CHAPTER XIII
HUBERT WALTER, Archbishop of Canterbury and chancellor, died at Teynham in Kent on July 13, 1205, completely unaware that his death would throw England into one of the most tangled situations in all history. Coming back to power after his dismissal by Richard, he had assumed the reins with a firm hand under John. So firm was his hand, in fact, that John had been chafing under a tutelage suitable only for a younger brother. When he heard of Hubert’s death, the King lapsed into his habit of clowning at important and sacred moments. Slapping his thigh zestfully, he cried in a tone of delight, “And now, for the first time, I am King of England!”
Two days later John was at Canterbury and paid a visit to the monks on whom the responsibility of choosing a new archbishop would rest. He talked to them in the most friendly way and seems to have left the impression that one of their number might be acceptable for the high post. Naturally the monks were pleased and became most favorably disposed to this King who had been living and ruling under a cloud of hate and blame. The good he had done, however, was quickly dissipated when it was found that a chest of church plate which Hubert had bequeathed to the cathedral had been carried off and that the King intended it for Winchester. John had a genius for offending people and he always seemed to pick the most harmful occasions.
The younger monks of Canterbury, perhaps because of the hint dropped in their ears, decided to take matters into their own hands. Without waiting for the royal permission to act, the congé d’élire, they met secretly at midnight and chose their sub-prior Reginald. Then they slipped into the cathedral in a body and installed him on the archiepiscopal throne. This was as far as they could go, and so they sent their nominee off to Rome the next day to secure the confirmation of the Pope.
Reginald was a fat little fellow who waddled pompously and oozed self-importance from every pore, and he was so puffed up with pride over his selection that he disregarded the urgent warnings of his fellow monks to keep the matter a secret until he reached Rome. As soon as his feet touched French soil he gave it out that he was the new archbishop. The word was brought back quickly to England. John, in one of his towering rages, took prompt action and demanded that John de Grey, Bishop of Norwich, be elected instead. Everyone fell in with his choice, even the young monks who had tried to foist the talkative Reginald on the nation and who were now both ashamed of their action and apprehensive of consequences. Despite the lack of opposition to the King’s selection, however, it was recognized that his man was not well suited to the office. The Bishop of Norwich was one of the justiciars and of the same stamp as the deceased archbishop, though falling short of his stature; an able enough administrator, ambitious, unscrupulous, and worldly minded. No one dared to stand out against the King.
In order to clear up the situation created by the rashness of the young monks, twelve of the canons of St. Augustine were hurried off as a deputation to the Pope. They were to give him a present of twelve thousand marks and win his consent to the King’s nomination.
Now there was in Rome at this time a great Pope, one of the very greatest of all popes, Innocent III. He had been elected to succeed the fumbling and procrastinating Celestine III, and the contrast between them could not have been more marked. In particular contrast with his predecessor, who had been a tired old man of eighty-five when named Pontiff, Lothario de Conti de Segni, a member of the noble family of Scotti, had been thirty-seven only when he was elevated to the vicarship of Christ. He had proceeded with great energy to repair the mistakes of Celestine and had succeeded in remarkably short time in removing the Holy See from the domination of the German emperors. This accomplished, he had solidified the Church and brought all branches of it under his firm administration. Innocent was a believer in action, the first pontiff with the resolution to use the interdict freely as a weapon for the enforcement of his decrees. This dangerous thunderbolt had always been available to popes, but always they had hesitated to use it, fearing the repercussions. Innocent had no such hesitations.
Of all the popes who ever ruled in the Vatican, Innocent III was perhaps the least likely to be influenced by John’s demands and his offer of a bribe of twelve thousand marks. No bribe could have swayed this inflexible Pontiff. He and John were thoroughly well acquainted already as a result of a continuous correspondence in which the Pope had striven to improve the outlook and conduct of the English King. There had been in particular the matter of Berengaria’s dowry and the fulfillment of Richard’s will. More than half of what the lionhearted King had left had been bequeathed to relatives, notably the Emperor Otto of Germany, a nephew. John had calmly disregarded his dead brother’s wishes and had pocketed everything himself. A brief summary of the letters from indignant Pope to callous King* will be useful before entering on the period of active strife between them.
Letters from Innocent to John:
Dec. 1200, Richard’s will.
Nov. 1201, Richard’s will.
Dec. An admonition not to starve two abbots.
Dec. Richard’s will.
Dec. A demand that abbey lands stolen by the King be handed back.
Mar. 1202. A demand that one hundred men be sent by John to the Holy Land and that he build a Cistercian monastery as punishment for his bad behavior to his first wife.
Mar. Richard’s will.
Jun. An admonition to stop persecuting the Bishop of Limoges and compensate him for his losses.
Feb. 1203. A reprimand for interfering with the liberties of the Church.
May. A sharp reprimand for behaving shamefully to the Archbishop of Dublin.
Oct. A reminder that he should appear before his suzerain, Philip of France.
Jan. 1204. Richard’s will and Berengaria’s dowry.
Sept. 1205. Richard’s will.
Sept. 23. Richard’s will.
Dec. An inquiry into an injustice done an abbess.
Feb. 1206. Richard’s will.
Sept. 1207. Berengaria’s dowry.
Aug. 1208. Richard’s will. (A partial settlement had been made the year before.)
Jan. 1209. Berengaria’s dowry.
Jan. 23. Berengaria’s dowry.
Oct. 1211. A strong recommendation that the King go on a crusade.
It is quite clear that the relations between them had not been of a kind to make the selection of a successor to the see of Canterbury an easy matter.
The Pope held hearings on the case at once. The twelve English canons, bred to expect a venerable gentleness in the men who sat in the Vatican, must have been overawed by the vigorous conduct of the case by the third Innocent, who was still in his forties. Well did he become the arms of the family of Conti de Segni, which bore an argent-headed eagle. He had an oval face, a long and thin nose, and a powerful chin to compensate for the smallness of his mouth. His eyes, which were somewhat closely placed, had the deep fire in them of power and ambition.
Innocent disposed of the rival claims in brisk order. The election of Reginald was set aside as having been improperly conducted. That of De Grey was also declared null and void because it had been made before the previous election had been passed upon. Having thus cleared the ground in a thoroughly proper and legal way, the Pope summoned the canons to appear before him on Christmas Day and then presented to them the man he had selected himself.
His choice was an Englishman and a cardinal. The red hat had not yet been designed for cardinals (it came into use soon after, however, in 1245), nor did the members of that powerful group wear the purple cloak. It was an unassuming figure, therefore, who faced the contesting deputations, but it is certain that they were instantly impressed, and perhaps awed, by Stephen Langton; even though they had no way of knowing that here was a great man who would prove himself later one of the most justly illustrious of the long line of commoners who came to the fore at critical moments of English history to save the nation from the mistakes and the tyranny of bad kings.
2
Nothing definite is known about the early years of Stephen Langton except that he was born in England and was of pure native parentage, without any trace of Norman blood. It is generally assumed that he came from either Yorkshire or Lincolnshire, with the former favored for the honor. There was a family of Langtons at Spilsby in the latter county, but Stephen’s possession of a prebendary in Yorkshire while he taught at Paris would seem to assign him to that great northern county.
He went early to Paris and became the outstanding teacher at the university, some historians stating that he was chancellor there. The post does not seem to have existed at the time, but it may have been that Langton performed the duties which were later assumed by the chancellors. His teaching of theology was of the most enlightened kind. He inclined to follow the lead of Becket, denying the absolute power of kings and setting above them the higher lordship of God. Some of his students were so imbued with his teachings that they went much farther than he had ever done and were accused of heresy, for which a few of them were burned at the stake.
At Paris he met the young man from Italy who bore the name of Lothario de Conti de Signi and who even at that early stage was stamped for future greatness; a reserved young man with brooding dark eyes and an air of intense determination. The future Pope was struck with the clarity and logic of Langton’s teaching. He listened often to the man from England and consulted him on points of theological dispute and church discipline. Lothario de Conti de Signi was raised to the College of Cardinals at the age of twenty-eight, a hasty advance which at the time was ascribed to the nepotism of Pope Clement. The new cardinal soon demonstrated that his selection had been a wise one, and he so impressed his colleagues that on the death of Celestine less than ten years after he was elected to succeed him. He took the name of Innocent III, and one of the first things he did was to bring Stephen Langton from Paris. The Englishman became the most popular preacher in Rome, and it was remarked that Innocent went often to hear him. There was no surprise when Langton was made the cardinal-presbyter of St. Chrysogonus.
The new cardinal was able, in this post, to indulge his tendency to scholarship. Among his achievements were many learned commentaries on the Old Testament and even some volumes of a profane nature, including a heroic poem on the six days of creation entitled Hexameron, and histories of Henry II and Richard. The manuscripts of his lighter labors are believed to be in existence still, though they have not been located. His greatest contribution was dividing the Scriptures into chapters, and this monumental labor he accomplished to the general satisfaction, it seems, of the contentious scholars of the day. He wrote a hymn, Veni, Sancte Spiritus, which is still sung under the English translation of Come, Thou Holy Spirit, Come.
Although much has been written about this priest who was to play such a vital part in the history of England, no information exists about the man himself. Was he tall or short? Was he dark or did he carry the badge of his race in a fairness of locks and complexion? If no conclusions can be drawn on these points, his character at least shows plainly through the pattern of events. He was a benign man, moderate though advanced in his views, calm and fearless in emergency. He was a pure patriot and a zealous Christian, his soundness unflawed by selfish considerations. He never blustered or threatened, and so one conceives of him as a man who spoke quietly and depended more on the substance of what he had to say than on how he said it. The spurious wiles of the orator were foreign to his nature, although he could hold men in thrall by the perfection of his reasoning.
3
English Stephen Langton was a magnificent choice for the primacy. The canons had come to Rome with strict instructions from John to secure the selection of Grey, but there can be no doubt that they were seduced by the bearing and the depth of learning shown by Innocent’s candidate; and this made it easier for them to yield to papal pressure. They confided to the Pontiff the nature of their instructions, and he at once absolved them from a promise so improperly extracted. The canons then proceeded to elect Stephen Langton. All voted for him except one Elias de Braintefield, who cast his ballot for the King’s choice and then left the chamber. He returned, however, and listened at the door while the Te Deum was sung over the new archbishop.
John was not at all mollified by the letter he received from the Pope, informing him of what had happened. Innocent had tried to placate him by a gift of four immensely valuable rings and had indited a homily in his own handwriting on the form of them and the significance of the precious stones with which they were set. The King kept the rings but indulged himself in retaliatory action at once. He dispatched two of his most violent officers to Canterbury to expel the monks and take over the revenues of the see. Fulk de Cantelupe and Henry de Cornhulle entered the abbey with drawn swords and carried out his orders with a thoroughness which fell just short, fortunately, of the violence offered Thomas à Becket. John announced to the world that the action of the Pope had been in contravention of his established rights (which, of course, it was) and that he would never allow Stephen Langton to set foot on land of mine, by which he meant England.
The Pope was not to be intimidated. He sent the bishops of London, Ely, and Worcester to inform John that an interdict would be laid on England if he did not give in. All the bishops of the realm were present when this message was delivered. They were frightened, knowing the inflexible will of the young Pontiff, and they fell on their knees before John and begged him to save his people from this dread punishment. John was so enraged that he foamed at the mouth, as his father had done so often when crossed, and swore that if the Pope carried out his threat he would expel from the kingdom every bishop, every abbot, every prior, every priest, and every monk, from the wearer of the proudest miter to the most humble of shaven-polls. He swore that all servants of the Vatican who appeared in England on the Pope’s orders would have their eyes burned out and their noses slit.
John was in a poor position, however, to oppose the will and the power of the Vicar of Christ. His relations with the barons had been growing more strained all the time. If he had assembled them at once and explained the unwarranted authority the Pope had taken into his hands, he might have united them behind him for the struggle. He was unwilling at this stage to face the barons in a body, fearing, no doubt, that they would take advantage of the chance to deprive him of some of the unwarranted authority he had been seizing. He decided to oppose Innocent alone and thereby compromised his case and condemned himself to inevitable defeat.
Other popes had talked of interdicts when kings were recalcitrant but had contented themselves with threats. Innocent was different. When he made a threat, he carried it out.
John had been given until Monday of Passion week to change his mind. Convinced that nothing would happen, the King spent the day as usual, joking with his attendants, telling them that soon there would be a worse devil at large than he had ever been. There would be a postponement, he was sure, leading to more negotiations and more threats. But he had wrongly judged the temper of the young Pope.
That night the three bishops to whom the papal instructions had been given followed out their orders. Wearing the violet robes of mourning usually reserved for Good Friday, they entered their episcopal churches, escorted by priests carrying torches and chanting the Miserere. The bells were tolling a funeral knell and the people stood about in silent masses outside and watched, more than half expecting to see the heavens open and avenging angels swoop down to carry God’s punishment over England.
The proper procedure for the occasion was followed inside the churches. The shrines and crucifixes were covered, the relics were removed to places of safekeeping, the Wafer of the Host was burned. In loud voices it was proclaimed that the dominions ruled by John had been laid under the ban of the Church. Instantly all torches were extinguished to denote the withdrawal of light from the land.
England had been laid under the dreaded interdict.
4
None of the common people knew what was happening until the first outward signs of the interdict appeared. Hearing no church bells, they hurried to see what was amiss and found the priests removing the bells from the steeples and packing them away in straw. This was going on all over England. In every town and hamlet in the land, therefore, the same questions were asked by people with bewildered faces: What was this? Was God leaving them to the mercy of the powers of evil? Or were the bells to be melted down to pay the bad King’s taxes?
The panic spread when the work of dismantling was carried on inside as well. All the sacred vessels were taken down and packed away, the monstrance was removed from the altar, the candles which had been set alight by reverent hands were snuffed out. The doors were closed and locked in the faces of the frightened watchers.
When the meaning of this became clear to them, the people of England were unhappier than they had ever been before. Had God and the Holy Mother and all the good saints given up the struggle in their behalf against the devil? Would all time and life now belong to the powers of evil? Men who conceived of themselves as walking constantly in the Shadow believed that a moment’s relaxation on the part of their guardian angels would deliver them into the hands of the imps of hell with their pitchforks and red-hot pincers. And now they were alone and had no protectors, divine or otherwise.
Then it became known throughout the bewildered country that five of the bishops had already fled from England, that priests were following them in droves, that those who remained behind would celebrate mass in locked and darkened churches for themselves alone. There would be no marrying, no burying in consecrated ground as long as the Pope’s interdict held. To make matters worse, it was said that the wicked King, who had brought this curse on the land, was swearing he would banish every priest and hang those who remained. This bad King, cried the people in anguish, must indeed be in league with the devil that such things could come to pass!
Quite apart from this feeling of abandonment, the people knew they would miss the ministrations of the Church. In lives as bare as theirs, the tolling of bells at stated hours was a great pleasure, as was the ritual of matin and compline. They were accustomed to hear the knelling when someone they knew was dying, the slow and measured strokes teaching them the solemnity of death. Some of the sting of separation was taken from death by the customs which wrapped it about. They liked the services and they found a sense of God’s nearness therein, even in the dread moment when the hearse was taken down from the ceiling of the church where it was suspended, a triangular frame of wood or latten. It would be placed in front of the altar and fifteen lighted candles would be deposited on it, fourteen of yellow wax to represent the eleven apostles and the three Mary’s, and one of white which stood for the Christ. Then the fourteen psalms of Tenebrae would be sung, and at the end of each, one of the yellow candles would be extinguished. And then finally only the white taper of Christ would remain, and this would be carried behind the altar so that darkness descended on the church.
There had never been any fear for the souls of departed relatives and friends when the tolling of bells accompanied the carrying out of the coffin, nine strokes for a man, six for a woman, three for a child; nay, there had been solace and comfort and a complete sense of security. There had even been pleasure in the good cheer of the arvil, the funeral feast, and a chance for some amusement out of the sin-eaters, those Old Sires who sat outside the house on low stools called crickets and were ready, on payment of a groat, a crust of bread, and a mazer of ale, to rise up and declare that they would pawn their souls for the ease and rest of the departed.
Death would now become a grim and frightening thing. Would the bodies of those who were unfortunate enough to die be buried or would they be left in ditches to rot away? Certainly bodies would be held for more than the usual three days allowed in the hope that they might come back to life, for would not that be the only hope?
It was feared, too, that the joy would go out of weddings, if indeed they would be possible at all. The mating rites had always been jolly affairs in merrie England: the gay procession to the church, the minstrels leading with their capering and playing, the youths next to carry the bride-cup with its gilt rosemary and ribbons, the bride and her two bachelor attendants preceding the groom and his two maidens who held the dow-purse, in which would be the dowry. Would couples in search of happiness be allowed to kneel before priests at the church door and say the responses while the groom endowed his bride by throwing money into a handkerchief held open by the maids in attendance? Certainly there would be no right now to go into the church and kneel together under the care-cloth (a great privilege which only professed virgins were permitted to enjoy) while the blessing was pronounced.
Perhaps feasting at weddings would still be allowed, but would the best man throw a plate from a window when the couple appeared (if the plate broke, the marriage would be a success), and would later the oatmeal cake be smacked down on the bride’s head? Would the John Anderson dance be performed with as much zestful passing of the cushion and as much happy chanting of
Prinkcam, prankcam is a fine dance:
And shall we go dance it once again?
Once again, and once again?
Later it was found that things would not be so bad as feared. The papal bull had carried with it some modifications. Children could be christened, weddings could be performed at the church door, sermons could be preached in churchyards, priests would be permitted to recite the offices for the dead in private homes. The hardest problem facing the nation was that of burial, for no bodies could be laid in consecrated ground. The result was that they were placed in fields. Later, when the ban was lifted, the bodies were transferred to the churchyards. It is recorded that in one small community as many as twenty had to be exhumed. In London it became necessary to make use of empty lots and of the yards of hospitals. There was a large area around St. Bartholomew’s which the authorities enclosed and devoted to the burying of the dead. The hospitals did not object; they charged fees both ways.
Most reports of what happened in connection with burials were exaggerated. It was said that bodies lay in ditches and were gnawed by dogs and rats and that pestilence was spread by the stench of them. The problem was handled, as a matter of fact, with common sense and expedition.
The harm that the interdict did was borne equally by people and Church. Cut off from the consolations and the rites of religion, many men found that they suffered no harm. They began to wonder. Was religion as important as they had believed? Heretical ideas, which had not been spreading in England, received impetus from the conditions which Innocent imposed on the country. There was also the matter of tithes and payments for this and that, the mortuary claims of the Church and deodand. Freed from much of this during the years that the interdict lasted, men would find it hard to accept again their share in the upkeep of the Church.
The struggle between Pope and King continued much longer than Innocent had expected when he ordered the three bishops to put the land under ban by bell, book, and candle. As the years passed the rift became deeper and the feeling more bitter. Church properties fell into disrepair, the rents were expropriated to the Crown, the ranks of the clergy shrank. It must have become apparent soon to the Pope that, in casting the thunderbolt, he had indulged in a costly gamble. But the step had been taken and there was no turning back.
John fought with fang and claw. He tried to regain the loyalty of the people by conducting campaigns in Scotland and Wales. He went on processionals from city to city, taking in his train a bevy of beautiful hostages who had been put in his hands. They included the princesses Margaret and Isabella of Scotland; the Pearl of Brittany, Arthur’s lovely sister, who was to remain a captive in England all her life; and Ada, the fair young countess of Holland. He seems to have respected these hostages of high degree; in fact, he went to great pains to find husbands for some of them. He saw that they were clothed expensively, and there is one item among royal expenditures for the purchase of one hundred pounds of figs for their pleasure and health.
In the meantime John was carrying the war to the enemy. Stephen Langton’s father, a humble North Country man, had to flee the country into Scotland. The primate himself had taken up residence at Pontigny, where Thomas à Becket had spent most of his exile, and was addressing letters to the people of England. John had the ports watched to stop all such communications from getting into the country, and it became a criminal offense to possess or read these messages. The property of all churchmen who obeyed the commands of the Pope was confiscated.
The bitter seesaw of invective and retaliation went on interminably between the main actors in the drama. And because of this an innocent nation suffered.
5
The Pope had withheld some of his thunder. When the interdict seemed to be failing of results, the second thunderbolt was launched. Innocent called for his bell and he called for his book and he called for his bishops three. They were given another dangerous and thankless task, the excommunication of the King. They obeyed with an understandable degree of caution. Knowing that John would hang them if they set foot on English soil, they published the decree from their safe sanctuaries.
The effect was felt at once. The interdict was a condition shared by all, but excommunication was a personal ban which cut the victim off from all human relationships, as surely in theory, at least, as a leper was banned in practice. John was marked as accursed, and no one was supposed to speak to him except a few officials whose duties made contact obligatory.
John had been in a smoldering state ever since the laying of the interdict. His own excommunication drove him into an explosive fury. When Geoffrey, the Archdeacon of Norwich, withdrew from the Court of Exchequer with the explanation that it was forbidden to serve a ruler on whom the ban of the Church had been laid, the King struck out viciously. Geoffrey, a man of advanced years, was thrown into prison and a cope of lead was soldered on his shoulders. This form of torture, which slowly broke the bones by the weight of the cope, proved so effective that the archdeacon died within a few days.
Officers of the Church who had remained at their posts up to this time began to desert now. The new Bishop of Lincoln fled the country and betook himself to Pontigny to make his submission to Stephen Langton. Others followed in such numbers that the wearisome business of watching the whole coast line had to be taken up again.
This could not last long, however. The King, realizing that his position was degenerating rapidly, sent an invitation to Cardinal Langton to meet him at Dover, announcing in advance the concessions he was prepared to make. He was ready to have the cardinal installed at Canterbury, to forgive all churchmen who had fled the country or had refused to obey him, and to make financial settlements. The invitation, however, had been addressed to the cardinal and not the archbishop, and so Langton refused to accept it. He stood out, moreover, for an unconditional surrender and the promise of the King to pay for all losses the Church had suffered. John was not yet ready to give in on such terms as these. He snorted, cursed, roared, foamed at the mouth, and sent a venomous refusal.
But the Pope had still another weapon to unsheathe. In 1212 he absolved all subjects of John from their oaths of allegiance, coupling with this the declaration that the ban of excommunication would thenceforth apply to anyone who continued to serve him, who lived in his household, who sat or served at his table, who held the stirrup when he set forth to ride, or who spoke a word to him in public or private.
If the royal staff shrank as a result, it was barely perceptible. By this time men were accustomed to the situation. They had to live in spite of all the banning and fulminating and the rumble of sacerdotal storms. The King held his ground. He was beginning to think that England could be made a self-contained corner where the writ of the Vatican would not run nor the papal thunder be heard.
John, in fact, was more disturbed by the prediction of a hermit named Peter of Pontefract, who had given it out that he had only one year to reign and that on the following Ascension Day he would cease to sit on the throne. The hermit was brought to Windsor, and the King demanded to know what grounds he had for such treasonable utterances. Peter of Pontefract was a slow-witted countryman who fitted a term much used at the time, edmede, meaning humble and gently disposed. There was nothing he could say except that the conviction had been lodged in his mind by an agency he believed divine. It had been like a vision, and a voice had said he must tell what he had heard and seen. The prophet was sent to Corfe Castle to await developments.
Pope Innocent now went to the final extreme. He summoned before him all the cardinals in Rome and solemnly declared the deposition of John as King of England. He then took the desperate step of announcing that the crown would be given to Philip of France, a man more capable of ruling nobly and well than the deposed monarch.
Philip had been consulted in advance, of course, and had agreed to act in accordance with the papal policy. He had been eager to start, for this would be the final stage of the plans which had taken possession of the mind of an angry boy under the oak of Gisors. He held a great council at Soissons on April 8, 1213, and gained the consent of the nobility of France to the invasion of England. Having dismembered the limbs of Angevin power, he was now to strike at the very heart of it. He went jubilantly to work to raise the largest army France had yet seen and to assemble in the ports of Normandy a fleet estimated at seventeen hundred ships. All France rang with military preparations. Once again Englishmen looked across the Channel, as they had done in the days of the Conquest and as they were to do many times thereafter, and waited for the ships of the invader to appear.
It seemed at first that Pope Innocent, in making his last extreme move, had defeated his own purpose. Englishmen, fearing invasion above everything, armed themselves behind their derided and hated King. An army grew along the coast of Kent as if by some kind of magic evoked by national necessity. The main camp was at Barham Down near Canterbury, and here sixty thousand men were soon assembled. Smaller camps were located at Dover, Faversham, and Ipswich. John took up his post at the hotel of the Templars at Ewell, occupying himself largely with the need for money to pay the cost of this great rally. He ransacked the monasteries and the closed churches and emptied the pockets of the Jews. It was at this time that he enforced his demands on one Isaac of Bristol for ten thousand marks by ordering that a tooth be extracted from his jaw each day until the money had been paid. Dentistry was one of the functions of the barbers, many of whom wore strings around their necks containing all the teeth they had drawn. The royal practitioner, into whose hands Isaac was put, had six more teeth to display before the reluctant donor gave in. Everyone was giving in and paying, although not under such extreme pressure. The whole kingdom groaned under the exactions, but in the face of the emergency most men found the means to pay their share.
A blow which might have proved decisive was dealt the French by the eldest son of the Fair Rosamonde who, as was related earlier, was known to men as William Long-Espée. The sons brought into the world by that gentle lady were stout fellows who, on any plane of comparison, measured above the legitimate issue of the great Henry. William Long-Espée had always been a favorite with John. The illegitimate half brother accompanied the King everywhere. There never seems to have been a serious rift between them, which suggests that this son of the unfortunate lady lacked the stanchness of the other, Geoffrey of York. John had made a fine match for William, marrying him to Ela, the heiress of Salisbury. Ela, a lady of beauty and high spirit, had become known as the Mystery Maiden after the death of her father in 1196. She disappeared, and it was generally feared that she had been done away with so that one of her paternal uncles could take the title and the enormous wealth of the family. A young knight-errant named William Talbot followed the example of Blondel, however, and sang English ballads under windows in all the castles of Normandy until he received a response. The rescue of the imprisoned maiden resulted, and the gallant knight had the satisfaction of seeing her restored to her family and her rights. The story did not end in the usual way. Ela did not fall in love with the devoted William Talbot and she did become very much attached to the middle-aged husband selected for her by the King; and Talbot had to content himself with remaining a close friend of the happy pair. Assuming the title of Earl of Salisbury, the son of Fair Rosamonde played an important part in national affairs and in his declining years built Salisbury Cathedral. The disconsolate Ela founded Lacock Abbey after his death.
William Long-Espée was of a sufficiently complaisant nature to ride in the train of John. When put in command of the naval forces, however, he showed his real mettle. On May 30 he directed an attack on the French vessels in the port of Dam, now known as Dollart Bay, and scored a complete victory. Many of the French ships were captured and at least three hundred of them were burned. The doughty bastard came sailing back to a wildly jubilant country.
But John lacked the fortitude for as stern a struggle as this. Before the victory had been scored over the French fleet he had succumbed to the arguments of Pandulfo, the papal legate. Pandulfo paid him a secret visit and frightened the King by the description he gave of the might of the French army. John capitulated without waiting to see how the first test of strength would come out.
All credit for this sudden collapse must not be given, however, to the wily Pandulfo. John had been uneasy ever since the hermit of Pontefract had predicted the end of his power. The King of Scotland had added to his panic by informing him that a conspiracy was on foot among his barons to dethrone him. The wife of Leolin, one of the princes of Wales, had whispered the same news in his ear. The conspiracy, it was said, had grown out of the efforts of Stephen Langton, who still occupied much of his time at Pontigny by corresponding with men of importance in the kingdom. John did not doubt the truth of the story. He began to suspect every man who came near him. His temper became more violent with each passing day. His hands played nervously with the relics strung around his neck or gripped with sudden passion the hilt of his beaked dagger. Once he burst out with a furious speech which showed how firmly convinced he was that Stephen Langton was at the bottom of everything. “Never shall that Stephen,” he cried, “obtain a safe-conduct from me of force sufficient to prevent me from”—his hands clawed at the air—“from suspending him by the neck the moment he touches land of mine!”
Surrender to the Pope, therefore, carried with it release from such fears. If he hid himself under the wing of Innocent, then all the forces of Europe would be behind him and he could laugh at the efforts of the baronage to unseat him. Perhaps also the mind of this cunning King had cast on into the future and had foreseen other advantages which a close alliance with Rome would bring. If this were true, it was with inner reserve and tongue in cheek that John gave his consent to the humiliating terms the legate had brought from the arrogant man in the Vatican.
The day before Ascension, John appeared in the church of the Temple and a long document was loudly intoned. “Ye know,” it read in part, “that we have deeply offended our Holy Mother the Church and that it will be hard to draw on the mercy of Heaven. Therefore we would humble ourselves, and without constraint, of our own free will, by the consent of our barons and high justiciars, we give and confer on God, on the Holy Apostles St. Peter and St. Paul, on our Mother the Church and on Pope Innocent III and his Catholic successors, the whole kingdom of England and Ireland, with all their rights and dependencies for the remission of our sins; henceforth we hold them as a fief, and in token thereof we swear allegiance in presence of Pandulfo, Legate of the Holy See.”
It was true that four of the great barons of the realm had been consulted—the earls of Salisbury, Boulogne, Warenne, and Ferrars—but to everyone else this announcement was a complete and overwhelming surprise, a thunderclap which left the nation aghast. England a fief of Rome! It was not to be believed. Why had the King, after rejecting much easier terms, decided suddenly to give everything to the Pope?
These thoughts filled the minds of the barons as they saw Pandulfo, a man of great slyness and, some say, of a mean and slinking appearance, take possession of the royal chair. John knelt before him, lifted up his hands and placed them in those of the legate, and swore fealty to the Pontiff. The King then offered money as a token of submission, and the legate refused to accept it as a sign the Church scorned earthly wealth. When John, who seemed willing to go to the farthest limits of abasement, tendered him the crown the minister of the Vatican (a lowly minister, for Pandulfo was no higher than a deacon) accepted it. He kept it five days, moreover, before giving it back.
Directly after the ceremony it was learned that, in addition to thus surrendering himself to Rome, John had agreed to all the papal terms. Stephen Langton was to be received, all the exiled churchmen were to be reinstated, all losses sustained by the Church during the years of the interdict were to be made up in full, and the Vatican was to be paid one thousand marks a year, seven hundred for England, three hundred for Ireland. It was such an abject surrender that men looked at each other blankly, asking themselves if the King had been under some malign influence.
The amazement grew when it was learned that no promise had been received from Innocent of an immediate raising of the bans.
John had one consolation left him for this bitter moment of capitulation. Ascension Day passed and he still sat on his throne. He sent word to Corfe that Peter of Pontefract was to be questioned further. The hermit proved much bolder than he had been before, declaring that the ceremony in the Temple had been the fulfillment of his prophecy, inasmuch as the King now ruled as a vassal. When this was reported to him, John fell into one of his most extravagant rages and ordered that the hermit and a son who had been imprisoned with him be executed at once. Accordingly the two humble men from Yorkshire were tied to the heels of horses and dragged all the way to Wareham. Here the broken bodies were hoisted up to the gallows and hanged.
On July 20 a second ceremony was observed. Cardinal Langton had landed in England to take up his duties as head of the Church. John was at Winchester and sent word to the primate to join him there. It was in early morning when the two antagonists met for the first time. The King rode out with his usual train to Magdalen’s Hill, a gold circlet on his head in place of a helmet, a look in his eye which was half defiance, half derision. The archbishop was wearing his full canonicals, with all the bishops of England riding in his train. They studied each other for a moment, the massive, violent King and the spare, composed cardinal. John then dismounted and prostrated himself at the feet of the archbishop. This should have been followed by the kiss of peace, but John was still under the ban of excommunication and so it was forbidden for Langton to embrace him. The King, realizing the difficulty, sprang from his kneeling position, laughed loudly, and threw the primate a kiss with his hand.
There was more to this gesture than John’s usual sense of the comic at moments of gravity. The kiss was a token of derision. He was laughing at the farce they were playing in the bright sunshine of Magdalen’s Hill. There was defiance in it, defiance of Innocent, of Stephen Langton, of the barons of England. There was in it a hint of future purpose, a message which said, Wait, this is not the end, the time will come when I, John of England, will undo all this which is being done!
Nevertheless, with every outward sign of amity, Sang and archbishop turned their horses and rode back into Winchester, the bishops and knights following after. All joined in the Fifty-first Psalm, the high voice of the King chiming in with the resonant tones of the cardinal.
“Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Thy loving kindness …
Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow …
Hide Thy face from my sins …”
6
In Winchester Cathedral, Stephen Langton laid the train for further trouble, for himself and for the whole kingdom of England; but it was done out of his desire to see the country free of her woes and his belief that at last the rift had been closed between Church and State. He absolved John of his sins and then performed the Holy Eucharist in thanksgiving. For this he was never forgiven in Rome. Innocent was a stern victor and a stickler for his own rights. He had humbled John and become the actual head of the kingdom. Only when he, the Pope, saw fit to raise the ban would England be freed. The archbishop had exceeded his authority, and from that moment the face of the Pontiff was turned away from his own appointee, the man for whom he had entered on this bitter struggle. Never again was Stephen Langton to know favor.
Innocent had many things to settle before the interdict would be lifted. First he had to inform Philip of France that, as the insurgency of John had been quelled and England was now a fief of Rome, there could be no invasion of the country. Philip naturally was amazed and outraged. Had he then raised a great army and fleet, at unprecedented expense, and all for nothing? Must he now disband his forces without compensation or reward? He fumed bitterly because he had been sure that the decisive defeat of his English rival had been imminent. He did not enjoy serving as cat’s paw to the Pope.
This blow to his ambitions, his dignity, and his purse rankled so deeply that the French King turned like a wounded animal and struck at the nearest victim, which happened to be Flanders. The French armies, equipped for immediate fighting, invaded the provinces of the Count of Flanders, who had allied himself with England. It was to help the count that William Long-Espée was sent to attack the French fleet. The victory he scored saved the Low Country and might also have saved England if it had been won a few weeks earlier, or if John had possessed more fortitude.
The terms of John’s capitulation to Rome called for payment in full of all losses the Church had sustained. Pandulfo was replaced as legate by Nicholas, the Bishop of Frascati, to whom fell the task of adjusting the claims. They began to come in at once, and John was horrified when he discovered how large they were. Canterbury alone demanded twenty thousand marks. Every bishop had claims for buildings destroyed, livestock stolen, forests burned. Every parish priest, except those who had disobeyed the Pope by continuing to officiate, had suffered losses. In addition there were the rents on church properties which had been collected by the Crown and spent long since; every penny of this vast sum must now be paid back.
With rising wrath and the painful reluctance of a parsimonious man, the King finally brought himself to the point of making an offer. He would pay a lump sum of one hundred thousand marks and the Church could settle how the money was to be applied and divided. This amount would not cover more than a fraction of the losses which had been piling up over the years. The Church rejected the offer flatly.
And now Innocent III did an extraordinary thing. He disregarded the decision of the Church in England and set the amount of reparations at forty thousand marks! John, delighted, accepted with the greatest alacrity. He perceived that his canny view of future developments had been right. The Pope and he were partners, and it was clear that the Pontiff would not permit anything to happen, even for the benefit of the Church in England, which would weaken the King who had become his vassal.
The new legate proved himself most obnoxious to the people of England. Landing with such a small train that he had only seven horses, the cardinal had demanded at once that he be supplied with fifty. He gathered a stately cavalcade about him and traveled in the greatest grandeur, insisting on the best accommodations and paying nothing. He was like a bailiff who had been put in charge of bankrupt property and who forthwith proceeded to inspect everything, to taste, to pry, to ask impertinent questions.
The offense given thus to the people was small compared to the tribulations he heaped on the churchmen. He took it upon himself to settle all disputes within the Church with ruthless disregard of everything but his own lordly will. He filled vacancies without any thought of the qualifications of the favorites he brought in.
On one occasion this amiable Cardinal Nicholas was mobbed by priests, nuns, and hospitalers as he left St. Paul’s. They cried out to him in piteous tones that they had obeyed the Pope and gone into exile and poverty. Those who had not obeyed him had remained at home in comfort and without loss and were still in the full enjoyment of their benefices. Was it fair, they demanded, that now they should be told that nothing could be done for them and that strangers should be put in the posts they had vacated? The legate forced his way through them with impatience. He had no instructions to help them, he said. There was nothing he could do for them, nothing.
For one reason and another the better part of a year passed before the interdict was lifted. It had continued for six years, three months, and fourteen days.
* Based on Appendix VI, Innocent the Great, by C. H. C. Pirie-Gordon, B.A.