The Wolf at the Door

by The Wolf at the Door (retail) (epub)

  It was all the fault of the dissidents in England, and they would pay for their cowardice.

  He meant that literally, for the expedition had left him almost bankrupt. The barons would pay three marks for every knight they had failed to equip and send abroad, plus an individual fine in lieu of their own presence on the field. However, many of them still owed back-taxes, or refused to ransom the wives and children he had taken as hostages. The thing had begun to spiral, with John adopting more extreme measures to combat the growing intransigence of his barons. His demands were greater than any made by Henry and Richard, his methods of exaction more brutal, more bitterly resented. He had lost England’s empire overseas, run foul of the Pope and so committed the people to the darkness of the interdict. He had flouted the laws of his predecessors and his own coronation oath, and alienated the nobility to such an extent that talk of war now meant war against the king.

  And on that fragile dish he heaped his demands for further taxes and another punitive fine. The dish broke.

  * * *

  When he saw them he thought they had come to arrest him – or worse. They had entered the chamber without warning, eighteen of his most aggrieved barons led by Robert Fitz- Walter and Eustace de Vesci, and all in full armour. His first instinct was to run, but the group moved aside and he saw the Archbishop of Canterbury cross the floor.

  King John had spent the first few weeks of winter in the Tower of London, then moved upstream to a smaller riverside fortress known as the Temple, situated just beyond the city’s west wall. It was here that Stephen Langton and the dissidents found him, seated at a desk and in conference with officials from the Treasury. The desk and flanking tables were covered with documents, proof of what a man owned and therefore owed in tax.

  The king came to his feet, decided to make light of the intrusion and asked Langton if he was any good at figures. ‘I’ll admit I’m not. Come and sit beside me and help me work out—’

  ‘You know these men,’ Langton interrupted, ‘so you know they are not your friends.’

  ‘Yes, I know them, primarily as debtors to the crown, but that does not explain how they got in here without—’

  ‘I dismissed your guards, that’s how, lord king. As I hope you will now dismiss your collectors.’

  ‘And why should I? Is some act to be performed here that you cannot let them see? Why are your companions wearing hauberk and helmet? The war’s on the other side of the Channel, if they care to pursue it.’

  ‘Until recently it was,’ Langton agreed, ‘but it looks like spreading. Dismiss the officials, lord king.’

  John’s hand went to his head. He struggled to prevent it, but the scene reminded him of an earlier confrontation between king and Canterbury. His father, Henry II, wishing for the death of that incorruptible Archbishop, Thomas Becket… A few muttered words, and Henry’s knights had ridden to the Cathedral, bullied their way past the priests and murdered Becket at the foot of the altar…

  And now Becket’s successor had brought armed henchmen to the king…

  ‘Dismiss them,’ Langton offered, ‘and I’ll stand between youthe nobility. I’ve read my history, but there’ll be no bloodshed today. We are here to address you, that’s all. The armour was merely to discourage resistance. You see, my lord, no one trusts you any more.’

  John took his hand from his scalp, told the officials to wait outside, then asked the intruders to say their piece. ‘I can’t imagine what form this resistance would take, but if you feel more secure in metal…’

  ‘I dare not threaten you,’ Langton said, doing exactly that, ‘but you’d be advised to swallow your taunts. I promised to stand between you and the barons. I did not promise to fight off eighteen of them.’

  A weary sigh from the king, a theatrical shrug of patience, and then, ‘Very well. I shall make no more comments. I shall sit here, at the desk, and hear what anyone has to say.’

  FitzWalter was so determined to speak that his lips were already moving, but he allowed Langton to forestall him, and it was the Archbishop who delivered the address.

  ‘May I speak without interruption, lord king?’

  ‘However you like,’ John waved. ‘I’m an audience.’

  Langton nodded slowly, aware that the king would never rid himself of his ripostes. Nothing so simple as ‘Yes, I am listening.’ Always the more sarcastic ‘However you like, I’m an audience.’

  ‘Things have gone too far,’ Langton said. ‘Or, to make a point of it, you have gone too far. Those barons who supported you have been left near-destitute, whilst those who deny your right to impose tax after tax have had their wives or children snatched from them, or have themselves been held in contempt. In this, amongst other things, you’ve gone too far.’

  ‘Pray continue,’ John purred. ‘I’m hearing the squeal of rich men made less rich.’

  ‘The Church also has a strong case against you,’ Langton said. ‘You have yet to return many of the confiscated properties, and there are a number of outstanding artifacts that were last seen in the hands of your collectors. You tax the Church, no doubt of that, but you also tax its friendship.’

  Fiddling with the papers on his desk, John asked, ‘Is there more to come?’ He saw Robert FitzWalter take a step forward, and let the parchment lie. ‘Yes, of course there’s more. You’re here to air a general complaint, aren’t you, Stephen? You’ll drag in all the defeats abroad, remind me of my weaknesses, describe the chasm that now stretches between king and nobility, then finally issue some terrible warning which will, by chance, absolve the Church from any further payments and leave malcontents like FitzWalter and de Vesci as petty monarchs on their not-too-petty fiefs. Or do I misunderstand you?’

  ‘You misunderstand,’ Langton said quietly. ‘We are here to ask you to cease and desist in your actions; to return all the hostages you have taken, together with such property, money, jewels and possessions as can be individually valued at more than one silver mark. Furthermore, we ask you to make the fullest restitution to those barons from whom you have abducted wives and children, to take the vows of a crusader, reaffirm your love of the Church and the laws of England’s greatest king, Edward the Confessor. Ah, yes, and to bestow your mother’s dowry on your brother’s hapless widow, Queen Berengaria. The Lady Eleanor would have liked that, and so would Richard. It’ll mean you have to get most of it back from Queen Isabelle, though I’m sure you’ll find a way.’

  John gazed at him, then at FitzWalter and de Vesci. He fiddled with the papers again, laying one over the other. The dissidents watched him, but none of them wished to break the spell of Langton’s address.

  Eventually the king said, ‘Well, now, that’s quite a fist of wrong-doings. Quite a show of distaste. And, if I don’t accept your terms, I suppose you’ll retire to your castles and monasteries and defy me until the end of time.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Langton said. ‘We shall emerge from those selfsame buildings, declare war on you and remove you from the throne. It is not what we want, but you leave us little choice. You will either accept our terms, and that would be the wisest course, or you will have the crown lifted from your undeserving skull. The end of time? God knows, Softsword, your end will come quicker than that!’

  He coughed, embarrassed by his outburst. Unseemly behaviour for the Archbishop of Canterbury, though much enjoyed by the barons. As for John, he stared from behind his desk, not yet able to believe what he had long suspected ­– that the wolf-pack would one day turn on its leader, using the tricks he had taught them.

  * * *

  He asked for time to consider their demands. FiztWalter and de Vesci wanted an answer there and then, but, grudgingly, they allowed Langton to overrule them. It was agreed that John would meet the barons at Northampton on 26th April, the first Sunday after Easter. At which time, he promised, he would deal conscientiously with their complaints. And, in an unspoken after-thought, with them.

  * * *

  The Sparrowhawk listened, memorize
d what she heard, and grew daily more fearful of the future. Of England’s future, and John’s, but more especially her own.

  The king still insisted she travel everywhere with a bodyguard, though the guards themselves had become tired of their assignment. So far as they knew – and it would be too bad for them if they did not know – Queen Isabelle had remained faithful to her husband. They still presented their reports, though these were now a mere formality, a weekly assurance that his wife was his and his alone.

  Risking a bloody nose, other members of the garrison described the queen’s guards as ‘the chastity-belt’. It was an inaccurate term, but one that struck home. The guards were all battle-hardened warriors, and heartily sick of traipsing after their innocent young charge. They felt ridiculous, accompanying her on walks, shouldering their way around London’s open markets, stifling a yawn as she and her handmaids discussed the comparative merits of a pair of shoes or a bolt of cloth. Christ’s eyes, they moaned, if they ever left the army they could set up as merchants and make good use of what they had learned.

  Their lack of interest in the job allowed Isabelle greater freedom of movement and, as she heard John formulate his plans and dictate his letters, she made life as dull as possible for her guards.

  She visited the markets two and then three times a day, dithering over a simple purchase, returning in confusion to the Temple, then insisting that her escort take her back for another look at the goods. A few weeks of that and they were paralysed with boredom. They pleaded with her to be more decisive, but this only meant that she shopped impulsively, regretted it later and blamed them for the mistake.

  ‘One would think you were in league with the stall-holders, the way you urge me to part with my money. There’s nothing for it, messires; I don’t like what I’ve bought, so I’m going to exchange it, or reclaim my coins. You’ll hear some pretty language if I try to get my money back from those marketeers.’

  On 4th March, a day Queen Isabelle would remember, the guards made no move to accompany her on her declared search for a pale green kirtle with pendulous cuffs. They knew where she was going, and why; they knew she would either buy the gown and regret it or make this the first of a dozen exploratory trips. A pale green kirtle? With pendulous cuffs? Sweet Christ, they could take no more of it.

  And so, for the first time, in the guise of a silly, feminine mission, the Sparrowhawk left the Temple castle without an escort. The market lay to the east, within the city walls. Isabelle turned west and crossed half a mile of open, marshy ground, following the curve of the Thames. No one recognized her until she reached the courtyard of Westminster Palace and asked to speak with the primate of all England, Stephen Langton.

  * * *

  He brought her a warm blanket and a glass of wine, then sat quiet as she betrayed her husband. She told the Archbishop that John had no intention of meeting the barons at Northampton, but had written to the Pope, appealing for help, and to Flanders, Germany and twenty other places, urging their leaders to send mercenaries to bolster the English throne.

  ‘I think you underestimate him, Langton. He storms and threatens in the privacy of our chamber, and I know he will not agree to your terms. Long before Easter, or whenever you’re supposed to meet him again, he’ll have an army at his back. He feels trapped, and he’ll turn on you, mark my words. This is not Normandy, with the postern gate of Barfleur. Nor is it Poitou, with its outlet at La Rochelle. This is England, and where can he go from here?

  ‘He will fight you, Langton. I don’t say he’ll win, but he will turn the ground slippery underfoot, razing towns and castles, burning crops – if it’s the right time of year – and generally pulling down the stones. Invite him to a meeting, and he won’t turn up. But wage war against him here, in his own country, and he’ll see England destroyed before he submits. I thought you should know what’s happening, that’s all.’

  Langton nodded, then leaned forward in his chair. ‘You took a risk walking across the marsh. It’s a favourite haunt for brigands.’ He glanced at a servant and curled his hand around an invisible glass. ‘I believe I’ll join you, my lady. This is really the first time we’ve spoken together, tete-a-tete.’ The glass arrived and he stared at the dark liquid, then raised his eyes to the queen. ‘So your concern runs deep enough to bring you out here. I’m impressed.’

  ‘I thought you should know,’ she repeated.

  ‘Indeed I should, though that’s not exactly what I meant. I am impressed, certainly, but more than anything by your desire for self-preservation. You’re terrified, aren’t you, Lady Isabelle? You can see the country running with blood – how did you put it, slippery underfoot? – and the throne toppling, and a ship waiting to transport you back to Angoulême. That’s what concerns you, along with the fear that the ship will carry neither jewels nor coin. That’s why you’ve ventured upriver to lay bare your husband’s secrets, because you do not want to fall so far to the ground, nor ride so high in the water. You have come here to save yourself, my lady, even if the King of England can’t be saved.’

  Stubborn to the last, she said, ‘I thought you should know what was happening, no more than that.’

  Langton turned his glass, glanced across the rim and murmured, ‘Rather more, I’d say. Some private scheme of your own, whereby you might retain your crown? What is it, Lady Isabelle? What would you have me do?’

  She had practised the phrase on the marsh, but the words still distorted her lips. ‘I want you to— I want the Earl of Pembroke sent for. Offer him whatever’s necessary, but get him here. I want William Marshal at your side, to bring some sense to this holocaust. There’s no one else I can think of.’

  ‘Don’t shy from the truth,’ Langton told her. ‘He’s the obvious choice, and we both know it. I am glad you told me of the king’s preparations and so forth, though most of his actions were already known to us.’

  ‘And the Earl of Pembroke?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t I say?’ Langton apologized. ‘I sent word to him a month ago. He’s already on his way, he and his neighbour, the Lord of Manorbier. If they can’t implant some sense in the situation, we shall all be running for the boats.’

  * * *

  The arrival of William Marshal and Gerard de Barri came too late to prevent the first violent act of insurrection against the Crown. It took place at Northampton, where, as the day of the agreed meeting drew to a close, the dissident barons realized the king would not appear…

  It was rumoured that John had approached to within twenty miles of the rendezvous, but refused to advance any farther until the rebel leaders disbanded their force. A sensible request, if it was true, since Robert FitzWalter and Eustace de Vesci were backed by forty militant barons and almost two thousand knights.

  But FitzWalter had lost patience. A trouble-maker at the best of times, and still convinced that his daughter had been ravished by the king, he was in no mood for conditions or compromise. John had vowed to attend the meeting on 26th April at Northampton, and he had broken his word. Nevertheless, the meeting would take place, if not today, then tomorrow; if not in the city or under its walls, then twenty miles down the road.

  Aware that John employed a legion of spies, FitzWalter gave them something to report and detailed men to burn several of the more prosperous-looking houses. If the king was on high enough ground and cared to glance northward during the night, he might see the sky glowing red above the city.

  This pointless and vindictive act was followed by another, for the dissidents trotted south to John’s rumoured encampment at Brackley, learned that he was not there, nor had ever been there, and vented their spleen on the innocent townsfolk. They stopped short of outright murder, though no one could be sure that all the occupants had escaped from the burning buildings.

  The violence spread. The few moderate voices were drowned out, and it seemed that England, having done so poorly abroad, was now determined to punish itself at home. The royalists and mercenaries were committed against the growing force of r
ebellion, yet they were all flagellants, prepared to draw blood from each other and lay their thongs across the rib-cage of the country.

  Langton, Marshal and the big-girthed Gerard de Barri rode north to intercept the dissidents. They brought with them a list of proposals – a rough draft of what would come later – but neither FitzWalter nor de Vesci would discuss it. They had struck a blow at Northampton and another at Brackley, and they were now on their way to London. Numerous towns and fiefs had gone over to them. Their blood was up. They were in full cry after the wolf. They had no need of well-balanced documents, or talk of restraint. Softsword had taxed them up to the hilt, lost an empire and failed to keep his rendezvous. Now he would get his just deserts, and they would come at the end of a sword, not the tip of a quill.

  At the age of sixty-nine, scarred and limping, yet once again in harness, William Marshal could still recognize an opportunist when he saw one. He discounted Eustace de Vesci, as he had always discounted the younger Lusignan brother, Ralf of Exoudun. They both did what they were told, Ralf by the more positive Hugh le Brun, de Vesci by the more ambitious Robert FitzWalter. It was FitzWalter who would set England ablaze, if he was not first damped down.

  ‘Tell me how it will go,’ Marshal asked. ‘An invasion of London, and then what?’

  ‘And then, if you wait, you’ll see,’ FitzWalter retorted. ‘We’ll seize the king, and there’ll be a trial, and then he’ll be put away for the rest of his life.’

  ‘And how will Rome take it, when she learns that you’ve imprisoned her new-found vassal?’