Lion Heart (31 page)
Look after yourself, my dearest brother and lover, and I know we will be together in the not too distant future. I am clinging to that hope.
All my love, and then some more,
Noor xxxx
31
Look to yourself
– the devil is loose.
King Philip Augustus of France, to Prince John, brother of King Richard.
John is becoming desperate as Richard’s release date approaches. He fears being hanged for treason. In many people’s opinion, he deserves it. He makes agreements that cede most of Normandy, his brother’s duchy, to Philip. He recognises Angoulême’s claim to be independent of Aquitaine, his brother’s other duchy, and he surrenders key castles all over the place. He is so desperate to oust his brother that he is trying to bribe Richard’s vassals, at the expense of all that his father and his brother have achieved. Nobody trusts him. Philip despises him, but he needs to work with him.
When the Emperor announces that Richard will be released on the 24th of January, Philip and John jointly offer him £1,000 a month for as long as he keeps Richard in captivity. They have an alternative offer too: 80,000 marks to hold him for the rest of the year, when the campaigning season will have closed – and they will have consolidated their gains – or 150,000 marks to surrender Richard to them. The Emperor postpones the release, possibly to consider these offers. He orders a conclave in Mainz for the 2nd of February. Eleanor, Richard’s doughty mother, arrives to bring her considerable political nous to bear on this meeting. She loves Richard: a German chronicler describes Richard as the son Eleanor loved most particularly. Two of his closest advisers, Archbishop Walter of Rouen and former Chancellor, William de Longchamp, have hastened to be at his side. A number of Rhineland princes also support Richard: he has spent his time in captivity assiduously making alliances. The Emperor sets a final demand: that the Kingdom of England should be made over to him, although it will be ruled by Richard as a fief. After a tense meeting, Eleanor persuades Richard to accept this demand. She understands that nobody in England will take much notice of a formality, but it will allow Henry VI, whose empire is relatively meagre for an emperor, to puff himself up.
As is the custom, Richard leaves behind hostages: the Archbishop of Rouen, a son of King Sancho of Navarre – brother of his neglected wife, Berengaria – and one of his most trusted knights, Baldwin of Béthune. In the event they aren’t held long.
All this has come about because Richard was blown, fortuitously, onto the Emperor’s shores. Finally, on 4 February 1194, he releases Richard and the devil is indeed loose. The lord of St Michael’s Mount, won over to John, dies of fright when he hears the news.
Richard has been working on alliances, preparing for this day, and now he sets off for the Lowlands to enlist more support on the way home. A huge fleet is waiting at Antwerp to take him to England. He arrives finally at Sandwich on the 25th of February. Jubilation seizes the country as he embarks on a royal progress, crown on head, wearing his white Crusader cloak with its red cross. His first stop is the shrine at Canterbury and after that he moves on to Bury St Edmunds. His manner is typically gracious.
As the Cistercian Abbot, Ralph de Coggeshall, writes:
No tribulation could cloud the countenance of this most serene prince. His words remained cheerful and jocund, his actions fierce or most courageous as time, peace, reason or person demanded.
John, for all his brother’s cheery countenance, is terrified, and stays on the other side of the Channel, well away from his brother, although he desperately wants reassurance about his future. Richard believes in the notion of honour –
pretz
– which requires forgiveness for high-ranking enemies, if not for the lower-ranking. John has his hopes pinned on his brother’s chivalric nature.
Some months before, Richard’s right-hand man, Hubert Walter, set in motion the recapture of the few castles in England still holding out for John. Nottingham Castle is now the only one still defiant. It takes a visit to the scene from the Lionheart himself to finish the job. He arrives, wearing a light coat of mail. He is announced with a fanfare of trumpets and horns. The defenders believe it is a ruse. They scoff, tapping their noses knowingly: bottled up in the castle, they have clearly been a little out of touch with current affairs. Richard, characteristically, takes part in the siege, surrounded by men with large shields. The defenders are driven into the keep as night falls. In the morning, just in case they misunderstand his intentions, Richard orders gallows erected and has some prisoners hanged in full view. He is a great believer in the persuasive effect of public execution; it concentrates the mind. He also orders that some Greek Fire should be ostentatiously prepared, and he has a captive brought to him.
‘Well, what can you see? Is it me?’ he asks the terrified man, who is sent back into the keep.
When it is reported to the defenders by the captive that King Richard is indeed here, right outside in fact, they immediately agree to surrender. It’s all over in less than two days.
With time on his hands – it’s like a cricket match that ends unexpectedly – Richard makes his one and only excursion to Sherwood Forest, which he is curious to see. None of the chroniclers who note Richard’s movements in detail over the next few days reports a meeting with Robin Hood, or Robin Hod, or the Green Man, but somewhere in the depths of the race memory this brief trip is lodged, to be pulled up like a bucket in a well to be commingled with the legend of Robin Hood.
Although Richard never met Robin Hood, and although the Sheriff of Nottingham never fought a duel with Robin Hood, these encounters are half real in many minds. No king of England, excepting perhaps the legendary Arthur, has entered the national mythology so deeply. Richard’s return after his exploits in the Holy Land and his unjust captivity have made him a figure of veneration in England. A public procession in Winchester, the King in full regalia, with two swords carried before him and a collection of earls, knights and barons behind, becomes a near mystical occasion, watched by thousands.
The huge nineteenth-century equestrian statue of Richard, by Carlo Marochetti, outside the Houses of Parliament, depicts him as the embodiment of national pride. Two bas-reliefs show the capture of Ascalon and Richard pardoning Bertran de Born, once a rebel and an acclaimed troubadour. The message to Victorians is clear: to be English is to embrace bravery and compassion.
As soon as he could, Richard moved to the new port at Portsmouth to be ready to sail for Normandy to begin the difficult task of regaining his lost territories. He is reported to have been impatient to get on with it. His chancellor, the more than capable Hubert Walter, was left in charge. Walter knew that the knights had hidden their
tesaur;
he may not have known exactly where that was. But Henry of Huntingdon was dead and the other knights were dispersed.
The fleet was delayed by bad weather; characteristically, Richard decided to set sail in his great ship. At the end of the day he was forced to turn back. His fleet finally left harbour a week later. He was a man of the warm south
of Provençal song and sunburnt mirth.
London was on the cold periphery of his orbit. He was to spend most of his remaining time in Normandy and Anjou.
When he landed at Barfleur he was welcomed riotously; there was dancing in the street and drinking and calls for the death of the French King. For all that, Richard had a nearly impossible task ahead of him if he wanted to restore his lands in full. It may be that he regretted taking the cross to leave his territories exposed.
The major thrust by Philip came from the north-east of Normandy, where the crucial Castle of Gisors had been handed over to Philip by a nervous castellan. It was only thirty-two miles from Rouen, and massively fortified.
Further south in Aquitaine, the Count of Anjou and many others were in revolt against Richard. These were the people he reproached in his song, ‘
Ja Nus Hons Pris: mi home et mi baron – Ynglois, Normant, Poitevin et Gascon’
. He was obsessed with bringing them all back into line, and was determined to teach them that retribution would be swift and terrible and was inevitable after their treachery, a treachery made worse by the fact that they had broken God’s law in attacking the lands of someone who had taken the cross.
During Richard’s weather delay, Philip had attacked the Castle of Verneuil, his last great opportunity before Richard reached Normandy. But John, his brother, had decided to change sides. He rushed to Lisieux where Richard was staying overnight soon after landing, and threw himself at his brother’s feet and begged forgiveness. Richard gave it to him – generously, those present recalled. He said to his brother, ‘Don’t be afraid, John, you are a child. You have got into bad company and it is those who have led you astray who will be punished.’ John was twenty-seven.
John of Alençon, Richard’s host, told John forthrightly that he had been treated far better by his brother than he would have treated Richard in similar circumstances. He added that John was
sans desert
– not worthy.
Already, propelled by the sheer terror Richard aroused, the tide was turning. Philip was beginning to vacillate. He retreated from Verneuil, Richard took it, and in the process captured all Philip’s artillery. In turn he kissed every man of the garrison, which had held out. Philip continued sporadic attacks, even threatening Rouen, but Richard quickly captured three important castles. He was doing what he did best, undermining and taking castles; he was an expert after more than twenty years in the field. But perhaps just as important was the knowledge of his ruthlessness and bravery; the rebels were considering their positions carefully.
At his swashbuckling best, Richard took the castle of Loches by storm in just one day. Touraine was his again. Now Richard set out for Vendôme, the key to Aquitaine. Philip rushed to stop him, but when he heard that Richard lay immediately ahead, thirsting for a decisive battle, he turned and fled. Richard, with the help of his chief of staff, Mercadier – in effect a mercenary – who provided him with fresh horses, galloped after Philip. Richard had offered Philip single combat to the death, but Philip knew his limitations. Richard caught up with the army, but somehow Philip managed to escape. Richard was reported to be disappointed,
déçu
. Nothing would have pleased him more than to make Philip pay for his duplicity and treachery with his death. But he had the consolation of capturing the immense French wagon train that supplied Philip’s travelling court. Richard had a childish delight in taking other people’s supplies and other people’s money. He viewed what he had captured: hundreds of war and draft horses, siege engines, the royal archives, which contained many names of people prepared to give their loyalty to Philip. He also took possession of huge amounts of Philip’s treasure.
Mercadier was another who had sailed with Richard to the Holy Land, but when news reached him that Philip, breaking his public oath to Richard, had started to invade his lands, Richard sent Mercadier back to defend his empire. When he returned from captivity, Mercadier was always at his side. Richard had the highest possible regard for him, and rewarded him with the lands of some of his rebellious vassals, which included an estate of the Viscount of Limoges.
32
Haneen is right
; it’s not difficult to become used to luxury. I am quickly at home under the flattering urbanity of the Rothko prints and soothed by the view of the park and kept perfectly warm by the air which seems to come from vents in the floor in response to my unspoken needs. Sometimes I see the Household Cavalry passing through the park on their huge black horses. I think of the Templars and Richard’s knights riding through Arles. You don’t get pageantry in Hackney, but then in Hackney you might be in another country. This seems to be a characteristic of world cities, and probably always has been, that not far from wealth there is often grinding poverty.
Here, everything is controlled and groomed: lawns, trees, window boxes (now showing daffodils and early tulips) and in the corner of my vision there is an artful drift of crocus, pale lavender or purple; these colours come first, before the yellows and whites. Here, the window frames are all painted and so many layers of white paint have been applied to the stucco over the years that in a certain light the rows of grand houses look as if they have been iced. Dogs walk the streets towards the park on leads. There are no Rottweilers or psycho bull terriers. Here they go in for amiable breeds like Labradors or small, neurotic dogs, like dachshunds. In the cold weather these little creatures trot along wearing a coat just in case they should become distressed, or even slightly put out. Some of them refuse to walk at all when faced by a puddle and then they are picked up and carried comfortably under the arm, as if they are baguettes. They sail complacently along above the ground. I am thinking happily about these things when my phone rings.
‘Good morning, is that Richard Cathar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you able to take a call from Lord Huntingdon?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘All right, I am putting you through.’
‘Richard, hello. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. Are you well?’