LEARNING TO WIN
Victory on the tournament circuit did not come early or easily. Historians have generally assumed that the Young King burst on to the tournament scene in the mid-1170s, with William Marshal at his side, and immediately achieved widespread success. But this impression largely derived from the idea that Marshal had already mastered these contests and somehow remained a revered champion. In fact, William’s earlier tournament career was probably quite short-lived (perhaps ending nine years earlier, in 1167) and his track record was solid, but not necessarily spectacular. Marshal likely understood the game and its rules better than anyone else in Henry’s household. But he was no tournament superstar, not yet at least.
Far from being an instant sensation, the Young King’s retinue were more of a comedy sideshow at first. Indeed, the History of William Marshal admitted that for eighteen months, Henry’s knights ‘never came to a single tournament site without being humiliated and ill-used’, and his warriors were routinely ‘captured and ill-treated’. French knights apparently became so accustomed to battering the Young King’s team that they started agreeing the divisions of ransoms and booty among themselves on the eve of each tournament. Henry’s men had a stirring battle-cry, using the traditional Norman shout of ‘Dex aïe’ (‘God our help’), their horses, arms and armour were all impressive enough and, given that he could draw on the Old King’s bankroll, the team contained the ‘pick of fighting men’, all used to ‘high exploits’. The real problem was discipline and, at first, William Marshal appears to have been an arch offender. His biographer conceded that, at an early event, ‘Marshal left the king and spurred his horse in the direction of another company’, and thereafter happily ‘launched himself into the fray’. This was all well and good in terms of displaying individual prowess – William duly sent many a foe ‘on their way with his mighty blows’ that day – but he had also abandoned his lord, Henry, and the Young King rightly chided him for it on his return.
Over time the team improved. Marshal learnt to curb his headstrong enthusiasm, and the History subsequently made constant reference to the fact that he always remained ‘close by the king’, protecting him with blows that were ‘exceedingly mighty and dangerous’. Henry’s knights gradually honed their skills and, with more experience, they began working together as a compact and coherent body of horsemen – recognising, as the biographer bluntly put it, that ‘a man who breaks ranks too early is a fool’. The Young King and his household were also mentored by Henry’s old ally, Philip of Flanders, by now an established patron of the tournament circuit and an acclaimed participant to boot. Philip was something of a scoundrel: ruthless, unprincipled and unswervingly ambitious. He had hitched his wagon to the Young King’s cause when he saw advantage, but he was an unreliable ally. The History of William Marshal did its best to paint him in a heroic light, as a ‘worthy man, who in wisdom surpassed’ all contemporaries, but remarkably it was also quite candid and accepting of his devious conduct on the tournament field.
Count Philip’s tournament tactics mirrored his approach to real life. He bent the rules, employed wily, even underhanded, methods, and pursued victory and gain with singular focus. His preferred technique in knightly contests was to arrive with his retinue at the lists (or assembly points), but publicly declare his intention merely to spectate rather than participate. Only after the grand charge and first phase of the mêlée had left his opponents ‘weary, disarrayed and disorganised’, would Philip spur his warriors into action, suddenly entering the tournament after all. Using this trick, the count’s retinue was able to cut a swathe through the field, leaving scores of knights ‘knocked to the ground . . . injured [and ultimately] captured’. This ruse echoed the use of a reserve troop in real battle – the highly effective tactic of holding a portion of one’s force back from the fray until the fighting reached its peak, and then timing its deployment so as to strike a decisive blow. In the context of a tournament such duplicity might today seem like blatant cheating, but Philip’s peers appear to have accepted his ploy as a canny manipulation of the rules. The History lauded him as ‘wise and brave’, and what is more, it went on to reveal that William Marshal himself embraced this tactic.
Acting as Young Henry’s tournament captain and strategist, Marshal advised the retinue to imitate Philip of Flanders’ methods. At the next event, they arrived ‘giving no indication that [they were] going to tourney that day or carry arms into the fray’, and then abruptly launched a blistering attack ‘when the other side were unable to defend themselves’. It proved to be an overwhelming success. The muddy field was left strewn with enemy banners and flags, and for once, ‘the King’s men made great gains’. William’s biographer gleefully declared: ‘After that the King never came to a [tournament] without availing himself of this sort of trick or deception.’ Much as the History might chastise loathsome losengiers (deceivers) in the real world, here it seems that a degree of dishonesty was fair game.
THE DAYS OF GLORY
By the end of 1177, the Young King’s retinue – with William Marshal at its heart – was enjoying ever more success on the tournament circuit. Victories began to mount, and ransoms and spoils started to flood into the household’s coffers. Henry, Marshal and the retinue as a whole were now seen in a different light. No longer easy victims, they were garnering a reputation as accomplished, steely-eyed practitioners of the art, and fast becoming one of the most feared and respected teams in northern France.
William and Henry had now known each other for seven years; the boy-king had grown up to become a tall, stunningly handsome twenty-three-year-old. These two men had fought and lost a war together, and the bond forged between them in 1170 had only strengthened. They were not (and could not be) equals, given Henry’s rarefied royal blood, but they were firm friends; and these years fighting side by side on the tournament field seem to have been the happiest that they shared. Of course, the History would be expected to emphasise Marshal’s especially esteemed position within Young Henry’s mesnie, so we might wonder whether the suggestion that ‘the king loved [William] dearly, more than any other knight he knew in any land’, should be taken at face value. But other external sources confirm Marshal’s pre-eminent status – most importantly, Henry’s surviving acta (issued documents), in which William consistently appeared in pride of place, as the first witness drawn from the military household.
The History painted a vivid picture of the exuberant joy shared by William and the Young King at their daring exploits, evoking an unmistakeable sense of unfettered bravura and camaraderie. This was never clearer than at a ‘grand and excellent’ tournament held on the Norman-French border between Anet and Sorel. Henry’s retinue performed well in the early stages of this event, timing their charge to perfection so that they ‘drove right through’ the French ranks. With their opponents in full flight, most of the Young King’s household set off in pursuit, but Marshal remained at his lord’s side. Together they ‘rode downhill until they came out clean in the middle of the main avenue in Anet’. The town seemed deserted until they turned a corner and were suddenly confronted by the sight of the mounted French warrior, Simon of Neauphle, blocking the way ahead with a well-armed party of infantrymen. The History related that: ‘The King said, “We shall not get through, and yet there is no question of going back.” The Marshal replied, word for word: “So help me God, there’s nothing for it but to charge them.”’
Hammering headlong down the street, the throng of foot soldiers scattered before them, all desperately trying to avoid being trampled to death. A way through opened up, but William was not content merely to make a getaway. He rode in towards Simon of Neauphle, deftly snatched his horse’s bridle and, holding on with all his might, began dragging his opponent along behind him, as Henry followed. This was one of Marshal’s favourite techniques – it had earned him plenty of captures back in the 1160s – and he now rode off to the lists, with Simon in tow, intent on declaring the French knight his prisoner. Simon had o
ther ideas. As they raced through the town, with William ‘paying no attention to what was going on behind’, the French knight leapt out of his saddle to grab an overhanging gutter, and was thereby plucked from his mount. Marshal remained oblivious, but the Young King witnessed this spectacular feat, yet said nothing.
When they reached the lists and William instructed his squire to ‘Take this knight into custody’, Henry cheerily enquired in reply: ‘What knight?’ and then revealed Simon’s ‘splendid trick’. The History presented this as a comical moment: Marshal ‘burst out laughing’ as both men savoured the joke, and the tale was heartily retold for weeks to come. The episode has the feel of a favoured, and perhaps embroidered, anecdote, but the kernel of truth – William’s intimate friendship with Young Henry – seems authentic.
A ‘hero’ rises
The History recorded many of William’s own individual, and equally colourful, exploits, as he gradually mastered the tournament circuit. By the late 1170s Marshal began to attend events on his own as a way of gaining experience, reputation and reward. The first of these ‘freelance’ ventures seems to have been a tournament held at Pleurs, in the Champagne region, east of Paris. The biographer maintained that, because this was judged to be too far for the Young King to travel with his ‘heavy baggage’ train, Henry gave ‘his bosom friend’ William leave to go with only one other knight in his company. In reality Marshal may well have had to pester his lord for permission to depart, and he does not seem to have borne Young Henry’s colours or device at this event, because his biographer indicated that, once the contest had begun, ‘many looked at him hard [but] had no idea who he was’.
The tournament at Pleurs attracted some of France’s most illustrious barons and knights: Philip of Flanders was present, as were Duke Hugh of Burgundy and Count Theobald of Blois. Two of Europe’s finest warriors – James of Avesnes and William des Barres – also attended. These two men were Marshal’s direct peers in the 1170s, knights who garnered widespread renown for their skill-at-arms. William revelled in the day, fighting ‘like a lion amongst oxen’, and according to the History, as he clove a path through his opponents, ‘he struck and hammered like a woodcutter on oak trees’. In reality, though Marshal evidently relished the fracas and more than held his own, the lack of protection from a disciplined retinue left him exposed. Targeted by numerous attacks, he received such a pummelling from sword and mace blows that his helmet was crushed down ‘to his scalp’. All in all, Marshal seems to have regarded it as a splendid day, with many knights displaying noteworthy prowess. William had impressed his peers and begun, in the words of his biographer, ‘to establish his reputation’, but his actual winnings may have been fairly modest.
The fighting at Pleurs gradually petered out by mid-afternoon, but the main field retained a chaotic, fairground atmosphere, as knights and their stewards milled around, sharing stories, securing ransoms and hunting down lost equipment. A lengthy, chivalrous debate ensued about who should receive the ceremonial spear gifted to the day’s worthiest knight. To affirm their courtly modesty many declined, Philip of Flanders included, and it was eventually decided that William Marshal should be given the award. The only problem was that he was nowhere to be seen. Two knights and a squire eventually tracked him down to a local forge. There they found Marshal on his knees, his head lain upon an anvil, as a blacksmith struggled to pry his ‘smashed and battered’ helmet off with an assortment of ‘hammers, wrenches and pincers’. It all made for a laughable scene – one that William evidently remembered with great affection. He was duly presented with his prize spear and, though he too humbly declared himself undeserving of the award, he accepted it nonetheless.
In the months that followed, William’s tournament career flourished. At an event held at Eu, on Normandy’s eastern frontier with Picardy, he captured ten knights and twelve horses in a single day, and the History reported that ‘the tide of his valour and reputation now began to rise, lifting him to high eminence’. Marshal’s fortunes depended in part on the quality of the warriors surrounding him in the Young King’s mesnie: knights hand-picked and recruited through William’s contacts, and paid for out of Henry’s allowance. But William also possessed innate qualities and acquired skills that set him apart. Marshal’s raw physicality allowed him to absorb battering blows that might fell others, while his strength lent jarring force to the attacks he delivered with either lance or sword. Few could match the assured agility of his horsemanship and a canny, guileful strategic awareness meant that he was able to outthink opponents.
As a flurry of successes followed, William was soon fêted as a champion – revered within the enclosed, hothouse atmosphere of the tourney circuit – and courted by the great and the good. The History recounted how, on the eve of a great contest at Épernon in the province of Blois, Marshal was welcomed as a guest by the local magnate, Count Theobald. The custom was for ‘high-ranking men’ to visit one another’s lodgings through the evening, sharing stories, gossip and wine. By this time, Marshal’s standing was such that even the most powerful men in France were happy to be seen in his company. On this particular night, however, things almost went awry.
William had ridden into Épernon on ‘a tall and valuable horse’, which he left in the care of a young local lad. But, just as he was basking in the attention of Count Theobald’s gawking guests, a violent commotion was heard in the street outside. Marshal leapt to his feet and, ‘without taking his leave’, sprinted outside to discover a thief riding off on his precious steed. The scoundrel must have thought that he would easily make good his escape under the cover of darkness, mounted as he was; but he had not counted on William’s determined pursuit. Racing down the street, Marshal tracked the clatter of the horse’s hooves. Even when the thief darted down an alley and hid behind a cart full of branches, William managed to catch the faint sound of the beast stamping its feet. Closing in, he grabbed a piece of wood from the cart and battered the thief so hard that one of his eyes popped out. The horse was recovered, and though the Count of Blois called for a hanging, Marshal supposedly showed mercy, arguing that, with his head half caved in, the wretch had ‘suffered enough’.
Victory on an industrial scale
In spite of his biographer’s continued emphasis upon William’s upstanding behaviour and the honour he accrued in knightly contests, there can be no doubt that for warriors like Marshal the attraction of tournaments was not simply related to abstract notions of chivalry. Reputation mattered enormously to be sure, but the great beauty of the tourney, as far as Marshal and his peers were concerned, was that it allowed knights to earn renown and, at the same time, amass booty, ransoms and wealth. The author of the History of William Marshal had a fascinating attitude to this question of material gain. On the one hand, he insisted that his hero gave no thought to riches, stating that: ‘Not for a moment did [William] have gain in mind, [and] he was so focused on noble exploits that he had no concern for making profit.’ But at the same time, he could not bring himself to wholly conceal the fabulous wealth Marshal now accumulated, because these material assets were such an essential component of William’s meteoric progress.
The biographer may have struggled with these issues, but Marshal himself apparently saw no shred of incompatibility between chivalry and materialism. In his world, these two fundamental concerns were inseparable. The mechanics of the medieval tournament meant that the taking of prisoners and plunder served both as the visible affirmation of prowess and the source of practical gain. Indeed, as William won more and more victories, he began to treat the tournament circuit almost like a business. In the late 1170s he struck a deal with Roger of Jouy, a Flemish knight who had been recruited into the Young King’s household.
William’s biographer did not really approve of Roger, characterising him as ‘a brave and doughty man, renowned for feats of arms, venturesome and clever, but inclined to be greedy’, but Marshal seems to have been more interested in Roger’s well-known ability to win copious amounts of
loot. The two men forged a formal agreement to fight side by side in tournaments so as to make ‘greater gains’, and then split their winnings evenly. They even employed one of the Young King’s household servants – his kitchen clerk, Wigain – on the side, to keep a tally of their victories. Years later, William’s biographer saw one of these account sheets covering the period between Lent and Whitsuntide (which probably equated to no more than two months of tourneying at most), and seemed both appalled and impressed to discover that in that time, Marshal and Roger took an extraordinary 103 knights prisoner. The ‘companions’ worked together for two years and must have made a fortune.*
Even with this flood of money coming in, William shepherded his assets with meticulous, almost miserly assiduity. During a second tournament between Anet and Sorel, two horses were snatched from him when he was caught momentarily on foot and thus unable to mount a defence. It was an opportunistic capture, but hardly criminal. That evening, Marshal haggled mercilessly for hours to secure the horses’ release and later gloated that he had cannily managed to buy back one of the mounts for only £7, even though it was actually worth £40. In the course of this episode, William also made calculated use of his reputation to browbeat one of the ‘cowardly’ knights involved, Peter of Leschans, forcing him to admit his supposed thievery in front of his uncle, the distinguished knight William des Barres. Marshal’s status meant that his word could not be challenged, even by des Barres (who did his best to smooth over the embarrassing affair). In the opinion of his biographer, William was merely putting the upstart youngster in his place, but it is hard to avoid the conclusion that Marshal was actually exploiting his position in a rather unscrupulous manner.
The Greatest Knight Page 14
