The barons were sceptical. The King’s assurance wasn’t worth much. But at least agreement had been reached. It would mean the end of civil war if King John kept to his word.
There was no signing ceremony. The documents weren’t ready and few people could write anyway. The agreement was sealed by a communal oath instead. Archbishop Stephen Langton presided as everyone vowed before God to respect the Runnymede agreement and uphold its many provisions. A vow taken in the eyes of God bound them much more tightly to the charter than any ragged X scrawled on a piece of parchment. After they had all made the vow, the barons swore an oath of loyalty to King John as well.
He nodded curtly to his enemies when the ceremony was over and returned to Windsor Castle without further ado. The barons waited until he had gone before dispersing in their turn. Camp was struck and tentage loaded onto wagons. The men-at-arms shouldered their weapons and fell into line behind their leaders. Within a few hours of Magna Carta being sworn, the long columns of men had all left the place and were on their way out of there, heading back to London. Runnymede had become a rural meadow once again.
It was several weeks later before Stephen Langton returned to Canterbury. He brought good news when at last he came.
‘I have our copy of the charter,’ he told the assembled monks. ‘Here it is. All written out by the chancery clerks.’
The Archbishop laid it on the table. The sixty-three provisions of Magna Carta had been translated into Latin and carefully copied onto a single piece of parchment. The King’s seal at the bottom signified royal assent. The monks crowded around to have a look.
‘It’s all there,’ the Archbishop told them proudly. ‘Everything we asked for. Freedom of the Church, trading rules, repayment of fines. The King had to agree to everything in the end.’
‘Excellent news, Archbishop.’
‘He wasn’t happy about it, but there was nothing he could do. The barons refused to let him off the hook.’
‘That’s very good to hear.’
‘Inquests, lawsuits, forestry. It’s all been written down in Magna Carta. There’s going to be a law for everything from now on.’
‘Does that include my bit?’ the scrivener asked shyly.
‘Which bit was that?’ The Archbishop had forgotten.
‘No free man shall be seized or imprisoned except by the lawful judgment of his peers.’
‘Absolutely. The King didn’t like it, but the barons refused to back down. They added a bit as well.’
‘Yes?’
‘To no one will we sell, to no one deny or delay right or justice. That’ll stop the King charging people a fortune just to have their case heard.’
‘That’s wonderful, Archbishop. A splendid result.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Langton agreed. ‘And congratulations where they’re due, Scrivener. You did a remarkable job there.’
Chapter Five
Bell Harry and the Black Prince
The Black Prince was coming. Edward, Prince of Wales, was back in England after his magnificent victory at Poitiers. He had landed at Plymouth early in May 1357, bringing with him a very important prisoner. Jean the Good, King of France, had been forced to surrender to him after the battle.
The two men were on their way to London, where a great welcome awaited them. The victory parade was taking a while to organise, so the Black Prince had decided to delay his arrival for a few days. Instead of going straight on to London after Winchester, he was travelling across country to Canterbury to visit the shrine of St Thomas in the cathedral.
It was wonderful news for Canterbury. The inhabitants could hardly wait for him to arrive. The Black Prince was a war criminal to the French, the leader of an army that murdered and looted wherever it went. To the English, he was a fine military commander and a remarkable young man. It was widely agreed that he would make a splendid king one day, after his father, Edward III, had died.
The streets were thronged with sightseers as he rode in. The King of France rode beside him as his honoured guest. The two of them were cheered by enthusiastic crowds all the way to the cathedral gate. The applause continued even louder as they went through and came to a stop at the entrance to the cathedral.
To add to the excitement, Prior Henry’s bell was ringing frantically above their heads as they appeared. Old Prior Henry of Eastry had had the bell cast at enormous expense and hung in the cathedral’s northwest tower. It could be heard all over the city when it rang out in joyous celebration, as it did now. The monks had named it Bell Harry in the Prior’s honour.
‘Greetings, my Lord. Welcome to Canterbury.’ The Archbishop stepped forward to meet the Prince as he and his guest dismounted. ‘You had a pleasant journey from Winchester?’
‘Very pleasant. I’m glad we’ve got here, though.’
The crowds watched respectfully as the two royals were escorted into the cathedral. They were taken to the Martyrdom first, to see the spot where St Thomas had been murdered. The Martyrdom was always the first place people wanted to see when they visited the cathedral.
An altar marked the spot now, with a statue of the saint in front of it. A gold ring of St Thomas’s lay on the altar, next to a piece of his brain preserved in rock crystal and a case containing the sword point that had broken off on the flagstones when he was killed. They were all objects of veneration to the thousands of pilgrims who flocked to the site every month.
The Archbishop stood back as the two men paid their respects at the altar. When they had finished, the Prince rose again and told King Jean a bit about the Martyrdom.
‘This is where my great-grandfather got married.’ He waved a hand at the altar. ‘Edward I.’
‘The Hammer of the Scots?’
‘And the Jews. He married his second wife here. Margaret of France.’
‘Here?’ King Jean looked around in surprise. The Martyrdom seemed rather cramped for a royal wedding.
‘It was only a small affair, second time around. My great-grandfather wanted St Thomas’s blessing for the enterprise. King Richard was here too, before he went to the Crusades.’
They left the Martyrdom after they had seen everything and were escorted up a flight of steps towards the choir. St Thomas’s new shrine lay at the far end of the choir, beyond the high altar. Priests showed them the way.
The shrine had been moved from the crypt in Stephen Langton’s time, not long after the death of King John. The translation had been an occasion of great pomp, attended by dignitaries from all over Europe. The Pope’s personal representative had travelled to Canterbury for the ceremony. So had King Henry III of England and many great bishops and nobles. They had all wanted to see the extraordinary spectacle for themselves.
Ordinary people had wanted to see it as well. So many people had come to Canterbury for the event that every bed in the city had been taken. Tents had had to be erected in the surrounding fields to accommodate the overflow. The Archbishop had generously provided barrels of wine at each of the city’s gates so that everyone could have a free drink before making their way to the cathedral to watch the proceedings.
St Thomas’s body had been removed from its sarcophagus beforehand and transferred to a lighter wood and iron chest for the move. The corpse had crumbled into dust as soon as it was exposed to the air. Only the saint’s bones had remained to be collected up and placed in the decorated chest. The Archbishop had selected a few choice ones first for distribution to favoured churches after the ceremony.
The chest had then been conveyed with much ritual to its grand new home beyond the choir. It had been reinterred in a magnificent setting specially designed for it amid the high stone columns and dramatic Gothic arches of the cathedral.
The spot was packed with pilgrims as a rule, but it had been closed to the public for the Black Prince’s visit. He and King Jean had the shrine to themselves as the Archbishop led them forward to admire the craftsmanship and say their prayers to St Thomas.
‘This way, my Lords.’ The Archbishop w
aved a hand. ‘This is where St Thomas lies now.’
He showed them to the shrine. An imposing marble plinth lay in the middle of a wide-open space, approached from all sides by flights of stone steps. The chest containing the saint’s bones lay on top of the plinth, hidden from view beneath a decorated wooden canopy.
The Archbishop gave a signal. As if by magic, the canopy rose from the shrine, hauled upwards by a rope pulley. It revealed the iron chest on the plinth, lavishly adorned with gold trellis-work and decorated all over with an astonishing array of pearls, sapphires, diamonds and emeralds.
The two visitors were spellbound. There were more jewels at the shrine than they had ever seen in one place before. More jewels than they had ever seen anywhere.
The most brilliant jewel of all was still the Régale de France, King Louis VII’s great ruby. It was attached to the chest in a prominent position and surrounded by a display of agates, cornelians and precious onyx. There was no more arresting sight in all of Christendom.
‘We’re very proud of it,’ the Archbishop told the visitors, as they gaped. ‘I don’t think there’s ever been a ruby quite like it before. Certainly not in Canterbury.’
The Archbishop withdrew discreetly as the Black Prince and King Jean approached the shrine. Together they mounted the steps to the plinth and sank to their knees at the top. The plinth was recessed so that worshippers could get close to St Thomas as they prayed.
Closing his eyes, the Black Prince gave thanks to the saint for his great victory at Poitiers, a victory undoubtedly ordained by God. Beside him, the King of France accepted God’s decision on this occasion but prayed for better luck next time. The two men remained at prayer for ten minutes while courtiers and church officials watched from a distance. Then they rose again, their devotions done, and thanked the Archbishop as they withdrew from the shrine.
‘I’m going to have myself buried here,’ the Black Prince told King Jean as they continued their tour of the cathedral. ‘When the time comes, I’ll put it in my will that I’m to be interred in the cathedral, somewhere close to St Thomas.’
‘Yes?’
‘In the undercroft probably, where he was first buried. Somewhere like that.’
King Jean’s mind was still on his ancestor’s ruby at the shrine. What a wonderful sight it had been. Perhaps France would have better luck on the battlefield if he could produce a similar gift for St Thomas.
‘I’d like to make an offering at the shrine when I get the chance,’ he told the Black Prince.
‘Good idea. You should.’
‘Something like the ruby. It’s time France made another gift.’
‘Another jewel?’
‘In due course. When the time is right.’
They both knew it wasn’t right at the moment. King Jean was a prisoner of the English, as were many of his most prominent nobles. An enormous ransom for their release would have to be agreed before they could all go home. This was no time for further expense.
‘One day,’ Jean promised. ‘As soon as it can be arranged.’
The two men stayed the night in Canterbury before setting off for London next morning. They received a rapturous reception when they arrived in the capital. The victory at Poitiers was tremendous news, if it meant an end to the war and lots of ransom money as well. Londoners were as delighted to welcome the Black Prince and his illustrious prisoner to their city as Canterbury had been.
They were out in force as the two men arrived. The mayor and aldermen were waiting at the gates to greet them. So were the officials of the city’s guilds. All of them were on horseback, wearing new clothes for the occasion. They quickly formed a procession and led the returning hero in triumph through the narrow streets towards St Paul’s cathedral and Ludgate beyond.
It was pandemonium all the way. The Black Prince had won the cup and was bringing it home. Everyone turned out to cheer him as he passed. Houses had been elaborately decorated for the event. Free wine was on tap all along the route. Pretty girls hanging from elevated ropeways had been hired by the goldsmiths to sprinkle gold and silver leaf on the heads of all the notables as they rode along in the procession below.
The crowds applauded the Black Prince all the way past St Paul’s and on towards the bridge over the Fleet river. They were still cheering when his entourage arrived at the Palace of Westminster. His father King Edward III was waiting there to greet his eldest son after his great victory and bid welcome to his distinguished cousin, King Jean of France.
‘Fortunes of war,’ Edward consoled the Frenchman, as he showed him into the palace. ‘I’m sorry that you have to be our guest for a while. We’ll get you back to France as soon as the ransom money can be raised.’
‘I hope it won’t be too long.’
‘You can stay with one of my other sons, while you’re in London. The Savoy Palace on the Strand.’
In the event, it took three years to negotiate the French king’s return to France. The Black Prince escorted him to Dover when at last an agreement had been reached. They stopped at Canterbury again on the way. King Jean retraced his steps to St Thomas’s shrine and presented it with a beautiful jewel worth at least two hundred marks, according to the monk who priced such things. Then he thanked God for his deliverance and went home.
The Black Prince was not so fortunate. He was only 45 when he died of a mysterious illness in 1376. All of England was horrified that so illustrious a life had been cut short in its prime. The Prince hadn’t even lived long enough to succeed his father as king.
He was buried in the cathedral, as he had wished. Two knights bearing the Prince’s armour and carrying his royal insignia were waiting on horseback as his body arrived at the West Gate after the long journey from London. The hearse was surrounded by black banners and drawn by twelve black horses as it wound slowly through the streets towards the cathedral. A great crowd was there to watch in silence as it passed.
The knights halted at the cathedral gate, as was the custom for armed men since the time of Thomas Becket. The hearse continued through towards the door of the cathedral. There the coffin was unloaded and carried slowly through the choir to the high altar beyond.
Above, Bell Harry rang again, tolling sombrely for the Black Prince in the northwest tower. The bell was in mourning for a great leader. Its clapper had been half-muffled by the monks to soften the backstroke and produce an echo that rang out sonorously across the city. The sound reverberated through the cathedral as his body was conveyed through the choir and laid solemnly before the altar for the funeral service.
The Prince wasn’t buried in the crypt, as he had requested. It had been decided that a national hero should have a far more distinguished resting place in the main body of the cathedral, very close to St Thomas himself. A tomb had been built for him just a few yards from the shrine of the martyr.
It was a masterpiece of construction. The base containing his body was of Purbeck marble. On top lay a life-size effigy of the Prince at prayer. The effigy was in full body armour, made of brass and gilt, its helmet adorned with precious stones. Above the effigy hung a carved wooden tester, a canopy, with a painting of the Holy Trinity on the underside.
After the funeral service, the Black Prince’s shield, gauntlets and surcoat embroidered with the arms of England and France were placed on permanent display above the tester. So was his helm, the huge iron helmet with a lion crest on top that he had worn for jousting. They were all hung above the tester, high in the cathedral close to St Thomas, for everyone to see and admire. And there they have remained ever since.
Chapter Six
Wat Tyler and the Beheaded Archbishop
Their enemies called them peasants, but the men heading for Canterbury on 10 June 1381 were far more than that. There were skilled carpenters among them, weavers, bakers, cobblers, masons and tailors, even a few gentry sympathetic to their cause. They weren’t just ignorant serfs working in the fields.
There were several thousand of them by the time they re
ached the city gates. They were led by Wat Tyler, a plain-speaking man from Maidstone. The peasants were looking for Simon of Sudbury, the Archbishop of Canterbury. They were going to kill him if they found him in the cathedral precincts.
Sudbury was Chancellor of England, as well as Archbishop. The peasants held him responsible for the savage increase in poll tax that was causing so much distress across the land. Neither the Church nor the King’s officials had taken any notice of their plight, so the peasants had decided to take matters into their own hands.
They were welcomed with open arms in Canterbury. The city too had been hit by the poll tax. To add insult to injury, the people were also being made to pay for the rebuilding of the West Gate and the repair of Canterbury’s walls. They were all in favour of stringing up whoever was responsible for squeezing them so hard.
‘The Archbishop’s palace first,’ Tyler yelled, as the peasants streamed towards the cathedral. ‘If he’s in there, we’ll drag him out at once. Make him suffer for what he’s done.’
The palace lay only a few yards from the west door of the cathedral. The peasants stormed in. They raced from room to room, looking for Simon of Sudbury. They searched the place from top to bottom, but he was nowhere to be found. A servant told them why.
‘He’s in London. Gone to see the King.’
Disappointed, the peasants decided to ransack the Archbishop’s possessions instead. They were outraged at what they found. So much finery in every room, so many beautiful things and lovely furniture and expensive clothes. England’s Chancellor lived very well at the taxpayer’s expense. The common people struggled to feed their children.
‘Take everything,’ Tyler ordered. ‘Smash it. Destroy it all.’
It was almost noon by the time the peasants had finished with the palace. The monks were gathering nervously for midday mass in the cathedral next door. To their dismay, several thousand angry peasants decided to join them.
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