The Prince of Darkness (36 page)

John looked round the company. They were all against him … all! He had his mercenaries; they would follow him. But no, he could not go against his barons and his ministers.

‘You advise me not to go,’ he cried. ‘Tell me then what I must do.’

Some of the barons thought that a small company of knights might be sent to Poitou, there to help those who were loyal to him.

‘A company of knights! Is that going to hold Poitou? Is that going to win back Normandy?’ He had become maudlin. He was in tears. He could rely on nobody. Every man’s hand was against him.

‘Very well,’ he shouted. ‘I will dismiss my army. But you won’t stop my going. I shall go, taking with me a few of my
loyal
supporters.’

The barons gave their opinion that he must not leave the country. It was imperative that during this uncertain state of affairs he remain in England.

‘Do not attempt to tell me what I shall do and what I shall not,’ he screamed at them, forgetting that he had asked for their advice. ‘You will not come with me.’

He left them and went out to the harbour where his own ship was anchored.

‘Prepare,’ he cried. ‘We sail at once.’

His captain was astonished to hear that only this one ship was going to cross, all the rest being disbanded.

‘Nobody will follow me,’ cried John. ‘Then I will go alone.’

He set sail in his ship while the rest of the fleet was dismantled and the soldiers he had gathered together returned to their homes.

He did not intend to go to France though. As his temper cooled and the land receded, he knew it would be ridiculous if he went to France with just one ship’s company.

He gave orders for the captain to put in at Wareham where he alighted, complaining bitterly that he was surrounded by traitors. He had set out for France to regain his heritage and his subjects had deserted him. The disaster abroad was due to them. See, he had been ready to fight. But they were cowards. They had taken oaths to the King of France, forgetting their duty to the King of England in their determination to save their lands. It would always be remembered against them.

He had come to a sorry pass – not for what he had lost but what he had discovered – the treachery of those who should have loved him best!

Philip naturally took advantage of the situation and in a short time had all of Poitou in his possession with the exception of Rochelle, Thouars and Niort.

Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, was feeling his years as he left Canterbury for the town of Boxley where he was going to settle a quarrel between the Bishop of Rochester and some of his monks.

He was getting too old for such journeys and he was suffering from a tiresome carbuncle on his neck which was giving him a great deal of pain. On that morning when he had awakened he felt feverish and had wondered whether to postpone the journey, but it was never wise to allow these
quarrels to fester. It was far better he always said to find some quick solution. There was trouble enough in the country. He had been very uneasy of late, particularly since he had been with the King in Portchester when the latter had been there assembling his army to take across the Channel. What violent rages John could fall into! Hubert knew the Angevin temper well; John was not the only member of the family who possessed it for it had been present in almost every member of that family. It might well be true that it had been introduced into their blood by the witch woman whom one of the Dukes of Anjou was said to have married. Henry II had had it, so had Richard to some extent, but never had anyone possessed it to such a mad degree as John. He seemed to verge on madness when it flared up in him and to be possessed by the Devil himself. It was alarming to contemplate that such a man was at the head of the country.

Often the Archbishop thought of the King and wondered what had happened to young Arthur who had so suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. He had been in Rouen; John had gone to Rouen; and that was significant. The Archbishop prayed that John had not been guilty of some foul deed which could only bring disaster to him and, through him, to England.

They were good friends now, but conflict could arise between them at any moment. All monarchs resented the Church, but John more than most and he was not the sort to attempt to behave with diplomacy.

Often the Archbishop wondered whether it would not have been better to have brought Arthur over to England and trained him to become its king.

All this he was thinking as he jogged along on his horse. The heat was great – or was that his fever? The nagging pain of the
carbuncle was growing more insistent; he would be glad to rest for the night. By the time he and his retinue came to the town of Tenham he was quite exhausted and very ready to sink into a bed. He could eat nothing and his servants, he could see, were anxious on his behalf.

‘Please let me rest,’ he said. ‘After a good night I shall be fresh for tomorrow’s journey and pray God we shall soon have completed our business and be back in Canterbury.’

But in the morning he was certainly not ready to set out again. The carbuncle was throbbing painfully and the fever had increased. He was a little delirious and he agreed that he must rest here for a few days.

As the day wore on, the fever grew worse. Nor had it improved on the next day; and on the third day after his arrival at Tenham he was dead.

It was necessary to inform the King without delay of the death of his Archbishop; and a messenger set out from Tenham as soon as it was known what had happened.

John was at Westminster with his Queen when the messenger arrived. He was taken straight to the King because it was clear that the news was of the utmost importance.

‘My lord,’ cried the messenger, ‘the Archbishop of Canterbury is dead.’

John stood up and a low smile spread itself across his features.

‘Is it true then?’ he asked.

‘My lord, it is. He died of a fever and a carbuncle at Tenham.’

John turned to Isabella with a smile. ‘Did you hear that? He is dead. Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, is dead. Now for the first time am I truly King of England.’

When news reached Canterbury that the Archbishop was dead, the monks of St Augustine called a conclave at which they discussed the appointing of a new archbishop. This was according to a long-standing tradition, for the Canterbury monks had the right, which they were very eager to maintain, to elect their archbishop.

The Abbot pointed out that the death of Hubert was a great tragedy which they must all deplore but it could be an even greater one if an archbishop were elected who had not the good of the Church at heart. They must therefore come to a decision to select a worthy successor to Hubert and without much delay send to the Pope for his permission that the man of their selection might take the office which was so important to the Church.

They disbanded and arranged to meet again within a week. But before that time John had arrived in Canterbury.

He had come, he said, to pay his last respects to the Archbishop, his dear friend and adviser. He then extolled the virtues of Hubert, inwardly amused as he turned their differences to displays of amity. Such a situation appealed to his sense of humour.

‘We must make sure,’ he told the Abbot, ‘that we appoint a worthy successor to our good Hubert. He would be distraught, looking down from Heaven, if we appointed one who was the wrong man. Of course it is impossible to find one of his worth but we must ensure that he who follows is capable of wearing the mantle so tragically discarded by himself.’

‘We have been thinking deeply on the matter,’ said the Abbot.

John was alert. So you have, have you? he thought. And you would like to put up your man, somebody who would bow to Rome. I know you churchmen! Nay, my old abbot, the next Archbishop of Canterbury is going to be
my
man as old Hubert never was.

‘It is a matter which all those who have the good of the Church … and the Court … at heart, must consider deeply. I myself have been thinking and it seems to me that I could not find a better man than John de Grey, Bishop of Norwich, who has been a very good friend to his country.’

The Abbot was dismayed. John de Grey was the King’s man. It had been said that Hubert was more a statesman than a churchman but at least he had always had the good of the Church at heart. John de Grey would work entirely for the King and this was clearly why the King had decided on him.

The Abbot did not reply and John went on to extol the virtues of Hubert.

‘Alas, alas we shall never see his like,’ he said and thought: Thank God for that.

He was present at the ceremonial burying of the Archbishop and lingered for six days in Canterbury making himself agreeable to the monks, never again mentioning that he was determined on the election of John de Grey but nevertheless making up his mind that as soon as he returned to Westminster he would send envoys to the Pope. The fact that this had to be done infuriated him as it had kings before him. The yoke of Rome was never very comfortable for a royal neck. It was for this reason that uneasiness always existed between Church and State, and therefore imperative for the King that this most important office should be filled by a man who would work for him. John de Grey was that man.

As soon as John had left Canterbury the Abbot called another meeting.

‘It is clear,’ he said, ‘that the King has decided to put forward the Bishop of Norwich. He is the King’s man; he will do exactly as ordered and that means that if the King demands the abolition of the Church’s privileges, the King’s archbishop will do as ordered. That will not serve the Church well.’

One of the monks reminded the Abbot that it was their privilege to elect an archbishop and ask the Pope’s sanction for his appointment.

‘That is exactly what I suggest we do.’

‘Against the King’s wishes?’ asked one.

‘That is not a State matter,’ replied the Abbot firmly. ‘It is for the Church to choose and as it is our privilege to elect the Archbishop, let us do so. We will then send him in person to Rome to solicit papal approval but not before we have placed him on the Archbishop’s chair.’

There were some of the more timid monks who talked of the King’s displeasure but the Abbot pointed out that not only must the Church stand against the State when necessary but that they who were the monks of Canterbury, where the martyr St Thomas à Becket had shown his defiance to the crown, must inspire their countrymen to do their duty and that lay with the Church. They would, secretly by night, elect their archbishop, go through the ceremony of putting him on the Primate’s throne and then send him to Rome. By the time his election was known he would have the Pope’s consent and when that was given, the King could do nothing.

The monks saw that unless they were going meekly to accept the King’s man, this was how they must act, so they attended the secret conclave and elected their sub-prior
Reginald – a pious and scholarly man who had proved his devotion to the Church. They went through the ceremony at the altar and set him on the throne. Then it was agreed that he should set out for Rome without delay and tell the Pope that he had been elected by the monks of Canterbury and that all he needed was the papal sanction for his office.

‘It is imperative,’ said the Abbot, ‘that none should know what has happened here tonight until you have the Pope’s sanction, so I am going to ask you to swear an oath of secrecy.’

Reginald declared that nothing would draw the information from him and he eagerly took an oath swearing absolute secrecy.

Then he set out for Rome.