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.”

Philip groaned in despair.

Then one of the priests said: “I brought the cross. Here it is.”

Thomas said: “Carry it before me in the usual way, please.”

The priest held it up and walked with restrained haste toward the church door.

Thomas followed him.

The archbishop’s entourage preceded him into the cathedral, as etiquette demanded. Philip went last and held the door for him. Just as Thomas entered, two knights burst out of the cellarer’s stores and sprinted down the south walk.

Philip closed the transept door. There was a bar located in a hole in the wall beside the doorpost. Philip grabbed the bar and pulled it across the door.

He turned around, sagging with relief, and leaned back against the door.

Thomas was crossing the narrow transept toward the steps that led up to the north aisle of the chancel, but when he heard the bar slam into place he stopped suddenly and turned around.

“No, Philip,” he said.

Philip’s heart sank. “My lord archbishop-”

“This is a church, not a castle. Unbar the door.”

The door shook violently as the knights tried to open it. Philip said: “I’m afraid they want to kill you!”

“Then they will probably succeed, whether you bar the door or not. Do you know how many other doors there are to this church? Open it.”

There was a series of loud bangs, as if the knights were attacking the door with axes. “You could hide,” Philip said desperately. “There are dozens of places-the entrance to the crypt is just there-it’s getting dark-”

“Hide, Philip? In my own church? Would you?”

Philip stared at Thomas for a long moment. At last he said: “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Open the door.”

With a heavy heart, Philip slid back the bar.

The knights burst in. There were five of them. Their faces were hidden behind helmets. They carried swords and axes. They looked like emissaries from hell.

Philip knew he should not be afraid, but the sharp edges of their weapons made him shiver with fear.

One of them shouted: “Where is Thomas Becket, a traitor to the king and to the kingdom?”

The others shouted: “Where is the traitor? Where is the archbishop?”

It was quite dark now, and the big church was only dimly lit by candles. All the monks were in black, and the knights’ vision was somewhat limited by their faceplates. Philip had a sudden surge of hope: perhaps they would miss Thomas in the darkness. But Thomas immediately dashed that hope by walking down the steps toward the knights, saying: “Here I am-no traitor to the king, but a priest of God. What do you want?”

As the archbishop stood confronting the five men with their drawn swords, Philip suddenly knew with certainty that Thomas was going to die here today.

The people in the archbishop’s entourage must have had the same feeling, for suddenly most of them fled. Some disappeared into the gloom of the chancel, a few scattered into the nave among the townspeople waiting for the service, and one opened a small door and ran up a spiral staircase. Philip was disgusted. “You should pray, not run!” he shouted after them.

It occurred to Philip that he, too, might be killed if he did not run. But he could not tear himself away from the side of the archbishop.

One of the knights said to Thomas: “Renounce your treachery!” Philip recognized the voice of Reginald Fitzurse, who had done the talking earlier.

“I have nothing to renounce,” Thomas replied. “I have committed no treachery.” He was deadly calm, but his face was white, and Philip realized that Thomas, like everyone else, had realized that he was going to die.

Reginald shouted at Thomas: “Run away, you’re a dead man!”

Thomas stood still.

They want him to run, Philip thought; they can’t bring themselves to kill him in cold blood.

Perhaps Thomas had understood that too, for he stood unflinching in front of them, defying them to touch him. For a long moment they were all frozen in a murderous tableau, the knights unwilling to make the first move, the priest too proud to run.