The Devil and King John, page 1
The Devil and King John
A novel
Philip Lindsay
Copyright © Philip Lindsay 1943
First published in 1943 Hutchinson & Co. Ltd.
This edition published in 2018 by Lume Books.
The right of Philip Lindsay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
www.lumebooks.co.uk
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
THE OLD LION DIES
CHAPTER II
THE YOUNG LION TAKES THE THRONE
CHAPTER III
NO WINE LIKE POWER
CHAPTER IV
THE DEVIL IS LOOSED
CHAPTER V
THE YOUNG LION DIES
CHAPTER VI
LACKLAND NO MORE
CHAPTER VII
LACKLOVE NO MORE
CHAPTER VIII
BEWITCHED AND A DEVIL’S DEED
CHAPTER IX
SOFT SWORD
CHAPTER X
HIS FATHER’S SON
CHAPTER XI
COUNTRY WITHOUT GOD
CHAPTER XII
KING JOHN HANGS A HERMIT
CHAPTER Xlll
VASSAL OF THE POPE
CHAPTER XIV
THE MURDER NIGHT
CHAPTER XV
ALONE MIDST ENEMIES
CHAPTER XVI
THE BARONS’ CHARTER
CHAPTER XVII
THE REBEL KING
ENVOI
Dedication for Neville Thomson
CHAPTER I
THE OLD LION DIES
FLAMES scorched them as they rode. Henry heard thunder of falling masonry, shouts of fighting men and screams of dying, but above all, he heard himself muttering between clenched teeth, “Shame, shame, shame … ” He did not feel his fingernails bite the skin of his palms as he clenched the reins, he scarcely even saw the men about him, these few loyal knights, barely five hundred, to rally about the King of England and Duke Normandy, and his two sons, Geoffrey and John, whom he loved — for his anguish was so great that it blinded and deafened him. Shame to be chased like a dog from his beloved Le Mans, he who only a few years since had but to turn angry eyes on a man to see him cringe. He who was Henry II, King of England …
Shame on a defeated king …
Henry was blind with rage, and he was sick. But he did not feel the sickness already clawing in his belly. Old he was, and his had been a hard life; he was quite inured to sickness, for he had driven the body with the intolerance of strength, ever demanding, never permitting the faintest twinge of pain to move him. But now pain of the mind made him wince. This, his city, burnt, men dying. Ah, their howling as he raced, screams of women in falling houses, shouting of the conquerors — these men of France and of his damned son, damned Richard. He would strangle Richard yet. He was not old … God give him life a little longer so that he might kill his son.
That thought kept him in the saddle, and his men as they watched, racing beside him, before and behind him, wondered that a man in the wreck of dreams could be so calm. Brave William the Marshal watched warily, for he loved his king; and John, Henry’s son, and Geoffrey, his bastard, watched tenderly, for they loved their father. But none could read those blank blue eyes. He rode through the burning streets as if to a hunt, and when the enemy thought to pluck him from his horse, he struck them down as though they were phantoms that could not hurt him. Yet all the while, tears were behind those eyes and the teeth were clenched because he feared he might scream.
On his kingly oath, Henry had sworn to defend this city he loved, and the people had trusted him; they had remained in their homes because they had the word of the lion, their king, that he would die with them rather than they should die alone. Yet now he fled because his boasting red-headed son, damned Richard, hewed a path with an axe through living men. He fled, he, Henry, who had made of England a power before which even the Pope in Rome stayed his hand, who had been the first king the Pope had called for the Crusade; he fled while his son’s men and the men of France howled at his horse’s hoofs.
He would come back. He swore it between his teeth as heat scorched lips and skin. He would come back; and that whelp Richard would kneel for forgiveness. And France, too, would whine for mercy … John here, as ever, would be at his side, and he would spurn Richard for a traitor, make him surrender all to dear John …
And at that thought, the old lion smiled as he galloped down burning streets; and men watched amazed to see that smile.
*
The bridge crackled as they charged over it The last of his meinie heard, with terror, wood groan under them, and knew that any moment it must break; but all passed safely, Geoffrey de Brulon having luckily not been able to carry out Henry’s orders, he had not completely smashed the bridge; yet it broke as their pursuers charged. Some leaped over, Richard at their head. He whooped to see his father run. He waved his sword and showed his teeth, red hair twisting from the tall forehead. Richard, the young lion, would show the beast his father that he had bred a true son of his lineage. Richard yelled with the glory of it, he waved on his men, and lifted his lean body in the stirrups. As if at a hunt, he yelled; and his men yelled with him.
It was William the Marshal who saw him coming, William the faithful; he called to his men to cover the retreat, he pushed his spear into its rest and tugged the reins to make his horse turn. Then he charged back, back at Richard.
With horror, Richard saw him coming and knew that death was on him, for he had but a sword against that lance and had thrown aside his hampering armour. The lance-point in that dying light burst into silver flame as it came at him.
“God’s feet, Marshal!” he howled, “you can’t kill me! I’ve not my hauberk on!”
“Kill you — no,” said the Marshal through his teeth. “I leave that to the devil.”
He did not pull in his horse. He thundered on. The lance-point suddenly lowered a trifle, and Richard felt himself lifted, bit his tongue as his jaws shut suddenly, and he felt the guard of his helmet tear his nose. He was flung up as the war-horse plunged forward, William’s lance-point in its heart.
Richard’s men leaped to the ground to help their leader to his feet; and the Marshal lingered a moment, looking down on them, not really wishing to kill Richard. Then when he saw he was unhurt, heard him cursing and saw him spit blood from his bitten lip, he drew the lance from the dying horse, and turned and rode back to his king.
*
Henry had paused atop of the hill. He paused a moment, with his men silent about him, and he tugged tighter his green cloak over the rings of the hauberk. He slouched in the saddle as he gazed down on the red glare that had been Le Mans. As if he stared into a brazier, he looked into his city. All was flames and black smoke. He could no longer hear the shrieking, nor the thunder of masonry falling; he could but see the bubble of red that had been his city, fired by his son, and his son’s damned familiar, Philip of France.
Then suddenly his men started to hear him yell like a sick dog, not moving in the saddle, merely crouching forward, and wailing:
“O God, O Christ! Today, shamefully have You taken from me the city I loved most on the earth, city where I was born, was bred, city that holds the body of my father and body of St. Julian … I will quit You, God, as I can, for now I take from You the thing in me which You love best!”
He lifted his face and writhed his lips at the sky as if verily he spoke to God, while his ungloved right hand struck at his left side. His men blanched and crossed themselves, remembering that, like all his race, Henry had sprung from the devil, and boasted of it.
*
From the devil they had sprung, and to the devil they would go, it was said. Young Richard had joy in shouting the prophecy, particularly when drinking with a man he hated or saw a minion he desired. From the devil they came, these Angevins, and to the devil they would go. For the tale went that, centuries back, Fulk of Anjou had married a witch-woman, and that at touch of holy-water she had screamed and flown through the window. She, they boasted, had been their ancestress. And now on that hill-top, Henry, the old lion who had made the name of England mighty in the world, affirmed his blood. He took from God that which God had given him, his soul, and he gave it to the devil from whom he had come.
Damned, all of them, these Angevins. Young Geoffrey, the bastard, quiet and gentle though he was, felt terror as he looked now on his father, and crossed himself. For even in him, sometimes, he felt that devil stirring until he flogged it down with whips. But John, his half-brother, listened without surprise or fear; at that moment, even in defeat, he thought he had never seen his father look so brave and noble.
*
Shame on a conquered king!
The words clanged in Henry’s head. That night, he lay in a friendly castle, but could not sleep. He had refused opulent hospitality, and had flung himself fully dressed on the couch, and lay glaring with blank eyes. Geoffrey would have joined John in the courtyard, preparing for a possible assault, but Henry caught his arm. Stay, stay, he begged his son. He did not wish to lie alone in darkness, for he knew he would not sleep.
How could he sleep when he might lose his kingdom? He lay back, clutching Geoffrey’s hand,
*
So swiftly had all been lost, the hard-fought-for kingdom that he had striven to rule with justice. By his strength had he won it and held it for his own blood now to steal it from him.
He had been born in conflict, bred to fighting. Son of Geoffrey of Normandy and Matilda of England, from childhood Henry had known that the sword must be his sceptre, for his mother’s right to England was disputed from the moment her father, wise Henry I, had died. It was not good, the English declared, for warriors to be ruled by a woman, and therefore they had chosen for king tall Stephen of Blois, grandson, through his mother, of the Conqueror. Besides, for all his charm and physical strength, Stephen was weak, and barons love weak kings who daren’t defy them. They did not want Matilda, who rarely visited England, living most of her life in Germany with her husband the Emperor before he had died and she had married Geoffrey of Anjou. Therefore when, on Henry I’s death, Stephen — although he had sworn in public to be Matilda’s servant — had battled through one of the mightiest storms man could remember, and had raced to Winchester to seize the treasure, the barons had acclaimed him King.
Years of war struck England, years of such horror that men crossed themselves when they remembered them. It had been said that the saints slept, for the devil raged while men were tortured, murdered, women ravished, nuns defiled, as mercenaries raged over the green slopes of England. Until at last, Matilda’s son had reached manhood and had landed for vengeance. Stephen had been almost delighted to surrender this nightmare that was kingship, almost glad to accept Henry for son when he realized that further fighting was useless against this young demon. He had kept the crown till death — poor consolation for the slaughtered, for the empty treasury, the ravaged countryside, the horror he had brought on England.
But when he died, the crown at last had become Henry’s, and the barons found a devil on the throne. Here was a man of diabolic energy, of screaming rages and subtle learning, one always just, yet quick to take revenge. He had built of England almighty power … only at last to see his sons hack the empire he had made — all of them, save John and, of course, this beloved Geoffrey whose hand he clasped.
His sons … He winced to think of them. Young Henry, the eldest, whom he had crowned as the young king while himself lived. The crown had driven young Henry crazed, he had wanted then, not one, but both crowns — his father’s, too — and had drawn his sword to steal it. All Henry’s sons had been eager to draw swords pointed at his breast, all save John, until the young king died in his debauchery while fighting his brother, Richard; died at last in the arms of the Church, kissing in remorse his father’s ring while his eyelids tightened and body grew taut.
Then there had been Geoffrey, not this dear bastard, but his legitimate son, who had been struck down while plotting with Philip against him. And Richard, the devil, who now was whooping after him. It was jealousy of John that had made Richard hate him, for John was youngest of his sons, and when unexpectedly he had been conceived, Henry had found he had no heritage to give him. With different gifts he had striven to honour the boy, but none had been worthy of him, while the only one he desired, Henry out of his great love had refused. The patriarch of Jerusalem had landed in England to implore help for the Holy Land, and on his knees John had begged for the crown. He had lain on the floor, clutching his father’s feet. “Behold,” the patriarch had cried, “the keys of the kingdom which the king and the princes of the Holy Land have commanded me to give you, for it is in you alone, after God, that they have hope and confidence of salvation.” While all wept, Henry had taken the keys, but he had not given them to John, he had returned them to the patriarch. What cared he for Palestine when he had his own kingdom to rule? And raging, the patriarch had cursed him. He had cried before them all that he who until then had been greatest amongst the kings of earth should be forsaken by God, his glory would turn to disaster and his honour into shame. And, now, groaning on his couch, Henry cried that the priest had spoken truth. Ay, he had said he was worse than any Saracen, and, pointing at his barons, had cried, “Do you truly think that these men love you, these who care only for your gold? It is plunder, not the man, that this crowd follows!” and he had repeated that old prophecy — “From the devil you came, and to the devil you’ll go!”
But Henry could not give the crown of Jerusalem to John and thereby lose him, for the first time he had refused a wish of the son he loved most. He had other dreams for him, he had said, and had lifted him from the floor and kissed his damp cheeks,
There was always Richard, lean red-headed Richard with jeering smile and great hands quick to clench inside a gauntlet. When Henry had told his plans for John, Richard had stood erect, so tall beside the bowed body of his father. As usual, their meeting had been in the open, with their armies watching, and Richard had insolently demanded that he be proclaimed his father’s heir and be given his betrothed, Adela of France. But Henry had had warning never to crown a son again while himself lived; and therefore he had refused both requests, for he could not give up the girl he loved although she was his son’s betrothed. “Now,” Richard had cried, ungirding his sword, face dark with hatred, “now do I believe what had seemed incredible.” And sword in his hands, he had bowed to Philip, doing homage to him for all his father’s lands from the Channel to the Pyrenees.
It was war then, Henry knew, war until death, until the death that was creeping on him now as he lay and clutched dear Geoffrey’s hand. If only Geoffrey had been his true son by Eleanor, not merely child of a girl he had loved in youth … But then, perhaps, like his half-brothers, he might have become murderous with hate of his father, carrying damned Eleanor’s vengeful spirit instead of his mother’s gentleness. Tears came to Henry’s eyes as he squeezed that beloved hand. If … ay! but he had made him Bishop of Lincoln, only for Geoffrey to resign because the Pope could not accept a bastard in that office. And now he had nothing to give him for his loyalty if, as he feared, he should die. Richard would then be king, and what mercy had Richard ever shown his kin? There was John, too, poor landless John now guarding him in the courtyard … Richard would never forgive the lad his loyalty. When his protecting love was gone, who would see that John and Geoffrey were not murdered?
For their sake, he must live: he would live … He swore it. The old lion was not dead.
*
Not dead, but very near to death. Only the brave spirit kept that crippled body erect when, armoured, Henry clambered into his saddle in the morning. He groaned and set his teeth, for he did not wish his men to know how ill he felt. He smiled at them, showing his teeth like an animal, and his eyes glared with pain. He would show Richard and Philip that he was not dead, by the heart of God!
Last night he had thought to retreat to Normandy and gather his forces, but for all his spirit’s courage, he knew that the body could not sustain him for a swift campaign. He must fall back to Anjou, to his hereditary lands, and there recoup his strength before proving that the lion yet lived.
He strove to smile when he turned to John, the slim prince with sad eyes and curling hair. But he wept, and John wept with him, when he took the lad in his arms.
“Beloved,” he whispered, “I have naught but love to give you.”
“Naught else have I ever desired,” sobbed John.
“But I will come back. I am not dead, beloved. It takes much to kill us demons of Anjou. I defy God to kill me! Ah! Why should I revere this Christ, why should I think Him worthy of honour when He takes all honour from me, suffers me thus shamefully to be beaten, for the first time in my, life, by that damned camp-follower, the King of France! … But, John, beloved, get you to Alençon. You are in my place, take command, you and Geoffrey.”
“All swiftly, sir,” sobbed John,
“We will win all back,” cried Geoffrey.
“And you, FitzRalf,” said Henry, turning to his knights, “and you, de Mandeville, remember that on your loyalty depends my realm. Surrender not a hovel even to any man save Count John. We will break Richard yet.”
