On 29 December 1170, four armed knights pushed through the freezing rain towards Canterbury Cathedral. Their leader was Reginald FitzUrse—a man whose very name meant “son of the bear.” He would live up to it in every sense: fierce, proud, and dangerously impulsive.

When Thomas Becket fell beneath their swords that night, FitzUrse’s roar echoed through the nave. It was he who first laid hands on the archbishop, striking the blow that turned a quarrel between king and church into one of the most shocking crimes of the Middle Ages.

A Knight of the King’s Household

Little is known of FitzUrse’s early life. He came from a respectable Somerset family, holding lands at Willeton and Barham. Like many younger sons of the gentry, he found advancement in royal service. By the 1160s he was one of Henry II’s household knights—trusted, well-paid, and fiercely loyal to the king who rewarded courage and obedience above all else.

That loyalty, however, would prove fatal.

Most people, when they think of Moses, imagine him standing alone before Pharaoh or parting the Red Sea. Yet at his side was a woman—a wife, a foreigner, and a figure of quiet defiance: Zipporah, daughter of Jethro of Midian.

Who Was Zipporah?

Zipporah appears only briefly in the Book of Exodus, but her presence is unforgettable. She was one of seven daughters of a Midianite priest. When Moses fled Egypt after killing an overseer, he found refuge in Midian— and at a well, defended Jethro’s daughters from abusive shepherds. In gratitude, Jethro offered him hospitality and the hand of his daughter, Zipporah.

That is the story’s surface, but beneath it lies something far more intriguing: a woman who stepped outside her cultural boundaries to follow a fugitive foreigner; who raised children between two worlds; who faced the weight of Moses’s divine calling and still kept her own courage.

s the bells of All Saints’ Day fall silent, a gentler sound takes their place: the slow, measured knell for the departed.

2 November, All Souls’ Day, was the moment when the living turned their hearts toward those of the departed, the ordinary people, not the saints, who still journeyed through Purgatory.

The season of light ended not in mourning, but in the hope that love and prayer could reach beyond the grave.

Origins and Etymology

The word soul comes from Old English sawol, “the spiritual essence of a person.”

The “Mass of Souls,” or Soul Mass Day, was first proclaimed in 998 AD by Abbot Odilo of Cluny. He ordered that every monastery in his order should celebrate a Mass for “all the faithful departed.” From Cluny, the custom spread throughout Europe.

Yet its roots run deep into pagan soil.

After the shadowed vigil of All Hallows’ Eve came the brightness of All Hallows’ Day—later called Hallowmas.
The name joins hallow (Old English hālga, “holy person”) and mass (from Latin missa, “Eucharistic service”).
It was the day when the Church lifted its gaze from the souls still journeying toward heaven to those who had already arrived.

Altars were dressed in white, bells rang across town and countryside, and processions wound through streets lit by candles. The message was clear: the darkness of death had been overcome by the light of sainthood.