The Prince of Darkness

Chapter XI DEATH AT FONTEVRAUD

Disaster was threatening from all sides and John was haunted by memories of Arthur. Not that he suffered remorse because of what he had done, but fear was there. If it were ever known that he had murdered Arthur with his own hands he would be discredited throughout the world and there were so many waiting to take advantage of him.

He rejoined Isabella and plunged into such a life of voluptuous pleasure as even he and she had not experienced before. He would stay in bed, refuse to see messengers, always fearful what news they would bring. His generals and his ministers were dismayed. They didn’t understand this man who at one time was eager to take everything and at another behaved in the manner best calculated to lose it.

Philip was the first to take advantage of such a situation. Arthur had died on Maundy Thursday; two weeks later Philip had taken Saumur. He was joined by Hugh de Lusignan and the Breton army. The whispers about Arthur’s whereabouts were now becoming angry demands.

William the Marshal came to John and begged him to bestir himself.

‘Philip is undermining us at all strategic points,’ he pointed out.

‘I am in no mood to go to war yet,’ replied John.

‘Philip is in just that mood,’ retorted the Marshal grimly.

‘Leave be. Leave be,’ growled John. ‘Send a deputation to Philip and ask if he is prepared to make a truce.’

‘My lord, why should he? He has his army on the march. He is joined by allies. Why should he consent to make a truce merely to suit your convenience?’

‘Go and ask him,’ cried John, and because the Marshal could see the signs of temper rising he could do nothing but take his leave and carry out the King’s orders.

As he had known Philip laughed them to scorn. If John could humiliate himself so utterly as to beg for a truce now he must be in a sorry state, and the result of that foolish strategy was to set Philip planning more intensive invasions into John’s territory.

Those barons who had no love for John, although they had sworn allegiance to him as their suzerain, wavered in their loyalty. What was the use of a weak king who lay in bed with his wife half the day when the mighty king of France was marching on their castles? Philip captured many; and some surrendered, glad to change their allegiance.

William the Marshal presented himself once more.

‘My lord, my lord, I beg of you, give consideration to what is happening. The King of France has taken your seneschals. Do you know that there are those who will not surrender to France?’

‘’Tis to be hoped it is so,’ said John. ‘Have they not sworn allegiance to me?’

‘For their loyalty many of them have been tied to their horses’ tails and dragged to prison.’

‘I am glad they are good and loyal men.’

‘They are the prisoners of the King of France, my lord. Does that not move you to action? Philip is making himself master of your lands, your goods. He is taking your inheritance bit by bit.

John laughed unpleasantly. ‘Do not excite yourself so, Marshal,’ he said. ‘Let the King of France enjoy himself. I shall win back every castle, every acre of land which he has taken from me.’

‘When shall you start, my lord?’ demanded William Marshal. ‘When you have lost the whole of Normandy?’

The Marshal strode out and left the King.

John hesitated a moment before shouting after him: ‘Come back, you insolent dog.’

But William Marshal pretended not to hear and John knew that there was a man he had to keep working for him. In that moment he felt a twinge of fear. He was losing his grip, he knew. And here he was in Falaise of all places – the castle most associated with his mighty ancestor. Was William watching from the shades now? Was Arthur with him? What would the Conqueror think of Arthur’s murder? One thing, thought John cynically, he would not condemn the murder of Arthur so much as he would the loss of the Norman castles.

He must bestir himself. He thought of the Pope. Philip had not been on good terms with Rome since his defiance over Ingeburga of Denmark whom he had married and put from him. In her place he had taken as his queen the Austrian Princess Agnes of Meran. The Pope had protested and Philip had said some harsh things about Rome, which would not be readily forgotten.

If Innocent would intervene in his favour John might be able to bring about a truce. John therefore complained to the Pope that Philip was making war on him most unjustly and he begged the Pope to help him keep the peace.

This was always a good way of bringing hostilities to at least a temporary halt; for there would be deputations from Rome to be met and discussions to ensure. John thought this would give him an opportunity to remain living as he wished to do without his generals and men such as the Marshal getting excited about Philip’s aggression.

Philip, however, was too clever to be duped in this way. Whatever the Pope said he was going on with his war. It was true, as John had predicted, that he had offended the papal embassy by telling them he had no intention of taking orders from Rome and that his attitude towards a vassal of his – as John, Duke of Normandy was – was his affair.

John saw that prevarication from Rome could avail him nothing because Philip was going to ignore it completely. It was inevitable therefore that he bestir himself.

But he was too late. Philip had already turned his attention to that bulwark of Norman strength, the great Château built by Cœur de Lion, the Château Gaillard, which if it fell would open up the way to Rouen and the whole of Normandy for Philip and thus enable him to congratulate himself that he was on the road to fulfilling his great ambition – to make France as great as it had been in the days of Charlemagne.

It had come at last. The French were besieging Château Gaillard, the last bastion of the dukes of Normandy. How long could it hold out? wondered John. He was in the castle at Rouen, the scene of Arthur’s murder. He had no wish to go to that castle but it was all that was left to him.

He knew that his generals and advisers, men such as William Marshal, were disgusted with him. Only loyalty held them to him. How Hugh de Lusignan must be exulting now. How the Bretons must be rejoicing. Did they hope to discover their Duke and set the ducal coronet of Normandy on his brow? John laughed. Arthur would not look well in that.

Château Gaillard, Richard’s pride and joy, the castle which had proclaimed the dukes of Normandy masters of the land – about to fall to the French.

They were blaming him, he knew. They were whispering together of how he had lain abed with his wife while his castles were falling one after another to the King of France.

‘Let them,’ he cried aloud. ‘I’ll win them all back.’

But he knew in his heart that he couldn’t. Sometimes he had fantasies that were like nightmares that all the past dukes of Normandy congregated about his bed: Rollo, William Longsword, Richard the Fearless, the Conqueror himself, the most forbidding of them all; even Rufus, who would have nothing much to boast of, Henry I the lawyer king, Stephen, who was not much either, although he was a great soldier, soft in battle though for different reasons from John; and his own father, Henry II. How angry he would be. And Richard … well, Richard, what did you care for your lands when you left everything to go off on the Crusades?

It is going fast, he muttered. Normandy is going. Well, I still have Anjou, Poitou and England of course. I am still King of England.

He wished he were in England, away from it all. He would go soon. He would have to when Gaillard fell, and Gaillard was going to fall. How could they hold out against the besiegers much longer?

William Marshal came to him, sick with grief, and sorrowful.

‘My lord, this is a sad day for Normandy.’

‘Cannot they hold out at Gaillard?’

William Marshal shook his head. ‘Philip surrounds the place. There is no way of breaking through. Everything has been left too late.’

‘Cheer up, Marshal. I have good friends and all that is lost will be regained.’

‘My lord, I think I must tell you, there has long been discontent among the Norman barons.’

‘Treason!’ cried John.

‘I’d scarcely call it that, my lord. They say that you were disinclined to protect them. They have seen many captured by the French and held prisoner, their lands and castles taken. They say that if you are not prepared to stand by them then they must perforce seek another master.’

‘Philip?’ snarled John.

‘’Tis so, my lord. Philip sends his spies among them. It is hinted that if they wish to live in peace they should swear allegiance to him and accept him as their suzerain which he is by rights … so says he. For you, the Duke, are his vassal for Normandy and they being your vassals are in truth his. He is offering them exemption from conquest if they will come over to him.’

‘They cannot do that, Marshal. They would be traitors to Normandy if they did.’

‘They say Normandy has not cared for them and they will offer themselves to France.’

‘My God,’ said John, ‘has it come to that then?’

‘It has, my lord. The commander of Gaillard has communicated to Philip that if you do not come to his rescue within the month he will surrender, for he can no longer hold out.’

‘What then?’ asked John.

‘My lord, we are in no condition to go to their aid, and all the castles from Bayeux to Anet have pledged Philip that once he is master of Rouen they will surrender to him.’

‘If Gaillard falls …’

‘Then Rouen would be lost and with Rouen Normandy.’

‘We will regain everything … everything,’ cried John. He raised his face, his eyes suddenly alight with excitement. ‘I will go to England. I will talk to my barons there. I will raise a great army. And I will come and take from Philip everything he has taken from me … aye, and more also.’

William Marshal regarded him sadly.

‘So,’ went on John, ‘I shall leave for England but soon I shall return.’

When William Marshal had gone John went to Isabella and told her that they were going to England without delay.

‘I am weary of this place, surrounded as I am by traitors. We are going back to England. There we shall have peace.’

‘And what will become of Normandy?’ she asked.

‘Philip will take it for a while … but only for a while.’

She did not answer and he said suddenly: ‘Why do you look like that? You are like everyone else. You think it is my fault.’

Still she did not answer and he shook her. ‘Speak,’ he cried. ‘Speak.’

She looked at him fearlessly. ‘Mayhap if you had been more of a soldier …’

‘It was your fault. You kept me chained to your bed.’

That made her laugh.

‘Where are the chains?’ she asked.

‘You are a witch. You bewitched me.’

‘Nay, ’twas your own appetites which chained you.’

‘You fed them well.’

‘As was my duty.’

They began to laugh and again she thought of Hugh who would have been so different.

‘We’ll go to England,’ said John. ‘We’ll have a family. That will please them. It’s about time you gave me sons.’

‘I am ready.’

‘Away from this cursed place. I’ve had enough of it. I long for Westminster.’

‘When do we go?’

‘I have already sent on the baggage. We’ll slip away in the early morning before they arise.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Because they will reproach me. Old Marshal thinks I should stay here and fight. I’ll swear he’s telling himself that that is what Richard would have done.’

‘I shall be glad to be gone,’ she said.

‘It is well that we are away. When Gaillard goes, Rouen will soon follow, depend upon it.’

‘And we do not wish to be here when that happens?’

‘You speak truth there. So … very soon we’ll be in England.’

The castle retainers woke one morning to find the King and Queen had gone. William Marshal explained that the King had returned to England to arouse the barons there to action and to acquaint them with the need to raise an army to save Normandy.

But no one believed the King would do that; and they thought that since he had taken his Queen with him he did not intend to return soon.

Shortly afterwards Château Gaillard fell to the French, and it was clear that Normandy would soon be lost.

Queen Eleanor in the Abbey of Fontevraud knew that her end was near. She was eighty-two years old – a great age. Few had lived so long. She had lived life to the full and had borne many children. She often thought back over the years and dreamed that she was young again. She could not complain, she supposed; it had been an exciting life.

She could not cut herself off from the outside world as the nuns did. She had her family, she reasoned with herself; she cared for them still and she must know what they were doing that she might pray for them.

She still mourned Richard. It was but five years since his death and she had loved him so dearly – best of them all. He had been born to be king – with all the kingly virtues, save one. It was a pity that he had so little love for women and had disappointed her and his people by not begetting a son. Then she thought of poor Berengaria whose life had been so different from her own and she wondered what she was doing. Did she still think of the time when she and Joanna were in the Holy Land? If she did she would be mourning Joanna’s death.

Death, thought Eleanor, is constantly with us – and now it is my turn.

One of her messengers came to the abbey, for she often sent them out on errands since she must know what was happening in the outside world.

She could not believe it. It was not possible. The messenger assured her that it was.

Château Gaillard fallen to the French!

Richard’s beloved castle. She remembered when he had built it. How he had called it his darling daughter and he had loved it as he could never have loved a child. It was the perfect castle, the impregnable fortress, the gateway to Rouen. And it had surrended to the French!

Oh, Richard, she thought, I could almost be glad that you had not lived to see this day.

What other news? The King had gone to England. Rouen was ready to fall and so was the whole of Normandy. In a short time it would all be in Philip’s greedy hands.

Oh, my son John, she thought. That it has come to this. It should never have been. Arthur perhaps. But no. He was but a child and the English would not have him. Would they not? How did they like John? And where was Arthur? He had disappeared mysteriously. He had been in Rouen and John had gone to Rouen. Could John tell them where Arthur was?

If he had escaped by jumping out of a window, as some believed, where was he now?

She was old and she was tired. And Normandy was all but in the hands of the French. And what could she do? Richard was not here to comfort her. If you had lived, my Lion Heart, this would never have happened. You would never have let sly Philip triumph. But all that is left is John …

Oh, John my son, what will become of Normandy, of England, with you at the helm?

How times had changed. In the old days she would have ridden to Poitou. She would have declared her intention of holding it for John, of raising an army, of going into battle for Normandy.

But she was too old now and there was nothing to do but turn her face to the wall.

And so in her eighty-third year she died in Fontevraud and they buried her by the side of the husband she had loved and hated; and they made a statue of her which they laid on her tomb. Serenely the stone figure looked on the world – the strong features clearly marked, wearing the gorget, wimple and coverchief over which was the royal diadem. In the hands had been carved a book and there this statue remained to remind the world that Eleanor of Aquitaine had once lived her turbulent life.

And so John lost not only Normandy but his mother.