Richard & John: Kings at War (57 page)

By acquiring a reputation as a cruel, despotic fool John had already gone a long way towards ‘losing hearts and minds’ but he set the capstone on his malign reputation by his murder of Arthur. In an ominous pre-echo of modern times Arthur suddenly ‘disappeared’ and for a long time no one knew whether he was still alive. Whenever John tried to open negotiations with the king of France, Philip Augustus sent back the same formulaic answer: first abandon your continental possessions or deliver up Arthur .
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For the rest of his reign John escaped explicit censure for the murder of Arthur (though most intelligent people suspected what had happened), and spread the disinformation that Arthur had died of fever in prison, had fallen from the battlements while trying to escape or had drowned in the later stages of an escape bid; even Matthew Paris, John’s most severe critic in the immediate post-1216 period confessed himself at a loss to know what had really happened.
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The entire gruesome story began when John, persuaded by his advisers that the 16-year-old ‘pretender’ to his throne was too dangerous to be left alive, compromised by deciding to have him castrated and blinded. Hubert de Burgh, the castellan at Falaise, baulked at this barbarity and also thought it was stupid, since the whole of Britanny would immediately explode into revolt at news of such an atrocity to its beloved prince. He therefore prevented John’s two hired thugs from carrying out their savage mission. This is the famous moment in Act Four Scene One of Shakespeare’s
King John
:

Well, see to live: I will not touch thine eye
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes.
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same iron to burn them out . . .
Your uncle must not know but you are dead:
I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports;
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.

The historical Hubert was certainly a man who took too much on himself, for he decided to announce that Arthur was dead of natural causes, but the Bretons exploded anyway, convinced that their prince had been murdered. Backtracking feverishly, Hubert then admitted that Arthur was alive, but by then nobody believed him anyway.
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Britanny was in a ferment, for the cult of King Arthur, sedulously promoted by Henry II, was almost a religion there, and the Bretons regarded the young son of Geoffrey and Constance to be
Arturus Redivivus
. The killing of Arthur was therefore akin to deicide, and his murderer was regarded as a second Mordred, the very avatar of evil and the destruction of the hopes of heaven here on earth. The only thing that remains uncertain is whether the solemn assembly convened by the Bretons in 1203 to condemn John for Arthur’s murder was a consequence of Hubert’s hamfisted vacillation or whether they had harder evidence of the crime.
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Although many people knew the true story of Arthur’s death, there was a curious conspiracy of silence about it in the work of the major chroniclers. Only the peculiarly well-informed Cistercian Abbey of Margam in Glamorgan was able to reproduce the grim sequence of events in its annals. It seems that John, furious that Hubert de Burgh had disobeyed him, transferred Arthur to a dungeon at Rouen. The annals continue: ‘After King John had captured Arthur and kept him alive in prison for some time, at length, in the castle of Rouen, after dinner on the Thursday before Easter (i.e. 3 April 1203), when he was drunk and possessed by the devil, he slew him with his own hand and, tying a heavy stone to the body, cast it into the Seine. It was discovered by a fisherman in his net and, being dragged to the shore and recognised, was taken for secret burial, in fear of the tyrant, to the priory of Bec called Notre Dame des Prés.’
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Everything about the story rings true: John’s rage, the drunkenness, the cruelty, the cowardice in facing up to the consequences of his own actions. In strictly legal terms, it could be argued that John had every right to put Arthur to death since he was a traitor to a lord to whom he had sworn homage, though Arthur could have pleaded duress in answer to that charge.
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As a betrayer of a feudal lord, Arthur could have been put to death without trial, which doubtless accounts for the subdued tone of the papal reaction to Philip’s formal indictment in 1216. From the vantage point of the Vatican, which had experience of murders of kings and by kings going back over the centuries, Arthur’s death was a ‘little local difficulty’, not something that raised fundamental ethical and theological issues. It must be remembered that the cult of Arthur as the reincarnation of the mythical king Arthur of England was something confined to Britanny; his murder would only have been perceived as a sin crying to heaven for vengeance in the Celtic fringes imbued with the legends of the Round Table. For all that, even in an age inured to brutality, John’s callous making away with his nephew touched a nerve. It is no accident that, as soon as Arthur’s death was regarded as a moral certainty, many major Norman barons deserted John, including the count of Evreux, Hugh of Gournai, Peter of Meulan and Guy of Thouars.
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Yet John had to undertake a major task of damage limitation, and engaged his favourites in an elaborate cover-up. He realised that his best move was to leave Arthur’s fate in a limbo of uncertainty, for the Bretons would not move against him in force until they were sure Arthur was dead. As in all such cases, the accessories were themselves in danger. John’s key henchman on this occasion was William de Braose. When he fell from favour in 1207, John demanded his sons as surety for his good behaviour; he realised that de Braose knew too much and was dangerous. William’s sharp-tongued wife refused to hand over her sons to a man who was a known murderer, one who had not scrupled to assassinate his own nephew.
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John had to wait a few years before he could take revenge on the de Braose sept and when he did he was as merciless with them as with Arthur (see below, pp.344, 347) Philip Augustus meanwhile showed a curious insouciance about Arthur’s fate. While using him as a bugbear (‘first produce Arthur’) in his dealings with John, he did not milk the murder for its real propaganda worth, and the truth is that Philip had no personal, as opposed to political, feelings about Arthur. Although it is often claimed, and with justification, that the death of Arthur was one of the factors that ultimately lost John Normandy, Philip’s strategic and tactical planning proceeded without regard to Arthur. It is sometimes falsely stated that Philip began his campaign of 1203 to avenge Arthur, but the reality is that for a long time Philip could not be sure the young pretender was dead - and hence the phrase ‘if he still lives’ used in documents dated that year which refer to Arthur.
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Probably it was only in 1204 that Philip knew for certain of the passing of Arthur, yet it was not until 1216 that John was widely acknowledged in Europe to be the prince’s killer. By this time the poets and chroniclers were embellishing and adding ornate touches to the basic story: William le Breton’s tale that John took Arthur out on the Seine in a boat, killed him and then tipped him overboard, sounds more like Theodore Dreiser’s
An American Tragedy
than the sad story of the death of princes.
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The murder of Arthur was, moreover, more effect than cause of John’s military collapse. As a result of his folly, mismanagement and incompetence, by autumn 1202 John faced war on three fronts: in the east with Philip in the traditional theatres of Normandy and the Vexin; with the Bretons in the west; and with the powerful coalition of des Roches, Thouars and the Lusignans in the south. John’s reconnaissance trips revealed an overall situation even more serious than his worst estimates. Depressed and confused, John did not need much more to tip him over into outright defeatism, and the trigger seems to have come in January 1203. Hastening south to rescue a beleaguered Queen Isabella, John found himself cut off by the count of Alençon, who suddenly declared for the other side after wining and dining the king of England in apparent friendship just two days earlier. There was no second Mirebeau, no second lightning dash south; John retreated to Le Mans, tail between legs, leaving the ticklish task of rescuing Isabella to his mercenary captain Peter de Preaux.
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It was during the limbo period of inactivity that followed that John, raging in his cups, slew Arthur. The situation in the south deteriorated to the point where Philip Augustus was able to coast down the Loire in perfect safety for a meeting with his southern allies.
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Bottled up in Normandy, John soon found that the allegedly impenetrable carapace of Angevin defences was no such thing. Mere fortifications cannot bolster morale, and the mood throughout Normandy in early 1203 was vehemently anti-John, with more and more barons going over to Philip every week. Le Mans, Angers and Alençon were soon in enemy hands, as well as the strongholds of Beaumont-le-Roger and Conches.
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The great fortress of Vaudreuil on the left bank of the Seine surrendered to the French without an arrow having been shot, creating a sensation throughout the land.
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John seemed paralysed by the course of events; the usual restlessness collapsed into lethargy, apathy and sensualism. Roger of Wendover claimed that John was consumed by lust for his wife and therefore neglected the great affairs of state, but even those historians who reject the story are hard put to suggest other explanations, unless the alternative theory of bipolar disorder (equally unpopular with straitlaced analysts of his reign) is brought into play. When told that Philip had led away the castellans of surrendered castles tied to the tails of their horses, he remarked insouciantly: ‘Let him alone; I will win back all his booty some day.’
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The only rational interpretation that favours John asserts that he was awaiting papal intervention, thinking Innocent III was on his side; Innocent might have been, but John misunderstood the political realities, which were that Philip was prepared to risk a papal interdict if it meant that he could conquer Normandy.
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The crisis in Normandy reached a climax in August 1203 when Philip brought up his heavy siege engines and opened the siege of Château-Gaillard, Richard’s cynosure, his ‘Saucy Castle’ - the pride of Angevin Normandy and hitherto thought so far impregnable that it was not even worth investing it.
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For once John felt proof against treachery, as the castellan, Roger Lacy, was an Englishman with no territorial or political interests in Normandy. But Château-Gaillard, with its large garrison, was vulnerable to hunger, and the Angevin supply lines had to be secured. John planned a twofold approach: running supplies through Philip Augustus’s blockade while preparing a smashing counteroffensive to destroy the French mangonels and trebuchets. On paper at least by August John was back in an energetic phase, for his scheme for blockade running was a return to Mirebeau conceptions and, if successful, would have done credit to Richard himself.
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John devised an ambitious amphibious stratagem. Seventy supply vessels laden with provisions and guarded by marines - the first fruit of Richard’s inchoate attempts to make England a naval power - would move up the Seine at night, flanked by routiers. Meanwhile William Marshal would lead a mixed force of cavalry and infantry up the left bank, ready to fall on the French camp at dawn. While the French were fighting for their lives, the marines and routiers would demolish the pontoon bridge Philip had built across the river to prevent the arrival of enemy reinforcements and, free from interference, ferry the supplies to the castle. Amphibious operations are difficult at the best of times, especially night-time ones, and require meticulous coordination and split-second timing. Unfortunately, John’s naval captains had not properly factored in the strength of wind and current, and the rowers on the supply vessels found themselves beating up against a hostile current, losing time all the while. Marshal’s attack force struck the French as planned, but at dawn the naval party was still not at Château-Gaillard. The result was that the French were able to deal with the attacks piecemeal. First they beat back Marshal’s army with heavy losses, then turned to deal with the second threat.
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The marines and Brabantines tried to smash their way through on their own but were heavily routed by the combined French forces. Blocks of wood, arrows and even Greek fire rained down on the attackers from the heights. Angevin losses that night were grievous, and it was said that the Seine ran red with the blood of courageous but doomed marines and mariners.
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The siege of Château-Gaillard lasted from the end of September 1203 until 6 March 1204, but thereafter John made no attempt to relieve it. Instead he swung west to deal with the Bretons, apparently hoping that if he defeated them, Philip Augustus would raise the siege of Château-Gaillard and march westward. But Philip was not to be tempted. John’s forces took Dol, and his mercenaries had a field day, running rampage, gutting the cathedral, sacking and looting to their heart’s content, yet nothing militarily significant was achieved.
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Returning slowly to Rouen via Falaise and Lisieux, John spent the autumn of 1203 in another furious lather of indecision and dithering, where mere energy substituted for thought or planning. On one occasion in October he rode all day from dawn to dusk, covering an immense distance but for no discernible reason. After a drinking bout in Caen, he then returned to Rouen, the entire reason for the journey still a mystery.
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John was inclined to give up the ghost and flee to England, but credibility demanded that he save face and make some kind of showing. Yet already his councillors were picking up the contagion of defeatism. William Marshal tried to talk some sense into him: ‘Sir, you have too few friends, and if you challenge your enemies to fight, you will be crippled.’ John made one of those offhand, cavalier and almost delphic replies that so infuriated his followers: ‘Whoever be afraid, let him flee. I shall not go for a year.’
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But he was whistling in the dark, and he knew it. The moment of truth came in December when he announced that he was going to England ‘to consult his barons’ but would return immediately; the fact that he took Queen Isabella with him made his advisers doubt the exact truth of the last remark. The preparations for the flight to England - for no other word than flight will do - show a secretive, panicky, paranoid mind at work. Fearing betrayal and scenting treachery everywhere, he gave out that he was going to sleep in the castle of Bonneville on his way to the coast, but slept in the town instead, lest he be apprehended. At the next stop he went to bed, told William Marshal and his barons to wake him at dawn, then got dressed and rode on through the night with his most trusted admirers; when Marshal and the others came to his chambers at daybreak, John was already twenty miles away. He rode to Bayeux via Caen, then headed for Barfleur, where he embarked for England on 5 December.
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As many in his entourage had suspected would be the case, he never returned to Normandy.