The Magna Carta (Or Is It?)

By Howard of Warwick

To mark the 800th anniversary, Howard has forced his attention on the most famous charter in history. Here is a Runnymede full of real people; confused, squabbling, ill-informed and largely incompetent. Never mind 800 years, it's a miracle the charter survived to the end of its first week.... if it did!

In The Magna Carta (Or Is It?) we discover that King John entrusted the copying of the original charter to one Aelward Dunktish, a man not normally reliable enough to pour water. The King must be up to something. And so must the nobles who want Dunktish for their own purposes. And then there are the King's notorious mercenaries, the men of Touraine, who have ideas of their own, all of them involving death and horses.

They're all up to no good, and Dunktish IS no good. It's the sort of tale that will end in disaster - except in the hands of Aelward Dunktish, it all starts with one.

Opinion on Howard of Warwick is not at all divided:

"If Pratchett wrote history."

"Hysterical, laugh-out-loud funny."

"Very, very funny." scaryduck.com

"Truly side-splitting." kateofmind

• Language: English
• Publisher: Howard of Warwick
• Release date: Oct 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781913383367

Howard of Warwick

Howard of Warwick is but a humble chronicler with the blind luck to stumble upon the Hermitage manuscripts; tales of Brother Hermitage, a truly medieval detective, whose exploits largely illustrate what can be achieved by mistake.Now an international best-seller with nearly a quarter of a million sales and a host of Number 1s, it only goes to show.Howard's work has been heard, seen and read, most of it accompanied by laughter and some of it by money. His peers have even seen fit to recognise his unworthy efforts with a prize for making up stories.The Chronicles of Brother Hermitage begin with The Heretics of De'Ath, closely followed by The Garderobe of Death and The Tapestry of Death.Howard then paused to consider the Battle of Hastings as it might have happened - but almost certainly didn't - and produced The Domesday Book (No, Not That One). More reinterpretations hit the world with The Magna Carta (Or Is It?)Brother Hermitage still randomly drifted through a second set of mysteries with Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other: Hermitage, Wat and some Druids and Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns.Just when you think this can't possibly go on: The Case of the Clerical Cadaver turned up followed by The Case of the Curious Corpse and now The Case of The Cantankerous Carcass.Now there are thirty of the things in various cubby holes all over the world.All the titles are also available as major books, with paper and everything. Try your local bookstore or www.thefunnybookcompany.com

Book preview

The Magna Carta

(Or Is It?)

By

Howard of Warwick

Also by Howard of Warwick.

The First Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

The Heretics of De'Ath

The Garderobe of Death

The Tapestry of Death

Continuing Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids

Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns

Yet More Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

The Case of the Clerical Cadaver

The Case of the Curious Corpse

The Case of the Cantankerous Carcass

Interminable Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

A Murder for Mistress Cwen

A Murder for Master Wat

A Murder for Brother Hermitage

The Umpteenth Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

The Bayeux Embroidery

The Chester Chasuble

The Hermes Parchment

The Superfluous Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

The 1066 from Normandy

The 1066 to Hastings

The 1066 via Derby

The Unnecessary Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

The King’s Investigator

The King’s Investigator Part II

The Meandering Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

A Mayhem of Murderous Monks

A Murder of Convenience

Murder Most Murderous

The Perpetual Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

The Investigator’s Apprentice.

The Investigator’s Wedding

The Investigator’s Kingdom

The Boundless Chronicles of Brother Hermitage

Return to the Dingle

Murder Can Be Murder

Murder ‘Midst Merriment

Brother Hermitage Diversions

Brother Hermitage in Shorts (Free!)

Brother Hermitage’s Christmas Gift

Audio

Brother Hermitage’s Christmas Gift

Hermitage and the Hostelry

Howard of Warwick’s Middle Ages crisis: History-ish.

The Domesday Book (No, Not That One.)

The Domesday Book (Still Not That One.)

The Magna Carta (Or Is It?)

Explore the whole sorry business and join the mailing list at

Howardofwarwick.com

Another funny book from The Funny Book Company

Greedy by Ainsworth Pennington

First published in 2015 by The Funny Book Company

Dalton House

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London SW19 2RR

www.funnybookcompany.com

Text copyright © Howard Matthews 2015

The right of Howard Matthews to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.

A catalogue card for this book is available from the British Library.

ebook ISBN 978-1-913383-36-7

Cover design by Double Dagger

Chapter I Runnnymede 15TH June 1215

Chapter II Runnymede After Nones

Chapter III Heston After Nones

Chapter IV Runnymede Before Vespers

Chapter V Thames Path South Before Vespers

Chapter VI Thames Path North Vespers

Chapter VII Jack Straw’s Hut Vespers

Chapter VIII Jack Straw’s Hut After Vespers

Chapter IX Thames Path Before Compline

Chapter X The River Thames Compline

Chapter XI Thames Path North Matins

Chapter XII Runnymede 16th June 1215

Chapter XIII Westminster Dawn

Chapter XIV Runnymede After Tierce

Chapter XV Runnymede Before Sext

Chapter XVI Westminster Before Vespers

Chapter XVII Westminster Before Compline

Chapter XVIII Westminster 17th June 1215

Chapter XIX Westminster Before Nones

Chapter XX Windsor Castle Before Vespers

Chapter XXI Windsor Castle18th June 1215

Annex A: A Charter 15th Junii anno Domini 1215

15th June Year of Our Lord 1215

THE DOMESDAY BOOK (No, Not That One) Chapter 1

The times of day used in this book.

13th century daylight was divided into twelve equal hours. Thus, an hour in the summer was longer than one in the winter. Hours of darkness were therefore much shorter in the summer than in the winter.*

This goes a long way to explaining why the birth rate was higher in the summer** - those long, dark winter hours really did drag.

There were no mechanical clocks at this time, but it was easy to tell which hour was which. The first was called dawn and the last was called dusk. You could tell which was which by whether it got dark afterwards, or not.

The hours of the day were also marked by church bells.

Tierce, sunrise.

Sext, mid morning.

Nones, noon.

Vespers, an hour before sunset.

Compline, an hour after dark.

Matins, midnight.

(* This tale takes place over several days. If one was minded to write an exciting narrative which played out over a single period of twenty four hours, it would have to speed up at night.)

(** This is an assertion not validated by any actual research.)

Chapter I

THE FIELD OF RUNNYMEDE, MONDAY 15TH JUNE 1215. NONES

The King’s Tent.

(At the front, behind the table.)

The ink was still wet. King John held the rudiments of the great charter up in front of his eyes, much to the consternation of the old master scribe, who rushed forward to try and stop the words running down the page. But this was King John, and stopping him doing exactly what he wanted was the reason they were all here in the first place.

The scribe valued the remaining days of his ancient life highly enough to make his objections clear with a very light cough.

The King, who noticed things like this, looked over to the scribe and scowled at him. ‘What is it now?’

A scowl from the King was a powerful thing. The man was not physically commanding, his build was slight and wiry, although obviously he could kill you with sword or dagger as well as the next man. The face was in keeping with the body; lean, with prominent cheekbones and a proportionate nose. There was no denying he was a handsome man, well, handsome considering he was coming up to fifty and by all rights should be dead by now.

He had been on the throne for sixteen years and knew how to be King. He had that certain something about him. That certain something that made you step aside, even when he was behind you and you didn’t see him coming. That certain something that made you avoid his stare, which was as likely to kill you as his dagger. Talk of his personality was enough to keep most men at bay. Some of the horrible things he was rumoured to have done were simply unbelievable. Until it was rumoured he’d done them a second time. And a third.

The scribe stopped coughing and tried to sound as if he didn’t want to say anything at all. ‘Ah, sire, Majesty. It’s only that the document is not yet dry and some of the letters may slip. Once your discussions are finished we need to apply the final changes and instigate the copying. The copyists won’t be able to work if the original is corrupted. It is always advisable to keep a parchment level until it has been sanded or until a scribe has advised…’ the scribe trailed off in the face of the King’s withering gaze.

It had taken Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury, the barons, the church, the bishops and the clergy months to get the King to this point in discussing the rights and powers of the throne. They’d been camped out at Runnymede alone for the best part of a week. A humble scribe had no chance quibbling over how to handle a parchment.

The King lowered the charter back to the table and the scribe sighed.

The King looked about him and blessed the assembly with the gaze of a disappointed parent.

‘And you’re sure about this?’ he asked. The parent was giving their offspring one last chance to choose the correct path, instead of the dog’s breakfast they’d set their heart on.

The archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls, barons, justices, foresters, sheriffs, stewards, servants and officials were gathered in the King’s tent at Runnymede, which really wasn’t built for such a number, and were clear that they were very sure indeed about this.

Everyone was dressed in their finest for this momentous occasion and the tent was not a large one. Bishops’ headwear had to be removed, the larger weapons left outside and most of the retainers accommodated elsewhere.

None of these people could travel any distance without a decent retinue, and when the regalia had to go as well, the numbers were completely ridiculous. There were more tents set up in the field to cope with all the hangers-on and servants than there were for the aristocracy of the entire country.

The blazing colours of armorials, the coats of arms, flags and pennants made the scene magnificent. It was like something out of an illustrated manuscript. Those excluded from the King’s tent because they were too big, or weren’t important enough, strode about, delivering their parts with style and panache.

Quite why absolutely everyone had turned up wasn’t clear. Presumably they didn’t want to be left out, or didn’t want anything agreed which might come as a surprise. There were nobles at Runnymede with titles no one had ever heard of. Roger Goggeshall, who’d been charged with the apparently simple task of taking the register, was tearing his hair out. There was a good chance he wouldn’t get the job done before people started leaving again.

The activities around the encampment were many and varied. At this tent, the youngest of the de Bohun family, his head held high, probably to avoid the stink of the field, clanked around in armour which, whilst shining brightly, was out of date by a good twenty years.

At that tent, old man D’Albini was directing his squire to find a bigger pole so that his pennant would fly higher than his neighbours.

Behind the rather dirty tent over there, one of the lesser sons of the nobility was doing his best to bring a rather unique shame on his whole family. It certainly would not be included on any escutcheon open to public gaze.

There was little point in paying much attention to those in the main camp. Anyone of true import was in the tent with the King, the most significant being at the front and within sight of the charter itself. Towards the back, the leaders of the lesser families, and the poorer parishes, were pressed against the walls of the tent, craning their necks to see over the heads of those in front. There was even one rather junior cleric, instructed to be there by his Bishop, who still had not the slightest idea what was going on. He thought this was some sort of ceremony and was looking forward to the King giving out alms.

At the entrance to the tent, the ebb and flow of semi-nobles was like a rapid tide. As the excluded pushed forward to see something, those on the threshold were pressed aside so that they had to go round the crowd and come back in at the rear.

The King’s camp-master was seriously worried that if this went on much longer, the whole place would collapse. How would that look on the record of the day? More to the point, how would it look on his tombstone when King John got hold of him? He fussed around his guy ropes, pushing scions of the lesser families out of the way like sheep. Surely sticking a seal on one piece of parchment shouldn’t be taking this long, or interest so many people for goodness sake.

It interested very many people and they all wanted a say - and their names on the charter.

There was also a good number who wanted to keep an eye on things, but certainly didn’t want their names on the charter, in case things turned bad within a few weeks, which was the expected outcome. Charters were being drawn up and signed all the time these days. Get your name on the right one though, and a life of power and influence could be yours. Get it on the wrong one and heaven help you. Keeping your head down was a popular method of keeping it on.

‘Yes, Majesty.’ Saer de Quincy, Earl of Winchester said positively, ‘we are quite sure.’ There was a pronounced sigh as he went on. ‘We have discussed this for months now. The charter has not changed since we last agreed the contents. The time has now come to apply your seal to the document. Your loyal nobles are committed, your Archbishops and Bishops are in attendance. If your Majesty will just apply your seal, we can swear our allegiance and all get on with our business.’

‘Yes, this place is rather grim isn’t it?’ King John commented. ‘Who chose an awful spot like this? The whole place is practically underwater.’

The Earl commendably kept his peace at this, as everyone knew the King had chosen this particular spot personally. His archers were so arranged that they could easily rain arrows on the force of any noble who decided getting rid of the King altogether might be the best option.

It was also convenient for his castle at Windsor, to which he retired each evening, and to which he could run away if the negotiations got too physical.

‘Majesty,’ said William de Forz, always willing to stride in where others valued their legs, ‘just seal the bloody thing and we can get on.’

‘And it says what we agreed does it?’ the King turned to his scribe.

‘Oh yes Majesty,’ the scribe fawned, hiding the offence he took that his skills were being questioned. ‘Note takers have been at every session and the compilation has been subject to the utmost scrutiny.’

‘And it’s got the one about the sheep.’

‘Yes Majesty, it has the one about the sheep,’ the scribe confirmed for about the fiftieth time.

King John looked about the space again, and appraised the faces showing expectation and no little annoyance. The impatience was starting to bubble in the crowd. A crowd with all its own weapons.

King John sealed the charter.

A loud ‘Hurrah’, resounded in the tent, to be taken up by those outside. Then it was echoed by the servants out in the camp, who had no idea what they were ‘Hurrahing’, but thought it meant they should probably start packing.

Those most intimately connected to the charter stayed close by its side. They were determined their efforts would not be wasted by any mishaps, or last minute amendments the King might make if no one was watching.

…

It took those at the back of the tent some time to get out, as the ones outside now wanted to get in to see the document. The house of Fitzrobert which had been the last to squeeze in, tried to barge their way past the Bigods who, despite their best efforts had remained on the outside. This slight was bad enough but there was no way they were going to let the wretched Fitzroberts push them out of the way. Trying to shove them back into the tent was a pointless exercise as there simply wasn’t any more room.

The melee started to get quite heated. Earls were shoving barons, archbishops were being rudely barged about and some of the foresters, always light on their feet, had got down on their hands and knees and were trying to crawl out of the assembly at low level.

Eventually there was a tearing noise at the other end of the tent, and a bishop fell out. He only had a small diocese but that wasn’t the point. His fellows in faith made their feelings at this affront perfectly clear, in language that had never been in the Bible.

The Archbishop of Canterbury’s men, thinking this was some sort of instruction, came at their master’s bidding. Unfortunately they too were outside the tent, and their number only added to the chaos.

The weight of men trying to get in was now well in excess of those trying to get out and loud shouts of instruction and denigration filled the air. Someone, it was never discovered exactly who, caught Bishop Hugh of Lincoln a nasty blow in the privates and got a punch on the nose for his trouble. The number of people with black eyes and bleeding noses was quite high by the time everything was sorted out. And everyone thought Bishop Hugh was such a nice chap. Pious and everything. Amazing what you discovered when push came to shove.

Push and shove were the least of it when John’s personal guard decided there was a threat to the King’s person. Pikes were lowered and there was a serious risk of the realm having a lot fewer nobles than it had when all this began.

Something had to give.

It was King John’s temper.

Few of those present had ever witnessed the King’s anger at first hand. This was because those who witnessed it made sure they never witnessed anything like it ever again. If they survived that is.

It wasn’t a screaming, shouting, obscenely ranting temper; everyone had one of them. They were like storms which blew their rage in a short space of time and then made way for clear skies and sunshine.

This was serious, grudge-bearing, vicious and intensely personal. The King’s temper made promises everyone knew he would keep. It never made threats lightly or without a deep, deep commitment to follow them through. Probably very quickly, and frequently when it was least expected.

The Earl, who had seen the temper at close quarters, and lost a perfectly serviceable stable-boy as a result, quickly held his arms up and beckoned the assembly to silence.

‘Quiet.’ A voice boomed out over the heads. Walter, Bishop of Worcester, stunned the place into a hushed whisper. The man’s reputation for positively alarming behaviour in his church was well earned. It was rumoured his exhortations to the faithful from the pulpit of Worcester Cathedral, could be heard half a mile away.

The crowd in the tent fell to silence, and those who had been anxious to gain admittance, suddenly seemed less keen. Even the Fitzroberts slid quietly away, making room for the Bigods, who didn’t want to get in any more.

The King spoke quietly and calmly to his hushed audience, now comprising those who couldn’t actually get away without being noticed. ‘The next person who nudges my table will find himself without lands, guardianships, tithes, burgages… or legs. Am I clear?’

There was much nodding and shuffling and the message was quickly passed to those who were leaving - by which time it was translated into the threat that everyone outside the tent was about to lose their title.

‘Good.’ The King smiled, although the smile still said that he wanted to do something to someone.

‘Now then, master scribe.’ The King beckoned the old scribe to his side.

The man shuffled up, casting his eyes immediately to the charter, which he was worried had been abused in the scuffle. It seemed to be in good condition, the large wax seal, embossed by the King’s own hand, now sat authoritatively at its end.

‘We will have copies of this sent to the corners of the Kingdom.’

‘Yes Majesty,’ the scribe bowed his head and prepared to gather up the charter. There was much work to be done now. Even though the seal was in place, not all of the terms as finally negotiated were yet recorded on the main document. These would need to be added and presented back to the nobles and the King for first draft approval – which approval itself would need to be properly recorded.

The Archbishops’ reviews would come next and they would have to be recorded and compiled. Only when all that was agreed, and a final copy authorised, could the version be presented back to the King, with a separate note identifying all the changes made and confirming the agreements for each. Then the master copy could be taken. Once that was in place, the original could be safely stored away, probably with the Templars, and the national copies taken from the master.

All was in hand and ready to proceed and the master scribe was full of pride at the tasks that faced him. He rubbed his hands in glee at the days of pleasurable pedantry that lay ahead.

‘When?’ the King asked.

‘When Majesty?’ the scribe asked with an awful sinking feeling.

‘Yes. When? When will the copies be made and distributed to the corners of the kingdom?’

The man was always doing this. It was quite right that he should instruct those about him in their tasks, but he was always trying to tell them when things should be done. And he had not the first understanding of the challenges involved. For heaven’s sake he couldn’t even read or write himself yet would tell scribes he wanted documents produced in a day. A day! Didn’t he know how long it took to prepare a parchment? How many quills you could get through in a day and where ink came from? Well, obviously no, he didn’t know. But he didn’t seem to care either. It didn’t matter how many times the scribe explained the processes and difficulties involved, the King would always make the most unreasonable demands. Like now.

‘When,’ the old scribe repeated, buying for time. ‘Well, let me see. We will take the charter to Windsor and confirm the final terms to be included from the notes taken. Then we’ll get the master of the Scriptorium to prepare the parchment for the first copy. When that is ready and checked, we can start the first tests, perhaps with a capital or two, to make sure the parchment will take. Once that’s satisfactory we can release it to the main scribes who…’

‘When?’’ the King repeated. It didn’t do to let the King repeat himself. Several of the nobles standing close to the scribe took a subtle step backwards.

The old master knew that whatever ridiculously short timescale he came up with, it wouldn’t be short enough. He also knew that if he mentioned a time, the wretched King would remember. It was no good promising something and then hoping that it would be quietly forgotten and he would be allowed to proceed at his own pace. On the promised day the King would be there, asking to see the finished article.

He knew how long he’d really like to do justice to a job like this. He’d done a lot of important work for the King but something in his bones told him this one was going to last. He was convinced that people would still be talking about this charter in what? Fifty years? It was the most significant piece of work he’d been involved in. A major charter, if one was minded to extravagances – which the scribe was. Chances for posterity like that didn’t come up every day. The last thing he wanted to do was a shoddy job full of spelling mistakes and poor quillmanship.

There was also prioritisation to be considered. There was a queue of work waiting to be done for the King’s estates in Normandy and Anjou. There were declarations and letters, minor charters and grants, and of course the King wouldn’t want anything else slowed down to get this done. He’d want it all at once.

He drew in his breath, took the time he actually needed and divided it in half. If he pressed scribes from other jobs into service, and bought plenty of candles for night-work he might be able to push it through in such a ludicrous timescale.

‘I would say,’ he drawled out, apparently mentally working out how he could shave some time off here and there. He had to make sure he sounded like he was making the very best offer the King could get. ‘We could get it through in about three months.’ He tried hard not to make the last words sound like a question.

‘No.’ the King said simply.

‘No Majesty?’ the scribe asked, thinking that ten weeks was going to be his final offer.

‘Four days.’

‘Four days?’ the scribe squeaked. ‘Majesty it isn’t even finished yet,’ he gestured to the charter. Surely the King could see that there were whole clauses to be added. Only yesterday the barons had come up with a new one about taking horses and carts without permission. A brief note had been taken but nothing like the full wording. Scholars would have to consider how the whole thing should be phrased, what the overall intention was, and whether the cart should come before the horse.

‘The court shall assemble in Windsor where I will see off the copies. Four days is plenty.’

‘But the quality Majesty.’

It’ll do,’ said the King.

The poor scribe barely managed to croak the appalling words out. ‘It’ll do.’ He never did It’ll do. He’d had apprentices half beaten to death for It’ll do.

‘But Majesty,’ the scribe blurted out, ‘it’ll take a week simply to organise the inks.’

‘Very well,’ the King said quite abruptly.

The scribe thought it odd he would give up so soon. He never gave up without a long and protracted fight. As the barons could testify.

‘I’ll get my personal scribes to do it.’

‘Your…’ now this was getting ridiculous.

‘My scribes at Westminster will handle the whole thing. They do my letters and the like, this is only one big letter. If I get it over to them this afternoon they can have it done in four days. Easy. And then I shall receive the copies before they are despatched.’

‘Westminster Majesty?’ the scribe was puzzled, ‘surely the scribes are at the Temple?’

‘The Temple?’ the King made it sound like this was so fundamentally wrong that the scribe must have misheard him. ‘The Temple in London?’

‘Er, yes Majesty.’ The scribe couldn’t think of a temple anywhere else.

‘The London controlled by these,’ he waved a dismissive hand towards the assembled barons and nobles of the land, ‘people,’ he concluded.

‘Erm.’ Of course the scribe knew that the barons controlled London, but what did that have to do with the charter being copied?

‘I am not sending this important task to London. Who knows what would happen to it. No, Westminster will be fine.’

‘Where your scribes will do it?’ The Earl of Winchester spoke up. He seemed to consider that just as bad an idea.

‘They will,’ the King concluded with another wave of the hand, ‘and we can all review the copies at Windsor when they come back.’

The Earl scowled but seemed to consider this acceptable. Just.

‘Before you renew your oaths of allegiance,’ the King added pointedly.

The Earls scowl became a vocal grumble.

The master scribe watched this to and fro with interest, but was more worried about the charter. He would not have described King John’s personal staff as scribes at all. A moderately organised waste of ink was the best description. Their apprentice scheme was virtually non-existent, their quality was simply appalling, and the man in charge of the place was the most dreadful character. Whenever the master met him, the fellow was drunk. It had seemed odd that the King at Windsor, would keep his scribes in Westminster, but when the master met the scribes, he understood perfectly. He couldn’t imagine anyone giving that lot house room.

It was, of course, a reasonable argument that copyists did not need to read. All they had to do was copy the shapes. However, the master had heard that the entire King’s Scriptorium had been specifically appointed for their ability not to read. The King didn’t want his scribes reading his personal correspondence after all. That would be reserved for his senior courtiers.

This could only mean that errors would be perpetuated. If there were mistakes in this major charter, and the master scribe could see three from where he was standing, they would be put into every copy made. This really could not stand.

He was ready to embark on an impassioned speech about the significance of this document to the realm, the importance of it being produced to the very highest standards, and the imperative of getting the very best people in the land to work on it. His people. He could, though, tell that the King was in no mood for discussion. Unless it was a discussion about which of England’s nobles would be given the task of chopping something off the master scribe.

‘Do they have the men Majesty? he asked, hoping this would lead to the acknowledgment that the King’s personal staff were not up to the task.

‘Yes,’ the King replied simply. ‘I shall get it to them straight away.’ He moved to gather up the charter but at least the scribe managed to get in first and rolled it in the prescribed manner. The prescribed manner which would ensure that the lettering remained intact and the thing wasn’t ruined. The prescribed manner which the scribe was sure the King’s own men had not the first clue about.

‘It will need transportation to Westminster Majesty,’ the master commented. Perhaps he could take charge of this task and least get a hurried note taken of the main contents before it was comprehensively ruined.

‘It will,’ the King replied, ‘and I have that organised as well.’

‘Excellent Majesty,’ said the scribe, not meaning excellent at all.

The Earl of Winchester narrowed his eyes at this. If there was a man guaranteed to be up to something, it was King John. ‘Into whose hands will you place this charge Majesty?’ he asked, with due weight to his words.

‘Oh don’t worry,’ King John waved him away. ‘It won’t be one of my court.’

The Earl did not seem convinced.

‘But it won’t be one of yours either.’

The master scribe smiled modestly.

‘And it won’t be one of the scribes.’

The smile vanished.

The Earl frowned, but at least seemed comforted by the fact that King John was not trying to simply steal the charter while it was still wet. He nodded sagely.

‘It will be someone with allegiance to neither side. Someone we can both trust to carry out this task in a straightforward manner. Without being diverted.’ He said this directly to scribe and Earl. With a deep breath to add significance to his pronouncement, he called out, ‘Summon Aelward Dunktish.’

The tent fell into even deeper silence.

‘Oh no Majesty,’ Earl and scribe cried together, ‘not him!’

Chapter II

Runnymede

After Nones

Aelward Dunktish was blissfully unaware of the role he was about to play in the future of the country. But then he spent a lot of his time blissfully unaware of something or other. He had practiced his blissful unawareness for many years, and was very good at it.

His place in the court of King John would have been a matter of huge satisfaction to his father, a very minor landholder on the Welsh borders, whose ambition outpaced his abilities by a country mile. Dunktish the elder behaved as if his estates encompassed all the land from Worcester to the sea. In fact they were easily contained within a modest bend of the River Wye, and his pretensions were a constant source of entertainment to his neighbours. He did though have the rights to a ferry across the river and his land was fertile, if frequently flooded.

A widower, with delusions of grandeur that would put a peacock to shame, he at least appreciated that young Aelward was as capable of managing the land as he was of walking across the river. Far from seeing his offspring as a disappointment, he was utterly convinced that the young man was destined for much higher things than simple farming and ferrying. His exhortations in the tavern, that one day Aelward Dunktish would be a power in the land and a force to be reckoned with, brought about fits of hilarity which spilled beer and prompted men of a stable nature to fall off their chairs.

Things were brought to a shuddering halt just before Aelward came of age, after which he could have decided for himself what he wanted to do. His father died in a freak ferry accident. It transpired that the old man had left his land and income to the crown, on the understanding that his son would move to court and start his ascent to the greatness which was inevitable.

That King John had now called his son’s name would have proved all his doubters wrong. The more derogatory words of the Earl of Winchester and the master scribe would have neatly passed him by.

No one had anything personal to say against Aelward. He was lovely. Everyone said he was lovely. He was a good looking lad, a bit pale and thin but healthy enough. He was polite, well behaved and sober and never bothered anyone about anything. He did though seem a bit, what was the word? Blank.

He never expressed any strong opinions about anything. Never got into arguments and certainly not fights. He never took part in any sports or horse play. He never showed the slightest ambition to achieve any of the things his father imagined for him. But then his father thought they were going to come straight from God anyway, so that didn’t matter.

He had wandered about his father’s estate not doing much, and now pottered about the court