The Devil and King John, page 22
“One that is pleasing to God,” said the holy one.
“And who,” said John, “may that be?”
“Him that is pleasing to God,” said the holy one.
John shrugged in disgust and wrinkled his nose at the stench of the creature. “Can you not give me facts,” he said, “and not such empty talk?” Peter stood erect and clutched the rough-hewn cross against his naked chest. He glared at John as he shouted: “Know you of a surety that on that day that I have named, you shall be king no more. If I be proved liar, do with me what you will.”
“As you ask,” said John, “so let it be.”
*
But it was foolish of him to lock the creature into Corfe Castle, for that merely increased people’s faith. The king feared him, therefore, they said, he must be a holy prophet. And praying, crowds waited for the doom of Ascension Day. John was at first unafraid. Too often had he been threatened, by holy men and rascals alike, for him to tremble before the babble of a dirty animal with matted beard. But his scepticism was but a crust to armour fears, and was soon pierced by glances he noticed between servants, by the hush that often greeted him from crowds who avidly watched him pass. And he recalled Hadwisa and her god. Was she, after all, true prophet, demanding his blood for the people? And was Ascension Day chosen by that great god of whom he was but the shadow on earth for his slaying and rebirth of spirit?
He strove to drive fear away, but it stuck, and continually his mind returned to it, particularly when he found that Isabel, too, half-believed the prophecy. She was most loving these days. Always was she tender to him, mutely demanding caresses, and he felt ashamed when he recalled that night of jealousy in which he had almost slain her. He must have been quite mad ever to have doubted so passionately abject a wife. And she spoke tremulously of Peter’s words, while pretending not to believe them. John laughed, although his heart was cold; it seemed that nowhere, not even here in the marriage-bed where always in the past he had found the panacea of worry, was he to escape the threat of doom. No longer could he laugh carelessly at it, day by day the threat became more menacing, being strengthened in him by belief of others.
Said Isabel: “I will be glad, beloved, when that vile day is past.”
“It has passed,” said John, “in my mind.”
“Not only you, but your heirs, your race. What meant he, do you think?”
“He was mad, sweet one, think not of it. Mad.”
“Yet I cannot forget … I wish that it were past.”
John, too, could not forget; though laughing, he took her in his arms, caressing her flaxen hair and shivering flanks, striving with caresses to calm her terror, he too became terrified. Day after day, night after night, his terror increased, for fear can be contagious, passed in silence from man to man, as an army can inexplicably panic at a word. So it seemed to John, all England grew into a state of panic as time passed. But he swore he would not be afraid, and on Ascension Day, he swore, he would hold a mighty banquet in the open so that all might see he lived. But what if he were struck down while they watched, choked with his wine perhaps, as Earl Godwin, years ago, had choked when he lied at table? But, no, it was nonsense! He’d not think of it …
Danger lay, not in the prophecy, but in the power that prophecy gave to malcontents, as the excommunication also gave them fuel for treason. John decided to make his great men swear fealty to him, for whispers had come of plotting with France, of traitors tendering the crown to Philip’s son, Louis, at a price. He would test his barons’ loyalty, he would demand hostages from them and thereby learn those who might prove traitors. Almost all the barons responded at once, even those who had already given pledge of their faith, gave further sons, nephews, kinsmen. But the demand dragged the masks from the faces of two: from Eustace de Vescy and Robert FitzWalter, who immediately fled, de Vescy to Scotland, FitzWalter to France; and John was glad to have them in the open, and, therefore, less dangerous to him.
Yet he was puzzled by their treachery. De Vescy had fought with Richard in the Holy Land, and had served John, apparently loyally, in Scotland and in Ireland. John had, however, quarrelled with FitzWalter, a man who should have loved his king, for during the fighting for Normandy, he, a wealthy wine merchant, had been in command of Vaudreuil and had surrendered to Philip without a blow. So disgusted had Philip been that he had imprisoned FitzWalter for his cowardice and only allowed him ransom at a mighty price. But John, hoping to bind the rascal to his side, had foolishly taken the blame upon himself, lying by saying that it was at his command FitzWalter had surrendered. For that, the villain should have felt gratitude, but instead, had turned on John quite recently when his son-in-law, Geoffrey de Mandeville, had seized lodgings for his followers in Marlborough. From those lodgings they had been thrown by the men of treasurer, and Geoffrey in his fury had killed one of them; then he had fled in terror of the king’s justice.
John had raged when he heard of this flouting of his authority. He had called FitzWalter and demanded justice on his recreant son-in-law. FitzWalter had stood, white with anger, while John, flushed and breathing heavily, had cried, by God’s teeth, he would have Geoffrey hanged! And FitzWalter had shouted, “By God’s body, no! he who thinks to hang my daughter’s mar. will see two thousand laced helms before his walls!” Such defiance had set the demon alive in John. “So,” he had cried, “you-defy me?” FitzWalter then had quailed before the white fury in those eyes, and had faltered, muttering, “Nay, sire, for you are my liege lord.” And seeing that the proud man now was humbled, John had quietened and agreed to hear Geoffrey in his own defence. But when the day of reckoning had come, FitzWalter had ridden at the head of five hundred armed knights to make certain that the king’s justice should be obedient to a baron’s will. John had adjourned the trial, only again to be flouted, and he was determined to destroy the petty kingship of these barons, these tiny tyrants scattered over England. That was his greatest ambition, to become truly king, not merely one baron above other barons, to be whipped by them as they willed. In fury, at this second betrayal, he had commanded that FitzWalter’s Castle Baynard in the Strand be levelled to the ground. And now, with de Vescy, FitzWalter fled, proving himself a traitor, and John was glad to be quit of him.
But William the Marshal showed his loyalty. At his desire, twenty-eight Irish barons renewed their oaths of fealty and he offered himself to come to settle John’s quarrel with the Pope. John was deeply grateful, but he would not permit William to leave Ireland, where he was performing noble work, helping de Grey to rule. William and the Irish barons drew up a manifesto of loyalty to all faithful Christians, declaring their grief and horror at the tidings that the Pope threatened to absolve the subjects of the King of England from their allegiance, and stating openly their approval of John’s political conduct and their determination to live or die with their king … John had tears in his eyes while he read. The Marshal, noblest of all, had faith in him, and that strengthened John’s faith in himself, for he was never assured of his own abilities, being always cautious to act, and like such timid men had often been driven to extremes of violence when action was forced on him. The curse of childhood, the years of lackland, had left their iron in him.
He was growing both more cruel and more kind with the years. Passion was leaving his body as it fattened. He was now in his mid-forties, and could watch beautiful women without the old itch to fondle them. He liked to look on them in the way he liked to listen to songs or music or to read great books. The very sight of young women gave him a sense of peaceful happiness, but the urge for their possession was dying in him; and he was glad of it, for it left his mind free for State affairs and the happiness of his people. Even with Isabel, was his passion fading, if it were not already dead. He loved to hold her in his arms, to feel her nearness, but kissing no longer had meaning to him, and he submitted to love only at her desire. Yet she, it seemed, grew more loving day by day, and he was grateful, if sometimes weary of her caresses. Indeed, since that night of almost-murder, she had grown in passion, while his had waned, although his love remained as great as ever.
Statecraft absorbed his time. He confiscated the lands and castles of the absconding de Vescy and FitzWalter and fined the Cistercians heavily, while all the clergy were made to sign a deed swearing that the money the king had taken since his accession had been voluntary gifts. But while he pressed heavily on the Church, John was most tender to his people, checking tyranny, ordering his officers not to drive them over-hard, lessening the cruelty of the forest laws that forbade peasants even to chase birds from their lands or kill wolves or deer that trampled their crops. Widows, he commanded, were to be treated as if they were human and not mere possessors of a dead man’s property, the least valuable of his assets, to be sold if necessary. Ever he strove for peace, and for justice for the poor against the barons who considered people but slaves to be beaten, ravished, flogged to work, or robbed of their toil. And the barons watched uneasily, seeing their power gradually peel from them.
*
There was peace in the land that the Church had cursed with bell, book and candle. Bells were stifled, masses unheard, prayers unread, images of saints and apostles taken from niches or were veiled; it was the chime of bells the people missed more than aught else, nor by their ringing could they tell the hours. Now was there stillness over the land; but there was laughter, and dancing in deserted churchyards, and more money to be spent since the priest was no longer there to demand a dead man’s second best beast and a third of his goods in recompense for the tithe of a tenth he was certain not to have paid when living. Men could marry more freely, with their lord’s permission, and few felt deeply the loss of Christianity; the peasants turned to the old faith and danced around the oak, the pine, or the horned God.
John would have been quite happy, if only he could have trusted his barons, and if the threat of mad Simon had not echoed continually through his mind, a knell he could not shake away.
CHAPTER XII
KING JOHN HANGS A HERMIT
FOR four years now the Church had closed its doors and veiled its images, yet England had never been so prosperous, and wherever John had fought, in Ireland, Wales or Scotland, or against rebellious subjects, he had conquered. Yet he realized that so long as he was excommunicated, his enemies had excuse to rebel; and his hopes abroad were not prospering. Otto, like himself, was excommunicated, and his throne given to the King of Sicily; while in the south, the crusade led by Simon de Montfort was massacring the happy people of Provence and Aquitaine. Here had grown the Albigensian heresy that rejected confession and absolution, the adherents wearing sandals like the Apostles and denying the right of anyone to swear or kill, while refusing to limit the privilege of administering the sacrament only to those ordained by bishops. Innocent trumpeted the armies of the Church against such heretics. “Slay them all,” had cried his legate; “God will know his own!” And led by Simon de Montfort, the crusaders drew their swords and slaughtered. John could find no help there.
Then news came that Stephen Langton and the Bishops of Ely and London had besought help from Rome against him, and Innocent had despatched Cardinal Pandulf to France to call solemnly on Philip in the name of God to lead a crusade against England, and to take in his name and the name of his heirs the sovereignty for ever. Other kings were sent to by the Pope, calling on them to join the crusade, and granting to all who would take arms against John the same temporal and spiritual privileges conferred on pilgrims to the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord. Philip was eager to obey, to give England to Louis, and he called to his men to meet him at Rouen on April 21, 1213, the first Sunday after Easter; and men and ships and arms and victuals flowed to Rouen.
*
John wasted no time when he heard. Indeed, he was glad for action, for a decision. He commanded all English ships to return to port, and despatched writs to the bailiffs of those ports for lists of all vessels capable of carrying six horses or more, and to bring the ships to Portsmouth by Mid-Lent. The sheriffs he commanded to summon all earls, barons, knights, freemen, and sergeants, to do him homage and to be at Dover by Easter next, with horses and arms with which to defend the realm.
Never had so mighty a host been seen as this that rode or tramped to stand beside the king. At Dover, Faversham, Ipswich, and other towns, they were so many that they could be neither housed nor fed. For miles, naught could be seen but fields of moving steel, like glass, glistening in the pale light of March, spear-points glimmering like diamonds as they swayed. The clash of iron and steel was like thunder when they moved. Tents uprose, round nippled tents, with banners and pennons atop. Knights came with men-at-arms riding behind them, with soldiers tramping bare-legged in leather coats in the rear. To the rattling of banners, the clink of swords on saddles, and clash of steel rings of hauberks, with sunlight blazing on round helmets, barons and men rode to the defence of England.
Yet John dared not trust them. Who would turn traitor? So many resented his determination to keep power in his own grip; they would have preferred, even, a Frenchman whom they could rule, from whom they could bully favours. Only William the Marshal did John know, beyond question, to be true; but these others … he twisted his moustaches, and wrinkled his eyes as he thought of Peter’s prophecy and of how traitors could take it for a battle-cry to justify their treachery.
There was not food enough for so huge an army, and reluctantly John dismissed the light-armed troops, retaining only knights, sergeants and better equipped freemen, with crossbowmen. He reviewed the army that remained on Barham Down, near Canterbury, and for miles it stretched, steel rippling, spear-points like silver fire, horses champing the bit. John was not merry when he rode through the ranks. If they had stood with one heart and mind for king and country, there would have been no prince under heaven whom they could not have defeated … but were they of one mind and heart? John peered under their helmets but could not read their eyes. Which were traitors? Which, at the first rush of Philip’s men, would charge not forward, but back upon their king? Many, John feared … rogues were always eager to change sides at a price, for they thought nothing treacherous that benefited themselves. John sighed despairingly. He knew, however, that the sailors would be loyal. They would attack the enemy and drown most of them before ever they set foot on England … yet some might get through, and traitors would be waiting, cloaking villainy under pious lies to Rome, men like de Vescy and FitzWalter, who, he learned, were now the beloved of Langton, having told him they had fled for plotting for his sake.
The men of England, John knew he could trust to die where they stood, but not the barons, whose love of country extended no further than the bounds of the acres they owned. They would betray, for a price; and doubtless many were already bargaining their swords to Philip and Louis. John realized his one hope of uniting the people, of snatching lying masks of virtue from the barons, was to make peace with Rome.
Already had he written to Innocent, offering to accept the terms proposed the year before, and Innocent had answered that he considered himself no longer bound by those terms since John had rejected them, but for the sake of peace, he agreed to abide by them if, before June 1, the king would swear before four barons, and by letters patent to the Archbishop of Canterbury and other exiled bishops, to keep his oath. He must, wrote Innocent, accept Langton as archbishop and friend; all dispossessed clergy and others must be reinstated in their dignities and possessions with complete satisfaction for their losses, eight thousand pounds being paid down for their immediate relief and various sums to other prelates; all outlawries against clergy and laymen were to be revoked; and the king must disclaim any power to outlaw ecclesiastics thereafter. And amongst those to be reinstated, John clutched the arms of his chair when he heard, were Eustace de Vescy and Robert FitzWalter.
The rats had worked well on Langton! John had heard some of their tales, and had smiled contemptuously, not realizing that they had been alone with Langton, with none to contradict the lies. They had pretended that John’s wrath had descended on them for their piety. Piety! If they had not been barons they’d have been hanged long since!
John sat in the pellucid shadows of his tent on a joint-stool, while the Abbot of Beulieu and his colleagues told him the Pope’s final terms. John did not speak for a moment, but leaned his chin on his clenched fist and looked at the grass shining between the carpets, his elbow on his knee. Did he have time to bargain? he wondered. Philip’s army was huge, he knew, and only awaited favourable weather to hoist sail, but his own ships were many and the English sailors notorious for their piracies and courage. Yet the barons he could not trust. The Pope, perhaps, might offer better terms, for he could not truly want France to conquer England; Rome’s policy had always been to divide its vassals, in fear lest one grow powerful enough to defy it; and France and England united would form a dangerous foe, even for Rome. Innocent would not want that; he would use the threat to frighten John, but when it came to the deed, he would strive to avoid it. Therefore, he should be as eager as John for terms.
Had John been able to trust his barons he’d not have considered the matter; but he could not trust them; and even among the common soldiers, the prophecy of that accursed Peter had sown doubt. Men who distrusted their own cause were ever poor fighters. If John could hold off discussion until after Ascension Day, but a few days off, and prove Peter a liar, his cause would be strengthened. But himself was beginning to fear Peter’s prophecy. The fear of others had sown fear in him … it were best to make peace …
And yet, to surrender all to Rome! This land that was becoming prosperous, peaceful, to put it and himself in the hands of the Pope, to become the servant of that damned Langton who had preached against kings … Yet what alternative had he with an army rotten with fear and treachery? Besides, to give himself entirely to the Pope, even to make a fief of England to the Holy See, would be a brilliant move, robbing France of every right to invade, making his barons traitors not only to him, but to the Church. Such submission, after all might ultimately become strength. And what did John care for this Christ? He did, not fear Him. He had proved His weakness, for when he had rejected His laws, all John’s deeds had prospered, and there could be no harm in submitting for a time … no harm, and perhaps much good, … while there would be joy in tripping the barons in their rogueries, making them heretics as well as traitors. Ay, he would do it!
