The Prince of Darkness

Chapter XII AN ELECTION AT CANTERBURY

His mother was dead. At least she could not reproach him, and she would have done, comparing him with Richard much to his disadvantage. A plague on them all! Those Norman barons who had gone over to Philip, those English barons who were criticising him for losing his family’s inheritance!

‘I’ll get it back,’ he boasted to Isabella. ‘This is but the fortunes of war.’

He did not want to hear what was happening in Normandy, though he knew that castle after castle was falling to Philip.

‘Let them go,’ he shouted. ‘Knaves. Traitors. By God’s feet, when I regain my territories they shall suffer for it.’

He was playing chess when news was brought to him that Rouen had fallen. Rouen! Rollo’s Tower, the greatest of all Norman cities in the hands of the French! No duke of Normandy would have believed that could ever be possible.

The messenger came and stood beside him. He did not look; he merely nodded and continued to stare at the pieces on the board. Then very deliberately he moved his bishop.

‘They’d better make what terms they can and so preserve their ancient privileges and customs,’ he muttered. Then he shouted to the baron with whom he was playing, ‘’Tis your move, man. What are you gaping at?’

His opponent moved with apparent carelessness which was, in fact, calculated. He knew it would not do for John to lose the game as well as Normandy.

John could not be indifferent to what was happening. People were saying: ‘So Normandy is falling. What of Anjou and Poitou? Is he going to lose every acre of his overseas territories?’

He would make a truce with Philip, he decided; but when Philip heard of this he laughed aloud. There would be no truce, he said, until John handed over Arthur; and he added ominously: ‘Alive or dead.’

So the spectre of his nephew was rising up to haunt John. It seemed that Philip suspected that Arthur was dead and if not directly murdered by John, on his orders. However, he knew very well that John was unlikely to produce the boy, nor would he confess his guilt; but Philip was determined to make the most of John’s discomfiture on the matter. Philip turned his attention to some of the notable barons, such as William Marshal and the Earl of Leicester, who held lands in Normandy. These barons naturally did not want to be dispossessed, nor did they wish to swear allegiance to the King of France. It was a delicate situation, for it could be that Normandy had only temporarily passed into Philip’s hands. Philip suggested therefore that they should pay the sum of five hundred marks each for the privilege of holding these lands for a year, and at the end of that time if John had not regained Normandy, they should swear allegiance to Philip and declare themselves vassals of France.

This seemed a fair enough arrangement and the barons agreed to enter into it.

Being the man he was, as soon as he arrived in England William Marshal had acquainted John with what he had done. John received the news mildly enough. ‘I understand well,’ he said. ‘You are loyal to me and this is the only way you can hold your lands. Depend upon it, before the year is up I shall be back in Normandy.’

William Marshal had not been sure of that, but he was greatly relieved at the King’s acceptance of what he had done.

A few weeks passed while every messenger from the Continent was awaited with breathless suspense, and suddenly John woke up one morning with a change of mood. All his slothfulness had dropped from him.

He sent for William Marshal. ‘The time has come,’ he said, ‘to go into the attack. Philip will have Aquitaine if we do not act. I shall go up and down the country raising troops and money that I may show the King of France that I am now ready to stand against him.’

‘It is late in the day,’ said the Marshal.

‘What, Marshal, no stomach for the fight?’

‘My stomach is ever ready in a good cause.’

‘And you think this is not one? Are you so eager to swear fealty to your French master?’

‘You know me too well, my lord, to make such an accusation with any seriousness.’

Indeed he did, and he could not do without the Marshal. He knew that well enough too. But there was a growing haughtiness among these barons. It was detectable even in William Marshal’s attitude now. They were criticising him for what happened in Normandy. He wanted to scream at the Marshal but he was obsessed now by the desire to go into the fight and he could not quarrel with men like this one at such a time.

William Marshal was thinking how unpredictable John was. This burst of energy was now as compulsive as his sloth had been. For what could one hope from such a king? Sometimes, thought the Marshal, it would seem good for England if we were conquered by the French. Better to be ruled by clever Philip than this king who at times gave the impression that he was verging on madness.

‘So you do not think we should fight for our rights?’

‘I think we should have done so earlier, my lord.’

Yes, it was insolence. But be calm, John warned himself.

‘There is a time,’ said the Marshal, ‘when action should be taken and if opportunities are lost it is sometimes unwise to try to make them later.’

‘You have your views, Marshal,’ said John, ‘and I have mine. I shall start travelling the country today to amass my army.’

The year which Philip had granted to the barons for holding land in Normandy had passed and it was necessary for them to return there and show allegiance to the King of France and to swear ‘liege homage on the French side of the water’. Philip was delighted with this arrangement for it meant that several of the leading barons of England could not in honour take up arms against him on the Continent.

How it was possible to serve one master on one side of the water and another on the other was something to which it was difficult to reconcile oneself, but William Marshal had seen that it was the only possible way in which he could keep his possessions in Normandy and as he, among other barons, was feeling his loyalty to John slackening every day, he at last made the decision that it was the only way out of his dilemma.

Meanwhile, John had spent the winter going up and down the country raising money – never a popular activity – and letting it be known that a rift between himself and his barons was making itself felt. He was going to take an army to France; he was going to win back what the French king had taken and he was determined on this. The people must realise that they were in a dangerous predicament. With Philip in Normandy it was possible that he might be contemplating an invasion of England. Were the people going to allow their country to be overrun by the French, for that was the danger.

Such prophecies brought people to his banner and he was not displeased by the result of his work. Conditions were against him, for the hard winter had made food scarce and dear, and the first signs of rebellion among the barons made itself felt. They incensed him by refusing to swear allegiance to him unless he upheld the rights of the kingdom. He ground his teeth in rage but so desperately did he need to build up his army that he had to promise what they asked.

He commandeered supplies, ordering the men join him, and by Easter he had one of the finest armadas the country had ever seen waiting in Portsmouth harbour to set sail. John went to nearby Portchester to make the final arrangements.

News came from the Continent that Philip was not now amassing his army on the Normandy shores. He had evidently decided that a conquest of England was a tricky undertaking; instead he was turning to attack Poitou.

‘By God’s eyes,’ cried John, ‘it is time I was there.’

There was now no indefatigable Queen Mother to hurry to the defence of Aquitaine. He was alone, John thought bitterly, for whom could he trust? There were many people who were trying to warn him against this undertaking. ‘Traitors,’ he cried. ‘Traitors all.’

There were two men who were in particular set against the expedition – one was Hubert the Archbishop of Canterbury and the other William Marshal.

Hubert as Archbishop was almost certain to be regarded with suspicion by John. Relations between them had been far from easy particularly since John’s return to England, for the Archbishop, like other members of the community, was beginning to realise that John was a tyrant.

Hubert was more than an archbishop; he was a statesman, and many might accuse him of being more the latter than the former; he was an astute man with the good of England at heart and during the years of Richard’s absence he had managed to raise money for his king in the manner which he had learned from his uncle Ranulf de Glanville. When it had been necessary to raise the hundred thousand pounds needed for Richard’s release from captivity he had worked closely with Queen Eleanor to produce the money and had managed this seemingly superhuman task with great credit to himself; and following the methods of Henry II he had succeeded in performing a task so painful to the people of England in such a manner that they resented it far less than might have been expected.

He had of course quarrelled with John but in a moment of good sense John had realised that a quarrel could profit him very little and he made peace with the Archbishop.

Now at Portchester, Hubert was preaching against taking an army into France. The invasion had been too long delayed, he declared. It could end in failure and if that army were beaten how could England be defended if Philip decided to turn his strength towards it?

John raged and ranted, as eager now to go into battle as a short time ago he had been determined to avoid it.

William Marshal too firmly believed that the expedition would be a failure, but he had another reason for not wishing to go to France.

The barons, growing more and more distrustful of John, had been deluded into thinking that they were going to defend Normandy. Now they had discovered that this was not John’s intention. He was going to do battle with Philip for Poitou and Anjou. While the barons were interested in Normandy where so many of them had property, they were not equally so in the other dominions. They began to murmur among themselves and when they discovered that the Archbishop of Canterbury and William Marshal were reluctant too, they took heart and said they did not wish to go.

William Marshal, with a number of the barons, came to speak of the matter with John.

‘I myself could not go to France to fight,’ he said.

‘I understand you not, Marshal,’ cried John.

‘My lord, you know that I and others made a pact with Philip. This we did with your approval, you will remember. We paid him that we might hold our lands for a year, promising that if you did not conquer Normandy by that time we would swear allegiance to him. That time has passed, my lord, and the allegiance has been sworn.’

‘You … traitor!’ cried John. ‘So you have sworn allegiance to my enemy.’

‘With your knowledge, my lord.’

John’s eyes began to protrude and his lips began to move although he did not immediately speak. They all saw the signs of the notorious temper.

‘Arrest that man!’ he shouted. ‘I will not have traitors beside me.’

There was a silence. The barons remained impassive. There was not one of them who would raise a hand against the Marshal.

John began to scream. He pointed at William Marshal with a shaking finger.

‘By God’s ears and teeth,’ he shouted, ‘I tell you that man is a traitor. He has made pacts with the King of France behind my back. He is my man and he cannot fight the King of France because he has made a vow to serve him. This is a man I have allowed to be close to me. I have given him my confidence and he has betrayed me. Arrest him. Take him away. Take him to a dungeon. Let him there await my pleasure … and my pleasure will not be yours, Marshal, I promise you that.’

His eyes raked the silent company.

‘What’s this? What’s this?’ he cried. ‘So none of you move. You stand there. I order and you do nothing … nothing … nothing!’ His voice had risen to a scream. Then he suddenly seemed to grow quiet. ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘I see clearly. You are all against me. Every one of you. Traitors … all of you. By God’s eyes, this is an ugly matter.’

He turned from them and strode off.

The Marshal was against him. The Archbishop was against him. And there was smouldering resentment among his barons.

‘They shall not stop me,’ he screamed at Isabella. ‘I’ll have my way. Rest assured I will. Nothing will stop me … nothing … nothing … nothing.’

And he went on with his preparations.

William Marshal came to him. He looked sad and contrite and for the moment John’s heart leaped with hope because he thought he had come to beg his pardon.

No so the Marshal. John thought: None would think he were my subject. I could take him and imprison him and put out his eyes. Does he forget that?

No, you could not, whispered common sense. If you did the whole country would rise against you. This man is beloved of the barons and the people. Do not delude yourself. You need his friendship.

All the same he scowled at the Marshal.

‘Well,’ he cried, ‘why do you come to me? Why do you not go to the lord you have chosen to serve?’

‘There is one I serve on these shores,’ said William Marshal. ‘There is one I would always have wished to serve. I have been forced to swear allegiance to the King of France when in the land he now commands and I am a man who must keep his oath.’

‘So you swore away your honour for your lands.’

‘I would never swear away my honour, sire. Has it struck you that if – and by God’s grace may it be soon – you regain Normandy you will have strongholds there of those who serve you well. I am one of those.’

‘Am I expected to believe that?’ demanded John scornfully.

‘You must believe as you will, my lord. The facts will remain as they are. I come now to beg you to disband your army.’

‘Because you do not wish to fight against your friend?’

‘If you refer to the King of France I must say I do not wish to. But my reason for braving your wrath and coming to you is to beg you consider. The facts are these: Philip is now in command of vast territories; he can put more men in the field than you can. You know full well the treachery of the Poitevins. Can you trust them? They would be your friends one day and if it was advantageous to them – as it could well be – they would turn to France. And while you were engaged over there with the flower of your army you would leave this land exposed to the invader. Your presence is needed here. The people are disturbed. They liked not the taxation which has had to be imposed to raise this army. The barons are on the edge of revolt. My lord, you can best serve your interests by disbanding your army and staying here, to hold firmly on to what is left to you.’

‘You disappoint me, Marshal. I had thought I could rely on you.’

‘You can rely on me now as ever. I have done nothing disloyal. I had your consent to pay Philip that I might retain my lands in Normandy and you knew full well the condition that if you did not regain Normandy in one year I must swear fealty to him. This I did as you must have known I must. And because I have taken my oath of allegiance to him I cannot in honour bound accompany you to France … if you decided to go – which I hope you will not.’

John clenched his fists and swore but he must not let his temper break out. He had seen the looks in the barons’ eyes and he wondered what they would do next.

He said: ‘I will summon the barons and talk to them.’

The Marshal looked relieved.

John looked round the company. They were all against him … all! He had his mercenaries; they would follow him. But no, he could not go against his barons and his ministers.

‘You advise me not to go,’ he cried. ‘Tell me then what I must do.’

Some of the barons thought that a small company of knights might be sent to Poitou, there to help those who were loyal to him.

‘A company of knights! Is that going to hold Poitou? Is that going to win back Normandy?’ He had become maudlin. He was in tears. He could rely on nobody. Every man’s hand was against him.

‘Very well,’ he shouted. ‘I will dismiss my army. But you won’t stop my going. I shall go, taking with me a few of my loyal supporters.’

The barons gave their opinion that he must not leave the country. It was imperative that during this uncertain state of affairs he remain in England.

‘Do not attempt to tell me what I shall do and what I shall not,’ he screamed at them, forgetting that he had asked for their advice. ‘You will not come with me.’

He left them and went out to the harbour where his own ship was anchored.

‘Prepare,’ he cried. ‘We sail at once.’

His captain was astonished to hear that only this one ship was going to cross, all the rest being disbanded.

‘Nobody will follow me,’ cried John. ‘Then I will go alone.’

He set sail in his ship while the rest of the fleet was dismantled and the soldiers he had gathered together returned to their homes.

He did not intend to go to France though. As his temper cooled and the land receded, he knew it would be ridiculous if he went to France with just one ship’s company.

He gave orders for the captain to put in at Wareham where he alighted, complaining bitterly that he was surrounded by traitors. He had set out for France to regain his heritage and his subjects had deserted him. The disaster abroad was due to them. See, he had been ready to fight. But they were cowards. They had taken oaths to the King of France, forgetting their duty to the King of England in their determination to save their lands. It would always be remembered against them.

He had come to a sorry pass – not for what he had lost but what he had discovered – the treachery of those who should have loved him best!

Philip naturally took advantage of the situation and in a short time had all of Poitou in his possession with the exception of Rochelle, Thouars and Niort.

Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, was feeling his years as he left Canterbury for the town of Boxley where he was going to settle a quarrel between the Bishop of Rochester and some of his monks.

He was getting too old for such journeys and he was suffering from a tiresome carbuncle on his neck which was giving him a great deal of pain. On that morning when he had awakened he felt feverish and had wondered whether to postpone the journey, but it was never wise to allow these quarrels to fester. It was far better he always said to find some quick solution. There was trouble enough in the country. He had been very uneasy of late, particularly since he had been with the King in Portchester when the latter had been there assembling his army to take across the Channel. What violent rages John could fall into! Hubert knew the Angevin temper well; John was not the only member of the family who possessed it for it had been present in almost every member of that family. It might well be true that it had been introduced into their blood by the witch woman whom one of the Dukes of Anjou was said to have married. Henry II had had it, so had Richard to some extent, but never had anyone possessed it to such a mad degree as John. He seemed to verge on madness when it flared up in him and to be possessed by the Devil himself. It was alarming to contemplate that such a man was at the head of the country.

Often the Archbishop thought of the King and wondered what had happened to young Arthur who had so suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. He had been in Rouen; John had gone to Rouen; and that was significant. The Archbishop prayed that John had not been guilty of some foul deed which could only bring disaster to him and, through him, to England.

They were good friends now, but conflict could arise between them at any moment. All monarchs resented the Church, but John more than most and he was not the sort to attempt to behave with diplomacy.

Often the Archbishop wondered whether it would not have been better to have brought Arthur over to England and trained him to become its king.

All this he was thinking as he jogged along on his horse. The heat was great – or was that his fever? The nagging pain of the carbuncle was growing more insistent; he would be glad to rest for the night. By the time he and his retinue came to the town of Tenham he was quite exhausted and very ready to sink into a bed. He could eat nothing and his servants, he could see, were anxious on his behalf.

‘Please let me rest,’ he said. ‘After a good night I shall be fresh for tomorrow’s journey and pray God we shall soon have completed our business and be back in Canterbury.’

But in the morning he was certainly not ready to set out again. The carbuncle was throbbing painfully and the fever had increased. He was a little delirious and he agreed that he must rest here for a few days.

As the day wore on, the fever grew worse. Nor had it improved on the next day; and on the third day after his arrival at Tenham he was dead.

It was necessary to inform the King without delay of the death of his Archbishop; and a messenger set out from Tenham as soon as it was known what had happened.

John was at Westminster with his Queen when the messenger arrived. He was taken straight to the King because it was clear that the news was of the utmost importance.

‘My lord,’ cried the messenger, ‘the Archbishop of Canterbury is dead.’

John stood up and a low smile spread itself across his features.

‘Is it true then?’ he asked.

‘My lord, it is. He died of a fever and a carbuncle at Tenham.’

John turned to Isabella with a smile. ‘Did you hear that? He is dead. Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, is dead. Now for the first time am I truly King of England.’

When news reached Canterbury that the Archbishop was dead, the monks of St Augustine called a conclave at which they discussed the appointing of a new archbishop. This was according to a long-standing tradition, for the Canterbury monks had the right, which they were very eager to maintain, to elect their archbishop.

The Abbot pointed out that the death of Hubert was a great tragedy which they must all deplore but it could be an even greater one if an archbishop were elected who had not the good of the Church at heart. They must therefore come to a decision to select a worthy successor to Hubert and without much delay send to the Pope for his permission that the man of their selection might take the office which was so important to the Church.

They disbanded and arranged to meet again within a week. But before that time John had arrived in Canterbury.

He had come, he said, to pay his last respects to the Archbishop, his dear friend and adviser. He then extolled the virtues of Hubert, inwardly amused as he turned their differences to displays of amity. Such a situation appealed to his sense of humour.

‘We must make sure,’ he told the Abbot, ‘that we appoint a worthy successor to our good Hubert. He would be distraught, looking down from Heaven, if we appointed one who was the wrong man. Of course it is impossible to find one of his worth but we must ensure that he who follows is capable of wearing the mantle so tragically discarded by himself.’

‘We have been thinking deeply on the matter,’ said the Abbot.

John was alert. So you have, have you? he thought. And you would like to put up your man, somebody who would bow to Rome. I know you churchmen! Nay, my old abbot, the next Archbishop of Canterbury is going to be my man as old Hubert never was.

‘It is a matter which all those who have the good of the Church … and the Court … at heart, must consider deeply. I myself have been thinking and it seems to me that I could not find a better man than John de Grey, Bishop of Norwich, who has been a very good friend to his country.’

The Abbot was dismayed. John de Grey was the King’s man. It had been said that Hubert was more a statesman than a churchman but at least he had always had the good of the Church at heart. John de Grey would work entirely for the King and this was clearly why the King had decided on him.

The Abbot did not reply and John went on to extol the virtues of Hubert.

‘Alas, alas we shall never see his like,’ he said and thought: Thank God for that.

He was present at the ceremonial burying of the Archbishop and lingered for six days in Canterbury making himself agreeable to the monks, never again mentioning that he was determined on the election of John de Grey but nevertheless making up his mind that as soon as he returned to Westminster he would send envoys to the Pope. The fact that this had to be done infuriated him as it had kings before him. The yoke of Rome was never very comfortable for a royal neck. It was for this reason that uneasiness always existed between Church and State, and therefore imperative for the King that this most important office should be filled by a man who would work for him. John de Grey was that man.

As soon as John had left Canterbury the Abbot called another meeting.

‘It is clear,’ he said, ‘that the King has decided to put forward the Bishop of Norwich. He is the King’s man; he will do exactly as ordered and that means that if the King demands the abolition of the Church’s privileges, the King’s archbishop will do as ordered. That will not serve the Church well.’

One of the monks reminded the Abbot that it was their privilege to elect an archbishop and ask the Pope’s sanction for his appointment.

‘That is exactly what I suggest we do.’

‘Against the King’s wishes?’ asked one.

‘That is not a State matter,’ replied the Abbot firmly. ‘It is for the Church to choose and as it is our privilege to elect the Archbishop, let us do so. We will then send him in person to Rome to solicit papal approval but not before we have placed him on the Archbishop’s chair.’

There were some of the more timid monks who talked of the King’s displeasure but the Abbot pointed out that not only must the Church stand against the State when necessary but that they who were the monks of Canterbury, where the martyr St Thomas à Becket had shown his defiance to the crown, must inspire their countrymen to do their duty and that lay with the Church. They would, secretly by night, elect their archbishop, go through the ceremony of putting him on the Primate’s throne and then send him to Rome. By the time his election was known he would have the Pope’s consent and when that was given, the King could do nothing.

The monks saw that unless they were going meekly to accept the King’s man, this was how they must act, so they attended the secret conclave and elected their sub-prior Reginald – a pious and scholarly man who had proved his devotion to the Church. They went through the ceremony at the altar and set him on the throne. Then it was agreed that he should set out for Rome without delay and tell the Pope that he had been elected by the monks of Canterbury and that all he needed was the papal sanction for his office.

‘It is imperative,’ said the Abbot, ‘that none should know what has happened here tonight until you have the Pope’s sanction, so I am going to ask you to swear an oath of secrecy.’

Reginald declared that nothing would draw the information from him and he eagerly took an oath swearing absolute secrecy.

Then he set out for Rome.

As soon as John left Canterbury he sent for John de Grey, his Bishop of Norwich.

The King was in a good mood. With de Grey at the head of the Church in England he could look forward to little interference in that direction and he was congratulating himself on having the very man for the post.

‘My dear Bishop,’ he said, ‘it does me good to see you. I have plans for you. What say you to Canterbury?’

‘Canterbury, my lord!’

‘Oh, that makes you open your eyes, does it?’

‘My lord, I know that Hubert is dead …’

‘Interfering old man. His idea was that he would make the State subservient to the Church. He did not say so but the implication was there. Well, now he is no more and we must find another to take his place. Because I know you have been my friend and will continue to be so, I have decided to appoint you Archbishop of Canterbury.’

‘My lord!’ John de Grey was on his knees kissing John’s hand.

‘My dear Bishop,’ said John, ‘I am sure that you will serve me well as you have in the past. You have been a good secretary and friend, and I know that, with you on the Primate’s throne, I shall have done with these trying and interfering old men who would presume to tell me my duty.’

‘I shall serve you with all my heart and soul,’ the Bishop assured him.

‘I know it well and now I shall send envoys at once to Rome, though it irks me to, but so must it be. Then, my dear friend, when you are my archbishop we can work together for the country’s good and keep the Church where it rightly belongs.’

A good day’s work, thought John, when he said farewell to the Bishop of Norwich.

Pope Innocent III, born Lothario of Segni, was a man of great intellectual powers. He had been destined to become Pope ever since the time – some sixteen years before – when he had become a cardinal under his uncle Pope Clement III. Highly educated, he had a lawyer’s mind and was deeply interested in world affairs. He was not content with being the figurehead to whom the Church throughout the world was answerable. He considered all kings and rulers to be subject to the law of the Church and therefore they were under his control no less than the clergy.

Every pope was aware of the conflict which it seemed must inevitably arise between heads of states and the Church and he was more determined than most of his predecessors to keep all subservient to him.

Hubert Walter had been an ideal Archbishop of Canterbury; a strong man who had been a statesman as well as a churchman; it was such men whom Innocent wished to see at the head of the Church throughout the world.

He was surprised, therefore, when Reginald arrived in Rome to ask for his sanction of his appointment as Archbishop of Canterbury. He had never heard of Reginald and as the man had arrived with some secrecy he realised that there must be people in England who would not be eager to see him as Primate. He learned that Reginald had already been elected by the monks of Canterbury, though neither the King nor the bishops had set their seal of approval on this choice. He would make careful inquiries.

He sent emissaries to Reginald and demanded to see his credentials. Reginald assured them that he had been elected by the monks of Canterbury whom ancient tradition allowed to select their archbishop. In his appeal to the Pope he signed himself archbishop Elect.

The Pope was not greatly impressed and laid the matter aside, while Reginald was left chafing with impatience in Rome. There were many who knew why he was there and to them he talked more freely than was discreet, insisting that he had been properly elected and had even been throned in the Primate’s chair. Every document he signed as Archbishop Elect and very soon the object of his mission was well known throughout Rome.

It was hardly to be expected that no one would consider it worthwhile reporting this state of affairs in England. John was at Westminster when he received a caller who had come from Rome with news which he thought should be laid before the King.

John, who had shelved the matter of the election of the archbishop because while there was no archbishop the riches of the see, which were considerable, were at his disposal, was furious.

The monks at Canterbury had dared attempt to outwit him. They had selected their man and sent him to Rome for the Pope’s approval. The perfidy of such an act infuriated him.

He shouted for his servants. ‘Prepare for a journey. I am leaving for Canterbury without delay.’

When the King travelled – which was frequently – none could be unaware of it. He would be at the head of a cavalcade with the Queen riding beside him and not far behind him would be litters and their bearers in case they should get tired of riding. Following them were their ministers, knights, courtiers, musicians, entertainers and the rest; then would come the wagons filled with bedding and cooking utensils and perhaps some piece of furniture of which the royal pair were particularly fond. Servants of all types came behind the wagons and as the party progressed it would be joined by pedlars, harlots, strolling players, all out to earn something from this stroke of unexpected good fortune in being able to join up with the royal party on the move.

Thus the monks of Canterbury heard that the King was coming their way and when this happened they guessed why, and were thrown into a panic. The Abbot’s first act was to send a messenger at once to Rome to repudiate Reginald. He had been indiscreet and had not kept his part of the bargain and therefore they were justified in disowning him.

Meanwhile, John and his retinue arrived at Canterbury and John paid an immediate visit to the abbey and demanded that the Abbot and his chief subordinates stand before him. They quailed before his rising temper.

‘By God’s ears, teeth and feet,’ cried John in a voice which echoed through the vaulted chamber, ‘I’d know what this means. You traitors, you scoundrels! So you have elected your archbishop, have you? You scheming curs. You have lied to me. You have accepted John de Grey and all the time you have been hiding the fact that you have elected a man to the Primate’s throne.’

‘’Tis not so, ’tis not so,’ cried the Abbot, trembling. ‘Nay, you have been misinformed, my lord.’

John looked a little better humoured. ‘How is it then that I hear you have elected your sub-prior Reginald? You have sent him to Rome for the Pope’s sanction. He prates that you have already enthroned him. By God’s eyes, I’ll have you know that I shall soon unthrone him.’

‘’Tis not so. ’Tis not so,’ was all the Abbot could say.

John seized him almost playfully by the shoulders and looked into his face. John at such moments was terrifying; the blood tinged the whites of his eyes and the pupils were completely exposed; his teeth were bared and expressions of cruelty and sadism chased each other across his face.

‘Nay, ’tis not so, ’tis not so,’ he mimicked. ‘For I know this, Sir Abbot, you would not be so foolish as to cross me thus. Did I not come here and tell you that I had appointed John de Grey?’

‘You told us, my lord, that you believed he would be a good archbishop.’

‘And you agreed with me, so it is not conceivable that you could have so deceived me. You would do no such thing. How could you, a godly man, so lie and on such a matter too? All Heaven would rise against you – as would your earthly master, Abbot. By God’s limbs, no punishment would be too great for one capable of such perfidy. It pleases me that you are innocent of this: It should not care to be called on to do my duty in your case. I would have to order that tongue to be cut out … since it was capable of uttering such lies.’

The Abbot by this time, together with the monks, was reduced to such a state of terror that their only desire was to placate the King.

‘My lord … my lord …’ he babbled.

‘Come, come,’ said John. ‘Speak up. You are an innocent man and innocent men have nothing to fear from me. What is it you would tell me?’

‘That … that we will elect an archbishop now while you are with us, my lord, that we may have no fear of offending you.’

‘Well spoken,’ said John. ‘We will elect John de Grey. Then we must perforce send a deputy to Rome for confirmation from the Pope. A fact which irks me, but nevertheless must be. Come, my good friends, we will proceed, for I see we are in complete agreement on this point.’

So before John left Canterbury, his protégé, John de Grey, had been elected Archbishop and it was arranged that a deputation be sent to Rome to inform the Pope of the election and to procure his sanction.

When Reginald heard that the party had arrived in Rome he was furious. That the deputation came with the King’s authority was indeed disconcerting, but he was a man who was determined to have his rights. He had been elected Archbishop, had even gone through the ceremony, and he was not going to be brushed aside if he could help it. He sent further proofs of his election to the Pope who by this time had received the deputation from the King.

Meanwhile, the bishops had learned that there were two candidates for the archbishopric and neither of these men had their support. Those who were in Rome immediately sent their protests to the Pope.

Innocent was irritated. This was all very unorthodox. First the secret election was greatly to be deplored and he was sufficiently well informed on State affairs to realise that John de Grey was the King’s man and that he could expect little support for the Church from him. Although, like all popes, he regarded himself as supreme ruler, none but fools would run the risk of alienating powerful kings, even though the Church he believed should hold sway over temporal rulers; he could not, therefore, openly flout John. But he determined that his man should not become Archbishop of Canterbury.

Innocent believed that when a difficulty of such a nature presented itself a great deal was to be gained by delay, but finally he came up with a decision.

The election of Reginald had not been conducted in a proper manner and therefore he could not give his consent to it. Nevertheless, it had been an election and Canterbury had in fact had an archbishop when John de Grey was elected. Therefore, his election was invalid. The Archbishopric of Canterbury was, in fact, vacant.

This seemed to Innocent an excellent opportunity for putting forward his own man, and he had the very one in mind. This was a certain Stephen Langton. There should be no objection to Langton, the Pope reasoned, for he was reputed to be the most illustrious and learned churchman of the age. Moreover, he was an Englishman, having been born in that country. It was true he had lived there very little, having studied in the University of Paris where he had lived until a year before. There he had lectured on theology and earned himself a reputation as one of the most intellectual men of the day. King Philip, realising his abilities, had shown him great friendship; moreover, he was a man of high moral standing.

A year or so before Innocent had made up his mind that such a man must be recognised for what he was and he sent for him to come to Rome where he made him Cardinal priest of St Chrysogonus. He gave lectures on theology in Rome and had become a friend of the Pope who saw in him a man who could do great service to the Church.

Innocent had learned that when Stephen Langton was invited to Rome, King John had written to congratulate him as an Englishman, for his promotion. John had said that he himself had been on the point of inviting him to come to the English Court for he believed that such an illustrious Englishman should reside in the country of his birth that he might bring credit to it. But since he was in Rome and close to the Pope, doubtless he should not forget that he was an Englishman.

The Pope was amused. So John thought he had an advocate near the Papal Court, did he? He would have to understand that Stephen Langton was no man to be bribed or intimidated. He was one who would stand by his principles in any circumstances, and he was a staunch upholder of the Church and would always support it against any temporal rulers.

He therefore called together an assembly of monks and bishops and told them that his choice had fallen on Stephen Langton and they must agree with him that there was no one more suited to the post, and he therefore proposed to elect him Archbishop of Canterbury. The see was vacant, rendered so by the death of good Archbishop Hubert. The secret election of Reginald, because it had been conducted in an unorthodox manner, was void and the election of John de Grey was similarly so because it had taken place before Reginald had been displaced. Neither of these men seemed so eligible and everyone must agree with him that Stephen Langton was eminently so.

The monks were frightened, but the Pope was at hand and the King was far away, and the Pope could be forbidding. In his hands lay the power of excommunication, which all men feared, for to die with the dread sentence on one meant exclusion from Heaven, and eternal damnation.

Nevertheless, the monks were uneasy. They would have to return to England in due course and face the King’s wrath. On the other hand it was either that or braving the Pope’s. As men of the Church they must fear their spiritual leader more than their temporal one.

There was but one exception. Elias of Brantfield abstained from voting. The rest elected Stephen Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury.