“Nor me either,” Geoffrey pointed out, “I know well enough who would have paid the double ransom Isabella offered. I do not think he will dare accuse me of treason, however. I will go to Saint Edmunds.”
“We must see how you heal,” Ian temporized, but he obviously thought well of the idea.
Once over the hump of infection, Geoffrey healed with the rapidity of youth, which was fortunate because Ian had to rush north to quell a totally unexpected rising on his own lands. He had not been worried about the scutage because his men had gone with him to serve the king. However, he had obtained quittance for certain of his vassals for varying reasons. The king conveniently “forgot” these quittances and levied scutage. Promptly, even eagerly, Ian’s vassals armed themselves to resist, after informing their overlord of the despite done them. First, Ian confronted John with the signed quittances, wrung from him a written, signed, and sealed pardon of the scutage, and then went to calm his seething men.
This, of course, did not endear Ian to John, but Salisbury had returned from France and was showing his brother such a black countenance and such icy reserve that the king did not even frown at any man Salisbury loved. First, it was necessary to convince Salisbury that the price offered for Geoffrey’s body was offered
after
it was known he had not been taken alive and that the intention was only that Geoffrey should not be buried in an unmarked and untended grave. John was shocked when this reasonable explanation was not snapped up with relief. He withdrew himself with wounded dignity, but he suffered more than Salisbury from the chill between them and he was very careful not to exacerbate his brother’s suspicion by attacks on any of Salisbury’s friends. Nonetheless, it was thought best for Ian to remain in the north.
Geoffrey went to Bury Saint Edmunds. He was quite well, except for an odd gaitone short step, one longand for the fact that he still tired easily. To provide him with an active and reliable pair of hands and feet, in case violence broke out or much running to and fro was necessary, Adam went along with his brother-by-marriage. They returned frankly enthused both over the idea of a charter and the moderate behavior of the men. Nothing was to be done in haste, Adam reported at a family council. Alinor stared unbelievingly at her son, so much the man now that he understood the purpose and importance of political maneuvering.
The terms of the charter would be presented to the king and he would have sufficient time to consider before any pressure was applied, Adam continued. Geoffrey concurred with Adam’s description of the proceedings, adding only that he thought there were some who were not too well pleased with the moderation. For them, he feared, this talk of a charter was only a device to draw in the uncertain until they were in too deep to withdraw. Perhaps the more rebellious hoped to drive the king into a rage, Geoffrey suggested, so that many would despair of reaching a settlement and join the more radical element.
If that was true, it did not show at first. Possibly, that was because the king also behaved with great moderation. He attended calmly to the complaints presented to him by a delegation on January 6, 1215. He even agreed that these were matters of grave importance, that there might have been injustices done. Finally, he said that he would consider what was owing to his lords and to his own honor and give them a reply after Easter. The family was dispersed by then, but Salisbury was back in court; he had not been able to resist John’s urgent invitations with their note of pleading, only his eyes were clearer than they once had been. He wrote to Geoffrey at Hemel, and Joanna wrote to Adam and her mother that John was not as passive as he appeared. He had written to the pope for support.
Innocent’s first move was as conciliatory as the king’s, which implied either that he had attended to Langton’s analysis of the situation or that John had actually written a fair account of the case. Both of these expedients seemed so unlikely that it was simpler to credit Innocent with divine perspicacity. First, the pope had been sadly disappointed in Stephen Langton, who was a man of strong independence and a fanatic devotion to true justice. Thus, Innocent was at daggers drawn with the man he had forced on John in the belief he was inserting a faithful tool of his own into the government of England. It was most unlikely he would attend to anything Langton wrote.
Joanna and Alinor also dismissed the idea of John’s being fair out of hand. They took comfort in the thought that the pope was a man of great wisdom and had seen through John’s demands. Oddly, Geoffrey did not agree. As much as he loathed his uncle, he believed John did want peace at this time and was anxious to be conciliatory. Since John’s best hope for peace was if the pope acted as mediator, it was not impossible that the king had stated the problem honestly.
Whatever the reason, Innocent did not blast the charter or those who proposed it. He offered instead that if there were differences between the king and his barons that he would himself, or through an impartial legate, arbitrate the differences. It was at this point that Geoffrey’s predictions came true. The hard core of real disaffected showed their purpose. They neither accepted the pope’s offer nor reiterated their demand that John sign the reasonable charter that had been written. What they did was to publish a new set of demands that were, frankly, outrageous. John refused with dignity and calm. On May 3, Eustace de Vesci, Robert Fitz Walter, and their kinsmen and adherents formally renounced their homage to the king and moved to besiege Northampton.
Joanna had the news by May 5. She was in Roselynde, Geoffrey having refused to take her to court with him because at last there was a hope that she was breeding. She did not weep when she heard that civil war was at hand, but she did not dare look in the mirror for she knew what kind of eyes would look back at her. Grimly, she told old Beorn to choose out a party to accompany her within the next few days. She was sure she would need to ride out to urge men to answer a war summons they would rather ignore and to gather supplies. The ugly task fell upon her shoulders because Alinor was in the north again. Ian had no hope of bringing men to the king, but he was making a last-ditch effort to keep them neutral.
The summons did not come, however. Joanna had a half-hopeful letter from Geoffrey to say that John had taken no notice of the hostile act beyond announcing that he was ready to accept the pope as arbiter of all the differences between his lords and himself. In addition he promised, without urging or pressure, not to take those who had declared against him as enemies, not to disseise them, nor attack them, except as allowed by law or by a court of their own peers.
This nearly took the wind from the rebels’ sails. A number of lukewarm adherents deserted and, what made the rebels look ridiculous, they could not take Northampton. To save face, they abandoned that siege and moved upon Bedford. That stronghold fell to them, but it was known to be held by a sympathizer who had put up only a token resistance. It seemed as if John had the kingdom in his hand again and that it was time to close his iron fist upon the rebels.
Again, Joanna prepared to summon men and gather supplies. Geoffrey’s next letter stopped her, asking her to send money instead. “I do not know whether the king is right or wrong, but he has bought troops of mercenaries instead of summoning an army out of his own realm. There is some reason for this, as you know, John having little reason to trust armies made up of those who owe service, yet I fear that it will work ill, breeding resentment in the people. The rebels are all, whatever else can be said of them, men of this land.”
“As to the news you wrote me that our hope of a child was over, your flux having begun again,” he continued, “I can truly say I am sorry only for your sake, as I know you desire a little one. We are young yet, and there is time in plenty. Also, I take too much pleasure in the effort to get a babe on you to grieve much over the need for continued effort. Mayhap I should not jest, knowing that you are disappointed, but if I do not I must say to you that I shudder with fear when I think of bringing a lamb into the pack of wolves among whom we live.”
Geoffrey’s fears were immediately proved valid when London, crying her fear of rape by the foreign mercenaries, opened her gates to the rebels and prepared to defend herself stoutly against Salisbury and the Flemish troops he led. An enormous army with numerous siege engines and endless supplies would be necessary to break London, and the city could not be besieged because of the river. Salisbury withdrew. The beating heart of the kingdom, from whence flowed a good part of the gold and goods that kept it alive, was locked away from the king.
Stalemate. The rebels could not come out. The king could not get in.
On June 10, John came to Windsor. Negotiations began anew. Because Geoffrey was known to be faithful to the king and yet to dislike him heartily for good reason, he was considered the perfect intermediary. Many who feared to go directly to Langton, who was serving as spokesman for the rebels although he dissociated himself from them, and others who feared to receive any messenger from the king, were all willing to talk to Geoffrey.
Back and forth he went between Windsor and London. Geoffrey rode the track so often that he could soon sleep on his horse while it found its own way. That was just as well because he had little other time to sleep. It seemed to him that he no sooner took off his clothes and lay down in either place than he was summoned by another stealthy messenger who led him to a nervous overlord with still another suggestion or complaint. His hip ached unmercifully, but not nearly so much as his jaw ached from being clamped tight over expression of his own convictions.
Too clever by half, Ian called Geoffrey, and it was true. He was observant and thoughtful, and he saw more than those intimately concerned noticed. They were absorbed in details. This word was changed and that phrase. The barons were convinced to yield one small matter; the king yielded another. Langton grew gaunter, his burning eyes like beacons in his tired, ashen face. Some feared he would fail physically, but it was not at him that Geoffrey looked when he was called to be told of the answer decided upon for a complaint or suggestion he had transmitted. Geoffrey looked at the king. That barrel body grew no thinner and, although from time to time he would rant and roar, to Geoffrey’s ears there was something false in John’s display of rage.
Ian rode down from the north and arrived on June 14. He was tired, for he had ridden through two nights, but he was very happy because a dream that he had held for many years seemed near to fruition. Geoffrey kept his jaw clamped shut. What was the use of moaning of vague disquiets and spoiling Ian’s joy with forebodings? He rode back and forth between London and Windsor, opening his mouth only to repeat as near word perfect as he could what other men had bid him say.
Late that night, he was summoned for the last time, now to his father’s apartments where he was shown a copy of the completed document. Politely he scanned it. He was familiar with most of the sixty-one articles, particularly with those of which every word had been picked over until both sides agreed it was bare and strong as bone. He looked a little more closely at the other articles, those which had been left as mere suggestions because they did not sear men’s souls, things like the measures by which goods should be judged. There was nothing in those that could account for his uneasiness, Geoffrey decided, until he came to the very last. He had heard nothing of this, and he read it with starting eyes.
Having done, he cried out to Salisbury that it was madness, pacing the floor as he expostulated. Salisbury, who still winced inwardly at Geoffrey’s uneven gait, looked aside. The king had always had a council, he pointed out in a dead voice. This was only a formalization of that.
“Formalization! Papa, have you not read this? This council has the
right
to rebel against the king and to call up the country to force the king to its will. I have my differences with my uncle, but he cannot agree to this. No king can agree to this.” ‘‘I am not blind or deaf,” Salisbury remarked indifferently. “I have both read and heard that article. Without it, the barons will not accept the charter, and John says he desires peace. He says he is tired of war and grief”
Appalled at the tone and even more at the phrase “John says,” which implied that Salisbury did not believe his brother, Geoffrey stared at his father. Cold settled inside him. Salisbury did not care. He had seen that he had loved a lie all his life, but he could not break the habit.
“Besides,” Salisbury continued reasonably if still without much interest, “you knowand I, and Johnthat twenty-five men, all of equal importance in their own eyes, will never agree on anything, much less anything worthwhile, such as what is just cause for rebellion. I tried to have the mention of the four responsible for summoning the others taken out, but Langton outmaneuvered me there. Without that, the article might as well not be written. Even with itoh, what does it matter!”
On June 15 in a great meadow called Runnymede, King John signed and sealed the Magna Carta. Geoffrey did not witness the signing. He went to bed. No one missed him in all the excitement, until after the feasting and celebrations were over when Ian, Adam, and Salisbury gathered in the earl’s chamber for a last drink and a little quiet conversation. Then it appeared that no one had seen Geoffrey all day. Anxiety leapt into Salisbury’s eyes. A messenger was sent hastily to seek him and ran him to earth, still sleeping heavily. Wakened and told he was wanted in his father’s chamber, Geoffrey dressed hurriedly and went without asking why.
“Come have a drink with us and celebrate” Adam hesitated. He had been about to say, “celebrate the curbing of the king, but in deference to Salisbury he changed it to, “the new peace.”
“Bah!” Geoffrey exclaimed furiously, and began to swing around to return to bed.
“Wait, Geoffrey. Tell me what is wrong.” Ian was plainly distressed. Geoffrey usually had a very sweet disposition. He had even been good natured and patient to a remarkable degree all the weeks he had been abed. This irritability was not at all like him; it was unnatural.