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.”
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.”
Jocelin shrugged scornfully. London was a formidable, perhaps decisive power; but he was a knight, not a mere merchant, and he was concerned with defending a principle which, now that it had been challenged, he knew was all-important.
“You are fighting divine authority,” he stated, and staring with eyes full of both sorrow and anger, he addressed Hugh in French. “I order you to submit, or you will no longer be my son.” Then he rode away.
It was while he witnessed this quarrel between Jocelin and his only son, that Peter Shockley, whose opinion had not been asked, understood finally where he stood. For although he had missed many of the philosophical points, his pragmatic mind, moving instinctively, had grasped the essential issue that lay beneath the high-flown argument. “It makes no difference to us whether the
king rules or his council.” he remarked to his father afterwards. “We need peace and low taxes for the fulling mill. And,” he added ominously, “we must see that we get them.”
Within a week, there was no one in Sarum who did not know about the quarrel between Jocelin de Godefroi and his heir. They no longer lived under the same roof. Though his baby son remained at the manor house in the care of his father’s women, Hugh moved into a house in the new city where he lived quietly, but in open defiance of his father’s wishes.
Hugh was not alone. There were many voices of discontent raised in Sarum now and in February a new and larger contingent of the king’s troops arrived in the castle. The message was clear: the town remained relatively quiet and even Hugh found it necessary to conduct himself carefully. Nonetheless, in the coming weeks he disappeared twice on visits to destinations that could only be guessed at.
The months of February and March also brought fresh rumours. London was in an uproar and had declared for Simon. Montfort himself had broken his leg in an accident at the start of the year – there were rumours that he was dying, others that he was already on the move. Prince Edward was sweeping across the country with his friends from the border castles of Wales: early in April he and his father took the castle at Northampton. And now news came that Simon de Montfort was definitely in the field.
Despite these political events, the business at the fulling mill continued to thrive and at the end of March Peter began to consider enlarging the mill with a new extension. Accordingly, at Jocelin’s request, Osmund the Mason paid several visits to the mill to advise on the construction.
It was one morning in mid-April, as Peter and Osmund came out of the mill after one of these discussions, that they saw Hugh de Godefroi approaching. He was riding the magnificent black charger which had borne him so many times to triumph in the lists. Behind him he led two other horses, one of which was a second charger, the other a packhorse carrying his equipment: the great suit of chain mail, that stretched from his neck to his feet, his shield with the swan on its red ground, his sword and lances, and the great helm – the solid metal head cover fashionable at the time that resembled an upturned saucepan with two slits for the eyes. Over his leather tunic, Hugh was wearing a red cloak bearing the white cross of the crusader.
“Where’s my father?” he asked.
In the two months since Hugh had left, the old knight had resumed control of the estate and, to distract his thoughts from the quarrel with his son, he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the business. He had visited the mill every two days and Peter, though the older man never asked him, had always mentioned the fact if he had seen Hugh in the city and given Jocelin a report of him, as though he did not know of the quarrel between them. Few people at Sarum would have dared to do such a thing, but Peter suspected that the knight’s regular visits to the mill were not unconnected.
“Should be by shortly,” he answered.
The three men waited in silence. All knew what this visit meant. And it was not long before Jocelin came into sight.
He was erect as ever. From a distance he might have been a young man. He seemed for a moment to hesitate, but then walked his horse straight towards them; as he came up, his eyes seemed very bright and very hard. Father and son faced each other. Jocelin’s eyes fixed on his son’s cloak.
“Do you have the right to wear that cross, monsieur?”
Hugh inclined his head.
“Oui, monsieur. The Bishop of Worcester and three other bishops have given us the right.” That several bishops should recently have decided that his rebellion ranked as a holy war was a great coup for Simon de Montfort. “I have come to ask for your blessing,” Hugh continued.
The older man nodded curtly. He need not refuse what a bishop had already granted. He dismounted and Hugh did the same.
Without a word, Hugh knelt on the ground in front of the mill. Gently Jocelin removed from his own neck the little chain on which the badge from the shrine of St Thomas à Becket at Canterbury hung. Silently he placed it over the head of his son.
“I do not agree with your quarrel, but go with my blessing all the same,” he said gruffly.
Hugh got up. It was curious to see the two men, Peter thought, the one so perfect a replica of the other. The reconciliation made, both men looked relieved. Hugh looked down at the little badge and touched it affectionately.
“I understand, monsieur, that your journey takes you towards the shrine of this saint,” his father said wryly. “Perhaps you could kindly bring me another badge.” It was a courtly jest, that Hugh smiled at: for it was well known that the forces of Montfort were gathering in Kent, on the Canterbury road.
“Certainly, monsieur,” he replied gracefully. “We hope to be only briefly detained on the way.”
No one spoke as he rode away; and as soon as he was out of sight, Jocelin too, having forgotten his business at the mill, mounted his horse and rode up towards the high ground. From up there, Peter suspected, the knight might catch another glimpse of Hugh as he took the road towards the east.
But neither the Godefrois, Shockley or the mason realised that there had been two other witnesses to the scene. William atte Brigge and his son John, a dark, sharp-eyed boy of seventeen, had come from behind the mill, unnoticed, just as the two Godefrois had dismounted. Hanging back by the corner of the building where they would not be seen, they had watched carefully as Hugh received his blessing. William had looked thoughtful: one never knew the value of information, but he sensed that what he had witnessed was important.
“Remember that,” he said quietly to his son. “It might come in useful one day.”
The battle of Lewes took place on May 14, 1264.
The town of Lewes lay near the coast, some sixty miles west of the Dover Straits and immediately below the high chalk ridge of the South Downs. It was a small place – about the size of Wilton – and it boasted a small castle and an ancient priory belonging to the monks of Cluny.
The forces of King Henry and his son Edward were camped beside the town when, after dawn, they saw the army of Simon de Montfort in battle line upon the chalk ridge above, with the Londoners on the left wing. The night before, Simon’s army had been given absolution by the Bishop of Worcester. They wore crusader crosses on their breasts.
The battle was brief. Prince Edward attacked up the hill, cut the Londoners off from the rest of Simon’s force, and managed to drive them into some nearby marshes through which he pursued them for several hours. When he returned to the battleground, however, he found that his own victory had been a side issue and that in the meantime Montfort had completely routed the rest of the army. The king and his brother were prisoners, and the battle was all over.
There were very few knights killed in the engagement. One, who had valiantly ridden to the aid of the Londoners as he saw them being driven back, was trapped in their flight, toppled accidentally from his horse by men at arms who did not stop to help him, and butchered a few moments later by a group of Prince Edward’s foot soldiers. He was identified afterwards by the white swan on his shield.
On the king’s side, although they lost, the main battle was so brief and decisive that the casualties were not large. Amongst them however was an elderly knight, who should not have been fighting at all, named Geoffrey de Whiteheath.
It was in June that Alicia quietly returned to the house in Castle Street. It astonished her to realise that she had not been to Sarum for twenty years.
Outwardly she had changed very little: only the little lines around her eyes, which were not unattractive, suggested her age. Her hair still had no streaks of grey. As for her inner feelings – she was not sure herself.
She had not been unhappy. She had given Geoffrey de Whiteheath a child a year after their marriage, but it had been a girl, and for some reason, though she had tried, there had been no son to follow. Geoffrey had slipped into old age without the son he had married her for and she had watched his broad, handsome face gradually sink in
upon itself and gather lines of age and sadness he could not conceal. Their daughter had been married the year before and after this he had been left alone with a wife who had failed him and a fine estate which no longer brought him joy.
When – though he had difficulty in clambering into his chain mail – he insisted on going to join King Henry, she knew what was in his mind and did not try to stop him. And when he bade her a loving and courteous goodbye, she had been glad to see the eager look on his old face as he rode off to his final battle, from which, she was well aware, he had no intention of returning.
The estate had passed to his brother; she was left with comfortable means, and she had left Winchester without regrets.
But what next?
“I’m neither young nor old,” she thought as she approached the growing city of her childhood.
She found it fuller than it had been before. The half-empty chequers in the northern part of the new town were now almost all built over. People had been drawn to the thriving market town from all over the southern half of the island – from Bristol, London, Norwich, and even further afield: it was teeming.
And above its roofs now rose the long grey line of the nearly completed cathedral.
Her father had died five years before and her brother Walter had succeeded him. She spent three pleasant days in her brother’s house. She inspected the cathedral and marvelled at its long, clean lines. She paid a visit of respect to her uncle Portehors, who was now very frail, but who insisted on stiffly walking beside her to show her the completed watercourses in the streets; but she saw few other faces that she knew.
It was on the third evening of her visit, when they were alone together, that her brother broached the subject that was on his mind. He was like her father, she thought, except that he had developed a fulsome, pompous manner, where Alan Le Portier had always been caustic and dry.