The Prince of Darkness (48 page)

There was a certain amount of truth in that. Philip saw his dream evaporating. It was maddening. All his life he had longed to achieve the glory of a Charlemagne. He had yearned to go down in history as the man who had made France great as it had once been; and if he could have brought to it the crown
of England he would have surpassed all others. And it had been within his grasp. He was sure of it.

But he was a realist and he saw at once that it was a dream which would have to be shelved – but perhaps not for long. He would keep his fleet in readiness; he would add to his armies. He would not abandon his dream of conquering England. It was only a postponement.

Pandulph departed feeling it was safe to return to Rome and report to the Pope that his mission had been satisfactorily carried out.

When he had gone Philip brooded over the situation in which he found himself. His soldiers were restive. They had been promised conquest and conquest always meant spoils. They knew that when the Conqueror had gone to England, men who had been quite humble in Normandy had become landowners, rich and powerful. This was what they had hoped from an invasion of England. And now it was not to take place, how would they feel?

Philip must assure not only himself, but them, that it was but a postponement.

In the meantime they must not be idle. Every general knew that an idle army was a danger to its commander. Mutiny, rebellion, all had their seeds in idleness and the greater it was the more they flourished.

He called his generals to him and told them that although the invasion of England had had to be postponed, it was not abandoned. They would while they were waiting turn their attentions to that old enemy of France – Flanders – who had shown itself very uncooperative in this last venture.

The generals understood. It was necessary to keep the army occupied.

So, leaving the fleet of ships lying at anchor, the army left and in a short time were marching on Ghent.

Philip’s decision threw luck into John’s path. It seemed as though Fate had decided to cherish him. First he had made his peace with Rome at precisely the right moment so that he had not only made it unwise for the French to attack him but it had also been a warning to the barons too, for in rebelling against him they would be rebelling against the Pope.

The Flemings, as Philip’s enemies, must be John’s friends; and when they realised that French fury was to be turned against them they appealed to John for help.

John considered this appeal very carefully with the Marshal and others whom he trusted. It seemed an opportunity to weaken the French and William Marshal felt that as John had assembled an army to ward off the French invaders it would be a good idea to send it to the aid of the Flemings.

The English set out and here their good fortune continued, for on arriving at the spot where the French fleet lay, they found a vast number of vessels all equipped for the invasion of England, filled with the food and weapons which would be needed; there was armour and fine garments – everything conceivable that would enable the invaders to succeed both before and after conquest.

That there should be but a few people left to guard them made the English laugh with derision while they decided to make the most of their good fortune. Forgotten was the expedition to Flanders. Here was a far more profitable one.

They quickly overpowered the defenders, loaded their own ships with the treasures the French had brought with them and then set fire to Philip’s fleet.

It was a great moment for John. He laughed aloud. His luck had changed. It was now his turn to snap his fingers at Philip.

Having crippled the French fleet so that an invasion of England would be completely out of the question, even if Philip decided to defy the Pope and attempt it, John decided to go to the rescue of the Flemings. Alas, the spasm of luck was over, for Philip, hearing of the disaster to his ships, hurried to the coast and intercepted John’s army, inflicting defeat on it so that it was necessary to make a hasty retreat back to the coast.

There they hastily embarked and sailed back to England. But the adventure could be called highly successful since it had resulted in the near annihilation of the French fleet and had made invasion impossible for a very long time.

It was hot July when Stephen Langton arrived in England. John rode to meet him and the two retinues came face to face at Portchester.

The King, aglitter with jewels, his satin mantle decorated with pearls and rubies, his girdle of sapphires and diamonds, and his gloves adorned with pearls, looked magnificent on his charger. It was more important than ever that he look the part since he had resigned his independence. About him rode his courtiers, splendidly dressed but designedly less so than he was, for he would not have been pleased if they outshone him.

When the two retinues met, John dismounted from his magnificently caparisoned horse, and approaching Stephen Langton, knelt before him; then he stood up and exchanged kisses with him.

‘Welcome, Father,’ he said.

Stephen Langton was not a vindictive man and he was
delighted that at last John was ready to receive him. He was eager that the past should be forgotten and he looked forward to working in harmony with the King.

They rode side by side into Winchester, cheered by the people as they passed along the road.

Peace between Church and State! It was what the people longed for. The Interdict was lifted. Their King was no longer excommunicated – although the ban had to be lifted formally – and everyone could return to the normal way of life.

Into the city of Winchester they came, and there in the chapter house of the Cathedral, the Archbishop of Canterbury absolved John and celebrated Mass in his presence.

When it was over, for all to see, the Archbishop and the King gave each other the kiss of peace.

John, the irreligious sceptic, the lecher, the King who had defied the Church as none of his predecessors had before him, was now the dear friend of the Archbishop of Canterbury and the protégé of the Pope.

There was an irony about such a state of affairs and men such as the Marshal solemnly shook their heads and wondered how long this amity could last.

Chapter XVIII

I
sabella was in love. He was young and handsome. Often she would compare him with John and marvel at the differences between them. He reminded her of Hugh the Brown and after he had left she would lie in bed and think: This is how it would have been with Hugh.

At first in her thoughts she called him Hugh; and later she told him this. ‘It suits you. You will be Hugh to me,’ and ever after she called him by that name.

She had been afraid for him, although when she had first taken lovers she had liked to test their courage by telling them that their punishment would be terrible if the King ever discovered. Sometimes when they were with her she sensed their fear; at first it gave a zest to her desire.

She took a delight in hiding her adventures from John but sometimes it occurred to her that he knew and that he was waiting to trap her. Outwitting him in itself was a pleasant exercise. She hated him. Perhaps she always had although she had revelled in the early years of their relationship. It had been flattering that he should neglect his State duties because he could not leave their bed and to know that the stories circulated
round the world that he was losing his kingdom under the bed quilt.

What a compliment to her powers of attraction! For long he had been a faithful husband which in itself was something of a miracle. And she had made this possible – she with her great fascination. She wondered if Hugh ever thought of her now. Did he reproach himself for his sloth in not taking her when she was there ready and willing, waiting for him before John had come?

At first it had been so exciting. To be Queen and to be so desired. But she had been a queen for a long time now and desired by many. And there were more handsome men in the world than John.

Her thoughts were now for the handsome young man, the Golden Youth she called him, the Hugh-Shadow – Hugh would no longer be young, as she was not, but women such as herself were perennially attractive and men such as he was retained their charm.

Her lover was coming to her bedchamber more frequently now. He was so much in love with her that he gladly risked his life … or worse. She had told him often of the terrible danger he was facing and he brushed that aside. It was worth while … anything that could happen to him was worth while for this.

He was a good lover. There could not have been a better. He was tender as John had never been, not even in the beginning when she was a child. This adoration, this idolising, was delightful. She revelled in it. She loved her Golden Youth.

As they lay in her bed in the early morning before the dawn – for he must be gone by then since it would be fatal to be seen by the light of day – she said to him as she twirled a lock of his golden hair through her fingers, ‘My love, how long will you continue to come to me?’

He answered as she knew he would: ‘For ever.’

‘What if the King comes here?’

‘Then I must perforce wait until he is gone.’

‘What do you know of the King, Hugh?’

‘All know of his tempers.’

‘There never was such temper. They say it even exceeds that of his father and greatly did men fear that. He must never find out, Hugh, never.’

‘If he did, it would have been worth while.’

‘While his servants were doing fearful things to you would you think that?’

‘Aye.’

‘Nay, my dearest love, you think so now. But what are the feelings of a man, think you, to be deprived of his manhood, for methinks that is what John would do to any who had enjoyed me.’

‘I had rather die.’

‘If John knew that, he would not let you. His revenge must suit his mood and his moods are diabolical. Perhaps he would put out your eyes. He wanted to do that to Arthur, you know. His sin was that he was the son of John’s elder brother and some thought he had a greater right to the throne.’

‘He cannot have such thoughts about me.’

‘Nay, but he would hate you more than he ever hated Arthur. Sometimes I tremble for you.’