The Wolf at the Door

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

  ‘Do you know,’ FitzWalter measured, ‘I do not care – that – what Rome may think or do?’

  ‘Nor how King Philip receives the news?’

  ‘Nor how the Frenchman receives it, no.’

  ‘Nor that England will be left without a monarch?’

  FitzWalter turned away, his arms raised to signify that he was at a loss. Then he swung back, grim and belligerent. ‘What is your purpose, Earl Marshal? Why this swarm of questions? You are not directly on John’s side, nor on mine. You’ve got a leg either side of the wall, so why should I confide in you? Excuse my forthrightness if I say you’re, well, you’re worked-out.’

  ‘I was worked-out ten years ago,’ Marshal corrected. ‘But, if I answer your questions, you can then answer mine. What’s my purpose? To avoid civil war and to bring the contentious parties face-to-face, without the benefit of arms. And why should you confide in me? Because, you bloody upstart, I make a better confidant than an enemy! You’ve burned out a few innocent civilians and think yourself irresistible. But submit to a proper test. Ask around and see who would back Robert FitzWalter against William Marshal. Excuse my forthrightness when I say you’d be left shivering in the cold.’

  * * *

  The rebel leader did ask around, and the evasive answers told him Marshal was right. The dissidents would willingly fight the king, but they would not go directly against Stephen Langton, William Marshal, nor any of the earl’s friends and neighbours. The object, after all, was to trap the wolf, not fight the primate of England, or the master of Pembroke.

  Nevertheless, FitzWalter continued his march on London. He also adopted the pious title of Steward of the Host of God and Holy Church, thus dignifying his attempts to pull down the king.

  On 17th May 1215, the rebels – the Host of God and Holy Church – seized the capital, save for its impregnable fortress, the Tower of London. Many of England’s eastern and northern counties had joined the revolt, though the west and southwest remained predominantly loyal to the crown.

  King John and Queen Isabelle had been forwarned of the rebel advance and fled from London to their castle at Windsor. They were joined there by the pair who had captured Maud de St Valérie, Gerard d’Athies and Engelard de Cigogné, and by Marshal’s special enemy, Constable Saldon. They waited in desperation for a letter of support from the Pope, or for news of a mercenary landing. The former would unsettle Langton, whilst the latter might draw FitzWalter and his army down to the coast. But until that happened, the royal family were advised to stay put. Windsor was as impregnable a stronghold as the Tower of London and, by the time the rebels moved against it, help would have arrived from overseas, God willing.

  But Isabelle’s betrayal had encouraged the Archbishop to send letters of his own. He had assured his old friend Pope Innocent that the situation was under control and that John –child of Rome – would not be harmed. Then, adopting a different tone, he had warned off the king’s allies in Flanders, Germany and Boulogne. ‘This is an internal affair,’ he told them. ‘You have your own problems with Philip of France. It’s better that you should guard your own borders, than try to cross ours.’

  John did not know it, but his allies had already arrived at that very conclusion.

  In early June, Robert FitzWalter moved his headquarters to Staines, a few miles down-river from Windsor. He was not equipped to besiege the castle, but if he could not break in, at least John could not wriggle out.

  Meanwhile, Archbishop Langton, Earl Marshal and others continued to work on their provisional draft, expanding it from its original twelve clauses into one that contained more than sixty. It went by a variety of titles; the Charter of Liberties; the Articles of the Barons; the Great Charter or, in Latin, Magna Carta.

  * * *

  They discussed how best to strike the blow. The leaders, moderate or militant, were all willing to visit the king – if he’d admit them – though they agreed that he should, by rights, come to them. At one stage in the proceedings FitzWalter’s chief supporter Eustace de Vesci strode forward as though to snatch the document, only to find himself pricked by a porcupine of swords. His knights started to his rescue, then halted as the Lord of Manorbier shoved his armoured belly in their path. ‘This isn’t a game, messires. And, if it was, your leader is not good enough to play. Back you go. That’s the way. You leave these things to Langton and Marshal.’

  In the event it was decided that no one would deliver the scroll. Instead, King John would be invited to meet the barons on neutral ground, preferably one of the flat, swampy meadows between Windsor and Staines.

  Ever respectful of property, Marshal searched the riverbank, found what he wanted, then made enquiries as to the owner of the land. The meadow belonged to a farmer who described it as the running-middle, simply because one side was flanked by the Thames, the other by a gully. It was by no means in the centre of the river, but Marshal was content to abide by the farmer’s wishes and paid generously for an indeterminate lease on the stretch of ground called Runnymede.

  When the pavilions had been erected, the fence-posts hammered in, the surrounding trees cut down to prevent an unseen attack, and a special guard from Pembroke and Manorbier positioned where they could keep a watchful eye on both royalists and rebels, Stephen Langton sent emissaries to Windsor. They took with them a copy of the charter and requested the king’s presence in the meadow.

  * * *

  He remained in the castle as long as possible, at first refusing to even look at the charter, then rejecting half its clauses, then maintaining that he would put his seal to nothing, under duress, and finally pleading illness.

  He did not admit that, on 8th June, he had summoned Gerard d’Athies, waited an hour for him, then instituted a search of the castle. The search had failed to reveal either d’Athies or Engelard de Cigogné.

  ‘What a shame,’ Isabelle commented bitterly. ‘If we’d known their route, we could have followed them.’

  By 15th June King John had run out of excuses and friends. Less than ten knights remained at Windsor. The royalists in the west had made no move against the rebels. The Pope had dispatched no army to liberate his vassal. The eagle of Germany remained in its homeland.

  That same morning John sent word to the barons. If his safety was guaranteed, he would affix his seal to their charter. Stephen Langton went to collect him from the castle, leaving Marshal to check the ground.

  * * *

  The document had been prepared in haste and would be later revised and improved. It attempted to clarify feudal law – much of it unwritten until now – to air the grievances of the barons and limit abuses by the king. It was directed against foreigners, weighted heavily in favour of the English nobility, and of little immediate value to the common people. Selfinterest was apparent, as was the idealistic belief that, long ago, before the Angevin kings had left their ruthless imprint on the country, life had been fair and just.

  The meaning of the charter was, in places, impenetrable, in others clear and succinct. It was both comprehensive and parochial, generous and vindictive, but most important of all, as timely as the sun at dawn, the moon before dusk.

  Langton’s hand could be seen in the first clause, in which John confirmed that the English Church should be free, its rights undiminished, its liberties unimpaired. The Church would henceforth elect its own officials, without interference from the king. There would be no more royal favourites pushed into place, and hopefully no more interdicts.

  One clause stated that no widow or heiress should be compelled to remarry against her will, an unpleasant practice that had allowed the king to reward his friends with lands and titles, no matter how gross the men appeared to the chatelaines.

  Another forbade the levy of taxes without the general consent of the barons. No more impositions at the whim of a bankrupt king.

  Another, which concerned merchants, craftsmen and farmers, declared that, whatever the man owed in fines or taxes, he should be allowed to keep the tools of his trad
e. What advantage was there in confiscating his stock or plough? Much better to let him work and repay the money, little by little.

  Another, this time for the benefit of the nobility, stated that earls and barons should be fined by their equals, not by the king and his cronies from the Exchequer.

  Another, showing a nice regard for detail, denied any royal official the right to take a horse or cart without the owner’s consent.

  Two more, and these the longest-lasting of all the clauses in Magna Carta, maintained that no free man should be seized or imprisoned, stripped of his rights, outlawed or exiled, destroyed or condemned, save by the judgement of his peers and the law of the land. Furthermore, no one should be forced to pay for justice, nor denied it.

  From these assurances alone the people of England would one day derive the greatest comfort and security. It would take time for the words to spread and be understood, and even then there would be abuses, always abuses. However, these essential rights had been committed to paper; no man should be condemned without a fair trial, and justice should not drag its steps.

  Another clause, a direct stab at the king. All hostages were to be returned.

  Another, a personal thrust from William Marshal against those men who had tormented his friend Briouze, and brought about the hideous death of Maud and her son. The demand that Gerard d’Athies and Engelard de Cigogné be removed from office, and that they never again hold a position of trust in England.

  Another, a sweeping blow at foreigners – at the likes of d’Athies and de Cigogné – requiring that all justices, constables, sheriffs and their ilk were to be appointed from among those who knew the country and cared for it. In other words, Englishmen.

  In keeping with that, another clause sought the removal of all foreign knights, bowmen, attendants and mercenaries, together with their horses, weapons, relatives and pets. England had enough problems without an influx of trouble-makers from abroad.

  There were other clauses, all contained on a single sheet of parchment, twenty inches wide by thirteen high. The close-written lines were enough to blur the sight, though King John managed to press his seal into the warm wax before dragging his sleeve across his eyes. It was the strain of reading, he insisted, not the acknowledgement of what he had read.

  Making sure that FitzWalter and de Vesci kept their distance, Langton and Marshal escorted the king to the edge of the meadow. They did not ask where he was going, and he did not tell them. He was still King of England and, even though his powers had been made public, there were some things he intended to keep to himself. A man’s destination was his own business. As were his feelings. And his fears…

  Chapter Ten

  The Drowning of the Tusky Boar

  June 1215–October 1216

  In the event, the king chose the Tower of London in which to fall sick. No one knew how he had reached the fortress unrecognized, only that he had left Queen Isabelle at Windsor and dismissed his pathetic retinue ten miles from the capital. From there he had gone on alone, perhaps by river, perhaps circling London to approach the Tower from the east. Whatever his route, he avoided capture and entered the castle during the last days of June.

  His was no commonplace illness, no mere chill or fever. It was the Angevin sickness, and it struck terror in the garrison.

  They would emerge later and recount what happened when a demon possessed a king.

  He turned his teeth against stone pillars faced with plaster, biting at them as though to bring down the roof. He thrashed the floor, snapping his fingernails, tearing the skin, then sprang to his feet and ran shrieking at the walls.

  He had seen many men chew their shields, or hack mindlessly at the furnishings of a private chamber. His father, Henry II, possessed by the same demon, used to spur his horse until it dropped, then stumble onward, wrenching branches from the trees, or hurling rocks that no two normal men could lift. Richard Lionheart had been similarly afflicted, though he had preferred to wreak havoc with a massive, double-headed axe. The family had been goaded, each in their own way, and this now was John’s.

  He prowled the corridors, leaping at shadows, snarling at sounds. He used whatever he could find as a weapon, running forward with a curtain, then draping it over nothing at all and flinging himself upon his imagined foe. From time to time he dropped with exhaustion, though even in this he was unreliable, and the guards had learned to leave him where he fell. They put out food and drink, though as often as not they found the dishes shattered, the bread and meat dry on the floor.

  They did not know where or when he would next appear.

  They heard him shriek, heard the clash of metal against stone, heard the rap of his heels on the oak boards. A few of the more boastful guards claimed to have seen him, but their companions were unwilling to accept that the king’s arms had become black, rustling wings, or that he could turn from man to toad to bat at the blink of an eye. He might be a descendant of the witch Melusine, but whether he was or not, they thought it best to keep out of his way.

  He haunted the Tower of London for almost a week, his mind distorted by suspicion. The conspiracy had been so gigantic, so universal, that he was never at a loss for a name. It was all the fault of Audemar Taillefer and the two hulking porters who had carried his litter, what were their names, no matter, it was their fault for denying him their support against the Lusignan brothers, that murderous pair who had pursued his mother, sweet Eleanor, theirs and Marshal’s and Briouze’s, don’t forget Briouze and that tragedy of Gaillard. Roger Lacy, they and the fishermen from Rouen who had failed to tell him that the tide had turned, don’t forget them…

  It was the fault of that angular bitch Maud de St Valérie or, if not hers, of that fat-bellied Gerard de Barri, yes, he and his namesake Gerard d’Athies, the traitor of Windsor, like Engelard de Cigogné, deserters both and akin to Otto and the weakwater henchmen who had fled with him from the field of Bouvines…

  The extent of the conspiracy was breathtaking, for it included not only FitzWalter and de Vesci, God spurn their souls, but Langton and the Church and, most grievous of all, the predatory Sparrowhawk…

  They were in league, as they would have to be if they were to find the courage to go against King John of England…

  And then the shrieks and mutterings ceased. The passageways no longer echoed his footfall. The food was left undisturbed. He had departed as surreptitiously as he’d arrived, and even the more incredulous guards found themselves thinking about bats and toads.

  * * *

  The charter had solved nothing. Fifteen years of mistrust could not be eradicated with a sheet of parchment and a wax seal. The rebels remained under arms, their leaders convinced that John would soon renege. He had agreed to their demands, but done precious little to implement them, and FitzWalter was determined to keep his army in battle array until at least half the conditions had been met.

  His suspicions were well founded. As soon as the king had recovered from the Angevin affliction and returned to Windsor, he sent a fresh appeal to the Pope. He told Innocent that he had been forced to sign the charter under duress, and that the self-seeking FitzWalter had his eye on the throne. ‘I am an obedient child of Rome,’ he pleaded, ‘and I look to you for deliverance. We are all your children, here in England, and you must save us from the ambitions of greedy men.’

  Then, conveniently forgetting that he had included Otto and the Imperial allies in the grand conspiracy, he wrote to Germany, Flanders and Boulogne, begging them to send a mercenary army to his aid. ‘We were ever friends, you and I, and I look to you for deliverance. We are all your friends, here in England, save for a few ambitious men.’

  The Pope’s reply was disappointing, for he offered a general panacea, urging all the factions to behave with moderation and keep their swords in their scabbards. Calm yourselves, was his message; see the other man’s point of view.

  Otto’s response was more encouraging, though John was less enchanted to hear that Philip Augustus was astir. The
reason was not clear, but the French commanders were congregating in Paris and the fish was said to be smiling uncommonly wide. Take care, was Otto’s warning; Philip never yet smiled to another man’s advantage.

  So, whilst John and FitzWalter beckoned with their banners, the Pope counselled patience. Otto dispatched mercenaries and the French court spoke in a whisper. Langton, Marshal and the other moderates sniffed the wind, not liking what they smelled. The charter they had worked so long and hard to perfect was in danger of being torn to pieces. There were too many men in armour, too few in the council chambers.

  * * *

  It started slowly, gained momentum and then, like a runaway barrel, split and spilled its contents. War broke out in a dozen places and, once again, horsemen thundered through the dry autumn valleys, ploughed through the mud of winter, advanced a mile a day in the snow. The royalists surrounded London and overran several of the eastern counties. They took the great castle of Rochester and a dozen lesser fortresses, and it finally occurred to the rebels that, far from being defeated, King John was turning like the wolf. The mercenaries from Germany and Flanders had helped bolster his cause, and Magna Carta was nothing more than a distant memory, a confession to be extracted and signed, then dismissed as so much paper, so much ink.

  This was civil war; henceforth all conditions would be met on the spot, or rejected at a rope’s end. The only words to be made permanent were those that someone might care to chip on a tombstone.

  Panicked by John’s resurgence, the rebel leaders acted irrationally. So deep was their mistrust of the king, so desperate their need to supplant him, that FitzWalter and de Vesci turned their eyes towards the Channel, looked across it, across Brittany, across Normandy, across the vanished border. Hard to believe that men who had fought to preserve the Angevin Empire against its greatest enemy would allow their gaze to settle on the distant city of Paris. But where else could it rest if they were to offer the throne of England to the King of France?