The Wolf at the Door

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

  But the evidence showed otherwise, and it was not only those on the southern plateau who were trapped. The marks of passage had now dissolved in the water on both sides of the Wellstream, and the quicksands were once again concealed.

  The knights took a more determined grip on their king. One sensible man reasoned that the riverbank must be firm, else it would have already subsided, and the riders led John alongside the gully and away from the curling tide. His agony was pitiable, though he had never had greater cause to weep than now.

  His carters and their horses, the escort and their horses, the rearguard and their horses were all left to drown. So, too, were the contents of the boxes, chests, coffers, bags and bundles that the king and queen had accumulated during their treasure-hunt. And in these were contained the crowns and regalia of England, the cups and chalices of white gold, yellow gold, silver and bronze, the swords and sceptre, the flagons, rings, belts and buckles, the pendants and brooches, the crosses and candelabra, the caps and spurs of office, the seals and documents, the jewels amassed by the monarchy over the years, the buckle stolen by Isabelle from Marshal’s room, the silver clasp given to the king by the diplomatic Hubert Walter, the clasp that depicted a tusky boar, John’s reward for valour.

  It was all lost, this sparkling heritage of England. Or perhaps it was not entirely lost, since England herself had taken it into custody.

  * * *

  The sea washed the bank below Wisbech. It spread across the southern plateau, forced its way against the Wellstream and filled the gully until there was no longer any trace of the river. On the northern flats, the sea advanced unopposed, running under the lee of the bank and watched in silence by the guides and cavalry, the infantry and the drover of the single, unladen cart. And by the Sparrowhawk, who saw the glint of sunlight on the water as the turning of a diadem.

  She did not look for her husband. Drowned or saved, it made no difference, for he was dead in her eyes. He had lost her everything she possessed, so it was only fair that they should lose each other.

  One of the guides had left his bamboo pole in the sand. It had been tilted a little by the incoming tide, but it served as a measure and they watched the water rise and cover it.

  Men were praying now, or grouping together with their friends to discuss the future. They had seen the distant horsemen ride inland, presumably along the riverbank, but they could not tell if King John had been among them. They hoped so, for England’s sake and his, and especially theirs. This was not a good time for the monarch to die. He had yet to name his successor, else the country would be further divided between those who would pledge their allegiance to his son Henry, a nine-year-old child, or to Prince Louis, a foreigner, or to Queen Isabelle, a woman. So God grant that John had been spared the quicksands and the sea.

  It took the riders two hours to complete the horseshoe route, leading the king inland, then turning away from the upper reaches of the Wellstream and trotting back along the northern edge of the estuary. John’s illness had been aggravated by the sleepless nights, the lack of food and the wild exertions of the crossing. He was sweating profusely and retching in the saddle. His escort mistakenly believed that Isabelle would be inconsolable, and hurried to reunite the king and queen. Also, for more selfish reasons, they were eager to be rid of him. His condition was grave, and now that they’d brought him from the estuary, they wished to be known as his saviours, not his pall-bearers.

  Members of the advance troop spurred to met them. Queen Isabelle was informed, but she remained where she was, her gaze fixed on the jewelled water. John was led to her and, in her own time, she looked up at him. His face was beaded with sweat, his mouth slack, his hands limp at his sides. The knights wanted to leave them alone, but two men were required to hold the king in the saddle. They averted their eyes and feigned deafness, though Isabelle did not care who witnessed the reunion. Such as it would be.

  ‘How many of the carts returned to the village?’

  He shook his head, spraying sweat.

  ‘I see. Then we are destitute, you and I. And I because of your mismanagement, because you once again failed to do things right. Where will you go now? To Switzerland? I need to know, if I’m to put as great a distance as possible between us. Oh, don’t gape, my lord. You must be aware that I shall no longer keep step with you. You’re in poor condition to enjoy a mistress, but if you can find one, I’ll applaud. As for me, I shall make my own way, and not necessarily within this kingdom. I’d feel too conspicuous, wearing a cheap wooden crown, whilst I waited for someone to fashion one from iron. That’s all I could afford, now that you’ve drowned the rest.’

  ‘Take me to the abbey,’ he croaked. ‘My blood’s poisoned. There are things I must set down, things you should know in case I-’

  ‘Succumb to your illness? But you won’t, my lord. There are still two treasure-chests at Swineshead. You’ll recover just by trying on the rings and bracelets. You are dead to me, and have been since mid-morning, but England will hear your heel-tap for a long while yet.’ Addressing the knights, she said, ‘Lead him along, messires. Get him to his boxes. That’ll cheer him.’ She turned towards the estuary again, even now hoping to see a sealed chest bobbing in the tide.

  * * *

  The remnants of the army reached Swineshead, where the king immersed himself in a herbal bath. The monks warmed a bed for him, but he left the stones to grow cold and insisted on a meal of peaches and their excellent cider.

  They told him that the crop had been very poor that year, but he slapped the table and accused them of false modesty. Then, correcting himself, he said, ‘Who knows? You may be right. But you must let me judge the pressing for myself. And another thing; I’ll beg a sack of those herbs. They’ve drawn the fever right out of me.’

  ‘Which the night air will quickly put back, lord king. If you wish to eat and drink, at least do so in the warm. We can find whatever you want, and bring it to your bed.’

  ‘God’s eyes,’ he complained, ‘it’s you who’ll put the fever back, if you leave me with an empty belly. I’m only asking for fruit and drink.’

  Fruit in the shape of a dozen peaches, and enough cider for a family. His speech became slurred, his movements imprecise, his mood relaxed and forgiving. Queen Isabelle would join him in a day or two, he asserted, or wait with her children in the south. She had a sharp tongue when she wanted, did the Sparrowhawk, though she had clearly been distraught with worry. And the loss of the treasure, a terrible mishap, though perhaps at the next low tide the bulk of it could be reclaimed.

  He mumbled at his companions to organize a search, protesting drunkenly when they reminded him that the tide would be at its ebb soon after midnight, ‘What of it? There are torches and tapers, aren’t there, even on the fens? Go on, go on, get a search started.’

  When he had finally sunk into a torpor, his knights carried him to bed, then returned to the refectory and barked at the monks. ‘Must you look so disapproving, brothers? You make the stuff and sell for a profit, so why should the king not drink it?’

  ‘It’s not that he drank it,’ they retorted, ‘it’s that he never stopped. Likewise with the peaches. He ate them as though they were berries, when he’d have been better off chewing dry bread.’

  ‘He ate what he wanted to eat. Anyway, you underestimate his strength.’

  The monks said yes, possibly.

  In the morning he was too weak to whisper. The fermented apples and unripe peaches had turned to vinegar in his blood. He was doubled over with spasms and could neither dress himself nor walk unaided. The knights panicked, refused all advice from the monks, and led the king on a hectic ride from the abbey, first to Sleaford, then west to Newark. By the timehad reached the castle there, they were aware that although John’s mind had begun to wander, his body would take him no farther.

  They sent messengers to warn Queen Isabelle, Stephen Langton, William Marshal, anyone who might catch at the trailing reins. The storm that had made the Wellstream impass
able now moved north, as if to stalk the king. The castellan of Newark was absent, and the knights laid John in the great oak bed, then clustered around, striving to hear him above the rattle of the shutters and the moan of the wind. It was an eerie scene, and not improved by the king’s sudden attempts to claw at his skull, or grind his teeth to the roots.

  In a moment of lucidity, he spoke of Marshal as England’s unswerving champion, and told the knights to entrust Prince Henry to his care. ‘My son will rule this country, under God, but he needs the Arab to advise him.’ Then, with a shudder of self-pity, he added, ‘You see what I have come to, through my defiance of that gaunt old man.’

  A few hours later he managed to dictate a will, naming thirteen men as his executors. The Abbot of Croxton arrived in time to hear his confession and administer the sacraments. The wind blew between the shutters and extinguished a candle flame. By the time the wick had been touched to another and relit, the king was dead. It was 18th October 1216. In no other way was it important in the calendar, and it was not long remembered in the land.

  But King John would be remembered and, with few exceptions, reviled. He had failed to stand comparison with his brother, the physical giant Richard Coeur-de-Lion, and he had lost England her empire. But more damaging to his memory, he had mocked and persecuted the Church, and it was the Church that produced the great chroniclers and annalists of the age. King John could act as he saw fit whilst he was alive. But he could not govern what the monks had to say about him after. As no one can.

  Aftermath

  Queen Isabelle’s talk of wood and iron was too pessimistic. In the treasure-chests that were still safeguarded at Swineshead she found a gold coronet, small enough to fit the head of a woman, or a child.

  The moderates and royalists contributed towards an outfit for the dead king, and another for Prince Henry. John’s body was gutted and cleaned, then taken to Worcester Cathedral, where it was dressed in a cloth-of-gold tunic, the fingers gloved and curled around an inferior sceptre and a plain, burnished sword. Ironically, he was deprived of his high- heeled boots, and his feet shod with a pair of everyday sandals. As a pious touch, and possibly for concealment in the afterlife, his head was enclosed in a monk’s cowl.

  As soon as his body had been interred, his son was collected from Devizes and taken under guard to Gloucester. The rebel leader FitzWalter was still about, and with him Prince Louis, so there was no time to waste. If the child Henry was not crowned as soon as possible, Louis might well proclaim himself king.

  At Gloucester, the young prince responded in a shrill, clear voice as he was first knighted by William Marshal then crowned King of England. In a third, brief ceremony, the seventy-year-old Earl of Pembroke was appointed Regent of the Kingdom and given command of the army that would, it was hoped, drive Louis back across the Channel – minus his machines.

  * * *

  The death of John brought a number of barons to the court of King Henry III. Some of them spoke down to him, while others told him bluntly that their quarrel had been with his father, a stain on the land, but that they now wished to exchange a kiss of peace and pledge their allegiance.

  Ever at the boy’s shoulder, Marshal assessed his behaviour and allowed himself a grunt of approval. He was sure he had been neither so calm nor so courageous at such an age, Nor, he knew, had John, and it led him to wonder if, after all the dead king had been right to suspect the Sparrowhawk. John hadenough bastards of his own, and Queen Isabelle was still one of the most attractive women around. It was a scurrilous thought, and Marshal would keep it to himself. Even so, he could not deny that young Henry’s demeanour owed nothing to the wolf.

  * * *

  The rebels had suffered a setback, but they were not yet ready to quit. In December, ignoring the weather, Prince Louis captured Hertford Castle and routed a force of royalists. The English barons were turning their cloaks more often than a bed sheet, and Marshal sought out his friend and neighbour, Gerard de Barri. Together they raised a force of seventy knights and almost two thousand men, selecting them for their love of England, military prowess and dislike of traitors. It was an elite contingent and, stealing from FitzWalter, Marshal christened it the Host of Right and the Crown. Assisted by the big-bellied Gerard, he drilled the troops throughout the winter. Then, in spring, he left the king with men he could trust and went in search of the rebels.

  On 20th May, at Lincoln, the Host of Right and the Crown met the Host of God and Holy Church. Prince Louis was elsewhere, but FitzWalter rode at the head of his army, and Marshal at the head of his chosen force.

  The fight for Lincoln lasted most of the day. The brutal and energetic FitzWalter was everywhere, howling his orders, surviving the death of his horse, snatching a double-headed axe as though he dreamed himself the Lionheart.

  Against him went the corpulent Gerard de Barri and the hobbling William Marshal. But it was still Marshal who gave the lessons. He too had lost his horse, and went forward on foot, well supported by the Host of Right and the Crown. In that single action he isolated Robert FitzWalter, disarmed him as he had once disarmed the belligerent Ralf of Exoudun, then limped on alone to engage in single combat with a French champion, the Count of Perche.

  The Frenchman cut Marshal on his bad leg, but the very deadness of the tendons allowed the earl to stay upright long enough to kill his adversary with a direct thrust at the neck.

  The rebels discarded their weapons and, supported by Gerard de Barri, the Regent of England dragged himself across the grass to speak with FitzWalter.

  ‘A nice jab,’ the rebel commended. ‘God must have been looking elsewhere at the time.’

  Breathing heavily, Marshal said, ‘I think not. I think it was meant to be seen. I think it was proof of what I told you, you bloody upstart. If you go against me do not do so with any expectation of success.’ Tired and sick of the blood-letting, he glanced at Gerard. ‘Take this man into a safe prison. And tell his French friend to go home.’

  * * *

  Prince Louis was not the only one to depart the kingdom. Queen Isabelle left, aware that there was no place for a dowager queen in the masculine court of England. She returned to Angoulême, struggled to reassert her authority against France and the neighbouring warlords, and eventually smothered her contempt for the man who had lost her, Hugh of Lusignan. More than that, she married him.

  He was no longer the active suzerain, but she was better off in his bed than his dungeon, and they worked together to resist the intrusions of the Crown.

  The Sparrowhawk would make a name for herself, not only as the one-time Queen of England, but as the woman who’d sent her servants to poison the King of France. Happily for that monarch – the grandson of Philip Augustus – the attempt was discovered, and the servants hanged from the gate. The Sparrowhawk attempted suicide, failed even in that, and was described by the writer Matthew Paris in his Chronica Majora as ‘rather a Jezebel than an Isabelle’.

  * * *

  The prisoner FitzWalter took the advice that Marshal gave him and became the crusader FitzWalter.

  ‘You can avoid the boils of imprisonment, upstart, and possibly save your soul. You love to fight, so put some purpose behind it, and fight the devils of Islam. We shall let you go, so long as you go abroad, but we shall not welcome you back until we have forgotten the part you played. Now make your decision. Will you take the cross of the Crusader, or fester here as you deserve?’

  ‘I’ll go away,’ FitzWalter said. ‘By the time I come back, you’ll very likely be dead.’

  ‘Very likely,’ Marshal echoed, ‘though the Saracens of the Holy Land are renowned for the accuracy of their shafts. Who can tell, upstart? You might never come back.’

  * * *

  The foreign prince had left. The dowager queen had gone. The rebel was on crusade. England breathed a pent-up sigh of relief and watched the child king grow to manhood.

  But Marshal was not there to see it happen. He was taken ill in May 1219 and nursed in a manor h
e owned at Caversham, near Reading. It was not a sudden affliction, so much as the languishing of his powers, and death knocked very gently at his door.

  He had sired five sons and five daughters, and they all came to see him. But more than William, Richard, Gilbert, Walter and Anselm; more than Matilda, Isabel, Sybille, Eve and Jeanne, the old man wished for his wife.

  She came early, and stayed all the while, and he found the strength to discuss things they had done together throughout the years of their marriage, and to tell her stories she had heard many times before, yet pretended were new.

  Distressing those who had assembled, he worried about his youngest daughter, wishing she had married a less insolent suzerain. It was too late to change things, though he made provision for her to receive two hundred marks to lift her spirits, then fifty marks a year for life. She was to keep this award to herself, he insisted, lest her husband squander it.

  He was visited by the world; by foreigners who had no reason to know that he was ill, by young men who pleaded with him to deliver the buffet of knighthood, then helped balance the sword that he touched to their shoulder. Stephen Langton came as often as possible, and Gerard de Barri had to be encouraged to sleep.

  The young King Henry arrived, pressing a child’s hand on an old man’s chest. He insisted that Marshal lay back; there was no call for homage. Then, impeccably, the boy delivered a speech of praise, in which he described the warlord as ‘the guide of irresolute monarchs, the leader of strange armies, the founder and father of an incomparable line’.