CHAPTER VII
ALLTHOUGH historians have done their best to present Richard I as a bad king and a man of extraordinary selfishness and cruelty, it has been impossible to shake the popular view which places Coeur de Lion on the highest pedestal. That he was a sagacious general as well as a great fighting man has more than balanced in the scales of public opinion the fact that he was worthless as a ruler.
It is not surprising that he lacked most of the qualities which made his father so outstanding. Henry II was raised in an atmosphere of struggle and dissension and of continual uncertainty as to the future. This toughened his mental fiber and at the same time lent him resolution and a practical and realistic viewpoint. When he ascended the throne he faced conditions which called for the exercise of wisdom, determination, and courage. Richard grew up as the Angevin sun mounted ever higher in the sky, and all his years he lived in an atmosphere of adulation and glory. He was the handsomest of men, or so those who flocked about him said; he was the greatest fighter, the deadliest wrestler, the fastest runner, the finest poet, and the most beguiling troubadour in the whole wide world. His mother worshiped him, and this confirmed the sycophantic chorus of the court. Richard was taught to believe in his own omnipotence. He knew victory only and was ready to pay any price for it.
Still more fatal to the development in him of the qualities needed in a ruler was the Code of Chivalry which guided him throughout his life. Chivalry was a shield of two sides, the outer a shining promise of high honor and courage and self-sacrifice, the hidden side a hideous picture of darkness and superstition and cruelty. The exultant glow of the one has triumphed over the reverse, and the word chivalry has come to mean everything fine and loyal and brave. But time has been a false interpreter. Richard was the perfect product of the code, and all his life he was base and cruel to those under him and willing to be dishonest in his dealings with his subjects in order to achieve a few moments of high triumph on the field of battle. Such was chivalry, such was Richard.
Efforts have been made to judge the King separately from the knight and to keep the callousness of the former from sight by thinking only of the exploits of the crusading leader. But Richard was in everything the knight. It was always the knight who sat at the head of the Curia and passed on matters of state. The King did not make a belated appearance when the knight laid aside his heavy iron helmet and unlaced his body armor. It was the knight who lavished the gold of the kingdom on his Palestine adventure and sold everything for which a buyer could be found from a royal castle to a decision in a lawsuit. It was the knight who came back after his long imprisonment and reinstated the bad minister thrown out by his irate subjects. Richard was always the knight and, except for brief moments near the end when he displayed flashes of statesmanship, never the King.
But the facts of his ten-year reign will speak for themselves.
2
Richard began his reign with a properly filial gesture. He dispatched word from Normandy that his mother was to be released at once and was to act as regent of England until he could arrive. The Eleanor who emerged from the castle on the hill beyond Winchester was different from the rebellious and angry woman who had been placed there sixteen years before. Her captivity had been neither close nor unpleasant. Ranulf de Glanville had been a careful custodian but never unfair or unfriendly. The Queen’s household had lacked nothing. They had taken their meals in the Great Hall, a not unmixed advantage because the small, round-headed Norman windows made it gloomy. They had pleasant gardens and were allowed to ride and walk under proper guard. The Queen said good-by to her jailer with every evidence of good will.
She took advantage of her powers as regent to perform acts of moderation and mercy. She went from town to town, writes Tyrrell, “setting free all those confined under the Norman game laws which in the later part of Henry’s life were cruelly enforced. When she released prisoners, it was on condition that they prayed for the soul of her late husband. She likewise declared she took this measure for the benefit of her soul.”
Richard landed at Portsmouth on August 12, 1189. He was almost a stranger, having spent practically all of his life in the south. In a hurry to greet his mother, and learning that she had returned to Winchester, he rode there at once. It was so long since he had seen her that no doubt he wondered if he would be able to recognize her. But Eleanor had not changed much. She was close to seventy now and her hair was white, but the vitality she had always possessed had kept her erect and well. She still had beauty.
Richard himself was now thirty-two years old and at the peak of his physical powers, a vigorous and handsome man. Eleanor’s delight in their reunion did not blind her, however, to the faults in what he was planning to do. He was especially bitter about Ranulf de Glanville. “That rogue shall be thrown into the dungeons,” he declared, “and loaded with fetters of a thousand pounds!” Some historians say that his mother succeeded in convincing him that her jailer had been considerate and that it would be better to load him with responsibilities than a thousand pounds of chain. Richard of Devizes declares, however, that Glanville had to ruin himself by paying a fine of fifteen thousand pounds of silver, but for reasons which will develop later this seems unlikely.
There was a set pattern about the assumption of kingly power, and a new ruler’s first official act was to get his hands on the royal treasure. William Rufus, Henry I, Stephen, Henry II, each of them had come on the gallop to find what the vaults contained. Richard was no exception. Knowing how much gold he was going to need, he was fairly panting with impatience.
The result of the first search was disappointing, for only the relatively small sum of one hundred thousand marks was located. The new King had opened the vaults himself, assisted by some of his closest servants, and without the presence of Ranulf de Glanville. When Richard came in a rage to his mother and said that, by God’s feet, he knew there had been looting, Eleanor calmed him down. Had he consulted the chief justiciar in the matter? The late King, she pointed out, had been a man of much discretion and without a doubt had taken special precautions to protect the royal stores. If such were the case, the only man who had shared the secret was Ranulf de Glanville. Richard acted on this suggestion and summoned Glanville to his presence. The latter confirmed what Eleanor had suspected. The late King had installed new vaults, the existence of which had been a closely held secret. The keys were produced at once.
The second search revealed a treasure of magnificent proportions, no less than nine hundred thousand pounds, an enormous sum in those days, and much valuable jewelry as well. Richard was amazed at the size of his father’s savings. He had believed that the emptiness of the treasury had made it impossible for his father to raise an adequate army for his final bout with the French. Why had Henry refused to use the gold in his secret vaults? Had a miserly streak taken possession of him at the last? Or had it been a sense of responsibility, a feeling that this surplus constituted a national asset and should not be dissipated?
Personal relationships played considerable part in the first discussions that mother and son had together. Richard had seen Geoffrey, the illegitimate brother, in Normandy and had informed him he was no longer chancellor. He had agreed, however, to make Geoffrey Archbishop of York for a substantial sum, three thousand pounds, on the understanding that he was to take holy orders at once and stay out of England for three years. His reason for the last stipulation was easy to understand. The new King did not want anyone as clever and ambitious and popular as Geoffrey in the kingdom while he was away on the Crusades. However, he had been less careful in connection with John. He had brought that dangerous young man with him and had given him six earldoms and eight castles. John, making no promises and divulging none of the schemes which filled his covetous head, was likely to prove a contender with so much power. Richard would have been better advised to keep John out of England and allow Geoffrey a free hand.
For her part, Eleanor was concerned over the marriage plans of the bachelor King. She was determined he was not to marry Alice, and to make sure of this (and to satisfy a somewhat natural grudge) the Dowager Queen had already installed her rival in the role she had played so long herself, the prisoner of Winchester. Richard was not disturbed. He had no desire for secondhand goods and, in any event, he had decided to select his own wife. His choice, he told Eleanor, was Princess Berengaria of Navarre.
His mother must have been shocked at this announcement. The new head of the Angevin empire could have any wife he desired. Why should he be content with the daughter of a third-rate king? What advantage would there be in an alliance with Navarre? But Richard’s mind was made up, and Eleanor loved him too well to stand in the way of his happiness. It was agreed that she would go to Pampeluna, the capital of Navarre, and see to the necessary arrangements.
The crowning of Richard was the most dramatic and tragic of all coronation ceremonies held at Westminster. There had been much shaking of heads about the date selected, September 3, which astrologers had always considered one of ill omen, calling it Egyptian Day. To lend substance to the apprehensions, a bat found its way into the abbey and circled around during the ceremony. It showed a preference for the coronation chair and wheeled and flapped about it persistently. Still more startling was a loud peal from the bell tower at the conclusion. The bell ringers swore they had not been responsible, and everyone was convinced that the hands which pulled the ropes had not been mortal. These were small matters, however, compared with what came later that day.
The ceremony itself was carried through with great pomp. Richard walked to the palace between the bishops of Durham and Bath, and for the anointing he fulfilled the letter of the ritual by allowing himself to be stripped to his shirt and drawers. It was felt by everyone in that immense interior that never before had a more kingly-looking ruler taken the oath.
The massacre of the Jews with which the coronation of Richard is associated in history did not begin until the banquet was under way. The King had issued a proclamation the day before, forbidding the attendance of Jews and witches at the ceremony. When a crusade was being preached feelings ran high against the first named, and it had probably been wise to keep them away from a public occasion. But why had witches been included in the prohibition? Was it, asked wags in the taverns, because the King remembered his great-grandmother who had flown out of the window of a church on a broomstick?
No witches tried to attend (unless the bat was one in disguise), but unfortunately a few of the wealthy Jews of London came to Westminster Palace as the banquet started, thinking the order no longer applied and bringing handsome gifts for the newly crowned monarch. Some of the barons resented their presence and had them forcibly ejected. The grounds around Westminster were still filled with people, and the word circulated through the crowd that there had been a plot against the life of the King. Any excuse, even one as feeble as this, was all that was needed. The unwanted gift bearers were knocked about and kicked and beaten. A few were killed and many were badly injured. Their appetite for blood whetted, the people marched back to the city, shouting, “Death to the unbelievers!” Once rioting had started there, nothing could stop it. Most of the houses in the Jewry were burned or wrecked and many lives were taken.
It happened that a deputation of two men named Baruch and Jossen had been sent to London by the Jews of York. Baruch was caught by the mob and severely beaten. He was given the choice of accepting the cross or being hanged to the nearest signpost, and decided to save his life by pretending to abjure his faith. When word of this reached the King, he insisted that Baruch be brought to him for questioning. He asked the old man if he really believed Christ to be the Messiah. The victim of mob violence, recovering his courage, had the fortitude to answer, “No.”
When pressed for an explanation, he told the truth, that he was not a convert and would never give up the faith of his race. Richard turned to Baldwin, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and asked what punishment should be inflicted on the self-confessed rogue. The latter replied that he thought the unfortunate man had been punished enough already. The primate was right. Baruch died within a few days from the injuries he had received.
Jossen returned alone to York, discovering as he progressed northward that the riots were spreading throughout the country. He found it necessary to travel by side roads, and only by the exercise of the greatest caution was he able to reach York alive.
The Jewish people living in York were numerous and unusually wealthy, but, as they had gradually drawn into their hands all the banking of the north counties, there were plenty in the city glad of a chance to despoil them. Almost immediately after the return of Jossen a mob broke into the Jewish quarter, looting the shops, burning the houses, and killing all they could get their hands on. Those who survived, more than a thousand in all, took refuge in the King’s palace, where, under the leadership of Jossen, they defended themselves with great courage. The rioters sought assistance from prominent members of the baronage and did not find it difficult to interest all who owed money to any of the victims of the purge.
Seeing they were in a hopeless position, the defenders decided to kill themselves rather than surrender to the bloodthirsty mobs. They dispatched their wives and children first and then cut their own throats. The small minority who offered to give themselves up were promised terms but were butchered as soon as they opened the gates. The palace had been set on fire by the more resolute ones, and much of their wealth was destroyed by the flames.
It was a violent beginning to the ten violent years of Richard’s reign.
3
During the last visit he paid to England before becoming King, Richard had been in the offices of the chancellery; briefly, because of his dislike for his bastard brother Geoffrey, who was then in possession of the Seal. As he walked down the stone hall he chanced to glance into one of the small rooms where the clerks were employed, and his eyes encountered those of the occupant. People are always staring at royalty, and Richard was so accustomed to it that he would not have paid attention if the appearance of the man in his gloomy little cell had not been so unusual. He was small—a dwarf, in fact—and a most unpleasant-looking one, with a twisted back and dead, unblinking eyes. This curious official was to play a spectacular part in English history under the name of William de Longchamp, a fictitious name according to some historians who deny him noble birth. Nothing much is known about him in reality, except that Richard saw him first in the chancellery offices and that later he was moved to Rouen at the insistence of Henry, who did not trust him. It must have been in Rouen that Richard had his first talk with the man, for soon after his transfer to that city he became chancellor of Poitou.
It developed in the course of the first talk that Longchamp was one of those clever and observant officials who are often found in administrative departments. They are the Flambards, the Thomas Cromwells, who poke their noses into state papers, who study furtively by candlelight, who ferret out secrets they are not afraid to use. When opportunities arise they offer plans more daring and more susceptible of success than anything their superiors have dared advocate. Longchamp had something new to offer Richard, an original method of raising money which would be helpful when the latter assumed the crown. Richard was impressed, as the appointment of Longchamp to an executive post under him makes clear.
And now Richard was King and needed all the money he could get his hands on. Soon after his arrival in England, Westminster heard something which caused a wave of disbelief, astonishment, and horror to spread. William Longchamp, the misshapen little man with the cold dead eyes of a fish, had been appointed chancellor!
At the same time Longchamp was made Bishop of Ely and chief justiciar for the south of England, with the Tower of London as his official residence. He was to divide responsibility for the government of the kingdom during Richard’s absence with Hugh de Puiset, who held the palatine bishopric of Durham. Hugh de Puiset was first cousin to Richard and also to Philip of France, and he was as different from Longchamp as any human being could be: a blond giant and a fine soldier (palatine bishops had to be), with courtly manners and a graciousness which made all men his friends. All men, that is, except William Longchamp. That stealthy climber, not content with his spectacular rise to power, was already full of a cankerous jealousy of the man of high rank with whom he must share the control of the country.
Longchamp lost no time in demonstrating that his theories on the raising of money were practical. Everything in the possession of the Crown which could be sold went under the hammer. The King of Scotland, who had sworn homage to Henry after his capture, was permitted to buy back his independence for a large sum; and thus at one stroke of the pen the top of the Angevin empire was lopped off. Every officer of the Crown, every high official of the Church, had to purchase his appointment. The new chancellor set the example by paying three thousand pounds for the chancellery seals (although a higher bid had been put in by one Reginald the Italian) and a thousand marks as chief justiciar of the south. Hugh de Puiset, who was made Earl of Northumberland at the same time, paid two thousand marks for that honor and a thousand more as chief justiciar of the north. Richard was asked why he had taken money from such a close relative and, being of a jocular turn like William Rufus, he replied that he considered the price small for the miracle he had wrought by turning an old bishop into a young earl. As for the general policy of selling appointments instead of giving them to the men most capable of filling them well, the new King was completely frank. He needed the money for the Crusade. Did it matter how it was obtained? Did anything matter, even the welfare of the kingdom, as long as the infidels were driven out of the Holy Land and the cross was recovered?
Longchamp was thorough in his methods. Attended by an imposing train of men-at-arms and clerks, he made a procession of the country. He held court in every city and town and in every castle and turned the proceedings into an open auction. Every post, even the most humble, was put up for bids. Decrees in equity and patents were sold. Lawsuits were settled in favor of the party offering the largest bribe. Royal manor houses and lands and forests were knocked down to the highest bidder.
It was an open scandal. When advisers of good intent approached the King and protested, Richard laughed. “By God’s feet!” he cried. “Find me a purchaser and I’ll sell London itself!”
England had become the milch cow of the Third Crusade. Every penny which could be taxed out of the pockets of the unfortunate people, or tithed or extracted by threat or promise, was being accumulated for one purpose only, to provide Richard Coeur de Lion with the most powerful and best-equipped army which had ever carried the cross. England could wallow in debt and suffer the most venal government. That was of no consequence.
He hurried to France as soon as he saw that in Longchamp he had a man who would do what he wanted, who would sell his everlasting soul in the service of a master he understood.
With the King gone, the new chancellor began to find posts for all his family. His brothers Henry and Osbert were put in charge of the royal forces at home. Mathew de Cleres, who had married Longchamp’s sister Richenda, was made constable of Dover, which was tantamount to putting the key to England’s front door in his pocket. Deals were made with men in authority and power and with certain high officers of the Church. A new order was being established, with new men at the head, and a new conception of government; a conception which left everyone else, baron and chapman and socman alike, gasping with astonishment and dismay. As soon as he was solidly entrenched and had back of him a party of officeholders whose tenure depended on his favor, the spider which had taken possession of the Tower began to spin a web for the undoing of Hugh de Puiset.
4
Richard had established himself in the ducal palace at Rouen, eating his meals in the Great Hall and giving audiences there at the same time, devoting no thought to the certainty that the hall would not witness now the consummation of his father’s grandiose schemes. He did not care about that kind of glory. He had decided, quite wisely, not to march overland as the men of the First and Second Crusades had done, knowing this would result as before in half of his men dying on the way. Instead he had made up his mind to take the army direct to Palestine by water, and this meant finding a fleet of ships and planning accommodation for the thousands of horses which would be taken and accumulating supplies. He was the busiest man in all Christendom, He consulted Philip in some matters, and it was decided between them that the two armies would meet at Vézelay and then separate, the English sailing from Marseilles, the French from Genoa. The English were to wear the white cross, the French red, and the Flemings green.
The English King was seen to considerable advantage at this stage. He was so concerned with his preparations that he gave little thought to anything else. Even his need of a wife seemed to mean less to him than the proper method of stabling the horses on the voyage. He was thorough and painstaking about every conceivable detail. He drew up a special code to enforce good conduct during the time when his troops would be confined on board ship. As might be expected, he was unnecessarily severe in the matter of penalties. A soldier convicted of slaying another on board ship was to be cast into the sea, lashed to the body of his victim. If the killing occurred on shore, the offender was to be buried alive with the body. The loss of a hand was the penalty for drawing knife on a comrade. Striking with the fist but not drawing blood was to be punished by dipping the offender in the sea three times. A thief was to be shaved on the top of his head and boiling pitch poured on the bared poll, after which a feather pillow would be shaken over it. Richard, as will be recognized, was a disciplinarian.
Much to the surprise of the harried monarch, William Longchamp put in an appearance at Rouen. As Hugh de Puiset was with the court at the time, England had been left without either of the heads Richard had appointed. The visit of the misshapen chancellor was not due, however, to any trouble at home.
He became angry because Hugh de Puiset sat close to the King while he, Longchamp, was seated a very short distance above the salt. To watch his rival talking to the King with the ease of complete intimacy while he, Longchamp, dipped his fingers in the dishes of meat so far away that he could not hear a single syllable of what was being said disturbed the spleen of the lowborn minister and ruined his appetite. He was realizing that Richard would make use of him but would never overlook his vulgarity of origin.
After the meal, while Hugh de Puiset lingered over the wine with his friends, the King summoned Longchamp to the royal apartments. Here was another distinction which the King would always draw between his two lieutenants and which should have eased the mind of the jealous chancellor. When affairs of state were to be settled, he would be summoned to share the royal confidence. Hugh de Puiset would be allowed to stay at table and enjoy his wine.
Longchamp had two matters on his mind. First, he saw a way of using the York massacre in raising funds, a very great deal of money. Second, he was disturbed by the fact that England was to be left without a church head, since Archbishop Baldwin was going on the Crusade and Geoffrey of York was barred from his native shores. Note the order in which the two matters were introduced to the attention of the King. The scheme to make money out of bloodstained York was explained first and won the royal approval. While the mind of the warrior King was still filled with the pleasant prospect of a further fattening of the war chest, the wily chancellor proposed his solution of the church problem. Apply to the Pope for legatine powers for him, Longchamp, so that he could act when necessary in lieu of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Not realizing that this would place Hugh de Puiset under the thumb of Longchamp, or not caring, Richard agreed to the plan and promised that the request would be sent to the Vatican at once.
And then the chancellor came to the crucial point. He explained first that York was in the northern half of the kingdom, over which the Bishop of Durham had jurisdiction. The good bishop might not agree to the proposal. Even if he agreed, he would hardly be thorough enough in carrying it out. He, Longchamp, was the only one—if his royal master would forgive him for thus tootling his own horn—who could extract the last ounce of gold out of the already bleeding veins of the northern capital. How, then, could the plan be put into operation?
Bowing his head over his shrunken chest and nervously twining and untwining his fingers, this man of low degree who aspired to rule all England by himself began to explain what was in his mind. Perhaps he would be accorded the royal permission to return at once—that very night, in fact—to set the wheels turning. If, on the other hand, the King in his wisdom saw fit to detain Hugh de Puiset for several weeks more, the draining of York could be attended to in his absence. The worthy bishop would undoubtedly be disturbed when he realized what had happened, but even the anger of so great a man could not undo a fait accompli.
Richard nodded his head in assent. Longchamp had obtained everything he had crossed the Channel for, and he lost no time in starting back.
The dwarfish chancellor was missed at the royal table the next day. Hugh de Puiset, a man of decency and honor, was probably not disturbed at all. He would have no suspicions of the devious reasons which had brought his co-administrator to Normandy so unexpectedly and had then taken him back so suddenly. Certainly he was pleased when Richard said he wanted him to stay for several weeks more. Was this not an evidence of kingly esteem and confidence?
In the meantime Longchamp reached London, where he hastily assembled a considerable force under the command of his two precious brothers. A march to York followed. His mission, he announced on arriving, was to inquire into the massacre and take such steps then as the facts would seem to make necessary.
His first move was to depose the royal officers, all of whom were appointees of the bishop, and to put in his own men. His brother Osbert was made sheriff. The clergy were bludgeoned into a stunned silence when he announced himself papal legate, although he did not produce his letters patent.
Having thus seized complete control, this skillful ferret began to follow out the plan he had proposed to the King. He imposed fines right and left, giving consideration only to the size of a man’s purse and none at all to his share, if any, in the riots. The last penny which could be squeezed from the citizens was taken in these levies. The lands of the barons who had assisted in the massacre of the Jews were confiscated to the Crown. Up to this point Longchamp had done nothing which might not have occurred to any equally unscrupulous administrator, but he now proceeded to display his genius for despoliation. He announced that the Crown was the heir of the slaughtered Jews. To protect the interests of the King, therefore, he had a search made for the ledgers of the victims and found legal evidence here and there of large sums which had been owed to them. These debts were rigorously collected. Those who had taken a hand in the riots to escape payment of money they owed found that they had spilled innocent blood to no avail. Flambard himself had never thought of a more ingenious scheme than this.
The relatives of the dead ockerers, as moneylenders were called in the north, were not allowed a penny of what was collected on these debts.
Again the indispensable Longchamp had demonstrated that the schemes he hatched in his oversized head could be carried out. Not only had he scooped up more money than he had dared to estimate, but he had successfully checkmated his rival. When word of what had happened reached Normandy, Hugh de Puiset asked at once that he be allowed to return to investigate. Richard was graciously pleased to consent. It did not matter now. The money was in the royal coffers, and there was nothing the good bishop could do about it.
It would have been better for the well-intentioned but not very aggressive Bishop of Durham if he had not returned to England at this point. He met Longchamp on the latter’s invitation at the royal castle of Tickhill in Yorkshire. The bishop had a letter from the King which had seemed, when handed to him, to establish his authority clearly enough. When he came face to face with Longchamp, however, he began to doubt if it would suffice. The venomous little man said, “It is now my turn to talk.” He had papers also; a commission, in fact, to represent the King with full power in all England. The commission carried the Great Seal.
The bishop, puzzled and reluctant, had to give in. He was told he must relinquish everything, his properties as well as his offices. On pain of his life he must not take any further part in state affairs.
Longchamp’s flag was hoisted over the keep at Windsor.
5
Power thrust into new hands is almost certain to go to the head. Never in all history has there been a more spectacular demonstration of this than in the case of Richard’s upstart deputy. The one-time clerk at the chancellery began to behave as though he thought himself King of England. He imposed his will in everything, he assumed all the trappings of royalty, he tossed men out of office to make room for his own relatives and creatures. Even harder to bear was the way the little man conducted himself. He strutted, he threw out his puny chest, he stormed, he glowered, he snarled. He attired his meager body in the handsomest of clothes and rode on a magnificent charger, looking like one of the monkeys Thomas à Becket chained to the saddles of his horses on his famous ride to Paris.
He pursued his beaten rival with a peculiar degree of malignance. Hugh de Puiset had done him no harm, but he was punished by being sent to a small monastery at Howden. Here he remained in seclusion as long as Longchamp’s power lasted.
With no one to stand in his way, Longchamp proceeded to rule like a king, and a very absolute and arbitrary king. He issued dooms and writs, signed with his own signet ring instead of the Great Seal of England. Governing from Windsor Castle, he had a corps of guards of his own who wore a special uniform. Anyone seeking audience of the haughty manikin had to pass through many files of these guards, who questioned them sternly, before they reached a magnificent apartment where Longchamp sat in all his glory. When he made a journey he was accompanied by fifteen hundred armed men, most of them mercenaries from abroad. He would quarter himself in a castle or monastery and demand the best of everything and the utmost deference. He summoned the nobility of the district to attend him. There were expensive jeweled rings on his skinny fingers when he dined in state, and the sons of the local baronage fetched and carried for him as pages.
The hatred he created in the country was so great that he needed his guards about him at all times. No one, from the haughtiest baron to the meanest fripperer on the streets of London, could swallow the insult of his pre-eminence. Everyone seemed to be waiting for a signal, in readiness to spring to arms and deal with this treacherous ape in the guise of a man. Longchamp realized this and, being of some learning, he took a leaf from the book of the Roman emperors. To mask their tyranny, the heads of the Roman state built amphitheaters and amused the people with spectacles and the death grapple of gladiators. Longchamp imported singers, jesters, and jugglers from France and sent them around the country to give the public free entertainment. He thought that, if these mummers were to sing his praises at the same time, the people would come to admire and love him.
At this point Queen Eleanor appears on the scene. The mother of the King had been watching things with eyes which had learned much in seventy years of living. She realized that her beloved son had made a great error and that all the glory he might win at the Crusades could be dimmed by the extraordinary behavior of this deputy he had left in England. Richard was still camped back of Marseilles, waiting to get his fleet assembled and his army loaded. Eleanor went to him and finally convinced him that he must curb the power of the malicious Longchamp. The King responded by instructing Walter of Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, to visit England and study the situation, giving him sealed authority to take any steps he found necessary. In addition he appointed a committee of four barons to act as advisers to Longchamp. This did not satisfy the Queen. She felt that Geoffrey of York should be freed of the three-year prohibition which Richard had laid on him and allowed to return to England so that the Church would have proper leadership in Baldwin’s absence. This suggestion, coming from his mother, who had never felt anything but antagonism for the son of the Fair Rosamonde, surprised Richard. The King had a robust dislike for Geoffrey, and it took a great deal of persuasion to make him give in on this point. However, he finally agreed and signed a paper, releasing his half brother from the three-year arrangement. Eleanor then saw to it that Pope Clement sent the pall for Geoffrey’s consecration and that the ceremony was performed promptly by the Archbishop of Tours.
Content with what she had done, Eleanor set out for Navarre to arrange the marriage with Berengaria. It had been planned between them, mother and son, that she would bring the princess back with her so the wedding could take place before the ships sailed for the East. Failing this, the Queen and the princess would go by sea and join Richard at Messina. The mountainous road across the Pyrenees and on to Pampeluna, where Sancho the Wise, Berengaria’s father, held court, was a long and fatiguing one for a woman of her years, especially as the sea voyage to Sicily seemed the inevitable sequel. Eleanor set off without a moment’s hesitation, her back as straight and her spirits as high as when she herself had ridden to the Crusades some fifty years before. Nothing her golden son could need or desire was too much for the silver-haired woman who had been once the toast and the scandal of Europe.
Longchamp had his spy system, of course, and he learned that Geoffrey of York was returning to England. He decided to prevent him from landing.
His sister Richenda, whose husband was constable of Dover, was the feminine counterpart of the chancellor, a small, dark, determined, and vituperative creature. Longchamp sent instructions to her, ignoring her easygoing husband, that the Archbishop of York was to be stopped at any cost. When Geoffrey arrived off Dover in an English smack, he was met by a boat filled with troops from the garrison.
“Deliver him up to us, Master Skipper,” shouted the officer in charge.
The captain of the smack knew what was meant and pointed out the archbishop. The latter demanded to know what this was about.
“It means that you go with us,” declared the officer. “Madame de Cleres will answer your questions.”
The recurrent appearances on the scene of the son of the Fair Rosamonde have made it clear that he was a man of courage and resolution. He now proceeded to demonstrate that he possessed these qualities in a high degree. On reaching shore, he sprang into the saddle of the horse on which he was to have been taken to Dover Castle and made a dash for the road to Folkestone. There was a loud hue and cry at once. When one of his pursuers drew up abreast of the fugitive, Geoffrey kicked his spurred heel into the flank of the man’s horse. It shied and then reared away from the road. The rest came thundering along after him, however, and he had no recourse but to turn into St. Martin’s Priory, where he could claim sanctuary. It was a close-run thing at that. As he sprang from his saddle the pursuing horsemen poured into the courtyard and he was compelled to race for the chapel. A service was being held, and he heard the monks chanting as he entered:
“He that troubleth thee shall have his judgment…”
This sounded reassuring. The troops made it clear, however, that he would not be allowed to escape. A cordon was thrown around the priory while the officer in charge waited for instructions from the shrill little woman in Dover. They were not long in coming. Richenda demanded that they drag the archbishop out by force and bring him to the castle. She did not care what happened to him in the execution of these orders; bring him, dead or alive.
But the memory of the martyrdom of Thomas à Becket was still too vivid in people’s minds for orders like that to be followed out. The soldiers refused to obey the command. The best they could be made to do was to stand on guard outside.
There ensued a stormy exchange of messages between the indignant prelate and Longchamp’s termagant sister. He reminded her that his person was sacred and that, moreover, he was in sanctuary. To this she replied that others must be the judge of such matters. She insisted that Geoffrey swear an oath of allegiance to the King and produce his papers to prove his right to enter the kingdom. The archbishop responded that he had already sworn allegiance to his brother, the King, and that the papers he carried were not for her eyes. Richenda’s final word was that, if her brother so ordered, she would burn down the castle of Dover and St. Martin’s Priory as well, and even the city of London.
Richenda, making good her threat, demanded that the archbishop be made a prisoner without any more delay. The soldiers poured into the chapel to carry out these instructions but retreated again in haste when they saw that the churchman had donned the alb and stole of his office and was holding a large cross of gold in his hand. The situation began to resemble too closely the tragedy of Canterbury, and they left the chapel as hurriedly as they had entered.
Two days passed, and then the determined Richenda sent some of her own servants to direct the capture. To their surprise they found that Geoffrey was still sitting at the altar and arrayed as before. His stern eyes dared them to come any closer. They turned and left. However, the cordon outside was maintained, and shrill messages still came from the castle, demanding action.
Two more days went by, while the cordon remained around the priory and the resolute archbishop sat at the altar in his consecration robes. On the night of the fourth day a large body of soldiers, who had been bribed and supplied with a great deal of drink, invaded the chapel. Seizing Geoffrey by the arms, they began to drag him down the aisle. He was a man of considerable strength and he resisted stoutly, beating his assailants with the gold cross. His resistance could not continue long against such numbers, however, and he was finally taken out of sanctuary and to Dover Castle, where the exultant Richenda ordered him placed in one of the dungeons.
Geoffrey was held prisoner in a dark cell for eight days, a long enough time for word of what had happened to spread over England. The storm which arose then decided Longchamp that he would have to give way. With many explanations and apologies, placing the blame on his sister, he had the prelate released. When Geoffrey rode into London, he received a tumultuous welcome. Men by the thousand came out to meet him, and the church bells rang as though for a great victory. Observing the warmth of the demonstration from his secure nook in the Tower, the not too courageous chancellor decided he would be better elsewhere. He departed hurriedly for Windsor, his guards galloping after him.
Shortly before this Coutances had arrived in England together with the four advisers the Bang had appointed. They presented their papers to the chancellor, but, insisting that their mandates were forgeries, Longchamp had dismissed them curtly. “I, and I alone,” he declared, “know the King’s mind!” His audacity in taking this stand was due to the fact that the King had embarked at last and could no longer be reached.
This action had threatened to precipitate a national uprising and, with the imprisonment of the archbishop, Longchamp’s cup of iniquity ran over. John, who had been biding his time, summoned all right-thinking men to help him in driving the miscreant from office. Geoffrey joined the prince at Reading, and from there word was sent to Longchamp to meet them on a field near Windsor. Longchamp disregarded the summons. He saw now, however, that he had played for too high a stake and that he had lost. Leaving a lieutenant in command of the royal palace, he decamped and made his way back to London, where he hid himself in the Tower.
His only hope now was to gain the support of the citizens of London. He went out to harangue them on their duty, which was to close their gates and hold out for their rightful King. He had never thought it necessary to learn English and so his vehement speech was delivered in Norman French, which did not please a citizenry already bitterly opposed to him. They laughed, they told him to go back where he belonged, they shouted that the ill-treatment of English bishops was an affront which would never be forgiven a foreign monkey like himself. Longchamp beat a hasty retreat and immured himself again behind the thick and impregnable walls of the Tower. Soon thereafter he received terms from John. All power was to be taken from him, and all his property save three castles. He would have to give a brother and the husband of his scorpion of a sister as hostages. He assented, but his acceptance of defeat was accompanied by a vicious diatribe.
“I yield to force!” he shrilled. “You, being of great numbers, have overpowered me. I, the King’s chancellor and his chief justiciar, am condemned against all law and justice. I yield to force and nothing else!”
The final scene in this tragicomedy was enacted at Dover. The once overbearing minister arrived there, disguised as a female peddler, with voluminous skirts and a veil and carrying a bolt of cloth on one arm. He had been ordered to remain in the kingdom where an eye could be kept on him, but his one thought now was to get to Normandy, where he had a large supply of gold hidden.
When he visited the harbor to make arrangements for a ship to take him across the Channel, a group of fishwives saw him and expressed an interest in his wares. Again his lack of English stood him in bad stead. Saying nothing and struggling to get away from them, he aroused their suspicions, and one strong-armed female took hold of his neck while she tore off his veil. Some of them recognized him, and a great uproar was the result.
Knowing that Madame de Cleres was still in possession of the castle, the people of Dover whisked their prisoner out of sight quickly. He was put in a cellar and kept there under strict guard while word was sent to London of his whereabouts.
The upshot was that he was given permission to leave the country, but the three castles were taken from him. He was in no position to refuse these terms and left Dover as soon as a boat could be found for him. And thus ended, or so it seemed at the time, the curious story of the hobgoblin chancellor.