As they lifted the stretcher, Philip picked up the broken stump of the sword that had killed Thomas. He kept thinking of the woman who had collected the archbishop’s blood in a bottle, as if he were a saint. There was a massive significance to that small act of hers, but Philip was not yet sure exactly what it was.

The people followed the stretcher, drawn by an invisible force. Philip went with the crowd, feeling the weird compulsion that gripped them all. The monks carried the body through the chancel and lowered it gently to the ground in front of the high altar. The crowd, many of them praying aloud, watched as a priest brought a clean cloth and bandaged the head neatly, then covered most of the bandage with a new cap.

A monk cut through the black archbishop’s mantle, which was soiled with blood, and removed it. The man seemed unsure what to do with the bloody garment, and turned as if to throw it to one side. A citizen stepped forward quickly and took it from him as if it were a precious object.

The thought that had been hovering uncertainly in the back of Philip’s mind now came to the foreground in an inspirational flash. The citizens were treating Thomas like a martyr, eagerly collecting his blood and his clothes as if they had the supernatural powers of saints’ relics. Philip had been regarding the murder as a political defeat for the Church, but the people here did not see it that way: they saw a martyrdom. And the death of a martyr, while it might look like a defeat, never failed to provide inspiration and strength to the Church in the end.

Philip thought again of the hundreds of people who had flocked to Kingsbridge to build the cathedral, and of the men, women and children who had worked together half the night to put up the town wall. If such people could be mobilized now, he thought with a mounting sense of excitement, they might raise a cry of outrage so loud it would be heard all over the world.

Looking at the men and women gathered around the body, their faces suffused with grief and horror, Philip realized that they only wanted a leader.

Was it possible?

There was something familiar about this situation, he realized. A mutilated corpse, a crowd of onlookers, and some soldiers in the distance: where had he seen this before? What should happen next, he felt, was that a small group of followers of the dead man would range themselves against all the power and authority of a mighty empire.

Of course. That was how Christianity started.

And when he understood that, he knew what he had to do next.

He moved in front of the altar and turned to face the crowd. He still had the broken sword in his hand. Everyone stared at him. He suffered a moment of self-doubt. Can I do it? he thought. Can I start a movement, here and now, that will shake the throne of England? He looked at their faces. As well as grief and rage, he saw, in one or two expressions, a hint of hope.

He lifted the sword on high.

“This sword killed a saint,” he began.

There was a murmur of agreement.

Encouraged, Philip said: “Here tonight we have witnessed a martyrdom.”

The priests and monks looked surprised. Like Philip, they had not immediately seen the real significance of the murder they had witnessed. But the townspeople had, and they voiced their approval.

“Each one of us must go from this place and tell what he has seen.” Several people nodded vigorously. They were listening-but Philip wanted more. He wanted to inspire them. Preaching had never been his forte. He was not one of those men who could hold a crowd rapt, make them laugh and cry, and persuade them to follow him anywhere. He did not know how to put a tremor in his voice and make the light of glory shine from his eyes. He was a practical, earth-bound man; and right now he needed to speak like an angel.

“Soon every man, woman and child in Canterbury will know that the king’s men murdered Archbishop Thomas in the cathedral. But that’s just the start. The news will spread all over England, and then all over Christendom.”

He was losing them, he could tell. There was dissatisfaction and disappointment on some of the faces. A man called out: “But what shall we do?”

Philip realized they needed to take some kind of concrete action immediately. It was not possible to call for a crusade and then send people to bed.

A crusade, he thought. That was an idea.

He said: “Tomorrow, I will take this sword to Rochester. The day after tomorrow, London. Will you come with me?”

Most of them looked blank, but someone at the back called out: “Yes!” Then one or two others voiced their agreement.

Philip raised his voice a little. “We’ll tell our story in every town and village in England. We’ll show people the sword that killed Saint Thomas. We’ll let them see the bloodstains on his priestly garments.” He warmed to his theme, and let his anger show a little. “We’ll raise an outcry that will spread throughout Christendom, yes, even as far as Rome. We’ll turn the whole of the civilized world against the savages who perpetrated this horrible, blasphemous crime!”

This time most of them called out their assent. They had been waiting for some way of expressing their emotions, and now he was giving it to them.

“This crime,” he said slowly, his voice rising to a shout, “will never-never-be-forgotten!”

They roared their approval.

Suddenly he knew where to go from here. “Let us begin our crusade now!” he said.

“Yes!”

“We’ll carry this sword along every street in Canterbury!”

“Yes!”

“And we’ll tell every citizen within the walls what we have witnessed here tonight!”

“Yes!”

“Bring candles, and follow me!”

Holding the sword high, he marched straight down the middle of the cathedral.

They followed him.

Feeling exultant, he went through the chancel, over the crossing, and down the nave. Some of the monks and priests walked beside him. He did not need to look back: he could hear the footsteps of a hundred people marching behind him. He went out of the main door.

There he had a moment of anxiety. Across the dark orchard he could see men-at-arms ransacking the archbishop’s palace. If his followers confronted them, the crusade might turn into a brawl when it had hardly got started. Suddenly afraid, he turned sharply away and led the crowd through the nearest gate into the street.

One of the monks started a hymn. There were lamps and firelight behind the shutters of the houses, but as the procession passed by, people opened their doors to see what was going on. Some of them questioned the marchers. Some joined in.

Philip turned a corner and saw William Hamleigh.

William was standing outside a stable, and looked as if he had just taken off his chain mail prior to mounting a horse and leaving the city. He had a handful of men with him. They were all looking up expectantly, presumably having heard the singing and wondered what was going on.

As the candlelit procession approached, William at first looked mystified. Then he saw the broken sword in Philip’s hand, and comprehension dawned. He stared in awestruck silence for a moment more, then he spoke. “Stop this!” he shouted. “I command you to disperse!”

Nobody took any notice. The men with William looked anxious: even with their swords they were vulnerable to a mob of more than a hundred fervent mourners.

William addressed Philip directly. “In the name of the king, I order you to stop this!”

Philip swept past him, borne forward by the press of the crowd. “Too late, William!” he cried over his shoulder. “Too late!”