‘Do you think there is anything that would terrify him?’
‘Everything does already; his actions bear witness to it.’
‘Suppose,’ Langton murmured, ‘suppose the threat of a French invasion became real. Could he stand up to it? Would England rally to him?’
‘If I say no, you’ll assume it’s my personal bitterness.’
‘I’ll make allowances,’ Langton said gently. ‘You tell me, and I’ll judge for myself.’
‘Good. Then give your verdict, for I say no, he will not stand up to a real threat. He no longer has the support. And I’d go further. In my opinion, biased though it is against that wild animal, half the nobility would welcome an invasion. Mind you, I am not among them.’
‘Nevertheless, I shall do what I can to arrange it.’ He saw Briouze’s expression and smiled. ‘Don’t fret, William. Not a single French ship will reach England. Except the one that takes me across.’
* * *
The Pope would not realize it for some time, but he had made a perfect choice in Stephen Langton. The Archbishop was an Englishman by birth and, like William Marshal and too few others, he put the fortunes of England before all else. But he was not merely patriotic. He was also an inspired diplomat and happy to manipulate the heads of Church and State.
He replied to Pope Innocent, admitting that he was lost for an idea. He could think of no way to gain admission to the benighted island, nor sway its intransigent king. He would understand, therefore, if God’s senior servant took the necessary measures.
With extreme reluctance, Pope Innocent contacted the King of France and commanded him to make preparations for an invasion of England. Philip responded obediently, though he insisted that it had never been in his scheme of things to carry the war across the Channel. He had already achieved his objective by the destruction of the Angevin empire, and he had no claim on England itself. He would only raise a fleet at the express command of Rome. However, since Rome so commanded…
In the spring of 1213, at the Council of Soissons, King Philip asked his vassals if they would support and assist him in a holy crusade against England. Their enthusiastic assent made his head spin.
Stephen Langton had already moved from Pontigny to the Norman port of Barfleur and, when he heard the news, he wrote immediately to King John. The scheme he proposed was a masterpiece of diplomacy, though the first reading drained the colour from John’s face.
Langton suggested that the King of England should surrender his realm in its entirety to the Pope. He should furthermore apologize for his misdeeds, make restitution to the clergy for the wrongs he had done them and the property he had confiscated, and then, with due ceremony, allow the monks of Canterbury to instal the Pope’s elect, the selfsame Stephen Langton, as head of the English Church.
If not, Rome and her allies would lend their considerable weight to the French crusade, and the godless island would find itself ringed by ships.
However, there was a choice. If King John agreed to mend his ways, the Pope would return England to him as a vassal state – say for the nominal sum of a thousand marks – and accord it the full protection of the Church. In other words, John had only to submit and he would be transformed from an outcast into a beloved son. And would the French then dare attack, knowing they went against a child of Rome? The answer was no, but only if John’s reply was yes.
At loggerheads with Scotland, Ireland, Wales, France and Rome, as well as his own mutinous kingdom, John read and reread the letter, then dashed off a reply. The Pope’s elect was welcome in England, and God grant him a smooth crossing. The contrite king would be on the beach to meet him, and would make obeisance there and then to their father in Rome. He would reinstate every last clergyman and pay back every lost penny. He repented of his sins and craved the Archbishop’s forgiveness. He had wandered far from the path, but he was not yet beyond redemption.
And that, he thought, should satisfy even a fairground juggler like Langton.
* * *
On 15th May, John surrendered his realm to the Pope and received it back a few moments later from Stephen Langton. The king kissed the episcopal ring and escorted the Archbishop up from the beach. They were all smiles, and Langton was enchanted by Queen Isabelle.
On 20th July he lifted from John the sentence of excommunication and set in motion the raising of the interdict on England.
Some time in August, John was visited by a distant relative, Otto of Brunswick and claimant to the throne of Germany. The two men aired their troubles, talking each other down whenever they felt the attention slipping away. Otto bemoaned the civil war that had divided Germany for fifteen years, whilst John took him step-by-step through England’s twelve-year war with France.
‘You have my sympathy,’ they said. ‘I understand. Take my own situation, beset on every side by enemies…’
‘I know better than you think,’ they said, ‘and I’m reminded of the time when the devil himself would have fled. The only thing that kept me in power…’
‘As it did me,’ they said. ‘The knowledge that I had God and right on my side and was being, well, tested as it were…’ They kept it up throughout Otto’s visit, then signed a declaration of alliance. Otto would help John mount an invasion to recover the lost territories, in return for which the Angevin would aid the Swabian against all rivals and pretenders. They would take the field next year, Otto attacking France from the north, John sweeping up through Poitou and Touraine, and thence to Paris. They would catch the French fish between their mailed gloves and squeeze him until his good eye started from his head!
But they were so busy scheming that John overlooked another meeting, this one between Stephen Langton and a group of dissident barons. It took place in a side chapel of St Paul’s Cathedral, where the Archbishop put forward the idea that King John should be asked to reaffirm the ancient laws of England. The idea met with general approval, though no one volunteered to demand his seal. It would be enough if he agreed to honour the laws of his predecessors and his own coronation vows. So long as John restrained himself and did not further antagonize the nobility, there’d be no need for wax and ink and parchment.
Chapter Nine
Field and Meadow
May 1214–June 1215
It had started wonderfully well.
True to his promise, Otto of Brunswick had raised a formidable army in the north, embracing anyone with a grievance against France. The counts of Holland, Flanders, Boulogne and Namur had joined him. His father-in-law, Henry of Brabant, had been recruited, along with the Dukes of Limburg and Lorraine. The lesser nobility were well represented, and the northern force – the left-hand glove – comprised six thousand horsemen and some eighteen thousand infantry. Strengthened by an English contingent under the command of the Earl of Salisbury, the army assembled in Flanders, waiting for King John and the right-hand glove to sweep up from the south.
And down there, in Poitou, it had also started well.
The success of Otto’s recruiting drive had contributed towards John’s own attempts to raise an army. Barons who had hitherto regarded an English expedition as doomed to failure were impressed to learn that Holland, Flanders and Boulogne had already rallied to the cause. As a result, King John was able to lead a significant force across the Channel and into the port of La Rochelle.
Needless to say, he took the Sparrowhawk with him. And, on the pretext that they were in foreign territory, he doubled her bodyguard. Whoever approached her was warned off, or his conversation reported to the king. The most innocent exchange was studied for hidden meanings, and the guards themselves were replaced at a moment’s notice. Isabelle suggested to her husband that he shackle her wrist to his – ‘Or would that be too much of an encumbrance in battle?’ He ignored her comments, but if one knew the king’s whereabouts, one would know the queen’s.
The English army made several incursions into Poitou, recapturing a number of castles and securing the fealty of the local barons. The invaders passed through Angoul
ême, Isabelle’s birthplace, then pressed on into the county of La Marche, home of John’s most dedicated enemies, the ever-militant Lusignan brothers.
Now completely grey on the head, yet still called le Bran, Hugh of Lusignan and the ferocious Ralf of Exoudun hungered for battle. They had allowed King John to take them by surprise at Mirebeau, but they were on home ground today. One glimpse of the high-heeled monarch and they’d let fly with the best-fletched arrows they possessed. One glimpse, that’s all they asked, and they could add regicide to their list of achievements.
But once again they allowed their enemies to hold sway. Hearing that the English force was in the vicinity of Moncontour – in whose nearby valley the brothers had been ambushed, and the child Isabelle snatched from them – they abandoned caution, rode straight at their enemy and were immediately surrounded.
King John revelled in their defeat. The Sparrowhawk was brought forward to gaze at the broken-nosed Ralf, and at the Lord of Lusignan, the man she might have married.
She told Hugh, ‘I scarcely recognize you. You’re like a varnished board that’s been left out in the weather. You’ve lost all your colour.’
‘So I have,’ he replied, ‘whereas you, my lady, have stayed in the bedchamber and kept your looks. It seems odd to address you as Queen of England, though you’ve been so long enough.’
Annoyed by his remarks, Isabelle queried, ‘Why odd? As you say, I’ve been the queen long enough. Thirteen years, if you reckon it. And, contrary to what you may think, I do not spend all my time in the bedchamber. I’m better travelled than you.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ he yawned. ‘I did not say it was the same bedchamber.’
When Hugh and his brother had been taken away, Isabelle rounded on John. ‘So the vile rumours spread, eh, husband? Even out here they believe I’m a— what, a salacious flea that hops from bed to bed? Now why do you look at me like that?’
‘Because I never heard a rumour that was not founded in truth, that’s why.’
‘Oh, yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘I know of many that have no root. After Mirebeau, for example? When the French believed you were a descendant of the witch Melusine? When they stared at the sky, expecting to see you flap your way to Paris? That was a rumour, though without much substance, as I remember.’ She turned away in disgust, and the bodyguard closed around her.
The capture of Hugh and Ralf might have started a landslide, sweeping away all opposition in the south. The situation was akin to John’s victory at Mirebeau and, waiting patiently in Flanders, Otto of Brunswick flexed his strong left glove, ready to clap it against the right.
But before the mailed hands could meet, King John learned that a French army was poised on the border of Poitou, and that it too was awaiting the clap of combat. He wrote home to England: ‘God has given us the opportunity to press our attack against our chief enemies, the masters of France. Now we shall venture beyond the palisades!’
And then from all quarters of the English army came evasions and apologies. The local barons, who had recently sworn fealty to the king, were content to advance, castle by castle, securing England’s rights. But they were less inclined to meet the French on the open field and, should such an event occur, they wished to be excused.
Things had changed dramatically in the past few months, and might very well change again. As the Poitevins saw it, there was no point in alienating either side. If the French army withdrew, the local barons could once again rally to the English flag. But, if battle was joined and the expeditionary force defeated, it would be as well to greet the French with wide, innocent eyes.
Denied the support of the Poitevins, John’s courage faltered and failed. He took his army back to La Rochelle, and the right hand beckoned to the left. It was Otto’s turn to make a grab at the slippery fish.
* * *
Leaving his southern contingent to contain John in Poitou, Philip Augustus led his main force north from Paris in search of the Imperial army.
By a series of mismanceuvres, the adversaries passed within a few miles of each other, the French crossing the border into Flanders, the Imperialists advancing southwards into France. The afternoon and evening of 26th July saw the two armies making frantic efforts to avoid an attack from the rear. They wheeled about, drew level once again and squared off on an undulating plateau near the border village of Bouvines. Scouts returned with exaggerated estimates of the enemy’s strength, though daylight would show that the forces were evenly matched. The French were numerically superior in cavalry – if only by a thousand or so – but fielded less than Otto’s eighteen thousand foot-soldiers. It was still a massive display of strength by both sides, and the ground trembled beneath the weight of fifteen thousand destriers and fifty thousand men. Torches burned throughout the night as the armies prepared for that rarity, a set-piece battle.
They knew little of tactics and cared less. The archers and crossbow-men would occupy the front ranks, loose their shafts, then bunch together, leaving gaps through which the cavalry could spur out on to the field. If the infantry did not part quickly enough, they would be ridden down by their own horsemen, impatient to charge. So it paid to listen for the trumpets and dodge the pounding hooves.
The knights themselves placed their own interpretation on trumpet blasts and the roars of their commanders. More often than not, they set their sights on a particular banner, or took the opportunity to resolve some long-standing feud. They would charge forward in line, then break away, or veer in front of their companions, howling a war-cry and spurring at their favourite foe. Had Richard Lionheart been alive, or the great German emperor Frederick Barbarossa, the knights would have been content to gallop out and drive an iron wedge deep into the enemy lines. But there was no Coeur-de-Lion, no Redbeard, not even a William Marshal, and Otto’s disparate allies singled out their own personal targets.
The French were better disciplined, for they were united under a common banner, the golden fleur-de-lys, though even they welcomed the chance to settle an old score. Where better than in the turmoil of battle to repay an insult that had rankled for five or ten years? How better to commit murder, than as an act of war?
Next morning, 27th July, the battle lines were drawn up across the plateau. The armies stood face-to-face, each assembled in three divisions, wings and centre, with the infantry in front, the cavalry pawing the dry ground fifty yards behind. Six contingents ranged against six, the sky paling and the archers letting fly as they measured their range.
It was an age in which kings and emperors were required to fight. Not enough that they governed from a throne and conducted their wars from a pavilion; if they were leaders at all they were expected to prove it in both court and conflict, and their behaviour on the field did much to inspire or dishearten their troops.
The half-blind Philip donned a plain casque – an acorn – leaving his face unprotected, but allowing him a clear view of the enemy. At the other end of the plateau, Otto of Brunswick settled his head inside an elaborate helmet and lowered its heavy eagle’s beak vizor. No sooner had he done so than the French cavalry thundered from the wings.
All day long the balance of conflict tilted and swayed. Both leaders were unhorsed, then rescued by their bodyguards. The German archers loosed as many shafts as the French. Their knights rode as far and probed as deep. Their commanders fought as bravely and howled as loud. The balance should still have been see-sawing at dusk, but it was not.
The German left was all but annihilated, and the eagle banner pulled down. Otto had been bludgeoned senseless and carried from the field. His allies, Renaud of Boulogne, Ferrand of Flanders, and the Earl of Salisbury had all been captured, along with one hundred and thirty of the invading nobility.
Against this, the French casualties were negligible, and not a single man of rank had been killed or captured. It seemed that, whilst the French arrows had struck their targets, those of Germany, England, Flanders and Bouologne had all gone astray. Two well-matched forces, employing the same tac
tics, or rather immersed in the same confusion, yet denied the same success. No wonder the French crowded around their king and bowed their heads as the militant bishops gave thanks for the victory. No wonder the invaders crept away, each contingent to its own country, the alliance shattered beyond repair.
It was known thereafter as the Battle of Bouvines, the decisive triumph of France over her combined enemies. Bouvines had supplanted Mirebeau. Bouvines had echoed Gaillard. Bouvines had set the seal on French domination, wherever France cared to appear.
John winced at the news, vowed swift and terrible revenge, and stayed as long as he dared at La Rochelle. Then, when he heard that Philip had started south, he took his wife and court and army back to England. And back, as he suspected, to the greatest conflict of all.
* * *
The barons reeled from the shock. They spent the winter sifting the various reports and, dissident or royalist, reached very much the same conclusion. King John had failed to take advantage of his early successes in Poitou, failed to meet Philip’s southern contingent, and failed to assist Otto in the north. It could have been woven into a tapestry or set as a mosaic pattern in the floor; a lesson for the future. The King as Invader – The King Irresolute – The King in Retreat. John himself should be made to stand before the tapestry or kneel on the floor for hours at a time, contemplating the images of disaster. It was a nice thought, though no one supposed he would learn from the arrangement of stones and stitches. A harsher lesson was called for.
By the time he was settled in his winter quarters in London, he knew who to blame for his defeat. The Poitevin nobility, of course, for having refused to engage in a pitched battle with the French. But also those English barons who had stayed at home. Had they supported the cause and crossed the Channel, the Poitevins might well have fought on, encouraged by the size of the invading force. Who could say that the French would not have retreated, or called to Philip for help? The more John thought about it, the more certain he became. If England had rallied at the outset, Poitou would have held firm and the enemy would have been vanquished, torn to pieces by John’s army in the south and routed by the Imperialists in the north.
The Wolf at the Door Page 22