In England the nobility were no less concerned about money; not how much they would receive, but how much they would be asked to raise. A few of them owned fiefs on both sides of the Channel, but the majority were established in England and Wales, and loth to contribute to the support of places they had never even seen. What were Argentan, Alençon, Arques and Angers to the lords of Ashdown or Abergavenny? The continental possessions were part of the kingdom, yes, in a way, but there was nothing to be gained by sending a flotilla of ships to the relief of Normandy. It was not cowardice, no one could accuse them of that. It was plain good sense, good husbandry. What use were a thousand knights if, when they reached Normandy, they found half the castles overrun and the other half barred against them, or deserted, or garrisoned by starving troops? Why send a relief force into lands that were already sympathetic to the French, or, to put it more bluntly, averse to King John?
Few of the barons bothered to answer his appeals. Those who did suggested the king return to England to explain his indolence and account for his eviction of William Marshal. Come home, they said, and we’ll hear what you have to say. After that we’ll discuss sorties abroad.
* * *
Isabel de Clare’s tribute to her husband ran close to the truth. The gates of the city were not wrenched open, but his arrival sent riders spurring from Rouen like discovered deer.
He was accompanied by the four knights who had sworn fealty to him after the delivery of the prisoners to Corfe, and these, plus the thirty he had summoned from his estates at Pembroke and Chepstow, found themselves the object of an adoring crowd and a welcoming court. The object, though not the centrepiece. That was reserved for Marshal, come back to save the kingdom.
With understandable discourtesy, the warlord had omitted to give advance warning of his arrival, so King John had been forced to change in a hurry, and was now fretting over the absence of a ring. It was in one of the jewel-cases in his chambers, but short of unlocking every box and delving through them… Well, no matter; he’d found the correct boots, the trappings of office and, so long as he could resist clamping his hand to his head…
Queen Isabelle stood beside him on the castle steps, not merely fretting, but openly annoyed. ‘He’s been away eight months or more. Why must we rush to greet him now? Tomorrow would have been soon enough, and by then I could have—’
‘Just stand and listen,’ John snapped. ‘The city’s in eruption. Look, they’re invading the castle even now, look at them streaming in. Their hero has returned, don’t you understand? Theirs and ours, my lady, for that’s how we’ll receive him. You’ve done well, I grant you, raising me with one hand, whilst depressing him with the other. But from now on—’
‘What did you say?’ She glared at him, aghast. ‘What’s this, that I’m a puppeteer, playing you both on strings? Oh, no Lord King of England, oh, no. You sent him off and kept him off, then milked me for support. You’ve enjoyed the sweetest period of your life, and why? Because I was here and he was not. But you arranged it, in the same way that you arranged my abduction. The strings are tied around your fingers, John—’ and in spiteful conclusion – ‘what room there is between the rings.’
The king rounded on her, appalled by her accusation. But before he could speak he glimpsed the crowd squeeze back from the gate-arch and turned to watch Marshal ride in, followed by his bewildered, petal-strewn troop.
Well, John thought, none of them will go short of a woman for the next few nights.
He glanced again at Isabelle, but she was still rigid with anger, and he decided to ignore her. There was no sure way of foretelling her behaviour, but please heaven she kept off the subject of manipulated toys.
He descended the steps, crossed the yard with commendable enthusiasm, and grasped the headstall of Marshal’s horse. The animal was tired and irritable and reared back, pulling the king off balance. His fingers were securely hooked around the cheekband, his rings pressing against the horse’s muzzle.
John gazed up at the warlord, waiting for Marshal to humiliate him. The slightest tug on the reins and the damned palfrey would draw further back, leaving him suspended from the bridle.
Like a puppet… Yes, and how the Sparrowhawk would love that…
Marshal leaned forward, as though bowing in the saddle. Then, as his head dipped towards the king, he murmured, ‘Calme-toi, cheval, calme-toi.’ He felt the animal respond and said, ‘Slip free, sire, that’s the way. Now catch him farther from his face. He’s impressed enough without being asked to kiss your hand.’
The entanglement had gone unnoticed, and the crowd bellowed at this reconciliation of monarch and magnate. When had they ever seen King John play the ostler? When had they ever seen Earl Marshal bow so deep? They’d heard that the two men were estranged, but, whatever their disagreement, this was the way it should end, each man humbling himself before the other. Only great men would do that. But better than anything, they’d done it in public and not charged a penny.
Outside the walls, other crowds heard the roar and yelled in chorus. It would be some time before they learned why they had opened their lungs, but they’d seen Marshal go by and that was enough. The fortunate few hundred in the yard would tell them later what had happened, and no doubt embroider their stories in the expectation of ale. King John, helping the Arab from the saddle… Marshal kneeling before his king … The two of them going off, arm-in-arm, whilst the warlord’s horse reared up, pawing the air, a certain sign of victory…
Praise God that Marshal was back. Now there’d be some action, and some red grass on the hills.
* * *
For the next few days the court at Rouen was in almost permanent session. The barons had shown guarded enthusiasm for Marshal’s return, though the majority of them believed he had left it too late. It was easy enough for the townsfolk to stamp and cheer; all they knew was that the Earl of Pembroke had come back to rally the army and stop the rot. It was all they wanted to know, though, in the circumstances, it was as well that they remained in ignorance. A little more knowledge, and they’d probably surrender Rouen to the French.
Marshal also had things to learn. He was aware that the situation was desperate, but it was not until he reached the court that he was told the worst of it.
King John had released the Lusignans.
Incredible though it was, he had accepted their parole, in return for which they had promised to ride directly to their fiefs, set about raising their ransoms, then trot back and deliver them in person. Apart from this single jaunt to Rouen, or wherever John was at the time, the lords of Lusignan and Exoudun would sit out the war. His two most dangerous enemies, dedicated not only to the dawnfall of the Angevin empire, but to the personal ruin of John Softsword, and he was expected to believe – had believed – that they would stay at home, twiddling their thumbs. And why not, when he had their word for it?
Even before he had assimilated this ominous news, Marshal was informed that Queen Isabelle’s father, Audemar of Angoulême, had finally succumbed to his wasting paralysis. The death of Taillefer, the Iron-Cutter, was a loss in itself, for he had been one of the most honourable of Christian nobles. However, the loss was aggravated by the knowledge that Angoulême shared its northern border with Lusignan.
Count Audemar’s lands had been inherited by the Sparrowhawk, his sole offspring, but the only way she could secure them now was by force of arms, for that entire region had turned against the crown. Of course, the situation would be made easier if Hugh of Lusignan kept his word and remained impartial, seated beside the fire, filling doe-skin bags with coins…
The third item of news came as no surprise to the warlord. Hugh le Brun had not raised his ransom, but had once again declared war, this time in alliance with Angoulême. Both he and brother Ralf might yet make the jaunt to Rouen, though if they did so, it would be with cavalry, not coins.
* * *
Marshal’s arrival – his return, albeit overdue – was not enough in itself to stem the tide. Nevert
heless, it gave many of those in the outposts and border strongholds pause for thought, and encouraged them to make contact with the Arab. As a result, the court was inundated with messages of welcome, requests for help, estimates of enemy strength in the district, assurances of support, threats of defection, accusations levelled at neighbours, eye-witness accounts of fiery angels, foul-smelling demons, ravens that blanched into doves, and a swarm of bats that had, in an hour, stripped the leaves from a forest five miles square.
King John masked his embarrassment, for he had never been asked to weather such a storm of parchment. Indeed, during the past months he’d had the greatest difficulty in extracting information from any of these now-eager correspondents, and his mask hardened as he saw that the letters were addressed exclusively to Marshal, not even as a courtesy to the King of England. However, he decided to make the best of it. So long as a reliable picture emerged, it did not matter who’d commissioned it.
* * *
The senior commanders were reintroduced to hard work. The pock-marked William of Briouze concentrated his efforts on the army, assessing the complement of nobles, knights and squires, of sergeants and archers and common foot-soldiers, of smiths and fletchers and farriers, physicians and engineers, coopers and wheelwrights, and those members of the clergy who were prepared to fight. To these he added the mercenaries and musicians and camp-followers, both male and female. The army would have its own butchers, bakers, hangmen, prostitutes, its own seamstresses and tent-makers, its tailors and cordwainers, its bridge-builders and miners and poachers, its unacknowledged sodomites and, in case the clergy failed to inspire the troops, its soothsayers and palmists.
Twice a day Briouze pounded the table and strode off, his head dinning with figures. This was no job for a soldier.
He began to invent the numbers, cowing his team of clerks until they arrived at totals that would satisfy King John and Earl Marshal. Under their pens, the Angevin force swelled to a respectable size, strong enough it was believed to stop the French in their tracks.
* * *
Then a single flake of good news arrived with the bad. The chatelaine of Pembroke had given birth to a daughter, and both ladies were well.
The courtiers seized the chance to celebrate, if only for an hour, and the king took Marshal aside and presented him with a heavy silver buckle-not for himself, but for the child. It was an exceptionally valuable piece and the warlord was surprised that John would part with it, especially in these straitened times. Nevertheless, he accepted it on behalf of his daughter, promising to safeguard it until her tenth birthday. ‘She will then be instructed that it is a gift from the King and Queen of England. A propos, I must convey my thanks to Queen Isabelle.’
‘There’s no need,’ John dismissed. ‘I’ll tell her it was well received.’
‘And so shall I at the first opportunity.’
‘I said there’s no need! Just leave it be, will you?’ He blinked at the intensity of his words and hurriedly hooked on a smile. ‘Understand, my lord, the queen is not yet aware that I have, how shall I put it, marked the occasion? It would be better if— Yes, you tell your Isabel, and leave me to tell mine.’
‘As you wish,’ Marshal nodded. ‘It remains anyway a fine present and one that will be treasured by my house.’
‘That’s it,’ John said. ‘And who knows? I might fasten the buckle in person, ten years from now.’
The warlord neither described nor displayed the gift to his compeers, but locked it in his field-chest, prior to sending it on to his wife. Later that day he returned to his narrow, sparsely furnished chamber to discover that the chest had been broken open and the buckle taken. Nothing else was missing, and the contents of the box had not been disturbed.
He had already composed a letter to Isabel de Clare, in which he’d recounted the king’s clandestine behaviour. He now destroyed the sheet and wrote again, this time omitting all mention of the gift. Nor did he report the theft to John, for he did not think the king was involved. Well, yes, he was, but indirectly.
* * *
The parchment blizzard continued to sweep the court. The mass of information from the outlying baronies showed that King Philip had not only probed deep into Angevin territory, but had deployed his forces in such a way that Normandy was now almost completely encircled. French ships patrolled the coastal waters, an ominous warning that the Norman ports would soon be blockaded.
The patient, half-blind monarch had also moved contingents of his army along the north bank of the Loire. Their intention was to link up with the Bretons in the west, and they were already able to wave across the river at the men of Lusignan and Angoulême.
The mighty Angevin empire that had once extended unbroken from the shores of the Channel to the Spanish border was about to be cut and cut again. Normandy was shrinking like wet leather in the sun. The last vestige of unity had disappeared from Maine, Anjou and Touraine. And, all the while, the French nation stretched and expanded and reached for the English throat.
At Rouen, the harassed commanders heard a thousand things they did not wish to hear. But one item of news was denied them – the whereabouts or fate of John’s nephew, Arthur of Brittany. Try as they might, they could swallow nothing more substantial than rumours, and were left hungering for more. The king would not be drawn on the subject, not even by so skilled an interrogator as William Marshal.
‘Don’t press me, my lord. Just take my word for it, he’s safe and secure. No, he does not yet side with us, though he will eventually, I’m sure of it. And when he does I shall return him to his duchy, and those misguided subjects will be welcomed back into our ranks. But don’t worry, Marshal, I shan’t release my nephew as I did the Lusignans. I’ve learned that lesson. Indeed, Arthur will be kept hidden as long as necessary, and in a place where none of us will be tempted by his blandishments. It’s a matter of time, that’s all.’
Perhaps so, Marshal thought, but time until what? Until the young man emerges contrite from his secret dungeon, or until our worst suspicions are confirmed?
* * *
By mid-year the French were feeling the first buffets of Angevin resistance. Marshal, Briouze and others led their men south or east, engaging the enemy in a series of border skirmishes. There were no clear-cut victories, no abject defeats, though Philip’s troops moved more cautiously, reminding themselves that there was, after all, someone to fight.
However, as the summer lengthened it became apparent that the figures Briouze had submitted to the war council at Rouen were largely fictitious. A castle that was supposed to produce thirty accoutred knights could, in reality, field less than a dozen. A district from which two hundred able-bodied men might be recruited was devoid of all but infants and the infirm. The thousands that Briouze had listed as available were nowhere to be seen.
Philip Augustus had made his own assessment of Angevin strength, and now, whenever his troops crossed swords with the enemy, they were expected to estimate the numbers and report them to the king. In this way he was able to check his forecast against the facts, a task that became more pleasurable by the hour.
It was clear that the English were as thin on the ground as coins in a street. Earl Marshal’s return had come too late and, if that knife-nosed warlord could not assemble an army, then no one could.
This had been Philip’s greatest worry until now. He had met Marshal several times over the years, and he shared with Europe an abiding respect for, what did they call him, the Saracen, the Arab? Yes, the Arab, in some ways the mainstay of the Angevin empire. He must be ageing now, the man who’d bolstered King Henry, King Richard and, against all odds, King John. If he was not yet sixty, he was close enough to touch it. And still dangerous, still unseated, still the one who prowled the ramparts of England, the one his countrymen expected to see when they looked up at the walls. And did he still make a point of touring whichever castle he was in, once in the morning, once at night? Doubtless he did, the way a watchdog sniffs its boundaries.
&n
bsp; Pleased though he was by the reports that reached him, Philip Augustus felt some compassion for the Arab. Had John not dismissed him after Mirebeau, things might have been different. Dieu sait, they would most certainly have been different, for Marshal would not have let the French intrude unchallenged, nor released the Lusignan brothers, nor allowed young Arthur to disappear without trace. He might never have rid the empire of its disaffection with Softsword, but he would not have let it crumble so easily, nor so fast.
But John had dismissed him, allowing Philip to seize the initiative. Unfortunate for Marshal, but a blessing for France.
And now Philip was determined to retain his advantage, aware from the estimates he’d received that the Arab had stayed away too long. His patience finally rewarded, the Frenchman led his troops against Vaudreuil, Bonneville, Conches, Alençon and Le Mans. He encouraged the Bretons to launch a full-scale assault upon Angers and Avranches. He sent word to Ralf of Exoudun and Hugh of Lusignan, singling out targets for them in Touraine and Poitou. He issued more than sixty copies of a speech in which he detailed the strengths, or rather the weaknesses, of the enemy, indicating where his allies could best press their attack.
They obeyed him to the letter and, one by one, with dreadful inevitability, the fortress-fence of eastern Normandy cracked and collapsed. Elsewhere, Le Mans and Angers surrendered without a fight. Avranches resisted for a week, then hauled down its flag. The smaller outposts were starved into submission, the larger towns weakened from within by civilians who saw little profit in death.
The Wolf at the Door Page 12
