight of friendly light.

A woman of Woolwich also sat in the jail of blindness for ten years. When she obtained at that place what she had been going to Canterbury to request, she was greatly gladdened. A sharer in longed-for sight, she roused the throng of people standing there to give thanks and praise to God.

A three-year-old boy, who was brought forth blind from his mother’s womb,79 The phrase “who was brought forth blind from his mother’s womb” scans as a hexa­meter and Robertson treats it as a quotation. was brought to that place and rested there. After vespers were finished and the light of day was seen to be concluded by the darkness of night, with many standing around him he miraculously received, with opened eyes, the sight that nature had denied him. His sad start to life was to be brought to a more joyful ending.

Eliza of Dunton, the daughter of Roger, suffered greatly and with much anxiety from that illness which the physicians call cardia.80 Robertson emended Benedict’s cardia to cardia[cus]. I have retained the Latin term here: in the DMLBS, cardia is defined as cardiac fever. Her breath was so constricted that nearly every moment it seemed that she would expire instead of respire. She brought her drooping limbs to rest under that aforementioned cross. She was restored, and after resting, she left healed.

The swelling of dropsy had possessed the whole of the little body of Goditha of Hayes.81 Goditha of Hayes’ miracle is portrayed in three panels of Canterbury Cathedral Trinity Chapel nIII: see Caviness, Windows, p. 188. The second panel is very heavily restored and today contains an insertion of a scene from another window. All of the beauty of the human form had been removed from all of her limbs. There was no health in her from the sole of her foot to the top of her head. When she arrived at the aforesaid place, a drink of the water of Canterbury was the sole means by which she was drained of fluid. It was as if by tasting the most efficacious draught, a laxative for the stomach had been procured for her. Then she went to Canterbury, the universal and solemn refuge of the wretched. The same laxative persisted through five days, until her limbs were made slender and thin and she left slight and wholly slimmed down.

For no less than three years, a woman named Aldida from the county of Staffordshire was a stranger to light. After she poured out her prayers to the Lord in that place and invoked the name of the martyr, the desired health of her body followed.

It was similar for a certain tanner, Hedewic, from the region of Gloucester, who had likewise been condemned to the blindness of his eyes for three years. Divine grace, through invocation of the martyr, poured out the grace of light. Yet at first he bore many torments, and by his pain he moved others to the state of tender compassion. We did not keep in mind the name of the village from which he said he came, but let it suffice to have it noted here, for the sake of testimony, that his lady and the companion of his journey was Bertha, the widow of Elias Giffard,82 See Biographical Notes, Bertha, widow of Elias Giffard. from whose fief he holds his land.

Also in that same location, Leuric of Barking in Suffolk, of the region of the blessed virgin Etheldreda,84 The relics of St. Etheldreda, an Anglo-Saxon queen who died in 679, were kept by the Benedictine monks of Ely. By the late twelfth century, Etheldreda was a popular saint and Ely a large and powerful community with many possessions in Suffolk. rejoiced to have his paralyzed hand restored to him, though not without great signs of preceding torment. He spent two days crying and wailing without cease, but on the third day, the benefit of hoped-for healing came at the same time as quiet returned. He stretched out his hand [Ps 54:12] and showed it to be entirely healed.

Around that time when the blessed athlete of God, Thomas, seemed to have obtained peace in the church through a concordance of king and priesthood,85 That is, the period after Henry II and Becket agreed to the peace of Fréteval on July 22, 1170. it happened that Walter Torel, a man of Warwickshire of the village named Austrey in English, cursed his daughter Luciana, at that time in her fourteenth year. She had been spinning on the feast day of the blessed virgin and martyr Cecilia which is kept as a great and solemn celebration in that region.86 St. Cecilia’s day is celebrated on November 22. Her father had returned from church and found her spinning. Led by his zeal for the festival, he punished her with a curse. As soon as her father’s curse fell on her, she withered away and was deprived of the use of the right side of her body and her tongue. When her father saw that he had been heard in his evil-doing, he wept and cried. By his evil-doing, he had inflicted a retribution of pain: she, punished herself, heaped up the punishment of pain. He put the half-dead girl on his shoulders and brought her to the resting places of many saints. At last, in a certain church of the blessed virgin Edith, her tongue alone was freed from the curse.87 The relics of St. Edith (d.984), an Anglo-Saxon princess, were held at Wilton Abbey in Wiltshire, located about 200 kilometers south of Austrey. With his pain lessened somewhat, though not his labor, as he was burdened again with the sad and miserable burden, he turned his feet and his soul to the memorial of the martyr of Canterbury. When he came across the cross mentioned above, he cast the girl down in the place where his feet had stood. He prayed for a long time. The native vigour and heat of the nerves of both her hands and her feet returned and the whole of the mortified part of her body lived again. Her father rejoiced with the unexpected joy and went on to Canterbury. He was delighted to leave with a companion whom he had brought as a burden. And so, before he came to the martyr, he was heard by the martyr.

Another person, in contrast, was returning from Canterbury and came to that place. He had had a hernia for not much less than seven years. After making his prayer, he sensed the effect of the prayer. Into nearly the middle of the night, he was rolling about here and there and from one side to another. His innards, coming together and returning to their proper place, were divinely repaired, and he marvelled at the power of the martyr that he had in this way experienced in himself.

Robert de Baalim,88 The place is unidentified, though “Baalim” or “Baalum” may refer to a family name rather than a place. A family with the surname “de Baalun” was active in England in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries. whose eyes had not had the ability of vision for nearly ten years, was coming from Essex, led by his wife, to beg the favor of the martyr. He had gone through the city of Rochester when he was trodden on by the foot of the horse ridden by a blind man behind him, and he lamented that his heel was injured. Having learned that the one who was following him was blind, and that they both were drawn to the saint for the same reason, he cried out loudly, either on account of his injury, or for his own and the other’s blindness, because of which neither could take precautions either for himself or the other. He bent his knees both bodily and mentally to the Lord. He appealed to the Lord that the lost happiness of sight would be summoned back to him thorough the merits of the martyr. When he had fallen prone to the ground upon asking this for a third time, he saw and took up a stone lying before his eyes. He began to kiss it for joy. Scorning the guidance of his wife, he ran and quickly flew before his companions, such that none of the company were able to accompany him. As he ran ahead in this way, and fell to his knees to worship God at nearly every furlong, those who followed him did not believe him to be sane in his mind nor unhurt in body. They thought that insanity impelled him to run, a stumbling-block had brought about his fall, and the fall an injury. He, however, ran headlong and without ceasing for nearly six miles to Newington where the first cross in the honor of the martyr had been erected. He worshipped in the place where his feet had stood. Afterwards, with indescribable joy, he proceeded to Canterbury.

Aliza of Northampton, wife of the tanner Roger, also brought her little three-year-old boy Henry to that place. From the hour of his birth, his right foot had been immovably fixed over his left foot in the shape of a cross. The bones in his shins were either non-existent or too slender. In order to be made certain of this, his mother very often grasped them most firmly, but she could never feel the solidity of bones in the softness of flesh. What benefit is there in lengthy description? It is the mother and tinder of disgust. She put the boy in this miserable condition down in that holy place, and took him up erect and his feet separated from each other.

Two girls, the daughters of Godbold of Boxley, were brought to that place.89 This miracle is pictured in three panels in Canterbury Cathedral window nIII: see Caviness, Windows, p. 189. From their cradles, they had carried themselves about by crutches rather than their own feet. Both importuned the martyr for their health, and the older was seized by sleep. The saint visited and spoke with her in her dreams, and she was promised and granted health. When she woke, the sinews of her knee had wonderfully straightened out and there was great rejoicing among the clerics and the people. As the bells of the church were rung as a sign,90 Bells were commonly rung as signs of miracles: see also below, IV.2. she was brought into the church. When the younger one saw this, she yielded to a flood of tears, for she was saddened by her misery to the same degree that the older sister had been made joyful by her success. She blamed the saint because she remained lying there while her sister departed. You could see there the weeping of Esau on account of the gift of his father’s blessing, crying out: Do you only have one blessing, father? I beg that you bless me too. And when she wept with a loud cry, the pious father was moved [Gn 27:38–9].91 These citations come from the biblical story in Genesis about two brothers. Esau, the older brother, is lamenting the fact he has not had a blessing from his father, unlike his younger brother, Jacob, who has. In the case of the sisters from Boxley, the older sister receives her health first while the younger one laments, but Benedict does not seem to mind this slight mismatch. He visited her in her sleep on the following day and restored her health in the same manner as he had the first. With the repetition of the miracle, praise to God and joy to the people were doubled. There were innumerable other people to be seen there who had been freed from the suffering of many kinds of illnesses. But since some of them did not produce witnesses, or were not sifted down by us to the purity of truth, we let not a few that had easily entered our ears go out just as easily. We did not wish to mix chaff with the grain or insert doubtful things among the certain.

We do not think it should be buried in silence that in another place where the venerable father similarly stood, before a cross was erected there, it has been said that a great light shown out. There are four witnesses asserting to this event: Henry de Topindenne,92 The place is unidentified. It is spelled Tropindenne and Trobindenne in various manuscripts: see Robertson, MTB, vol. 2, p. 171 n. 2. Robertson suggested Tappington, Kent. a truthful man of commendable way of life, Samuel the cleric, and two others, whom common report also praises for their faithfulness and truthfulness. As they were making a journey not far from the place, all of them – together and at the same time – saw thirteen lit candles there. At the time there was still some daylight, and wishing to see it from a closer distance, they all dismounted from their horses and approached the place on foot. When they were about half a stone’s throw away from the candles, they suddenly disappeared from their eyes. Struck with wonder, they went back. Having gone back, they looked, and they again saw the lit candles and counted them. Mounting their horses, they discussed among themselves what it could mean that with the sun setting, such a light shone out in that place against the shadows of night. The aforementioned Henry remembered that the blessed athlete of God had traveled through that place. Turning aside to a cottage that he had spotted, he learned from a little woman that the saint had stood there when he had administered confirmation to children. Afterwards, that place was marked out and its sanctity made more evident by the grace of many instances of healing and the great frequency of miracles, and so a sign of cross was also erected there by the faithful. In addition, a third place in which his feet had stood was made similarly venerable by no less glory of prodigies, of which it is not necessary to speak specifically now. By such silence, I do not condemn them, but rather defer them, for with such a great multitude of miracles, I hesitate to know what I should bring forward first, and what later, for abundance makes me poor.93 Ovid, Metamorphoses, book III, line 466.