The Plantagenets (31 page)
Authors: Dan Jones
Yet they could not be said to have won. John might be a king who had lost the confidence of a large swathe of his barons, but he was still legitimately the king, with the support of the pope. He could in theory still dispossess and outlaw his enemies, and his only aim in the dispute was to crush the opposition to his rule. The rebels, meanwhile, had a harder task to grasp. They wished to reform government, not so as to depose or fundamentally hobble kingship, but so as somehow to bring it within ‘reasonable’ bounds. They were searching for a way to force the king to govern peacefully and fairly within the law – yet they were doing so by breaking the law and making war upon him. It was a situation of deep complexity for both sides. So as the rebels camped in London during the early summer, and John took his court upriver
to Windsor, the roads and waterways between the two camps were scoured by messengers from both sides, attempting to find a way in which the proud king could be cajoled into putting his seal to a document that answered some of his rebels’ demands.
After a month of wrangling, a solution emerged. Some time between 10 and 15 June, baronial envoys agreed with the king that a document now known as ‘the Articles of the Barons’ could form the basis for a final negotiation of a peace. This list of forty-nine aims set out what the barons hoped to achieve from King John. It concerned issues of justice and feudal precedent, such as the well-argued matters of wardships, inheritances and widows; scutage payments and the obligation to serve in armies outside the realm; and the extent of the royal forests. The articles formed an agreed schedule for detailed negotiation, and several more days of hard and detailed bargaining ensued. Eventually there emerged another document that could be sworn over by the negotiating parties and was signed off by the king. This was agreed upon by 18 June, when John’s chancery sent out writs commanding his officers in the shires to stop making war on his enemies. On 19 June at Runnymede in Berkshire, barons started renewing their abandoned homage to John, who was wearing the regalia of the Empress Matilda to emphasize the ancient status of his kingship. In return, John, his allies and selected rebel barons began swearing oaths to obey the terms of an agreement which is among the most famous in English history: Magna Carta.
Read today, Magna Carta seems to reflect a difficult compromise: an agreement that neither side quite welcomed. On the one hand, Magna Carta granted sweeping rights: ‘the English Church shall be free … the city of London is to have its ancient liberties.’ On the other, it was full of highly exact statements of English custom: clauses laid out the specific conditions under which a scutage could be levied on the kingdom, where bridges should be built, and the laws concerning Jewish debts. It was agreed that £100 was the fee for an earl or baron’s inheritance and 100 shillings for a knight’s. On the matter of wardships, the king promised to take ‘no more than reasonable revenues, reasonable customary dues and reasonable services’ – although what
was ‘reasonable’ was undefined. It was promised that ‘a widow shall have her marriage portion and inheritance forthwith and without any difficulty after the death of her husband; nor shall she pay anything to have her dower …’, and also that ‘no widow shall be forced to marry so long as she wishes to live without a husband’. The king promised that ‘no scutage or aid shall be imposed in our kingdom unless by common counsel … except for ransoming our person, for making our eldest son a knight and for once marrying our eldest daughter’.
Yet whereas many of the clauses in Magna Carta were formalized processes about specific policies pursued by John – whether with regard to raising armies, levying taxes, impeding merchants, or arguing with the Church – the most famous clauses aimed deeper into the heart of Plantagenet rule. Clause 39 reads: ‘No free man shall be taken or imprisoned or disseised or outlawed or exiled or in any way ruined … except by lawful judgement of his peers or by the law of the land.’ Clause 40 is more laconic. ‘To no one will we sell, to no one will we deny or delay right or justice.’ These clauses addressed the whole spirit of John’s reign, and by extension the spirit of kingship itself. For the eleven years in which John had resided in England, the country had tasted a form of tyranny. John had used his powers as king in an arbitrary, partisan and exploitative fashion. He had broken the spirit of kingship as presented by Henry II back in 1153, when he travelled the country offering unity, good lordship and legal process to all.
Yet defining the spirit of kingship was no easy task. Neither was ensuring, once it was defined, that the king stuck to its terms. Magna Carta ended with a security clause, providing for a council of twenty-five named barons to make war on the king if he broke the terms of the agreement. Yet this was nothing more than a contractual basis for civil war. Stating that a king should govern according to the law and making sure that he did so were, it turned out, quite separate matters. These questions would lie at the heart of every major disagreement between king and country for the rest of the Plantagenet years. And in the fierce, tense atmosphere of 1215, finding a definition and an agreement was to prove impossible.
As a peace treaty – for this is what it was – Magna Carta was an immediate failure. There was a brief moment of hope on 19 June when the homage and oaths were made, the twenty-five ‘security barons’ were elected and a substantial number of rebels agreed to the terms of the charter as the basis for peace. ‘The king satisfactorily restored justice everywhere, lifting the sieges which he had begun,’ wrote Walter of Coventry. The production line began, and ‘a copy of the charter was circulated around the towns and villages and all who saw it agreed to it’. But not all the barons accepted the charter of liberties as drafted, and some chose at once to rebel. ‘Certain from across the Humber went away and renewed hostilities,’ the chronicler continued.
Magna Carta sparked debate everywhere, and it was quite unacceptable to one man above all others: King John. In less than two months, John had secured an annulment of its terms from Innocent III, who wrote in a wonderfully bombastic dispatch that ‘we utterly reject and condemn this settlement and under threat of excommunication we order that the king should not dare to observe it and that the barons and their associates should not require it to be observed: the charter … we declare to be null, and void of all validity forever.’ The war resumed, and this time it escalated. Before the end of the year, Philip II of France had declared John’s Crown forfeit, citing a ‘trial’ in which John had been found guilty of killing Arthur of Brittany. Invasion preparations were made for the French king and his son, Prince Louis, to come to England on the invitation of the barons, and depose the tyrant king.
The French landed in Kent on 14 May 1216. Prince Louis found London waiting for him. ‘He was accepted with all alacrity and happiness, and they performed homage,’ wrote Walter of Coventry. Ignoring a papal interdict and excommunication levied on him by John’s ally, the papal legate Cardinal Guala Bicchieri, Louis then advanced to Winchester, before heading back to the south-east to besiege Henry II’s massive gateway fortress in Dover.
As John moved about the country, attempting to lay siege to baronial towns and evade the enemies who wished to depose him, he grew
desperate and disconsolate. Crossing the Wash in Lincolnshire in autumn 1216, he misjudged the tide and lost much of his baggage train. According to Ralph of Coggeshall: ‘he lost … his portable chapel with his relics, and some of his packhorses with many household supplies. And many members of his entourage were submerged in the waters of the sea and sucked into the quicksand.’
During his desperate journeying, John contracted dysentery, and throughout October 1216 he grew gradually weaker. By the middle of the month he was being carried on a litter. When his party reached Newark in Nottinghamshire he was attended by the abbot of Croxton, who was a doctor. It was to no avail: John died on 19 October 1216, his country invaded and his royal authority utterly diminished. His body was not taken to Fontevraud, where his mother, father and brother were buried. Rather, he was buried at Worcester Cathedral, near the altar of St Wulfstan, who had been canonized earlier in John’s reign. For the first Plantagenet to have spent more time in England than out of it, to be buried in an ancient Anglo-Saxon city was perhaps fitting. To writers like Walter of Coventry, the problems of John’s reign were obvious. ‘John was indeed a great prince but scarcely a happy one,’ he wrote. ‘Like Marius, he experienced the ups and downs of fortune. He was munificent and liberal to outsiders, but a plunderer of his people, trusting strangers rather than his subjects … he was eventually deserted by his own men and in the end, little mourned.’ William Marshal’s biographer was more poetic. As John sank into his final illness, he wrote, he was racked with pain. ‘Death, that great harrier, that wicked harsh creature, took him under her control and never let him go until he died,’ he wrote. It was an appropriate way for England’s most callous and remorseless king to end his life.
John’s reputation has become that of one of the worst kings in English history, a diabolical murderer who brought tyranny and constitutional crisis to his realm. The legends of Robin Hood began to circulate in their earliest forms towards the end of his reign, with the subjects of corrupt authority and the law of the forest at their heart. John’s name has over the years been associated with the worst
evil of these stories, and he has been written off as a monster, a failure and a devil. Was anything he did more truly grotesque than those deeds perpetrated by his brother Richard, or his father? Probably they were not, yet John’s reputation suffered far more than theirs.
In the most sympathetic analysis, John’s greatest crime was to have been king as fortune’s wheel rolled downwards. He had all of his family’s most ruthless instincts allied with none of their good fortune. He presided weakly over the loss of Normandy, and once the duchy was lost he was virtually helpless to win it back. He did not inspire men to great deeds with his personality, yet it is fair to wonder if Henry II or even Richard might have regained Normandy from the position that John occupied in 1204. It is easy to see why he trod the path he did between 1207 and 1211, and aside from the paranoid pursuit of personal vendettas it is hard to see what any other king in his position would have done differently. For four deceptive years, John had been master not only of his kingdom, but also of the English Church, England’s neighbours on the Celtic fringe and a powerful system of justice and government that was turned mercilessly towards the needs of the Crown. He failed to realize in good time what problems he was making for himself by dealing with his barons not as partners in an enterprise of kingship, but as forced creditors whom he could treat with cruelty and disdain.
As it was, a disastrous civil war, capped by an invasion by Philip II and Prince Louis, was John’s immediate legacy to his family. In 1215 Magna Carta was nothing more than a failed peace treaty in the process towards this bitter conflict. John was not to know – any more than the barons who negotiated its terms with him – that his name and the myth of the document sealed at Runnymede would be bound together in English history for ever. Yet this, in the long run, was the case. Magna Carta would be reissued time and again in the years immediately following John’s death, and interpreting Magna Carta would be at the heart of every constitutional battle that was fought during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. As Henry III struggled to regain the rights and territories that his father had lost, Magna Carta would gradually come to define the terms of engagement
between king and community. When it was reissued in 1225, it was nailed to church doors and displayed in town squares across England, gaining legendary status as a document whose spirit stood for the duty of English kings to govern within the laws they made. That, in a strange way, was John’s legacy. Perhaps the most ruthless lawyer ever to reign as English king would have appreciated the irony.
Henry III was nine years old when his father died, and he was crowned in a hurry. The ceremony was a west-country affair that took place in Gloucester Abbey, a safe haven behind loyalist lines in the midst of a civil war that engulfed England. Beneath the great nave of the Norman abbey church, a reduced smattering of ecclesiastical and lay lords watched uncertainly as the bishops of Winchester, Worcester and Exeter carried out the anointing, and placed a simple lady’s coronet on the child’s head. There were no regalia and little pageantry, for all the sacred robes and effects of a full coronation were at Westminster, which was controlled by the rebels. But there was no time to stand on ceremony. This was an expedient, heavily simplified ceremony designed to transfer what was left of a Plantagenet king’s authority to the young boy.
Henry was the elder of John’s two sons; his younger brother Richard was just seven years old in 1216. Even as a young child, Henry was notable for his serious countenance and manner of speaking. He would grow up to be deeply pious – devoted to all manner of cults, particularly that of the Virgin Mary – and such a voracious hearer of the mass that it sometimes interfered with his ability to conduct government business. The young king stood in Gloucester Abbey and, in a fragile voice, swore before the great altar that he would observe honour, peace and reverence towards God and the Holy Church and its ordained ministers all the days of his life; that he would give his people justice; that he would abolish bad laws and customs and observe the good.
How realistic were these promises? Certainly Henry had to make them, for they were the sacred oaths of a king. But a truer reflection of the authority that kept England from collapse was evident when the child did homage for his kingdoms of England and Ireland to the pope, represented in person by the legate Cardinal Guala Bicchieri. He swore an oath to put England under the protection of the Church and a few men of God.
Ninety miles away, Westminster was under the protection of the French – held by Philip II’s son Louis. Castles across the country were manned by garrisons of French knights, invited to England by the rebel barons, who wished to elect a new king from the house of Capet, rather than suffer under a fourth from the house of Plantagenet. The baleful end to John’s reign had left England partitioned, distressed nearly as badly as it had been during the early days of the Anarchy. Once again, the succession had become not simply a question of legitimacy, but a trial of strength.
