IT was not without good reason that John, on hearing that Louis had landed at Sandwich, left Dover and shrank from a conflict with the prince who, on the invitation of the Anglo-Norman barons, had crossed the sea to dethrone him. His army, in truth, was chiefly composed of Flemings and other vassals of the French crown, who all recognised Philip Augustus as their sovereign, and had no idea of fighting against Philip’s heir. Many of them immediately deserted to the French prince, captains as well as men; and Falco plainly informed the king that, in case of coming to close quarters with the enemy, not one could be relied on, save the natives of Guienne and Poictou, who considered themselves the natural subjects of the Plantagenets, and still cherished a romantic veneration for the memory of John’s mother, Eleanor of Guienne, as the heiress of the old princes who had led their sires to battle, shouting, “St. George for the puissant duke.”
With the object of guarding against the worst, John kept moving from place to place, till he found himself at Stamford, and then moving from that town, he proceeded to Lincoln, which, under Nichola de Camville—that courageous dame—had hitherto held out for the king.
At Lincoln, however, John did not long remain. In autumn he marched to Peterborough, and entering Croyland about October, burned the farmhouses belonging to the abbey, the monks of which sided with his foes; and then to the town of Lynn. Owing to the rumours that had created so much jealousy in the French camp, John’s prospects began to brighten; and having rallied many fighting men to his standard, he determined to turn his face northwards, probably to arrest the progress of the King of Scots, who had just led an army all through England, to Dover, and with this view left Lynn and marched to Wisbeach, and from Wisbeach to the Cross Keys on the south side of the Wash, which he was resolved on crossing by the sands.
Now at low water this estuary is passable, but it is exposed to sudden rises of the tide, as John found to his bitter experience. At first everything looked secure, and the royal forces had nearly reached the opposite bank, called Fossdyke, when the returning tide began to roar. It seemed that the king and his army were doomed. By making haste, however, they escaped; but the baggage and sumpter-mules were swallowed up in a whirlpool, caused by the impetuosity of the tide and the descending currents of the river Welland; and John beheld with dismay and despair bordering on distraction the loss of men, horses, sumpter-mules, and baggage, without which he felt it would be almost impossible to pursue his expedition. It was felt by the unhappy monarch as the severest blow that fortune could have struck at him in his perplexity; and brooding sullenly over his misfortune, he made for Swinehead, a Cistercian abbey in Lincolnshire.
It was night when John reached Swinehead, and the abbot and the monks bent their hooded heads, and, perhaps wishing him elsewhere, welcomed him to their religious house, and had supper served to him in the refectory. Already the king was feverish from the excitement he had undergone while escaping from the tide and witnessing the loss of his men and baggage, and he greatly heightened the fever by eating immoderately of peaches, and drinking new cider, and by violent denunciations of the personages to whom he attributed the evils that had befallen him. No sleep nor rest did he take that night, but walked muttering about the chamber in which he was lodged, the fever gaining on him. Early next morning, however, he caused his trumpets to sound, and mounted his steed; but the effort to pursue his journey on horseback proved vain, and he was forced to dismount and submit to be conveyed in a litter to the castle of Sleaford. But still he was impatient to proceed, and from Sleaford he was carried to Newark, where he was destined to end all his journeyings on earth. Already it had become quite evident that he was about to make a journey to another world, and that he would soon be beyond the reach of the enemies who had vowed his destruction.
Nor did John deceive himself at that dread hour, when his soul and body were about to part. Feeling that his end was rapidly approaching, he sent for the Abbot of Croxton, dictated a letter to the Holy See, in which he implored the papal protection for his helpless children, and then confessed his sins.
It was the night of the 19th of October, 1216, the day after the Feast of St. Luke, when John felt that death had come to claim its prey. He moved his head, and raised his hand.
“I commit my soul to God, and my body to St. Wulstan,” said he, suddenly, and, throwing up his arms, he instantly expired.
From the circumstance of John having committed his body to St. Wulstan, his corpse was conveyed to the cathedral of Worcester, of which St. Wulstan was patron, and, his head having been wrapped in a monk’s cowl, which in that age was deemed a protection against evil spirits, he was laid at rest before the high altar.