At any rate, the king you now see approaching has murder on his soul. But this is only the beginning of his villainy. Seven years ago the Archbishop of Canterbury went to his rest, and the monks of the cathedral elected another and sent him to Rome for his pall. John chose for the high office a minion of his own, “a servant of Mammon, and an evil shepherd that devoured his own sheep.” Pope Innocent, the proudest and most powerful man who ever wore the triple crown, set both candidates aside and appointed Stephen Langton, a wise and pious Englishman, against whom no word of scandal could be breathed. But John would have none other but his own nominee. He defied the Pope, and then the thunders of Rome were heard in the land. For the king’s sins a religious boycott was imposed upon the people.
The most dreaded terror in the Papal armoury—an interdict—was placed on the land. The churches were closed, no bell rang for prayers, all rites were withheld from the people, and even the dead lay in unconsecrated ground. But John was not yet brought to his knees; he seized the goods and lands of the Church, and then Innocent in wrath cast him out of its pale. Still John was unsubdued; he plundered the Church even more remorselessly.
He treated the Jews as a money-sucking sponge, squeezing them by every conceivable cruelty until they gave up their wealth. One rich Jew, so the story goes, was forced to disgorge by the simple process of having a tooth drawn every day until he had to choose between his remaining molars and his money bags. Others were starved in cages fastened to castle walls until their spirit of resistance was broken.
Military success did not fail the wicked king at this crisis. He compelled William the Lion of Scotland to do homage and pay heavy tribute, and he did the only really good work of his life in Ireland. From that country, which had been destined as his principality, John had been driven in the lifetime of his father by an onslaught of the Irish chiefs, whom he had abominably insulted and goaded into rebellion. Now he returned, and made short work of them and of the quarrelsome Anglo-Normans. He pacified the distracted land, made good laws, appointed capable officers, and sailed home in triumph. Then he turned his victorious arms against his son-in-law, Llewellyn, and forced the Welsh prince to do homage in the midst of his mountain fastnesses. And all the time John snapped his fingers at the Pope.
Innocent’s patience being now well-nigh exhausted, he sent to England his legate Pandulf, who solemnly declared John’s subjects free of their oath of fealty. But most of the nobles and many of the more worldly clergy still stuck to John, and his hired troops feared neither Pope nor devil. So John still held out, and even began to win the goodwill of his subjects by regulating the seaport trade, and by pardoning offenders against the barbarous forest laws of the time. Now came the Pope’s final sentence—John was to be hurled from the throne, and another and a worthier king should reign in his stead.
Philip of France was chosen to carry out the decree, and speedily he mustered an army for the venture. On all hands foes arose, and though the English barons and people were quite ready to fight for their king, John was for the first time thoroughly frightened. He feared to die outside the Church, and he was terrified by a monkish prophecy that he should lose his crown ere next Ascension Day. So he begged forgiveness of Innocent, knelt before Pandulf, and gave up his kingdom, which he received back on promise of amendment and a yearly tribute as vassal of the Pope. The anger of the English people at this base act knew no bounds. “He has become the Pope’s man,” they sneered; “he is no longer a king, but a slave.” Still more angry did they become when John sent an expedition to France, which, after capturing Philip’s fleet and burning his stores, was hopelessly beaten and driven back to England.
Many of the barons had refused to join this ill-fated expedition, and now John began to punish them. This was the last straw. They met in wrath, and Stephen Langton showed them the charter which Henry the First had granted to his people one hundred years before. The barons, utterly disgusted with John and all his works, now knelt before the high altar of St. Edmund’s minster and swore that they would make the king put his seal to a similar charter, even if they had to plunge the land in civil war. They girded on their armour, and under Robert Fitzwalter, “marshal of the army of God and of holy Church,” marched on London, where the citizens threw open the gates to receive them. “These articles,” cried the king, when they were presented to him, “are pure foolishness. Why do they not ask me for the kingdom at once? I will never give them such freedom as would make me their slave.” Brave words these, but when John perceived that all his knights but seven had deserted him he saw that he had no alternative but to yield.
And now let us turn again to the scene on the little island in the Thames. John has ascended his throne, and, holding the sword of state in his hand, battles hard with the fierce rage that is gnawing in his heart. Now he must repress his feelings, but to-night he will give them full fling. He will throw himself on the ground, gnash his teeth, and in a torrent of rage utter curses loud and deep. But here he must dissemble his wrath. Around him are the barons in full armour, their hearts as hard and their wills as unyielding as the mail which clothes them. A monk reads the charter, but the king is not listening. He is plotting and planning how to make these barons eat dirt for the insult they are putting upon him. By his side is Pandulf, urging him to defy them; but the king knows the resistless might of angry Englishmen better than any foreign churchman. He is in a trap; he must yield, but woe betide those who have made him do so!
The reading of the charter is finished, and John cries reluctantly, “Let it be sealed.” Then the charter is placed on the table in front of him, the wax is melted and placed on the parchment, the seal is screwed down, and the great charter becomes, for all time, the law of the land.
Now, what is this charter which has just been sealed? It is really a treaty of peace between king and people. “We will retain you as king,” they say, “only on condition that you swear to keep the law thus written down.” It is no new thing this law, but the old rights and the old liberties of the people collected together, and for the first time put into black and white. All the freemen of the land have united to extort this charter from the king, and the rights of all classes are laid down in it. Naturally, much of the charter deals with the rights of the barons and the clergy, for they have had the chief hand in securing it, but one-third of it contains promises and guarantees for the people in general. All praise to the barons! Unlike those of some foreign lands, they are not selfish now that they have got the upper hand of the king. Of course they take very good care of themselves, but to their credit be it said that they do not neglect the welfare of the nation at large.