The Magnificent Century (36 page)

The outcome of the series of meetings which followed was that the
bishops agreed to pay the King fifty-two thousand marks in lieu of the tenth. Henry accepted the offer, although with the greatest reluctance. The barons remained adamant, however, in their refusal to give any form of aid. The King’s efforts to make forced loans were not successful, even Richard of Cornwall refusing to accommodate him. The amount finally assembled was so much less than the Pope was demanding that it was decided to send to Rome to represent the nation in this crisis a body of proctors consisting of the Archbishop of Tarentaise, Peter of Savoy, Simon de Montfort, and John Mansel. For some reason, this committee did not reach Rome, and the negotiations with Alexander seem to have been conducted by Rostand, who had taken back with him a full appreciation of the King’s difficulties.

Alexander might present an outward suggestion of kindliness, but he acted in this matter with such sharpness and dispatch that Westminster was thrown into a state of dismay. First the Pope discharged Rostand and appointed one Arlotus in his place. Then he made it clear that, although some additional time would be allowed, the money due Rome must be paid. Finally he notified Henry that if he did not appear in Sicily with his army by March 1, 1259, he would be put under the ban of excommunication.

Henry threw up his arms in a rather abject surrender. He made it clear that he would be happy to be rescued from his unenviable position by any means that his devoted subjects might devise. He seems to have wanted nothing so much at the moment as a chance to get out of his bargain and to relinquish for his son the right to the Sicilian throne. The magnates accordingly took matters in hand, making it clear first, however, that their willingness to assume the task was contingent on his agreement to a reform of the whole basis of administration for the future. To this Henry gave his assent.

The negotiations with the Pope resulted in a cancellation of the grant of the kingdom to Edmund, although with the understanding that the King’s son could at any time, prior to the crowning of a new king, seek the restoration of his rights by payment of the balance of the debt to Rome. The balance of the debt went unpaid, and thus came to an official end the Sicilian Absurdity.

In later years Henry was wont to say that he would have brought the venture to a successful issue if the barons had not interfered. It became a favorite complaint of his that they had robbed his son of
his chance for a crown. He talked continuously of reviving the project but of course never took any definite steps to do so.

The immense castle of Wallingford, in the building of which a large part of the town had been demolished, was the favorite residing place of Richard of Cornwall. He was there a great deal, at any rate; and there he was when a party of emissaries from Ottocar of Bohemia arrived to announce that he had been elected King of Germany. It was a cold day in January 1257, and the ambassadors were summoned to a long hall where, in front of a roaring fire, the brother of the English King and his beautiful wife Sanchia were dining in considerable elegance and state.

Richard rose to hear what the men from Bohemia had to say and at the finish he burst into tears. He would accept the crown, he said, but it was not through greed or ambition. His sole object was to assist in restoring prosperity to the German states; his honest desire was to rule justly and well. It was clear to the German delegation, and to the throng of adherents and servants who swarmed into the hall to listen, that he was happy over the fulfillment of his great wish. It must have been quite apparent also that the gentle Sanchia was delighted beyond measure. Now she would be a queen as well as her two older and patronizing sisters.

The news was in no sense a surprise. The death of William of Holland, who had been the leader of the Hohenstaufen interests, had thrown the election open, and Richard’s qualifications were such that he had been from the start the leading candidate. He had the support of the Pope, he came from the country which supplied the industrial provinces of Germany with the wool they needed, he was reputed to be the wealthiest man in Europe and could maintain the office with proper splendor. Only one other candidate was actively supported, and this was none other than Alfonso the Wise. The ambition of the Spanish monarch, balked in Gascony, was stirring again, and he would gladly have taken the overlordship of the Empire. Richard had thrown himself into the contest with a right good will, first calling in twenty-five thousand marks which he had out on loan and cutting off much of his wood to raise revenue. He was well aware that it was a costly business to secure the imperial crown.

There were seven electors, and the votes of some of these at least would have to be purchased. Richard’s gold won the adherence of the three who governed the industrial West: Conrad of Cologne (his vote cost eight thousand marks), Count Palatine (he was to have one of Henry’s daughters as his wife), and the Archbishop of Mainz. On the other hand, the Archbishop of Trier and the electors of Brandenburg and Saxony declared their allegiance to Alfonso. This gave the deciding vote to Ottocar of Bohemia and, when he came into Richard’s camp, the victory had been won.

It was part of the tradition that the election be formally declared at the city of Frankfort-am-Main, and accordingly the four assenting electors made their way to that city. The opposing forces, refusing to acknowledge defeat, gained possession of the city and closed the gates to the other party. This made it necessary for the majority electors to stage an unusual ceremony. Riding up in front of the gates, the four raised their arms in the air in token of their agreement that the imperial crown should be tendered to Richard of Cornwall. The honor of notification was given to Ottocar.

The next step was for Richard to appear at Aachen for his coronation, and be proceeded to make the most elaborate of preparations. He was reaping his reward now for all the years of careful financial planning, the vigilance with which he had policed his loans, his expert farming of the English coinage; there was plenty of money available for a truly triumphal entry into the wide-flung dominions over which he was to exercise suzerainty.

Fifty vessels were needed to transport his party to Dordrecht because an imposing train of English nobles went with him. He carried rich gifts for everyone of importance in his domain and had even commissioned the making of a new crown and insignia. Flanders was properly impressed by this magnificence, and the reception accorded at Aachen was all that could be desired. The coronation took place in that city on May 17, Conrad of Cologne placing on the head of the new monarch the costly crown which he had himself provided.

With commendable energy Richard then proceeded to visit other parts of his domain, covering all of the Rhineland in less than a year. Wherever he went he distributed gifts with an almost spendthrift hand. He won the good will of the important officials by confirming grants in their favor, he greased the palms of minor officers, he handed purses of gold to the burghers and jewels to their buxom
wives. This prodigality was necessary because he was a stranger to the people of Germany and they had not been prepared to accept him with any degree of enthusiasm. Richard does not seem to have shown any hesitation about the freehanded scattering of the wealth he had accumulated so slowly and carefully. Perhaps he had always kept this end in mind. He seems to have been happy in his bargain, finding the touch of a gold rim on his brow an exhilarating sensation. And then there was Sanchia, happy, radiant; no longer would she need to sit on a stool in the presence of her two older sisters.

While Richard, pompously subscribing himself
Dei gratia Rex Romanorum semper augustus
, was enjoying the fruits of victory, Henry was struggling in the mire of his own feckless contriving in the Sicilian matter. The usual story had been repeated again. Henry and Richard had gone into the monarchial market together, the former to buy a crown for his son Edmund, the latter to buy one for himself. Henry had failed as usual and had succeeded in getting himself into a sorry mess; Richard had achieved his aim and now was seated, insecurely, it is true, on the imperial chair.

T
HAT
the elements hostile to Henry would sooner or later turn to Simon de Montfort for leadership was inevitable. They recognized his great ability and his soldierly gifts. At the investigation of his stewardship in Gascony they had seen him stand up boldly to the King, meeting charge with charge, taunt with taunt. They had fallen under the spell of his magnetic personality, his steady dark eyes, his warm smile. They knew him to be deeply and sincerely religious, stanchly loyal to any cause in which he had enlisted, willing always to take heavy risks when necessary. More and more the opposition had been rallying about him.

His actual assumption of leadership, however, can probably be traced to the accident of two assaults on the rights of individuals by the most cordially hated of the Lusignans, William of Valence, who was now proclaiming himself Earl of Pembroke. The King’s half brother had developed from the rather effeminate youth who had made such a pretense of chivalric observance into a man of the bitterest pride who believed himself above all law. One morning he sallied out from his castle of Hertford for a day’s hunting, and it happened that the fortunes of the chase carried his party into the park which surrounded the palace at Hatfield of the Bishop of Ely. The park was a remarkably fine ten-mile stretch of hunting land and was most zealously guarded by the bishop’s people. Centuries later it would become the property of Queen Elizabeth’s minister, Cecil,
and he would build his magnificent Hatfield House on the site of the bishop’s manor. Here, while Spanish counsel ruled England and the smoke of Smithfield fires filled the horizon, Elizabeth would be sitting under an old oak when the messengers brought her intelligence that her sister Mary was dead.

William of Valence and his huntsmen had no right to invade such a closely held domain, but that carried no weight with the King’s brother. He led his men into the wood and, after a vigorous day’s sport, they came to the bishop’s palace to demand refreshment. The bishop was not there, but the servants produced beer for the unbidden guests. This seemed to William of Valence something less than respectful to his person as well as unsatisfactory to his thirst, and he directed his followers to break open the bishop’s cellar. “Swearing awfully,” as Matthew Paris puts it, the huntsmen smashed the padlocks and broke off the bungs of the casks which held my lord of Ely’s finest wine. They were all drunk when they took to saddle, not bothering to stop the flow of the costly wine from the damaged casks.

When informed of what had happened the bishop maintained an air of calm. “What necessity was there,” he asked in a mild tone, “to steal and plunder that which would have been freely and willingly given if they had asked for it?” Then his feelings gained mastery of him and a fire began to burn in his eyes. “Accursed,” he cried, “be so many kings in one kingdom!”

The Bishop of Ely had put into words the feeling of the whole nation. What he had said passed from mouth to mouth until the phrase,
Accursed be so many kings in one kingdom
, could have served as the rallying cry of revolution. The incident focused again the enmity of the people of England on the Lusignans. All other grievances, even the major discontent with the King’s willfully weak rule, seemed secondary to the universal resentment felt for the haughty upstarts.

A similar trespass occurred at the time now reached in the recording of events. The hatred of the people for the many kings had been mounting all the while. It so happened that a steward of William of Valence entered and did some damage to property of Simon de Montfort near Leicester. Simon took the King’s brother to task at the next meeting of the Council and was haughtily rebuffed. The pair would have resorted to steel if Henry had not thrown himself between
them. Receiving no satisfaction in the matter, Simon brought it up again. He rose in the Hocktide Parliament of 1258, which met in London, and demanded that the injury done him be acknowledged and that compensation be given. William of Valence, his face contorted with anger, strode out to confront his accuser in the open space between the seats of the magnates.

“Traitor!” he cried. Then he further embroidered his accusation by adding, “Old traitor!”

“No, no, William,” said Simon de Montfort. “I am neither traitor nor traitor’s son. My father was not like yours!”

Steel was out this time when the King, fearing for the safety of his brother, thrust himself between them again, thereby bringing the royal legs into considerable jeopardy. The kingly person might have suffered some hurt if others had not intervened also.

Although nothing further seems to have been done at the time, the incident did not end there. By openly attacking the most hated of the Lusignans, Simon had made himself the one man around whom the opposition could group themselves. They were ready from that moment to stand behind Simon de Montfort and to fight against these continuous assaults on their rights and feelings. The Hocktide Parliament had begun its deliberations on April 9, and the quarrel took place immediately. On April 12 Simon was one of seven nobles who made a compact among themselves to stand together, to help one another to their rights “without wronging any man.”