IT was Friday, the 15th of June, 1215, a week before Midsummer Eve, or the vigil of John the Baptist, and the sun shone fair on Runnymede—a large green meadow on the margin of the Thames, midway between Windsor and Staines—when thither came King John and the Anglo-Norman barons (the King from Windsor, and the barons from Staines) to bring their fierce dispute to a close, and give peace and security to England, by putting their signatures and the great seal of the realm to that important document since known as Magna Charta, and regarded with veneration as the foundation of England’s laws and liberties.
Runnymede was not unworthy of being the scene of a ceremony so memorable in the annals of a nation which clung tenaciously to its old history and traditions, and which forced even the iron-handed, iron-clad, and strong-willed heirs of the Norman conquerors—the grandsons of the men who had fought under the banner of Duke William at Hastings—to treat the history and traditions with respect, and demand a restoration of the laws of Edward the Confessor, the last of the old royal line. In earlier days, when the Saxon kings had a palace at Old Windsor, Runnymede had been celebrated as a place where the people assembled to discuss public questions of great moment; and where now cattle graze and wild flowers spring, grew a gigantic oak, under the shade of which Alfred or Athelstane, perhaps, had occupied a throne of stone, and sat in royal state, when rallying their subjects to their standard to resist the inroads of the Danes.
It was around this oak, which the English regarded with a superstitious veneration, the origin of which might have been traced back to the time when the Druids performed their mysterious rites, and sacrificed and feasted under the shelter of its spreading branches, that the king and the barons met—John, who was attired in a gorgeous style, being attended by the Earl of Pembroke, Hugh Neville, Keeper of the Great Seal, the papal legate and eight bishops, and seventy knights—Fitzwalter and his confederates, who were in chain-mail, with long swords at their sides, having an array of fighting men which fully proved the mighty feudal power they possessed, and one sight of which must have convinced their sovereign that, on that day at least, they were masters, and that he was there simply to do their bidding.
Nor, to judge from John’s countenance and demeanour, would it have been possible for a spectator, however acute or intelligent, to entertain any doubt that he was a willing actor in the solemn scene that was being enacted in presence of the legate and the bishops. When the charter, of which he well knew and understood the contents, was handed to him, he received it with alacrity, and signed it without a murmur expressive of reluctance, and looked on calmly, almost cheerfully, while the barons—each in his turn—set their signatures to it, and Hugh Neville, in his official capacity, appended the great seal of the realm. But now a circumstance occurred which brought the blood to John’s cheek. In fact, it appeared that, after all this signing and sealing, the ceremony was not yet at an end, but that the barons had more demands to make.
“Now,” said they, “we require security for the charter being faithfully observed.
“It is necessary, in the first place, that you should engage to send all foreign knights and fighting men out of the kingdom.
“It is necessary, in the second place, that we should be allowed to remain undisturbed for two months in possession of London, and the archbishop in possession of the Tower.
“It is necessary, in the third place, that a committee of twenty-five barons should be appointed as conservators of this charter of liberties, and to decide all claims in conformity with its provisions.”
On hearing so many fresh demands John flushed and started with surprise, and his brow darkened. But he cast a glance over the formidable body of knights, and squires, and men-at-arms whom the barons had brought to overawe him, and, feeling the necessity of being calm, he checked his rising indignation, and answered calmly,
“My lords, I do not deny that I am taken by surprise; as, in truth, I well may be when I think of your demands. Nevertheless, I object not to accede so far as consists with my honour. I will send the foreign knights and soldiers out of the kingdom; I will leave the city of London in your hands, and the Tower in the hands of the archbishop, for the space of two months; and I consent to the appointment of a committee of twenty-five barons as conservators of the charter.”