The Prince of Darkness

Chapter XIII THE SPECTRE OF ARTHUR

John had other matters with which to concern himself at this time. If he were not going to lose the whole of his Continental possessions to Philip he must do something about the matter. He consulted with his generals and ministers and it was decided that if a small force could be taken to La Rochelle, which was still loyal to him, it might be possible to start an offensive and regain some of the lands lost to him. Moreover, La Rochelle would not be able to hold out for long if Philip made a determined attack on it. He could hire mercenaries to fight for him. He declared they were often more reliable than his own knights; a mercenary was in the battle for what he could get and if there were plenty of spoils that was good enough for him. Men of principle, such as the Marshal, were not always as useful as they might have been.

It was in June, while the controversy about the election of the archbishop was going on in Rome, that John and his small force set sail for La Rochelle; and to his great joy when he arrived there it was to discover that Aquitaine was prepared to stand with him, for it was clear that Philip was casting covetous eyes on that duchy which had no desire to be ruled by him.

After securing his position at La Rochelle John went to Niort, another stronghold which had remained faithful to him. He began to score a few successes which, although they were far from decisive, had the effect of making the wary Philip reconsider the position and decide that he was not at this time ready for a major offensive.

The result was that he was quite prepared to agree to a truce which was to last two years. John was delighted. He had not hoped for such success, and one of the terms of the treaty was that Isabella – her father having died – should be declared the Countess of Angoulême. This meant that John had allies which he had not possessed when he had set out on his expedition; and, moreover, he had two years in which to prepare to go to war with France and regain all that he had lost.

He came back to England in high good spirits, laughing inwardly at all those knights who had criticised him for lying in bed half the day and neglecting his duties. This would show them. When he did take action he was successful. He had promised them that he would win back all he had lost to Philip and he would.

Almost immediately on his return he received news of what had happened in Rome.

The Pope had dared to reject his man and elect Stephen Langton.

The King’s fury was such that it threatened to choke him. He could only splutter in dismay and all those about him knew that they were in for one of his major rages. They faded away from him, fearing that he might give vent to his feelings on any who were close at hand.

He went to Isabella and told her what had happened. Tears of rage spurted from his eyes and he plucked at the jewelled buttons on his cloak, pulling them off and throwing them about the room.

Isabella languorously asked what ailed him.

‘What ails me?’ he screamed. ‘That rogue of Rome has set up his man for the archbishopric.’

‘Which man?’

‘One called Stephen Langton. A great scholar, he says. I want no scholars. I’ll put out the fellow’s eyes and see how he attends to his studies then. Very clever he is said to be, well so am I, I tell you. So am I.’

‘We know,’ said Isabella, ‘and we know also that you are the King. How dare the Pope put up his man and can he do that if you are against it? I suppose he can as Pope.’

John was foaming at the mouth. ‘No, he can’t. I’ll not have it. Stephen Langton can stay in Rome where he belongs, for if he attempts to come here he’ll soon be lying in a dungeon minus some vital organ, I can tell you.’

‘Be calm, John.’

‘Calm! When my authority is flouted? Am I King of this realm or am I not?’

‘Undoubtedly you are, so behave like it.’

For a moment his rage was turned on her. ‘Do not try me too far, madam. I have been over-soft with you because you have good bed manners, but you are not in bed now.’

That made her laugh and he came to her and seized her angrily. She slid her arms about his heck, and pressed her body against his. He immediately felt the familiar surge of desire. It was strange how she could move him still. It astonished him. She was incomparable. It was some quality … witchcraft they said. If it was, he didn’t mind. He liked it. Still he was glad of the women who now and then replaced her. If she knew about them she’d be mad with rage. He held that against her. She was more in his power than he was in hers.

But this was too important a matter to be shrugged aside by pleasures which he could indulge in at his will. Now he was furious with the Pope and he was going to let the whole world know.

He put her from him and shouted: ‘If I gave way the whole world would laugh at me. I appoint an archbishop and the Pope says no and sets up his. No king would stomach that – nor should I. Why do you sit there smiling?’

‘Because you would set up a man who would work for you and the Pope would set up one who would work for him. The stronger man will win.’

‘And you know who that is.’

‘You, my King. You of course.’

He was not going to be sidetracked with soft words. He was going to show Rome and England that he was the King who would rule his own country and that included the Church within it. He was not going to have the Pope setting himself up over the King.

He set out at once for Canterbury and again the Abbot and his monks were thrown into a panic when they heard of the King’s approach.

He summoned them all to meet him and although his rage was great it was by this time somewhat under control.

He shouted at the assembly. ‘By God’s teeth, there are traitors here. There are liars and enemies of the King. I forget not that I came here and was told that Reginald had not been elected. Then it seemed he had. And knowing that you had elected Reginald, yet you denied it and elected John de Grey. So says the Pope this makes both elections invalid and he would set up his own man. I will not have this man. I … and I alone, will select my archbishop. I will have people of my choice, those who work for me and not for themselves or the Pope. You thought to trick me. Do not deny it. I know full well your cowardly ways. In secret you set your choice upon the Primate’s throne. A plague on you all. You are no longer monks of mine. Get out! This is no longer your abbey. Go, go … go! No … not tomorrow … nor the next day … as you are now … now unless you, wish to be cast into dungeons, which you richly deserve. What would be the best punishment for you, I wonder – to deprive you of the eyes that looked on that treacherous ceremony or the tongues which applauded it?’

He was amused to see the terror dawn in people’s faces at the prospect of these terrible punishments. To threaten them with death could not produce the same concern.

‘So shall it be,’ he cried. ‘If you are not on your way this very day. Where to? you might ask. Go where you will. Go crawling back to the master whom you thought to serve better than you serve me. Go to Reginald and ask him to care for you. You gave him your support … in defiance of your King … let him support you now.’

The rage was in control. This was more enjoyable … to inflict punishment on others rather than himself because when the rages were out of control he came close to injuring himself. How much more fun to strike terror into their hearts.

That day sixty-seven of the monks left Canterbury and made their way to the Continent. John was pleased, for now he was in possession of their lands.

He was in no hurry to settle the dispute – even to install John de Grey – because until there was an Archbishop of Canterbury the riches of that very prosperous see remained in his possession.

John sat down to write to the Pope. He was not going to curb his anger. He wanted Innocent to know that he had no intention of submitting to his will. He would not accept Stephen Langton as his archbishop and he understood well Innocent’s reasons for trying to impose this man upon him. He wanted to force papal doctrines on him which as a King of England he could not accept. It was a matter of amazement to him that a Pope could have so little regard for the friendship of the King of England as to treat him with such a lack of respect, as a man whose desires were of so little consequence. John was afraid that he must point out to His Holiness that he could not – nor would he – accept such treatment; and if the Pope had so little regard for him, that was not the case with others. He knew nothing of this man, Stephen Langton, except that he had been particularly well received at the Court of King Philip in France – a man who had shown himself to be no friend to John, indeed he would find it difficult to name one who was a greater enemy to him. And this was the man whom the Pope – without the sanction of the King of England – had chosen to be England’s Primate. This was beyond John’s understanding.

Exceedingly irritated to receive such a letter, the Pope wrote with great dignity reminding the King, in every line, of his supremacy over temporal rulers.

‘The Servant of the Servants of God informs the King of England that in what he has done there was no cause why he should tarry for the King’s consent, and as he has begun he will proceed according to canonical ordinances neither to the right nor to the left …’

John scanned the letter with growing impatience.

‘We will for no man’s pleasure,’ went on the Pope, ‘defer the completion of this appointment, neither may we without stain of honour and danger of conscience.’

John ground his teeth in anger. ‘Curse him. Curse him!’ he cried. ‘God curse all my enemies … and none more than this one who calls himself the servant of Your servants.’

‘ … Commit yourself therefore to our pleasure which will be to your praise and glory and imagine not that it would be to your safety to resist God and the Church in a cause for which the glorious martyr Thomas has shed his blood.’

Any reference to Thomas à Becket always made John uneasy. Becket had been the cause of his father’s public humiliation at Canterbury. He must never find himself forced to do the sort of penance his father had. Curse on all churchmen who made saints of themselves!

The Pope went on to say that he did not believe John was as ignorant of Stephen Langton’s qualities as he implied. True, Stephen had spent little time in England and had been appreciated by the King of France, as a man of such outstanding ability must be by all with whom he came into contact. John himself must be aware of his work – if only the revision of the Bible. It was not only in Paris that Langton had enjoyed great fame. The Pope had heard of it in Rome and he knew that John had in England, for had he not mentioned this to Stephen Langton himself when he had congratulated him on being elected Cardinal? John should be gratified that such a man was bringing his great intellectuality to England.

John danced with rage when he read the Pope’s reply.

‘Does he think we have no men of intellectual stature here? We have our scholars here. Does he think England is populated with the ignorant?’

He sat down and wrote in the heat of his anger once more to the Pope. He would not have Stephen Langton in Canterbury. He had decided on John de Grey and John de Grey it should be. If the Pope did not agree with him, if he withheld his sanction, let him. Why should he be governed by Rome? He was quite prepared to break away if the Pope wished it. Let the Pope do his worst. He was ready for him, but first let him consider how much poorer he would be from all the benefits which he would miss from England, for if John broke with Rome he would not allow his churchmen to journey back and forth taking rich gifts, which he knew they did now. It was not England which would suffer; it was Rome.

This vituperation was received coldly by Rome.

The Pope merely replied that John should give thought to what could happen to him if he continued to offend the Holy Church. This was a hint that there could be excommunication for him and an interdict placed on England.

John snapped his fingers and put the matter from his mind. Another event had occurred – a much more pleasant one. In the early part of the year Isabella had discovered that she was pregnant.

Isabella was delighted. She was nearly twenty years old and had been John’s wife for seven. She had begun to be rather worried about the fact that she had not conceived during that time. It was true that John had not wished her to in the first years of her marriage – and it may well have been that her extreme youth had prevented her from doing so. In those early years neither of them had wanted children and even later the passion between them and the sexual satisfaction which was so necessary to them both was of far greater importance than anything else.

And now she was sure. She was with child.

She had to watch her beautiful body – of which she was very proud – become misshapen. Never mind, it would return to its former beauty when the child was delivered. It would be interesting to have a child, and she hoped for a son.

John was delighted when he knew.

‘People have been murmuring,’ he said. ‘They’ve been saying we couldn’t get children and that it was God’s punishment because we were too fond of the preliminary act.’ He laughed aloud. ‘They were sniggering about us, my love, when we lay abed till dinner time. Remember those days?’

‘I remember them well.’

‘And no child to show for them! That was strange, they said. They can say that no longer.’

‘Do you think it will be a boy?’

‘Of a certainty,’ said John. ‘The first of many.’

‘Not too many,’ Isabella reminded him. ‘Your father had too many and look what happened to some of them …’ She looked at him slyly. ‘And their offspring.’

He flushed with sudden anger. He did not like to remember that scene in Rouen Castle when he had looked down at the still figure of his rival nephew; nor did he like to think of himself and the mute carrying the body down to the river. Could he trust the mute? What could the man say when he had been so conveniently deprived of his tongue, which was the very reason John had used his services on that occasion.

No matter how careful one was, such news seeped out sometimes. Where is Arthur? was a question which was going to be asked for some time to come and there was one who would be determined to find the true answer: Philip of France.

Isabella should not have reminded him. She had always been over-saucy, perhaps because he had been so enamoured of her, but he was less so now. Other women could please him too, although oddly enough he still preferred her. But he would brook no insolence from her.

‘People should learn their lessons,’ he growled.

She folded her hands together and raised her eyes piously to the ceiling. ‘’Twould be good for us all to do that,’ she observed meekly enough but with sly insinuations.

No matter for now, he thought. She was comely; and he could still say that he was well pleased with his marriage. If she gave him a son, he would be delighted.

Success on the Continent – for not even his worst enemies could say he had not made progress – and an heir at last!

She was only twenty. There were years of childbearing ahead of her.

Yes, he was as delighted as ever with Isabella.

Isabella was six months pregnant when news came that Innocent had consecrated Stephen Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury.

John laughed sneeringly when he heard and told Isabella that Innocent could have saved himself the trouble, for the election was not going to be recognised in England. He’d not have Langton set foot on his shores, and by God’s feet and toes as well, he’d put John de Grey in the Primate’s chair.

It was a different matter when the Pope sent instructions to the leading churchmen of England and Wales reminding them of their duty first to the Church; and he named three of them, William, Bishop of London, Eustace, Bishop of Ely, and Mauger, Bishop of Worcester – three of the most important – to approach the King and remind him also of his duty.

It was three very apprehensive bishops who faced John.

He shouted at them: ‘Come, my good Bishops, you have come to talk to me. You come straight from your master and I believe you are very bold when you are not in my presence. What ails you now that you tremble?’

‘My lord,’ said William of London, ‘we come on the orders of the Pope.’

‘The Pope,’ screamed John. ‘He is no friend to me, and nor are those who value his friendship more than mine.’

‘We would beg of you, my lord,’ said Eustace of Ely, ‘to listen to His Holiness’s commands.’

‘It is a king who commands in this country, Bishop,’ retorted John.

‘In all matters temporal,’ Mauger of Worcester reminded him.

‘In all matters,’ snarled John.

‘My lord,’ said the Bishop of Ely, ‘if you would but receive Stephen Langton and give the monks permission to return …’

‘You are mad,’ cried the King. ‘Do you think that I will allow myself to be so treated? You come to threaten me. Is that so?’

‘Nay, nay,’ cried the bishops in unison. ‘We but come to tell you the wishes of the Pope.’

‘That he will lay an interdict on my kingdom. Is that what you would say?’

‘I fear, my lord,’ said the Bishop of London, ‘that if you will not accept Stephen Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury and allow the monks to return there, the Pope will put the country under interdict.’

‘As I said, as I said. And let me tell you this.’ John narrowed his eyes and his looks were venomous. ‘If any priest under my rule should dare to obey the Pope in this matter, I shall take his property from him and send him a beggar to his master the Pope since it will be clear to me that he is no servant of mine and it is meet that he should go to his master.’

‘His Holiness will not allow the matter to rest,’ began Eustace.

‘No, he will send his envoys with dire threats, I know that. And I shall let him know who is ruler here. Not him, he must understand, but the King. Tell him this … you who serve him so well … that if I catch any of his envoys on my land I shall send them back to their master … aye, and not in quite the same condition as that in which they came. They’ll grope their way back for they’ll have no eyes to see with and I’ll slit a nose or two for good measure.’

‘My lord, I beg of you, remember that these messengers would come from His Holiness.’

‘Remember it. Remember it. Do you think I should forget? It is for that reason that I shall make them very sorry they ever came this way. As for you, my lord Bishops, I have endured your company too long. It maddens me. It sickens me. Get out … while you are still in possession of your organs, for by God’s ears, if you are not gone from my sight in the next few minutes I shall call my guards and you will be shown what happens to men in this realm who dare defy me.’

They could see that he meant it, for the temper was beginning to flow over.

They bowed and hurried out.

John burst into loud laughter as he watched them.

‘Farewell, my brave Bishops,’ he shouted.

Isabella was lying in at the castle at Winchester which had been built by the Conqueror.

It was October and the leaves of the trees were turning russet, red and bronze. She lay in her bed and waited for her child to be born, fearful yet expectant, asking, ‘Will it be a boy or a girl?’

Isabella would prefer a boy, of course, but it would be amusing to have a daughter. How she would enjoy dressing a girl! Would she be beautiful like herself or resemble John who was scarcely that?

John was getting old now, having lived for forty years. That mattered little. She was but twenty. It was perhaps well that she was having a child, for she was no longer as eager for John’s company as she had once been. Sensual in the extreme she still was – but not for John. During her pregnancy she had been thinking a great deal of the child and like most women she had changed a little. But once the child was born those desires which had been so important to her would return – but they would not be for John.

But the child was the main concern now. Here she was in this ancient town of Winchester where it was fitting that heirs to the throne should be born – Winchester, one of the oldest towns of the country. The Early Britons had called it Caer Gwent or the White City; then the Romans had come and named it Venta Belgarum and it was the Saxons who afterwards called it Witanceaster which had become Winchester.

The original castle was said to have been founded by King Arthur himself and it was in this city that when the people were weary of the Danish occupation the order had gone out that all good Saxon women should take a Danish lover and on a certain night each should, as he lay in bed beside her, cut either her lover’s throat or his hamstrings. That had been the order of Ethelred the Unready. She could imagine John’s giving such an order.

When her pains started she could think of nothing but the need to come through her ordeal. There were people in plenty about her bed to help her along and the labour was neither very long nor too distressing.

‘My lady will give birth easily,’ she heard one of them say.

And so it was, for not long after she had been brought to bed her child was born.

It was a moment of the greatest satisfaction when she heard the words: ‘A boy. A fine and healthy boy.’

The child was christened Henry after his grandfather Henry II and there was general rejoicing, many expressing the hope that the baby would resemble the King whose name he shared, commenting that they could hardly have expressed such sentiments if he had had his father’s name.

His birth had subtly changed the relationship between his parents. Isabella had quickly regained her good looks and her main attraction would always be that inherent sexuality which had been apparent when she was a child and would remain with her until her death, but the pregnancy and the birth had sent John elsewhere and he continued to roam.

Isabella was for a while absorbed by the child and as she realised the satisfaction of motherhood, she decided that there must be more children; little Henry needed a brother or sister and it was always wise for a king to have several children.

After the stormy interview with the bishops, John guessed the Pope’s answer would not be long in coming. He was right. Just before Easter of the following year the interdict was pronounced from Rome and it was to cover England and Wales.

This meant that there was to be no public worship in churches, and sacraments were not permitted to be administered. Services could be preached – but only on Sundays – and not in church for the church doors must be kept closed. They must take place in the graveyards. Women had to be churched in the porch of the church and there were no burial services nor could any person be buried in consecrated ground.

This caused a great deal of distress among the people who feared that this final shame of being buried in a trench might impair their hopes of a heavenly reception.

Aware of the murmurings of the people against him for having incurred this quarrel with the Pope, John’s determination to fight the enemy increased.

‘The Pope has taken from my people their rights to religious consolation,’ he cried. ‘Very well, I will show the Pope what I can do to his servants. Any priest who closes his church to the people will forthwith lose his possessions, for I will not allow him to have them when he turns his face against the needs of the people.’

The priests were in a quandary. What should they do? Lose their goods or as they thought their souls? Many of them decided against their goods, much to John’s amusement.

‘By God’s hands,’ he declared, ‘this interdict makes me grow rich. I am not sure that I should not be grateful to Master Innocent after all.’

The clergy were in trouble whichever way they turned. If they obeyed the Pope they lost their possessions to the King; if they refused to obey the Pope they were excommunicated. Many of them, including the three bishops who had warned the King, fled the country.

‘Let them go,’ screamed the King. ‘As long as they leave their goods behind them, why should I care? I hope Innocent realises how he is enriching me.’

He began to cast about for means of gaining more from the situation. He knew very well that some of the rich churchmen kept their secret mistresses and it appealed to John’s sense of humour to extract money through them. He sent his men throughout the country to spy out the secret amorous lives of these outwardly moral churchmen. When a mistress was discovered John arranged that she should be kidnapped. He then sent messengers to the churchmen telling them how much would be paid in fines for the return of their mistresses.

This caused the King a great deal of amusement and in spite of the Interdict he was enjoying life.

He had a healthy son who was almost a year old and Isabella had become pregnant again.

Her second son was born at Winchester a little more than a year after Henry had appeared, so now she had two healthy sons, as though to make up for the unproductive years.

Little Henry was proving to be quite bright and a source of interest and she found that she liked to be with her children. The second boy was named after his uncle, Richard Cœur de Lion, which pleased the people and the two little boys did much to add to the popularity of the King and Queen.

They were not very often in each other’s company and Isabella was well aware that he had mistresses. She was not going to accept that without some protest, but as she did not particularly wish for his company she decided against bringing the matter up with him.

She found herself looking round and admiring some of the more handsome young men; they looked at her with fearful longing, no doubt aware of the invitation in her glances and dreaming of the excitements they could share with her, while at the same time they must consider the terrible consequences of being discovered by an irate husband – and such a powerful one.

Danger added to the excitement and Isabella knew that it was in time to become irresistible. She too thought of the consequences. Suppose such an encounter resulted in a child, would it be so important? She had two sons who were undoubtedly John’s. John had had a number of bastards, but that was before their marriage. There may have been others later of whom she had not heard, but for the first years of their marriage he had undoubtedly been faithful to her. No man could have been more zealous in his attentions and he had had neither time nor inclination to disport himself elsewhere.

But now there was change. Some wives might have thought it necessary to act with especial care, to placate him, to play the humble wife. But that was not Isabella’s nature. Her power was still there, as potent as it was when she was thirteen – more so, for now she was so very experienced, and no man could be in her presence without being deeply affected by her; there could have been very few whom she could not move to desire with very little effort. As for the young and the lusty, they were ready to risk almost anything for her favours. Anything. Yes, they had to consider that. She wondered what punishment John would think up for one of her lovers.

She played with the idea; her looks, her gestures were full of invitation. She wanted a lover who was prepared to take enormous risks for a brief spell with her.

The inevitable must happen. How thrilling it was! The secret meeting, letting him into her bedchamber, wondering all the time if anyone had seen. It was the most exciting adventure she had known for years.

Why had she been content with that ageing man of the violent temper when there were handsome young men who adored her and were ready to risk mutilation for her sake? Mutilation that would be the most terrible John’s warped mind could conceive, she was sure.

Life had a new spice for Isabella.

John was pleased with his swollen exchequer. The city of London was also pleased because the new bridge which had taken thirty-three years to build had now been completed. It was nine hundred and twenty-six feet long and forty feet wide and supported by twenty unequal arches. It was indeed a worthy sight and a great boon to the people. They were proud of it.

But even the citizens of London were ill at ease and they talked incessantly of the Interdict.

Burial in unconsecrated ground was but one cause for apprehension. To be denied the comfort the Church could offer was intolerable to a great many people, moreover, they feared the wrath of Heaven on the ungodly of which, if the doors of the Church had been closed upon them, it seemed they must have become. If they had had to go to war, which was very likely, there would not have been a soldier in the army who would not have felt a great sense of uneasiness and have been convinced that God could not be on the side of men who were the victims of the Pope’s Interdict.

It was all very well to have defied Rome for a while but it should not continue. He decided therefore that if the monks of Canterbury returned to England he would allow them to do so and that he would be ready to meet Stephen Langton to discuss matters with him.

This was a step in the right direction, said the Pope, and it was arranged for Stephen Langton to come to England in the company of several of the exiled bishops. The Pope was adamant that if the Interdict was to be lifted John was to obey all the terms laid down by Rome and failing that His Holiness would have no alternative but to excommunicate John.

In due course the three bishops arrived with Stephen Langton. John met them at the coast and there was an immediate discussion between them.

John said that he would reinstate the monks; he would accept Stephen Langton as Archbishop but he would not receive him or show him favour.

The bishops replied that unless John conformed to all the Pope’s terms he would be excommunicated.

‘One clause of the agreement must be fulfilled,’ he was told, ‘and that is that you must return all the confiscated property to their rightful owners.’

The thought of losing all that he had gained and meekly giving in infuriated John.

‘Get you gone,’ he cried. ‘Tell Innocent to excommunicate me if he wishes. I care nothing for him nor his threats. I shall keep what is mine and chief of my possessions is the right to rule the country of which I am King. Get back to your master before I am tempted to give you your deserts, you traitors.’

The party left without delay and the result was excommunication for the King of England.

As the effect of the excommunication began to be felt the King was mad with rage. It brought home more clearly than anything could have done the power of the Pope. That the land he ruled should be in such fear and trembling of a distant ruler infuriated him more than anything possibly could; and he looked about for victims on whom to vent his wrath.

The Pope’s edict decreed that all those who had contact with the King were themselves contaminated. Any who obeyed him were the enemies of Rome and would suffer accordingly. What were men to do?

When Jeffrey, Archdeacon of Norwich, stood up at the Exchequer Table at Westminster and declared that since the King was excommunicated the Church forbade any to act in his name, the King ordered his arrest.

Jeffrey was placed in a dungeon and John himself could not resist visiting him.

‘You served the wrong master, Jeffrey of Norwich,’ said John. ‘You should have thought twice before doing that.’

‘My conscience is clear,’ answered Jeffrey boldly.

‘Let me tell you this, you traitor to your King, you will not long have a conscience to be clear or otherwise.’

‘You cannot intimidate me into accepting what a greater Lord than you tells me is sinful.’

‘You must be on better terms with Him than you are with me,’ said John. ‘Let us see how He will look after you in your emergency.’

He then left the cell and ordered that the Archdeacon should be laden with chains. ‘I want a cope of lead, a large and heavy one, and I order that it be crammed down over our pious Archdeacon’s head. Let it crush and suffocate him while he broods on his great virtues and his treachery to his King.’

This was done and men talked of it with awe.

All the bishops and friends of Stephen Langton were to be put into prison and their lands and goods confiscated.

‘These churchmen have done very well for themselves,’ said John. ‘And now they are doing very well for me. This excommunication like the Interdict has its uses.’

But there was in this a certain bravado because the people were turning against him. The barons had always been seeking a reason for revolt and they were very powerful; he feared them even more than he feared the Church.

If they were to turn against him now and ally themselves with the Church, his position might be very difficult. He decided therefore that he demand of the barons that each of them should send one of their sons to the King as a hostage. When the young men were in his power he could be sure of the fidelity of their parents.

While this order was being carried out John was making a progress through the country to assure himself that the people realised his power and that he himself was not deeply concerned over the excommunication.

Passing through the countryside he came upon a crowd of people beating before them a man whose hands were tied behind his back.

The King called: ‘What happens here? What is this man guilty of?’

‘He is a murderer, my lord. A thief as well,’ was the answer. ‘He waylaid a man on the road, robbed him and murdered him. He was caught in the act.’

The man trembled. Fearful punishment awaited him. He would doubtless be hanged on a gibbet. It might be his hands would be cut off. But perhaps that was too mild a punishment for murder. He hoped it would be the tree, for to have his eyes put out was worse than death. ‘Who was the man the rogue murdered?’ asked John.

‘A priest, my lord.’

The King burst out laughing. ‘Untie his hands,’ he said. They obeyed. ‘Come here,’ ordered the King.

The man stood before him, raising fearful eyes to the King’s face.

‘Go on your way,’ said the King. ‘You are a free man. You have killed one of my enemies.’

The man bowed low and cried: ‘God’s blessings on you, my lord King.’

And he ran off as fast as he could.

The crowd fell back in astonishment; there was a murmur of disapproval.

‘What’s this? What’s this?’ cried the King. ‘If any has anything to say let him speak.’

None dared reply. They knew tongues could be torn out for raising a word against the King.

People talked of the incident. A murderer had gone free, pardoned by the King, because his victim was a priest.

The family of Braose had fallen out of favour with the King since those days when William de Braose had been the custodian of Falaise and had been in charge of Arthur before Hubert de Burgh took over that duty. William, a man of great spirit with a tradition of power behind him, had always defended his rights, and rulers had realised that his was not a family to be neglected. When a Braose had been killed by the Welsh, it was William who had invited a party of Welshmen to his castle as guests, and after they had partaken of his hospitality he, with members of his family, killed them all as a lesson to any who might feel inclined to become their enemies.

He had been in the King’s company at Rouen soon after the death of Arthur and he had a very shrewd notion as to what had happened to the young Duke of Brittany. So had his wife Matilda. She was a strong-minded woman; in fact it was said that there was only one person in the world of whom William de Braose was afraid. Although they were aware that there had been gruesome events at Rouen they could not be sure of how the murder had been carried out; and fierce as Matilda was, her maternal instincts were strong and when she and William had been in charge of Arthur in Falaise Castle she had grown quite fond of the boy.

She declared: ‘I have disliked and distrusted John ever since Arthur disappeared.’

No matter how earnestly William might warn her to guard her tongue, Matilda would speak when she wished and the thought of that boy’s death – perhaps in horrible circumstances – could rouse her to anger.

When a quarrel broke out between her family and the King she was not altogether displeased. She was not a woman to disguise her feelings and secretly – although she knew it was dangerous – she preferred to be on terms of hostility with John rather than those of friendship. At least she could be honest and, forthright woman that she was, that pleased her.

When John had levied taxes on his barons, William had objected and failed to pay and towards the end of the year 1207 John expressed his annoyance that William owed him certain monies and demanded that William surrender his castles of Hay, Brecknock and Radnor as pledges for his debts.

There was another matter which angered John. The Braoses’ youngest son Giles was Bishop of Hereford and when John was excommunicated Giles had left England with other bishops, indicating his objection to accepting John’s rule and his desire to be on the side of the Pope.

John’s reaction to this was to rage against the whole family. He could not trust them any more. William de Braose had once been a very powerful man, and John was determined to curtail that power; the fact that he had been obliged to give up three of his castles would be a great blow to him and John chuckled to think of how resentful he would be.

‘I don’t trust these Braoses,’ he said. ‘I am determined to show them who is the master.’

They should send hostages without delay, for only when he had some members of the family in his charge would he feel he held some power over them. Matilda de Braose guessed that something of this nature could come about. She discussed the matter with her husband and demanded to know what he thought would become of their grandsons if they were put into the King’s charge as hostages.

‘He will be in duty bound to treat them with honour,’ said William.

‘When did this King ever feel in duty bound?’

‘Nevertheless, we shall have no alternative.’

Matilda cried out so that several servants heard: ‘I will never allow any son or grandson of mine to go as hostage to the King … and I have my reasons … very good ones.’

‘You speak with indiscretion,’ said her husband in alarm.

‘Sometimes it is well for certain matters to be given an airing,’ she retorted.

Again he implored her to be discreet, but Matilda was one who would always speak her mind.

In due course the messengers from the King arrived at the castle and asked to have speech with Sir William and his lady. They explained that the King was not pleased with the manner in which they were behaving and he needed two of their grandsons to leave at once in the charge of the messengers. The boys were to come to him where they would be treated as became their rank; and their presence would ensure the good behaviour of the family.

Before her husband could stop her Matilda cried: ‘Do you think I would deliver my grandsons to your master? I would never do such a thing. Give up my boys to a man who murdered his own nephew!’

There was a brief silence. The eyes of everyone present were on Matilda. She held her head defiantly and looking at her husband cried: ‘It’s true. We know it. Others know it too. In time the whole world will know it. And I will not put my grandchildren into the hands of such a murderer.’

Sir William tried to silence her. He laid his hand on her arm and said: ‘Pray do not speak thus against the King. If I have offended him I will make good my errors without the surrender of hostages.’

‘The King’s orders are that you give your grandsons into our hands.’

‘Never!’ cried Matilda stoutly. ‘I will never give them to him. You may go and tell him that.’

The messengers left. Sir William looked after them, shaking his head dolefully.

‘You should never have spoken so freely,’ he said.

‘I will not give up my grandchildren to that murderer,’ reiterated his wife.

When the messengers returned to the King he demanded to know where the Braose hostages were. The messengers replied that Lady de Braose had refused to give them up. ‘So she deliberately disobeyed me,’ cried John.

‘She said, my lord, that she would not hand her children to one who had murdered his nephew.’

John turned pale; a horrible sick foreboding touched him.

The ghost of Arthur had returned after all this time to mock him. For a few moments he could find nothing to say. Then the rage swept over him; he spluttered: ‘By God’s hands and feet. By God’s ears and mouth … they shall pay for this and in particular you, my Lady Matilda.’

He shut himself into his chamber; he threw himself on to the floor. He wanted to bang his head against the wall, but he refrained from doing this. In the shadows he seemed to see a slim boy smiling at him. He thought of those lifeless eyes when they had lifted the body to throw it into the Seine.

Oh yes, Arthur had indeed come back to haunt him.

He was worried now. Matilda de Braose had reawakened the rumour. Now they would be talking of it throughout the country; it would spread to the Continent. Philip would take it up. Philip had never really let it drop, but Philip was far away and people in England had not been particularly interested in the young Duke of Brittany. But now they would be talking. He had lost Normandy; an interdict had been placed on England and Wales; he was excommunicated; and now if this ugly spectre arose they would hold something else against him. It was just what his enemies needed.

A thousand curses on Matilda de Braose. She should suffer for this; and if she were spreading rumours about Arthur it was time she was removed.

Realising that the messengers would have repeated Matilda’s words to John, William guessed what action John would take and that there was only one way open to him. John would try to destroy them, so they might as well make an attempt to hold what was left to them. With his sons he decided to try to recover those castles which he had pledged to John until he had settled his debts; but John had suspected he would try this; he therefore declared that he was a traitor and that the same name would apply to any who assisted him.

The result was that William found it necessary to retreat to his Welsh estates, but when it became clear that John was determined to harry him, he and his family left for Ireland.

One of his daughters had married Walter Lacy, Lord of Meath, the eldest son of Hugh Lacy, one of the conquerors of Ireland. He had now and then been at odds with John but was at this time on fairly good terms with him.

In Ireland William felt comparatively safe but he was apprehensive about the fate of his possessions in England and Wales. When John knew that he had gone, he demanded his extradition. The Lacys promised to send him back but day after day passed and still William and his family remained in Ireland.

But John could not forget the threats behind Matilda’s words. The family hated him; they were his greatest enemies; and Matilda had openly accused him of murdering Arthur. He could not feel at ease until he had rid himself of that loud-voiced woman. He enjoyed promising himself what he would do to her when he had her in his power. She must not know how she had disturbed him; there was nothing she could have said which would have caused him more uneasiness. Over the years he had forgotten Arthur; people seemed to have taken it for granted that he had disappeared and accepted it as a mystery. Now she had to shout forth her malice. By God’s teeth, if he could but lay hands on her!

And they were in Ireland. It was time the power of the Lacys was broken there. He had to be watchful, though. Sometimes he felt that his barons were banding together against him. No man in his kingdom should have so much power. Why should these Lacys behave as though they were kings of Ireland? How dared they shelter a rebel when he had demanded he be delivered to him?

He would go to Ireland. He would take the power the Lacys had assumed; he would show the people who was their rightful ruler; he would establish the supremacy of the crown over there; and he would bring back the Braoses. He would not rest until he had made that woman his prisoner.

When William de Braose heard that the King had arrived in Ireland he was greatly disturbed.

‘God help us,’ he said to Matilda, ‘if we fall into his hands.’

‘We must see that we do not,’ she replied firmly.

John, however, had come with a powerful army behind him and the Irish chiefs flocked to Dublin to pay homage to him; he had no difficulty in seizing much of the land which the Lacys had considered theirs; he deposed them and set up his old friend John de Grey in their place. He had failed to make him Archbishop of Canterbury but at least he could show his appreciation of him in some way.

If there was one thing John enjoyed it was easy triumph and he had achieved what he wanted with the utmost ease. He could not stay of course. He must return to England; that was why he sent for John de Grey.

‘I do not wish you to stay here,’ he said. ‘Just long enough to let the people see that this is the end of the Lacys’ rule. It cannot be long before the Braoses are in our power and when you have them, I want you to bring them to me in England. I have plans for this arrogant family.’

He could trust John de Grey, who had always been a good friend and now had the added reason for being loyal to John – the promise of the Archbishopric of Canterbury when the controversy with the Pope should be over.

John was a little too optimistic. Matilda was not the woman to submit easily. It was known that she was in residence at Meath Castle and John’s men besieged that castle, their purpose being to capture her. She was too wily for them, for she had already left the castle and crossed to Scotland.

Infuriated by this, John seized William and said he personally would conduct him to England.

John realised that he had not finished with the troublesome family so far. When they crossed to England William escaped to one of his strongholds in Wales and there declared open war on the King. John was maddened. It was the woman he wanted. She was the one who was going to spread the scandal all over the world. She was the one who would tell the world that he had murdered Arthur.

It was a rough journey which Matilda and her eldest son William undertook, and it seemed to them both that they had escaped one peril for an even greater one. Clinging to the sides of the boat they had little inclination to think of anything but immediate survival, but when the boat finally did reach the safety of Galloway her first thoughts were of what might have happened to William.

‘He has been less fortunate than we have,’ she said to her son. ‘I shudder to think of what will happen to him in the hands of that tyrant.’

‘Father is clever,’ said the younger William. ‘It may well be that he will think of a way of outwitting the King.’

‘John has so much on his side. It won’t always be so, William. Rebellion is growing throughout the country. He is disliked everywhere. The barons are ready to rise against him. Your father is one of the first of many. The day will come, you will see, when John will be forced to listen to the will of those he calls his subjects.’

‘We will hope so, Mother.’

‘It must be so. I only wish that they would band together now and come to rally round your father. What a leader he would make!’

Where could they go now? she wondered. They had reached Scotland but it did not seem a very hospitable land.

A party of fisherfolk who had seen their arrival came out to see who they were and when they realised that they were people of quality, they took them into their homes and gave them food.

One of their party went to tell Duncan of Carrick that they were there and he came to greet them and offer them hospitality of a kind suited to their rank. Gladly they accepted.

Matilda told him who they were and why they had escaped so hurriedly from Ireland; he listened closely, nodding sympathetically but, when they had retired for the night and being exhausted soon fell into a deep sleep, he sent a messenger to England asking what should be done with them.

The answer came back promptly.

Thus it was that while William, having seen that his position in Wales was untenable, had fled to France, Matilda and her eldest son were delivered into John’s hands.

They were taking her to Windsor. She knew it well.

What would he do to her there? Imprison her in a dungeon? She held her head high. Whatever he did he would not intimidate her. She was not afraid of him. He was a coward, she told her son William, who rode with her, and it was always a mistake to show fear to cowards.

Windsor, she thought, where the Saxons had built a palace, and which in those days was known as Windlesofra or Windleshora because of the way in which the Thames wound through the countryside. There were some who said its name had come about because travellers had to be ferried over the river with a rope and pole and people had said, ‘Wind us over the river.’ It was a bleak spot and Matilda thought the real origin of the name might well be ‘Wind is Sore’, referring to the bleakness of the gales which assaulted the place in winter.

Edward the Confessor used to keep Court here but when William the Conqueror came he had set his mark on the place as he had done throughout England, and there was the Round Tower to proclaim it. It was his son Henry I who had built a chapel there and made it a residence.

John secretly watched their arrival, chortling with glee. Now, my proud lady, he thought, you will be a little less bold, a little less inclined to spread calumnies concerning me.

His mouth tightened. Of one thing he must make sure. She was never to leave this place alive.

He sent for them and when they stood before him he noted that she was as arrogant as ever, although her son William looked a little subdued. He wished that it was her husband he had there. He had cleverly made his escape. No matter, it was the woman he wanted most. She was the one who had made trouble and, he doubted not, led her husband into it.

He dismissed the guards for he did not want anyone to hear any reference to Arthur which he feared she might make. Some women might be a little humble in her desperate position, but one could not be sure of Matilda de Braose.

John looked at her slyly, keeping her standing while he sprawled in his throne-like chair.

‘So we meet at last,’ he said. ‘By God’s ears, I thought we never should. First you are in Wales, then in Ireland and finally in Scotland. You lead a wandering life, my lady.’

‘It was no wish of mine, my lord, that I wandered so much. I should have preferred to remain in my rightful castle of Hay, or that of Brecknock or Radnor.’

The impertinence of the woman! If he were not afraid of her and what harm she might do him he might have found it in his heart to admire her.

‘And now you have come to rest at Windsor. It pleases me to see you here as my guest.’

He savoured the last word. He is a devil, she thought. He will murder us as he murdered Arthur.

‘I trust you feel a like pleasure,’ he added, smiling sardonically; and when she was silent he went on: ‘You do not answer me, my lady. I must tell you that when I speak I expect to be answered.’

‘I thought you did not want an answer which must be obvious.’

‘You are not pleased to be my guest,’ he said. ‘But you who are usually most eager to speak your mind should say so.’

‘And trust I always shall be. I was never one to say one thing and mean another.’

‘I know it well, so I believe did that husband of yours. You’re a forceful woman, my lady.’

She bowed her head.

‘And now you stand before me,’ he went on, ‘knowing that you have been speaking ill of me. That should give you cause to tremble.’

‘I speak nothing but the truth.’

‘That is for us to decide.’

‘Nay, my lord, it is for the world to do that.’

‘You are an insolent woman,’ he cried.

She knew that she was looking straight into the face of death but she shrugged her shoulders almost nonchalantly.

‘I have said that which has offended you,’ she said, ‘and I care not because I know it to be the truth. If it is not so, where is Arthur of Brittany?’

‘You have not come here to question me. Remember you are my prisoner. You stand there with your son. Your husband has deserted you.’

‘Nay,’ she said, ‘we have been parted through evil circumstances. He is not the man to desert his wife.’

‘You contradict me at every turn.’

‘I have told you that I shall speak the truth.’

‘Very brave, very brave. Save your bravery, my lady. You are going to need it.’

‘I know that well. I have spoken outright what has been in people’s minds these many years – in fact ever since the night when Arthur disappeared from the castle of Rouen. You cannot keep your sin a secret for ever, my lord.’

John began to shout. ‘Guards. Guards. Take this man and woman. Put them in one of the dungeons. I shall decide then what shall be done with them.’

The guards came in. Matilda went out, still holding her head high, and her eyes flashed scorn at the King and although she did not speak, her lips formed the word Murderer.

How could he punish them? When he thought of that woman his rage was almost out of control. He had to be careful though. William de Braose was still free. What could he do if he maimed his wife – put out her eyes or more appropriately cut out her tongue? The spectre of Arthur seemed very real at that moment. Was he never going to forget Arthur? The barons were growing more and more rebellious. Caution, whispered his good sense.

Of one thing he was certain. Matilda de Braose should never leave Windsor.

‘Take these two to a dungeon,’ he said. ‘See that they are fettered. Let them be kept in the same dungeon.’

He smiled to himself. There they could watch each other’s misery which would be an added torment.

His wishes were immediately carried out.

Each day he wondered how they fared. How could they be living in that cell from which there was no escape? They had no food and even the valiant Matilda could not live for ever without sustenance.

He thought of her with pleasure every morning when he awoke and sat at table. Succulent flesh, rich pastry – he took great delight in them, more especially because he knew that proud Matilda and her son were starving.

After two weeks he sent his guards down to the dungeon to see what had happened. They were both dead. The son had died first and in her agony the mother had gnawed at his flesh in the very extremities of starvation.

John laughed aloud when he heard.

So died proud Matilda! That would be a lesson to any who thought they could accuse him of his nephew’s murder.

But it proved otherwise and after the death of Matilda de Braose the whispering started up as fresh as it had been at the time of Arthur’s death.