It was all very well to have defied Rome for a while but it should not continue. He decided therefore that if the monks of Canterbury returned to England he would allow them to do so and that he would be ready to meet Stephen Langton to discuss matters with him.

This was a step in the right direction, said the Pope, and it was arranged for Stephen Langton to come to England in the company of several of the exiled bishops. The Pope was adamant that if the Interdict was to be lifted John was to obey all the terms laid down by Rome and failing that His Holiness would have no alternative but to excommunicate John.

In due course the three bishops arrived with Stephen Langton. John met them at the coast and there was an immediate discussion between them.

John said that he would reinstate the monks; he would accept Stephen Langton as Archbishop but he would not receive him or show him favour.

The bishops replied that unless John conformed to all the Pope’s terms he would be excommunicated.

‘One clause of the agreement must be fulfilled,’ he was told, ‘and that is that you must return all the confiscated property to their rightful owners.’

The thought of losing all that he had gained and meekly giving in infuriated John.

‘Get you gone,’ he cried. ‘Tell Innocent to excommunicate me if he wishes. I care nothing for him nor his threats. I shall keep what is mine and chief of my possessions is the right to rule the country of which I am King. Get back to your master before I am tempted to give you your deserts, you traitors.’

The party left without delay and the result was excommunication for the King of England.


As the effect of the excommunication began to be felt the King was mad with rage. It brought home more clearly than anything could have done the power of the Pope. That the land he ruled should be in such fear and trembling of a distant ruler infuriated him more than anything possibly could; and he looked about for victims on whom to vent his wrath.

The Pope’s edict decreed that all those who had contact with the King were themselves contaminated. Any who obeyed him were the enemies of Rome and would suffer accordingly. What were men to do?

When Jeffrey, Archdeacon of Norwich, stood up at the Exchequer Table at Westminster and declared that since the King was excommunicated the Church forbade any to act in his name, the King ordered his arrest.

Jeffrey was placed in a dungeon and John himself could not resist visiting him.

‘You served the wrong master, Jeffrey of Norwich,’ said John. ‘You should have thought twice before doing that.’

‘My conscience is clear,’ answered Jeffrey boldly.

‘Let me tell you this, you traitor to your King, you will not long have a conscience to be clear or otherwise.’

‘You cannot intimidate me into accepting what a greater Lord than you tells me is sinful.’

‘You must be on better terms with Him than you are with me,’ said John. ‘Let us see how He will look after you in your emergency.’

He then left the cell and ordered that the Archdeacon should be laden with chains. ‘I want a cope of lead, a large and heavy one, and I order that it be crammed down over our pious Archdeacon’s head. Let it crush and suffocate him while he broods on his great virtues and his treachery to his King.’

This was done and men talked of it with awe.

All the bishops and friends of Stephen Langton were to be put into prison and their lands and goods confiscated.

‘These churchmen have done very well for themselves,’ said John. ‘And now they are doing very well for me. This excommunication like the Interdict has its uses.’

But there was in this a certain bravado because the people were turning against him. The barons had always been seeking a reason for revolt and they were very powerful; he feared them even more than he feared the Church.

If they were to turn against him now and ally themselves with the Church, his position might be very difficult. He decided therefore that he demand of the barons that each of them should send one of their sons to the King as a hostage. When the young men were in his power he could be sure of the fidelity of their parents.

While this order was being carried out John was making a progress through the country to assure himself that the people realised his power and that he himself was not deeply concerned over the excommunication.

Passing through the countryside he came upon a crowd of people beating before them a man whose hands were tied behind his back.

The King called: ‘What happens here? What is this man guilty of?’

‘He is a murderer, my lord. A thief as well,’ was the answer. ‘He waylaid a man on the road, robbed him and murdered him. He was caught in the act.’

The man trembled. Fearful punishment awaited him. He would doubtless be hanged on a gibbet. It might be his hands would be cut off. But perhaps that was too mild a punishment for murder. He hoped it would be the tree, for to have his eyes put out was worse than death. ‘Who was the man the rogue murdered?’ asked John.

‘A priest, my lord.’

The King burst out laughing. ‘Untie his hands,’ he said. They obeyed. ‘Come here,’ ordered the King.

The man stood before him, raising fearful eyes to the King’s face.

‘Go on your way,’ said the King. ‘You are a free man. You have killed one of my enemies.’

The man bowed low and cried: ‘God’s blessings on you, my lord King.’

And he ran off as fast as he could.

The crowd fell back in astonishment; there was a murmur of disapproval.

‘What’s this? What’s this?’ cried the King. ‘If any has anything to say let him speak.’

None dared reply. They knew tongues could be torn out for raising a word against the King.

People talked of the incident. A murderer had gone free, pardoned by the King, because his victim was a priest.


The family of Braose had fallen out of favour with the King since those days when William de Braose had been the custodian of Falaise and had been in charge of Arthur before Hubert de Burgh took over that duty. William, a man of great spirit with a tradition of power behind him, had always defended his rights, and rulers had realised that his was not a family to be neglected. When a Braose had been killed by the Welsh, it was William who had invited a party of Welshmen to his castle as guests, and after they had partaken of his hospitality he, with members of his family, killed them all as a lesson to any who might feel inclined to become their enemies.

He had been in the King’s company at Rouen soon after the death of Arthur and he had a very shrewd notion as to what had happened to the young Duke of Brittany. So had his wife Matilda. She was a strong-minded woman; in fact it was said that there was only one person in the world of whom William de Braose was afraid. Although they were aware that there had been gruesome events at Rouen they could not be sure of how the murder had been carried out; and fierce as Matilda was, her maternal instincts were strong and when she and William had been in charge of Arthur in Falaise Castle she had grown quite fond of the boy.

She declared: ‘I have disliked and distrusted John ever since Arthur disappeared.’

No matter how earnestly William might warn her to guard her tongue, Matilda would speak when she wished and the thought of that boy’s death – perhaps in horrible circumstances – could rouse her to anger.

When a quarrel broke out between her family and the King she was not altogether displeased. She was not a woman to disguise her feelings and secretly – although she knew it was dangerous – she preferred to be on terms of hostility with John rather than those of friendship. At least she could be honest and, forthright woman that she was, that pleased her.

When John had levied taxes on his barons, William had objected and failed to pay and towards the end of the year 1207 John expressed his annoyance that William owed him certain monies and demanded that William surrender his castles of Hay, Brecknock and Radnor as pledges for his debts.

There was another matter which angered John. The Braoses’ youngest son Giles was Bishop of Hereford and when John was excommunicated Giles had left England with other bishops, indicating his objection to accepting John’s rule and his desire to be on the side of the Pope.

John’s reaction to this was to rage against the whole family. He could not trust them any more. William de Braose had once been a very powerful man, and John was determined to curtail that power; the fact that he had been obliged to give up three of his castles would be a great blow to him and John chuckled to think of how resentful he would be.

‘I don’t trust these Braoses,’ he said. ‘I am determined to show them who is the master.’

They should send hostages without delay, for only when he had some members of the family in his charge would he feel he held some power over them. Matilda de Braose guessed that something of this nature could come about. She discussed the matter with her husband and demanded to know what he thought would become of their grandsons if they were put into the King’s charge as hostages.

‘He will be in duty bound to treat them with honour,’ said William.

‘When did this King ever feel in duty bound?’

‘Nevertheless, we shall have no alternative.’

Matilda cried out so that several servants heard: ‘I will never allow any son or grandson of mine to go as hostage to the King … and I have my reasons … very good ones.’

‘You speak with indiscretion,’ said her husband in alarm.