He’d given in to Angevin rages before, said things better forgotten, given commands he later regretted. But he’d never done anything he could not afterward justify to himself. Not until he’d allowed himself to take an unforgivable vengeance upon Maude de Braose and her son. Not until he’d seen the truth in a soldier’s eyes, that there were some acts nothing could justify.
He felt no grief for Maude, no remorse. What he did feel was harder for him to admit, to deal with—shame. He did not think he was any more cruel, any more vengeful than other men, than his brothers, his enemies. But he could not defend what he’d done to the de Braoses, could only put the memory from him as an aberrant act, a tragic mistake. All men have things in their pasts that they’d change if they could. All men. But that was not an argument he could make, not to Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. The Welshman’s eyes had taken on the glitter of dark ice. If he was seeking absolution, he’d come to the wrong church.
“I should never have given my daughter to you. Of all the mistakes I’ve ever made, that must rank amongst the biggest.”
“Is that the message you’d have me give Joanna? That our marriage was a mistake?”
“No, damn you, it is not! Tell Joanna…tell my daughter that she will always be that, my daughter, and she will always be welcome at my court.”
In mid-August came a second letter from the Pope, castigating Stephen Langton and some of the English bishops for not giving John greater support against his barons and ordering the Archbishop forthwith to excommunicate all “disturbers of the King and kingdom.” When Langton refused to comply, the papal legate Pandulf suspended him as Archbishop of Canterbury.
It was late September when the papal bull Etsi Karissimus reached England. Condemning the Runnymede charter as “shameful and base and illegal and unjust,” as “concessions thus extorted from a great Prince who had taken the Cross,” it declared the charter to be “null and void of all validity forever.”
On September 30, a disloyal castellan surrendered the great royal fortress of Rochester to the rebels. On October 13, John seized the city and laid siege to the castle. By then, Fitz Walter and his cohorts had already opened negotiations at the French court, had offered the English crown to Louis Capet, the eldest son of the French King.
39
Tywyn, North Wales
January 1216
Llewelyn led his army into South Wales in early December. Joined by the other Welsh Princes, he laid siege to the Norman fortress of Carmarthen, which had been for more than seventy years the center of royal power in the Tywi Valley; it fell to Llewelyn in just five days. The castles of Cydweli, Llanstephan, St Clears, Langharne, Narbeth, and Newport were taken in rapid succession. On the day after Christmas, the Welsh added Cardigan and Cilgerran castles to their list of conquests, and a jubilant Welsh chronicler recorded that “the Welsh returned joyfully to their homes, but the French, driven out of all their holds, wandered hither and thither like birds in melancholy wise.”
Rarely had a winter been so mild. The sea was a placid blue, and the beach glistened like powdered crystal, more than justifying Tywyn’s name—a shining seashore. Alison spun around in an exuberant circle, arms and skirts flying. “It feels verily like spring, Madame!”
Joanna, too, was enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face. “Davydd? Would you like to help me build a sand castle? Davydd…what’s wrong?”
Davydd was cradling his arm at an awkward angle. “I fell, Mama.”
Joanna experienced a dizzying jolt of panic at first sight of the blood soaking her son’s tunic, but a hasty examination of his injury reassured her that although the cut was deep, it was not serious. Alison was already unfastening her veil, and Joanna’s bodyguard was holding out his dagger. Slitting Davydd’s sleeve, Joanna tied a makeshift bandage and then, seeing that Davydd was on the verge of tears, she said swiftly, “Do you know why you bled when you cut yourself on that shell? There are conduits in your arm, called veins, which carry the blood from your liver.”
As she had hoped, that interested Davydd. “Where’s my liver, Mama?”
“I’m not truly sure; near your stomach, I think. I do know it is the source for love and carnal lust.” She had an inspiration then, and jerked off her own veil. “Here,” she said, and fashioned for her son a sling. “Now you look like a soldier coming home from the war. Do you think you can walk back to the monastery? If not, I can send Marc to fetch your pony.”
“I can walk, Mama.” Davydd handed Alison his collection of shells, and they started across the sand. Joanna had laughed when Llewelyn once asked her if Davydd was not too quiet for his age; with her, the boy was rarely still, was a veritable fount of questions and queries and curious non sequiturs. His injury had not bridled his tongue any, and he soon transformed their walk into an inquisition, wanting to know what caused high tide, why blood was red, why love sprang from the liver and not from the spleen, as laughter did.
“Show some mercy; one question at a time!”
Davydd grinned. “All right. Are there elephants in England?”
Joanna sighed; elephants were Davydd’s newest passion, and he could happily discuss their odd ways for hours on end. “No, I think not. Elephants live only in faraway lands like Ethiopia and India.”
“Are there dragons in England, then?”
So it was not elephants at all; it was England. “There have been reports of English dragons, but I’ve never met anyone who actually saw one, Davydd.”
“Uncle Rhys told me he heard of a place in England, called Stroke or Stripe, where men are born with tails. Is that true, Mama?”
Joanna laughed. “You mean Strood, in Kent. That’s but a folktale. Strood is close by Rochester Castle, and I was often there with my father. But I saw nary a single tail!”
Davydd looked disappointed. “Mayhap they hide their tails in their tunics.” He stopped to pick up a shell. “Rochester Castle…is that not where the fighting was?”
Joanna nodded. “But the fighting is over now at Rochester.” The castle had been surrendered to the King after a seven-week siege. “The King has headed north, into Yorkshire. The rebels are allied with Alexander, the Scots King, and some of them even did homage to him for lands in Northumbria. Alexander has been raiding over the border, and my father wants to drive him back into Scotland—also to punish the rebels.”
How much more should she tell him? She’d vowed that she’d not keep anything from her children again, but how much truth could a seven-year-old handle? Did Davydd need to know that John’s army was wreaking bloody vengeance upon the North? Did he need to know that rebel manors were being torched, livestock slain, that terrified towns were offering John lavish sums to be spared the fate of Berwick upon Tweed, burned to the ground, its citizens slaughtered?
“Is it a bad war, Mama?”
“To me, all wars are bad, Davydd, but that is a woman’s view. In war, soldiers sometimes do great evil, and the innocent suffer. It need not always be that way, though. Your father controlled his men at Shrewsbury. But my father would not—or could not—control his men at Berwick, and many people died.”
“Will the King win his war with the barons?”
“I’m not sure, Davydd. Your father says the odds are in his favor, since his army is made up of mercenaries, routiers. They’re seasoned soldiers, you see, men who earn their living by their swords. Llewelyn thinks my father is likely to prevail, unless the French give substantial aid to the rebels. They have offered the crown to Louis, the French King’s son, but Philip is loath to incur the Pope’s wrath again. Whilst he did allow Louis to send seven thousand French troops to London, he is discouraging Louis from coming over himself, and that is what the rebels truly need, a Prince they can rally around.”
Davydd slanted her a sidelong glance. “Mama…do you want the King to win?”
It had not escaped Joanna that Davydd invariably referred to John as “the King,” never as “your father.” She knew the little boy was confused by her relationship to
John, but she did not want to lie to him, and she said slowly, “You know that John has committed grievous sins. But he is still my father, Davydd, and so I have to say yes, I do hope he will prevail over the rebels.”
“But…but what if he wins, and then he makes war on Papa?”
He’d gone unerringly to the heart of Joanna’s dilemma. But as she looked into his upturned face, she suddenly realized what he was really asking, realized how threatened he felt by her kinship to the English King. “I would hope it never comes to that, Davydd. But if it did, I would want your father to win. You and Elen and Llewelyn are my family, and Wales my home.”
That was what Davydd needed to hear, and he reached up, slid his free hand into hers. “Papa would win,” he said confidently. “He took all those castles from the Normans. He’s a good battle commander, is he not, Mama?”
“The best, love. This was the first time, Davydd, that all the Welsh Princes banded together, offered a united front to the Normans. And it was your father’s doing, as is this conference on the banks of the River Dyfi. All of the Welsh Princes have gathered in answer to Llewelyn’s summons, and that, too, is a first. Your father is seeking to make a lasting peace in the south between Maelgwn, Rhys Gryg, and their nephews, and to bring it about, he has proposed an equitable partition of Deheubarth amongst them.”
“What of all they won from the Normans? Is Papa not going to keep any of that land?”
“No, Davydd, he made no claims for himself. Do you know why? Because your father is a very clever man. He’s gaining something from this peace that is of far greater value than land or castles, something of historic significance. That is why he sent for us, so that we could witness what is to happen.”
Davydd’s eyes had widened. “What, Mama?”
Joanna smiled. “You’ll find out,” she said, “on the morrow!”
A man standing on the bank of the River Dyfi could look north into Gwynedd, south into Ceredigion, and Llewelyn had selected the river estuary as an appropriate site for his peace conference. It had taken all of his diplomatic and political skills and nearly a week of wrangling among the participants, but in the end Llewelyn had prevailed, and on a mild, sunlit morning in January, a formal partition of Deheubarth was proclaimed.
Joanna had chosen an inconspicuous spot near Llewelyn’s tent, one that nonetheless afforded an unobstructed view of the ceremonies taking place upon the white sands of Aberdyfi. As the agreed-upon division of the various cantrefs and commotes was read aloud to the assembled lords, Davydd lost interest, began to fidget with his sling. Joanna had been unable to convince him that he did not need it; he’d even managed to fasten his mantle so that the sling was still visible.
“If you do not stop squirming,” she murmured, “you are going to miss the surprise.”
“Well, when will it happen, Mama?”
“Now,” Joanna said. An expectant silence had fallen; men were jostling to get closer to their Princes. As all watched, Maelgwn crossed the sand, knelt before Llewelyn, and swore an oath of homage and fealty to the Prince of Gwynedd. Rhys Gryg, who’d been freed from an English prison some months earlier; Llewelyn’s cousin Hywel; his cousin Madog, Prince of upper Powys; Maelgwn’s rebellious nephews, Rhys Ieunac and Owain—one by one they followed Maelgwn, acknowledged Llewelyn as their liege lord.
Gwenwynwyn was the last to approach Llewelyn. High color had mottled his cheekbones, and his eyes were slits of resentful rage, but he, too, knelt and did homage to the man who’d been his lifelong rival. Llewelyn half turned, and for a moment his gaze met Joanna’s, a moment in which they exchanged a very private message.
“Do you know what this means, Davydd? The other Welsh Princes have just acknowledged Gwynedd’s suzerainty, have just acknowledged Llewelyn as their liege lord…their Prince. He’s too shrewd to lay formal claim to the title, knowing that would but alarm the English and stir up the jealousies of his allies. But from this day forth, your father is, in effect, Prince of Wales.”
Davydd did not fully comprehend the significance of what he’d just witnessed, but he responded to the echoes of pride and jubilation in his mother’s voice. “I’m glad Papa wanted me here, glad he’s to be Prince of all the Welsh. Mama…will I be Prince of Wales, too, one day?”
Joanna did not answer at once, and as he glanced up at her, he saw that she was no longer watching Llewelyn. She was staring at the tall youth standing by Llewelyn’s side, staring at his brother Gruffydd.
“Yes, Davydd,” she said softly. “If I have any say about it, you will, indeed, be Prince of Wales.”
Gwenwynwyn soon recanted, swayed by his jealousy of Llewelyn and the beguilements of the English King. A thirteenth-century Welsh chronicle set forth the denouement of this embittered rivalry:
In that year Gwenwynwyn, lord of Powys, made peace with John, King of England, scorning the oath and pledge he had given…. And after Llewelyn ab Iorwerth had learned that, he felt vexed; and he sent to him bishops and abbots and other men of great authority…. And when that had availed him naught, he gathered a host and called the Princes of Wales together to him, and made for Powys to war against Gwenwynwyn, and he drove him to flight into the county of Chester and gained possession of all his territory for himself.
40
Corfe Castle, England
June 1216
By spring, John’s war seemed all but won. In three months he had brutally and effectively suppressed rebellion in the North and East of England. He was receiving formidable support from his brother Will, who’d led a punitive expedition into East Anglia, and the two most powerful lords in the realm, the Earls of Chester and Pembroke, were holding fast for the crown. The rebels still controlled London, but they were losing heart. By April, a number of them were seeking to make peace with John; even Eustace de Vesci was asking for terms.
It was not the prospect of fighting for John’s kingdom that had discouraged Louis Capet from joining the rebels; it was his father. While Louis was quite willing to risk excommunication for the English crown, Philip was not. It took Louis until Easter to coax a grudging consent from the French King, but on April 24, Philip summoned the papal legate Guala to a council at Melun. There the French monarch and his son contended that John was no rightful King, having been charged with treason by his brother Richard and having been condemned by a French court for the murder of his nephew Arthur. Guala was not impressed, and warned them that John was the Pope’s vassal and England part of the patrimony of the Holy Roman Church. But Louis was deaf to all but the seductive sirens of kingship, and he declared his intent to claim the crown that was his by right, his wife being niece to John and granddaughter to Henry.
John remained sanguine in the face of the impending French invasion, for he, more than any other English King, had appreciated an island kingdom’s need for naval supremacy and had spared no expense in building England’s first fleet. He felt confident that his ships would be able to keep Louis bottled up within Calais harbor. There was one aspect of successful kingship, however, that John had always utterly lacked—luck. Fortune now delivered a stunning blow. On the night of May 18, a sudden storm raked the Kentish coast, and John’s galleys were scattered, driven onto the rocks or out to sea.
When coast watchers at Thanet reported sails on the horizon two days later, John allowed himself the indulgence of optimism, allowed himself to hope that some of his fleet had ridden out the squall. But the ships that sailed into Pegwell Bay flew the golden fleur de lys of France.
Pembroke and Chester advised against an immediate confrontation; too many of John’s mercenaries were French, and John owed them too much in back pay to trust them in an encounter with their liege lord’s son. John agreed, unwilling to risk all upon a single battle, one that might be decided by treachery, and he withdrew toward the west.
He’d hoped that the invasion of a foreign Prince would rally his subjects to his side. The opposite happened. Louis’ presence upon English soil acted as a catalyst for the rebel cause. Men fl
ocked to his banners, even men who’d so far been loyal. John’s support began to bleed away. To stave off a lethal hemorrhage, the papal legate Guala invoked the moral authority of the Church on John’s behalf, and on Whitsunday he publicly excommunicated Louis and his followers, placed London under Interdict. But that did not deter Londoners from giving Louis a joyous welcome just four days later.
Stunned by the acclaim and acceptance the French Prince was encountering, John abandoned Winchester as Louis moved into Hampshire. On June 14, Louis took the ancient city of Winchester, set about besieging the royal castle. John retreated southward, reaching the security of Corfe Castle on June 23. That was the day he learned of the defections. The Earl of Arundel, the Count of Aumale, and John’s own cousin, William de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, had gone to Winchester, where they had disavowed allegiance to John and acknowledged Louis as their King.
Corfe Castle dominated the Dorsetshire peninsula known as Purbeck Isle. Its history was a grim one, for it was often used as a royal prison. Here the ill-starred prophet Peter of Wakefield had passed the last months of his life. Here twenty-two knights taken captive after John’s victory at Mirebeau had overpowered their gaolers, barricaded themselves within the keep, and starved to death rather than surrender. Here, too, John held four of Maude de Braose’s grandsons, children of the son who’d died with her in a Windsor dungeon. But Corfe was also a favorite residence of the Angevin Kings. John had constructed lavish living quarters in the inner bailey, just east of the great keep, where Isabelle and their children awaited his coming.
Isabelle stirred, reached sleepily toward John’s side of the bed. “John? Why are you not abed?”
John turned from the open window, from the summer dark. “It has begun to rain,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
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