Archbishop Langton seemed genuinely astonished at the claim. “I know naught of the king’s courtship.”
Many of the barons present had attended our first meeting at Wanthwaite. Therefore, Lord Eustace easily roused their suspicions.
“When the pope refused to lift the interdict upon my appointment, the king offered money, and it still was not enough.”
Enoch looked directly at me. Leith’s faint shouts from the deer park cut the silence.
Archbishop Langton beamed at his audience. His voice fell to a whisper. “The pope agreed to free your brothers only when the king finally agreed to give up all of England! Your country is now a papal fief!” He laughed aloud. “All of England is now ruled by the pope!”
Two barons ran from the Hall. Others fell to an ominous silence.
Enoch called out the crucial question. “Do we write our charter fer the pope then?”
Before Langton could answer, Lord Robert pushed his way forward. “Tell these men the truth! That this is the very first I’ve heard of such an outrage!”
Langton flushed deeply. “If you consider it an outrage, shame! It had to do with your release only indirectly!”
“Quhat did then?” Enoch insisted.
“Lord Robert sent a missive to the pope, saying he’d tried to assassinate the king because he could not bear to serve under someone who was excommunicated! Needless to say, Pope Innocent is not excommunicated!”
Lord Robert bowed his head. “That’s true!”
Enoch wasn’t satisfied. “Boot quhy did the king sell England?”
Langton winced. “You put it so crudely. England has always belonged to the Church, as every country does.”
“Hu much?”
Langton didn’t answer.
Enoch raised his voice. “How much did the king pay the pope for lifting the interdict and his excommunication?”
“To lift the intedict, forty thousand marks,” Langton replied quietly. “And twelve thousand a year ever after. Plus one hundred thousand marks to cover the Church’s losses for the years of the interdict.”
An ominous silence fell over the barons.
Enoch slipped into French. “You and your pope have your way; we are supposed to pay the king’s debt. And England is now under canon law?”
Langton flushed angrily. “It always was.”
“And the debt? Tell us who will pay the king’s debt to the pope?”
“England is a rich country.”
“Indeed, until the Normans gave away all our land.”
“The Church owns England.”
“King John does not agree. He will demand scutage from his barons to pay Pope Innocent, then continue to engage in foreign wars, continue to murder his subjects. Your pope is a fool—but we are not.”
I’d never seen him so angry.
Langton, too, was in a rage, only he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he’d gained control. “We’ve been called today to speak of a charter of your complaints to the king.”
But the barons were muttering to each other: They’d traded one tyrant for another, though the pope wouldn’t burn their castles—just take them. One voice rose: The pope might hire some other country to grab his land, maybe France. What difference did it make to the barons if they fought John’s foreign routiers from Brabant or the pope’s French soldiers?
Langton again spoke of our charter. I dipped my pen.
“The pope drew up a charter for his agreement with the king in the matter of England becoming his fief, which gives us a precedent.”
“He can’t bend King Philip to his will!” Enoch interrupted. “Maybe we should invite Philip to be our king!”
Langton finally showed rage. “The pope has brought your king to heel—you should be grateful!”
Well, the barons weren’t grateful. They argued all through the morning, but the day was won by Archbishop Langton. “You have no choice but to accept the pope’s truce!”
Which was true. Pope Innocent ruled the world.
“Will ye mak us a charter, yea or nay?”
“John must accept the restrictions of a Christian nation!”
We adjourned to rest.
We returned, still a smoldering company, for the barons had been talking among themselves.
After Stephen Langton’s prayer, he asked that the barons please list specific grievances that might become chapters in our charter.
Still surly, the barons listed what we all knew. I recorded as fast as I could, but I had trouble with “judgment” since there is no j in Latin; I thought indicium was correct, and, for “court,” I substituted forum basilica.
It took most of the afternoon to list grivances, and even then we hadn’t come to the crux of the problem, which was John himself. Or was that the pope’s duty?
At dusk, Archbishop Langton closed our session with another prayer. Lord Robert then called for fine Jerez from Spain, but the party was off-key. Lady Gunmora slithered among us in her long train in the style of Tars, the jongleurs sang of love, the pipes and tambours rang, but no one ate, drank, or listened. England was a papal state. Ominous.
I caught Langton as he retired to swallow some medicinal seeds.
“Archbishop Langton, may I speak with you?”
“Of course, my dear.” He burped gently into his palm; he had a sour stomach.
“Do you know the Carpathian Mountains?”
My question surprised him. “Mountains, you say? Carpathian? Are they a branch of the Alps?”
“I know not. They’re in Europe, mayhap close to Italy. I thought that since you’ve lived in Rome . . .”
“And traveled extensively. Carpathian—do they have some other name? The Apennine Mountains run through the Italian boot.”
I changed my gambit. “Do you recall when you rode to Wanthwaite with the Jew, Bonel?”
“Of course, not a year ago.” His eyes narrowed. “If you’re asking whether he is in the Carpathian Mountains, I would venture to say no. Most Jews of Normandy went to southern France, I believe. Bonel made a very moving plea for the Jews, as I remember.”
“Yes!”
“Yet he included many inaccuracies.”
“You don’t believe that the Jews are persecuted? That King John . . . ?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure the king is dangerous to the Jewish community. We expect their expulsion from England at any time. Bonel was telling the truth about the problems in England.” He took more seeds.
Yes, Bonel had been accurate about England, I thought, but not about Langton, whom he’d believed would help.
“Then what inaccuracies?”
He smiled with condescension. “Well, let’s begin with King Philip of France. It’s true that he’s expelled the Jews from time to time, but it’s also true that he’s always readmitted them.”
“Because he wants money!”
“Benedicite, be patient. You sound like your husband. The king of France is not the main enemy the Jews have in that part of the world, it’s the barons. What about your own barons?”
I was unable to reply. The problem seemed dense—I wondered how much Bonel knew. Enoch had said that the Scots accepted Jews, which was the only word I’d ever heard on the subject.
“King John may be the simple monster you’ve painted—though by my own personal experience, he’s more complex—but you have to understand that this struggle is about power. The barons everywhere want power, and that includes power over the Jews. In France, they have it.”
“Power over the Jews?” Not in my experience.
“Over the Jews’ money, my dear, not their worship. Bonel understands: Expulsion is not his main problem; impoverishment is. The French barons are brutal. The Jews can exist only because they have money and the kings want to grab their riches before the barons can get it, and vice versa. Northern Italians are becoming moneylenders themselves, another way to attack the Hebrews.”
Suddenly I felt sick. “So you don’t know where the Carpathian Mountains
might be?”
“If they exist at all.”
I studied the dark bags under his eyes. “How do you feel about the Jews, Archbishop? Should they live among Christians?”
“I’m a man of the Church.” He saw my expression. “Don’t worry for Bonel’s life, only his riches. The present danger for the Jews is penury.”
I had jewels and money, both from Bonel—how could I return them?
“Can’t the pope help? You know him—can’t he . . . ?”
Langton sighed. “Pope Innocent believes in the universal Church. He doesn’t care about the Jews’ riches, but he is nevertheless intransigent about the sanctity of Christ.” He wiped his face. “So am I, of course, but I would never . . .”
“Never what?”
“In his recent Lateran Council, Pope Innocent forbade any marriage between Christian and Jew.”
He waved to someone and walked away quickly.
14
Enoch already lay on the floor beside a sleeping Leith. “Quhat war ye talkin’ aboot wi’ Langton?”
“Bonel the Jew. The archbishop thinks Bonel may be in danger.”
Enoch grunted. “I sayed as hu he culd stay at Wanthwaite.”
“Did you!”
He didn’t reply.
“Have you ever heard of the Carpathian Mountains, Enoch?”
“Be that whar carpets cum fram?” He laughed at his jape.
After a long silence, he spoke again. “Do Leith’s breath sound richt to ye?”
I leaned over the baby. Soothly, her breath rattled. And there was a scratching sound in her chest. “I hate to wake her.”
“Wull slape do mar guid than medicines?”
“Go downstairs for hot water, Enoch. And bring a taper if you can—I have herbs with me.” I also had eagle stones, the head of a goat-milker bird, and powdered snake. As Enoch held the taper, I worked over our little girl.
“Quhat war that stuff?”
“Only lemon balm meddled with swine grease. It should relieve her breathing.”
Soothly, she was better by morning, though still wheezing. With Gruoth’s help, I treated her with bugloss, a stronger herb. When she passed blood, I added the cuckold pint. Now I worried about the herd of deer in the park, for many ailments come from animals. Upon questioning Gruoth, I learned that she’d found a pinecone for Leith to offer to a deer, and when the animal had refused it, Leith had eaten it herself.
“Tell her to leave,” I said to Enoch, “and you go as well. This is going to be unpleasant.”
Gruoth left; Enoch stayed. Together, using fingers dipped in the oil of the salmon we’d had at Haute Tierce, we dug the wood from Leith’s anus. When she had fallen to an easy sleep, we spent the rest of the morning hours cleaning the mess.
“Thank you, Enoch.”
He looked up through red rims. “Thank ye, Alix. Ye ha’e saved my babe.”
“Our babe.”
We stared at each other.
Thus I was late to our second day of discussion. The barons were now indisputably hostile to Langton himself. The archbishop flushed at their refusal to speak, but remained secure in his superior authority. By the end of a week, I handed Archbishop Langton a short list:
1. Forest laws
2. Trial by a jury of one’s peers
3. Inheritance
4. Weirs
5. Scutage
6. Marriage prizes
7. Widows
8. Disseise
“They didn’t include the freedom of the Church,” he said.
More important, no one had mentioned the dire situation with the Jews. As for the Church, I was aware that the argument had begun with Becket, but so far as I knew it didn’t affect the barons.
“I’ll begin putting these in chapters, appropriate to a charter. I’ll send a runner to Wanthwaite with a copy when I’m finished. Perhaps your husband can comment.”
At least Leith recovered.
Our small party left Dunmow as we’d come, through a series of spiked gates and harsh questions. A weak sun now melted the snow in our path, and the acrid smell of smoke from a burning castle had diminished. Putting aside the bitter arguments behind us, I pondered on Bonel, and why he’d told me that wild tale about the Carpathian Mountains. Or was it a dream? If so, his or mine? Mine, I decided, for he’d made it clear on the second night that something had changed his mind.
Less than half a day from Dunmow, Enoch suddenly pushed us off our path.
“Hide! Sommun be following us!”
We scambled behind a cluster of rocks.
Within ten heartbeats, Lord Robert and Lord Eustace pounded into sight. The lords rode directly to the rocks where we hid.
“Come out and talk!” Lord Robert called.
I remained on my horse with Leith while the men dismounted to parley. Lord Robert, his shadowed furrows clearly visible in the sun, looked most distraught. “What think you, Wanthwaite, of this archbishop?”
Enoch hesitated.
“Langton and John are in the hands of the pope!” I called. “Will Innocent back our claims?”
Lord Robert squinted at me.
“John would go against the pope if women or money were involved.” Eustace sighed heavily. “England is a papal fief—is John even relevant?”
Lord Robert’s face twisted. “Would any charter have saved my daughter?”
Or Theo?
Enoch answered. “Law be the wave of the future.”
Lord Robert’s furrows deepened. “Except we don’t live in the future, Wanthwaite; we live now. Law is an abstract and acts are real.”
“Is religion an abstract?” I called. “You used canon law to escape Normandy. Could you have used civil law?”
Lord Robert finally told the truth. “Canon law plus money, don’t forget.”
“Ond ye made England be a papal state lak Lombardy. We shuld address our charter to the pope?”
“No, to King John.” Lord Robert paused. “John dealt with Rome because he was desperate, but mark my words, he won’t be true. Yet Innocent trumped John in his choice for archbishop; John has a real adversary. Question is, will the charter bring them together?”
I pushed my horse forward. “Think! John’s interdict, his excommunication, the exchange of money, France. The pope cites God as his authority and John claims to be a Christian prince, while both buy the military, give women and children no power . . .”
“Don’t make a speech concerning women!” Lord Eustace interrupted.
“Alix be totty!” Enoch put his hand on my arm.
I threw it off. “I would suggest, milords, that the king and the pope have common cause; one augments the other, and neither cares a straw for your complaints. Will Pope Innocent approve our charter? Will the king sign it or respect it? The answer is no. Will you proceed anyway? Yes. Only see that you include women and children and old men; I should have added Jews.”
Enoch pushed me aside roughly. “Listen to her! Alix learned aboot government in Aquitaine.”
It was the first kind word he’d ever said about my sojourn with King Richard.
Lord Robert conferred with Lord Eustace. “We know it’s a game of quid pro quo between the pope and the king. We think we should deal with the pope; he may be misanthropic about women or Jews, but he isn’t mad. And, despite his obvious intelligence, we believe that John is insane. Can the pope control him? I say we have no choice.”
Lord Eustace nodded. “And we’re fortunate to have Stephen Langton to represent us to both the pope and the king.”
I kicked my mare to move on; I was disgusted. I’d told the truth about Fontevrault Wood—hadn’t they listened?
Enoch had the last word. “Ye gave the pope England! That’s his language, nocht religion or law! He wrapped his forgiveness o’ ye in cold cash.” His steed bumped mine. “Ond we’ll pay.”
A thin plume of smoke rose on the horizon.
I stopped. “Deus juva me! Help them!”
“They died at l
east a week ago,” Lord Robert shouted.
“Doona throw away yer arrows yit.”
“Lord Enoch will not act as your assassin again!” I cried.
Lord Eustace galloped to my side, then pulled at my reins. “Lady Alix, may I speak to you privately?”
“I’ll tak Leith,” Enoch offered.
Lord Eustace led me to the shadow of a rock. “Lord Robert and I excuse your folly because you love Enoch to distraction. As my own wife loves me and Lady Gunmora loves him. But you make it hard. I have never and would never do anything to harm Enoch.”
Before I could reply, he returned to Lord Robert.
“Quhat did want wi’ ye?” Enoch asked finally.
“He says that they won’t try assassination again.”
“Ich tald ye!”
Another meeting of the barons was called in late autumn at the castle of Robert de Ros, Lord of Yorkshire. Archbishop Langton would not be in attendance, and therefore there was no reason for me to translate Latin; Enoch insisted that I go to care for Leith.
Lord Robert de Ros’s castle was even grander than Dunmow, though not so well appointed inside, and his lady, another princess of Scotland, had the unfortunate name of Lady Fiona. Our little party had its own closet with a mat for sleeping, and the food was most excellent. Whatever Archbishop Langton’s deficiencies might be, we immediately saw his value in this noisy slipshod meeting. Lord Robert de Ros steered us almost exclusively to the unfairness of the forest laws, his particular peeve. His best hounds had been shot dead by the king’s men; otherwise, there was a paucity of new complaints.
The archbishop wrote me that he’d had the great good fortune to stumble on King Henry I’s charter as he was sorting the records at Canterbury. The charter, written in Latin, was in terrible shape: torn at the edges, with water damage on the script itself—some of the words were illegible (the original black ink had faded to red, and it was scripted in tiny cramped letters, illegible to old eyes), but he hoped I could make out the meaning. Indeed, he would appeciate my reading it and reporting back to him. Perhaps I could even copy it in larger script?
I took the enclosed document, wrapped in fine linen as if it were a newborn babe, and continued to read the rest of Langton’s missive. The archbishop had news he knew I would want to hear: Bishop Geoffrey of Lincoln—did I remember him? the king’s justiciar for the Jews?—had received a letter from Bonel. He was somewhere in the Middle East and must be thriving, for the good news was that he’d married! The wife’s name was Miriam of Tars or Tarsus, he wasn’t sure, but apparently an excellent match. He hoped I would be relieved . . . I stopped reading.
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