Sarum (92 page)
Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
The founder of the Mother of Parliaments was not English at all: he was French, from one of the most notable families in the Isle de France. Nor had he the slightest interest in democratic government. He was a magnate. Twenty years before he had caused a scandal by marrying Henry’s newly widowed sister when she had already been promised to a convent – according to the king, he had seduced her. And he was more concerned with the endless lawsuit to secure her dowry – which Henry had still not paid – than he ever was with the Parliament of England.
He did not even like the English: he openly despised them and agreed with the stern Grosseteste that the nation’s morals needed reforming, by compulsion if necessary. He was a strict military disciplinarian who despised Henry’s footling campaigns and told him so in pointed language which made the King of England wince. He was intellectual, tactless and high-handed: a European grand seigneur who saw that Henry did not know how to govern his kingdom and could not resist doing it for him.
But Montfort had energy; he had ability and charisma, and unlike poor Henry, he knew what he wanted. He crossed the sky of England’s history like a meteor.
During a few months in 1258 he overhauled the entire system of government. In the king’s name parliaments of barons and knights were to be called three times a year; the king’s sheriffs were to be local men who would be kept in check by serving only a year at a time; a massive programme of local reforms was begun. And all this, not because he was devoted to any principle, but because he saw that for the independent-minded folk in their northern island, this was the system which would work best.
In October 1258 a proclamation was read in Latin, French and English, in every shire court; and in the name of the king and the community of the realm, not only each baron and knight, but every free man in the kingdom had to swear an oath of loyalty to the new government.
On this occasion Peter Shockley was with Godefroi and his son and took the oath immediately after them.
“Now we’ll get some good government for our money,” Godefroi’s son told him with an encouraging grin.
“And Montfort? What’s he like?” the merchant asked. The elder Godefroi smiled.
“An arrogant bastard,” he murmured confidentially. “But he gets things done.”
The irony of the situation only appeared a little while afterwards when the pope changed his mind and decided to give Sicily to someone else. Perhaps no one in England, except Henry himself, was surprised. He had given his kingdom to Simon de Montfort and his council for nothing at all.
But the oath had been taken.
“The king must live by the Provisions now,” Godefroi declared. “It’s too late to go back. The issue’s settled.”
He was wrong. Greater forces, the currents that bore along and finally tore apart the elaborate society of the middle ages, were deep at work.
The events that followed in the next four years, like a complex ritual dance, were conducted according to the best traditions of a feudal society.
First it seemed that Henry’s son, aided by Simon de Montfort, would rebel and seize the throne. Then father and son were reconciled, and Henry appealed to the pope to declare that the hateful Provisions which bound him were invalid. The pope obliged and Montfort, disgusted, went into exile. Henry immediately reverted to his previous ways, filled his court with foreigners and ignored the magnates. Predictably the barons summoned Montfort again and rebelled. The situation changed almost monthly, the king’s party in the ascendant one month, the rebels humiliating him the next; it was near to civil war: but still no blood was shed.
Important though these great events were in the national context, they did not greatly disturb the peace of Sarum. The local magnates, men like Basset and the Longspées, were either moderates or for the king. And when the sheriff in 1261 seemed likely to veer towards the Montfort party he was speedily replaced by Ralph Russell, the king’s man, who was also given the castle to garrison. For the first time for many years, the people of Sarum were conscious again of the old castle’s frowning presence above them. The new town was anxious, but subdued.
Godefroi echoed the sentiments of most men when he said firmly: “No one wants war with the king. But we must find a settlement.” The problem was how to find one.
It was in 1263 that a method was agreed upon. Both sides would go to arbitration.
The man they chose to arbitrate was the saintly King Louis IX of France.
No choice, it appeared, could have been more perfect: a pious crusader king, the perfect image of everything a feudal monarch should be; a lover of peace who was now bound by treaties of friendship to England; and, since Henry did homage to him, technically, for the last French province left him – the rich wine producing region of Gascony in the south west – he was in one respect the English king’s feudal overlord.
And so at Christmas 1263, King Louis of France prepared to hear the case between the King of England and a large party of his subjects.
For Peter Shockley, the crisis of 1264 that changed his own life completely and nearly broke up the family of his friends the Godefrois, began at the mill, on the last day of January.
The spring had begun very early in Sarum that year and the river swept past the mill race in full spate.
It was in the middle of the morning that young Hugh de Godefroi had come to the mill to discuss the sale of the coming year’s wool with Peter, and the two men were standing outside in the cold damp air, deep in conversation when Jocelin rode by.
The knight of Avonsford was growing old, but he was still a fine, even a daunting figure who sat on his horse as proud and erect as though he was about to enter the lists. His hawklike face was now surrounded by iron grey hair, its long, sardonic lines deeply incised; but as he looked down at his son and Peter Shockley, it softened into a smile. Jocelin was proud of his son.
Hugh was nearly thirty now, a tall, handsome fellow with jet-black hair and his father’s aquiline face. He had married the daughter of a Devonshire knight who had given him a baby son before being carried off by a fever. It was assumed that soon he would marry again. From the age of eighteen he had delighted Jocelin by distinguishing himself in numerous tournaments and won praise from that great enthusiast for the joust, Prince Edward himself, the king’s heir. The Godefroi shield with the white swan on the red ground was now greeted with a murmur of anticipation by the crowds in the stands, and with apprehension by the other competitors. The previous summer Jocelin, now himself a widower, had handed over the running of the estates to Hugh and these days he contented himself with his books and a daily ride around his considerable domains. That morning he had just come from the old miz-maze on the hill, which he had been restoring, and he was in good humour.
The three men made a pleasant contrast: the two Godefrois with their stately ways were so obviously of the knightly caste – even their greeting to one another was spoken in courtly French – and their friend and business associate Shockley, with his broad face and solid appearance was every inch a merchant.
“And when are you both getting married?” It was a question Jocelin had taken to asking each whenever he saw them. It was asked in jest, but they knew that he was in earnest, both to see his own son settled again and to see a grandchild for his old friend Edward Shockley, who had long since given up asking his son about the prospect himself.
But before either man could even make an excuse the party was interrupted by an unexpected sight, as a cart came careering along the track towards them. In it was old Edward Shockley himself, frail and bent, but with a look of grim determination on his face; he was whipping the horse along frantically and the old cart, never designed for speed, was bumping towards them crazily. His hood had fallen down onto his back and wisps of snowy hair stood up from his balding head like an aureole. As he crashed to a halt, he cried:
“The King of France – he’s declared for Henry. Montfort and the Provisions are finished.”
In fact, Louis had not even hesitated. The case he heard at Amiens, where the King of England had attended in person, was quite clear to him. He had not even considered a compromise which might have saved the situation. The pope, he declared, had rightly rejected the rebellious barons and no man should ignore such spiritual authority. Henry should be given power to do whatever he wished in his kingdom, and to choose whatever friends and ministers he liked, whether it pleased his barons or not. Those, he reminded them, were the customary rights of all kings. The judgement was comprehensive, conservative and feudally correct; but it was worse than anything the English rebels had feared.
The four men looked at each other. No one had any doubt about the graveness of the crisis. This was the final arbitration – the last peaceful solution left:
It was Jocelin, finally, who broke the silence.
“They must submit.”
The two Shockleys looked at him in surprise; but it was Hugh, speaking in English, who protested:
“To Henry? But father, you’ve said yourself that he’s incompetent to rule.”
Jocelin shook his head.
“They must submit,” he explained, “because it’s King Louis’s judgement – and the pope’s.”
“You spoke up for Montfort once,” his son reminded him.
“Yes. But not now. Things have gone too far.”
This, they all knew, was the heart of the matter. For over a year now the knight, as he saw the results of Montfort’s work, had felt a growing sense of unease; and there were many like him who were troubled by the way that Simon and some of his party were humiliating the king. It offended his sense of propriety. True, Henry was incompetent; but the monarchy itself, whatever a king’s faults, was still a sacred institution. The feudal proprieties must be observed. Whatever the cost, Louis’s judgement and the authority of the pope must now be respected.
“To reform the king and the Church is one matter,” Jocelin had argued to his son the year before; “but we cannot
deny
the king and the Church. There must be authority.” For these sacred institutions were the only guarantees that his world knew of morality and order. “Take them away,” he warned, “and you take away the cornerstone of the building; then it will collapse.”
deny
the king and the Church. There must be authority.” For these sacred institutions were the only guarantees that his world knew of morality and order. “Take them away,” he warned, “and you take away the cornerstone of the building; then it will collapse.”
But now Hugh shook his head.
“No, father. I will not submit.”
“Not to King Louis? Or to the Pope?” Jocelin’s voice was dangerous.
“No. They’re both foreigners. And the pope’s too far away. They don’t understand us.”
This was an argument the older man found meaningless.
“That’s nothing to do with it,” he thundered.
Still Hugh shook his head.
The aliens in England – both the friends of the king at court and the numerous appointments by the popes of Italians to rich English benefices – had irritated many Englishmen. But the dissatisfaction that Hugh was expressing lay deeper. For the judgement of the pope and King Louis, however technically correct, was an affront to the islanders’ sense of natural justice.
Jocelin glared at him.
“You must obey the law,” he stated flatly. “And the law proceeds from the king, sanctioned by the Church. You cannot deny that.”
But Hugh only made a dismissive gesture with his arm.
“No, father. The king himself is subject to a higher law, a natural law if you like: the community of the realm: the body politic. You want royal rule – reformed, of course, but royal. Montfort has shown us something better: a political rule, to which the king himself is subject. That’s the only way for the future.”
And when old Jocelin heard this, he went white, not with anger but with shock.
Constitutionally Hugh’s statement was revolutionary; yet it was nothing new. All through the century, such ideas had been widely discussed in the universities of Europe, and even been endorsed by such a great churchman and philosopher as St Thomas Aquinas. Indeed, from the time of Magna Carta onwards, the magnates of England had in practice forced a political, cooperative rule on her kings, but had always claimed that in doing so they were only ensuring good feudal government, in which the king would be properly ‘advised’. In this way the ancient sense of monarchy as a sacred institution, and of the right of the king to govern as he wished, had always been preserved.
But despite the fact that he knew all this, when he was faced with Hugh’s bald statement and his rejection of the authority of centuries, Jocelin – much as he despised the king – could only draw back in horror.
“But the pope . . .” he cried.
“Even the bishops are split,” Hugh protested. “Half of them are for Montfort.” It was true. Many of the bishops, with good consciences, believed that Montfort was in the right and that the king should be bound by the oath and the Provisions.
“Do you agree with this?” Jocelin suddenly turned to old Edward.
Shockley considered. The philosophical points, though he understood them, interested him very little.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” he replied. “The merchants of London will go for Simon de Montfort if it comes to a fight.”
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