The stench of London mingled with the salt tang of its river. It was the fetor of teeming humanity – sweat and ordure, woodsmoke and boiling offal. As their party clattered through the streets, that stink only intensified, underscored by the uneasy muttering of the crowds that lined their path.
King John rode at the head of the column, his mount’s banneret of red and gold fluttering on the breeze. He sat stiff in the saddle, jaw clenched, as if he could barely stomach the miasma of his own capital. To his right rode William Marshal, grim-faced as ever. On the king’s left was Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury, his vestments standing out brightly against the dolour.
Estienne kept his head down, trying to avoid the curious stares of the city folk as they passed. He felt out of place here, a country boy thrust into the heart of England’s greatest city. The clamour of it assailed him – the cries of hawkers, the clatter of hooves and wheels on cobbles, the incessant yammering of gulls. Everywhere he looked there was the motion and din of street pedlars plying their trade on corners, wagons laden with produce trundling by, packs of snarling dogs squabbling over scraps. This place had a restless energy to it, a sense of barely leashed turmoil. Shutters clattered closed as they rode by, and more than one passerby spat in their wake. The common folk, it seemed, had little love for their king.
‘Misbegotten rabble,’ John muttered, just loud enough for those closest to hear. ‘They breed like rats in a granary.’
‘They are your subjects, Your Grace,’ the archbishop said, his voice leavened with gentle reproach. ‘The flock you were born to shepherd.’
John’s lip curled. ‘A shepherd often needs to cull his flock, lest the rot spread. Perhaps it is time I unleashed some wolves amid their pens.’
Marshal stirred in his saddle, a frown marring his stern features, but he held his tongue. Estienne didn’t miss the uneasy looks that darted between the king’s knights. Even they could sense the brittleness beneath John’s bluster, the fear gnawing at his bowels.
At last, the Temple Church loomed before them, its pale stone standing starkly against the drabness of its surroundings. As they drew closer, Estienne saw knight-monks gathered beneath the Temple’s vast archway in full regalia, their mail and surcoats pristine.
The Master of the Temple stepped forward to greet them. King John clambered down from his destrier, but there was no warmth in the nod he directed to the Templars, just stony acknowledgement. The archbishop murmured a blessing after he too dismounted, clutching the crucifix that swung from his neck.
Only William Marshal took a moment to greet the Templar master, clasping his hand before nodding. ‘Brother Aimery.’
The Templar inclined his head, respect flickering in those pale eyes. ‘Marshal.’
Their party was led into the depths of the Temple, footsteps echoing. The nave opened out around them, its sheer immensity enough to take Estienne’s breath away. Shafts of light speared down from the high windows, motes of dust dancing in the beams. Candles guttered in iron sconces, their meagre flames doing little to alleviate the gloom.
And there, at the far end of the hall, a sea of steel-clad men waited.
The rebel barons.
A wary hush fell as Estienne and the others proceeded down the aisle, the march of their feet against the flagstones loud as drumbeats. Even from a distance, Estienne recognised Robert FitzWalter, his arms crossed, a sword belted over his surcoat. There was a score more besides, grim and bristling, surcoats aglitter with the sigils of England’s greatest houses. But none made Estienne’s gut clench like the two figures flanking FitzWalter. A pair he knew all too well.
Guillaume Marshal strode to the front, every inch the young lord. At his side, Ilbert FitzDane, a wolf in mail, looking as fearsome as the wyvern emblazoned on his chest.
The barons waited as King John approached, and Estienne felt the hairs prickle on his nape as he marked their scowling faces. This was no gathering of courtiers, no council of the realm; these were men on a war footing, armed and armoured. King John seemed to sense it too, for he stopped a bare dozen paces from the assembled throng. When he spoke, his voice echoed in the silence, dripping with injured pride and spite.
‘I am not accustomed to being summoned within my own kingdom, least of all by those who style themselves my leal vassals. It should be I demanding your presence, not the other way around.’
For a long, fraught moment, the barons said nothing. Then Robert FitzWalter took a step forward. He was taller than the king and leaner in the face. When he spoke, his voice was deep and measured.
‘Your Grace, forgive our presumption, but the current discord has forced our hand. We come to you not in defiance, but in the hope of redressing the grievances that plague this kingdom.’
‘Grievances? You speak of grievances, FitzWalter, when it is I who should voice complaint. I, who have been forced to bear the brunt of your obstinance and treachery.’
A low, angry mutter rippled through the barons’ ranks, and FitzWalter held up a hand for silence. ‘There is fault enough on all sides, Your Grace. But we are not here to bandy accusations.’
The king drew himself up. ‘Then why exactly are you here, my lord? From where I stand, it looks ominously like an armed rebellion against your anointed sovereign.’
‘No rebellion, Your Grace.’ A shout came from the depths of the barons’ ranks, thick with barely restrained wrath. ‘Only honest men, driven to desperation.’
The cry seemed to galvanise the rest of the barons, and suddenly the Temple was ringing with a dozen clamouring voices, each trying to shout over the other.
FitzWalter raised both hands. ‘Peace. All of you.’
Slowly the noise subsided, but the air was still thick with their fury. King John’s face was set, and Estienne could almost hear his teeth grinding.
‘Your Grace,’ FitzWalter began again, ‘we have indeed been driven to desperate measures, but it is not without just cause. For too long now, you have ruled this kingdom with scant regard for the rights and dignities of your barons. You have levied punitive taxes, seized lands and titles on a whim, and subverted the very laws meant to govern this realm.’
John’s eye twitched. ‘You overstep, FitzWalter.’
The baron ploughed on, heedless. ‘The barons of England will suffer these abuses no longer. Nor will the Church, whose coffers you have plundered, and whose ancient rights you have defiled.’
The archbishop stirred at that, spreading his hands in a placating gesture. ‘My lord, let us not—’
‘What would you have of me, then?’ John cut across him, his voice dripping scorn. ‘What must I do to appease this nest of disloyalty?’
Robert FitzWalter met the king’s glare levelly. ‘We ask only that you uphold the Charter of Liberties once sworn by your grandfather, King Henry. That you affirm the ancient rights, laws and customs of this kingdom. Rule by the law, not above it.’
‘I am to sign a proclamation binding me to laws written a hundred years ago?’
‘Of course not,’ FitzWalter replied calmly. ‘There will be a new charter. With new statutes.’
‘You dare dictate terms to me?’ King John’s face flushed. ‘As if I were some serf, dancing to your command?’
‘No man is above the law, Your Grace. Not even a king. Swear to us that you will abide by the charter and uphold justice for all, and there need be no more strife between us.’
For a long moment, John glared at the baron, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
‘And if I refuse?’
FitzWalter’s eyes were hard as iron. ‘Then, Your Grace, there may be violent consequences.’
Silence met FitzWalter’s words, and for an instant, Estienne was certain the king would fly at him in a rage. But then John drew in a shuddering breath, visibly mastering himself.
‘If I bend the knee to your demands, what guarantee do I have that you and your fellow barons will not simply use this… charter… as a pretext to cede further power and privilege? Do not think I am deaf to the whispers in my kingdom. The poison dripping from your lips as you spin your webs.’
The archbishop made to speak again, but it was William Marshal who stepped forward.
‘I think,’ he said, each word freighted with care, ‘that what His Grace desires is an assurance of your own faith, my lords. A promise that you will cleave to him as your liege and put aside any thought of… other pretenders.’
Estienne saw more than one baron shift uneasily. Marshal’s meaning was plain enough, that King John feared the shadow of the French prince looming beyond his shores and he would have their allegiance over a potential usurper.
Robert FitzWalter was the first to speak. ‘We seek only to have our traditional rights and liberties upheld, to be ruled with justice and honour, as is our due. We do not speak of false kings.’
John snorted. ‘You do not? Then why do I hear rumours of you sounding Louis the Lion on his prospects? Because if it is true, it will be a black day for any who would support his claim.’
Murmurs of discontent ran through the barons again, and Estienne caught more than one black look cast the king’s way.
‘Your Grace,’ the Marshal cut in again, his voice ringing with authority. ‘This accomplishes nothing. The purpose here is to find accord, not cast aspersions.’
King John rounded on him. ‘Aspersions? These snakes come to me with threats and demands, and yet you would have me—’
‘I would have you consider their petition, sire. For the good of the kingdom.’ Marshal looked at the barons again. ‘I am sure my lords here would be willing to affirm their allegiance to you once more, should you swear to uphold the charter they propose.’
Mutterings arose at that, but Robert FitzWalter swept his gaze over the malcontents, quelling them with the force of his stare alone.
‘Earl William is right, Your Grace. If you would show good faith to us, we would do the same to you. Let the terms of the charter be written, that you may judge them fairly. If you find them just, my lords here will have no qualms affirming their oaths to you once more.’
‘And if I find I cannot submit to your terms?’ John replied. ‘What then, my lord? Will you and your fellow barons rise in revolt, as you so clearly yearn to do?’
FitzWalter’s face hardened. ‘It is not revolt we seek, Your Grace. Only a just accord between king and vassals.’
John barked a laugh. ‘An accord? One where I play the serf, it seems, while you and yours play lord over me. What king rolls over for his subjects like a spaniel, with his belly bared and his tail between his legs?’
‘We only wish to see a lasting peace won for this kingdom.’
‘A peace won with swords bared and threats on your lips? You have a strange notion of accord, FitzWalter.’
It was the archbishop’s turn to interject, moving between the two men with his hands raised. ‘Your Grace, please. In the eyes of God, we are here to seek common ground, not—’
‘I will not be dictated to in my own kingdom,’ John snarled. ‘Not by you, not by them, not by any man living.’
The barons erupted then, pent-up fury spilling out in a torrent. Estienne’s heart slammed against his ribs as he readied himself for the first of them to seek violence…
‘Enough!’
William Marshal’s bellow thundered across the clamour. In a blink he was between King John and the barons, one hand raised, the other resting on the hilt of his sword. The very force of his presence was enough to halt the barons in their tracks, and an uneasy hush fell over them.
Marshal regarded the face of every baron. ‘There will be no bloodshed in this holy place. You dishonour yourselves with this display.’
For a long, taut moment, it seemed the barons might defy him, but slowly, they began to settle back, hands moving from sword hilts.
Marshal turned to King John. ‘Your Grace, I beseech you. For the sake of the realm, let us have peace here. Allow the barons to set down their grievances. Read their charter and judge it with a fair hand. Only then may we hope to see this discord resolved.’
John glared at him, nostrils flared. Estienne feared he would let his temper master him, but instead he nodded. ‘Very well. Have your damned charter drawn up. I will read it, though I promise nothing more.’
Robert FitzWalter offered a bow. ‘We thank you, Your Grace. The charter will be delivered to you with all haste. We trust you will weigh it with care, and see the justice in our cause.’
Without another glance at the assembled barons, King John stormed from the Temple, his knights scrambling to follow with the archbishop hurrying in their wake. Only William Marshal lingered, casting one last look at the barons. Estienne saw his eyes land on Guillaume, but his son offered no acknowledgement, and after a moment, Marshal turned away.
Estienne fell into step beside him as they emerged into daylight. Marshal’s face was bleak as weathered stone.
‘This will not hold,’ he muttered, more to himself than Estienne. ‘John may bend for now, but this is no true peace. Only a drawing of breath before the next clash.’
Estienne said nothing, but the knot of dread in his belly grew larger with every heartbeat. He could not help but think that steel would soon sing. And God help them all when it did.