The Devil and King John, page 5
“Nay,” he muttered, “it was but a thought … ”
“A thought best killed,” said she through her teeth, and took a slow breath; and she clutched his finger the tighter. She did not love him, but if she married him, he would stay hers. Her children would inherit England, she’d not be just one of his wenches, nor have her children coupled with the brood that called him father. Never.
She stooped before a huge oak that sprawled its roots for yards in the park beyond the garden. It was very ancient, and holly bit its bark. In its shade, it was cool after sunlight; the shadows seemed to embrace them, to bring peace when they stood before it. And John was surprised to see Hadwisa raise her face with eyes shut and mouth a little open, as if she drank the shadows. She swayed thus a moment, then took a long breath and, smiling, clutching his finger the tighter, began slowly to dance. She drew John with her and, with sudden fear, he submitted, dancing and watching her in wonder. She was no longer Hadwisa, the court lady. Her body seemed to expand with the dance, swelling against the green gown with its skin-tight breast laced at the back, while the widening skirts swished as the little feet peeped out their toes when she kicked her legs. Long sleeves like wings rustled the grass and dead leaves, and the skirt trailed after her, so that often almost he tripped over it.
When suddenly she opened her eyes, John saw ecstasy in them, and they smiled at him, tempting him to kiss. And he desired her as the dance fired him. He forgot the court, his mother and Richard, forgot even that he was John, Count of Mortain, he knew only that he danced with a woman in the shade of the oak. As they danced, Hadwisa sang in the English tongue, of which John knew but little, and from the few words he caught, he realized that it was a hymn to God. But he knew that it was not to the Christ she sang, but to the god of the oak, and he remembered his nurse’s tales, and the night he had followed her and seen her dance with twelve others about a naked man. He had been afraid and thrilled then, as now, but also he had felt ecstasy as though in the presence of God.
He noticed that they were dancing widdershins, moving always to the left, anti-clockwise, and at every moment the pace quickened. Round and round, gasping, they went, and the sweat shone on Hadwisa’s cheeks, her eyes seemed to grow larger while she sang, and she shivered and chattered her teeth as they whirled round, round, round, until John grew dizzy and could barely see, for Hadwisa, the oak, the distant trees, the grass, the flowers, the sky and sun all merged into a whirling burst of light that seemed to be dancing and singing with them. And he saw Hadwisa no longer as the slim girl he must marry, but as a kind of top of beauty, spinning bright colours. He caught at her, and she kissed him bitingly, but she did not pause in the dance; she laughed against his mouth as she swung away and pulled him round and round again until they fell, and he gripped her and held her, panting and laughing, while he kissed her. She seemed all beauty and passion trembling in his arms.
*
It was as if he had been drunk when he looked about him and heard leaves rustling and saw that the oak was but an oak and that sunlight lay flatly yellow on the grass. Birds sang and fluttered the leaves, and he saw Hadwisa lying with distended nostrils and closed eyes, breathing noisily as though drugged. And with sudden disgust he stood to his feet, wondering what madness had caught him and had turned this child into a woman of beauty. She had bewitched him. But now the spell was broken and he could see her for what she was, not beautiful, scarcely even pretty.
He was afraid because, although he fought against it sceptically, he too was more or less of the old faith, like most of the people of the West who as yet could not accept the religion of the East, the worship of the man on the cross. This was the faith of his fathers, love of the oak and the moon, of the phallic tree and the moon that suffered like a woman. But he could not surrender himself even to this god of the woods that demanded its human sacrifice, the death of the god in the body of a man; not like Christianity that symbolized the sacrifice in one body, the old religion demanded that blood must flow every seven or nine years lest the god grow old or should die, for should he die, woe then to the world. Therefore was he killed by the priests so that his ashes should impregnate the earth and his spirit be renewed in the flesh of another lad who in time must also surrender his body so that god should never grow old. It was said that thus had William Rufus been slain, riding to the ancient sacrifice, surrendering his life for his people. Would this woman net him to this faith that already he half believed? would she demand of him death for his people?
No! Shaking, John stood to his feet and glared down at her. Her eyes were open, watching him dully as if she did not see him, being still with her god in dreams. No.
“Get up,” he said, and stirred her with his foot.
“John.” She breathed very deeply, yet let him take her hand and draw her to her feet. Her body was lax as if the bones were gone, and she looked at him long and questioningly. Angrily, he stared at her.
“What nonsense was all this?” he cried.
She glanced at the oak and shook her head. “You will understand,” she whispered, “when you are king and incarnate god.”
“I’ll have none of it!” he cried. “Would you have me slain?”
“You will know in time that body’s death is spirit’s freedom. You will learn. But you’ll not speak of this, of my god, will you, John?”
“I’ll not speak of it. They’d think me mad. But how long have you — how long have you done this?”
“Never until today. I have danced before often, but it has always been with the coven, that is twelve of us and god. I am the Maiden of our coven and am almost sacred, and I sit at the right hand of god.”
“And this god is murdered in time?”
“He gladly offers himself that god may live and the land be fruitful.”
“I’ll not have you sneaking off when you’re my wife and worshipping devils at the Sabbath. I’ll not have it.”
“No, John.” But her eyes were sly, and he knew that she lied.
“Promise. Swear it.”
“I swear by the incarnate God. I swear by Christ Jesus.”
“But you’re no Christian.”
“Christ sacrificed himself, he had twelve disciples, and there are twelve in a coven: he was but one of many gods that still live.”
“Who does this worship with you?”
“I’ll not tell. God has given me the gift of silence in blood. Hot pincers could not make me speak.”
John turned away and glared at the blades of sunlight striking through the leaves of the oak. It stood, older than man, and it seemed to him then that there was a man living inside it, that there were hamadryads in the leaves watching with golden eyes. He was afraid of it, afraid even of this small girl at his side, so that roughly he caught her arm and walked her back towards the castle.
She watched him hopefully, but as he maintained his angry silence she sighed and seemed to droop within as though hope were gone. And thus in silence they returned, nor did they speak again that day.
*
But in bed that night, John pushed back the coverlet and stared out of the open window. It was very hot, and he felt that he would stifle. By his side, the night-light twinkled in its perforated metal box, but otherwise all was dark. He sat and listened to the ivy rustle on the wall and saw the stars prickling a purple sky. And there, the moon, that brilliant sickle in a milky veil with stars for diamonds in its train, sailed serenely; and he wondered if Hadwisa were gazing at it in oblation before a goddess.
The thought angered him, for although he did not love her, he had a lust for possession, and she was his. Therefore he would not share her, he swore, even with god, and especially with a god that took flesh in the body of a man. She was the coven’s Maiden, she had said, and stood at this man’s right hand. John recalled that night of his childhood when he had followed Agatha, his nurse, and had seen the god with a candle in its horns, while the worshippers whirled, hand in hand, around him in a rushing dance, widdershinning, as Hadwisa had sent him widdershinning today. And he remembered with horror the priapic strength of that god, and he swore that Hadwisa would no longer dance at Sabbaths or have conference at the esbats. He did not love her, but she was his, and what was his John swore to hold.
CHAPTER III
NO WINE LIKE POWER
JOHN was married and Richard crowned. At that crowning, John walked before his brother with the Earls of Huntingdon and Leicester, carrying one of the swords of state. It was a splendid coronation, and in the great abbey church at Westminster, with sunlight flaring through multi-coloured glass, flecking with luminous colours bright garments, glossing pillars that faded into the gloom of the painted roof, and tinselling the black-and-white tiles of the floor, Richard stood like a god for his anointing, the shirt being unclipped so that holy oil could seal him to semi-divinity. John held the sword and watched greedily while the jewel-crusted crown, golden lilies, was lifted by Richard from the altar and given to the archbishop so that he might set it upon Richard’s curls. It glittered in the sunlight, flaming with jewels, when Richard moved.
Crown of England … that might yet be his, thought John, for Richard had no sons.
There was blood at the crowning. While the champion galloped in on his milky charger as they ate and drank in the Hall, and offered his glove to any who would dispute the new king’s claim, swords were drawn in the yard. Jews had striven to enter with gifts, and drunken soldiers had beaten them off as too unclean to enter. They had killed them, trampled them, while the mob shouted.
Richard sent to have the tumult stilled, but was too late. Through London ran the tidings of Jew-massacre. They crucified unbaptised children, these Jews, they had spat on our Lord; and each man in their debt ran with naked sword to his creditor’s home. Murder in house after house as dark bearded bodies were thrown from windows, and men — good Christians though they were — did not disdain from polluting their immortal souls by coupling with pretty Jewesses whom afterwards they strangled, lest they talk. Murder and loot as houses were broken in, were burned.
It was no good omen, said the wise as they calculated the stars in their courses; a splendid omen, said the Christians, crossing themselves, for the infidel was slain in London as their king would slay them in the Holy Land.
*
Richard was off to the Holy Land, and he dreaded to leave his brothers behind him. Both John and Geoffrey he made swear that they’d not set foot in England for three years, but John turned to their mother, and at her prayer, Richard relented. John could do as he wished. And he was now a great man indeed. Not only was he Count of Mortain, Richard had given him a revenue of four thousand pounds Angevin, and the counties of Cornwall, Devon, Dorset, Somerset, Nottingham, Derby and Lancaster, together with the honours of Tickhill, Eye, Wallingford, Marlborough, Ludgershall and Gloucester, although Richard kept in his own control, in case of trouble, certain of the main castles. Nevertheless, John was now the most powerful man in England, next the king, and he ruled his lands at his own will, a petty king giving no account of his stewardship to the crown, and there was, of course, Ireland also in his possession. But power merely fed the lust for further power, and when at last Richard had sailed for the East, John looked about him and saw that the throne was empty.
Hugh Puiset, Bishop of Durham, and William Mandeville, Earl of Essex, were left as regents, while William of Longchamp had bought the chancellorship, for Richard had been prepared to sell anything for money for his crusade. Indeed, he had cried, when councillors strove to dissuade him from carving up England and the revenues, he would sell London itself if he could find a purchaser. But luckily no one had been rash enough to bid for that proud city, and London remained under its mayor and aldermen.
John let affairs take their course, for he was busy examining his heritage, riding in one continual progress from city to city, castle to castle, with armies of retainers and miles of baggage-waggons. And where his army rested, it ate up all the stores. Those who saw the guests arriving wept, but they could not refuse hospitality. Miles of carts would grind on their iron-rimmed wheels into the courtyard, baggage would be thrown out, the treasure-chests, the tally-sticks, the rolls of parchment, the clothes, the food-stores that were kept in reserve, the hawks and hounds for hunting, the armour — out all would tumble while officers sweated at accounting and servingmen were kicked and cuffed and tents were, raised in the fields for those who could not find lodgings.
He was as wilful in his movements as his father had been, acting on impulse, for sometimes when hunting was good he would remain for days at one place, and at other places, he might rush on after a quick meal. His clerks lived in a continual suspense. No sooner would they settle back and think to have the nap they deserved, his herald having announced his determination for a long stay, than that same herald would be trumpeting them out of bed with tidings that they must be off within minutes. In panic, clerks would rush to see if all were safe, purveyors fretted and wept about the heaped-up waggons, the well-roped pack-horses, the chariots; and no sooner would all be ready, than often the herald would announce that the Count intended to remain after all. And gnashing their teeth, the servants in frenzy set about unpacking, kicking all those who were inferior, and thrashing mules and horses, throwing stones at dogs.
In such a household, the best-informed were often the lowliest, who heard secrets that would never have been spoken save before those despised as cattle. The advice of tent-keepers, and even of washerwomen — synonymous with harlots — was eagerly sought, while for hours men dozed beside waggons, horses, mules, waiting. And when at last they did set off, it was likely enough their destination was some small manor large enough merely to hold John and his immediate household; the others fought for shelter. Swords were drawn and men killed for possession of a lousy broken-down hut, the peasants being kicked out. Men fought for cattle-byres and pig-styes, they wandered hours in the woods, often in rain, and at last were often forced to sleep in the open, their sodden cloaks around them, until dawn brought them shivering to seek a fire.
Such was it to be in the service of John, Count of Mortain, when he roamed his country in the first year of Richard’s absence.
*
Hadwisa was rarely with him. They saw but little of each other, for there was no pretence of love between them, and as Hadwisa showed no signs of quickening, John soon despaired of having a child and placed the blame on her, for he had proof uncountable that he could be a father. Daughters of citizens as well as great ladies were eager to accept the honour of a ducal embrace, and he did not disdain a servingwench, if she were pretty. Some of his children he reared in his household, but others, and many of them, he had never even seen. In that, at least, John followed his father’s example.
And he was merry these days, as he drank with comrades and wenched and hunted through his domain. A gay prince, ambitionless, he seemed; yet all the time he was watching with glee the chancellor drive the barons to fury.
William of Longchamp was a Norman of surpassing ugliness, son of two traitors, it was said, being descended from two fugitive serfs. He was a twisted little man who limped, with large round head and receding chin, and a belly the barons longed to kick. It maddened them to be ruled by this upstart, and it maddened the commons that one of themselves should dare dictate to them. He was hated by everybody, as he strode arrogantly from council chamber to council chamber, or on horseback in the streets sniffed at a pomanderp stuffed with lavender that he might not smell the people, who retorted, when they had a narrow lane for escape, with mud and dung.
His friends besought John to action, but he was, he said, a loyal servant of his brother, and continued merrily hunting.
Then Longchamp blundered and John seized his chance. The sheriff of Lincolnshire and constable of Lincoln Castle, Gerard de Camville, was summoned to answer before the justiciars for having turned his castle into a nest of robbers and bandits. He retorted that he was John’s liegeman and would answer no man save his lord; whereupon, Longchamp deprived him of his sheriffdom and gave it another who instantly besieged Lincoln. Outraged, the custodians of Nottingham and Tickhill surrendered their castles to John to show whom they considered rightful ruler of England in his brother’s absence. John accepted the charges, and he sent to the chancellor a highly insulting message, saying that he would visit him with a rod of iron and with such a host as he could not withstand if he continued to persecute Gerard.
John was with friends drinking in the garden one warm afternoon a few days after sending his message, they sang to lutes across their knees, when Walter de Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, was announced. Walter had come to England, himself an Englishman, with secret instructions from Richard, and now he entered that gay garden and looked upon the prince and his companions lounging on carpets on the grass, sprawling on the box-seats, or on stools. Wine was before them, great jugs of it, with sweet wafers, and a lad was singing of love, but he stopped and put down the lute when Walter entered, and all rose and bowed while the archbishop blessed them with uplifted fingers.
“I beg pardon to disturb your merriment, Count,” said he, “but I have important tidings from the chancellor.”
“From the devil,” smiled John. “It is what we need, your grace, to give an edge to this wine. We are ready for laughter.”
“It is small matter for laughter,” said the archbishop gravely; “although I am the bearer of it, I ask to be excused for carrying it. It is not my wish, your grace, for I am no creature of the chancellor.”
“There is no need to tell us that,” said John. “None could possibly doubt your honesty, your grace, or your parentage.”
The archbishop bowed and took from his attendant priest a roil, which he passed to John, who took it carelessly, and snapped the ribbon with his thumb, so that the parchment sprang open and the heavy seal fell to dangle on its gold thread. John smiled as he glanced at it, then suddenly the smile went, and his face blackened with rage, the eyes glistered like glass. Those who knew of the Angevin devil and the rages of her descendants edged away, but the cardinal had not been long in England, and he gaped at the purpling-face of the duke as he saw the veins swelling, the hands shaking, as John hurled the parchment to the grass and trampled it. His voice was breaking when he screamed. He was more than angry, his whole body became so contorted that it was scarcely recognizable, it seemed to shrivel and writhe as tendons rose on his neck, while blood ebbed from his face and left it deathly white, like chalk.
