It is June 15th, 1215, on the boggy grounds of Runnymi, a water meta between Windsor and

London.

Beside the fast-flowing river, grand tents stand scattered across the field, topped with

brightly coloured penance.

Men throng between them, dressed in church robes or in armour.

They hear from a matter of great importance, but they've been kept waiting, and their patience

is free.

Inside the largest tent, made of deep red canvas, a church scribes down beside a grand desk.

On it lies a large sheet of vellum, manufactured from the finest calfskin.

Candles flicker nearby.

He anxiously checks the entrance of a few seconds, while his master, a bishop with a pale

cap covering his hair and ears, paces behind him.

The moment now, the king of England will arrive to sign a document that will herald a new

era, and he'll be far from happy about it.

There's the sound of activity outside, and the entrance flap is thrown open.

Several men enter, barons with clanking swords and armour.

Something is happening, finally.

The scribe stands up straighter, as the barons crowd around the desk, giving the document

a last once over.

There's an air of satisfaction, self-righteousness even.

These powerful men have now all but forced the king to capitulate to their terms, and

agree to this document that diminishes his power.

...