A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  So the church doors were locked, bells taken down from steeples, images covered with purple cloths and the people denied the familiar rites of baptism, marriage and burial with funeral candles and holy water. A terror lay over the land but John thumbed his nose at the Italian Legate. He had never cared for the Church, made sacrilegious jokes and threatened to give any man sent by the Pope to his torturers for their pleasure.

  Spending most of his time in Ireland William had been free of the horror of the Interdict. On one visit to England, seeing the misery of the people, the desperate plight of the clergy whom John now cheerfully robbed of their revenues, he had besought the King to come to terms but was told he was becoming addled in his old age.

  He returned to Leinster where he had his hands full. For the most part his wise rule had kept peace in that turbulent country, but he and the Bishop of Ferns had quarrelled over some land and the Bishop took up arms against him. William promptly sacked Ferns itself, though he permitted no outrage against the monks, and then the Bishop, his white beard reaching his waist, cursed William Marshal, prophesying that for this blasphemous act his line would die, none of his sons begetting sons of their own. William had listened to such outbursts from defeated enemies before, but the Irish were a strange people, the memories of old cults, old gods, still half alive, and when the Bishop followed his Christian curse with another in a language William did not understand, holding a branch of a rowan tree in one hand and a sprig of mistletoe in the other, he was stirred into a certain uneasiness.

  Isabel had been plainly frightened and he had told her to pay no heed to such superstition, but now in this heaving ship, sounding for all as if it was in its death throes, he began to wonder if there was indeed a curse, if he and all his younger children were to perish. At least William and Richard had come to no harm, though he remembered with private alarm the fate of the lord of Bramber’s son. William de Braose had fallen out of favour with the King and fled to Ireland with a nauseating tale. It seemed that John in his usual way had demanded de Braose’s son as a hostage, and though de Braose would have yielded his lady was of sterner stuff and refused to hand over the boy to the King’s messengers. John then took both mother and son by force, thrust them into a cell and had it barred. When it was opened nine days later they were both dead, the child’s cheeks gnawed by his starving mother.

  De Braose, tough and hardened though he was, wept and raged when he told the story. William was appalled, pitying de Braose though he disliked the man, and he could think of little but that his own boys were in John’s wilful hands. Fortunately John had been busying himself by founding a city which he named Liverpool, interesting himself in architecture, and he was by all accounts still infatuated with his Queen who had given him two sons and three daughters. Nevertheless William was impatient to be at home.

  The ship was quieter now, the heaving more gentle. William had one arm about Isabel’s plump body, the other still holding Walter who had fallen asleep at last, and when a sailor appeared at the door to say that the ship would dock shortly he turned to his wife with a swift smile.

  ‘So much for the Bishop’s curse, my heart. We’re all come safe through.’

  She leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘God be thanked. I would not have feared to die with you, William – but not to see our little ones perish too.’

  He closed his eyes momentarily, his cheek against her hair, and thought of the great fire in the hall at Pembroke Castle, the hot food, the bed where he and Isabel would sleep, the children close by, and he dismissed from his mind the wild mutterings of an old Irishman.

  King John was at Windsor when William rode to meet him. He knelt, setting his hands between the King’s and it seemed to him that John had aged, that the long years of quarrelling with the Pope in the face of the opposition of all Christendom had taken their toll of him – though no doubt it was his self-indulgence at the table that had set that great stomach on him.

  He seemed to be in a jolly mood and welcomed William warmly. ‘You have served us well in Ireland, my lord, and now we have need of you here. But first I return your sons to you.’ He beckoned and William rose quickly as his firstborn, now a tall, well-built young man of twenty-two, came forward, kneeling for his father’s blessing. William raised him and embraced him, seeing himself as he had been more than forty years ago. He had heard from his friends of the younger William’s success at tourneys, developing great skill at arms, but what was more surprising was that Richard, coming forward to greet him, had outgrown all his early ill health and was now only a little less tall and strong than his elder brother. He had become very like Strongbow and William folded him in his arms, scarcely able to keep tears of joy from his eyes. He turned back to John. ‘I thank your grace for your care of my sons. They are life to me.’

  ‘And here is mine,’ John said. He set an arm about a boy of six, with the familiar Plantagenet hair and something of his mother’s striking beauty, his only defect a slight drooping of his left eyelid. ‘Henry shall be put in your charge, my lord, and you shall teach him as you taught me. How will you like that, my son?’

  ‘Oh very well,’ the prince agreed, but looking up at the tall Marshal his expression became a little doubtful. ‘That is if my lord of Pembroke is not too old for such a task?’

  There was a roar of laughter from the assembled court and William answered amusedly, ‘I think, your grace, I can still bear a sword well enough to teach you how to use it.’ The boy had flushed with embarrassment and he added, ‘We will go out together tomorrow and you will find out how old I am become!’

  John, whose sense of humour seldom deserted him even if occasionally it took a macabre turn, was highly amused. ‘If you tell me, Henry, that my lord here cannot match you, perhaps I must put you in charge of my army!’ Then his expression changed sharply and he began to fiddle with a jewel about his neck. ‘You have heard the latest news from France, William? No? You will soon understand why I have sent for you. It seems that the Pope has dared – dared – to offer my crown to Philip of France. By God’s Teeth, it is beyond bearing. I shall slit Philip’s nose for him if he sets foot on my land. He will find the blood of the Conqueror in me yet.’

  ‘I doubt,’ William said carefully, seeing the humour vanishing and all the signs of rising Plantagenet rage, ‘that the King of France would try to cross the channel. What measures have been taken?’

  ‘Ah, for once my barons are behind me,’ John retorted sarcastically. ‘All along the south coast they are assembling the levies and if Philip thinks to emulate my ancestor he will find that I am no Harold to be caught napping. You will see!’ He rubbed his hands together, glancing round the hall. ‘That is why I have sent for you, my lord – for all of you. I need every able commander that I have.’

  A conference was held at once and it was much later that night that, in the private chamber put at his disposal, William was able to talk with his sons and with John d’Erleigh to whom he now felt he owed so much. He conferred on his faithful squire a manor in Berkshire and offered to knight him, but d’Erleigh refused this, though he accepted the manor. He had, he said, a mind to marry but none to quit his position as squire to his lord. They all three told him of much that had been happening during his absence and when he inquired after the Earl of Salisbury heard that he had taken a fleet of ships to sea in the channel to chase the French away.

  ‘Will always did like the sea,’ he said and glancing at his sons added, ‘I think it will be many a day before I can induce your mother to board a ship again.’

  It was a happy reunion but presently into their talk came all the indications William had feared – the escalating of the terrifying Interdict, the discontent, the number of barons who had very real cause to turn against the King, John’s unscrupulous methods of amassing gold, indeed Richard said it was common knowledge that the King had his men extract the teeth of reluctant Jews, one by one, until they yielded up their treasure to him.

  He is a monster at times,’
his elder brother agreed. ‘I tell you, father, we feared for our lives when he turned against the lord of Bramber and shut his lady and their son into that cell –’

  ‘Don’t talk of it,’ William said and his eyes rested on first one and then the other. ‘I swear I will build another holy house, such as Cartmel, as a thanksgiving for your safety as well as your mother’s and mine. On board that ship I feared it was we who would not see you again in this world.’

  In celebration the younger William was married at last to the Lady Alice of Bethune and at a lavish feast the King made equally lavish gifts to the young couple. A joust was held as part of the celebrations in which the bridegroom rode against his father and after a splendid display which delighted the court, the honours were declared to be even. William laughed and set an arm about Prince Henry’s shoulders. ‘The old war-horse is not done yet, eh, my lord?’

  The boy looked up at him in undisguised admiration, ‘How many tournaments have you fought in, my lord?’

  William scratched his cheek thoughtfully. ‘I cannot remember the number, but it must be near five hundred.’

  ‘Were you often unhorsed?’

  ‘Never,’ William told him and from that moment the young Prince was constantly at his side.

  But this brief interlude of peace and goodwill lasted only a short while. King Philip of France, scheming for his son’s future, and on fire to carry out his threat made so long ago under the tree at Gisors, assembled a huge army on the coast of France. Despite the fact that the Earl of Salisbury had soundly defeated his fleet at sea, he prepared confidently, with the Pope’s blessing, to invade and conquer England.

  John, on hearing this, yielded to sheer temper. Foam flecked his mouth, he screamed and flung himself on the floor and his attendants could neither hold nor calm him. The next day, to the utter astonishment of his councillors, he capitulated. He would yield to the Pope, make every concession, Cardinal Stephen Langton should come home to his archbishopric, and England should become a fief of the Vatican.

  ‘God in Heaven!’ Gilbert de Clare exploded. ‘England a fief? Never while I live – nor a hundred others.’

  ‘What can we do?’ William demanded. ‘We cannot go on thus with our churches locked and barred. Since I came home I have learned a great deal. The King must be stopped from this sacrilegious robbing of God’s Church. A man who can treat His priests as John has done is in danger of his immortal soul.’

  ‘You cannot mean you want this – this grovelling surrender?’

  ‘I do not. The King has gone too far, but the Archbishop is no fool and we will get better terms in time.’

  ‘Then you are more sanguine than I am,’ Gilbert said. ‘The barons will not stand for John’s madness much longer.’

  William was used to Gilbert’s outbursts, but as time went by he became aware that the deep-seated resentment was gaining menacing proportions, and in due course a group of noblemen and knights gathered to put their grievances to the King.

  ‘Rebels! Cowards!’ John jeered, ‘Find out what they want, William.’

  So he rode out, attended by Richard and John d’Erleigh, to meet them at Brackley and there encountered first his eldest son. ‘William! I did not think to see you here.’

  The younger William stood beside his horse, a hand on the stirrup leather, his face grave. ‘I wish, my lord, we had you with us.’

  ‘Do you?’ his father queried. ‘I am the King’s man as you should well know.’

  ‘After all he has done? For God’s love, father, consider. Is he the man King Henry was? Or even King Richard. You have told me enough for me to see that he is not. He has lost Normandy for us and will destroy England if we do not act. Because he gave me a wedding gift that does not mean I can forget all the men he has cheated and slain, nor my lord of Bramber’s wife and son! How can you uphold him?’

  William had listened in silence to this impassioned speech and when he answered his voice was stern. ‘It is you who do not understand. It is not the man but the crown that matters. I have sworn to John as King and while he sits on England’s throne, he has my loyalty.’

  ‘And if he had murdered Richard and me as he murdered Arthur? Father, if you stay with him you will be our enemy too.’

  William stared down at his son, seeing the uncompromising eager vitality of youth, remembering himself as he had been at that age, entering the lists at Boulogne with everything to gain, while by his side Richard, who had been silent so far, cried out, ‘William, you cannot mean that. You would not turn your sword against our father? If you did,’ his face suffused with colour, ‘by Christ’s Blood, I would slay you myself.’

  His brother laughed. ‘Would you, cockerel? It is I would slay you, I think.’

  ‘Peace! Peace!’ their father broke in. ‘I’ll not have quarrelling between us. William is, I suppose, following his conscience and so am I. The King has sent me to find out what is asked of him and this I must know.’ He glanced round the field, bright with early buttercups, the sunshine warm, the oak trees casting great shadows, the men gathered in groups, a few standing foremost, waiting to speak to him. ‘Well, messires?’

  His son said, ‘Come to my lord de Vescy and Sir Robert Fitzwalter. They will act as our spokesmen.’

  William dismounted, throwing his reins to John d’Erleigh. De Vescy of Alnwick and Fitzwalter, he thought, were two men deeply injured by John in the matter of one’s wife and the other’s daughter, and their hatred was predictable, but the strength and truth of their statements impressed him. The rights of the Church were to be safeguarded, the old laws of King Henry I concerning land, inheritance, the disposal of widows and heiresses to be respected, the cities to have their ancient freedoms, the powers of the sheriffs and constables to be clearly laid down.

  Fitzwalter, a small wiry man in his forties, finished the list and stood in silence facing the Marshal. He was very much in awe of this famous man with his dignified bearing, his long slit tunic of red and green matching his shield of the same ground bearing the golden lion of his office, but he had no fear for the Marshal’s honourable dealings were too well known for that. Eustace de Vescy, however, was less respectful; his violent temper was renowned. He pushed past Fitzwalter and shouted, ‘Tell the King our conditions, my lord Pembroke. Omit nothing, for be sure we mean every word of it. We’ve had enough of John Softsword’s treachery.’

  William stared haughtily at the angry red-haired Northumbrian. ‘He shall hear it all, my lord. If the matter can be conducted without raised voices and violence it will be better done.’

  De Vescy subsided, muttering, ‘Well, see that he knows we mean it.’

  ‘He will say that you are traitors all, though I will tell him your demands are reasonable enough.’

  ‘We are true to England and our old laws,’ someone in the crowd called out and there was an outbreak of voices giving approval, the murmur growing to a mixture of cheering and added exhortation.

  William held up his hand, and such was his authority that silence fell within a few moments. ‘I will do as you wish,’ he said, ‘but I implore you, all of you, do not plunge our land into civil war before I have spoken to the King. Our swords may be needed elsewhere.’

  ‘You are right,’ Fitzwalter agreed, ‘and we thank you, my lord Marshal, for coming to us.’

  ‘They thanked you!’ the King exclaimed with scorn when William returned to him. ‘It seems they care more nicely for you than for their King. They have no word for me but demands – demands! Jesu!’

  But rant as he might, on the advice of Stephen Langton, of the papal Legate Pandulfo and of both William and his old friend Amaury, now Grand Master of the Knights Templar, he yielded. On Monday the fifteenth day of June in the year 1215 he rode out of Windsor Castle to a meadow called the Running Meade by the river Thames. There, with pitifully few attendants for a King, he made his way to where a small pavilion had been set up for him that he might be shaded from the sun.

  The increased numbers of his ene
mies assembled on the greensward appalled him and he could see the banners that told him that nearly every great house was against him. Fluttering in the light breeze he saw the colours of Bohun and Mowbray, of Marshal’s son-in-law Bigod of Norfolk; the Percy was there and de Lacy, the wealthy Earl of Essex who had married Avice his discarded first wife. William de Ferrars, betrothed to another of William’s daughters, bore his pennon high on his lance as if to flaunt it beside de Vere and Mortimer, and several marcher lords had brought large retinues, so that it seemed as if all England was there to confront their King.

  Dully, John listened. The long articles of the Great Charter were read out, and when it was laid before him he picked up the quill and his hand shook.

  In that long moment of silence, while every man waited, William glanced at Will standing beside him, their old friendship binding them together as always. But he could see many other friends on the other side, among them Gilbert de Clare and his son, his own son William, his sons-in-law, as well as several barons related to the King. John Marshal, in his place as always beside his uncle, muttered a curse on those who divided a family in two, but whether it was meant for his cousins, the rebel barons or the King, William did not know.

  Salisbury raised one eyebrow and gave a faint shrug, a frown of deepening anxiety on his face. He had little personal liking for his half-brother, but an intense loyalty to the family who had accepted him, bastard as he was.