Tactfully, D’Earley inclined his head and veered off the personal. ‘My Lord,’ he said simply, ‘the King is losing control of his Kingdom. Without you he is like to lose it completely.’
CHAPTER THREE - RUNNYMEAD 1214 - 1215
‘My Lord Archbishop.’ William knelt before the Archbishop of Canterbury and received his blessing. Crossing himself he rose, turned to the table upon which lay a scattering of documents, beckoned Thomas to his side and asked the Primate if he desired wine. Stephen Langton shook his head. ‘Then to the King’s affairs,’ William said briskly.
Langton assumed his seat with less haste, studying the man the King had set at his hand to deal with the present crisis. ‘I have it heard said that you, like the King, are a Devil worshipper, My Lord of Pembroke.’
William spluttered into his goblet, outraged. ‘By the Rood, Langton!’ he exclaimed, his eyes blazing, ‘I have just received your blessing, whence came this notion, for the love and hoped for desire of heaven?’
‘’Tis something I heard,’ responded Langton unfazed, looking at the big, blustering man who, the Archbishop knew well, could neither read nor write, then studying the nails of his right hand.
‘Then you should stop your ears before I box them!’ William roared. ‘God knows the King did not want you for Archbishop and now I am not certain that I can execute His Grace’s commission with a man who traduces my honour upon our first acquaintance!’
‘Have you not found there is no smoke without fire?’
‘And what smoke have you discovered?’ William snarled.
‘An old story, perhaps,’ Langton replied coolly, giving William a cold smile.‘God’s blood but you believe that nonsense that I was born with the Devil’s mark, is that it?’
Langton shrugged. ‘Something of the sort. Besides, you were excommunicated in Leinster by Ailbe of Ferns.’
‘And have I not, like the King and his Kingdom, had Papal Interdict lifted from me by your appointment to the See of Canterbury?’ expostulated a furious William.
‘Not necessarily as regards Bishop Ailbe…’ Langton began, but William was not listening.
‘As for that infamous nonsense about bearing the Devil’s imprint,’ he went on, angrily, ‘I bear a birth-mark that has, since by arrival into this benighted world, divided opinion amongst those who thought it mete and right to have an opinion upon my person. God alone Lord knows why a man should be judged by some blemish on his skin, any more than the irregularity of his nose, but such fancies pass for wisdom among a certain breed. Some said my birth-mark looked like Satan, tail and all, though the pitch-fork is missing, as are the horns, the pointed ears and the general stink of brimstone; others, of a nobler cast of mind considered the likeness more closely resembled a lion rampant.’ William paused a moment then he leaned forward, his voice lower, sarcastic. ‘That much is true. but I have to confess I am astonished that my Lord Archbishop has so great a grasp of matters spiritual that he gives credence to a tale that made women shudder and fools wet themselves, but for which there is not one shred of evidence in my conduct.’ He paused, then just as Langton was about to respond, he added: ‘I see you take me for a fool; so be it. But I have marked you for a greater one, for a fool without learning is merely ignorant, whereas a fool with learning is a fool indeed.’
‘You are close to the King,’ Langton said, quietly, ignoring William’s insult, though the reproach stung him.
‘You think that a signal of mine own unholiness?’ William asked. Langton shrugged again. ‘Well, Archbishop, it was not always so. Like you I have been held persona non grata in the King’s opinion. As for His Grace’s predilection for Devil-worship, I suggest you enquire of him yourself. You may find yourself in a less comfortable situation that you are now; his father, you may be too young to recall,’ William added pointedly, ‘had a way with Archbishops…’
‘That is an impious damnable remark,’ said Langton, stung and at last unable to conceal it. He crossed himself. ‘Henry Curtmantle did penance for an idle remark…’
‘And Becket was dead, Langton! In Heaven, undoubtedly, but nevertheless dead,’ William said vehemently. ‘Think on that, or are you so hell-bent upon becoming a saint that you stoke up my enmity that I may put an end to you, eh? Well, I am not such a hot-head as you obviously suppose. I am bound to support the King for he is the legitimate power in the land and you, my Lord Archbishop, are sworn by Papal instruction to uphold the King’s rights.’ William let his words hang in the air as Langton resumed his air of cool detachment, fingering the cross that hung about his neck on its gold chain and casting his eyes upon the documents laid before him.
‘Well, my Lord of Pembroke, since we have cleared the air between us, shall we attend to the matters laid before us?’
William did not trouble to answer. The crisis that John D’Earley had predicted had erupted in the wine-flushed face of the King of England. His ally, the Emperor Otto and half the chivalry of Germany, had been smashed at Bouvines on Sunday 27 July 1214 by the forces of Philippe Augustus of France. The rout had had huge consequences for King John, undermining his entire strategy for the recovery of his lost hereditary lands in Normandy, Poitou, Anjou and Aquitaine, a strategy that John had, in any case, already bungled. Left in England William could only listen to the rumours that filtered back across the Channel: that after landing at La Rochelle John had made ground in Aquitaine and Anjou before sitting down and opening siege lines against the newly constructed fortress of La Roche-aux-Moine built by William’s old companion-in-arms William des Roches. When a relieving force under the Dauphin Louis approached, John feared it to be the entire French army and raised the siege, ordering a retreat. King Philippe, meanwhile, led a second force north from Paris where, near Lille, a charge by the flower of French chivalry put the knights of Otto IV to flight in a spectacular and rare pitched battle, while John’s half-brother, William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury and victor of Damme, had been captured at the head of his troops in Normandy.
In the aftermath of this military catastrophe, John had been obliged to concede that his French possessions were irretrievably lost – all but the Calais Pale – leaving his family’s arch enemy, Philippe Augustus, the most powerful monarch in Christendom. To escape total humiliation, John was mulcted of a huge indemnity of sixty thousand marks, bound supine to a five-year peace treaty and returned home in October of 1214 a broken man, his war-chest empty, his Barons divided and his Kingdom in dire peril, from both within and without.
From this dark hour arose the necessity for William, as the foremost of the Barons remaining loyal, and Archbishop Stephen Langton, imposed upon John by the Pope, to consider the best policy for the King.
As if no cross words had passed between them Langton, drumming his long fingers on the table, regarded William and said, ‘the situation is tricky; the lifting of the Papal Interdict elevates John’s position somewhat, but the Holy Father is unwilling to thwart His Most Christian servant Philippe Capet of France. I may keep Philippe at bay by diplomacy, which leaves the problem of rebellion here, in England.’ Langton looked up at William, ‘do you not think, my Lord, that England would be better governed by a King of Philippe’s puissance, a God-fearing monarch…’
‘The Barons might tell you so, My Lord Archbishop, and indeed many of them might settle for such a thing, but England would not have any of it…’
‘England…?’ asked Langton vaguely, frowning. ‘What mean you by England, if not the person of John himself?’
‘The people of England, the merchants in our towns and cities, they are a rising power. You have been in exile aboard too long Archbishop. Times change and John is still held to be the rightful heir of Henry Curtmantle’s body.’
Langton sighed, am exasperated exhalation that William supposed indicated he considered he was dealing with a simpleton. The man’s arrogance was infuriating, but William’s presumption seemed correct when the Archbishop, with mock patience, condescendingly said, ‘My Lord of Pembroke,
England at the present moment, even by your reckoning, is the King.,. the anointed King. The people you speak of have no voice in the Kingdom. It is not they who are up in arms, provisioning castles, constructing siege engines and generally preparing for war unless they do it at their legitimate masters’ behest. It is the Barons who oppose the King’s sacred person, and it is the Barons against whom we shall shortly be arraigned…’
‘You do not need to teach me my business, my Lord Archbishop,’ William said curtly, ‘but there are many strands that lead to the King’s Grace, many pillars to his throne; one can deal with one, but must consider the others. I am surprised,’ William added sarcastically, ‘that a man familiar with the mysteries of the Holy Trinity denies some semblance of similarity in the power of an anointed King…’
‘By the Body of Christ, Pembroke, that is near damnable blasphemy!’ Langton crossed himself.
‘The whole of England is in increasing uproar,’ William went on blandly, pleased that he had struck at Langton and found a weakness, ‘it is not our duty to ponder anything other than the betterment of the King’s affairs…’
‘By which your entire well-being hangs…’ riposted Langton.
‘That may well be the case,’ remarked William with a wry smile, refusing to rise to Langton’s bait and irritated that this sniping between them was counter-productive, ‘but it illuminates my path most wonderfully. Now, until the King can replenish his war chest, we must buy time, hear the rebels’ demands, concede some points, maintain a debate.’
Langton sighed again, though this time it was clear he was prepared to turn his attention to matters of state. Perhaps the man beside him was less of an oaf than he had both supposed and been led to believe. His son, it was said, was in the enemy’s camp, but he would let that lie for the time being. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘The King is bringing mercenaries from Poitou, I have sent out orders for the preparation of all Royal castles to withstand sieges of up to thirty days’ duration and it is my advice that we should arrange a parley with the Barons at Oxford within the month. A letter from yourself to Robert FitzWalter…’
‘He who calls himself Marshal of the Army of God and the Church?’ asked Langton with apparent distaste.
‘The same…’
‘Why do you not approach them through your son, William, my Lord? I hear he stands high in the rebels’ ranks.’
William laughed and stared directly at Langton. He had been waiting for this particular accusation and was glad that it was now in the open, for he had gleaned some information through D’Earley with which to smite this haughty prelate. ‘Sons are often wayward, I was myself. But if we are talking about tittle-tattle, I am informed that you yourself are not unsympathetic to the rebels’ cause and would draw England under France’s mantle.’
‘Heard you that from your son?’ Langton sneered, but it was clear the barb had unsettled him.
William refused the goading. ‘A letter then, to FitzWalter…?’
*
William paced the flagstones of the New Temple in London, his nostrils assailed by the smell of incense, his ears by the drone of Langton on his knees before the altar. Two or three Knights Templar were in attendance, maintaining a discreet watch on the proposed proceedings, among them Aimery St Maur, Grand Master of the English Order. The January day was already far advanced and William grew impatient of the rebels keeping their word to meet the King’s chief negotiators. A movement behind him caused William to turn. Langton had risen from his knees, drawing a bevy of clerks behind him. The chink of harness and voices came to them from without. An instant later the west door was thrown open and a score of armed and armoured men strode down the nave in a jingle of steel harness.
‘What means this barbarity?’ growled Langton as William, unarmed, without mail, stood his ground on the chancel steps.
‘My Lords,’ he said blandly, ‘you are welcome…’
‘Ahh, the King’s lackeys,’ said one whom William recognised as Robert FitzWalter.
‘Do you kneel before the Archbishop, FitzWalter,’ William said, unruffled. ‘He would give you his blessing… My Lord of Winchester,’ William inclined his head at Saer de Quincy, ‘and my Lord of Essex; your father would be troubled to see you in such company…’
‘I would not be in such company had the King treated me with the courtesy my father had earned me,’ the young man replied. William could not argue, John had demanded an extortionate twenty thousand marks from Geoffrey FitzPeter’s heir for a licence to marry. It was typical of the King’s arbitrary impositions against which William could do little.
‘My Lords,’ he said raising his voice,’ It is England’s future well-being that we have gathered here to discuss, not personal grievances…’
‘It is the King’s tyranny we have come here to remonstrate over…’
‘Aye! Aye!’ The word ‘tyranny’ was taken up and echoed from the stones of the Templar’s church.
‘My sons!’ cried Langton, raising his arms in a gesture of supplication for silence…’
‘To the devil with you Langton…’
‘Get back to France whence you came…’
‘My Lords and Gentlemen!’ roared William as the noise of disorder rose and, for a moment he regretted not wearing armour himself, though his sword swung at his left hip. ‘I pray you are silent and hear what we have to say!’
He caught sight of his son William’s face in the crowd and for a moment father and son stared at each other, then the younger man dropped his eyes.
‘No!’ bawled a Baron, ‘do you attend to us and our demands!’
Again, the cry of ‘Aye! Aye! was caught up and Saer de Quincy strode forward, to presented Langton with a document at which the Archbishop gave the briefest of glances before motioning it away with a contemptuous gesture. Robert FitzWalter drew his sword and held its point towards the Prelate. William made to draw his own weapon, prompting several of the supporting Barons to put hands to their sword-hilts, but Langton stayed William’s hand.
‘Not in God’s house, my Lord,’ he said with a vehement conviction that had William, for the first time, regard him with something akin to respect.
But the Earl of Winchester’s blade still wavered in the wan light of the ending day and he again waved forward the document so that Langton nodded to one of his attending clerks who took the parchment.
‘Take it to the King,’ said De Quincy, ‘tell His Grace that I, Saer De Quincy, Earl of Winchester, at the head of the Army of God demand the King concedes these points touching the law as its precedent was set in the days of his father and his father’s father, that our rights are upheld and honoured, our women unmolested and our fiefdoms not taxed beyond the limits of our means. Failure to grant us our rightful privileges and we shall renounce all obligations of fealty to the Lord John, appeal to the Pope and seek the protection against the Lord John’s malice by an alliance with Philippe of France…’
‘This is treason,’ said William, genuinely shocked by the last demand.
‘Come my Lord,’ remonstrated De Quincy, ‘the whole world knows you to have lands in Normandy for which you owe Philippe fealty…’
‘But England has a greater claim upon me,’ said William loftily, aware that he stood upon a quicksand such as that named for the old Saxon Earl Godwin. In truth, he was badly rattled. He half turned to Langton, one eyebrow raised in expectation.
Langton nodded, then turned to the quietening assembly of Barons. ‘We will to the King and present your petition,’ he said, his tone reasonable, reassuring.
William followed Langton the length of the nave to where, amid the horses of the rebels, their own mounts were held in readiness by their squires and grooms. Half an hour later they had passed into the Conqueror’s White Tower and stood in the presence of the King.
John heard Langton read the entire document with mounting choler as William looked on. When Langton had finished he laid the thing aside as the King drank deep of his wine. Jo
hn was obviously making a great effort to control his famously explosive temper and when he had mastered himself he said quietly: ‘I shall have nothing to do with such impertinent demands.’
‘It is but King Henry’s Coronation charter,’ William remarked, ‘I beg you, my Liege, not to repudiate these terms…’
‘Not at once, at the very least,’ added Langton. ‘Buy time, Your Grace, I beseech you.’
‘How long must I eat the bread of humiliation?’ growled John in that tone of voice that William knew might easily culminate in an Angevin rage.
‘A month, Your Grace, perhaps two,’ Langton said, like a drowning man catching at a straw.
John seemed suddenly to deflate, as though he had not the energy for losing his temper after all. He nodded acquiescence.
*
The proposed conference at Oxford in February never took place, the King prevaricating. Instead John, by way of Langton and William, gave assurances that he would respond in full by Easter Day, the 19 April. But when Easter came and went, the King burying himself in a great and conspicuous welter of devotion at Langton’s feet, the rebel party lost patience. They mustered in great strength at Brackley in Northamptonshire under the banner of the Earl of Winchester, whose seat it was, and from where they directly threatened the King’s castle at Northampton. From Brackley they sent word that they would treat with the King’s emissaries one last time and William and Langton, at the head of a small train of followers met them there on 27 April 1215.
Once again there was no agreement. Even as Langton and William returned to the King, the rebels invested his castle at Northampton. Meanwhile John had negotiated a loan from the Knights Templar and was busy sending out agents to hire mercenaries in Flanders, while William sent Edgar into the Welsh March to inform the Lady Isabelle that she and their younger children should secure Chepstow Castle. Edgar returned from Striguil with news that the Welsh Princes under Maelgwyn ap Rhys and Llewelyn ap Iorwerth were astir, ready to disturb the peace of the March.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 56