from: The Letters of John of Salisbury, vol. II: 1163-1180. Edited and translated by W. J. Millor and C. N. L. Brooke. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979; pp. 724-39.
Quite unexpectedly, quite in passing, but by God's mercy, I have just learned that the bearer was on his way across the sea to you. I am delighted at this heaven-sent opportunity to write, and have snatched it gratefully: for I reckoned that it would be a great comfort in the long-drawn-out catastrophe to be permitted to bewail our heap of difficulties in trusted ears.
Where shall I begin? One can hardly speak for the abundant, overflowing, tide of the theme—a theme which passes belief, had not wickedness risen to its summit in our day. Is it for public disasters or for private and intimate that I shall weep? But the world knows the calamities of all; personal suffering comes home most closely to an individual—unless one of Christ's devoted followers be inspired by charity to carry all men's burdens and be burned when his neighbours are offended. No doubt you are well informed about the passion of the glorious martyr Thomas, archbishop of Canterbury, who lights up not only his own church but both the English provinces with many mighty wonders; and so I do not think I should dwell long on it, especially since I have only a short time in which to write, and the theme is widely and commonly known throughout almost the whole Latin world by many folk's relating. Silent I could not think to be, however, with such a God-given opportunity, about something which fills all men with wonder, to God's and his martyr's glory. Every circumstance in the archbishop's death agony conspired to glorify the dying man for ever, to reveal the depravity of the assailants and brand them eternally with shame. Observe, take stock, if you will, of the characters on this side and on that: here stands the holy archbishop, primate of Britain, legate of the Holy See, most incorrupt judge— who neither accepts persons nor gifts—protagonist of the Church's liberty, a tower built in Jerusalem against the face of Damascus, the hammer of the wicked, but a comfort to those in poverty and sorrow. Whoever wishes may observe who comes from the other side. If the case makes the martyr, as every wise man must think, what could be juster or more holy than his? He scorned riches and all the world's glory, set Christ's love before affectionate intercourse with friends and his whole family, submitted to exile, laid himself and his followers open to peril and poverty; he fought to the death to preserve his God's law and to make nought abuses which came from ancient tyrants; nor—after a single fall when he was trapped by his enemies' guile—could he be induced by any compromise to pledge himself to any of the demands made to him without adding in every case 'saving God's honour and the Church's good name'. He did not suffer disaster like one who believes for a time, for a little hour, and falls off in the moment of temptation; he extended his exile and merciless outlawry into a seventh year, following the royal road in the footsteps of Christ and the apostles with such virtuous constancy that his unconquered spirit could not be broken by raging fortune's onslaught or weakened by charm and flattery.
Take note too where his sacrifice was made. Yes, in the church which is the kingdom's head, the mother in Christ of all others in the kingdom, before the altar, among his fellow priests, and in the ranks of the monks, whom the shouts of the armed assassins had drawn together to witness the pitiful and tremendous drama. He had shown himself long since a living sacrifice, holy, pleasing to God; he had crucified his flesh, its vices and desires in prayers, in vigils and fasting, in constant wearing of the harsh hair-shirt; he had laid bare his back to the whip, as his intimate, holy attendants knew, as a child in Christ's school; he had been used to offer Christ's body and blood upon the altar: and now, prostrate at the altar's foot, he offered his own blood shed by the hands of evil men. Satan's agents were in worse case in the sacrifice of the disciple and servant than their harbingers who crucified his master and Lord. In Christ's passion the city was not soiled, nor the sabbath made unclean; He was condemned by an evil judgement indeed, but after He had had some show at least of a chance to answer His accusers; He was led out of the city gate to be crucified by the hands of the gentiles who did not know God, by authority of a government, put on trial by those whose Law He seemed to be transgressing, His treacherous betrayal the work of a disciple, the son of perdition. But Thomas suffered within the city; worse yet, within the church, not on a common day, but on a day within the Christmas festival and made sacred by it. He had lived in innocence and holiness, and it was utterly right and fitting that his festive birth into God's glory should follow the birthday of the Holy Innocents. Indeed it is believed that his murder was arranged by the disciples who betrayed him, and planned by the chief priests; they outbid Annas and Caiaphas, Pilate and Herod in wickedness, in proportion as they took more pains to see that he was not brought before a judgement seat, was not summoned by accusers, did not appear before the face of a judge—for then on grounds of the cathedral's consecration, the day's sanctity, his own eminent position, his order, or because peace had been restored to him and safe-conduct issued, he might have escaped the hands that did sacrilege—hands not of gentiles, not of enemies, but of those who professed God's law and loyalty towards friends. God almighty disposed it all by a wise and wonderful and saving providence, that He who allowed so evil, so unwise, so insolent an act has not allowed it to be hidden. Thus here too in the world of time is fulfilled what Truth itself revealed: 'nothing is hidden which shall not be made plain'. What common report told of the fate of Judas, standard bearer and chief of traitors, is by equal right the fate of his accomplices too: for the same judgment should lie with the like offense, so that all Christian folk may see in faith that the heavens shall tell the traitors' wickedness, and the earth shall rise up against them! For who among the faithful would be so rash as to doubt that God will convert or destroy the authors and perpetrators of this fearful sacrilege?
The martyr stood in the cathedral, before Christ's altar, as we have said, ready to suffer; the hour of slaughter was at hand. When he heard that he was sought—heard the knights who had come for him shouting in the throng of clerks and monks 'Where is the archbishop?'—he turned to meet them on the steps which he had almost climbed, and said with steady countenance: 'Here am I! What do you want?' One of the knight-assassins flung at him in fury: 'That you die now! That you should live longer is impossible.' No martyr seems ever to have been more steadfast in his agony than he, or so I would state as my confident opinion, giving to all the martyrs their due respect; and thus, steadfast in speech as in spirit, he replied: 'And I am prepared to die for my God, to preserve justice and my church's liberty. If you seek my head, I forbid you on behalf of God almighty and on pain of anathema to do any hurt to any other man, monk, clerk or layman, of high or low degree. Do not involve them in the punishment, for they have not been involved in the cause: on my head not on theirs be it if any of them have supported the Church in its troubles. I embrace death readily, so long as peace and liberty for the Church follow from the shedding of my blood.' Has any been seen stronger in charity than he, whose only care was that those near him should suffer no harm, while he offered himself up to those who assailed him, for God's law? Did not his words echo those of Christ in His passion, saying: 'If ye seek me, let these go their way?' He spoke, and saw that the assassins had drawn their swords; and bowed his head like one in prayer. His last words were 'To God and St. Mary and the saints who protect and defend this church, and to the blessed Denis, I commend myself and the church's cause'. No one could dwell on what followed without deep sorrow and choking tears. A son's affection forbids me to describe each blow the savage assassins struck, spurning all fear of God, forgetful of all fealty and any human feeling. They defiled the cathedral and the holy season with a bishop's blood and with slaughter; but that was not enough. They sliced off the crown of his head, which had been specially dedicated to God by anointing with holy chrism—a fearful thing even to describe; then they used their evil swords, when he was dead, to spill his brain and cruelly scattered it, mixed with blood and bones, over the pavement. Thus were they more cruel than Christ's executioners, who refrained from breaking His legs, as they had broken the legs of His riving companions, when they saw that He was dead. Through all the agony the martyr's spirit was unconquered, his steadfastness marvellous to observe; he spoke not a word, uttered no cry, let slip no groan, raised no arm nor garment to protect himself from an assailant, but bent his head, which he had laid bare to their swords with wonderful courage, till all might be fulfilled. Motionless he held it, and when at last he fell his body lay straight; and he moved neither hand nor foot. But the murderers were as grasping as they were violent, and they went back to the archbishop's palace to do injury to the king's prerogative as well as to God's, seizing all the furnishings and all they could find in the chests and travelling bags of the archbishop and his followers: gold, silver, clothes, diverse ornaments, books, charters and other documents of every kind, and harness; all taken with insatiable greed and astounding rashness and divided among them at will in imitation of the act of those who divided Christ's raiment among themselves, though our despoilers committed a graver crime. So as to take away the favour of men from the archbishop who had already received a heavenly crown by martyrdom, all the records stolen by a sacrilegious thief were sent to the king in Normandy. But God willed that as man's rash enterprise strove to hide the glory of his boldest champion, so, more and more, the Lord himself should reveal it by making known the martyr's virtue and by the clear evidence of miracles. These wicked men, whose hate for him was beyond sating, observed this, and forbade, on the government's authority, that anyone dare publish the miracles which were being performed. But it is a hopeless task to try to hide what God determines to make plain: the more the scoundrels tried to have them suppressed the more the miracles abounded. A man looks upon the face; God alone sees into the hearts and reins; when the holy martyr's body was ready for burial, and was being clothed, as the custom is, in full pontificals, it was found (what very few even of his household had known) that it was wrapped in a hair-shirt crawling with lice and worms, and furthermore (what was entirely unknown among our people before), his underclothes, right down to his knees, were made of hair-cloth. He wore his outer garments according to the fashion, following the wise man's injunction: 'Let your exterior conform, while all within is at variance with the populace'. Who can tell the groans, the floods of tears of the gathering of the saints present when piety so kept in the shadow was made known? Still the storms of the assassins' rage blew fierce: the traitor's corpse, said they, was not to be buried among the holy archbishops, but thrown into a vile marsh or hung on a gibbet. Hence the good men who were there feared that force was being invoked against them, and buried him in the crypt, before the altar of St. John the Baptist and St. Augustine, been able, and has been used, to glorify whom He would, waiting on the authority of no man; and no man of wisdom can doubt as much, if he peruses holy books of diverse kinds with skill and care.