The news drew William away from John’s side for a month while he rode west and put all his castles in a fit state of defence and reassured Isabelle of the strength of his position.
‘If all else fails,’ he confided to his wife, ‘We have young Will in the rebel camp…’
‘I do not like such a game of double bluff, William,’ Isabelle replied. ‘I may have to choose between my husband and my son.’
William brushed off his wife’s concern. ‘Pray God you choose wisely then,’ he said with a levity he was far from feeling. It was indeed no laughing matter; during his absence from the King’s Court, the so-called Army of God and the Church moved south from Northampton and, in a grand chevauchée, seized London, driving John west to Windsor where, in early June, William rejoined him.
John was in a foul mood, entertaining the conceit that his house was cursed by the Devil, abandoned by Christ and that all the piety he had displayed at Easter was wasted. Conferring with Langton, with whom William’s relationship had been transformed in these difficult months as both men grew to appreciate the other’s skills, Langton confided that he was in secret correspondence with De Quincy and had negotiated a further parley conditional upon the presence of the King himself.
‘You have wrought wonders, my Lord Archbishop,’ William conceded generously.
‘But how to get the King to agree, that is my present concern?’
William pondered the matter then said, ‘It strikes me that were His Grace to be encouraged to confront the Barons with their infamy, he would like as not collapse if he saw for himself the strength of the opposition. He will do anything to hold onto the throne, I am certain. If you can ensure a Papal indulgence to benefit the rebels and remove them from John’s vengeance, then perhaps some instrument could be drawn up from the original demands made in January, put into language that appeases both sides, whereupon a peace might be arranged that would stop French ambitions and perhaps lead His Grace to a more sober rule.’
Langton looked gravely at William for some moments, then nodded his agreement. ‘I think you have something there,’ he said, grasping the significance of the suggestion. Finally he smiled with satisfaction. ‘You are truly a man of parts, William,’ he remarked, using William’s Christian name for the first time. He gave the matter a few moment’s further consideration, then said, ‘I will draft an instrument having the appearance of a Royal Charter, a gift from the King, but which secures those most reasonable of the Barons’ demands… Yes, that might bring matters to a conclusion.’
‘Let us pray to God we are right,’ William added piously crossing himself, the Archbishop doing likewise.
‘Think you that God works through us?’ Langton asked with a wry smile, as he stood to summon his clerks.
‘If he does not,’ William responded, ‘then the victory will go to the Devil…’
‘Which God forbid,’ added Langton; both men again crossed themselves.
*
But they still had to obtain the King’s approval, and time was not on their side, for the Barons, having the upper hand in their rebellion, were growing restive at the King’s endless equivocation. It was also necessary for Langton and William to obtain some measure of agreement prior to any formal conference, so both Edgar on the Royalist side and William Marshal the Younger on the rebels’ were employed to meet between London and Windsor to exchange drafted clauses. In a feverish few days during which William, Langton and his clerks, and the two go-betweens hustled matters, the instrument conceived to bring peace to the Kingdom and save John’s throne was drawn-up.
The problem of obtaining John’s approval occupied the thoughts of the two chief architects of the document almost as much as the contents themselves. Langton argued that, to avoid a humiliating scene, John must approve each clause as it was tacitly nodded through by the Barons’ representatives. William disagreed. Despite having conceived the notion initially, he knew in his heart-of-hearts that John would agree to nothing so detrimental to his own prerogatives and would argue every step of the way.
‘Better to confront him with a fait accompli, my Lord Archbishop,’ he explained, ‘he will rage, no doubt, and call us traitors, whereupon it will be necessary to explain that we have saved his throne and Kingdom.’
Langton nodded; both men were thinking the same thing: whatever John’s reaction, would he hold to the terms of the charter?
*
The confrontation between King John and his rebellious Barony took place among the water-meadows of the Thames at a place called Runnymead on 15 June 1215. It had been the clandestine meeting place of Edgar and William’s son during the exchange of views on the preliminaries. It was a perfect summer’s day as the two parties met. The King was accompanied by the Papal Legate Pandolpho, Aimery St Maur, Grand Master of the English Knights Templar, William himself, Archbishop Langton of Canterbury, eight other bishops, including Peter des Roches of Winchester and thirteen further Barons of high rank.
Ranged against the King and led by De Quincy, Earl of Winchester, and Robert FitzWalter, Lord of Dunmow and Bayard’s Castle, were not only the greater part of the Barony of England, but a curious multitude of all manner of men, who, besides the mesnies and affinities of the greater Barons, were mostly of the mercantile classes, brought from London as a sign to John of the support the Barons enjoyed. The encounter was soured by the King’s black mood in the face of such opposition, composed as it was of so many commoners. But, as William had predicted, John grudgingly conceded his agreement in the face of men he regarded as traitors, while the Barons made no secret of their contempt and hatred for the person of the King. Neither Langton’s pious incantations, appeal to reason and his request for God’s blessing, nor Pandolpho’s smiling approval on behalf of Christ’s Vicar on Earth, could disguise the ill-will with which the two parties came together.
‘A mere show,’ William said of it afterwards, telling Isabelle. ‘No-one actually signed this Magna Carta,’ he said, somewhat dismissively, ‘which, despite the labour spent upon it satisfied nobody. The King appended his Great Seal, to be sure, but he did so only to emphasise that he still ruled England and that such grants and indulgencies remained in his gift.’
That evening the two parties had withdrawn, an air of sullen acrimony hanging over John’s beleaguered Court as the cavalcade rode back to Windsor.
‘Methinks the greatest beneficiaries of this day’s work,’ Langton had said drily in a low voice to William as they walked their horses side-by-side in the King’s train, ‘are widow women. At least they can no longer be compelled to remarry against their will, as for the rest,’ the Archbishop opined gloomily, ‘I doubt not that His Grace will repudiate any clause that he cares to.’
‘I agree,’ William had said quietly. ‘He will certainly not tolerate a Council of twenty-five Barons empowered to judge his actions, though without it we should not have achieved a thing today…’
‘Have we achieved anything?’ Langton had asked dubiously, regarding the ominous slope of the King’s shoulders as he rode ahead of them.
‘A temporary truce,’ William had grimly. ‘Which we must maintain for as long as we are able.’
‘Aye,’ the Archbishop had answered.
*
That evening John gave vent to his feelings and went into a rage, aware that he had been trapped and that both his political position and the essential weakness of his character had ensured that he had had to make a show of concession over the great charter. This exhausting tirade was followed by a mood of sullen resentment which was roused to fury when, a fortnight later he heard that the Barons had arranged for a grand tourney to be held at Stamford. Thinking that the road to London lay open, he ordered an advance on the capital, only to learn that the Barons had got wind of this and moved the location of the tournament south. No-one seemed to know who had betrayed the King, but it was clear that a display of bad-faith so soon after the supposed concord at Runnymead would threaten the peace of the Kingdom. Only Langton a
nd William knew of one final meeting of Edgar and William’s heir.
Thwarted of London, John proceeded to England’s older capital, Winchester, where a deputation from the Barons arrived to quiz the King as to the meaning of his move on London. In a pique, John decamped to the Isle of Wight, almost alone and bereft of the pomp of his Court. Here for three weeks he sought out the company and adopted the manners of fishermen and seamen in an attempt both to curry favour among these men and hide away from the humiliation imposed upon him by the meeting at Runnymead.
For some this seemed like a form of capitulation, a break-down into madness. Others, who knew John better, waited upon events.
*
‘My Lord, the Archbishop is without and desires to speak with you.’
William sighed, rose to his feet and smiled wanly at Isabelle, nodding at Thomas. They were at Caversham, on the Thames near Reading, to the west of Windsor in a manor brought to William upon his marriage and whither he had summoned Isabelle after the affair of Runnymead. In the few peaceful days of that year’s high summer he had grown to love the place and they had talked of living there once the present crisis was over, but both knew that as long as John lived, England would be in a state of perpetual ferment and now the exchange of glances between the two, spoke with more eloquence than any words.
William received Langton in the main hall, sending Thomas for wine and offering the Prelate refreshment of bread and meat.
‘You bring news, if I am not mistaken, and none of it good.’
‘You are right.’ Langton sat heavily, his face grey with fatigue, the supercilious gloss of his earlier self entirely worn away. The See of Canterbury, so sought after by Langton for so long, was proving to be far from the spiritual refuge he had hoped.
‘I am removed from my office,’ he muttered, at last.
‘What?’ roared William, slopping his wine, the colour mounting to his cheeks.
‘And your soul is imperilled too. The Holy Father has seen fit to declare the Instrument of Runnymead dishonours the Apostolic See, besmirches the triple-crown, dishonours King John as an anointed King and brings shame upon the people of England…’
‘John went to the Pope behind our backs?’
Langton nodded. ‘Signor Pandolpho got him exactly what he wanted. By concluding our agreement with the Barons he then submitted the Magna Carta to Pope Innocent in the full knowledge that His Holiness would declare it invalid. Now England trembles again on the brink of Interdict…’
‘And where do you stand, my Lord?’ William asked.
‘With the accord we agreed, hence my suspension from office,’ Langton replied gloomily.
‘You know what this means,’ William said, ruminating.
‘Aye, war and more war, until England is exhausted with war.’
‘It is not so much England that concerns me, I am more troubled by the French. I cannot see Philippe Augustus remaining supine in all this. He will intervene on the slightest pretext and, after Bouvines, half the errant chivalry of France and the Empire, any footloose free-lance in search of plunder and booty will feel the urge to support that Most Christian King in whatever mischief he moots…’
‘You can expect the King’s summons,’ Langton said, brushing the crumbs of William’s bakery from his lips. ‘I am obliged to you my Lord for your hospitality, but I must to the King’s side. I do not wish him to know I spent too long a time with you.’
‘And what then, Stephen?’ William asked.
‘For me? Well, I must to Rome, to plead my cause.’
‘I shall miss your wise counsel after these months of turmoil,’ William said simply, acknowledging the fact that the labours of drafting the Magna Carta had drawn the two men close and shown them not what separated them, but what they had in common.
‘And I yours, William. There is much good in what we did together, let the King do what he will. Let us pray God works to preserve it.’
‘Amen to that,’ responded William, crossing himself, like Langton.
Langton was about to depart, but then turned, his face serious. ‘There is one thing more and I know not the truth of it, but I had word that John is sending to Brabant and elsewhere for mercenaries.’
‘He has not the money for it,’ William replied indignantly, ‘but if true it might play weightily in the balance.’
‘Aye,’ said Langton mounting his horse. ‘Go with God, my son,’ he said, blessing William with the sign of the cross. And then he was gone.
The sun had barely westered before a herald arrived from Oxford whither the King had arrived after his three week sojourn on the Isle of Wight. Summoned to join the King, William rode at once, arriving after nightfall. He was admitted to John’s presence immediately. It was late and John was far gone in wine and jubilation, a man transformed since William had last seen him in a blazing tantrum reminiscent of his father’s famous frenzies.
‘My Lord of Pembroke,’ he said with bibulous eagerness, ‘you have heard the Pope has condemned the agreement the Barons foisted upon me, have you not? And that I have the Holy Father’s blessing to secure my powers against their Godless acts of rebellion.’
‘Aye, my Liege, this very day.’
John smiled with evident satisfaction. ‘And,’ he added, leaning forward with a leer, ‘I have accomplished a demarché of great significance by this annulment. Langton is unhappy because he holds fast to what was agreed, which is only to be expected. I never wanted the man as Archbishop,’ he said, his voice thick, ‘and now I have dismissed him his office. I anticipate a full Interdict and excommunication of my enemies.’
William contented himself with a non-committal nod of comprehension; he knew what was coming.
‘Which leaves you: Where do you stand, my Lord Earl?’
‘You have no need to ask that question, my Liege,’ William answered promptly. His loyalty to the King was not to John’s person, but to John’s Kingship and his Kingdom. He easily foresaw the consequences of allowing any accommodation with the King of France and the Papal Interdict was as certain as tomorrow’s daylight, and with it all the civil disruption, unrest and unhappiness that ejection from the Church brought upon the common people. All his instincts clove to legitimacy, howsoever misapplied by John. As far as William was concerned, John’s rule must be upheld, for an excess of power among the Barony and the involvement of Philippe Augustus in the affairs of England would be disastrous not only for England, but for William and his family – far worse option than even the Excommunication of the nation.
‘I stand alongside Your Grace,’ he said simply.
‘But your boy does not,’ riposted John, as if reading William’s thoughts.
‘My boy is no longer a boy, but a man with his own mind, his own mesnie and following. Your Grace will recall the fact that you insisted upon holding him hostage. It was not a thing he took lightly as many other sons of your Barony did not, which is one of the reasons…’
‘Yes, yes,’ the King said testily, brushing off William’s intervention, ‘I do not need a lecture from you about my peccant nature.’ John seemed suddenly cautious, as though aware that he must guard his tongue, but the wine was not to be denied its power. ‘We shall have war again.’ He uttered the short sentence with an almost gleeful anticipation as though another opportunity to wage war would win back all he had lost.
‘Aye, Your Grace, we shall…’
‘Then we shall meet these rebels in open battle, if necessary, and defeat them.’ John paused, apparently awaiting a response from William as enthusiastic as his own desire to take the field. ‘And I shall need you beside me,’ John prompted.
William felt a great wave of weariness pass over him. ‘My Liege, you have not the means to wage war…’
‘Which is why I have summoned you, William. I would have you go at once to London, to wait upon Master Aimery of the Temple, and secure me a further loan.’
‘My Liege, have you not sufficiently drained the Templars of gold that they would advance
more? And against what surety? I implore you not to send me upon a fool’s errand. Aimery St Maur is a Godly man.’
‘And he will do God’s work and my bidding,’ John snapped. ‘I have the Pope’s blessing, for the love of Christ!’ John’s tone was exasperated, as though dealing with a child. ‘I lay at the Temple before coming hither to Windsor; rest assured you will find the Master as eager to help as the Holy Father has been to bless my cause. As for surety, once I have recovered my Kingdom, with your help, there will be a general levy to pay for this war and – be assured - my enemies will bear the greatest burden.’ John shifted in his seat, his eyes watery, his speech increasingly slurred. ‘Besides, I have already sent word into Brabant, Flanders, men are mustering under their chiefs… We shall forgo further adventures in Poitou…’ It might have been the wine talking, but too late William perceived the trap he had been drawn into. ‘You will bind yourself to my cause, my Lord, will you not?’ Here now was the pathos of the drunk. ‘And I shall be generous to you so that you will have no reason to regret your loyalty, loyalty to the anointed King of England.’
William sighed. ‘My Lord King, I am grown grey in the service of the House of Anjou. You have no reason to doubt me now.’
But John was not listening to anything other than his own magnanimity. ‘I shall spare your heir, my Lord Earl…’
William bowed his head in acquiescence, asking himself how he was going to tell Isabelle of all this.
CHAPTER FOUR - THE FALL OF THE KING 1215 - 1216
But the Countess Isabelle had gone to war before her husband. Even before Stephen Langton had crossed the Channel or William had issued his musters, she had had word of an uprising in Wales and had gone immediately to Chepstow, taking with her William’s mesnie led by John D’Earley.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 57