The Devil and King John, page 6
“God’s feet!” he howled, “would that I had him here! Look, sirs, he dare, he dare command me!” For a moment he could say nothing further, but choked, and his head lolled as he waved his arms and kicked the parchment. Then gasping, gradually he regained control of himself and spoke more evenly: “He commands me, understand, commands me, to surrender him Nottingham and Tickhill. Those fortresses were given me by their commanders because they could no longer bear his upstart insolence. I’ll not tolerate it from such a bastard son of a bastard!”
The archbishop bowed. He was still shaken by the glimpse of the demon in the body of John, but he spoke firmly.
“I will tell him, sir, that you defy his summons?”
“Defy! Would that I had him here!”
“Sir, will you permit a man, your friend, to speak in confidence? You know I am your friend and your brother’s friend and a loyal Englishman. The king sent me to England to watch on his behalf; I can say no more; but I have seen how you and the other great men of this realm have stilled their hands while this braggart ape flaunts his petty tyranny.”
“Ay,” cried John, “son of hell, he makes English servants serve him kneeling in French fashion!”
“Not only his servants, your grace, but his peers. Yet I would counsel caution. Let him run further to the noose so that your brother, far away though he be, shall understand the full vileness of the man.”
John took a deep breath. “Yea,” said he, “I submit. You are wise, your grace, and I’d not lead rebellion in my brother’s realm. I will see the dog.”
*
He would lead no rebellion, yet he dreamed. Richard was far off, coasting to Palestine, or perhaps, already fighting; he might be slain at any moment in his rages, and then England would become his. But John did not wish to rebel. He was happy with his hunting, his wenching, his drinking and singing. Yet to be king … to build of England, this land of his birth which Richard despised, until it was as mighty again as it had been under his father, to have France conquered … and himself king.
There was sweetness in the thought. He smiled to think of the lilied crown on his red locks, the sceptre in his hand, and men and women bowing. John Lackland. Yet now the great heritage lay before him while his brother slaughtered pagans hundreds of miles away. The despised, the youngest, he who had always been treated like a baby, now saw the crown of England near his grip.
Yet he made no move. John could not deliberately act the traitor. Indeed, he was uncertain whether he wished the crown: it was so pleasant to be duke, a little king without responsibilities. Yet to have men bow, to feel the sceptre in his gloved hand, to sit upon the throne … It was sweet … but he spoke to none of those desires, even to his dearest friends, nor to his. wife. But, indeed, he spoke little nowadays to Hadwisa, resenting her childlessness as if it were a slight on his masculinity. And he felt certain she defied him, that she crept to the esbat or the Sabbath. Idly he had thought of setting spies on her, but had rejected the idea as too humiliating for a king’s brother. Better to shut his teeth than to have men gab in taverns, have women titter while they curtsied, because the duke’s wife was a witch who danced to a tree and worshipped a Priapus with horns like Satan.
Often of nights, John had thought to spy, but only once had he been weak and sought her chamber. It was no simple matter for dukes and duchesses — particularly duchesses — to steal from their castles when servants slept in hall and kitchens, but John did not doubt that many of Hadwisa’s ladies were of the coven, and aided her. Therefore one May eve, that sacred Rood Day, as the guards looked round startled in the moonlight to see the duke abroad so late and alone, John sought Hadwisa’s chamber, and the guards at the door swung down their spears in salute as he swung it open, then shut it quickly behind him.
He shut it quickly because the chamber was empty, the great bed under its scarlet hangings gaped at him, its coverlet undisturbed. He felt more hurt than angry because she had disobeyed him. She had stolen through a side door: he found it unlocked and thought of bolting it, but that would merely have exposed his shame, so instead, he sat down to await her return. On the window-ledge where he sat, he found a round box of greasy ointment, and smelled and tasted it, but it was foul, and he put it from him, shuddering in fear.
Gazing at the moon and the stars, he felt very tiny and alone. It seemed that God was watching and all the world was still. Somewhere out there in the woods his wife was dancing, and he sweated when he recalled that dance about the oak, the frenzy that had caught him and the magic that had turned a child into a woman of beauty and passion. That was his own faith, yet he could not accept it, any more than he could accept the Christ, but he yearned to be with Hadwisa in moonlight, and he shut his eyes at thought of her dancing with another man’s hand sweating in hers about the Pan. It was said that the horned god nipped those he initiated, making a mark on the devotee’s flesh, and John decided to search Hadwisa for this sign. Then he put the thought aside, for there was no need of proof. She had confessed, and had told him that he too, without knowing it, was of the old religion.
He would be king, and she had said that he must sacrifice himself for the people. William Rufus, folk whispered, had been given signs he was to die and had ridden deliberately to the arrow. Had their father been given signs when despair struck him down? or their grandfather when he ate the lampreys that poisoned him? No. It was nonsense. She was mad. He did not love his people in that fashion. He loved them … ay, in an impersonal way, and he would never hurt them if he could; rather would he fight tyrants for their sake … but die for them … No!
What was that? He started as if someone were at his side, and he gazed fearfully about him. The chamber was empty. Moonlight made violet the floor, prinked the hangings of Diana’s hunt, showed the vast emptiness of the bed. There was no sound, no movement, yet John felt his breath harden in his throat, and in sudden panic he clenched his fists. No one. Only the moon, placid in its fleece of clouds, moon to which Hadwisa danced, worshipped of women, moon out of window slicing clouds with stars about it, only the moon, and dark trees moving in the park, and a warm wind seeping through the heat to scald the sweat of his forehead.
There was no one. In terror, he sprang to his feet, hand on his dagger. A board creaked, hangings rustled, and it seemed to him that Diana moved in her embroidery, moved towards him, hands outstretched.
“No!” he cried, and was ashamed of his own voice.
“No,” he said quietly, “I am going mad.”
He did not wait for Hadwisa. He strode from the silent room and breathed again only when the door shut behind him and he saw the guards in the hall swinging down their spear-points in salute. Fingering the golden chain about his throat, quickly John walked past them, and when he was in his own chamber, he was shocked to see how his hands shook. It was madness, but he was afraid, and had Hadwisa been there he would have beaten her.
*
Yet he made no further attempt to seek her. In the morning, he left early for the hunt, and the night’s terror became a dream. He could not credit his own fears while he raced with companions in sunlight and lifted his spear for the boar. He laughed when he stole to a lady’s chamber the next night and saw naught but his own shadow following him. Hadwisa was a child, and he too was a child to take notice of her chatter of the horned god and the sacrifice of a god in flesh.
There were so many vital things for him to do. There was Longchamp to be fought.
But John could not fight. Longchamp was his brother’s representative, and desire though he might the crown, he could not bring himself to armed rebellion. Secretly, he called four thousand Welshmen, but he did not send out the arrière-ban. He gave way before the chancellor, and surrendered Nottingham and Tickhill to the charge of William the Marshal and another friend, a lover of Richard. He did not wish to fight his brother. There was always that weak core in him, weakness of love, that sapped ambition. He might desire, but he could not reach out his arm to pluck the apple. He loved Richard. He left all to Walter, Archbishop of Rouen, to arrange, and saddled his horse and rode to the hunt.
*
John might lounge in pleasures, but the chancellor feared him. He knew that John was the one man around whom enemies might gather, and he distrusted his quietude; therefore he struck first and brought mercenaries from overseas. When his hired warriors were about him, he found courage. “This man has a mind to seize the kingdom,” he cried at John, fearing his apparent subservience. Richard the king had banned him and his bastard brother from returning to England, he cried, yet he hunted openly, and he plotted in his castles. Richard had released John from his oath, men answered, but Longchamp would not listen. He feared John’s silence, and therefore he struck. His relative by marriage, Roger de Lacy, he ordered to hang the castellans of Nottingham and Tickhill for having appealed to John, and when the squire of one of them drove the crows from his master’s body on the gallows, he hanged him too.
*
John felt as if hunted. He did not want to rebel, he wanted merely to live in peace, but the chancellor was baying him to a corner from which his pride forbade retreat. Yet even now he did not wish to rebel, and in desperation, he sought William the Marshal, whom all agreed was wisest and noblest in England.
John found him at peace, whistling as he cleansed his sword with pumice while hounds snuffled his feet in the armoury. Weapons glinted from every side, and cases of cuir-bouilli lay in heaps, containing armour. William smiled as he worked, for this was a task he loved, while the hawk drowsed on its perch overhead.
“Your grace,” he cried, leaping to his feet when John entered, “why were you not announced?”
“Because I forbade it,” said John. “I come as friend, Marshal, one who would learn of your wisdom, and I wished to find you alone, not on ceremony in the hall.”
The Marshal saw the frown on John’s brow, noticed how his hands plucked at his beard, and he put down the sword he was cleaning.
“What troubles you, your grace?” he asked.
“Longchamp. Who else?”
“Longchamp?” the Marshal sighed. “He is quite mad with arrogance,” he said. “I’ve heard of Nottingham, and Tickhill, and have wondered when you’d move. You’ve stood more insolence from the upstart than many a man would take from his own lord. What is the trouble now?”
“In a way, my own seeking; but blood, Marshal, is strong, and I love Geoffrey.”
“What has Geoffrey done.”
“Nothing as yet. You know that he was banned, like I, by Richard from England, and that now the ban is lifted? Longchamp will not believe it. Geoffrey wrote to me for help and I told him come. But Longchamp dragged him from sanctuary when he landed and locked him into jail. What would you do, Marshal?”
“I would stand by my brother, your grace.”
“Ay, and thus have I done. I’ve promised Geoffrey full aid against the chancellor, and I must rescue him. Tell me, Marshal, will I do wrong against my brother, against Richard?”
Slowly, William shook his great head, then he flung down the sword and stood to his feet. He put both hands on John’s shoulders and gazed gently into his eyes.
“Your grace,” he said, “you have done what any loyal brother would do, and I love you for it. When Richard’s home he’ll hear the story of the chancellor and wonder how he could have sold our England to such a man.”
“Then you are with me, Marshal?”
“With every sword on my lands, John, I am with you.”
*
It was good to have so noble a man at his side. In all England and France, there was none so chivalrous, he was the perfect knight, loyal, courageous. Richard could never speak of treachery when William stood at his side with drawn sword.
With glee, John rode to Coventry, to the bishop, Hugh of Nonant, and Hugh smiled to see the laughter in his friend’s eyes.
“Hey!” he cried, “you are merry, my sweet!”
“Who would not be merry when the Marshal’s with him?” John lay back in his chair, plucking his beard and smiling. “The chancellor has stretched too far, at last; I have him now, for the Marshal’s with me. Get me a clerk, Hugh, for I’ll write the villain such a letter to ferret him into the open.”
“Be careful, John … ”
“Careful — when he persecutes Geoffrey and I’ve the Marshal with me! Get me a scribe, Hugh, as you love me.”
Hugh stood undecided, but he saw that there was no moving his friend, and he feared John’s impetuosity. Yet, if the Marshal was with him … He called the scribe, and the little monk came scampering with standish and parchment and wax.
“What will you say?” asked Hugh uneasily.
“You will hear.” John laughed. “Write, my lad, to the chancellor, to damned William Longchamp, in my name: tell him that if he does not release my brother, Geoffrey, Archbishop of York, immediately, I, Count of Mortain, will go in-person with a mighty hand and stretched-out arm to have my brother freed … Write that, and write it plain and large.”
“He has imprisoned the archbishop!”
“For daring to land without his damned permission. We will see who ends in prison last … Wine, Hugh! My blood’s afire, and I must cool it. Wine, for the love of God … ”
*
But wine could not cool the fever that burned in John. Like many lazy men, his energy was huge when he began to act. Then he was like an arrow from the bow, straight for the mark. Thus was he now when determined to destroy the chancellor. It was not so much his own ambitions as circumstance that brought the crown so close. And seeing it close, feeling power almost in his flesh, he lusted for the achievement. He would have been content with his hunting and his women, but Longchamp had deliberately hounded him. The man was afraid, and frightened men strike at shadows. He had seen in John his own ambitions and ruthlessness, and in terror, he had struck.
To his own surprise, John found himself the leader of the English. If in the past he had dreamed of kingship, it had been but a dream, to be attained only on Richard’s death, but now he saw it come closer as men whispered to him of Longchamp’s tyranny and urged him to draw the sword. Even men like William the Marshal. No one could call him traitor when the Marshal stood beside him. He wrote to William and to the other mighty men of England, asking aid, and all responded.
Longchamp had gone too far. Only his personal retainers stood beside him as England called on John. And when John heard how Geoffrey had been treated, the Angevin demon glowed in his eyes and his teeth chattered. When he had landed, John was told, Geoffrey had been met by men of the chancellor’s sister who had striven to lure him to her castle, and when Geoffrey had refused and had thought to hide, he had been chased and caught. Priest though Geoffrey might be, he was yet a soldier and son of Henry; he had kicked at his pursuer’s horse when the man caught him, and he had kicked and fought so strenuously that the villain had let go. Even in St. Martin’s priory, however, where he sought refuge, Geoffrey had not been left in peace. From the very altar he had been dragged by mailed mercenaries, and because he had refused to ride, had been made to walk to Dover Castle. The people had howled beside the armed guard. “He is an archbishop, son of a king, brother of the king!” they had howled, and a giant in armour had lifted himself in the stirrups to howl back at them, and he had prodded Geoffrey with the point of his sword. “That you are archbishop,” he had jeered, “is naught to us. We know you for Geoffrey, son of King Henry, begotten in the bed of God-knows-who, and you swore to our king never to set foot in England for three years!”
There was good cause now for John to lift his mailed fist and call out the arrière-ban. Men charged to stand beside him against the chancellor. Good William the Marshal and other mighty lords. They rode to stand with John against the tyrant. Even when, in terror, Longchamp released Geoffrey, John would not sheath the sword. He saw power close and was drunk with the dream of it. William in frenzy issued writs summoning those who rode with him to withdraw, for John, he said, intended to usurp the kingdom. But the barons tore the writ to pieces and rode with John to the appointed meeting-place of Lodden Bridge.
The army glittered for miles when it gathered. Steel rings shone under sunlight, helmets blazed, and spear-points were like silver flame as the host moved on Lodden. It was hot, and men sweated in steel. John, armed cap-à-pie, rested one hand on hip, and grimly, exultantly saw the men of England gather about him. Soldiers and priests. They were his, men of England. As if drunk, he swayed in the saddle and strove not to smile. The clash of steel was deafening, the low humming of men talking, laughter — all was music to John who felt himself indeed a king.
Then Walter of Rouen rode towards him with uplifted fingers, and John and his lords bowed to the blessing.
“Your grace of Mortain,” said Walter, “it is time I spoke. I have held my tongue till now to see how far this upstart would dare go. But our king before he left on God’s cause gave certain charges to me at Messina. I was to watch this realm for his sake, for he had heard tales of plotting, and knew not whom to trust. Therefore he sent me who had no interest in the quarrel, and I have special powers to act in his name. Here I have with me his royal writ, sealed with the royal seal, by virtue of which I now depose the chancellor.”
John seized the parchment, unable to believe for the moment that his dreams could have worked to such an end. But there was Richard’s own seal in red wax — Richard on the throne with sword and sceptre — and John could have shouted his triumph. He turned to the Marshal and his men, and he waved the parchment. It shone like silver in the sun.
