The Greatest Knight

by Thomas Asbridge

  Marshal also employed a number of clerks and chaplains within his household. He was probably accompanied at almost all times by a personal chaplain. This priest, who was responsible for William’s spiritual care, travelled with a portable altar, vestments and sacred vessels, and was thus capable of hearing confession and performing the ritual of Mass. A chaplain named Roger was in Marshal’s service by 1190, and was later joined by Eustace of St-Georges (probably a kinsman of the knight Alan). Clerks, on the other hand, played an administrative rather than devotional function. These well-educated men oversaw the day-to-day administration of William’s estates, managing his accounts and correspondence, and Marshal’s own limited literacy only served to heighten their importance. William’s first chamberlain, for example, a man named Walter Cut, was essentially the keeper of Marshal’s purse, with responsibility for his coin.

  William must have turned to some of his clerks for advice, particularly on issues of governance and politics. He formed a particularly close attachment to Michael of London, who may well have been recruited during Marshal’s sojourn in that city in July 1189. Michael held the title of magister, or master, which meant he had spent nine years studying grammar, rhetoric and logic, as well as more advanced subjects like astronomy, in a cathedral school, perhaps that of St Paul’s. Alongside the knight John of Earley, Michael seems to have been one of William’s closest associates, following virtually his every footstep for the best part of a quarter of a century.

  Other clerks represented Marshal’s interests on semi-permanent detachment. From the mid-1190s onwards, Master Joscelin was employed in London, overseeing affairs in Westminster and the city. He lived on a small Marshal-owned estate in the Thames-side suburb then known as Charing (positioned between the city walls and the royal palace), but was required to provide Lord William and his knights with ample lodging whenever they stayed in London. Over time, this London satellite of Marshal’s affairs seems to have developed into a form of clearing house. Master Joscelin could use his access to London’s markets to purchase whatever William required, and store these goods on the Charing estate while they awaited transportation. Similarly, the valuable wool produced in the Welsh Marches might be brought to the city and traded for a lucrative profit – a process that must have been eased by Marshal’s connections with the Flemish city of St Omer, given that Flanders was now the centre of the European wool industry. William had learnt early on that a knight could not prosper through acts of prowess alone. Just as he had taken care to reap the financial rewards of his tournament victories in the late 1170s, so now he looked to nurture the wealth and resources of his new lordship. It would not be long before Marshal amassed a considerable fortune.

  In his first year as lord of Striguil, William also established a religious house of his own – the Augustinian priory of Cartmel. Marshal endowed the new institution with lands and property from his small Lancashire estate – making it clear that this was a very personal act of devotion – and the text of the charter that confirmed this transfer has survived. In the Middle Ages, documents of this type usually contained a list of witnesses – those willing to attest to the accuracy and legally binding nature of the deed. As such, they offer a snapshot of a nobleman’s ‘affinity’ – his inner circle of vassals and contacts. The Cartmel charter was witnessed by eleven members of William’s household (many appearing for the first time in connection with their new lord), and by his ally Geoffrey FitzPeter, brother John Marshal and cousin, William FitzPatrick, earl of Salisbury.

  But the fascination of this window on to Marshal’s world does not end there. In the main body of the charter, William sought to explain why he was creating this priory, the first monastery formed through his patronage. Foundations of this type had become extremely popular in aristocratic circles over the preceding century, so the act itself was not unusual for a man of his status. The establishment of Cartmel clearly served as a public affirmation of Marshal’s charitable piety, but it was also a way to give thanks to God and earn spiritual merit that might ease the path to Heaven. William sought to apportion this redemptive force in his charter, stating that the priory had been created ‘for my soul and the soul of my wife Isabel, and those of my ancestors and successors and our heirs’. Marshal also paid tribute to his royal patrons, the men who had lifted him to fortune: Henry II and Richard I were named, but only Young King Henry was described more intimately as ‘my lord’ – a man who had left an imprint on William’s heart and soul.

  THE PROTECTORS OF ENGLAND

  As a powerful magnate and co-justiciar of England, William could not afford to focus solely upon the interests of his own lordship; the realm was his to protect. Unfortunately, William Longchamp, the man chosen by King Richard to hold the reins of power in England, soon proved to be something of a disaster. Longchamp was justifiably paranoid about Count John’s intentions, but he also had a worrying tendency to horde power and a natural gift for alienating and infuriating his peers. In truth, Longchamp was probably driven more by heartfelt loyalty to the Lionheart than personal ambition, and simply doubted the ability of others to defend his monarch’s interests. But, because he had no time for the unctuous niceties of courtly politics, his co-justiciars quickly assumed the worst and took against him.

  William Marshal’s own antipathy for Longchamp was laid bare in the History, where the chancellor was described as a man who lacked wisdom, enjoyed ‘spending the king’s wealth’ and ‘imposed his own laws everywhere’. Marshal probably played a significant role, alongside his fellow co-justiciars, in drafting a letter of complaint to Richard in late 1190 setting out Longchamp’s failings. This missive reached the Lionheart in Sicily in February 1191, where he was waiting for the Mediterranean Sea lanes to open, and sounded a serious note of alarm. In response, the king sent the trusted prelate Walter of Coutances, archbishop of Rouen, back to England with a pair of royal writs authorising him to depose Longchamp should the need arise.

  Archbishop Walter reached England in the summer of 1191, and by that time Count John had crossed the Channel and was pushing to have William Longchamp removed from office so as to open his own path to power. The count wished to be formally recognised as Richard’s heir, and perhaps hoped to assume the role of regent in his absence. John knew that the chancellor and chief-justiciar would block his every step, but the same could not be said of William Marshal. As co-justiciar, William was expected to defend England against the creeping influence and devious aspirations of Count John. It is also likely that Marshal’s elevation as lord of Striguil was actually part of a wider strategy, conceived by Richard, to contain and counterbalance John’s own significant power in the Welsh Marches and the West Country. William may have achieved his position precisely because King Richard trusted him to watch and resist John’s every move. But the Lionheart had misjudged his man.

  Marshal had a reputation for unbreakable fidelity, but he was not the bluff, plain-speaking Longchamp. At the Angevin court, William had begun to understand the importance of moving with caution, keeping one eye on the future and the pursuit of possible advantage. He had also learnt to avoid making enemies of powerful men – especially if they were your neighbours – unless strictly necessary. Thus, the fact that John’s own estates and honours bordered those of Striguil, and that their respective interests overlapped in the likes of Gloucester, actually made Marshal deeply reluctant to alienate the count.

  Even more than this though, William was determined to protect his claim, through Isabel of Clare, to lordship of Leinster – a valuable, semi-autonomous province in Ireland. Through Henry II’s gift, John held the title ‘lord of Ireland’ and this made Marshal his subject in Leinster. If he wished to, the count could obstruct, even thwart any future attempt by William to assert power in his Irish lands. In the autumn of 1189, Marshal had taken the first, somewhat tentative step in this process, dispatching a certain Reginald of Quetteville to ‘take possession of his holdings’ in Ireland (though Quetteville evidently enjoyed little suc
cess, and was condemned by the History as ‘treacherous’ and ineffectual). In the months that followed, William formally acknowledged John’s status as his overlord in Leinster, hoping to forestall any difficulties.

  When Count John returned to England, William thus manoeuvred with care. By this stage, the bleak news from the front line of the Third Crusade must also have raised doubts about Richard I’s prospects of survival. The European armies had already suffered grave losses. Frederick Barbarossa, the mighty German emperor, had drowned in June 1190, before he even reached the Holy Land. Elsewhere, the main campaign had become locked into one of the most devastating military engagements of the Middle Ages: the great siege of Acre. This fortified port-city – once a famous centre of commerce and pilgrim traffic – had fallen to Saladin’s forces after the battle of Hattin in 1187. A desperate, almost suicidal, attempt to retake Acre had begun in the autumn of 1189, and crusaders congregated at the siege in their thousands. Saladin arrived with a relieving army and did his best to dislodge the Latin Christian troops, but they dug defensive trenches and refused to be broken.

  This investment would last twenty-two months, exacting a terrible cost in lives. It became a hellish scene of carnage, miasma, hunger and despair. Some, like Ranulf Glanville, fell prey to sickness and died within weeks of arriving. At the height of the Christians’ suffering, through the winter of 1190, one eyewitness estimated that 200 crusaders lost their lives each day from illness and starvation. Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury, who had led an advanced Angevin contingent to Acre, passed away that December; so too did Count Theobald of Blois, one of William Marshal’s old friends from the tournament circuit. Acre became the graveyard of Europe’s aristocracy. Given that this was known to be King Richard’s destination in the summer of 1191, it was hardly surprising that many began to wonder whether he would ever return.

  The Lionheart himself had equivocated on the issue of the succession, dangling strong hints that he might support his infant nephew Arthur of Brittany’s claim to the throne. That summer, John moved to have his own claim formally acknowledged by the realm’s leading men. At the very least, William Marshal did not step in his way. Having witnessed the chaos that followed the elevation of a boy king to the Jerusalemite throne in 1185, Marshal may have been reluctant to see Arthur’s cause promoted. William was treading a difficult and dangerous path. So long as Count John made no active move to seize power or damage crown interests while King Richard lived, Marshal could maintain a politic neutrality – thus retaining John’s good graces – without appearing to be complicit in treachery.

  Through the summer of 1191, Count John conducted a virulent smear campaign against Longchamp, blackening his name with accusations of homosexuality, deriding his low birth and demanding his deposition. As one eyewitness put it, John ‘was sharpening his teeth against the chancellor’. In October 1191, Marshal and the other co-justiciars finally bent to this pressure. Longchamp was summoned before a council of magnates and stripped of his powers, using the authority of the two sealed royal letters carried by Archbishop Walter. The exact level of William Marshal’s complicity in this affair is difficult to determine. William’s medieval biographer was no fan of Longchamp, but he loathed Count John far more, casting him as ‘arrogant, intemperate and most treacherous’. As a result, the History took every possible step to distance its hero, Marshal, from the hated figure of John, at times actively concealing their dealings. But on the basis of other chronicles, such as that written by Roger of Howden, William does appear to have maintained at least the appearance of strict neutrality through the summer and early autumn of 1191.

  Once removed from office, Longchamp was forced to relinquish control of the Tower of London. He then sought to escape England, travelling south to Dover, in the hope of taking a ship to the Continent. According to a particularly scurrilous story later circulated by one of John’s supporters, Longchamp disguised himself as a woman to avoid detection, dressing in ‘a green gown of enormous length [and] a cape of the same colour with unsightly long sleeves’. Waiting on the seashore, he was said to have attracted the attentions of a randy fisherman, and after being fondled and chased down the beach, was threatened with stoning. Saved by his servants, Longchamp eventually went into exile in Flanders.

  Count John made important gains that October. His status as King Richard’s primary heir was widely acknowledged and he was appointed as ‘supreme governor of the realm’ – tantamount to the office of regent. Crucially, John was also empowered to take control of all but three royal castles in the realm, giving him significant military power. However, not everything went his way. Walter, archbishop of Rouen, stepped into Longchamp’s role as chief-justiciar, and was thus in a position to stifle some of John’s broader ambitions. The History observed with satisfaction that Walter ‘governed the land more rightfully than the chancellor had done, for there was no excess in him’. For now at least, Marshal had managed to protect his own interests, maintaining a cordial relationship with Count John, while still discharging his responsibilities as co-justiciar. William had navigated the complex political machinations of 1191 with a measure of prudent agility, but the trace scent of self-service seems undeniable.

  The return of King Philip Augustus of France

  Marshal’s delicate dance of allegiance could not last indefinitely, and the crisis that would ultimately draw the true extent of his loyalty to the Lionheart out into the open was set in motion in December 1191. For though King Richard remained in the Holy Land, that winter Philip Augustus returned to Europe, and was ‘safe and sound and impudently boasting that he was going to devastate the king of England’s lands’. The course of the Third Crusade had exacerbated the Capetian monarch’s embittered antipathy for his Angevin rival. Sparks had flown even before they set sail from Europe. Philip had long been determined to force through Richard’s marriage to his half-sister Alice of France, but with Queen Eleanor’s encouragement, the Lionheart forged a powerful new marriage alliance with the Iberian kingdom of Navarre, in the hope of protecting his southern Aquitanian interests. Much to Philip’s disgust, Richard declared his intention to marry the Navaresse heiress Princess Berengaria in February 1191, and the pair were duly wed on the island of Cyprus that May. From the Lionheart’s perspective this move made strategic sense, but the Capetians deemed it a grave slur against their dynasty’s honour.

  In military terms, Philip and Richard enjoyed considerable success in the East. Richard reached Acre on 8 June 1191. Though he promptly fell ill less than a week later, he soon recovered. William Marshal’s old associate, Philip, count of Flanders, was less fortunate, succumbing to sickness just over a month after landing in Palestine. Nonetheless, the arrival of the Angevin and Capetian kings reinvigorated the crusader siege, and Acre was finally forced to surrender on 12 July. As far as the Lionheart was concerned, the campaign had only just begun, but within weeks Philip Augustus made the shocking announcement that he intended to return to the West. With Acre conquered, Philip considered his crusading vow fulfilled. More king than holy warrior, he was understandably determined to prioritise the interests of his Capetian realm. The count of Flanders’ precipitous death also left King Philip with rights to a portion of his lands – the prosperous and strategically significant region of Artois. To press home this valuable claim, the French sovereign needed to be in Western Europe. And once there, he would also be in a position to threaten the Angevin Empire.

  On 29 July, Philip swore a sacred and binding oath not to attack Angevin forces or lands while Richard was still on crusade; he also promised to wait forty days before initiating any hostilities once the Lionheart returned to Europe. The Capetian king held a copy of the gospels in one hand and touched saintly relics with the other as he gave these assurances, but that did not stop him breaking these pledges at will. By year’s end, Philip was back in France. The experience of the holy war seems to have left him physically and emotionally shattered. His hair fell out and, harbouring a gnawing suspicion that Rich
ard had ordered his assassination, he surrounded himself with a permanent corps of bodyguards.

  Philip’s nerves may have been shot, but his political ambitions had only deepened. In early 1192 he confirmed Baldwin of Hainault as the new count of Flanders, but took possession of Artois for himself. This was a massive coup for the French crown. With direct control of towns like Arras and St Omer, and the allegiance of Boulogne and Lille, the Capetians had clear access to the Channel for the first time in the twelfth century. King Philip then trained his sights upon that most contested territory: the Vexin. This border zone, just forty miles northwest of Paris, had been an enduring bone of contention between the kings of France and the dukes of Normandy. The critical frontier followed the line of the River Epte, roughly halfway between Paris and Rouen, and was defended on the Norman side by a string of heavily fortified castles, including the redoubtable fortress of Gisors. The long-established balance of power in the Vexin had created an effective stalemate, but meant that a constant threat of invasion hung over the French realm’s north-western reaches. Philip resolved to reclaim this vital territory at any cost.

  Philip Augustus had used all his guile and cunning to drive a wedge between Richard and his father, the Old King, during the last years of Henry II’s reign. It was only too obvious that the same frustrated ambition that had driven the Lionheart to betray his family now festered in Count John. Naturally, the French king set to work exploiting this weakness. John was invited to visit Paris, probably with the intention of drawing up a new marriage alliance that would see him wed to Alice of France, and the Norman Vexin promised to the Capetians as a dower gift. The count seems to have been more than willing to entertain such a scheme, but sensing the danger, the venerable Queen Eleanor intervened. She called John to a succession of councils, attended by William Marshal and the other justiciars, at Windsor, Oxford, London and Winchester. The position taken by William in these assemblies is unclear – though the fact that four meetings were held indicates that the discussions were extensive – but the count was eventually threatened with the confiscation of all his English lands and castles should he cross to France, and he duly relented.