The Heart of the Lion

Chapter XV LONGCHAMP AND PRINCE JOHN

While Richard was on his way to Acre, Prince John was riding towards the west. His feelings were mingled whenever he went that way – pride was uppermost, pride in his great possessions; distaste was there, too, when he considered the woman he had had to take to wife to win such lands. She bored him, except when she had been frightened of him in the first days when they were together. It was not that she was less frightened later, but that her fear no longer amused him.

She was a plain little thing, Hadwisa. Fate was perverse in making women like that the heiresses to great fortunes. Hadwisa ought to have married some minor nobleman and lived quietly in the country all her life. That would have suited her. She was no wife for a man who would one day be King of England.

Oh yes, I shall be, he told himself savagely. I should be now, for that was my father’s wish.

His friends told him it was necessary to bide his time but he was tired of biding his time. He hated waiting for anything. He wanted his desires immediately. It had always been so with him.

Still the stage was set. Richard was only just starting on his crusade and – who knew – some Saracen arrow might be the end of him – an arrow with a goodly serving of poison at the tip, and might it go right through his heart ... or perhaps his eye. That would make him smart. Perhaps even proud brave Richard would cry for God’s mercy if that happened to him.

‘And I should mount the throne,’ murmured John.

Still, as those who wished him well kept reminding him, he must be patient. The unpopularity of Longchamp was rising and if he could drive him out of the country ... well, then it would not be so difficult.

He could see the turrets of the castle and he wondered whether Hadwisa was looking out for him. Once he had made her confess that she looked every day. He could picture her trembling with fear when she saw a party of horsemen approaching, asking herself, Is that my doting husband, John?

He saw her rarely, but when he did he liked to remind her that she was his wife. He wondered why she was barren. Not that he gave her many opportunities to bear his child, but she had had a chance to conceive. He was not sure whether he cared or not. He would have liked a son; on the other hand if the day came when he could rid himself of Hadwisa, which he would do if he became King, her infertility would be a good excuse to put beside that of consanguinity.

‘Sound the trumpets,’ he ordered; and he laughed inwardly. Let her hear them. Let her start to tremble.

Immediately the trumpets sounded. Every one of his servants was afraid of his temper. It was as violent as that of his father, only he could be more vicious. Henry II had always prided himself on being just but John did not care for justice if it interfered with his desires, and he enjoyed seeing men tremble before him.

They rode into the castle. As he had expected Hadwisa had heard the trumpets. She was down there with the stirrup cup.

‘Ah, my love,’ he cried. ‘My heart beats faster to see you. And you show me clearly that you are as eager for a sight of me as I am for you.’ He laughed at the irony of this. ‘Good mulled wine,’ he went on. ‘Come, sweetheart, sip the loving cup with me.’ Let her taste it first. Who knew, she might make up her mind to poison him one day. If so let her be the one to take her own poison.

She sipped.

‘Again, my love,’ he said. ‘Again! Again!’ and he jerked the goblet so that she must either drink or choke.

Then he put it to his lips.

He leaped from his horse and embraced her in a manner which brought a blush to her cheek.

‘Come to our chamber,’ he said. And turning to his attendants : ‘You know how impatient I am. So first leave me with my wife.’

She was aware of the sly smiles. They knew that he was laughing at her, that last evening he had made sport with other women and that he had said of them, when complimenting them on their skill in that art in which he declared he excelled more than in any other, that they reminded him of his wife by the very difference in them.

Hadwisa trembling in his grip could do nothing but be taken to their chamber. There he ordered her to take off her gown and await him. His method was always different. On the journeys to the castle he would enjoy planning how he could best frighten her. There were times when he made fierce onslaughts which nauseated her; at others he would ignore her altogether. He enjoyed watching her terror and her sudden relief when she thought she was going to be ignored and then he would find the greatest pleasure in letting her see that she was deceived.

As for Hadwisa, who had been gently nurtured in a household where she had been witness to the tender affection of her parents and who had attended the weddings of her sisters, she truly believed that she had married a monster.

Her modesty which he called prudery sometimes amused him, sometimes angered him. It would depend on his mood.

On this day the torturing of Hadwisa was of secondary importance. His mind was on the unpopularity of Longchamp and how he could best take advantage of it.

He was not thinking of her lying there on her bed asking herself what form the torture would take on this occasion but he went over and looked down at her. She was by no means voluptuous. Yes, he would rid himself of her when the time came. Perhaps then it was better not to plant his seed in her. Children made difficulties. If she could read his thoughts she would be relieved so he would not tell her. Her family must not know yet that it was in his mind to cast her off. He had her lands safely enough, what did he want with her?

He sat down on the stool and looked at his boots.

He said: ‘There are great events afoot, wife.’

She did not answer. He shouted: ‘Heard you not my words?’

‘Yes, I heard, John. There are great events afoot.’

‘The people hate Longchamp.’

‘I have heard that many murmur against him.’

‘The son of a French serf who ran away and hid himself in a Norman village. Longchamp was the name of that village and they took that as their name. Doubtless they thought it had a noble ring. The man is a low-born knave.’

‘He is very powerful,’ said Hadwisa.

‘Powerful! At this time maybe. It is not going to last though.’

‘Is it not?’

‘Indeed it is not, for I say so and you know don’t you, wife, that when I command all obey me.’

She was silent and he shouted: ‘Know you it, wife?’

‘Yes ... yes ...’ she answered.

‘Then when I speak to you, pray do not remain silent. If you do I shall be angry and you would not like that, you know.’

‘No, John.’

‘Remember it. I tell you this: it will not be long before Longchamp is sent back to Normandy. You believe that, don’t you?’

‘If you say so, John.’

‘Yes, I say so! I hate the fellow. Low-born upstart! Do you know I think he would take the crown if it were at all possible.’

‘But that could never be,’ she said.

‘Nay. Though ’tis true it now rests with one who does not deserve it.’

‘You speak of the King.’

‘Who is at this moment in Palestine fighting the Saracen. Or is he there, do you think? Mayhap his ship foundered. Ships do that often. Mayhap he is at this moment lying dead with an arrow in his body. By God’s holy eyes, if that be so then your husband, Hadwisa, is King of England. Would it were so. Oh God, I pray you send that arrow quick ... let it pierce his heart. He must lose that for which he shows little love for if he loved England how could he have deserted her to be a soldier of the cross?’ Hadwisa trembled. He looked down at the bed and pushed her over on to her face. ‘There! I would not see your traitorous eyes, my lady. You have no spirit. You are frightened of God, of Richard! Fool that you are. There is one whom you should fear. The new King, your husband.’

She said: ‘I do.’

‘Then you have some sense. I tell you this, wife; that I am going to take this kingdom. Whether God sends that arrow or not. Richard is not here. Then he shall lose his kingdom. The people are restive. They will be with me.’

She raised herself and looked steadily at him. ‘What of your mother?’ she asked.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘I am her son am I not?’

‘She loves Richard.’

‘Aye, and she loves me too. She is a wise woman, a woman of great experience. She will see that this must be. He deserts his kingdom. There must be a king.’

He looked at her without seeing her. He could see nothing but the crown on his own head. That vision was more exciting than anything he could conjure up. He was bored with her. He could not discuss his dreams with her. What was she? An ignorant little country girl! He would never have known her if she had not been the richest heiress in the land.

To her great relief he left her. She dressed hurriedly and said a prayer of thankfulness, adding a request that soon he would go away.

She began to think of what effect it would have on her life if he truly became King. She then would be the Queen.

It was not so much the thought of being Queen that terrified her but of being his Queen.

Down in the hall the venison was being served ... a very special occasion for the coming of the King’s brother. John sat at the table, his wife beside him, but he had little to say to her. His thoughts were far away from this hall. He was seeing himself being crowned in Westminster. It was all he could do to restrain himself from talking of this matter but he was not so foolish as to do so in such varied company.

He glanced at Hubert de Burgh, a young man to whom he had taken a great fancy, and he wished they were alone together so that he could have talked to him.

It was while they were at dinner that messengers arrived for John. He had his spies everywhere and it was one of their duties to bring news to him wherever he might be.

So thus while they sat at dinner and the minstrels strummed their lutes and sang, there was a clatter of horses’ hoofs in the courtyard which proved to be the arrival of one of John’s messengers.

Hoping that he brought news of Richard’s death he went out into the courtyard to meet the messenger. The man was mud-stained for he had travelled fast and far knowing his master would wish the news to be brought to him without delay.

‘Come, man, what is it?’

‘I have news of the King, my lord,’ he said. ‘He has left Sicily. He has made a pact with the usurper King Tancred.’

‘So he still lives,’ said John, his brow darkening.

‘Aye, my lord,’ said the messenger, ‘and there is ill news.’

‘Ill news!’ he cried. ‘What news?’

The messenger looked alarmed. It was not good to be the harbinger of news which did not please and he knew what he had to tell Prince John would send him into a passion. But he must tell it. It would be more than his life was worth to withhold anything.

He blurted out: ‘The King has promised Prince Arthur of Brittany to Tancred’s daughter. It is one of the terms of the pact.’

‘Arthur!’ screamed John.

‘’Tis so, my lord.’

‘By God’s teeth,’ muttered John. ‘He has offered Arthur as the heir of England!’

‘’Twould seem so, my lord, for Tancred has accepted the offer most joyfully.’

John’s face was distorted with rage.

‘By your leave, my lord,’ said the messenger bowing and hastily taking a few steps backwards.

But John did not see him. He was thinking of what this would mean. Their nephew, Arthur, son of their brother Geoffrey, had been named by Richard as heir to the throne of England!

‘No, no, no,’ screamed John.

Then he smiled slowly. Of course Arthur would never be King. He was a baby. He had never been to England. The English would never accept him.

But, by God, how he hated his brother for attempting to cheat him!

Could some say that Arthur had the greater claim? Geoffrey was older than he, John. Geoffrey’s son! No, it was nonsense. It could never be. He would see that it never was.

By God, he would take the throne now while Richard lived if need be. What had he to fear from a puling infant?

He was in no mood for Hadwisa. He had matters of greater moment to consider than her discomfort.

‘We are leaving,’ he shouted. ‘There are matters of business to claim me. I can no longer rest here.’

Hadwisa stood at the turret watching his departure.

She blessed the messenger who had brought such a message to drive her from her husband’s thoughts.

William of Longchamp was too clever a man not to have realised that his most dangerous enemy was Prince John, and that sooner or later the Prince’s simmering hatred would boil over into dangerous action.

Longchamp believed that he could deal satisfactorily with the Prince, who for all his blustering and violent temper was a weak man. Had he not been the son of a King he would never have risen very far. Whereas he, Longchamp, had done so, although severely handicapped, his grandparents both being fugitive slaves who had come from France to the little village of Longchamp and lived out their lives in obscurity, their great ambition being never to be discovered.

He had been determined not to remain in obscurity. Nature had seen fit to bestow on him an unattractive body but a clever brain and all wise men knew that the second was more desirable than the first. When he had been younger he had longed to be tall but he soon realised that he never would be. In fact unkind people called him ‘that ill-favoured dwarf’. That was not true but he was of very low stature so that his head seemed bigger than normal, as were his hands and his feet. It was as though nature had joked with him, giving him a chin that receded and a stomach that protruded; and as if that were not enough one leg was slightly shorter than the other which meant that he walked with a limp. But to compensate him for his physical disabilities he had been given not only a lively mind but the understanding that it could take him far if he nurtured it; so he learned where he could, observing constantly and making himself agreeable to those who could be useful to him.

It was great good fortune which had brought him to the notice of Richard when he was in Aquitaine. Two men could not have been more different. The shining god-like creature, physically perfect and with a natural dignity and grace, a man as many said born to be king and who looked every inch of it, and his poor misshapen servant. It might have been this contrast which attracted Richard’s attention. In any case he soon discovered the mental brilliance of his servant and began to take notice of him. Soon Longchamp was making Richard see how clever he could be and the King took him more and more into his confidence.

So firm did Richard’s patronage become that when he was King of England and planning his crusade he decided that Longchamp should be his Chancellor and share with Hugh Pusey, Bishop of Durham, the office of Chief Justiciary in the commission he was appointing to govern England during his absence. What did it matter if Longchamp was ugly? He was going to show Richard that he had not misplaced his confidence and to flaunt his wealth and position in the faces of those who had jeered at him for his lack of social grace. It was not long before he quarrelled with Hugh Pusey; they were both ambitious and each saw in the other a rival to power. Longchamp was the more wily, always one step ahead; and in a short space of time he had completely overcome Pusey, bringing charges against him which justified imprisonment and then taking from him, in exchange for his liberation, his office and some of his possessions. Thus Longchamp became the sole justiciary, the man in whose hands lay the means and the power to govern England during Richard’s absence.

Of course the people hated him. He was a Norman and insisted on unfamiliar customs in his household. Then there was his love of ostentation. It was natural enough that one who had been despised must find it necessary to show continually how rich and powerful he had become. Every extravagance was a gesture. See how the King loves me! he seemed to be saying. But the more gestures of this nature there were, the more the people hated him. He in his turn hated the English. He was constantly trying to show them how inferior they were. If he were an astute statesman he was no student of human nature. He blindly revelled in Richard’s favour and cared nothing for the enmity of others, forgetting that Richard was far away and that his enemies were all around him.

The crusade swallowed up great wealth. More was constantly demanded. If he were to serve his master well he must see that taxes were levied and paid; it was ironical that the people of England should not blame their King whose activities made it necessary that the money should be raised but his Chancellor whose duty it was to see that the money was collected.

There was murmuring all over the land about the upstart Norman, the nobody who dressed as richly as a king and travelled in great state wherever he went. When he went about the country and rested at religious houses as became a man of the church, for besides being the King’s Chancellor he was also the Bishop of Ely, there were complaints that to house him and his splendid retinue cost them several months’ revenue.

Longchamp heard the sly allusions to his humble origins and this only made him the more extravagant; he was determined to show them that however he had begun he had climbed to the pinnacle of success at this time. He insisted that his servants kneel when serving him, a fact which was noted and circulated throughout the kingdom. The arrogance of the man was unendurable. The King himself could not live more regally.

It was inevitable that his enemies should see that the King heard of his growing unpopularity. Queen Eleanor had become disturbed and when in Sicily had advised her son to send Walter de Coutances, the Archbishop of Rouen, over to England, ostensibly to assist Longchamp in the Regency, but in fact to watch events carefully and if Longchamp became too unpopular, and that might cause the people to rise against him, to take over the reins from him.

Longchamp was suspicious of the Archbishop. He misconstrued the reason for his coming, and had an idea that he was doubtless hoping to attain the See of Canterbury which was vacant. As he himself had his eye on this prime plum of the Church he was antagonistic towards the Archbishop.

But his real enemy was Prince John. Longchamp smiled to himself to imagine John’s wrath when he heard of how the Chancellor roamed the country in as royal a fashion as any king. He did not fear him. What was the Prince but a lecherous profligate? He had no stability. The people would never support him. King Richard was however inclined to be lenient regarding his brother’s peccadilloes. ‘John would never succeed in taking a kingdom,’ he had once said. ‘And if by some strange chance he did he would never hold it. He is not of the stuff of which conquerors are made.’

Richard had communicated that contempt to Longchamp, so when he heard that John was fulminating about him the Bishop merely shrugged his shoulders and ignored him.

It was at this time that he became concerned with the affair of Gerard de Camville who was the sheriff of Lincoln. He believed that man to be a troublemaker because he was friendly with Prince John and he suspected him of urging that the Prince rise against the Chancellor. Gerard de Camville had in fact sworn allegiance to John as though he were already King or at least heir to the throne. Longchamp was determined that the next King would be Arthur of Brittany, which would suit him very well. If Richard died while the boy was a minor then he, Longchamp, would continue as Regent until Arthur was of such an age to govern. He would bring him to England and have him educated there under his guidance. It would be an excellent arrangement. The fact was, though, that Richard was by no means old, had married the Princess of Navarre and might well have heirs which would put Arthur out of the running. But with Richard’s son being brought up by the Chancellor or – failing a son of Richard’s his nephew Arthur – the prospect was good, although there was one who could put it in jeopardy: John.

Therefore it was disconcerting to have men like Gerard de Camville swearing allegiance to the Prince and when it was brought to his notice that de Camville had sheltered robbers in his castle and allowed them to go free even though they had taken the goods of a band of travellers passing near Lincoln, this seemed too good an opportunity to miss. The late King’s laws against robbery had been very severe and Richard had not altered them. It had been made clear that if the country was to be safe for travellers, drastic penalties should be meted out to offenders. This had been proved over more than a hundred years. William the Conqueror had made England law-abiding and the people had seen that it was to their advantage. Only during the reign of weak Stephen had it lapsed, and then robber barons had waylaid travellers, to rob, torture and kill them. No one wanted a return to that.

So Longchamp had a very good reason to reprimand Gerard de Camville.

He sent for Gerard, who refused to come himself and sent a messenger in his place. This was an insult in itself.

Longchamp demanded: ‘Where is your master?’

‘He has other business to occupy him, my lord,’ was the answer.

‘I summoned him here,’ replied Longchamp, ‘and when I summon a man if he is wise he comes.’

‘My lord bids me ask you to state your business to me and he has furnished me with some answers for he guesses you wish to speak to him concerning the guests he recently entertained at his castle.’

‘These men were robbers. They should have been dealt with by the law.’

‘The men they robbed were Jews, my lord.’

‘What of this?’

‘The people do not love the Jews. Nor does the King. Many were killed at his coronation.’

‘Go and tell your master that he has offended against the laws of this land and he is summoned to the courts.’

‘My lord answers only to one master during the absence of the King. He is the liegeman of Prince John.’

‘Pray go and tell your master that he is summoned to the courts and it will go ill with him if he does not obey this summons.’

It was this matter which was giving Longchamp anxious thoughts on this summer’s morning of the year 1191.

When Gerard de Camville asked for an audience with Prince John he was received at once.

‘This insolent Norman flouts you, my lord,’ cried Gerard. ‘I have told him that I obey only one liege lord: my Prince. His answer is that that will not serve. He ignores you, my lord and your authority.’

‘By God’s eyes, ’tis so,’ cried John. ‘We’ll show the knave. I’ll drive him from his office. You will see. I am the King’s brother. I am in fact the rightful King, for you know full well my father wanted me to have this kingdom.’

Gerard was silent. He was with John at the moment but one must be careful not to utter treason. There were too many who could overhear a carelessly spoken word.

‘As your liegeman,’ said Gerard, ‘I maintain that it is only in your courts that I can be tried.’

‘Leave this to me,’ said John. He was excited, seeing here a chance for open conflict with Longchamp. He wanted to think what trouble could grow out of this incident.

He whipped himself up to a fury. It was an indulgence he could never resist. Anger stimulated him. He liked to feel it rising within him to such heights that he had to let it out. Now he felt he could indulge in righteous anger.

‘Am I a king’s son or am I not?’ he demanded.

‘You are indeed, my Prince,’ answered Gerard, soothingly. ‘Any who denied it would lie in his throat.’

‘And one denies it. This low-born peasant, this serf who gives himself the airs of a King. Would I had him here, Gerard! What would I do with him? No torture would be too severe. It would please me greatly to listen to his screams for mercy.’

‘He is indeed an arrogant upstart, my Prince.’

‘Aye, and living like a king. His servants ... English servants mark you! ... kneeling before him when he eats. I should like to make him kneel ... kneel to the humblest man I could find. That would amuse me. Strip him of his silks and jewels and have him mother naked in the streets and the lash descending on his peasant’s back till the blood flowed.’

Gerard was wondering what reasonable action the Prince would take.

He said cautiously: ‘That will come, my lord Prince, but first it will be necessary to warn him.’

John scowled. Warn him! He didn’t want him warned. He wanted him to go on making such mistakes that the whole country would rise against him.

‘I shall take up arms against him,’ growled John, ‘and there’ll be many to follow me. The people hate him, Gerard ... even as I do.’

He shouted to a messenger. ‘Come hither. Go at once to upstart Chancellor William de Longchamp and tell him this from me. He is to stop persecuting Gerard de Camville. If he does not he will wish he had never been born, for I shall come against him in battle with such forces that will drive him out of this land.’

When Longchamp received this message he knew that he must take speedy action. Only by force could he reason with John. It was deplorable. The King would be displeased; but Longchamp could see nothing for it. He could not allow John to dictate to him.

He summoned the leading ministers, but before they arrived news was brought to him that the castellans of Tickhill and Nottingham had handed the castles to John.

Longchamp was horrified.

‘There must have been threats,’ he said. ‘These men would never have given up their trusts otherwise. They have been holding the castles in the King’s name and now to hand them over to his brother is an act of treason against Richard.’

‘And Richard,’ his ministers reminding him, ‘being far away ...’

‘Aye, ’tis a sorry state of affairs, for as Regent I must do as the King would do. I see that Prince John has his eyes on the crown, and that I must hold at all costs for my master.’

‘This will mean open friction with the Prince,’ Walter de Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, warned him.

‘If that is so then it must be. John should never have been allowed to come back into the country. The King forbade him to for three years.’

‘But the King later gave permission for both John and his base-born brother Geoffrey to return.’

‘So ’twas said. I cannot believe the King would have been so unaware of their trouble-making propensities to allow it. We must take bold action. It is the only course when dealing with men such as Prince John. I am going to summon him to appear before courts to investigate the manner of his return to England when the King banished him for three years. If the King indeed gave him leave to come back, it must be proved.’

The Archbishop of Rouen agreed that while such action was taking place it might give those who were seeking rebellion time to brood on what this would mean and it was a way of reminding people that although the Prince, as the King’s brother, was becoming a powerful force in the land he like everyone else was a subject of King Richard and must obey his laws.

‘My lord Archbishop,’ said Longchamp, ‘only you are of sufficient rank to take the summons to Prince John.’

The Archbishop nodded ruefully. He could imagine the Prince’s wrath when he realised he was summoned to appear before the courts.

It was as he anticipated. He had never seen such fury except in the old King Henry II. The Prince’s skin was livid, his eyes ablaze with fury; he foamed at the lips and clenched and unclenched his hands.

‘By God’s eyes,’ he shouted, ‘if I but had that devil here. He’d never limp again. I’d slit that big belly right up ... I, with my own knife. He’d not die easy ...’

The Archbishop allowed him to go on and his very calmness cooled John’s temper. The Archbishop showed no fear; he stood rather like someone who was patiently waiting for the storm to be over.

It irritated John for it spoilt the excitement his fury always gave him. He liked to see people cringe before him. This calm dignified man in his robes of office, which must always inspire a certain respect, disconcerted him.

He stopped suddenly and looked full at the Archbishop.

‘And what say you, my lord, to see a Prince so treated?’

‘I say this,’ answered the Archbishop: ‘You should offer to meet Longchamp and find a solution to your differences.’

‘Do you think there will ever be any solution?’

‘We must pray for peace, my lord, until the return of our sovereign lord the King.’

Sovereign lord the King! Where was Richard now? Why was there no news? He was in constant danger. Why was God so perverse that he continued to protect him from that poisoned arrow?

The opposing parties met at Winchester both supported by armed followers. The Archbishop of Rouen however was successful in advising a peaceful solution. The two castles which had been surrendered to John were to be given up, for they were after all the King’s castles, and those who had surrendered them had been but custodians. John agreed that they should be given back but, if the King died or Longchamp did not keep his side of the agreement between them, the castles should revert to him. Wilily he arranged that the castles should be put into the hands of two men who were his friends. Longchamp was aware of this and insisted that the greater strongholds of Winchester, Windsor and Northampton were to be guarded by his own supporters.

John was disappointed. He had believed that more of the barons would be ready to support him on account of the unpopularity of Longchamp. It was true that the Chancellor was disliked but the barons could see that John was not strong enough to stand successfully against him. He was weak, self-indulgent and that violent temper augured no good. They longed for a strong King. If Richard would return they were convinced that all would be well.

However, the meeting could be considered successful because it had not resulted in open warfare and a compromise, however shaky and insecure, had been reached.

John was seething with disgust. He had hoped many would rally to him. He was determined though to seek the first opportunity to make trouble.

He did not have to wait long.

The Chancellor’s supporters saw in the recent agreement with John victory for Longchamp and those connections who had benefited by his rise to fame were convinced of his ability to get the better of Prince John.

Roger de Lacy, a member of the Chancellor’s family, quarrelled with the castellan of Nottingham castle who had handed it over to John, accused him of treason to the King, and hanged him. He then did the same to the custodian of Tickhill. This was arrogance in the extreme.

‘The great Chancellor William de Longchamp, my respected kinsman has been avenged,’ vowed Roger; and riding with his friends he took them to that spot where the body of the custodian of Tickhill was swinging on its gibbet. One of the victim’s menservants was attempting to drive the crows from his master’s body and take it away for decent burial.

‘Hi there,’ cried Roger, ‘what do you?’

The man answered that his master should be decently buried.

‘This man is a traitor,’ cried Roger. ‘Should traitors be decently buried? Any who defend traitors is himself a traitor. Take that man,’ he ordered, ‘and hang him beside the one whom he calls master.’

This foolish, arrogant and cruel action gave John the chance he needed. He came with a troop of soldiers and laid waste Roger de Lacy’s lands.

John was now ready to make war on the Chancellor but his friends advised him to hold back for a while for another incident had occurred which they saw as causing far more disquiet to Longchamp and enraging the people against him to a greater extent than John could do by marching against him.

They managed to make John see that if he were to succeed he needed the people behind him. The Chancellor was fast becoming the most unpopular man in the realm and John only had to wait a while and public opinion would do what he was planning to do with arms.

Geoffrey, John’s bastard half-brother, who had been forbidden by the King, with John, not to return for three years, now returned, declaring that Richard had given him permission to come back when he had done the same for Prince John.

Longchamp immediately sent him orders to keep away from England.

It was a September morning when Geoffrey landed at Dover. Geoffrey was the son of Henry II and his one-time mistress Hikena, who was a woman of loose morals and had managed to captivate the King for a while – at least long enough for her to persuade him to care for their son. Henry had always looked after his bastards. He delighted in them and had often said that they had been more faithful to him than his children born in wedlock, which was true.

Geoffrey had been brought to the royal nursery by the King and had shared the tutors of the princes and princesses, much to Queen Eleanor’s disgust. Indeed the coming of Geoffrey to the nursery had been the beginning of the rift between her and her husband.

King Henry had doted on Geoffrey who had loved his father as none of his legitimate sons ever had. When they had been conspiring against the King, Geoffrey was the one who had remained with him and had been at his side at the time of his death, and the King’s dying wish had been that Geoffrey should be given the Archbishopric of York. Richard had respected his father’s wishes and complied with this request.

Geoffrey was a great soldier as well as a man of the Church and had commanded troops under his father. He was the son Henry would have liked to have been his heir; as Geoffrey was a bastard that was out of the question but he had done all he could for him.

Richard suspected that Geoffrey might have ambitions for the crown; he was friendly with John; and for this reason Richard had imposed the ban on his going out of England for three years.

When he had taken his farewell of Richard before the King left for the crusade, Geoffrey had paid Richard a sum of money in exchange for his promise to be allowed to return to England. Richard’s crusade was in constant need of money and the King was ready to do almost anything to obtain it. However to allow Geoffrey to return to England seemed wise when rumours of the unpopularity of Longchamp reached Richard. A good strong Archbishop of York would be a restraining influence.

So Geoffrey set out for England.

Longchamp had had no notification of the fact that he had bought his way back and sent him a message to the effect that he was not to return.

This Geoffrey ignored and when he arrived at Dover and was met by a company of men who told him that the Chancellor had ordered them to meet him and conduct him to Dover Castle, he said that first he would take refreshment at an inn.

It was not refreshment that he took but the clothes of one of his humble followers and he rode out to St Martin Priory where he asked for sanctuary.

The Chancellor’s sister, Lady Richenda de Cleres, who lived in the neighbourhood, took it upon herself to attempt to arrest him. Her brother had stated that Geoffrey was not to come to England and he had deliberately disobeyed. All the Chancellor’s family were devoted to him, and when he rose they had risen with him. They could never forget it nor could they be grateful enough. His command was their will.

And how could a grateful sister show her gratitude more than by having arrested a man who was her brother’s enemy?

She sent soldiers to the Priory to take Geoffrey of York. He was at prayers at the altar when the soldiers burst in.

‘You are our prisoner,’ they cried. ‘You will ride with us to Dover Castle.’

Geoffrey looked calmly at them and stated: ‘I shall not ride to Dover Castle. What right have you to arrest me?’ he asked.

‘We are the servants of the Chancellor,’ they said.

‘Forget not,’ said Geoffrey, ‘that I am a man of the Church and a brother of the King.’

‘Brother of the King maybe,’ was the retort. ‘Begot in the bed of a whore.’

‘By a great King,’ said Geoffrey.

‘You have sworn not to enter this country for three years.’

‘I have the King’s permission to return.’

‘Tell that to your judges.’

They seized him and dragged him out of the Priory.

People crowded into the streets demanding to know what was happening and when they saw the Archbishop of York being taken to a prison in Dover Castle many crossed themselves in horror. Geoffrey’s father, King Henry II, had done penance once because it was believed he had ordered the murder of another Archbishop. Nothing had gone right for England after Thomas à Becket was murdered, until the King did humble penance for his part in the murder. And who was this low-born Chancellor to give orders to a holy Archbishop, son of a King?

Geoffrey was taken to Dover Castle and there made a prisoner but the news spread rapidly and the name of Thomas à Becket was repeated again and again. The murmurs against the upstart Chancellor grew and Longchamp realised that his sister, in her attempts to show her loyalty to him, had acted without wisdom. He sent word to Dover that Geoffrey was to be immediately released.

Prince John was at this time in his castle of Lancaster when the Bishop of Coventry called upon him.

‘Your brother Geoffrey has arrived in England,’ he told him, ‘and been imprisoned in Dover Castle by the low-born Norman.’

‘By God’s eyes,’ cried John, ‘he gives himself great powers.’

‘Is it not time, my lord, that they were wrested from him?’

‘How dare the serf’s son arrest a king’s son – albeit a bastard one! ’Tis time he were himself put in a dungeon. I’d like to deal with him with my own hands.’

‘’Twould be better, my lord, to let your servants do that. This last may not be such an ill matter, for surely others who have so far been reluctant to take action against him will now see that this must be.’

John nodded. ‘My good Hugh,’ he said, ‘I believe you to be right.’

Hugh Nunant, Bishop of Coventry answered: ‘I feel sure of it, my lord. Why do you not call together the most important barons to meet you and decide what should be done about the fellow?’

‘I will. We will ride south at once. I’ll have messengers sent. William the Marshal must be there. Men trust him.’

‘The Bishop of Lincoln has already declared himself ready to excommunicate all those who were party to the arrest of the Archbishop of York.’

‘Then let us send for the Bishop of Lincoln to join us.’

John, with Hugh Nunant, immediately set out for the South, messengers riding on ahead of them to invite the barons to join him at Marlborough Castle.

Longchamp was disturbed. It had been a rash act of Richenda’s to order Geoffrey’s arrest. He knew of course that it was done for love of him, but it was going to make trouble.

John would hold it against him. The Prince was already his enemy. This would not help.

He let it be known that he had meant no harm to Geoffrey. The arrest had been the work of his over zealous friends and he himself had had no thought of making a prisoner of the Archbishop of York. He had known that the King had sent him into exile for three years and as he was acting on behalf of Richard and had not heard that his order had been rescinded he considered it only right to ask Geoffrey to go back to France which was in fact all he had done. He reiterated that the arrest had not been on his orders and reminded everyone that as soon as he had heard of it he had set Geoffrey free.

He wondered what was happening on the crusade and whether Richard would come safely through it. It was certain that he would be in the thick of the battle. Could he possibly avoid death? Many did; on the other hand many fell; and soldiers of the Cross were apt to be reckless, seeing in death, when engaged on such a mission, a certain and quick way to Heaven.

And if Richard did not return from his crusade, what of William of Longchamp? It would go ill with him if John ever came to the throne.

Perhaps John never would. Hadn’t Richard named Prince Arthur as his successor? When Richard returned, if Richard returned, he would do his best to persuade him to bring Arthur over to England. The boy should be educated as an Englishman and then when he was of age the people would accept him. After all, as the son of John’s elder brother, he had more right to the throne than John.

Longchamp wrote a letter to the King of Scots asking him if he would support Arthur of Brittany as heir to the throne of England in the event of Richard’s death without heirs. If he would, he would make a pact in Richard’s name, with the King of Scotland. This was the time for if it were known that Scotland supported Arthur that fact must influence a number of people below the Border and they would become accustomed to the idea that Arthur had the prior claim to the throne.

The messenger was sent off but on his way to Scotland he was waylaid and his papers stolen. John’s spies had caught up with him and it was not long before John was reading the message to the King of Scotland asking him to support Arthur’s claim.

John foamed with rage.

‘By God’s eyes and teeth,’ he cried, ‘I’ll kill the Norman with my own hands.’

The Archbishop of Rouen conferred with the Bishop of Lincoln and William the Marshal, that staunch supporter of royalty who had saved Henry II’s life when he had disarmed Richard and indeed had Richard at his mercy; he had spared Richard’s life and had expected to lose his own when Richard came to the throne; but Richard was wise enough to know a good and loyal man when he saw him and guessed that he would serve him as well as he had served his father. In this he had made no mistake.

The fact that the Archbishop of York had been arrested in the name of Longchamp and now he was unmasked as attempting to negotiate with a foreign power with regard to the succession of the throne of England had roused reasonable and worthy men such as the Marshal against him.

In a small chamber at Marlborough Castle these men gathered together with Prince John to discuss what must be done.

William the Marshal said: ‘We have to bear in mind that King Richard gave power to William of Longchamp. What he does, he does in the name of the King and therefore it seems we must act with caution.’

‘Even when he conspires against me?’ cried John.

‘My lord Prince,’ replied the Marshal, ‘it is a matter of his conspiring against the King.’ The Marshal was never one to mince his words. He would speak against the King himself but only in his presence; and he saw it might well be that Longchamp had had secret instructions from Richard to sound the King of Scotland about the succession of Arthur. The news was that he had made a pact with Tancred of Sicily and had offered Tancred’s daughter Arthur as a bridegroom, which was significant.

‘Am I not the King’s brother?’

‘You are,’ answered the Marshal. ‘None could dispute that.’

‘And heir, in the event of the King’s having no issue?’

‘Prince Arthur is the son of your elder brother Geoffrey. It will be a matter for your brother the King to decide.’

John scowled, but he realised how much weight the Marshal carried.

‘It would seem to me,’ said Hugh Nunant, who could always be relied on to support John, ‘that Longchamp has exceeded his powers in arresting Geoffrey of York.’

‘That is true indeed,’ said the Marshal, ‘but he has released him and declares the arrest was made without his knowing.’

‘A likely tale!’ cried John.

‘He released him immediately,’ the Marshal reminded him.

‘When he knew the people were against him and were talking of Becket.’

‘If we but knew the will of the King ...’ began the Marshal.

Then the Archbishop of Rouen spoke. ‘There is a matter I must lay before you. The King having heard that all was not well in the realm and hearing of the unpopularity of Long-champ sent me to govern with him and if the occasion should arise to depose him and take the reins of Regency into my own hands. I can tell you this: There has been no instruction from the King to prepare the King of Scotland to accept Arthur as his heir. He is newly married. It seems likely that he will get a son of his own.’

‘If a Saracen’s arrow does not get him first,’ murmured John.

William Marshal cried: ‘Is this indeed so? Then my lord Archbishop of Rouen is our Regent and we can indeed proceed against Longchamp. The people have never accepted him gladly. He is unpopular. He has exceeded his powers. We will summon him to meet us at the bridge over the Lodden between Reading and Windsor and there we will ask him to give an account of his actions. Do you agree with this, my lord of Rouen?’

The Archbishop declared that he thought it the wisest way to act.

When Longchamp received the summons he was so terrified that he had to take to his bed. He was too ill, he said, to meet his accusers. It was an alarming discovery to realise that he was not merely facing John and his friends, for whom he had no great respect, but others such as the Archbishop of Rouen and William the Marshal; and the fact that the King had given such special powers to the Archbishop of Rouen was very disconcerting.

He could not evade the meeting entirely and promised to be at the Lodden Bridge the following day. Just as he was about to depart one of his servants came hurrying to him with the news that his enemies were marching on London where they intended to take possession of the Tower. So instead of going to Lodden Bridge, surrounded by his troops, he set out for London. On the road he encountered the soldiers of his enemies and there was a clash but Longchamp and his men managed to fight their way through and proceeded with all speed to London.

They reached the Tower and shut themselves in. He was, after all, Longchamp reminded those about him, custodian of the Tower of London in the King’s name.

For three days he remained in the Tower but could hold out no longer.

His enemies then forced him to give up the keys not only of the Tower but of Windsor Castle. There was no help for it; one false step now could cost him his life. He must get out of England, back to Normandy and there begin to reform his life. He was not to leave England was the order, until the castles had changed hands, but he was determined to get away.

The best method seemed to be to disguise himself as a woman; and this he did. A woman pedlar would attract little attention and the fact that she had goods to sell would be a reason for her travelling.

He set out with two of his faithful servants and counted himself fortunate to reach Dover without mishap. Afraid to go near any town or hamlet they slept under trees and by great good fortune when they reached Dover they found that a ship would shortly be sailing for France.

Longchamp, burying his face in his cape and cowering beneath the skirts and petticoats was congratulating himself that he would soon be able to discard them when a group of fishermen came by.

One among them cried: ‘But see what a fair wench this is! What is she doing sitting here alone? I would fain share her company.’

‘You will go away,’ said Longchamp in a muffled voice.

The fisherman nudged one of his companions. ‘What airs she gives herself, this saucy wench, and what sort of wench is she that travels the country so ... selling her wares? What wares? Tell me that, wench. Pray don’t play the coy virgin with me for I’ll have none of it.’ He seized the hood and tried to pull it off. Longchamp clung to it in terror. But they were too many for him, for the three companions of the fisherman had joined with him. ‘Such a coy creature must be immediately relieved of her coyness.’ They would every one of them be her tutors.

They were tearing at his clothes. Any moment now and he would be revealed. He could have wept with dismay. Desperately he fought back, but they were too much for him.

‘Why ’tis no maiden then!’ cried the first fisherman. ‘Look you here, what we have. A man ... in disguise!’

They had made such a noise that others had gathered to look and one of them cried: ‘I know that face. It cannot be!’

‘He has the look of a monkey.’

‘’Tis Longchamp the Norman.’

So the secret was out.

They set three men to guard him while someone went to the castle.

Within an hour he was taken there, a prisoner.

When John heard the story of the amorous fishermen he roared with laughter.

Poor Longchamp! In danger of being raped. And to have got so far and then to be discovered ... and by a fisherman!

It was the height of indignity. He could picture the ungainly little man.

‘His just deserts,’ he declared. ‘Let him go to France. We have no further use for him here.’

And so at the end of October of that year 1191 Longchamp left England for France.