The King’s Assassin (47 page)

‘Alan, stay a while. I would like to have a private word with you, if I may.’

I had risen from the table, heedless of my lord’s words, and I was making for the door. I had one thing on my mind and that was blood. The Templar would die screaming.

Robin caught my arm. ‘Wait, Alan. We will do this thing together. We must not be hasty. Wait, I beg you, and I swear we shall have the truth out of this man. And he shall pay, but you must not go off full of rage like this.’

‘He … he hurt my son.’ I could barely speak for wrath.

‘Alan, look at me!’ I stared into Robin’s face, managing to find my focus.

‘We will do this together. I swear it. You want revenge and you shall have it. But we need to plan. We need time. You will throw your life away if you go up against the Templars alone. And where would Robert be then? You and I will do this, quietly, without fanfare, but we’ll do it after the charter is signed. Do you hear me?’

My lord was speaking good sense. And slowly mine returned, too. For Robert’s sake, I could not afford to be reckless. I would settle with this vile Templar calmly, permanently and with Robin’s help after this business with the King.

At Runnymede.

There was nothing much to see at Runnymede – no castle, town or church: it was just a long meadow beside the meandering course of the River Thames; good horse country, lush, flat and green, with thickly wooded rising ground to the south. But Robin told me that this very piece of land had once been a place where the Witan, the council of wise men, would meet with the King of England in the days before the Normans overran this island. I doubt if more than a handful of the rebel barons of the Army of God knew that fact when they met King John there two days after the ides of June, on the fifteenth day of that month. For most of the lords who gathered there, it was not a place hallowed by the councils of ages past, but a place of victory today.

It was a sparkling, jewel-like morning, the first true day of summer, and the fighting strength of England paraded in its splendour in the sunshine on that bloodless field of victory. Robin and I and about a score of his men-at-arms spent the night before at St Mary’s Priory on the other side of the river, but we were up before dawn and ferried across the Thames by local boatmen to set up our pavilion with all the others. Although we were meeting under a flag of truce, there must have been a thousand men in mail there that day, tearing up the green turf with the hooves of their galloping destriers. The field was already dotted with brightly coloured tents and pavilions and the banners of a hundred noble families fluttered above them in the perfect clear air.

The King arrived last, a little before midday, as was fitting for royalty, even such a tawdry monarch as he. He came downstream from Windsor by royal barge, a low gilded boat, rowed by two dozen brawny mercenaries, and he was accompanied by the Archbishop of Canterbury, who more than any man, except perhaps Robin, was the architect of the final agreement that had been hammered out between the King and Fitzwalter’s rebels.

As the King stepped off the barge and on to the green turf surrounded by a screen of crossbowmen, he stumbled and a big bearded bowman in royal livery of scarlet and gold lunged forward and caught the royal arm to prevent John tumbling to his knees in front of the whole baronage of England. I was about five paces away, in the forefront of a crowd of Robin’s men, and I caught the crossbowman’s eye as he helped the King to right himself: it was Stevin, the garlic-loving lout who had given me so many beatings when I was his prisoner. I winked at him and grinned – he scowled in return, and quickly looked about him to see that the guards were in their places between me and the King.

John himself looked ill and tired. His hair had lost the red-gold sheen of his family and was now a washed-out browny-grey. His face was lined and pale, and there were circles under his eyes. He looked beaten, unslept and more than a little afraid.

The crossbowmen made a lane through the press of men-at-arms, and many of the watching men, even now, knelt in the presence of royalty. I did not. I looked on, standing tall and proud, as John was guided across the few hundred yards of flat green field with the Archbishop of Canterbury on one side and his brother the Earl of Salisbury on the other, and the crowd of barons, knights and men-at-arms following behind. The King raised his chin and made at least a pretence of dignity as he was shown to a dais which had been set up on the rising slope. He seated himself at a great wooden throne before a broad oak table and a priest began a loud prayer of thanks for the blessing of peace throughout the land.

The barons of England crowded forward around the King and the table at which he sat, and there was more than a little jostling from the big men in bright surcoats and armour as they crushed in under the awning, eager to witness his humiliation. John closed his eyes, like a child wishing the rest of the world to be invisible.

The Archbishop of Canterbury took a large piece of almost square parchment from the table, held it aloft so that all might see it, and in a loud commanding voice he began to read in beautiful Latin the following resounding words:

‘John, by the grace of God King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou, to his archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls, barons, justices, foresters, sheriffs, stewards, servants, and to all his officials and loyal subjects, Greeting.

‘Know that before God, for the health of our soul and those of our ancestors and heirs, to the honour of God, the exaltation of the holy Church, and the better ordering of our kingdom, at the advice of our reverend fathers Stephen, Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of All England, and cardinal of the holy Roman Church…’

There followed a list of the assembled bishops and barons, and as each name was mentioned I looked at the man who owned it: Master Pandulf, a tall austere figure in black, who served as legate to the new overlord of England, now sitting on St Peter’s throne in Rome; Aymeric de St Maur, Master of the Templars, who was staring at me with a particularly intense expression; William the Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, was there too and I looked to see if his almoner was with him. Despite my promise to Robin that I would do nothing until after the ceremony, I did not know if I could keep my word if I found myself within striking distance of Brother Geoffrey. But there was no sign of that beast in human form. William, Earl of Salisbury, John’s half-brother but a decent man at heart, was there; Hubert de Burgh, seneschal of Poitou, a severe hawk of a man whom I had known in Normandy, too; as well as the earls of Warren and Arundel, Oxford, Winchester and Essex and a host of lesser barons and knights. On the far side of the table I could see Lord Fitzwalter, who was glowing with his triumph, and Lord de Vesci leering with satisfaction. By my left elbow was Robin, serene and faintly smiling. On my right was Thomas. The knight had been absent for some days, and he had returned the night before the ceremony, looking tired and drawn but well pleased with himself. I asked him, a little sourly, if he had had a good win at the dice tables. But he looked hurt and said that he had not been gaming since he had promised Mary. I did not believe him. But I was too low in spirits to challenge his lies. It was in truth none of my business, either. And so I let it pass.

The archbishop read on through clause after clause that had already been painstakingly agreed with the King over the past few days. The archbishop spoke of the freedom of the Church, of the fair inheritance of lands, of the rights of widows and debtors, he spoke of scutage and taxes and the liberties to be enjoyed by the city of London. Then he spoke the very words that had so warmed my heart in Alnwick:

‘No free man shall be seized or imprisoned, or stripped of his rights or possessions, or outlawed or exiled, or deprived of his standing in any way, nor will we proceed with force against him, or send others to do so, except by the lawful judgement of his equals or by the law of the land.’

Once more those words made my heart glow: they meant that I could never again be slung into a gaol to starve my life away without fair trial, and neither would any other free man. For those words alone, I felt, the struggle had been worth it.

The clauses went on and on, dealing with the right of free movement for merchants and promises to reform the harsh forest laws, and just as I was growing a little bored, Robin nudged me and murmured in my ear, ‘Pay attention to this one, Alan,’ and I heard the archbishop read out the following:

‘We will remove completely from their offices the kinsmen of Gérard d’Athée, and in future they shall hold no offices in England. The people in question are Engelard de Cigogné, Peter, Guy, and Andrew de Chanceaux, Guy de Cigogné, Geoffrey de Martigny and his brothers, Philip Marc and his brothers, with Geoffrey his nephew, and all their followers.’

I almost missed the name. But Robin made it clear to me in a low whisper. ‘Philip Marc has already been dismissed as sheriff of Nottinghamshire, he left the castle two days ago, and I have arranged a new man for the position. He’s called Lowdham, a mild-mannered, decent fellow, and I think you’ll find him a good deal less demanding. You’ll meet him in due course – we’re to install him in his new post, help him settle in.’

I felt a lightening of my heart, despite the rage and grief that still gripped me. With Philip Marc gone, there would be no more danger to Robert or to Westbury over my unpaid scutage. If this Lowdham fellow was half as reasonable as Robin had suggested, I might not have to pay the tax Marc had demanded at all. A wash of gratitude filled my heart for my lord and his kindness.

I looked at the King and saw that his eyes were still tightly shut as they had been throughout the long recitation – but as the archbishop wound on and on and at last mentioned the council of twenty-five barons who would oversee the King’s actions and whose duty it would be to seize the King’s castles and lands if he broke the promises made today, I saw John’s eyes snap open and a spark of some strong dark emotion burn in their faded depths.

King John is not quite so reconciled to this great charter as many suppose, I thought to myself. I found myself suddenly looking straight into the sovereign’s eyes and he was looking into mine – and I realised that this was an expression that I could much more easily unravel. It was a look of pure and poisonous hatred.

At last, archbishop Langton was done. Silence fell over the assembled men. Clerks bustled forward. Hot green wax was dripped on a thick piece of tape attached to the bottom of the parchment. John had the Great Seal in his hand – and at the last moment he hesitated. A strong gust rustled the square piece of parchment, threatening to blow it away and hurl it into the crowd of men gathered around the table.

The archbishop slapped his hand on the charter, pinning it to the table. In the hush of expectation it sounded as loud and harsh as the crack of a whip.

‘You must seal it, sire, before the wax dries,’ Langton said.

John stared up into the churchman’s face for a moment, then he swiftly stabbed the Great Seal into the spreading pool.

The King stood up abruptly. ‘Are we done? Can I go now?’ he said to the archbishop.

‘Sire, you may, of course, do whatever you choose,’ said Langton. ‘You are the King. But first, perhaps, your royal highness might like to take the homage of the assembled baronage of all England.’

‘Oh yes, the homage. The oath of fidelity,’ he sneered. ‘As if that ever stopped them doing whatever they damn well please.’

And with these gracious words King John of England took the oaths of allegiance from the noblemen of England, in which they lined up before the throne and one by one swore henceforth to be his faithful and loyal vassals.

Robin was one of the first to renew his allegiance. As soon as he was finished, we pushed our way through the throng and headed back to our pavilion.

‘Do you think he will keep to the terms of the charter?’ I said to Robin as we walked across that flat green space to our pavilion.

‘For a week, even a month or two, maybe … To answer your question truthfully: no, he will not keep to it. But that is not the point, Alan. The point is that he has sworn to keep to it. He has given his sacred word in front of all the great men of the land. And even more importantly than that, the charter has been sealed into English law by the King himself. For the first time ever, the King has agreed to be bound by law like any man. And nothing John or his heirs and successors do can undo that. We have won, Alan, we have won a great victory: for ourselves, for our sons, for England.’

We celebrated with wine in the tent – Miles and Hugh and Robert making the gathering a raucous one with their youthful japes and pranks. Thomas, too, was in high spirits, jesting with the boys as if he were still a young gallant himself. Even Boot was mutely pleased and drank wine from a vessel that was either an enormous cup or a small bucket, depending on your point of view, smiling beneficently and silently at the gathering. I drank with determination. Only a vast quantity of wine, I felt, could wash away the sorrows that beset my heart even on that happy day.

I stood up, a little unsteady after my fifth cup of wine, about to make a toast to my lord and to thank him for his kindnesses, when I was interrupted by a commotion outside the tent and a strong, martial voice demanding entry of the sentry outside.

The flap lifted and into the heart of our merrymaking strode Aymeric de St Maur, Master of all the Templars of England.

‘Sir Aymeric,’ said Robin, ‘I am so glad you could join us. A cup of wine?’

‘I’ll take wine, yes, thank you,’ said Aymeric. He received his cup and lifted it in greeting to us all.

‘I must admit,’ the Master said, ‘I was rather surprised to receive your invitation, Locksley. As you know, there is a grave matter that lies between us and despite several invitations I was beginning to think that you would not take counsel with us under any circumstances. I had feared that I might have to come all the way to your gates in Yorkshire just to make you speak with me.’