14. Ricardus Rex
The autumn of 1189 became one long regal procession for the Lionheart. His first act was to release his mother from the incarceration which his father had imposed on her; this was a hugely popular move. He rewarded his Grand Quintet with lands and titles, and made a particular point of rewarding those who had stayed loyal to his father until the end. He was heard to remark, ‘If they stay loyal to me, like they were to him, then I will have nothing to fear.’
He was deliberate and calculating in trying to create a good impression. He smiled and waved wherever he went – gestures that were reciprocated with warmth and goodwill. He released King Henry’s enemies from captivity, restored lands and titles to those who had had them unfairly removed, and assured those who had been cowed by the King that they would not suffer the same fate under his own rule.
To my joy, I was granted five carucates of land in the valley of the Lune near to my beloved Lancaster; Godric was made a captain of the guard, and each of the Little Quintet was promoted to sergeant. Father Alun was perhaps the greatest beneficiary; he was made Abbot of Rievaulx, a Cistercian foundation near Helmsley in Northumbria. The Abbey provided him with an income and a home to go to after his service to the Lionheart. But more importantly, it was close to his roots, the significance of which would only emerge later in our journey together.
The Duke was girded with the ducal sword as Duke of Normandy at Rouen amidst great pomp and ceremony. Soon afterwards, we sailed from Barfleur for England where, on Sunday 13 September 1189, our liege was crowned King of England at Westminster Abbey. As the sun beamed down like a day in high summer, we travelled to Westminster Abbey from St Paul’s, passing thousands of ecstatic well-wishers cheering their new warrior King. With my men to my rear, I rode escort just behind the King and, as an Englishman, felt very proud to do so. He was a Plantagenet of Norman blood, but he also carried our blood and thus he was greeted as one of us.
Many said he resembled King Harold, who had fought so bravely to withstand both the Norwegians and the Normans in 1066. Every building flew the new King’s gonfalon – three golden lions passant on a gules shield. When the crowd saw Queen Eleanor next to her son, looking resplendent in a pure white linen kirtle and a glorious fur mantle of alternating white miniver and brown sable, they cheered even more loudly. Although she was approaching seventy years of age, in their eyes she was still the beautiful queen they had welcomed to England all those years ago and who had since been so badly treated by her husband, a King they were all glad to be rid of.
The ceremony was held before a gathering of the entire hierarchy of England, and was attended by guests from all the Celtic domains. The abbey was a tapestry of colour, with regalia of every hue and kind; coronets, armour and weapons gleamed, and pungent incense filled the air. Wearing only plain braies and a white cotton chemise open to his waist, the Lionheart was anointed by Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, with holy chrism from the Gold Ampulla, on his hands, chest and head. Monks then stepped forward to dress him for the crowning in his corselet and robes of cloth of gold, with gleaming regalia of sword, sceptre and orb.
As the echoes of the Te Deum rang around the towering vaults of the abbey built by his ancestor St Edward the Confessor, before the Normans arrived in England, the Lionheart startled everyone. In an unprecedented move, and with the audacity that defined him, he picked up the crown and held it aloft before handing it to the Archbishop so that Baldwin could place it on his head. Shocked at first, the assembly suddenly burst into spontaneous applause. Instead of being horrified that the heir to their kingdom should be so bold, they adored his bravura.
Because it had been locked in the treasury at Westminster since Henry II’s coronation thirty-five years before, few people had ever seen St Edward’s Royal Crown. Said to include jewels from the crown of Alfred the Great, I was within ten feet of the throne and could see the crown in all its glory. A heavy, solid-gold band lined with red velvet and an ermine ruff, it had alternating decorations of crosses and fleur-de-lis. The band and crosses were encrusted with pearls, sapphires, rubies and emeralds; it was an extraordinarily beautiful object to behold.
Led by the Grand Quintet behind the new King, and flanked by every earl and bishop in the realm, a great roar of approval echoed around the nave. England had a new monarch, Richard the Lionheart, descendant of both the houses of Wessex and of Normandy, a man of Saxon, Plantagenet, Viking and Celtic descent. He was a warrior king behind whom all could unite, in every corner of the Empire. I thought of Earl Harold and of the Empress Matilda. How proud they would have been to see this day.
The coronation banquet was organized by Eleanor, now the Dowager Queen of the realm. A thousand guests were invited and the nave of the great cathedral was cleared to seat them. Four oxen were roasted and three dozen hogs; the serving tables sagged under the weight of meat, game, fowl and fish. Fresh fruit was brought from as far south as the Mediterranean, some varieties of which had never been seen in London. It took the potters of burghs far and wide two months to make the dishes and pitchers for the feast. Wine was brought from Bordeaux on a fleet of specially commissioned ships. The chroniclers later wrote that the steps of Westminster Abbey were awash with torrents of wine. This was not true; hardly a drop was spilled, because it was too good to waste.
Sadly, one community did not enjoy the coronation. Hostility towards Jews had surfaced because of the mood of outrage at the loss of Jerusalem. Although the Jews were not involved in the wars in the Holy Land, as ‘non-believers’ people associated them with Muslims and they bore the stigma of the nation who had turned on Jesus. When several Jewish leaders came to Westminster to offer gifts to the new King, the crowd outside denied them entry and turned on them, killing several and wounding many more. The rioting spread to the walled burgh of London and eventually to other burghs around the country. Richard asked me to lead his conrois into London to quell the trouble and we arrested several troublemakers, all of whom Richard ordered to be hanged as soon as the festivities were over.
But we could not protect the Jews of York, where they were slaughtered in their hundreds. A few managed to find refuge in York Castle, but when they realized their position was hopeless, there was a mass suicide, leaving only a handful of survivors. Their besiegers then made them an offer, saying that if they came out and promised to convert to Christianity, they would be spared. The hapless inmates accepted the offer. But when they emerged, the crowd turned on them and kicked and beat them to death.
When the Lionheart heard the story, he was livid. He despatched a messenger to the Castellan of York, demanding that the perpetrators be punished. Within a week, he had appointed Geoffrey, one of his father’s illegitimate sons, as the new Archbishop of York, ably supported by Otto of Gisors, a good soldier, as the new Earl of York. His instructions to them were clear.
‘I want peace in Northumbria. You will enforce it. If you fail, you will answer at the end of my sword.’
Over the coming weeks, the new King made many similar appointments: bishops, abbots and priors, as well as earls, barons, sheriffs and knights. His father had left many appointments vacant so that he could collect the revenues from their tithes and taxes for his own exchequer.
The Lionheart gave all his appointees the same command, ‘I want peace in my realm,’ followed by the same punitive threat, ‘or you will feel the point of my sword.’
Shrewdly, the Lionheart wanted to secure the peace in the Celtic parts of his realm before his commitment to the Holy Land began. So, after the festivities in London, which continued for three days, we travelled to the scenes of my forays into Wales when I served King Richard’s father fifteen years previously.
With no concern for his own personal safety, in late September the Lionheart took only the Little Quintet and a single conroi of men and journeyed into what was known as the ‘Lair of the Welsh Dragons’, Mathrafal, the castle of the Prince of Powys, to meet him and the other Welsh princes. No English monarch had ever entered Mathrafal in peace, nor with so few men. The Welsh were impressed, both by the new King’s reputation and by his demeanour.
He was a model of diplomacy and charm; he gave gifts and spoke of goodwill and friendship. By the end of his visit, the Welsh lords gave solemn assurances to keep the peace in their lands while the King was away.
