The Wolf at the Door

by The Wolf at the Door (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  ‘Yes,’ Philip nodded, ‘so we’ve heard. They really are a benighted race on that island. I’m sure that whenever two of them agree to play chess – if they ever do agree – they first hack at each other to decide who starts. It seems to me that England is the one country that can be spared all foreign enemies. God knows, she makes enough of them at home!’

  He spent several weeks studying the requests and invitations from the rebels. Like John, Philip Augustus was a child of Rome, and he was hesitant to incur the wrath of Pope Innocent. On the other hand, France would not be invading the island so much as liberating it from the oppressive – and some said lunatic – John Softsword.

  However, Philip himself would not go. He was over fifty now, completely blind in one eye, partially so in the other, bald and overweight and no longer interested in venturing abroad. He would send his son, Louis, then listen to the young man’s stories about the race that fought each other for the choice of pawns. He’d let Louis find out if the English throne was still on offer.

  On 21st May the French prince landed at Stonar on the Kent coast, choosing that beach because it was flat and pebbled and ideal for his machines. He was a serious young man, not yet thirty, but already the model of his father. Neither acted rashly, nor courted the crowd. King Philip was known as a chilly fish, intelligent and far-sighted, Louis as a man who could be surprised by nothing, since he took surprise itself by surprise. He devoted so much of his thinking to the future that his friends asked him what life was like, five years on.

  And now he stepped on to the beach at Stonar, already aware that the hard-packed pebbles would take the weight of his twelve hundred mounted knights and forty-six assorted catapults, perriers, rams and mangonels, more siege-machines than either the royalists or rebels could muster.

  English scouts spurred inland and reported to their leaders. King John was at Canterbury, arguing with Langton and Marshal. There was not much the three men agreed on, though they all accused the scouts of exaggeration. Twelve hundred knights maybe, but not forty-six machines. There were not as many as that in all England, not of the size the scouts had described.

  Marshal said, ‘If this is a French invasion, it’s at the behest of FitzWalter. King Philip would not have sanctioned it unless he had an answer ready for the Pope. So those twelve hundred knights and their however-many machines are bound to join the rebels as soon as possible. If that happens, then you, my lord king, will be once again in a corner.’

  ‘That’s not such an elusive thought,’ John snapped. ‘It had already occurred to me. But dare I ask what you would do in my position? I know you’re against this war in all its forms, Earl Marshal—’

  ‘Against the civil war, yes. But I’m equally opposed to foreign invasion. I don’t know who leads them, Philip or his son, but they are not here for a change of air. If they help FitzWalter, they’ll want something in return. Very likely your crown.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘So you’d do well to intercept them, and snatch their machines. They are a sure sign of confidence, the property of an army on the advance. They’re the first things to be abandoned when men flee, but they’ll make a pretty picture, rolling up from the coast. My advice is that you find them, and take them over.’

  ‘Will you ride with me? And you, Langton?’

  No, they said, no more than they’d ride with FitzWalter. The king had asked what they would do in his position, but they were not in his position. If they were to travel anywhere together, it would be to the nearest conference table.

  Left to fend for himself, King John led his troops in search of the machines. But he failed to locate them, lost his nerve and retreated to Winchester.

  Ten days after the landing, Prince Louis reached the outskirts of London, to be welcomed by FitzWalter and de Vesci. In awe of the rams and catapults, they asked if he would harness them again and accompany the Host of God and Holy Church in pursuit of the wolf.

  On 5th June King John alerted his wife and escort and they fled from Winchester, this time hurrying to the one sure sanctuary of Corfe. Learning from FitzWalter, perhaps, he had left the cathedral city in flames.

  * * *

  A few weeks at Corfe and the royal couple had fallen prey to a new obsession. The fortunes of war were swinging too wildly for their side to claim outright victory, or be forced to acknowledge defeat. However, John and the Sparrowhawk were faced with one inescapable fact; they were running short of money. If they could not pay the mercenaries, the men would quit the field, or worse, offer their services to FitzWalter. Without mercenary support, the royalist barons would be disinclined to fight on, and some of them might also turn their cloaks. The balance would tip more steeply in favour of the rebels, until even the king’s bodyguard began slapping their empty wallets.

  But this was hardly an opportune time to impose taxes on the people of England.

  There was money, of course, though in a different form. John had already recovered a large proportion of it at Winchester, and he now wrote to more than twenty monasteries, warning them that he was coming to reclaim what was his. Queen Isabelle shared his obsession, for she was determined to collect her own scattered valuables.

  At the end of July they set out on their treasure hunt.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, Stephen Langton had returned from an unsuccessful peace mission to tell Marshal that the rebels and their allies were falling out.

  ‘I don’t know what FitzWalter imagined when he welcomed Louis and his twelve hundred chevaliers, but I’d say he’s finding the price too high. The French claim that the English are a manuscript of meanness, and cite the lack of decent wine as an example, whilst FitzWalter’s cronies accuse the invaders of unearned arrogance and insist that they only crossed the Channel in search of a foreign title. Anyhow, they still refuse to meet King John.’

  ‘Who still refuses to meet them,’ Marshal added. ‘And so it will go until England’s burned flat, or one of the adversaries takes an arrow in the chest.’

  ‘Well,’ Langton said ambiguously, ‘we must continue to pray.’

  * * *

  The months that followed were stained by acts of appalling savagery. Armies met to skirmish, or smashed their way through unwalled towns and villages. Mass-hangings were as regular as markets and, if the victims were royalists, then rebel sympathizers would be found to decorate another stand of trees. The king’s troops were the most savage of all, and it was said that whatever they did not destroy in their advance, they would ruin on their return. The soldiers from both sides charged their normal fee for victory, raping the women, no matter if they were nuns, and looting the houses, no matter if they belonged to God.

  Perhaps because he wished to impress his cut-throat army, or because he no longer feared for his soul, King John participated in the hangings and insisted on being the first to set a torch to the altar. His followers applauded, though they wished he’d shown such determination fifteen years earlier.

  He was accompanied throughout by Queen Isabelle, who saw no reason to condemn his zeal. She preferred not to witness the atrocities, but was content to watch a monastery bum. The Church had always obstructed her husband. He was simply removing a few of the obstructions.

  From time to time the royal couple detoured to continue their treasure hunt. The army was now followed by an ever-lengthening column of carts and sumpter horses, jealously guarded by two hundred of the king’s friends and favourites. They had a good idea of what the carts and saddle-bags contained, but on pain of death they kept their fingers from the straps.

  A messenger brought the happy news that Eustace de Vesci had been killed near London. The king’s epitaph for the rebel was ‘Amid poor surroundings, I hope’.

  In the last days of September the royal army drove a group of rebel barons from the fenland city of Lincoln. Its gallant defender was a woman. Nicola de la Haye, and Queen Isabelle smiled fixedly as John embraced the chatelaine and escorted her into the privacy of h
er chambers. The onlookers knew the king would not reappear before evening.

  From Lincoln the army moved south-east to Boston, on the edge of the broad estuary known as the Wash. Judging the tide to perfection, the cavalcade of horses, infantry and baggage-carts crossed the sand bars and reached the village of Lynn on the southern bank. There, the king led a detachment of his guards to the nearby monastery and reclaimed two more iron-bound boxes. He decided to break his journey, and the monks entertained their visitors as best they could. Unfortunately, the local well was being cleaned, and the priests were making do with impure river water. The years they had spent on the fens had inured them to the commonplace diseases, but the king was out of bed most of the night, his bowels loosened by dysentery.

  The next stop was Wisbech, farther from the coast, though still on the edge of the estuary. John suffered the ride in silence, and Isabelle affected not to notice his frequent visits to the ditch.

  At Wisbech the king again searched out the monastery, where its abbot fidgeted with the sleeves of his habit as he explained that the boxes entrusted to him had been transferred to the abbey at Swineshead.

  ‘FitzWalter’s men were in the district a month ago, though by God’s grace they passed us by. However, we heeded the warning and sent—’

  ‘Where is this place, Swineshead?’

  ‘Over there, my lord, on the north side of the estuary. One can see the tower of the abbey from our own turret. If you’d care to climb up with me—’

  ‘I would not.’ It was too late now to start for Swineshead. The cavalry would get there before dark, but the baggage-train made less than three miles an hour, and John was loth to leave it undefended. Besides, he was still afflicted by dysentery and too exhausted to ride farther. He would continue the treasure hunt in the morning.

  They had reached Wisbech on 11th October 1216. The King of England – the heritage of England – was one day from disaster.

  * * *

  The army would descend from Wisbech to the corrugated sands of the estuary, cross the sunken plateau and descend again to ford a narrow river called the Wellstream. The cavalry would go first, followed by the infantry, then the baggage-train and its escort, and finally a rearguard of knights and archers. It would be an easy enough passage, two steps down to the river, then two up to gain the northern bank. Local guides had been procured and, to avoid any repetition of the fiasco below Château Gaillard, the tide had been checked and checked again. The sea would have retreated from the estuary by mid-morning, and the Wellstream could then be forded without risk. Swineshead Abbey was ten miles from Wisbech, though the estuary itself was less than half that width. The October sun promised to burn off the mist, and there was no reason why the army should not enjoy a midday meal at Swineshead.

  There were quicksands here and there, but the guides went ahead with long bamboo poles, shouting if they judged the ground infirm. John and Isabelle rode near the head pf the column, though from time to time the king trotted back to make sure the wagons were making good progress. A slight breeze blew the mist to rags, and the carters found it easier to keep in line.

  The Wash was not entirely flat but, as the tide ebbed, it drew all but a few inches of water from the depressions. The mist continued to thin, until the villagers of Wisbech could see the mile-long column snaked out across the sand. In the monastery tower, one of the monks glanced inland, then pointed at a distant line of rain clouds. ‘At least the army’s been spared a drenching,’ he remarked. ‘With luck they’ll cross in bright sunlight.’

  Following the guides, Queen Isabelle was fascinated that they could probe two seemingly identical patches of sand, yet warn that one of them was unsafe. She wondered if the quagmires could really swallow a horse and rider and, if so, how many incautious travellers were embedded, deep in the estuary. The grisly image made her shudder and she stayed in line.

  The cavalry reached the Wellstream, urged their horses into the water, then yelled that they were dry above the boots. A flurry of spray, and the leading riders spurred up the far bank and on to the next rippled plateau.

  In the west, the storm darkened the sky, whilst the estuary remained warmed by the sun. Before long the first wagons would reach the Wellstream.

  Then one of the carts shed a wheel and there was a slight delay as guides were sent for, to probe a new path around the stricken conveyance. Soldiers struggled to lever the axle clear of the sand and hammer the wheel back in place. John crossed the Wellstream for the fourth time, riding back to supervise repairs. He had slept badly the previous night and looked forward to reaching Swineshead. The monks there made excellent cider, he’d heard, and he ran his tongue around his mouth in anticipation.

  Another wagon was driven carelessly wide of the path, the horses floundering in quicksands. Nothing could be done for them, so they were cut loose and the contents of the cart shared out among the next three in line.

  The king returned to the river, forded it again, then reined-in, scowling. The water had dragged more than usual, and he was wet to the knee. He squinted upstream, saw the banks of sand, the distant outcrops of reeds, the faint shape of bushes and then, with the merest flicker of his eyes, the storm clouds in the west.

  It was raining there, and the rain was filling the river…

  He yelled at those on the southern bank, telling the escort to speed the baggage-train, then beckoning wildly at the leading carters. ‘Come across! The water’s rising! Get those carts across!’

  One of his knights rode alongside, a guide clinging to the cantle of his saddle. ‘He has something to tell you, lord king.’ A vicious stab at his passenger and, ‘Go on, man, say it out!’

  Still armed with his bamboo pole, the guide slithered to the sand, bowed at John and muttered, ‘With your permission, my lord king. I’ve lived in this region for, well, since I was a boy, and I know how the waters run. Things change with the time of year, even the land changes, and the estuary was a good bit deeper the first time I ever crossed it.’

  His concentration divided between the storm clouds, the height of the river and the progress of the carts, John glared at the man and snarled, ‘Not your history. Not now. What is it?’

  The guide blinked and went mute with fear. The first cart was crashing through the water – and drifting a little in the current.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘If you would be advised, my lord king.’

  ‘I’ll be told! ’ John howled. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’d be safer to ford farther up. When the sea comes in it meets the stream and—’ He twirled his hands, one right, one left, to show what happened when the waters converged. ‘As you see, the river’s narrow along here, and now it’s filling up it’ll begin to race. It’d be safer to cross up there, my lord, just this side of the reeds.’

  John stabbed a finger at the knight. ‘You! Take him along the bank. He’ll show you where he means. Christ’s eyes, messires, haul him up! Get him up with you!’ He turned to shout at the carters, directing them to follow.

  The first wagon had gained the northern plateau, and John recognized it as the one that had shed a wheel. He watched it lumber past, looked away, then cursed and went after it. Gesticulating at the man to slow his team, he drew level and said, ‘How did you regain the lead?’

  The drover was puzzled by the question. ‘Now that we’re unladen, we just—’

  ‘Unladen! But why?’

  ‘To make the cart light enough to lift, my lord. It was the only way we could get the wheel back on. But the chests are quite safe. They’re in the other wagons.’

  Quite safe, John thought, though still on the wrong side of the river.

  * * *

  The cavalry and infantry had all crossed the Wellstream and were spread out along the safe path that twisted between the stretches of quicksand. Isabelle had already reached firm ground, where she dismounted to wait for John and the baggage-train. Almost three miles separated the northern edge of the estuary from the rain-filled river
, so she could not see what was causing the delay.

  Below her, on the sand, a number of local guides were talking heatedly with the advance troop of knights, whilst the infantry toiled up from the plateau and flopped down on the bank. She watched several of the knights wheel their mounts and gallop back towards the Wellstream, some riding alone, others with a passenger.

  It was odd weather, the sky clear overhead, yet black at the shoulder.

  The contents of the narrow gully flooded seaward. Flanked on the south by two miles of sand, on the north by almost three, the Wellstream could not be circumnavigated, not if one wished to travel from Wisbech to Swineshead.

  The first half of the morning had gone and now, as the day advanced, the tide ran in to fill the Wash. It met with no impediment, bubbling across the sand, the waves overlapping, swirling forward at the pace of a striding man. Ahead lay the line of carts and frantic drovers, but they were no real obstacle, for they could be lifted from the ground, tipped off balance and sunk. However solidly built, they could not stop the sea from coming in at its appointed time.

  When it happened, it proved irresistible. The wagons and their escort, now joined by the rearguard, were still manoeuvring on the southern plateau. The sea swept against them, filling the depression and obliterating all marks of safe passage. From the opposite bank, King John saw two of the carts tip forward into the river, whilst others were mired in the quicksands. He screamed at the drovers to go back, then clutched at his saddle as the incoming tide caused his horse to stumble. The knights who had stayed with him, or ridden back across the northern plateau, reached out to steady him, but he flailed about, still screaming commands. ‘Take them back! The water will carry you… The water… It’ll float you back…’