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How a Birthday Party at Chinon Kickstarted a Civil War (5 March 1173)
Today is my birthday 😁. And as birthdays go, I could have shared mine with worse people, because 5 March 1133 was also the birthday of Henry II of England, born at Le Mans, one of the most formidable rulers medieval Europe ever produced.
Henry II’s Birthday was 5th March
Soldier, lawgiver, empire-builder, father of eight legitimate children (and countless illegitimate ones), and a man whose family would become both his greatest weapon, his biggest headache, and eventually most spectacular downfall.
Which makes today a good day to talk about what happened on his fortieth birthday, in 1173. Because that evening a feast was held at Château de Chinon. The great hall would have been ablaze with candlelight and Henry, thinking he’d managed to control his spoiled, entitled (but courteous and generous) namesake son, allowed the goblets to be repeatedly refilled by his son’s own hand.
The drunkenness that followed led to everything that followed: the Great Rebellion, where Henry’s family were torn apart, and his throne would never feel secure again.
This event, and the Great Rebellion itself, runs through the heart of my novel Lady of Lincoln.
Medieval Succession: When Henry II’s Empire Imploded
When Succession first aired, audiences were transfixed by its portrait of a modern dynasty at war with itself: scheming heirs, a manipulative patriarch, and a fortune vast enough to make loyalty negotiable. But centuries before Logan Roy was terrifying his children in glass-walled boardrooms, another ruthless family feud was playing out across medieval Europe.
In 1173, the most powerful man in Christendom—King Henry II of England—faced a rebellion led not by rivals or barons, but by his own wife and sons. Chroniclers called it the Great Rebellion; historians often dub it the Revolt of the Eaglets, after the young “eagles” who turned on the parent bird.
And just like in Succession, the real question was: who inherits the empire?
Richard de Brito: The Forgotten Killer; and a very Dangerous Friend
In legend he struck the final blow; in fiction, he will cause a torrent of trouble for his friend William FitzErneis in Lady of Lincoln.
When Archbishop Thomas Becket was cut down before the altar of Canterbury Cathedral in December 1170, the man who delivered the fatal stroke was Richard de Brito—sometimes styled le Breton. His sword, witnesses said, split Becket’s skull so deeply that the blade snapped on the flagstones.
Unlike the other knights, de Brito cried out as he struck:
“Take that for the love of my lord William FitzEmpress!”
The words stunned those who heard them. He was killing the archbishop not in Henry II’s name, but in that of Henry’s brother—the late William FitzEmpress, Henry II’s brother.
Hugh de Morville: The Knight Who Would Not Repent
Lord of Westmorland and Knaresborough, de Morville escaped execution, but not history’s judgment.
When Thomas Becket fell beneath the knights’ swords on that winter night in Canterbury, Hugh de Morville was there, but whether he struck or simply stood aside remains one of history’s greyest shadows.
He was the oldest of the four and the most powerful: Lord of Westmorland and Knaresborough, baron of the north, and keeper of one of the most formidable castles in England. While Reginald FitzUrse raged, William de Tracy hesitated, and Richard de Brito delivered the fatal blow, de Morville watched . But his silence proved to be as damning as any sword.
William de Tracy: The Penitent Knight of Canterbury
William de Tracy helped slay Thomas Becket—then sought forgiveness on a pilgrimage to Rome and the Holy Land. Can a murderer find redemption?
On that bitter December evening in 1170, when Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury, fell beneath four flashing swords, one of those four blades belonged to Sir William de Tracy. Chroniclers called him the calmest of the murderers; steady-handed, methodical, a man who believed he was acting under royal command. Yet for the rest of his life, remorse and infamy would drive him abroad.
Reginald FitzUrse: The Bear Knight Who Slayed a Saint
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.