The Devil and King John, page 33
Stephen bowed his head. “I think, sire,” he whispered, “I know the mind of His Holiness better than you. We studied together in Paris, but he is far from England and cannot understand the rights of our quarrel. Yet I know his mind, sire, sufficiently to realize that he would condemn me if I excommunicated your enemies. It is a dread sentence.”
“Then all the more do they deserve it. And you’ll do it!”
Stephen was silent a moment, then frowning, he said, “Not while you keep your foreign troops in England.”
“My foreign troops! Do the rascals not get money and arms from France? Have they not called on Scotland and Wales to invade me?”
“That was wrong of them, sire, but your wrong is not justified by theirs. Will you do what I ask, disband these mercenaries?”
John stood irresolute, biting his finger. He knew that there was much justice in Stephen’s argument. By employing mercenaries, he turned many loyal men against him, but as yet, he had not troops enough with which to fight. He needed time, and dared not anger Stephen.
“I will do what you ask,” he said moodily, “and would to God this war could end. Let us have eight arbiters, four from the barons, four from my followers, and let His Holiness be judge.”
“That is the noblest way,” cried Stephen joyously.
*
But the barons would have none of it. They knew that they had John cornered and would not relinquish their triumph; and angered, Stephen surrendered to John his castle of Rochester as proof that he was losing patience.
Yet John was trapped, and knew it. He had idled too long, letting enemies scheme his overthrow, and too late had his strength returned. Raging, he paced his castle floors. Even Isabel could not soothe him. She had renewed his strength, but his distrust of her was strong. He feared to leave her alone, watched always to see if she glanced at other men, prowled by her chamber, entering unexpectedly. In his present state of frustration, almost he would have been relieved to trap a lover with her so that he could have killed the man. But himself to be trapped while his enemies gathered in strength! Time! He needed time; he would agree to anything if he could but gain time …
He had to give way. In misery, he sent the Earl of Pembroke to the barons making merry in London, promising, for the sake of peace and the good of his realm, to grant freely the laws and liberties they demanded. Let them fix the date and place of meeting, he said; he would submit.
*
There was naught else for the moment he could do but submit, yet there was rage like fire in him when he rode to Runnymede on a warm June day of 1215, with loyal men about him. The barons had chosen the meeting-place as an excellent camping-ground on the way from London to Windsor, along the ancient Roman road, beyond Staines bridge.
They came armed, as if to battle. In the hot sun, they flamed blindingly as John rode to them. He had dressed in a crimson tunic, with scarlet cloak, for he had refused to wear steel, although he had an army at his back; his hood was down, caught with a gold pin at the throat. Loyal men rode with him: Stephen and the Archbishop of Dublin, seven bishops, the Pope’s legate, the Master of the English Templars, the Earls of Pembroke, Salisbury, Warren, Arundel, and Hubert de Burgh. It was to these men whom he trusted that he submitted, relying on their honour to keep his enemies from murder. And those enemies now a waited him with their army, steel flickering, glittering, around the tents topped with vanes to show knights’ arms. John tightened his lips as he saw them. If this chivalry had but followed him to France in such array, Normandy and Anjou would never have been lost. Now they donned hauberk and helm to bully their king.
Proudly, John gazed at them as he rode to the huge pavilion before which rippled his standard of the three leopards. He was determined not to lose his temper, for it mattered not what he sealed, as all he wished was breathing-space in which he could gather strength to strike, while the Pope came to his aid.
De Vescy and FitzWalter, traitors, met him with false smiling as he sprang from his horse. They had taken off their helmets, which pages held nearby, and each wore a coif of metal rings that showed only the oval of his face, hiding brow and chin. Long surcoats hung from each man’s neck to knees, and a great sword drooped at his left side. The mittens of the hauberks flapped from their wrists, so that their naked hands could be free. Thus, ready for murder or war, they bowed to John, and coldly he bowed in reply.
Under the shade of the pavilion, he noted a table in readiness, stools around it, and parchment and pens and wax all ready, with clerks and knights waiting. They had at least the grace to stand when he entered and, without speaking, took the stool at the table-head. Before him lay the long charter. He knew it by heart, each clause of it had burned into him with rage while impotently he had listened to these rogues’ demands. Forty-five articles to rob him of power; but he was safe: the Pope could absolve any man from his most sacred vows. What then did it matter what he sealed? Yet his eyes darkened and his hands shook as he picked up the copy before him and glanced through the items. All power to be taken from him … they would see, by the living God …
“Well, my lords,” he said, “as you would have it so: where is the wax?”
“One moment, sire.” De Vescy placed his large red hand on the parchment and leaned his face close to John’s, who sat quickly back. “Apart from your sealing this Carta Libertatum, as we would call it … ”
“Rather,” said John, “your Carta Baronum.”
“As you wish.” De Vescy shrugged. “Libertatum, Baronum — what matters it? Let us say simply, Carta de Runnymede. But first, there are certain conditions you must understand. We must have proof that you intend to keep your oath.”
“You have my oath,” said John.
De Vescy smiled. “A king’s oath, your grace,” he said, “is, as we all know, never broken. Yet there are some amongst us who have not such faith in you as I, who know you so well of old. Therefore, it has been decided to choose twenty-five of England’s magnates to observe, keep, and cause to be observed, with all their might, the provisions of this charter.”
John took a deep breath to quieten his heart before he dared speak. Then not looking at de Vescy, he said in a low voice, “What would these five-and-twenty magnates do?”
“They would be there, sire,” said de Vescy, staring into his eyes with hatred, “to compel the king, should it prove necessary — which God forbid — to keep his oath, by force if needs be.”
“By force!” cried John.
“By force,” repeated de Vescy. “They will have authority to claim assistance from the community of the whole country, and for that reason they must be given an oath of obedience from every man in the realm.”
John felt he was choking. They would not only humiliate him, but make him prisoner!
“Twenty-five over-kings,” he muttered, fidgeting with his seal.
“Nay, sire, they will be your advisers.”
John did not bother to reply but he glanced swiftly at de Vescy, and the rogue grinned to see his rage.
“My seal,” he stuttered, “my seal.”
“One thing more, sire,” purred de Vescy, shifting his long sword between his mailed legs and resting both hands on the pommel. “You must swear to us that you’ll not procure from anyone anything whatsoever whereby these provisions might be revoked or diminished. And if you should forget and think to have the charter revoked, it shall be accounted void and never used.”
“Anything you wish,” muttered John, wanting only to escape: “my seal!”
His clerk passed him his seal, and for a moment, his hands so shook that he could not open it, then at last the brass hinge sprang open and the red beeswax was poured in around the label. Then he snapped it shut and hit it with his fist. There, they had conquered for the time. He had not condescended to ask security for their good faith. He had given his oath, but they had sworn nothing. He did not care, for no oath was mighty enough for the Pope not to absolve.
“There,” he cried, standing to his feet. “England has now exchanged its one king for five-and-twenty, and God save the people.”
“Sire,” said Stephen, “it is not right that you should surrender all to twenty-five barons. Let there be at least thirty-eight chosen from other parties to control these twenty-five.”
“We have the king’s seal!” laughed de Vescy.
“And I,” said Stephen, “have the Pope’s power invested in me. Sirs, if you think to take advantage of royal carelessness, you’ll not leave this field in the sight of God. I give due warning to you all: you will leave excommunicated.”
“High words,” snarled FitzWalter. “You were on our side, and now turn traitor. How like a clerk!”
“I was and am on the side of justice,” cried Stephen, sweating. “Churchman and man of God, I am, FitzWalter, and I do not fear your swords. I have a greater sword, a keener sword, to slay you if you dare defy me!”
FitzWalter shuffled, glancing at de Vescy. Already they knew they were in trouble with Rome, and they dared not have Stephen turn against them. He was their one protection.
“As you wish,” snarled de Vescy. “Let thirty-eight be elected.”
“And the Marshal must head them,” said Stephen.
“The Marshal?” De Vescy shrugged, but his face darkened. “As you will,” he muttered. “But they must swear obedience to us, to our twenty-five.”
“On condition,” said the Marshal, “that we take a second oath swearing to see that both the king and your twenty-five deal justly with one another.”
“I leave it to you, Marshal, and to you, Stephen.” John felt weary, stifling in this hot tent. He strode slowly into the open while all watched him go. “I leave it to you, whom I can trust, to see that I’m not robbed of all my power.”
“God be with you,” said the archbishop sadly, and blessed him.
*
John no longer felt rage as he rode back to Windsor. What did it matter? His one satisfaction lay in the thought that now Stephen realized the enmity of these men whom he had thought such loyal servants of God. He would do nothing until their wickedness was proved, for he knew that in their arrogance they would sicken many of their followers. He must wait.
Yet he longed for action, and lying by his open window, watched Isabel in the garden at Winchester where she sat with her ladies and some gay courtiers, sprawling in the shade of a beech, while he lay on his couch, brooding on his shame. Outside his open window, ran the narrow waterway in its channel, through the wall, into the ladies’ chambers; it flowed from the slowly dripping fountain in which floated pale lilies. It was very peaceful near this garden while John cooled his forehead with vinegar, being in pain with gout, and listened to bees burring from flower to flower, from violets and periwinkles, golden king-cups, pink-edged yellow daisies, and the roses tumbling from the arbour. A girl was singing,
This is the merry month of May,
sing loud you birdies there!
This is the merry month of May
when lads are strong and wenches gay,
sing loud you birdies fair!
This is the merry month of May,
sing loud you birdies there!
This is the merry month of May,
when girls but smile and say not nay,
sing loud you birdies fair!
This is the merry month of May,
sing loud you birdies there!
This is the merry month of May,
when jealous lords be far away,
sing loud you birdies fair!
Peace, wench! … John frowned as he sucked a sugared violet. It was not May, this was June, and it was no merry month, but one of choking heat and shame. He felt that, he was back in that stifling tent, de Vescy’s wine-soured breath sickening him while the steel-clad barons glared and fingered swords. John’s shame gripped him physically, and he felt ill, for gout had swollen his foot. And when he had returned from Runnymede, the Angevin devil he had thought dead had returned in all its fury.
He had injured his foot in his frenzy, and the gout had sprung back to his toes. He had hurled himself to the floor, tearing and biting rushes, gnawing them, chewing them to pulp. All had fled from him, even Isabel, leaving him alone with his demon. And for fully an hour had he fought, as if the devil were a physical enemy, the apotheosis of the barons, with whom he grappled, at whom he cursed and howled, throwing down stools, hangings, kicking through windows, breaking the table. None had dared approach him, he had been mad for the time, foaming and biting his lips; and now the terrible reaction sucked all strength away, leaving but pain in his swollen foot as if it were bundled with burning coals.
But after that outburst, he had mastered himself, had even smiled and said he was content to resign kingship. He had appeared calm to all who met him, had chatted amiably, save when gout flashed a twinge his body’s length, and he had declared again and again, very loudly, that he was content with the charter, and had sent copies to the sheriffs, foresters and other royal bailiffs as proof that he submitted, ordering them to make those under their jurisdiction swear obedience to the barons. He had also commanded his mercenaries to sheath swords and repay whatever damage they had caused, while the foreign troops at Dover he ordered to be sent home. He was determined to give his enemies no opportunity for further rebellion. He removed sheriffs who had acted unjustly, and commanded those that remained, with the knights-of-the-shires, to inquire into evil customs and to punish all who refused to take the oath of obedience to the barons. Hubert de Burgh, whom he knew he could trust and who was respected even by his enemies, he appointed chief justiciar.
His humility spurred the barons to insult him further. He had expected that, and held down his temper when this day he saw a courier stride superciliously to his window. Painfully, groaning, John sat up.
“Your presence, sire,” said the fellow insolently, “is required to confirm a judgment in the Curia Regis.”
“You see,” said John quietly, “that I cannot walk. Look at my foot, fellow, and go tell your masters that I cannot set it to the floor. They must come to deliver judgment here, in my chamber, for I cannot go to them.”
“My orders, sire,” said the fellow, “are that you come with me.”
“And I tell you I cannot go with you. Begone, fool, for I am in too great pain to parley!”
“I dare not go without you, sire.”
“And I dare not go with you. Am I not yet king, sirrah! Get you back to your masters, take my physician with you, if you will. I cannot walk.”
The man stood irresolute, but as John, groaning, half sat up, he bowed and fled, his courage gone before the rage in the king’s eyes.
“By the living God!” shrieked John. “Am I not king! … Oh, my leg bursts with my rage!”
*
No matter how he lay, pincers of fire tugged at his toes, hot wires burned his sinews. Sweating, he tossed, gasping. He had been getting well, but this insult brought agony back. He tossed and howled as compresses were placed on the swollen foot, then he tore them off because he could not bear even them to touch the skin. And as he lay thus, panting, almost prepared to chop off his foot that seemed about to explode, the messenger came again.
White-faced, he bowed, ducking as if he feared a blow.
“Sire,” he said, “forgive me. I am but their messenger.”
“Speak, fool!” snarled John.
“They say that you must go to them. They will listen to no excuses, sire. They said it is beneath their dignity to come to you, it would be against their right.”
“God give me patience!”
“They said, sire, if you could not walk, you must be carried to them.”
“Jesu,” moaned John, and lay back, gasping, as if about to die.
But he was determined to act his part. He would show them that he, at least, abided by the articles. He moaned as he was carried on his pallet, six varlets holding him as they lurched down the corridor, up the stairs, to the barons’ chamber. They sat around a table — de Vescy, FitzWalter, de Quincy; all his enemies — and they did not rise when he was lurched in and the servants placed his pallet on the floor. Contemptuously, they watched him gasp for breath.
“Well, sirs,” he moaned, “I am here.”
“In slow time, sire,” sneered de Vescy. “Forgive us not rising, but that would be against our rights, you know.”
“I know,” groaned John between his teeth.
*
Even this humiliation he suffered without protest, for he knew that he had but to give the rogues time for them to be hated by all true men And tales came, proving him right to have stayed patient. New sheriffs appointed to carry out the charter reported that the barons incited the people to resist; that the northerners were arming their castles as if for war and kept great armies under pretence of jousts and tournaments. Then the barons demanded that John surrender the Tower to Geoffrey de Mandeville. John was ready to give much, but not that vital armoury. He refused and insisted that the keys be entrusted to Stephen, knowing that even they could not object to the archbishop.
Nothing would content the rogues, it seemed. Deliberately, they set out to bring back the terrible days of King Stephen. Few possibly understood the charter, few indeed knew more than a word or two of Latin, and interpreted their licence as they wished. Royal forests and manors were raided, the king’s deer slain, as if John were no longer of account. He set his teeth and waited, and when Stephen came to him, smiled sadly from his couch.
“Sire,” cried Stephen, “what is it these men want? They talked of freedom for all, but they mean freedom for themselves alone, so that they can kill and rape as they wish.”
“They need a strong hand,” said John, “but now your grace has lifted that hand.”
“Justice!” cried Stephen passionately. “What know they of justice, ruled only by their own base passions!” He had grown very thin; the arrogant prince of the Church who had out-stared John on his arrival, now trembled, and his eyes were violet-rimmed, and sunken. “Sire,” he said, “I have signed a circular announcing to all the faithful of Christ that they’ve not kept their word.”
