This was ‘the Anarchy’ caused by the struggle between Stephen and Mathilda which, though for the throne of England, spilled blood and leached treasure across both England and Normandy. Stephen’s action in suddenly repudiating his sworn oath to uphold Mathilda’s claim was eloquent both of his swift opportunism and of his poor judgement, and this lack of wisdom was a constant threat to the prospering of his cause. It made itself manifest before the wooden palisade of Newbury when, two days after the arrival of William and Nicholas de Sarum, under the cover of a wet night John the Marshal threw into Newbury both reinforcements and supplies.
In the damp dawn that followed, Stephen was made aware that his inadequate siege-lines had been breached in the sleeting darkness. He ordered the boy William to be brought before him and a halter put about his neck. He sat staring at the impressive lad, his nobles standing behind him in a half-circle of coloured surtouts that struck the uncomprehending child as impressive. He knew none of them and was therefore unafraid. Quite unabashed at the scrutiny of the King, the lad stared back, turning slightly from side to side, as children compelled to stand before their elders are wont to do.
‘Stand still, boy!’ The King commanded, nonplussed at William’s apparent composure. ‘Do you know what has been put about thy neck?’
‘A rope sir,’ the lad responded.
‘ ’Tis a halter, Will,’ the King explained, his voice less harsh, even kind to the boy’s ears. ‘A halter by which we may have to hang you if your father jests with us.’
‘Are you at war with my father sir?’
Stephen smiled and leaned back, throwing a glance over his shoulder as a ripple of soft laughter ran through the assembly of chivalry in his rear. ‘That I am, Will. And I would have it otherwise. Did you know that some few years since, your father was among my council, witnessed my charters. Dost though know what that means?’
‘Aye sir. A charter is a paper of importance, writ for a King whose seal and sign-manual must be seen by others and thereby witnessed.’
A murmur of appreciation met this new precocity.
‘You have been schooled well, my boy. Who is your Domine?’
‘The priest called Nicholas de Sarum in whose company I came hence, sir.’
The King turned aside and spoke behind his hand. ‘Go, one of you and summon the priest,’ he said, then fell to studying the boy again. William stared back, beginning again to sway slightly from side to side.
‘Pray do not do that,’ Stephen said irritably. ‘It is distracting…’
A moment later the knight sent to find the priest returned with Nicholas de Sarum in tow. The priest made his obeisance to the King.
‘Go thee before this castle, Nicholas, and summon them to surrender in thy Lord’s name. Tell the chief of that place that I hold his Master’s son William a hostage. Say thou hast seen the hangman’s noose about his neck and if the castle is not give-up to me by sunset, I shall hang the boy in the first light of the morning following and they shall awake to the sight.’
Without a word, Nicholas de Sarum bowed, backed away then turned and walked towards the castle. He made directly for the gate until he was about fifty yards off it when an arrow struck the ground at his feet. He halted and looked up. Half a dozen heads could be seen above the wooden stakes of the palisade enclosing the enceinte.
‘Halt Priest,’ a voice called out. ‘I know thee; upon what business are you intent?’
His heart thumping, Nicholas de Sarum stared up at the heads silhouetted against the grey clouds. He could not positively recognise anyone, but thought one among them was the Marshal’s steward charged with the defence of Newbury castle, Geoffrey FitzJohn.
‘I am Nicholas de Sarum,’ he began, the words tumbling from him in his anxiety. ‘I am sent by John the Marshal to the King’s camp with his son William who is this moment held hostage by King Stephen. His Grace the King has himself charged me with the delivery of a message unto your Constable.’
‘I am he.’ Geoffrey FitzJohn stood clear against the sky. ‘Speak, Nicholas. We shall not harm thee.’
‘You must offer-up this place to King Stephen before sundown. If you do not the boy William will be hanged at dawn tomorrow.’
Nicholas de Sarum saw two or three of the heads move close together as though conferring. They remained thus for a moment or two then drew apart and Geoffrey replied: ‘My Lord has sent me reinforcements and supplies. He sent no message of his son a hostage. Is this a ruse played upon me by the King and using our friendship to conceal its falsehood? To surrender at your demand would incur my Lord’s wrath.’
‘ ’Tis true, FitzJohn. I play no game at the King’s behest and have come directly from his tent wherein the boy stands with a halter about his neck.’
There was a moment’s indecision, then Geoffrey called down: ‘Do you request the King opens his lines and permits me to send word to the Marshal to determine his will.’
Nicholas turned on his heel and walked back to where the King remained seated among his knights, the boy William now also squatting, cross-legged on the ground at his feet, the end of the hemp noose coiled about him.
‘Well?’ demanded Stephen. Nicholas repeated the request, causing a stirring among the nobles and an irritated look to pass over the King’s features. Casting his eyes down, the priest caught William’s steady gaze.
There was a protracted silence which lasted until the King pronounced his decision. ‘Very well. But I want an answer by dawn. A man may ride there and back over-night and you shall do it,’ the King commanded Nicholas as he got to his feet. He was clearly angry and a murmur arose among his entourage from which Nicholas deduced they were none too happy with Stephen’s acquiescence. ‘And the boy can sleep without supper but with that necklace about him,’ the King added. ‘Do you impress upon the Marshal that I intend the execution of his son if Newbury is not mine by right of his reply. Now get you gone!’
And so Nicholas de Sarum traipsed back to where the arrow still stuck in the ground and delivered the King’s response while a horse was made ready for him. Ten minutes later he was on the road to the west. William watched him go and wished, with all his heart, that he might have ridden by the priest’s side.
And then the squire charged with his care came and bent to take-up the end of the halter, jerking William unkindly to his feet with such force that the boy felt the noose draw tight round his neck.
‘You little life depends upon the love of your father now, lad,’ the young man said as William loosened the constriction round his wind-pipe.
*
By the first light of dawn William was awake and hungry. He had suffered hunger before, but only on such occasions as he had been late home from a hunting expedition, having wandered too far from his father’s hearth. Such had been a boyish hunger of no great consequence. Now he was truly hungry, ravenously so, his frame, big for a lad of his age, demanding nourishment. He was thirsty too and he stood, stepping over the hound that was his only companion in the small tent to which he had been taken the night before under orders not to leave it. The great dog stirred, lifted its head and growled at William and the halter tugged at his neck, secured as it was to the single tent-post. He could quite easily have untied it, but he recognised his plight. If he had done so, the hound would arouse those responsible for his confinement. Instead, he did as Brother Nicholas instructed him to do, whether in trouble or not. He knelt and prayed.
That is how the King’s men found him when they came for him. The sight of the boy on his knees, his hands palm-to-palm, the hangman’s halter already about his neck, touched some of them with pity. He was nothing but a child. Nevertheless, they led him before Stephen like a dog on a leash. As for William, he heard Angharad’s words in his ears and bore himself as well as he could.
The King sat, as before, in the outer part of his tent, some of his nobles gathered about him. Excepting Stephen who wore a circlet of gold, all were bare-headed and all wore mail, coloured surtouts and heavy stud
ded belts from which their scabbarded swords hung. Some leaned on the blades and all were arrayed for war. A handful of squires were in quiet attendance, holding helms and mailed gauntlets. Kneeling at the King’s feet was Nicholas de Sarum, his dark woollen habit mud-spattered, his hood pulled back on his shoulders, but his head downcast.
A strange, hollow feeling seemed to open up in William’s belly and his legs felt suddenly unable to bear his weight. Instinctively he drew in a great breath while his thoughts tumbled about inside his head and Angharad’s voice abjured him to hold up. He had been told, clearly enough, that he might die that morning, but until this moment the reality of death had seemed far-off, inconceivable to a boy of his tender age. During his hour of prayer he had prayed for deliverance, for forgiveness and to be able to return home to Hamstead Marshal and the embraces of Angharad, but not from deliverance from death. Never before in his short life had he been visited by this visceral upheaval, this inner turbulence and the threatened failure of his limbs to bear him. He thought for a moment that he might be sick, but he swallowed hard and stared at the King.
Now the deep breathing and the quickening of his heart steadied him and witnesses afterwards remarked that he had seemed to hold himself like a man as he came to a halt before the King. There was a moment of silence during which no-one moved, then Stephen spoke.
‘I asked the priest who calls himself Nicholas de Sarum to hold his tongue until you could hear what your father has to say regarding the surrender of this place.’ Stephen jerked his head to indicate the rebel structure that defied his command to surrender.
William looked from the King to Nicholas and back again but said not a word. His fear seemed to have receded and he sensed somehow that the King would not kill him even though many of his nobles might. Intuitively he felt a powerful urge to cling to Stephen and held his gaze on him. The King, meanwhile, regarded the kneeling priest. ‘Well?’ he demanded.
Nicholas looked up, then down again. Then he turned his head to look at William, bewildered at the boy’s composure, before swiftly lowering his eyes and staring again at the churned grass at the mailed feet of the King.
‘Speak, priest, or by Heaven your own head will pay for your disrespect!’
‘My Lord, I…’ Nicholas hesitated then, suddenly emboldened, raised his eyes to the expectant King’s. ‘My Lord King, my Master, William the Marshal, replies to Your Highness with these words…’
‘Go on, priest! Go on, for the love of God!’
‘That he has both the hammer and the anvil to forge another son and that Newbury is not for the giving up!’
Although Nicholas de Sarum had uttered the sentence at the run, the second clause was lost in the rumble of horror that greeted the first. The King’s eyes narrowed and he lowered his voice. ‘He would sacrifice his son to hold this work of timber that I shall shatter before the sennight is out? Is that what you have returned to tell me, O Nicholas of Sarum?’ The King’s tone was sarcastic.
‘That is what my Lord charged me with, Your Highness, and upon my honour.’
‘Better he had laid the matter upon your soul,’ Stephen muttered, before raising his hand for silence and staring at the young prisoner. ‘Take him back to his tent,’ the King ordered and as William was led out, he heard the King address Nicholas de Sarum. ‘Get you back to your Master at once. Tell him I shall take him at his word and deal with his son accordingly. Now get out!’
As a weary, anxious and humiliated Nicholas mounted up and tugged his horse’s head round to the west he noticed the arrival of siege-engines. He turned his head to seek out the little boy that he was abandoning to the vengeance of his master’s enemy. Nicholas knew well that, until recently John the Marshal had stood high in Stephen’s favour, that he had been a close counsellor of the King, had often been the sole witness to Stephen’s signature and a boon companion of his table. It was not difficult to perceive how the King would take revenge upon him for his treacherous desertion to the Empress Mathilda’s cause; what to the exhausted Nicholas was inexplicable was how the Marshal could so casually abandon his son. Was his own life’s work to be given-over so easily?
There was now no sign of the boy, only the movement of the heavy tent-flap as the King and his nobles withdrew within. Nicholas shuddered and crossed himself, kicking his mount forward. And then, as he cleared the King’s army’s lines and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, he remembered the mark on the boy’s shoulder.
*
William stood before the King who had with him only two knights, his cup-bearer and his hounds. The lad looked from one face to another, then at the churned grass that was covered with the remains of flowers strewn in respect to the King’s high dignity. He sensed the gravity of the occasion though not its possible outcome. Death does not haunt boys as it does older men; besides, William rather liked Stephen who seemed a kinder man than his own father. William could not imagine him ordering so callous a killing. He, William, was not a chicken to be strangled for the pot, or a rat to be executed as vermin. Only the evening before the two of them had played ‘knights,’ a game of chance using crudely fashioned straw horsemen, each of which represented a mounted knight. They ‘fought’ a tourney on the throw of two die and Stephen had let William win. He could still see the extemporised horsemen, thrown to one side of the large tent, both on their sides, defeated. He noticed that the King’s now lay on top of his own, identifiable by the strips of red cloth tied about them. The King coughed, interrupting William’s distraction. He looked at the King and then down at his own feet.
‘Your father defies me, Will. Dost think that an honourable thing to do when but a few short years ago he would have been here, at my right hand?’ Stephen gestured to William de Ypres, who stood in the appointed place of honour and, at the King’s gesture, drew himself up to his full height. His steel mail rustled with the movement.
‘What say you, Will? Eh?’ the King prompted.
William did not know what to say, though clearly something was expected of him. He felt nothing towards his father, though he could see the treachery well enough. His sparring in the tilt-yard had taught him that one stuck to one’s fighting friends.
‘I come to do my father’s bidding, Sire. He bad me do him knight’s service.’
‘Hmmph,’ the King responded. He had heard the phrase trotted out before and eased himself into a seat, dismissing his attendant nobles. Calling for wine he beckoned the boy towards him and placed a hand upon the lad’s shoulder.
‘Will, your father has abandoned you; given you up to my mercy. He has, believe it or not, given me his permission to have you killed rather than surrender this castle about which we now lie in some force. The place will fall to us. There is no doubt of that, so your little life is of so small a consequence. Do you see that?’
William nodded and lifted his face towards the King. ‘Would you have me killed, Sire? If so may I request it is done by a sword. I have no liking for the noose that you put about my neck. I do knight’s service and ask to die like a knight.’
Stephen’s look of astonishment suddenly turned to one of pure delight and he burst out laughing. Stephen was neither a harsh nor a politic man; his vacillating character saw to that, and whilst the prosecution of the siege of Newbury bore witness to his swift resolution, he was equally capable of running out of energy, of abandoning a thing before it was seen through. Perhaps John the Marshal gambled upon this, perhaps Stephen himself thought the execution of a traitor’s son a mean and unkingly act, but it was this aspect of his character, charmed by William’s childish simplicity, that removed the threat of death from the boy’s head. Such an act of clemency would do him no good.
But Stephen was no fool; he would try one last time to compel the garrison of Newbury to capitulate by using William as a pawn. He called out for attendants and when the tent seemed full of them said, simultaneously ruffling William’s hair, ‘put the boy in a mangonel and run it up towards the bailey wall. We will summons them once mo
re and if that avails us nothing, then prepare for an assault.’
William would better remember the sequel than any other feature of his time as the King’s prisoner. Against the later memories of the cruelty, the burnings and the sackings that followed the final taking of Newbury, a back-drop of smoke, fire and the sight of the dead, the sharp exposure to which he was now subject stuck – as it was bound to in a boy’s mind – as the epitome of his being held hostage.
He was led outside and along the line of tents, past the camp-fires of the King’s army where men, going about their various tasks, stopped to stare at him. Everyone knew who and what he was and he stirred in them differing emotions. Some felt cold fury at the stupidity of his father whose callous attitude compelled them to risk their lives in an assault; others felt for their own sons, far away.
Eventually William and his escort reached the parked siege-engines, brought-up to force the wooden ramparts of Newbury. Men in leather jerkins were busy about them, preparing them for action, men from Normandy by their accents. Having arrived in a transportable state, the Norman artillerists had assembled the windlasses and were even then fitting the ropes that transmitted their power. A knight whose name William did not know called out and they stopped their labours to see what was a-foot. The knight indicated a large catapult. The mangonel appeared to be ready for action and, following a rapid succession of orders, men assembled from their work in sufficient numbers to roll it forward over the grass slope.
‘Remark it, lad,’ one of the men-at-arms guarding him said.
‘What is it? William asked.
‘An engine which, when we have thrown you over the wall, we shall fill with stones, or burning fire and so bring down yonder castle.’
William looked up at the man. ‘Throw me over? What return me to my own kind?’
‘You think they will catch you?’ the man laughed. ‘Happen they will riddle you with arrows whilst you are still in mid-air for fear of any contagion you might bring into their fastness.’ He ended with a chuckle, and shoved William forward. The mangonel was clearly in place and ready, as those superfluous to the next task returned to their work, or moved to bring other strange siege-engines up to play upon the castle, leaving a handful to strain at the windlass bars and draw down the great ash arm, at the extremity of which was fitted a stout basket.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 4
