Excerpt from The Restless Kings

This excerpt from The Restless Kings: Henry II, His Sons and the Wars for the Plantagenet Crown has been published here with the permission of the author. You can purchase the full work here.

Introduction

There was an eagle painted, and four young ones of the eagle perched upon it, one on each wing, and a third upon its back tearing at the parent with talons and beaks, the fourth, no smaller than the others, sitting upon its neck and awaiting the moment to peck out its parent’s eyes. When some of the King’s close friends asked him the meaning of the picture, he said, ‘The four young ones of the eagle are my four sons, who will not cease persecuting me even unto death. And the youngest, whom I now embrace with such tender affection, will someday afflict me more grievously and more perilously than all the others.’

Gerald of Wales

Thus wrote the twelfth century chronicler Gerald of Wales, and his ominous choice of words proved to be tragically prophetic. On 4 July 1189, King Henry II of England, Duke of Normandy, Duke of Aquitaine, Count of Anjou, Lord of Ireland, and possibly the most powerful man in Western Europe, was forced to make a humiliating peace settlement with his eldest surviving son Richard, who had rebelled against him with the support of Henry’s arch rival King Philip Augustus of France. Even as he exchanged the kiss of peace on a hot, dusty summer’s day, Henry whispered into his son’s ear ‘God grant I die not before I have worthily revenged myself on you!’ In his heyday this would have been no idle threat – indeed, the cause of the dispute was Richard’s real fear that he was about to be disinherited. However, Henry was old, ill and wounded, suffering the effects of blood poisoning brought about by an injured heel, and wearily retired to nearby Chinon castle demanding to know who else formed part of the revolt against his rule. A messenger rode to the castle the next morning, with the news that Henry’s youngest and favourite son John had joined the rebels. Henry’s resolve was shattered; in despair he turned his face to the wall muttering: ‘Now let everything go as it will; I care no longer for myself or anything else in the world’. He quickly lapsed into delirium and died the following day in the castle chapel, his last words reputed to be: ‘Shame, shame on a conquered king’.

Chapter 1

The Rise of the Angevins

The head, which should have worn a crown of gold, was suddenly dashed against the rocks; instead of wearing embroidered robes, he floated naked in the waves; and instead of ascending a lofty throne, he found his grave in the bellies of fishes at the bottom of the sea

Henry of Huntingdon, 1120

The course of European history would have been very different but for two shipwrecks. In 1064 Harold Godwinson, one of the most powerful magnates in the court of Edward the Confessor, set out from the port of Bosham, Sussex, for reasons unknown and was blown off-course. Eventually he landed at Ponthieu, where he was captured by Guy I count of Ponthieu and held at the count’s castle at Beaurain. It was not long before news reached William, Duke of Normandy, who was preparing his troops for a campaign against his neighbour and rival, Conan Duke of Brittany. William marched to Beaurain and ensured that Harold was released into William’s custody – with such a large force at his doorstep, Guy was given very little choice in the matter – and thereafter Harold accompanied William on campaign as his ‘guest’. During this period of enforced hospitality, in which Harold performed feats of valour and was knighted by William, it is alleged that Harold swore the infamous oath of allegiance to the Duke of Normandy, promising to secure for him the English throne on the death of Edward the Confessor. The chronicler Orderic Vitalis later claimed that Harold had been betrothed to William’s daughter Adeliza; if the story is true then this might have been the occasion of the betrothal, further binding Harold in obligation to the Duke of Normandy. Whatever happened in 1064 – and we only have the Norman side of the story, vividly captured in the Bayeaux tapestry – William used this as moral, even divine, justification for his subsequent invasion in 1066. Thus England was wrested away from its increasingly Scandinavian orbit and brought directly into the febrile atmosphere of French politics, creating an Anglo-Norman realm with a shared cross-Channel aristocracy, government and administrative institutions.

The second shipwreck caused instant shockwaves to reverberate around Europe, and should be ranked alongside the loss of the Titanic as one of the worst maritime disasters in British history. On 25 November 1120, king Henry I left Barfleur to return to England with his family and chief courtiers. He was offered passage on the White Ship by its captain, Thomas FitzStephen, but the king had already made arrangements to take another vessel. FitzStephen had enjoyed a close link to the crown – his father Stephen FitzAirad had skippered the Mora, the ship that was gifted to William Duke of Normandy by his wife Matilda of Flanders when he sailed to conquer England in 1066. Consequently, Henry wished to ensure that FitzStephen benefited from royal patronage and entrusted the passage of his son and only male heir, William Adelin (German for young prince), and other members of the royal household to the White Ship. As Henry set sail, FitzStephen and his crew reportedly enjoyed the hospitality proffered by William and his entourage, who had brought several barrels of wine with them and enthusiastically set about emptying them. Consequently, not only were many of the passengers in a state of drunkenness by the time the ship was ready to leave, so were a large proportion of the sailors – FitzStephen included, according to some accounts. There were over three hundred people crammed on board alongside William and his associates, including Henry’s illegitimate son Richard of Lincoln and illegitimate daughter Matilda FitzRoy.

Egged on by the rowdy passengers, the crew were encouraged make haste and overtake the king’s vessel, even though it had already departed – certainly, the White Ship was newly outfitted and was reputed to be very fast, so the dare was not beyond the realm of possibility. Such was the mood of bravado on board that, it was later claimed, a couple of priests who had come to bless their voyage were ridiculed – an act that many chroniclers blamed for what happened next. With the light failing and overconfidence amongst the drunken sailors leading to carelessness, the ship struck a submerged rock and capsized. William managed to scramble free in a small boat, but on hearing the cries of his half-sister as she struggled in the water, turned back and tried to rescue her; a mass of people, fighting for their lives, swarmed into the boat which sank under their weight, taking the heir to the throne with them to their deaths. The significance was not lost on shocked chroniclers such as Henry of Huntingdon: ‘The head, which should have worn a crown of gold, was suddenly dashed against the rocks; instead of wearing embroidered robes, he floated naked in the waves; and instead of ascending a lofty throne, he found his grave in the bellies of fishes at the bottom of the sea.’

Another commentator, Orderic Vitalis, claimed there were only two survivors who managed to escape the sinking ship and cling to the rock – Berthed, a butcher from Rouen who had probably been on board to ensure that he was paid for the victuals that he had provided; and Geoffrey de l’Agile, who died before he could be rescued. According to Vitalis’s account, Thomas FitzStephen also survived the capsizing ship but on learning that William had perished, chose to drown rather than face the wrath of the king. Many passengers who had intended to travel, perhaps alarmed by the inebriation of crew and behaviour of some of the passengers, had already made other arrangements and consequently not boarded the White Ship; others were the beneficiaries of circumstances beyond their control, rather literally in the case the king’s nephew Stephen of Blois who had suffered an attack of diarrhoea and wisely chose not to embark until he was more comfortable. Thus Henry’s only son and male heir was lost in a terrible accident at sea, albeit one that could have easily been prevented. The succession was thrown into crisis, with the barons reluctant to embrace the thought that Henry would be followed by his haughty daughter Matilda; instead they chose to support the rather opportunistic claims of the aforementioned Stephen, with dire consequences.

Chapter 2

The struggle for authority

I met king Henry, many times. Yet I still remember the first time I encountered him and looked at him: and I knew at once this was a man I would not forget… He was usually calm, but if something angered him, his look would suddenly become fierce; his face flushed red, while his eyes became bloodshot.

Walter Map

On 29 December 1170, a clerk from Cambridge named Edward Grim joined a few other people inside Canterbury cathedral to hear vespers, which was normally sung by the monks who lived in the adjoining monastic buildings. It was a dark winter’s afternoon, and the interior of the church was gloomy, with only flickering candles providing any illumination. The service had barely started before the congregation was disturbed by strange noises coming from the vicinity of the cloisters; suddenly the cloister door opened and a small group of people bustled into the main cathedral. Preceded by his cross bearer, Henry of Auxerre, and an entourage of household staff that included his principal advisor and right-hand-man William FitzStephen, the archbishop Thomas Becket made his way towards the altar. Clearly something unusual was going on, as the monks abandoned the service and rushed joyfully to greet their master. Grim was startled to hear many of the monks urging the archbishop to bar the doors to the cathedral behind him, and was even more unnerved by Becket’s response: ‘It is not proper… that a house of prayer, a church of Christ, be made a fortress since although it is not shut up, it serves as a fortification for his people; we will triumph over the enemy through suffering rather than by fighting - and we come to suffer, not to resist.’

The meaning behind these strange words quickly became evident to the gathered onlookers, when, moments later, four armed knights burst through the cloister door and strode into the cathedral with swords drawn, their leader shouting ‘Now, this way! To me! King’s men!’ All wore full battle armour, including helmets that obscured any human features apart from their eyes; however, their identities were Reginald FitzUrse, William de Tracy, Hugh de Moreville and Richard le Breton, men familiar to Becket as knights of the king’s household. Unbeknown to many of the watching congregation, this was the culmination of an argument that had erupted earlier that afternoon, when the knights had confronted the archbishop whilst he was finishing dinner with his household staff in a private chamber within the palace. At first, the knights had waited in silence for the meal to conclude; then their leader, FitzUrse, listed various charges made against Becket by the king and forcibly insisted that he should accompany them to face justice at Winchester. Becket had calmly refuted all their accusations and refused to comply, enraging the knights to the point where they threatened the archbishop with physical harm; many observers believed that the knights had been drinking and did not take their threats entirely seriously. As more palace staff became aware of the commotion and joined the archbishop, the knights were forced to withdraw, dragging Becket’s seneschal William FitzNigel and another adherent, Ralph Morin, with them. After a hasty conference, Becket, FitzStephen and a few others decided to go to the church; by this stage, they could hear the alarming sound of the returning knights breaking down doors that had been closed against them.

The appearance of FitzUrse and his companions in a place of worship, possibly drunk and calling for the arrest of the archbishop, provoked an uproar; Grim recalled afterwards that vespers was abandoned and panic broke out amongst the congregation at the sight of the armed knights, who were shouting ‘where is Thomas Becket, traitor of the king and kingdom?’ When no one replied, they cried out more loudly, their voices echoing through the cathedral, ‘Where is the archbishop?’ By this time, Becket had climbed four steps towards the altar, surrounded by the monks. At the sound of the commotion he turned around and, apparently unconcerned by the danger at hand, walked down again. He stood by the nearest pillar and addressed the knights. ‘The righteous will be like a bold lion and free from fear… Here I am, not a traitor of the king but a priest; why do you seek me? Here I am ready to suffer in the name of He who redeemed me with His blood; God forbid that I should flee on account of your swords or that I should depart from righteousness.’

FitzUrse and his comrades, perhaps mindful of the watching congregation, once again recited the charges from earlier, and repeated their demands that Becket should accompany them to face royal justice; and once more, the archbishop refused. Whether it was Becket’s obstinacy or the serene nature of his demeanor that enraged Fitzurse the most is uncertain. However, his patience snapped and he cried ‘Then you… will now die and will suffer what you have earned.’ Almost as though this was the response he had been seeking, Becket bowed his head and replied: ‘And I am prepared to die for my Lord, so that in my blood the church will attain liberty and peace; but in the name of Almighty God I forbid that you hurt my men, either cleric or layman, in any way.’

The knights seized Becket and attempted to wrestle him out of the church, but he grabbed hold of the pillar and refused to move, continuing to call out to his attackers by name that they were failing in their obligations of faith. William de Tracy raised his sword to strike a blow; shocked at the violent turn of events, and terrified for their own lives, most of monks and congregation fled for the exits or hid behind altars, with the exception of Grim, Fitzstephen and canon Robert. Without thinking, Grim jumped in front of the archbishop to protect him as the knight’s blow fell; it cut through Grim’s arm, grievously wounding him whilst slicing into Becket’s head. Although Grim remained holding the stricken archbishop, he could not prevent further blows from raining down. Becket sunk to his knees, and cried out ‘For the name of Jesus and the protection of the church, I am ready to embrace death.’ Afterwards, Grim recalled the way the knights butchered Becket where he lay. Richard le Breton ‘inflicted a grave wound on the fallen one; with this blow he shattered the sword on the stone and his [Becket’s] crown, which was large, separated from his head so that the blood turned white from the brain’. The knights prevented any of the shocked onlookers from helping the stricken archbishop. Indeed, they received help from Hugh Mauclerc de Horsea, ‘a cleric who entered with the knights… [He] placed his foot on the neck of the holy priest and precious martyr and (it is horrible to say) scattered the brains with the blood across the floor, exclaiming to the rest, ‘We can leave this place, knights, he will not get up again.’’

With their bloody work done, FitzUrse and his knights left – lashing out at a French servant of the archdeacon of Sens, who was already grieving for the death of the archbishop – and, with their comrades who were waiting outside the church, ransacked the archbishop’s palace. The attack was over in minutes, leaving those left behind almost paralysed with disbelief at what they had just witnessed. No one moved at first, not even to help Grim, who lay bleeding on the ground near Becket’s body. Slowly, Becket’s chaplain Osbert approached, and covered the mutilated remains of the archbishop’s head. It was at that point that the rest of Becket’s party started to weep and wail as the horror sunk in. His remains were transferred to a bier, and it was taken through the choir and laid before the altar, covering the grievous wound with a clean linen cloth.

It was not long before news of the murder broke, and blame came to rest at the door of the man who had once been one of Becket’s closest friends, King Henry II. Quite how their relationship had become so toxic can be explained by the dispute that had driven a wedge between them – a struggle for supremacy between church and state that erupted with the king’s promulgation of the constitutions of Clarendon, sixteen articles that, amongst other things, asserted the primacy of royal law over ecclesiastics in certain circumstances. For Henry, this was part of a longer campaign to reassert royal authority throughout his realm; as far as Becket was concerned, the constitutions of Clarendon were a direct challenge to the independence of the church in England, threatening to weaken its connection to the pope as the true leader of Christendom. The stakes could not have been higher.

Chapter 3

A family at war

On his legitimate children he lavished in their childhood more than a father’s affection, but in their more advanced years he looked askance at them after the manner of a stepfather; and although his sons were so renowned and illustrious he pursued his successors with a hatred which perhaps they deserved, but which none the less impaired his own happiness… Whether by some breach of the marriage tie or as a punishment for some crime of the parent, it befell that there was never true affection felt by the father towards his sons, nor by the sons towards their father, nor harmony between the brothers themselves.

Gerald of Wales

It was nightfall at the palace of Westminster on 17 July 1174. The king was resting in his chambers, suffering from both physical and mental exhaustion. For over a year he had fought against a powerful coalition of enemies on the continent led by the king of France and the count of Flanders, but brought together in an ultimate act of treachery by the machinations of his wife Eleanor and eldest son, Henry ‘the young king’, as they sought to overthrow him. Henry had finally been able to return to England ten days earlier, battling fierce gales to make landfall at Southampton. His presence was urgently needed to supress an uprising amongst his most unruly barons, led by an old adversary Hugh Bigod; his grudge against Henry had been simmering away for nearly two decades. The king first dashed to Canterbury, where he made a public display of humility at the tomb of Thomas Becket, scourged with whips as penance for the role he had played in his former friend’s death. Now, tired from his long journey back to London, Henry had retired to his room, where a servant rubbed his sore feet as he dozed in bed.

Suddenly, the guards at the palace gate were disturbed by the arrival of a rider, with clothes grimy from a long journey. He reined in his horse and wearily dismounted, calling out that he was a messenger called Brien. Explaining that he had ridden hard for three days, barely stopping for food and drink, Brien demanded that he be brought before the king, insisting that he carried an urgent message and important news from the north. Uncertain what to do, the guards escorted him to the door of the room where Henry lay in slumber, but the way was barred by the king’s chamberlain who, mindful of his master’s state of mind, prevented Brien from entering with the cry ‘Who are you there?’ Brien replied, ‘I am a messenger, sent by Lord Ranulph de Glanville in order to speak with the king, for great needs he has of it.’ ‘Let the business be till the morning’ hissed the chamberlain, trying to stop the conversation from wakening Henry. However, the messenger would not be deterred. ‘By my faith! I will speak to him forthwith. My lord has in his heart sorrow and vexation, so let me enter, good chamberlain.’ The royal servant was not convinced, fearing his master’s wrath: ‘I should not dare to do it. The king is asleep; you must withdraw.’ However, the noise of the conversation had already disturbed Henry, who hollered angrily from inside the room, ‘Who is that, can you tell me?’ The chamberlain called back, ‘Sire, you shall know directly, it is a messenger from the north, very well you know him, a man of Ranulph de Glanvillle’s, his name is Brien.’ The king emerged from his room and, having been disturbed from his rest, was clearly not in the best of moods; and now he was further alarmed when he learned the identity of the messenger. 

Ushered into the royal chamber, Brien was mindful that he was in the presence of the king, and offered a salute. Despite his tiredness, Henry was eager for news; he was well aware of the situation in the north of England where William the Lion, king of Scotland, had invaded shortly after Easter, supported by mercenary cavalry and infantry hired from Flanders. The invading forces had captured two royal fortresses at Burgh and Appleby, before moving against Carlisle. The frightened citizens had provided assurances that they would surrender to the Scots if no relief came from Henry, allowing William to attack Prudhoe castle on the banks of the Tyne and ravage parts of Northumberland. 

Henry’s principal supporters in the north had gathered together to repulse the invasion. The sheriff of Yorkshire, Robert de Stuteville, supported by Brien’s master Ranulph de Glanville, as well as local lords William de Vesci and Bernard de Balliol, mustered their forces and marched on Prudhoe, arriving on 12 July only to find that William had moved on to assault Alnwick castle. They held a conference at Newcastle to determine what to do next. Henry was unaware of the latest developments, and feared that the sudden arrival of the messenger heralded bad tidings. Growling with anger and pacing around his room, Henry began to bemoan those in whom he had placed his trust to defend the northern border – ‘badly have they served me, so now may they be punished for it!’ However, the messenger interrupted the king. ‘Sire, hear me a little. Your barons of the north are right good people. The king of Scotland is taken and all his barons!’

The king could not believe this unexpected and wondrous news. ‘Do you speak the truth?’ Brien replied, ‘Yes sire, truly in the morning you will know it; the archbishop of York, a wise, learned man, will send you two private messengers; but I started first, who know the truth, I have hardly slept during the last four days, neither eaten nor drunk, so I am very hungry; but in your kindness, give me a reward for it!’ Henry grasped the tired messenger by the shoulders and fixed him with a steely gaze. ‘If you have told me the truth, you are rich enough. Is the king of Scotland taken? Tell me the truth!’ Indignant that he was being doubted, Brien cried ‘Yes sire, by my faith! On a cross may I be crucified, or hanged by a rope, or burnt on a great pile, if tomorrow, before noon, all be not confirmed’. ‘Then’, said the king, with a broad grin breaking out across his face, ‘God be thanked for it, and Saint Thomas the Martyr and all the saints of God!’

Brien was shown to suitable accommodation and given much-needed food, drink and rest at the king’s expense. Henry was too delighted to return to sleep, and roused his household knights to share the news that one of his great enemies had fallen into his hands. ‘Barons! Wake up. It has been a good night for you. Such a thing have I heard that will make you glad; the king of Scotland is taken! Just now the news came to me, when I ought to have been in bed!’ The knights were overjoyed, and cried ‘Now thank the Lord God, now is the war ended, and your kingdom in peace!’ As Brien had promised, messengers from the archbishop of York duly arrived the next morning, carrying with them a more detailed account of what had happened. After their conference at Newcastle – and despite opposition from some of their own number – the northern earls decided to press on towards Alnwick, and set out early the next morning, Saturday 13 July. They travelled at a remarkable speed, bearing in mind they were burdened by weight of arms, covering twenty-four miles in little over five hours. However, they were soon enveloped in a thick fog, which made them pause and reconsider their decision. As they moved forward slowly, the mist cleared and in front of them appeared the castle of Alnwick. To their great surprise, the king of the Scots and around sixty horsemen were on guard in a meadow outside the castle, ‘as if in complete security and fearing nothing less than an incursion of our men, while the hosts of the barbarians together with part of the cavalry were widely dispersed for purposes of plunder’, according to William of Newburgh. The Scots were momentarily confused, thinking some of their own number had returned. On realising that the banners were those of the enemy, William the Lion drew his forces around him and prepared for battle. However, the fight did not last long; the king’s horse was killed underneath him and he was thrown clear, only to be intercepted and captured. Most of his knights were slain or rounded up. The earls then made their way back to Newcastle the same day with their royal prisoner, and from there he was transferred to Richmond to be kept under close guard until he could be sent south to Henry. Brien was then dispatched to tell the king the good news.

In the bright light of a summer’s morning, Henry beamed with joy when he heard the fate that had befallen his enemy. Yet even as he relaxed in the knowledge of victory, he suddenly remembered his conversation with Brien the previous evening. ‘Last night I heard the news when I was very irritable; to him who brought it to me a reward shall be given’. After a quick consultation with his Exchequer staff working from their offices nearby, Henry ordered a small wooden tally stick to be struck. In the absence of a formal parchment charter prepared by his chancery staff, it noted the personal grant of ten librates of land from the grateful king to the messenger who came in the night.

The loss of Normandy

O ye gods, if these illustrious brothers had been united by the ties of fraternal love, and had regarded their father with filial affection, if they had been bound together by the twofold cords of good-will and of nature, how great, how inestimable, how splendid and incomparable in the present age, would have been the glory of the father, and the triumphs of the sons?

Gerald of Wales

Look to yourself. The devil is loose

Philip Augustus to John, 1193

As twilight descended in the south of France on 26 March 1199, King Richard wandered out of his tent after supper and started to inspect his troops, sharing a few words or jesting with men with whom he’d campaigned for many years. The king’s army was besieging the castle of his age-old foe, Aymer viscount of Limoges, at Chalus-Chabrol just to the south of the viscount’s city. This was familiar territory in every sense of the word; since the 1170s, Richard had been campaigning in the south of Aquitaine against the rebellious families of the region. The latest outbreak was part of an ongoing border war between Richard and Philip, who had been such close friends ten years previously but were now bitter enemies. Although a temporary truce had been arranged to halt the military conflict in the north of Richard’s lands, the southern barons of Aquitaine who had supported Philip were excluded from the terms of the ceasefire and now Richard had ridden to exact his revenge for their disobedience. He joined Mercadier, a mercenary who had first served Richard in the campaigns of 1183-84 and had risen to be his trusted and feared commander. Together they ‘devastated the viscount’s lands with fire and sword’ before investing the castle at Chalus-Chabrol, bringing sappers to burrow underneath and weaken the walls, protected by specially adapted shelters whilst Richard’s crossbowmen kept up covering fire from a safe distance. Richard had successfully pitted his wits against far more challenging constructions than Chalus-Chabrol; it would not take long before the small garrison would surrender.

Richard continued to stroll amongst his encamped men, observing the latest developments in the siege as the walls started to creak and groan whilst the sappers continued their work. That evening, he spotted that a lone defender was patrolling the ramparts, armed with only a crossbow and a frying pan to defend himself in a token show of defiance. On a whim, Richard asked the nearest crossbowman for a weapon; he liked to keep his aim sharp with constant practice. Richard was largely unprotected, carrying only his shield as cover against any incoming bolts fired from the walls, but there was little risk; Richard’s men were used to dodging the occasional pot-shots that were fired down at them, and they were highly amused that their leader was now going to have a crack at the defender – this was splendid entertainment, the doomed guard pitted against the hero of the Holy Land. As Richard armed himself, the man took aim and fired his shot. Impressed with the accuracy, the king applauded and ducked back behind his shield as the bolt hurtled through the air towards him. However, he slightly mistimed his evasive action and the bolt hit him in the left shoulder. Despite the pain the blow must have caused, Richard made no sound – he did not wish to alarm his men, or give encouragement to those inside the castle; maybe he felt a tinge of embarrassment for his foolish bravado – and made his way back to his tent, where he tried to pull out the bolt. However, all he succeeded in doing was breaking the wooden shaft, leaving the iron tip embedded in his flesh. As a seasoned campaigner, Richard knew the danger of infection and called for a surgeon. Darkness was now descending, and with only the flickering light of torches to work with, the surgeon cut and probed until he finally managed to extract the remainder of the bolt. However, the king’s shoulder was severely damaged – ‘carelessly mangled’, in the words of one chronicler – as a result of the procedure; the wounds were bandaged up, and all Richard could do was hope for the best.

The siege continued without him as he stayed in his tent – only his most trusted advisers were allowed in to see him. The prognosis grew increasingly bleak by the day; infection had indeed set in and the wound had turned gangrenous. As Richard’s health deteriorated, he wrote to his mother, asking her to come and see him before the end. Chalus-Chabrol finally fell, and the garrison were executed; Richard continued to direct operations against the count of Limoges from his bed, instructing his commanders that the next targets should be Nontron and Montagut. However, the man who fired the crossbow was brought before the dying king on 6 April; his identity is uncertain, with sources naming him either Peter Basile or Bertrand de Gourdon, whilst some claimed he was little more than a boy. Weakly, Richard muttered, ‘What wrong have I done you that you should kill me?’ The man replied ‘With your own hand you killed my father and two brothers, and you intended to kill me. Take your revenge in any way you like. Now that I have seen you on your deathbed, I shall gladly endure any torment you may devise.’ Richard smiled, forgave him, and ordered his release. By now, Eleanor had arrived but there was nothing more that could be done. Richard set his affairs in order, naming his brother John as his heir and bequeathing his jewels to his nephew Otto. As dusk fell, the king’s almoner, Milo, heard his confession and administered extreme unction. Richard slipped away as he lay in his mother’s arms, and Milo closed the dead man’s eyes and mouth. Mercardier dragged Richard’s killer away and, despite his master’s dying wishes, he was flayed alive and hanged.

Chapter 5

The road to Runneymede

Foul as it is, Hell itself is made fouler by the presence of John

Matthew Paris

To no one will we sell, to no one deny or delay right or justice

Clause 40, Magna Carta 1215

Perhaps nothing better sums up the ignominious end to the Angevin realm than John’s attempts to cross a river. On 11 October 1216 the king left Lynn, travelling to Wisbech where he spent the night, so that he could conduct some business – possibly talking to a few of his local officials about securing provisions. This was no pleasurable tour of the kingdom similar to the one he had undertaken at the start of his reign; John was embroiled in a terrible civil war, fighting for his continued right to be king. Haste was of the essence, as the Fens were full of rebels. He concluded his affairs in Wisbech, and set out for his next destination – Swineshead – early the next day, planning his onward route towards the safety of Newark Castle. Accompanying him was his baggage train, complete with the royal chapel and associated archives; clothing and necessary equipment for a campaign on the road; and silver and gold plate, including goblets, flagons, basins, candelabra, jewelled belts and other riches that had been hoarded in monastic treasure houses. Perhaps most importantly of all, the coronation regalia were entrusted to the safe-keeping of the baggage train for fear they might fall into enemy hands, including family heirlooms such as his grandmother Matilda’s regalia and vestments that she had worn when anointed as Empress – the great crown, robes of purple, a gold wand and the sword of Tristam. John was perhaps the most restless of the Angevins, always hurrying from place to place with a rapidity that would have exhausted even his tireless father. It would appear that John rode on ahead, not wanting to be slowed down by the pace of the baggage train, which was forced to take a different route across the estuary of the Wash, crossing the Wellstream as it flowed out to sea. There may well have been another reason for John’s desire to be out of his saddle as quickly as possible – he was increasingly plagued by feelings of sickness, the result of an illness he had picked up in Lynn.

Dangerous waters coursed along the Wellstream, which was only passable at low tide – likely to have been around noon on 12 October. However, the baggage handlers and servants of the king were more fearful of their master than the difficult conditions, and ‘hastily and incautiously’ attempted the crossing early before the waters had fully drained away. It was a fateful mistake. Even when fully drained, the secure paths across the Wellstream were surrounded by quicksand, and it required skilled local knowledge to successfully traverse the route. By attempting to cross before all the excess water had gone, it was hard to spot the safe areas. As a result, the baggage train quickly ran into difficulties, with many of the packhorses being sucked into the muddy riverbed because it had not fully dried out. As the handlers tried to extricate the panicking animals from the stream, they too became stuck, struggling as they began to sink deeper and deeper into the liquid ground. Before long their plight became desperate; those too far gone to help were abandoned to their fate, whilst the remaining servants vainly tried to salvage some of John’s possessions from the wreckage. By now the tide was turning, and the rising waters claimed ‘his chapel with his relics’ and almost certainly ‘the treasures, precious vessels and all the other things which he cherished with special care’, which were sucked down by ‘bottomless whirlpools’ along with ‘many members of his household.’ It is unknown how many people were able to escape the chaos to bear news of the disaster to the king, but it was a major blow to John’s already tarnished dignity and faint hopes of striking a decisive military victory over his enemies, given the amount of treasure that had been lost. By now the effects of his illness – almost certainly dysentery – were starting to take effect and the remaining members of his household slowly accompanied him to Sleaford; John was barely able to mount his horse, such was the pain he was in. The party rested there for a couple of days, before wearily completing the journey to Newark. By 19 October, the king was dead, perishing in the night during an apocalyptic thunderstorm.

This excerpt from The Restless Kings: Henry II, His Sons and the Wars for the Plantagenet Crown has been published here with the permission of the author. You can purchase the full work here.

Nick Barratt

Nick Barratt

Publications from noted scholar, genealogist, and Director of Senate House Library at the University of London Nicholas Barrat.

View Group