enigma to us; but the fact is a wondrous proof of monkish ingenuity. In
the days of ignorance all classes were prepared, no doubt, to swallow a
great deal, but thirteen meals must have required a power of digestion
and a force of appetite that throw into the shade even the aldermanic
attainments of a more civilised period. Henry, who took nothing but his
breakfast, dinner, and tea, was shocked and startled by the awful avowal
of gluttony on the part of the monks of St. Swithin, whom he placed at
once on a diet similar to his own, by reducing them to three meals _per
diem_. It is probable that the monks crammed into three repasts the
quantity they had consumed in thirteen, and thus eluded the force of the
royal order.
By a rigorous determination to "stand no nonsense," either with the
clergy or the nobles, and by ordering the Flemish mercenaries of the
army to the "right about," Henry seemed to commence his reign under very
encouraging auspices.
Not content with his successes at home, he sought to increase his
influence abroad by taking Nantes, and he sent Thomas à Becket to Paris
to bamboozle the French court, lest his encroachments should excite
jealousy in that quarter, Thomas à Becket was the son of Mr. Gilbert
à Becket, a respectable tradesman of the city of London; and as his
appears to be the first mercantile name on record, we are justified
in calling him the Father of British Commerce. The chronicles of the
Times--and we are justified in relying on the united evidence of the
_Times_ and _Chronicle_--relate that Gilbert à Becket, in the way of
business, followed the army to Palestine. What his business could have
been we are unable to guess, but as it took him to the camp, he may
perhaps have been a dealer in camp stools, or tent bedsteads. Mr.
Gilbert à Becket unfortunately became a prisoner, and being sold to
a rich Mussulman, fell in love with a young Mussul girl, his master's
daughter. The affection was mutual, and the child of the Mussulman
strained every muscle, or, at all events, every nerve to effect the
escape of Gilbert à Becket, who, in the hurry of his departure, forgot
to take the lady away with him. It is not unlikely that he had got
half-way to London before he missed the faithful girl, and it would
then have been the height of imprudence to return for the purpose of
repairing the oversight. His _inamorata_ made the best of her way
after him, and arriving in London, ran about the streets, exclaiming,
"Gilbert! Gilbert!" thus acting as her own crier, instead of putting the
matter into the hands of the regular bellman.
The fact of a young woman continually traversing the great metropolis
with Gilbert in her mouth, soon reached the ears of Mr. à Becket, who
found the female in distress and his own Saracen maid to be the same
individual. One of those frantic recognitions occurred, in which a rapid
dialogue of "No!" "Yes!" "It can't be!" "It is!" "My long-lost Sara--!"
"My Gil--!" is spasmodically were through, and the couple having rushed
into each other's arms, gone soon bound together by that firmest of
locks familiarly known as wedlock. The fruit of their union was the
celebrated Thomas, of whose career we are enabled from peculiar sources
to furnish some interesting particulars.
Gilbert was determined to give his boy Tom a good education, and sent
him to school at Merton Abbey, where a limited number of young
gentlemen from three to eight were lodged, boarded, and birched--when
necessary--at a moderate stipend. Young Tom was removed from Merton to a
classical and commercial academy in London, which he quitted for Oxford,
and he was ultimately sent to Paris to undergo the process of French
polishing. While yet a young man, he got a situation in the office
of the sheriff, and became, of course, a sheriff's officer; in which
capacity he arrested, among other things, the attention of Theobald,
Archbishop of Canterbury. His patron took young à Becket from the _ad
captandum_ pursuits in which he had been engaged, put him into the
Church, gave him rapid preferment, and introduced him to the parties at
the palace, which had, in those days, sufficient accommodation for the
family and friends of royalty. Mr. à Becket became chancellor of the
kingdom, though he never held a brief, or had even been called to the
bar; and he was appointed tutor to the Royal Family, in which office he
no doubt had the assistance of the Usher of the Black Rod. Of course,
with his multiplicity of offices and occupations, it may be presumed
that Mr. à Becket made a very excellent thing of it. His house was a
palace, he drank nothing but the best wine, employed none but the best
tailors, and when he went to Paris he took four-and-twenty changes of
apparel--which may, perhaps, have been after all nothing more than two
dozen shirts--so that he had a different costume for every hour of the
day. In his progress through France he was preceded by two hundred and
fifty boys, or charity children, singing national songs. These were
followed by his dogs, in couples, who no doubt gave tongue, and made a
sort of barking accompaniment to the music that went before.
Eight waggons came next, carrying his clothes and his crockery, his
cooking apparatus, his bed and bedding, and his suite; when after a
few led horses, some knights with their esquires, and some monkeys _à
cheval_ with a groom behind, on his knees, came à Becket himself and
his familiar friends. * His entry into a town was more like that of an
equestrian troop about to establish a circus than that of the Chancellor
of England travelling in his master's behalf. He lived on terms of the
closest intimacy with the king, who made him Archbishop of Canterbury,
but not until thirteen months after the death of Theobald the First, for
Henry always kept a good appointment open as long as he could, that he
might put the revenues into his own pocket.
* _Vide_ Fitz-Stephen, Secretary and Biographer of Thomas à
Becket.
From the time of his promotion to the see of Canterbury, à Becket became
an altered man. He cut his gay companions, discharged his _chef de
cuisine_, discontinued his dealings with his West-End tailor, and took
to a kind of cheap blouse made of the coarsest sackcloth. He abandoned
his sumptuous mode of living and drank water made unsavoury by herbs,
victimising himself probably with cups of camomile tea, and copious
doses of senna. But the most serious change in à Becket's conduct, was
his altered behaviour to the king, whom he had previously backed in all
his attacks on the Church revenues. The new archbishop stood up for
all the privileges of the clergy, and a difference of opinion between
à Becket and the king, as to the right to try a delinquent clergyman
in the civil courts, led to the summoning of a council of nobles and
prelates (a.d. 1164) at Clarendon. Some rules were drawn up, called the
"Constitutions of Clarendon," which à Becket reluctantly agreed to sign;
but Pope Alexander having rejected them, the archbishop withdrew his
name from the list of subscribers.
[Illustration: 115]
Finding the vengeance of the king likely to prove too much for him, à
Becket quitted the kingdom, and was very hospitably entertained during
his stay on the Continent.
After an absence of about seven years, he returned in consequence of the
king of France and others having persuaded Henry to make it up, though
the reconciliation was never very cordial. Though à Becket was received
with shouts of approbation by the mob, he was greeted, on his arrival,
with menacing signs and abusive language from the aristocracy.
There was a strong party against him at court, and one evening, at about
tea-time, Henry and a few nobles were sitting round the palace fire,
gossiping over the subject of à Becket's awful insolence. The king burst
into a furious diatribe, stigmatising the archbishop as a beggar, and
winding up with the suggestive observation that, "Not one of the cowards
I nourish at my table--not one will deliver me from this turbulent
priest." Four knights who were present took the royal hint, and gave
the archbishop a call at his house in Canterbury, where having seated
themselves unceremoniously on the floor, they got to high words very
speedily. The archbishop refused to yield to low abuse, and went in
the evening to vespers as usual. The feelings of the historian will not
allow him to dwell much upon the _dénouement_ of the drama in which à
Becket had played the principal character. Suffice it to say, he
was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral by four assassins, of whom
Fitzurse--the son of a bear--was one, and Mireville, a name suggestive
of mire and villainy was another. The two remaining butchers were
Britto, of Saxon descent, a low fellow, familiarly termed the Brick, and
Tracey, who is not worth the trouble of tracing.
When Henry heard of this dreadful deed, he went without his dinner for
three days, during which period he shut himself up in his own room, and
refused to be "at home" to anyone.
By way of diverting his melancholy, he determined on joining in an
Irish row, and finding the chiefs of the five principalities into which
Ireland was divided at cross purposes, he espoused the cause of Dermot
Mc Murrough, who seems to have been what the Milesians would term the
"biggest blackguard" amongst them. Henry gave him a letter authorising
him to employ any of the subjects of England that happened to be
disengaged; and three ruined barons, with damaged reputations, chancing
to be out of work in the neighbourhood of Bristol, were offered terms
by Dermot. This precious trio consisted of two brothers, named Robert
Fitz-Stephen and Maurice Fitz-Gerald, and Richard de Clare, Earl of
Pembroke, surnamed Strongbow, though, as he was greatly addicted to
falsehood, Longbow would have been a more appropriate name for him.
After talking the matter over for some time without any arrangement
being come to, Strongbow cut the matter short by exclaiming, "I'll tell
you what it is. If I'm to fight for your kingdom, I must have it myself
when you have done with it. You must make me your heir, and, as a
security that you will perform your part of the agreement, I must marry
your daughter." Dermot, though rather taken aback by this proposal,
invited Strongbow to a quiet chop, over which the latter's terms were
acceded to; and the ruined baron, feeling that it was "neck or nothing"
with him, succeeded in making it "neck" by the ardour with which he
entered into the contest. Though he set to work in the spring of the
year, his vengeance was truly summary, and in a few months he had
restored everything to Dermot, who happened conveniently to die, and
Strongbow came in for all that he had been fighting for.
Henry having become jealous, Strongbow thought it good policy not to
overshoot the mark, and came to England to offer allegiance. The king at
first refused to see him, and on calling at Newnham, in Gloucestershire,
where Henry was staying, he was kept for some time eating humble-pie
in the passage with the hall-porter. Strongbow having been sufficiently
bent by this treatment, was at length asked to step up, and it was
arranged that he should accompany the king to Ireland, surrender his
possessions, and consent to hold them as the vassal of the English
sovereign.
On his return to England, Henry, who had four sons, began to find "the
boys" exceedingly troublesome. Their mother, once the middleaged, but
now the ancient Eleanor, had grown cross as well as venerable; and being
exceedingly jealous of her husband, encouraged his own sons to worry
him. Her jealousy had become a perfect nuisance; and jealousy is
unfortunately one of those nuisances which never get abated.
A story is told of a certain Fair Rosamond; and, though there is no
doubt of its being a story from beginning to end, it is impossible to
pass it over in an English History. Henry, it is alleged, was enamoured
of a certain Miss Clifford--if she can be called a certain Miss
Clifford, who was really a very doubtful character. She had been the
daughter of a baron on the banks of the Wye, when, without a why or
a wherefore, the king took her away, and transplanted the Flower of
Hereford, as she well deserved to be called, to the Bower of Woodstock.
In this Bower he constructed a labyrinth, something like the maze at
Rosherville; and as there was no man stationed on an elevation in the
centre to direct the sovereign with a pole which way to go, nor exclaim,
"Right, if you please!"
"Straight on!"
"You're right now, sir!"
"Left!"
"Right again!" etc. etc., his majesty had adopted the plan of dragging
one of Rosamond's reels of silk along with him when he left the spot, so
that it formed a guide to him on his way back again.
This tale of the silk is indeed a most precious piece of entanglement;
but it was perhaps necessary for the winding up of the story. While we
cannot receive it as part of the thread of history, we accept it as
a means of accounting for Eleanor having got a clue to the retreat of
Rosamond.
The queen, hearing of the silk, resolved naturally enough to unravel
it. She accordingly started for Woodstock one afternoon, and, suspecting
something wrong, took a large bowl of poison in one hand, and a stout
dagger in the other. Having found Fair Rosamond, she held the poignard
to the heart, and the bowl to the lips of that unfortunate young person,
who, it is said, preferred the black draught to the steel medicine.
[Illustration; 117]
That such a person as Fair Rosamond existed is perfectly true, for she
was buried at Godstow, near Oxford. The sensitive heart, which is ever
anxious to inundate the page of sorrow with a regular Niagara of tears,
is however earnestly requested to turn off the rising supply from the
main of pity, for it is agreed on all hands that the death of Rosamond
was perfectly natural. It has been convenient for the ro-mancists to cut
short her existence by drowning it in the bowl; but truth compels us to
add, that there is no ground for such a conclusion.
Henry devoted the remainder of his life to quarrelling, first with one
of his children, then the other, and every now and then with all of
them. He fully intended to divide his possessions among them; but they
most unreasonably required to be let into possession before the death
of the governor. The eldest ran away to France, and Eleanor had actually
put on male attire, with the intention of abandoning Henry, when,
unfortunately for him, he was silly enough to have her imprisoned
for the purpose of stopping her. "Why didn't you let her go?" was
the frequent exclamation of his intimate friends to the king, and a
melancholy "Ha! I wish I had," was the only reply he was able to make
them.
Finding himself threatened on all sides, and when he had exhausted every
other expedient, he resolved on trying what penitence could do for
him. His conscience no doubt often reminded him of the murder of poor
à Becket, to whose shrine the king determined on making a pilgrimage.
Purchasing some split peas, he put about a pint in each of his
stockings, and started for Canterbury, where he threw himself madly upon
à Becket's tomb, sobbing, yelling and shrieking in the most pitiable
manner. Nor was this enough, for he threw off his robe, and insisted
on receiving the lash from about eighty ecclesiastics. Though they
administered the punishment so lightly that the cat caused only a few
scratches, the peculiar circumstances attending it cause it to stand out
in history as _par excellence_ "the great flogging case."
The ecclesiastical authorities at Canterbury taking advantage of Henry's
softened heart, which seems to have been accompanied by a sad softness
of head, succeeded in extracting from him a promissory note to pay forty
pounds a year for keeping lights constantly burning on the tomb of à
Becket. There can be no doubt that the contract for lighting was taken
cheaply enough by some tradesman of the town, and that the surplus went
into the clerical coffers. Posterity regards with disgust the effrontery
of the monks in making--for the sake of a few dips--such an enormous dip
into the purse of the sovereign.
From this time affairs began to mend; and it would seem that the
whipping his majesty had suffered had whipped his misfortunes completely
out of him. If the king had been an old carpet the beating he received
could not have proved more beneficial than it did, for it seemed to
revive the brighter colours of his existence. He employed the peace he
now enjoyed in carrying out some political reforms, divided England into
six circuits, so that Justice might be brought home to every man's door;
though, like everything else that is brought home to one's door, it must
be paid for--sometimes after a little credit, but sometimes on delivery.
He abolished the criminal tariff, by which it had been allowable for the
rich to commute their offences, according to a certain scale of charges.
Family quarrels unfortunately called him away from these wholesome
pursuits, and his eldest son died of a fever brought on in consequence
of a disagreement with his younger brother, Richard. Prince Henry
expired on the 11th of June, 1183, in the twenty-seventh year of his
age. Such was his remorse, that, according to Roger Hoveden, he insisted
on his attendants tying a rope to his foot and taking him in tow, until
they dragged him out of his bed, in order to deposit him on a bed of
ashes. This particular desire to die in a dusthole was accompanied by a
request for a reconciliation with his father, who sent a ring as a token
of forgiveness, with a message that he hoped the invalid might come,
like the ring, completely round.
On the death of their elder brother, Richard and Geoffrey still
continued to show fight against their father; who at length got so much
the worst of it, that he was obliged to make the best of it by coming
to a compromise. By one of the conditions he was to pardon all the
insurgent barons, and having called for a list of them, found at the
bottom of it the name of his favourite son John. This was too much for
the persecuted parent, who flew into a furious passion, which he vented
in the customary manner of royalty at that period, by pouring out a
volley of execrations with frightful fluency. He jumped on to his bed,
and, falling back upon it, turned round to the wall, exclaiming "Now
then, let everything go---- as it will." Several ministers, priests,
bishops, prelates, and barons were in attendance, under pretence of
receiving his last sigh, but really with the intention of robbing him
of his last shilling, for they rifled his pockets directly life was
extinct.
The reign of Henry, though not very comfortable to himself, was
undoubtedly beneficial to his country. He introduced many improvements
into the law, and was the first to levy a tax on the goods of nobles as
well as commoners, for the service of the state. He died at the Castle
of Chinon, near Saumur, on the 6th of July, 1189, in the fifty-sixth
year of his age. He left behind him a good name, which those who stole
his purse were fortunately not able to filch from him. His wife caused
all the quarrels in his family, showing that a firebrand may grow out of
a very bad match. Eleanor was indeed a female Lucifer, lighting up
the flame of discord between parent and children, until death gave her
husband the benefit of a divorce.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH. RICHARD THE FIRST, SURNAMED COUR DE LION.
[Illustration: 120]
RICHARD having secured the crown began to look after the cash, and
pounced upon an unhappy old man named Stephen, of Tours, who had acted
as treasurer to Henry the Second. The new king, not satisfied with
cashiering the cashier, arrested him and threw him into prison, until
he had given up not only all the late king's money, but had parted with
every penny of his own, which was extracted in the shape of costs from
the unfortunate victim.
Richard, on arriving in England, made for Winchester, where the
sovereigns were in the habit of keeping their plate and jewels, all of
which were turned at once into ready money in order to enable him to
carry on the war, which he was very anxious to do, as a crusader in
Palestine. It would seem that the treasury was regularly emptied at
the commencement of every new reign, and filled again as speedily as
possible by exactions on the people.
The coronation of Richard, which took place on the 3rd of September,
1189, was disgraced by an attack upon the Jews, who came to offer
presents, which were eagerly received; but the donors were kicked out of
Westminster Hall with the most ruthless violence. Nearly all the Jews in
London were savagely murdered, all their houses were burnt and all their
property stolen; when Richard issued a proclamation, in which he stated
that he took them under his gracious protection: an act which would
have been more gracious if it had come before instead of after the
extermination of the ill-used Israelites.
How to go to Palestine was, however, the king's sole care; and to raise
the funds for this trip he sold everything he possessed, as well as a
great deal that rightfully belonged to others. He put up towns, castles,
and fortresses to public auction, knocking down not only the property
itself but those also who offered any remonstrance, or put in any claim
to the goods he was disposing of. Such was his determination to clear
off everything without reserve, that he swore he would put up London
itself if he could find a bidder--an assertion that was very likely to
put up the citizens.
Some of the castles he sold two or three times over, leaving the
purchasers to settle among themselves which should be the possessor
of the property that had been paid for by every one of them. It is
not unlikely that he caused glowing advertisements to be prepared, of
"Little Paradises," standing "in their own fortifications;" and that he
would have described a dead wall with a moat before it as "Elysium on a
small scale," entrenched behind its own battlements. There can be little
doubt that he would also have dilated in glowing terms upon the wealth
of the neighbourhood offering unlimited pillage to an enterprising
purchaser.
Richard's presence-chamber was, according to Sir Francis Palgrave, a
regular market-overt, in which prerogatives and bounties were to be
purchased by any one coming with the money to pay for them. We can fancy
a table laid out with a number of patents of nobility, labelled with a
large ticket, announcing, "All these titles at an enormous sacrifice."
We can imagine a row of velvet robes and coronets hanging up under a
placard inscribed "Dukedoms at a considerable reduction;" while we can
contemplate a quantity of knights' helmets lying in the window, marked
at a very low figure, after the manner of the five thousand straw
bonnets offered to the public by some dashing haberdasher at the
commencement of the spring season.
Richard even went so far as to announce the stock of vacant bishoprics
as "selling off;" and it is not improbable that he may have caused
tasteful arrangements of mitres and lawn sleeves to be arranged in
different parts of the presence-chamber, to tempt the ambition of
ecclesiastical purchasers. He likewise sold his own good-will for
three thousand marks to his half-brother Geoffrey, who had been elected
Archbishop of York; and wherever there was a penny to be turned, Richard
had the knack of turning it.
Having left the regency in the hands of one Hugh Pudsey, the king
repaired to France to meet Philip, who was to be his companion to
Palestine. Their united forces amounted to a hundred thousand men;
but Richard and Philip did not travel together farther than Lyons, and
indeed it was as well they did not, for they were almost continually
quarrelling. Numerous adventures befel Richard on his way; but the most
awkward was his being dunned by the cardinal bishop of Ostia--where he
had put in to repair--for a debt due to the see of Rome, on account of
bulls and other papal articles.
Cour de Lion, instead of discharging the bill, abused and ill-treated
the applicant, and made the best of his way to Naples, before there
was time for ulterior proceedings. He went thence to Sicily, where his
quarrel with Philip was renewed, and the latter demanded an explanation
of Richard's refusal to marry the princess Aliz, the French king's
sister. Cour de Lion, who had really formed another attachment, excused
himself by blackening the character of the lady to whom he had been
engaged, and her chivalrous brother agreed to take two thousand marks
a year, as a compromise for the breach of promise of marriage which
Richard had committed. "Such," exclaims Hume--and well he may--"were the
heroes of this pious enterprise."
The Princess Aliz or Alice, having been regularly thrown overboard by
the bargain between her own brother ana her late lover, the latter was
at liberty to follow his inclination by marrying Berengaria, daughter
of the king of Navarre, with whom he had had a flirtation as early as
during his residence at Guienne. Taking with him his latest affianced,
he set sail for Palestine; but his ship being cast ashore at Cyprus, and
plundered by the natives, he waited to chastise the people, and imprison
an elderly person named Isaac, who called himself the emperor. He then
ran off with the old man's only daughter, in addition to the princess of
Navarre, whom he had the coolness to marry on the very spot from which
he had seized this new addition to the female part of his establishment.
The only reparation offered to the father was a set of silver fetters to
wear instead of the common iron he had at first been thrown into.
Richard at length arrived in Palestine, and was not long in getting to
work against the forces of Saladin, who, leading forth his battalions,
mounted on their real Jerusalem ponies, proved exceedingly harassing.
[Illustration: 122]
Among the events of the crusade undertaken for the promotion of
Christianity, on the side of the Lion Heart, his beheading of five
thousand Turkish prisoners stands conspicuous. This act of barbarity
arose out of some misunderstanding on the subject of a truce, and
Saladin, by way of making matters square, slaughtered about an equal
number of captive Christians. Such were the heroic defenders of the
Cross on one side and the Crescent on the other. It is generally a libel
to compare a human being to a brute, but in giving the title of Lion
Heart to Richard, the noble beast is the party scandalised.
It is surprising that the British lion has never cited this as one of
his numerous grievances, for he would certainly have a capital action
for defamation if he were to sue by his next friend or _in forma
pauperis_ for this malicious imputation on his noble character.
On the 7th of September, 1191, the two chiefs came to a general
engagement, near Azotus, about nine miles from Ascalon. Richard's
prowess was tremendous; but, after himself, the most striking object was
his battle-axe. This wondrous weapon had been forged in England by the
very best Smiths, and there were twenty pounds of steel in the head,
formed into a tremendous nob, which fell with fearful force on the nobs
of his enemies. His battle-axe divided with him the attention of all
beholders, and he divided the turbans of the foe with his battle-axe.
The weapons of the Crusaders were certainly better adapted for havoc
than those of the Saracens, who seem to have fought with an instrument
less calculated for milling men than for milling chocolate. The armour
of the knights was also more effective than that of their adversaries;
for while the former had their heads comfortably secured in articles
made on the principle of rushlight shades, with holes for seeing and
breathing through, the partisans of the Crescent wore little more upon
their heads than might have been supplied by the folding of a sheet or
tablecloth into the form of a turban. The result was that Baladin was
compelled to fly, with a loss of seven thousand men and thirty-two
emirs, which so diminished his stock of officers that he was almost
reduced, according to an old chronicler, to his very last emir-gency.
Richard went on to Jaffa, where he was delayed by an artful proposition
to negotiate until the rainy weather set in; and he had to start off
during November, in the midst of incessant showers. The Crusaders got
regularly soaked; and being caught in the middle of the plain of Sharon
with no place, not even a doorway, they could stand up under, they tried
to pitch a tent, which was instantly pitched down by the fury of the
elements. Their arms became perfectly rusty, and their horses, not
liking the wet, got rusty also. Their provisions were all turned into
water _souchet_, and indeed the spirit of the Crusaders became weakened
by excessive dilution in the pelting showers.
The energies of Richard and his companions were of course considerably
damped; but a positive inundation would scarcely have quenched the fire
of chivalry. Cour de Lion retreated to Ascalon, the fortifications of
which he found had been dismantled; but he worked to restore them like
a common mason, mixing mortar on his shield for want of a hod, and using
his axe as a substitute for a trowel. All the men of rank followed his
example, except the Duke of Austria, who declared that he had not been
brought up to it; upon which Cour de Lion kicked him literally through
the breach in the fortification he had refused to repair, and turned him
out of the town with all his vassals.
After a most uncomfortable sojourn in Palestine, Richard opened a
negotiation with Saladin; and the ardour of both having been rather
cooled, a truce was concluded. It was to last three years, three months,
three weeks, and three days, the discussion on the subject occupying
about three hours, the writing out the agreement three minutes, and the
signing three seconds.
Taking advantage of the truce, Richard quitted Palestine for England;
but sending the ladies home in a ship, he started to walk in the
disguise of a pilgrim by way of Germany. Though his costume was humble
his expenditure was lavish; and having sent a boy into the market-place
of Vienna to buy some provisions, the splendid livery of the page, and
his abundance of cash, excited suspicion as to the rank of his master.
The secret of the Lion Heart was kept for some time by the faithful
tiger, but he was at length forced into a confession, and Richard was
arrested on the 20th of December, 1193, by the very Duke of Austria whom
he had some time before kicked unceremoniously out of Ascalon.
The Emperor Henry the Sixth claimed the royal captive as a prize, and
Richard was locked up in a German dungeon with German shutters, and fed
alternately on German rolls and German sausages, while his enemies were
doing their worst at home and abroad to deprive him of his sovereignty.
[Illustration: 126]
There is a legend attached to the incident of Richard's captivity:
which has the slight disadvantage of being altogether fabulous, and
We therefore insert it--under protest--in the pages of our faithful
history. The story runs that the Lion Heart, who was fond of music, and
had a tolerable voice, used to amuse himself and his gaolers by singing
some of the most popular ballads of the period. It happened that
Blondel, one of his favourite minstrels, of whom he had probably taken
lessons in happier hours, was on an ambulatory tour, for professional
purposes, when he chanced to tune his clarionet and clear his throat,
with the intention of "striking up" under the walls of Richard's prison.
At that moment the Lion Heart had just been called upon for a song,
and his voice issued in a large octavo volume from the window of his
dungeon. The tones seemed familiar to the minstrel, but when there came
a tremendous trill on the low G, followed by a succession of roulades
on A flat, with an abrupt modulation from the minor to the major key,
Professor Blondel instantly recognised the voice of his royal pupil. The
wandering minstrel, without waiting for the song to terminate, broke out
into a magnificent _sol fa_, and the king at once remembering the style
of his old master, responded by going through some exercises for the
voice which he had been in the habit of practising. Blondel having
ascertained the place of his sovereign's confinement, had the prudence
to "copy the address," and went away, determining to do his utmost for
the release of Richard. "I wish," thought the professor, as he retired
from the spot, "that those iron bars were bars of music, for then I
could show him how they are to be got through; or would that any of the
keys of which I am master would unlock the door of his prison!" With
these two melancholy puns, induced by the sadness of his reflections,
Blondel hastened from the spot, and repaired to England with tidings of
the missing monarch.
Such is the romantic little story that is told by those greatest of
story-tellers, the writers of history.
Richard was at length brought up for examination before the Diet of
Worms; and though several charges were alleged against him, he pleaded
his own cause with so much address, that he was discharged on payment
of a fine of one hundred and fifty thousand marks, being about three
hundred thousand pounds of our money. He at once put down thirteen
and fourpence in the pound, giving good bills and hostages for the
remainder; but the amount was soon raised by taxes and voluntary
contributions from the English people. Churches melted down their plate,
people born with silver spoons in their mouths came forward with zeal,
whether the article happened to be a gravy, a table, a dessert, or a
tea; and the requisite sum was raised to release him from captivity. He
arrived in England on the 20th of March, 1194, and was enthusiastically
welcomed home, where he got up another coronation of himself, by way of
furnishing an outlet for the overflowing loyalty of the people. As if
desirous of taming it down a little, he made some heavy demands upon
their pockets; but nothing seemed capable of damping the ardour of the
nation, which appeared ready to give all it possessed in change for this
single sovereign.
About the middle of May, 1194, Richard revisited Barfleur, with the
intention of chastising his brother John--who had shown symptoms of
usurpation in his absence--and the French king, Philip. John, like a
coward, flew to his mamma--the venerable Eleanor--requesting her to
intercede for him. The old lady wrote a curt epistle, consisting of
the words, "Dear Dick--Forgive Jack. Yours ever, Nell;" and John having
fallen at the feet of Richard, was contemptuously kicked aside with
a free pardon. Against the French king, however, several battles were
fought, with fluctuating success, though Richard's fortunes now and then
received a fillip which caused Philip to get the worst of it. A truce
was concluded on the 23rd of July, 1194, but London beginning to rebel,
cut out fresh work for Lion Heart. The discontented cockneys had for
their leader one William Fitz-Osbert, commonly called Longbeard, who
complained of the citizens having been so closely shaved by taxation;
and Longbeard even dared to beard the sovereign himself, by going to
the Continent to remonstrate with Richard. The patriot made one of those
clap-trap speeches (or which mob-orators have in all ages been famous),
and demanded for the poor that general consideration which really
amounts to nothing particular. Richard promised that the matter should
be looked into, but nothing was done--except the people and their
advocate. In the year 1196 Longbeard originated the practice of forming
political associations, and got together no less than fifty-two thousand
members, who swore to stand by him as the advocate and saviour of the
poor; an oath which ended in heir literally standing by him and seeing
him savagely butchered by his enemies. He was taking a quiet walk with
only nine adherents, when he was dodged by a couple of citizens, who had
been watching him for several days, and who pretended to be enjoying a
stroll, until they got near enough to enable them to seize the throat
of Longbeard. This movement instantly raised his choler, and drawing his
knife, he succeeded in cutting completely away. He sought refuge in the
church of St. Mary of Arches, which he barricaded for four days, but he
was at last taken, stabbed, dragged at a horse's tail to the Tower, and
forwarded by the same conveyance to Smithfield, where he was hanged on
a gibbet, with the nine unfortunates who had been the companions of
his promenade. The mob, who had stood by him while he was thus cruelly
treated, pretended to look upon him as a martyr directly he was dead.
This, however, seems to have been the result of interested motives, for
they stole the gibbet, and cut it up into relics, which were sold at
most exorbitant prices; so that, by making a saint of him, they gave a
value to the gallows which they purloined. It is possible that they were
not particular as to the genuineness of the article, so long as there
was any demand for little bits of Longbeard's gibbet.
Richard was now engaged in almost continual quarrels with Philip, which
were only suspended by occasional want of money to pay the respective
barons, who always struck, or rather, refused to strike at all, when
they could not get their wages. In the year 1198, hostilities were
renewed with great vigour, and a battle was fought near Gisors, where
Philip was nearly drowned by the breaking of a bridge, in consequence
of the enormous weight of the fugitives. In his bulletin, Richard
insultingly alluded to the quantity of the river the French king had
been compelled to drink, and hinted, that as he was full of water it was
quite fair to make a butt of him.
This was Cour de Lion's "positively last appearance" in any combat.
A truce was concluded, and Richard quitted Normandy for the Limousin,
where it was said in one of the popular ballads of the day, that the
point of the arrow was being forged for the death of the tyrant. Many
dispute the point, and believe the story to be forged; but certain it
is, that Henry, the father of Richard, had frequently been shot at by
an arrow, and had had, according to a lame pun of the period, many
a-n-arrow escape from the hands of his secret enemies. According to the
usual version of Cour de Lion's death, it seems that he went with an
armed force to demand of Vidomar, Viscount of Limoges, a treasure, said
to have been found in the domains of the latter. The viscount claimed
halves, which Richard refused, and with a loud cry of "All or none,"
threatened to hang every man of the garrison. The king was surveying
the walls to ascertain an eligible place for the assault, and had just
raised his eyes, exclaiming--"Here's a weak point," when the point of an
arrow came whizzing along and stuck in his left shoulder. Richard making
some passing allusion to this novel mode of shouldering arms, took
little notice of the wound, but went on with the assault, and soon
seized the Castle.
The business of the the day being concluded, he sent for a surgeon, who
took out the point of the arrow somewhat clumsily, causing Richard to
remark, in allusion to the bungling manner in which the operation had
been performed, that it could not be called a very elegant "extract."
The wound, though slight, became worse from ill-treatment; and the king,
feeling that there were no hopes of his recovery, would only reply to
the encouraging remarks of his attendants by pointing mournfully yet
significantly over his left shoulder.
[Illustration: 129]
It is said that he sent for Bertrand de Gourdon, the youth that
inflicted the wound, and let him off for letting off the bow; but it
is impossible to say what truth there is in this anecdote. The MS.
chronicle of Winchester says that Richard's sister Joan expressed a
truly female wish to have the prisoner given to her, that she might
"tear his eyes out," and that she literally put in force this threat
which so many women are heard to make, but which not one of the sex was
ever known to execute.
Richard died on Tuesday, the 6th of April, 1199, after a reign of ten
years, not one of which had been passed in England, for he had led the
life of a royal vagabond. He died at forty-two, and it is a remarkable
fact, says one of the chroniclers--whom for the sake of his reputation
we will not name--that, though Richard lived to be forty-two, forti-tude
was the only virtue he had ever exhibited. He loved the name of Lion
Heart, and he certainly deserved a title that indicated his possession
of brutish qualities. The British lion might, in justice to his own
character, repudiate all connection with this contemptible Cour de Lion,
who had at least as much cruelty as courage, and who had murdered many
more in cold blood when prisoners than he had ever killed on the field
of battle. His slaughter of the three thousand Saracen captives must be
regarded as a proof, that, whatever of the lion he might have, had in
his disposition, he had not much of the heart. This, however, such as it
was, he never gave to England in his lifetime, and he left it to Rouen
at his death, being certainly the very smallest and most valueless
legacy he could possibly have bequeathed.
[Illustration: 130]
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. JOHN, SURNAMED SANSTERRE, OR LACKLAND.
[Illustration: 131]
JOHN, who was in Normandy when Richard died, made every effort to secure
that gang of humbugs, the mercenaries, by sending over to offer them
an increase of salary, with the view of preventing them from taking
engagements in the cause of his nephew, Arthur, the child of his elder
brother, Geoffrey. Hubert Walter, the Archbishop of Canterbury, was
despatched to England, to obtain the services of the barons by the usual
means; and John himself repaired to Chinon, to ransack the castle where
Richard had kept his treasures. Having chastised a few citizens for
supporting Arthur, he repaired to Rouen, where on Sunday, the 25th of
April, 1199, he was bedizened with the sword and coronal of the duchy.
The English were not much disposed to favour the claims of John, but
Archbishop Hubert purchased a few oaths of allegiance from the barons
and prelates, who for the usual consideration were always ready to swear
fealty to anyone.
John landed at Shoreham on the 25th of May, and on the 27th he knocked
at the church door of St. Peter's, Westminster, to claim the crown. He
seems to have encountered a tolerably numerous congregation, whom he
endeavoured to convince by pulling out of his pocket an alleged will
made in his favour by his brother Richard, and some other documents,
which, backed by a speech from Archbishop Hubert, set everybody shouting
"Long live the king!"
Poor little Arthur was completely overlooked in this arrangement, for
he had scarcely anyone to take his part but a noisy scolding mother,
who bore the name of Constance, probably on account of her shameful
inconstancy. She had married a third husband while her second was still
living; and it is even said that she contemplated adding trigamy to
bigamy, for which purpose she sent her son to be out of the way at
Paris, with Philip, the French king. The poor child had his interests
fearfully sacrificed on all sides, for a treaty was agreed upon between
John and Philip, according to which there would be nothing at all left
for the unfortunate boy when the two sovereigns had helped themselves to
their respective shares of the booty.
In the summer of the year 1200, John made a royal progress into France
where he evinced a familiar and festive humour, which made him a
favourite with a few of the "jolly dogs," but did not win the respect of
the more sober classes of the community. He did not at all improve upon
acquaintance; and he completed his unpopularity by running away with
Isabella, the wife of the Count of La Marche, whom he married and
brought to England, in spite of his having already a wife at home,
and the lady's having also a husband abroad. A second coronation was
performed in honour of his second marriage; but he seems to have soon
got tired of his new match, for he marched into Aquitaine without his
wife, under the pretence that he had business to attend to, but he
really did no business at all. Little did he anticipate when he started
_en garçon_ on his tour, that the historian nearly seven centuries
afterwards would be recording the manner in which he passed his time,
and proving the hollowness of the excuse for leaving his wife behind him
when he took his trip to Aquitaine.
[Illustration: 133]
Young Arthur, who was but fifteen years of age, was advised by Philip
(a.d. 1202) to try his hand in a military expedition. "You know your
rights," said Philip to the youth, "and would you not be a king?"
"Oh! wouldn't I, just?" was the boy-like reply, and the French king
counting off two hundred knights, as if they were so many bundles of
wood, handed them over to the prince, telling him to go and make an
attack upon some of the provinces. Arthur was recommended to march
against Mirabeau, the residence of his grandmother, Eleanor, a violent
old lady who had always been unfavourable to his claims. Arthur took the
town, but not his grandmother, who, on hearing of the lad's intentions,
exclaimed, "Hoity toity! would the urchin teach his grandmother to suck
eggs, I wonder?"
"No, but I would teach my grandmother to sue cumb," was the dignified
reply of the prince, when the message of his venerable relative was
brought to him. The sturdy old female, who was rather corpulent, made,
literally, a stout resistance, having thrown herself into a strong
tower, which set rather tight upon her, like a corsage, and in this
position she for some time defied the assaults of the enemy. Encased in
this substantial breastwork, she awaited the threatened lacing at
the hands of her grandson, when John came to her rescue. In the night
between the 31st of July and the 1st of August, he took the town,
dragged Arthur out of his bed, as well as some two hundred nobles who
were "hanging out" at the different lodgings in the city. After cruelly
beating them, he literally loaded them with irons, giving them cuffs
first, and hand-cuffs immediately afterwards. Twenty-two noblemen were
thrown into the damp dungeons of Corfe Castle, where they caught severe
colds, of which they soon died, and they were buried under the walls
of Corfe without coffins. * Young Arthur's tragical end has been the
subject of various conjectures. Several historians have tried their
hands at an interesting version of the young prince's death, but
Shakspeare has given the most effective, and not the least probable,
account of the fate of Arthur. The monks of Margan believe that John,
in a fit of intoxication, slew his nephew; but we have no proof that
Lackland was often in that disgraceful state, which in these days would
have rendered him liable to the loss of a crown--in the shape of the
five-shilling fine for drunkenness.
* Matthew Paris. It is to be regretted that the statement of
a fact sometimes involves the necessity for a pun, as in the
present instance. The faithful historian has, however, on
such an occasion, no alternative. Fidelity must not be
sacrificed even to a desire for solemnity.
Ralph, the abbot of Coggeshall, who agrees with Shakspeare in many
particulars, says that Arthur had been removed to Rouen, where his uncle
called for him on the night of the 3rd of April, 1203, in a boat, to
take a row on the river. It being time for all good little children to
be in bed and asleep, Arthur was both at the moment of the avuncular
visit. Boy-like, he made no objection to the absurd and ill-timed
excursion, for it is a curious fact, that infants are always ready
to get up at the most unseasonable hours, if anything in the shape of
pleasure is proposed to them. Arthur was soon in the boat for a row up
the Seine with his uncle John and Peter de Maulac, Esquire, one of the
unprincipled "men about town" at that disreputable period.
They had not proceeded far when either John or Mr. de Maulao seized the
boy, as if he were so much superfluous ballast, and cruelly pitched
him overboard. Some say that the squire was the sole executioner, while
others hint that he turned squeamish at the last moment, and left the
disgraceful business to John; but they doubtless shared the guilt, as
they were both rowing in the same boat, and were in point of private
character "much of a muchness." Shak-speare, as everybody knows, makes
the young prince meet his death more than half-way by leaping on to the
stones below his prison window, with a hope that they might prove softer
than the heart of his uncle. It is not improbable that a child so young
may have been foolish enough to jump to such a conclusion.
The rumour of the murder naturally occasioned the greatest excitement;
and if we are to believe the immortal bard, five moons came mooning out
upon the occasion, which may account for the moonstruck condition of the
populace.
The Britons, amongst whom Arthur had been educated, were furious at the
murder of their youthful prince, whose eldest sister, Eleanor, was in
the hands of her uncle John. This lady was called by some, the Pearl of
Brittany; but if she was really a gem, she must have been an antique,
for she spent forty years of her life in captivity. The Britons,
therefore, rallied round a younger heroine, her half-sister, Alice, and
appointed her father, Guy de Thouars, the regent and general of their
confederacy. De Thouars was a Guy only in name, for he was extremely
handsome, and had attracted the attention of the lady Constance,
whose third and last husband he had become. Guy went as the head of a
deputation to the French king, who summoned John to a trial; but that
individual instead of attending the summons, allowed judgment to go by
default, and was sentenced to a forfeiture of his dominions.
John for some time treated the steps taken against him with contempt,
and remained at Rouen, until he thought it advisable to go over to
England, to prepare for his defence by collecting money, for it was
always by sucking dry the public purse, that tyrants in those days were
accustomed to look for succour.
It was by his efforts to extract cash from his people that he excited
among his nobles the discontent which has rendered the discontented
barons of his reign, _par excellence, the_ discontented barons of
English history. He continued to mulct them every day, and his reign was
a long game of forfeits, in which the barons were always the sufferers.
Still they refused to quit the country for the defence of their tyrant's
foreign possessions.
By dint of threats and bribery he at last contrived (a.d. 1206) to land
an army at Rochelle, and a contest was about to commence, when John
proposed a parley. Without waiting for the answer, he ran away, leaving
a notice on the door of his tent, stating that he had gone to England,
and would return immediately, which, in accordance with the modern
"chamber-practice," was equivalent to an announcement that he had no
intention of coming back again.
John, who could agree with nobody, now began to quarrel with the pope by
starting a candidate for the see of Canterbury, in opposition to Stephen
Langton, the nominee of old Innocent. His holiness desired three English
bishops to go and remonstrate with the king, who flew into a violent
passion, and used the coarsest language, winding up with a threat to
"cut off their noses," which caused the venerable deputation to "cut
off" themselves with prompt King John threatens to cut off the Noses of
the Bishops.
The bishops, however, soon recovered from the effects of their
ill-treatment, and determined by the aid of the people to punish with
papal bulls the royal bully.
[Illustration: 135]
On Monday, the 23rd of March, 1208, they pronounced an interdict
against all John's dominions; but, like children setting fire to a
train of gunpowder and running away, the bishops quitted the kingdom, as
if afraid of the result of their own boldness. This was soon followed by
a bull of excommunication against John, but the wary tyrant, by watching
the ports, prevented the entrance of this bull, which would have made it
a mere toss up whether he could keep possession of his throne.
John employed the year 1210 in raising money, by stealing it wherever he
could lay his hands upon it; for, says the chronicler, "as long as there
was a sum he could bone, he thought it the _summum bonum_ to get hold
of it." With the cash he had collected he repaired to Ireland, and
at Dublin was joined by twenty robust chieftains, who might have been
called the Dublin stout of the thirteenth century. Returning to England
in three months with an empty pocket, he became alarmed at hearing of a
conspiracy among his barons. He shut himself up for fifteen days in the
castle of Nottingham, seeing no one but the servants, and not permitting
the door to be opened even to take in the milk, lest the cream of the
British nobility should flow in with it.
At length, in the year 1213, Innocent hurled his last thunderbolt at
John's head, with the intention of knocking off his crown. The pope
pronounced the deposition of the English king, and declared the throne
open to competition, with a hint to Philip of France that he might find
it an eligible investment. He prepared a fleet of seventeen hundred
vessels at Boulogne, but some of the vessels must have been little
bigger than butter-boats if seventeen hundred of them were crammed into
this insignificant harbour. John, by a desperate effort, got together
sixty thousand men, but they were by no means staunch, and he was
as much afraid of his own troops as of those belonging to the enemy.
Pandulph, the pope's legate, knowing his character, came to Dover, and
frightened him by fearful pictures of the enemy's strength, while Peter
the Hermit, * who was rather more plague than prophet, bored the tyrant
with predictions of his death. John, who was exceedingly superstitious,
was so worked upon by his fears that he agreed to Pandulph's terms, and
on the 15th of May, 1213, he signed a sort of cognovit, acknowledging
himself the vassal of the pope, and agreeing to pay a thousand marks a
year, in token of which he set his own mark at the end of the document.
* Some writers have called Peter the Hermit a hare-brained
recluse As his head was closely shaved the epithet "hair-
brained" seems to have been sadly misapplied.
He next offered Pandulph something for his trouble, but the legate
raising his leg, trampled the money under his foot. The next day was
that on which Peter the Hermit had prophesied that John would die, and
the tyrant remained from morning till night watching the clock with
intense anxiety. Finding himself alive at bedtime, he grew furious
against Peter for having caused him so much needless alarm, and the
Hermit was hanged for the want of foresight he had exhibited. He died,
exclaiming that the king should have been grateful that the prediction
had not been fulfilled; "but," added he, as he placed his head through
the fatal noose, "some folks are never satisfied." The French king was
exceedingly disgusted at the shabby treatment he had received; but
Philip expended his rage in a few philippics against Pandulph, who
merely expressed his regret, and added peremptorily, that England being
now under the dominion of the pope, must henceforth be let alone. Philip
alluded to the money he was out of pocket, but the nuncio politely
observing that he was not happy at questions of account, withdrew while
repeating his prohibition.
John, who had so lately eaten humble pie, soon began to regard his
promises as the pie-crust, which he commenced breaking very rapidly.
Wishing, however, to carry the war into France, he required the services
of his barons, who were very reluctant to aid him, and he had got as far
as Jersey, when happening to look behind him, he perceived that he had
scarcely any followers. He had started with a tolerable number, but they
turned back sulkily by degrees, without his being aware of it until
he arrived at Jersey, when he was preparing to turn himself round, and
perceived that his _suite_ had dwindled down to a few mercenaries, who
hung on to his skirts merely for the sake of what he had got in his
pockets. Becoming exceedingly angry, he wheeled suddenly back, and
vented his spite in burning and ravaging everything that crossed his
path. He was in a flaming passion, for he set fire to all the buildings
on the road till he reached Northampton, where Langton overtook him,
and taxed him with the violation of his oath. "Mind your own business,"
roared the king, "and leave me to manage mine;" but Langton would not
take an answer of that kind, and stuck to him all the way to Nottingham,
where the prelate, according to his own quaint phraseology, "went at
him again" with more success than formerly. John issued summonses to the
barons, and Langton hastened to see them in London, where he drew up a
strong affidavit by which they all swore to be true to each other, and
to their liberties.
John was still apprehensive of the hostility of the pope, which might
have been fatal at this juncture, had not Cardinal Nicholas arrived in
the nick of time, namely, on the 12th of September, 1213, to take
off the interdict. The court of Rome thus executed a sort of
_chassez-croisez_, by going over to the side of John, but Langton did
not desert his old partner, liberty. In the following year the English
king was defeated at the battle of Bouvines, one of the most tremendous
affrays recorded in history. Salisbury, surnamed Longsword, was captured
by that early specimen of the church militant, the Bishop of Beauvais,
who, because it was contrary to the canons of the Church for him to shed
blood, fought with a ponderous club, by which he knocked the enemy on
the head, and acquired the name of the stunning bishop. He banged about
him in such style, that he might have been eligible for the see of
Bangor, had his ambition pointed in that direction. John obtained a
truce; but the discontented barons had already placed a rod in pickle
for him, and on the 20th day of November, they held a crowded meeting at
St. Edmund's Bury, which was adjourned until Christmas. At that festive
season, John found himself eating his roast beef entirely alone, for
nobody called to wish him joy, or partake his pudding.
[Illustration: 138]
After dining by himself, at Worcester, he started for London, making
sure of a little-gaiety at boxing-time, in the great metropolis.
Nobody, however, took the slightest notice of him until one day the
whole of the barons came to him in a body, to pay him a morning visit.
Surprised at the largeness of the party, he was somewhat cool, but on
hearing that they had come for liberty, he declared that he would not
allow any liberty to be taken while he continued king of England. The
party remained firm with one or two exceptions, when John began to
shiver as if attacked with ague, and he went on blowing hot and cold
as long as he could, until pressed by the barons for an answer to their
petition. He then replied evasively, "Why--yes--no; let me see--ha!
exactly--stop! Well, I don't know, perhaps so--'pon honour;" and
ultimately obtained time until Easter, to consider the proposals that
were made to him. The confederated barons had no sooner got outside the
street-door than John began to think over the means of circumventing
them. As they separated on the threshold, to go to their respective
homes, it was evident from the gestures and countenances of the group
that there had been a difference of opinion as to the policy of granting
John the time he had requested. A bishop and two barons, who had turned
recreants at the interview, and receded from their claims, were of
course severely bullied by the rest of the confederates, on quitting
the royal presence. At length the day arrived, in Easter week, when the
barons were to go for an answer to the little Bill--of Rights--which
they had left with John at the preceding Christmas. They met at
Stamford, where they got up a grand military spectacle, including two
thousand knights and an enormous troop of auxiliaries. The king, who
was at Oxford, sent off Cardinal Langton, with the Earls of Pembroke and
Warrenne, as a deputation, who soon returned with a schedule of terrific
length, containing a catalogue of grievances, which the barons declared
they would have remedied.
[Illustration: 139]
John flew into one of his usual passions, tearing his long hair, and
rapidly pacing his chamber with the skirt of his robe thrown over his
left arm, while, with his right hand, he shook his fist at vacancy. The
deputation could merely observe calmly, "We have done our part of the
business: that is what the barons want;" and a roll of parchment was
instantly allowed to run out to its full length at the foot of the
enraged sovereign. John took up the document and pretended to inspect
it with much minuteness, muttering to himself, "No, I don't see it
down," upon which Langton asked the sovereign what he was looking for.
"I was searching," sarcastically roared the tyrant, "for the crown,
which I fully expected to find scheduled as one of the items I am called
upon to surrender." This led to some desultory conversation, in the
course of which the king made some evasive offers, which the barons
would not accept, and the latter, appointing Robert Fitz-Walter as their
general, at once commenced hostilities.
They first marched upon the castle of Northampton, but when they got
under the walls they discovered that they had got no battering-rams, and
after sitting looking at the castle for fifteen days, they marched off
again. At Bedford, where they went next, the same farce might have been
enacted, had not the inhabitants opened the gates for them. Here they
received an invitation from London, and stopping to rest for the night
at Ware--on account, perhaps, of the accommodation afforded by the Great
Bed--they arrived on Sunday, the 24th of May, 1215, in the City. Here
they were joined by the whole nobility of England, while John was
abandoned by all but seven knights, who remained near his person, the
seven knights forming a weak protection, to the sovereign. His heart
at first failed him, but he was a capital actor, and soon assumed a sort
of easy cheerfulness. He presented his compliments to the barons, and
assured them he should be most happy to meet them, if they would appoint
a time and place for an interview. The barons instantly fixed the 19th
of June at Runny-Mead, when John intimated that he should have much
pleasure in accepting the polite invitation.
At length the eventful morning arrived, when John cantered quietly down
from Windsor Castle, attended by eight bishops and a party of about
twenty gentlemen. These, however, were not his friends, but had been
lent by the other side, "for the look of the thing," lest the king
should seem to be wholly without attendants. The barons, who had been
stopping at Staines, were of course punctual, and had got the pen and
ink all laid out upon the table, with a Windsor chair brought expressly
from the town of Windsor for John to sit down upon. It had been expected
that he would have raised some futile objections to sign; but the crafty
sovereign, knowing it was a _sine qua non_, made but one plunge into the
inkstand, and affixed his autograph. It is said that he dropped a dip of
ink accidentally on the parchment, and that he mentally ejaculated "Ha!
this affair will be a blot upon my name for ever." The facility with
which the king attached his signature to Magna Charta--the great charter
of England's liberties--naturally excited suspicion; for it is a remark
founded on a long acquaintance with human nature, that the man who never
means to take up a bill is always foremost in accepting one. Had John
contemplated adhering to the provisions of the document he would have
probably discussed the various clauses, but a swindler seldom disputes
the items of an account, when he has not the remotest intention of
paying it.
Though Magna Charta has been practically superseded by subsequent
statutes, it must always be venerated as one of the great foundations
of our liberties. It established the "beautiful principle" that taxation
shall only take place by the consent of those taxed--a principle the
beauty of which has been its chief advantage, for it has proved less an
article for use than for ornament. The agreeable figure that everyone
who pays a tax does so with his own full concurrence, and simply because
he likes it, is a pleasing delusion, which all have not the happiness to
labour under. It was also provided that "the king should sell, delay,
or deny justice to none," a condition that can scarcely be considered
fulfilled when we look at some of the bills of costs that generally
follow a long suit in that game of chance which has obtained the
singularly appropriate title of Chancery. It may be perhaps argued, that
the article delayed and sold is law, whereas Magna Charta alludes
only to Justice. This, we must admit, establishes a distinction--_not_
without a difference.
Though John had kept his temper tolerably well at the meeting with the
barons, he had no sooner got back to Windsor Castle, than he called
a few foreign adventurers around him, and indulged in a good hearty
swearing fit against the charter. He grew so frantic, according to the
chroniclers, that he "gnashed his teeth, rolled his eyes, and gnawed
sticks and straws," though he could scarcely have done all this without
sending for the umbrella-stand, and having a good bite at its contents,
or ordering in a few wisps from the stable.
That John was exceedingly mad with the barons for what they had made him
do, is perfectly true, but we do not go the length of those who look
upon a truss of straw as essential to a person labouring under mental
aberration.
John now went to reside in the Isle of Wight, and tried to captivate the
fishermen by adopting their manners. There is nothing very captivating
in the manners of the fishermen of the Isle of Wight at the present day,
whatever may have been the case formerly; but it is probable that the
king became popular by a sort of hail-fellow-well-met-ishness, to which
his dreadful habit of swearing no doubt greatly contributed. Having
imported a lot of mercenaries from the Continent, he posted off to
Dover to land the disgraceful cargo, and with them he marched against
Rochester Castle, which had been seized by William D'Albiney. The
larder was wretchedly low when D'Albiney first took possession, and
the garrison was soon reduced to its last mouthful of provisions. This
consisted of a piece of rind of cheese, which everybody had refused
in daintier days, when provisions were plentiful. D'Albiney bolted
the morsel and unbolted the gate nearly at the same moment, when John,
rushing in, butchered all the supernumeraries and sent the principal
characters to Corfe Castle.
John, who always grew bold when there was no opposition, committed all
sorts of atrocities upon places without defence, and the barons shut up
in Lincoln, held numerous meetings, which terminated in a resolution
to offer the crown to Louis, the son of Philip of France, provided the
young gentleman and his papa would come over and fight for it. Louis
left Calais with six hundred and eighty vessels, but he had a terribly
bad passage across to Sandwich, where the "flats," as usual, permitted
the landing of an enemy. John, who had run round to Dover with a
numerous army, fled before the French landed, and committed arson on
an extensive scale all over the country. Every night was a "night wi'
Burns," and the royal incendiary seems to have put himself under the
especial protection of Blaise, as the only saint with whom the tyrant
felt the smallest sympathy. John ultimately put up at Bristol, and the
neighbourhood of Bath seems to have quenched for a time his flaming
impetuosity.
Louis having besieged Rochester Castle, which seems in those days to
have been very like a copy of the _Times_ newspaper, which some one
was always anxious to take directly it was out of hand, marched on to
London. He arrived there on the 2nd of June, 1216, where he was received
with that enthusiasm which the hospitable cockneys have ever been ready
to bestow on foreigners of distinction. Nearly all the few followers
that had hitherto adhered to John now abandoned him, and he was left
almost alone with Gualo, the pope's legate, who did all he could to
revive the drooping spirits of the tyrant. Vainly however did Gualo slap
the sovereign on the back, inviting him to "cheer up," and ply him with
cider, his favourite beverage. "Come! drown it in the bowl," was the
constant cry of Gualo. "Talk not of bowls," was the reply of John; "what
is life but a game at bowls, in which the king is too frequently knocked
over?"
Louis, in the meantime, growing arrogant with success, commenced
insulting, the English and granting their property to his foreign
followers. The barons began to think they had made a false step with
reference to their own country by allowing the French prince to put
his foot in it. This for a moment brightened the prospects of John, who
started off and went blazing away as far as Lynn, where he had got a
_dépôt_ of provisions, and of course a change of linen. Hence he made
for Wisbeach, and put up at a place called the "Cross Keys," intending
to cross the Wash, which is a very passable place at low water.
John was nearly across when he heard the tide beginning to roar with
fearful fury. Knowing that tide and time wait for no man, he felt he
was tied to time, and hurried to the opposite shore with tremendous
rapidity. He succeeded in reaching land; but his horses, with his plate,
linen, and money were not so fortunate, for he had the mortification of
seeing all his clothes lost in the Wash, and the utter sinking of the
whole of his capital.
Venting his sorrow in cursory remarks and discursive curses, he went
on to Swineshead Abbey, where he passed the night in eating peaches
and pears, and drinking new cider. * The cider of course added to the
fermentation that was going on in his fevered frame; and even without
the peaches and pears, the efforts of his physicians might have proved
fruitless. He went to bed, but could not sleep, for his conscience
continued to impeach him in a series of frightful dreams, to which the
peaches no doubt contributed. He nevertheless made an effort to get up
the next morning, and mounted his horse on the 15th of October; but he
was too ill to keep his seat, and his attendants, putting him into a
horse-box, got him as far as Sleaford. Here he passed another shocking
night, but the next day they again moved him into the horse-box, and
dragged him to Newark, where he requested that a confessor might be
sent for. The abbot of Crocton, who was a doctor as well as a divine,
immediately attended, and this leech was employed in drawing a
confession from the lips of the tyrant. He named his eldest son, Henry,
his successor, and dictated a begging-letter to the new pope, imploring
protection for his small and helpless children. He died on the 18th of
October, 1216, in the forty-ninth year of his age, and the seventeenth
of one of the most uncomfortable reigns recorded in English history.
From first to last he seems to have been cut by his subjects, for we
find him eating his Christmas dinner alone in the very middle of his
sovereignty, and dragged about the country in a horse-box within a day
of his death, when such active treatment could not have been beneficial
to the royal patient in an advanced stage of fever.
* Matthew Parin, point of accommodation than the humblest
gentleman. His case reminds us of an individual, who,
finding himself in a sedan with neither top nor bottom to
it, came to the conclusion that he might as well have walked
but for "the look of the thing." So it may be said of John,
that deprived of all the substantial advantages of a throne,
he might but "for the name of the thing" have just as well
been a private individual.
The character of John has been so fully developed in the account of
his reign that it is quite unnecessary to sum him up on the present
occasion. If he harassed the barons, they certainly succeeded in
returning the compliment; for he seems to have had a most unpleasant
time of it. He had the title of king, but was often worse off.
[Illustration: 145]