The knights William had stationed in the house across the road came out and poured into the courtyard, shouting, as they had been instructed, “King’s men! King’s men!”
William ran back to the palace.
The knight Richard and the steward William Fitzneal threw open the porch door for him.
As he entered, two of the archbishop’s servants took advantage of the fact that Richard and William Fitzneal were distracted, and slammed the door between the porch and the hall.
William threw his weight against the door but he was too late: they had secured it with a bar. He cursed. A setback, and so soon! The knights began to hack at the door with their axes, but they made little headway: it had been made to withstand attack. William felt control slipping away from him. Fighting back the beginnings of a panic, he ran out of the porch and looked around for another door. Reginald went with him.
There was nothing on this side of the building. They ran around the west end of the palace, past the detached kitchen, into the orchard on the south side. William grunted with satisfaction: there on the south wall of the palace was a staircase leading to the upper floor. It looked like a private entrance to the archbishop’s chambers. The feeling of panic went away.
William and Reginald ran to the foot of the staircase. It was damaged halfway up, and there were a few workmen’s tools and a ladder nearby, as if the stairs were being repaired. Reginald leaned the ladder against the side of the staircase and climbed up, bypassing the broken steps. He reached the top. There was a door leading to an oriel, a little enclosed balcony. William watched him try the door. It was locked. Beside it was a shuttered window. Reginald smashed the shutter with one blow of his ax. He reached inside, fumbled, then opened the door and went in. William started to climb the ladder.
Philip was scared from the moment he saw William Hamleigh, but the priests and monks in Thomas’s entourage were at first complacent. Then, when they heard the hammering on the hall door, they became frightened, and several of them proposed taking refuge in the cathedral.
Thomas was scornful. “Take refuge?” he said. “From what? Those knights? An archbishop can’t run from a few hotheads.”
Philip thought he was right, up to a point: the title of archbishop was meaningless if you could be frightened by knights. The man of God, secure in the knowledge that his sins are forgiven, regards death as a happy transfer to a better place, and has no fear of swords. However, even an archbishop ought not to be so careless of his safety as to invite attack. Furthermore, Philip had firsthand knowledge of the viciousness and brutality of William Hamleigh. So when they heard the smashing of the oriel shutter, Philip decided to take a lead.
He could see, through the windows, that the palace was surrounded by knights. The sight of them scared him more. This was clearly a carefully planned attack, and the perpetrators were prepared to commit violence. He hastily closed the bedroom door and pulled the bar across. The others watched him, content to let someone decisive take charge. Archbishop Thomas continued to look scornful but he did not try to stop Philip.
Philip stood by the door and listened. He heard a man come through the oriel and enter the audience chamber. He wondered how strong the bedroom door was. However, the man did not attack the door, but crossed the audience chamber and started down the stairs. Philip guessed he was going to open the hall door from the inside and let the rest of the knights in that way.
That gave Thomas a few moments’ reprieve.
There was another door in the opposite corner of the bedroom, partly concealed by the bed. Philip pointed at it and said urgently: “Where does that lead?”
“To the cloisters,” someone said. “But it’s locked shut.”
Philip crossed the room and tried the door. It was locked. “Have you got a key?” he said to Thomas, adding as an afterthought, “My lord archbishop.”
Thomas shook his head. “That passage has never been used in my memory,” he said with infuriating calm.
The door did not look very stout, but Philip was sixty-three years old and brute force had never been his métier. He stood back and gave the door a kick. It hurt his foot. The door rattled flimsily. Philip gritted his teeth and kicked it harder. It flew open.
Philip looked at Thomas. Thomas still seemed reluctant to flee. Perhaps it had not dawned on him, as it had on Philip, that the number of knights and the well-organized nature of their operation indicated a deadly serious intention to do him harm. But Philip knew instinctively that it would be fruitless to try to scare Thomas into fleeing. Instead he said: “It’s time for vespers. We ought not to let a few hotheads disrupt the routine of worship.”
Thomas smiled, seeing that his own argument had been used against him. “Very well,” he said, and he got to his feet.
Philip led the way, feeling relief that he had got Thomas moving and fear that the archbishop still might not move fast enough. The passage led down a long flight of steps. There was no light except what came through the archbishop’s bedroom. At the end of the passage was another door. Philip gave it the same treatment as he had given the first door, but this one was stronger and it did not open. He began to hammer on it, shouting: “Help! Open the door! Hurry, hurry!” He heard the note of panic in his own voice, and made an effort to stay calm, but his heart was racing and he knew that William’s knights must be close behind.
The others caught up with him. He continued to bang the door and shout. He heard Thomas say: “Dignity, Philip, please,” but he took no notice. He wanted to preserve the archbishop’s dignity—his own was of no account.
Before Thomas could protest again, there was the sound of a bar being drawn and a key turning in the lock, and the door was opened. Philip grunted with relief. Two startled cellarers stood there. One said: “I didn’t know this door led anywhere.”
Philip pushed past them impatiently. He found himself in the cellarer’s stores. He negotiated the barrels and sacks to reach another door, and passed through that into the open air.
It was getting dark. He was in the south walk of the cloisters. At the far end of the walk he saw, to his immense relief, the door that led into the north transept of Canterbury Cathedral.
They were almost safe.
He had to get Thomas into the cathedral before William and his knights could catch up. The rest of the party emerged from the stores. Philip said: “Into the church, quickly!”
Thomas said: “No, Philip; not quickly. We will enter my cathedral with dignity.”
Philip wanted to scream, but he said: “Of course, my lord.” He could hear the ominous sound of heavy feet in the disused passage: the knights had broken into the bedroom and had found the bolthole. He knew the archbishop’s best protection was his dignity, but there was no harm in getting out of the way of trouble.
“Where is the archbishop’s cross?” Thomas said. “I can’t enter the church without my cross.”
