‘Just so.’
‘And what of John, the boy? Is he not destined for Holy Church?’ William remarked with an effort of memory in an attempt to appear interested in the old man’s discourse and those ramifications he seemed to divine in the day’s doings.
FitzHubert nodded. ‘He is an oblate, yes, but they call him Lackland since his father makes no provision for him…’ William looked at FitzHubert sharply, wondering if this white-haired and elderly man knew anything about himself. ‘It is not a happy situation, to be perceived as cast-off, methinks.’
William looked again at his interlocutor. ‘You know me sir… Wait!’ he commanded as FitzHubert smiled again and was about to speak. ‘You were among those about King Stephen at Newbury camp. It was you who took me from King Stephen after he had ordered me lifted from the trebuchet!’
The older man nodded. ‘It was,’ FitzHubert nodded and smiled, pleased that he had been so remembered, ‘and I marked you then as I have watched you since. Take heed of what I say for I have no sons of my own and but one daughter, so the fruit of my observations cannot avail anyone but you. The young lions and leopards constantly bite the hand that feeds them. They will bring the old lion to his knees, along with the offspring from Louis’ loins, hard though that may be to imagine of that lack-lustre King, nor will they keep any kind of peace among themselves. Cleave to the Lady Eleanor as long as you are able, for there shines a star not merely of splendour but of a rare constancy and take care to do no-one dishonour, for all this…’ FitzHubert made an encompassing gesture round about them, ‘is but a sham, hiding great ambition.’
‘Is ambition not to be expected of so mighty a prince as King Henry?’
‘Alas, yes, and ’twould be unremarkable were it to run with good sense, but…’ FitzHubert leaned forward and lowered his voice, ‘it runs instead with ungovernable temper.’
‘I had heard as much,’ William responded quietly, embarrassed at the turn the conversation was taking.
‘Good. Then you will beware the King in a rage. As for his young help-meet I sense trouble.’
‘How so?’
‘Because our Young King will be irked; his younger brothers Richard and Geoffrey will have work to do, Richard in particular, for he was ever his mother’s favourite, while her first-born will trail in his father’s wake waiting for death to make a real monarch of him and,’ FitzHubert turned and looked at the high table on its dais, ‘by the look of our Sovereign Lord, Henry by the Grace of God the second of that name to reign over England, he is likely to keep the Young King in expectation for some years yet.’
William’s eyes had followed FitzHubert’s. The King was serving his son a boar’s head and although the noise in the hall grew less at this royal gesture, William and FitzHubert were too far away to hear what was said. They saw Archbishop Roger make a comment and the Young King respond. King Henry looked for a moment nonplussed, then angry and finally turned his grimace into public laughter. It was only later William learned of the Young King’s impudence, impertinence that seemed to confirm the prescience of FitzHubert’s remarks, though some said it was a mark of the younger man’s charm and quick-wittedness. At the time William saw only that Queen Eleanor was looking directly at himself and a wave of guilty apprehension swept over him at listening to FitzHubert’s tittle-tattle as the old knight’s head, full of wine, nodded forward over the wreckage of his meal. Embarrassed, William turned to his table companion on his other side, Robert de Salignac.
De Salignac had witnessed the little scene at the high table. ‘Despite today’s events,’ he remarked drily, ‘they do not get on, this father and his son’.
‘No better than did I with mine,’ William confessed, the wine making him bibulous.
‘What a pity,’ De Salignac said with his ready smile.
By the following morning the effrontery of the Young King to his father was common knowledge, eagerly seized upon by the gossips of the Court. The Archbishop had remarked it unusual that a King should wait at table, but the Young King had demurred. ‘But it can be no condescension,’ he had flashed back, ‘he is the son of a Count, sir, whereas I am that of a King!’
*
Two weeks later the Queen’s Court had moved to Windsor and Eleanor rode out to hawk along the banks of the River of Thames. William rode in her train, his newly acquired peregrine upon his gauntlet. He had no great love of the sport but the falcon had been among the gifts Queen Eleanor had bestowed upon him in the wake of his return to her household after the affair at Lusignan, in compliment to the fact that the Queen’s own raptor had played a part in the matter.
As for Eleanor’s white gyrfalcon, it had become intractable after its period of liberty and had been replaced by a bird of similar magnificence though darker plumage. As was her habit, when several birds were started up from cover, Eleanor loosed her falcon in competition with one or other of her lords or ladies and while her own raptor usually brought down its quarry first, she was always courteous when another’s achieved the quicker successful stoop.
That afternoon, after a day of good sport, the little cavalcade was returning to the keep, she called William to her side.
‘I hope you entertain no apprehensions as to the lie of the land ahead, Sir William,’ she said in an ironic tone.
‘None, Your Grace,’ answered William with a smile.
‘I did not match my falcon against your today, and for that I am sorry.’
‘Why ’tis no matter, Madam,’ William replied quickly. ‘I had satisfaction of Ranulf FitzStephen’s…’
‘Not such as I hope put him much out of countenance.’
‘He admitted it good sport. His tiercel stooped at a heron which it missed and took a handsome mallard…’
‘Whereas your own…?’
‘Took the heron’s mate, Madam.’
‘Bravo, sir,’ said the Queen, laughing.
But William sensed that this pleasant exchange was not the matter in hand and he was not long in being proved right.
‘On the night of the coronation banquet I observed you in conversation with FitzHubert of Guent.’ Eleanor rode with her eyes ahead, not deigning to turn towards William.
‘Aye, Madam.’ William was instantly on his guard. Had his act of listening to the old knight been indiscreet? It behove him to tread warily.
‘He is much given to offering good advice,’ the Queen remarked matter-of-factly.
‘Indeed, Madam, he was as full of advice as he was of wine,’ William said light-heartedly.
‘And what advice did he offer you? I’ll warrant it had little to do with matters concerning horse or hound.’ The question was direct, a shrewd riposte ignoring William’s parry.
‘That I should cleave to Your Grace’s service…’
‘That is all?’
‘That was the substance of the matter, Madam.’ William had no expectation of being rescued a second time by a timely intervention of fate and had no desire to lose the good opinion of the Queen. ‘True, he took a time about it…’
‘Mine and none other?’ Eleanor interrupted.
‘To serve you in whatever capacity, Your Grace, and howsoever you should direct me.’
Turning towards him the Queen caught the anxiety in the young man’s eyes. She beguiled him with the charm of the smile that set alight the poetic fire in some of her hangers-on. ‘Well said, William FitzMarshal.’ She paused a moment and then went on: ‘You have no lands of your own, I understand.’
William could only wonder how she knew and answered, ‘No, Madam, none.’
‘A knight errant to be sure,’ she said laughing. ‘Well, well… The King would have conference with you tomorrow before he departs for Normandy. He will ask you to join the mesnie of our son. It is my wish that you obey my Lord the King. FitzStephen will conduct you.’
And then she kicked her horse into a canter; the matter was closed and William’s future was sealed - for better or for worse.
CHAPTER SEVEN: A KING’S MEN
TOR 1170 – 1173
Ranulf FitzStephen beckoned William forward to where King Henry sat at a table strewn with papers, a clerk at one end writing something recently dictated by His Grace. After a moment Henry looked up.
‘This is the man, Sire.’
William found himself subject to a scrutiny that seemed almost painful, expecting his legs to be felt as Henry might have done a prospective charger. He lowered his eyes respectfully until the King commanded: ‘Look at me FitzMarshal.’
William recalled the long evenings with Stephen playing at ‘knights’ and found no comfort in the memory. This man was a king of an altogether different stamp. He could not imagine Henry a-dithering over anything.
‘Does he know what I require of him?’ Henry asked FitzStephen, as if William had no tongue of his own.
‘No, Sire.’
‘Then tell him,’ the King said peremptorily, looking again at the papers before him, adding without looking up: ‘Now.’
‘My Lord the King commands that you serve the Young King Henry as his military tutor, that he so far regards your prowess as qualifying you for this honour as to bestow both trust and…’
‘Yes, yes,’ broke in the King sharply, ‘that is enough.’ Then he looked up again, directly at William. ‘I would have you take great care of your charge, Sir William,’ he said in an altogether calmer tone of voice. ‘Do you understand?’
William did not fully understand, for the King’s words seemed loaded with responsibilities beyond his means, but it behove him not to cavil. Queen Eleanor had, in a manner of speaking, warned him of something of the sort.
‘You will be provided with all the means necessary,’ the King added with a smile of winning charm before resuming the conning of his correspondence.
‘My Lord King does me great honour,’ William said, making his bow and withdrawing with FitzStephen.
Outside the chamber FitzStephen turned to him and held out his hand. ‘We are to be fellows, FitzMarshal, for I too am to be of the Young King’s household. You came under the good name given you by the Lady Eleanor, but the King took a liking to you, ’tis not a thing lightly to be thrown away.’ The note of caution in FitzStephen’s tone was clear.
‘I have no intention of so doing, sir,’ William responded.
‘Come then, I shall take you to your sacred charge but I should warn you, your new Master is every inch a King in his own right.’
‘I understand, sir, and shall look to my own comportment.’
FitzStephen chuckled as he led out of the Conqueror’s White Tower and into the adjacent tiltyard where a dozen knights were at their exercise. William instantly recognised the figure of Henry, the Young King, on horseback, as were several of his companions, taking their turns at the quintain. FitzStephen waited until the young man had finished his mounted exercise and stepping forward made his bow. William followed suit as the Young King threw a leg over his horse’s neck and slid to the ground.
‘Sir William,’ he said, holding out his ringed finger for William’s kiss, ‘so you join my mesnie. You are most welcome. You reputation for prowess precedes you. I shall, I hope, benefit from your skill. What think you of my tilting?’
It was a direct question and William considered it demanded a direct answer. The Young King was, at fifteen, eight years his junior and William had it not in him to act the sycophant.
‘ ’Twas good enough, Your Grace, in that you were not struck by the weight; but if you were any other I should answer indifferently.’
There was a sudden silence among the young men who had gathered round and all watched the Young King to see how he reacted.
‘Would you now,’ Henry replied, his tone affronted, ‘how so, sirrah?’
‘You did not see how close the weight came to the back of your head, my Lord, assuming that you had succeeded from not feeling it strike you. You took the quintain for what it was, a machine, swinging at a rate you have often seen and therefore knew. Had it been a man, he might have accelerated the counter-swing of his blade. In fact my Lord, in your desire to strike the target with your lance-point, you checked your horse…’ William broke off and shrugged, affecting indifference, then went on: ‘In the tourney or on the field of battle, that might well prove fatal, my Lord. ’Tis a matter worth your consideration.’
Henry said nothing, though his face flushed and he looked down, his fists clenched, as though governing his temper. For a moment William thought he might be struck but, without looking up, Henry beckoned and one of his knights William later learned was Hugh de Gundeville came forward and bent to Henry’s mouth. ‘Two swords, Hugh…’ William heard and watched as De Gundeville walked to where a brace of squires held blunt practice weapons ready. Taking two, he placed one in Henry’s hands, the other in William’s. The Young King straightened up, saying casually, ‘shall we, Sir William?’
‘Á outrance, Your Grace?’ William responded coolly as the knights moved back and formed a rough circle.
‘Á outrance…’ replied Henry placing himself in a posture of defence.
William planted his legs wide and sank slightly upon them, his blade low, the blunt pointe touching the gravel of the yard. ‘When you are ready, my Lord King. It would not be seemly for me to make the first move.’
Henry said nothing but swivelled forward, his sword, held with both hands, across his breast. He was breathing as someone had taught him, to strike on the exhalation, and William filled his own lungs with a slow indraught, measuring the ground between them.
He caught the thought of it before Henry made his move and, even as Henry swung, William leaned backwards in an arc, avoiding the swipe of Henry’s blade and raising his own. Then, with a roar of effort, he twisted his muscular torso with a speed that caught the Young King napping. Before Henry could recover himself, the flat of William’s sword smacked into his half-turned back, knocking him forward so that he lost his balance.
Henry staggered sideways, almost toppling over as William followed, raising his blade again. Recovering his balance, Henry boldly swung back in an attempt to catch William in flank, drawing in his breath to do so. But William was ready for him; having checked his own swing after hitting the Young King, he parried Henry’s blade with a shock that rang across the yard but pressed his opponent with all the weight and impetus of his body. Henry was forced backwards, tottered for a moment and, as William, maintaining pressure, shuffled forward, fell backwards. The sight shocked those watching.
William dropped his own sword and stepped forward, offering Henry his hand and heaving him back on his feet. He was hardly out of breath while the Young King stood for a moment, astonished at his discomfiture, panting, the sweat pouring down his handsome face.
‘You have somewhat to learn, my Lord King,’ William said quietly, ‘if you would prove a true adept yourself.’
Henry gasped for breath, staring at his opponent. William FitzMarshal was, Henry noted, besides being older, both taller and broader than himself. He was sensible enough to realise that whatever his house knights thought of the affair, it was no dishonour to lose in practice to such a man. He blew out his cheeks and stared about him.
‘Well, my Lords and gentlemen…’ he said at last. ‘We have our match. It seems that we would do well to heed what FitzMarshal tells us or, by the Blood of Christ, we shall never beat him!’ Turning to William he added with a smile: ‘welcome to my mesnie, Sir William. Henceforth you shall be my Marshal.’ This good natured response released the tension and Henry waved to the squires to stable the horse. ‘Come,’ he said, turning to William, ‘you shall dine with me that we become better acquainted.’
For William, the dispossessed second son, the accolade that the Young King had laid upon him threw aside the shadow of his dead father. Henceforth he was generally known as William the Marshal in his own right and the only shadow on this new appointment was to find Adam d’Yquebeuf already in the Young King’s mesnie.
In the following weeks Henry insisted on an intense period o
f exercise, proving a quick and eager learner, finessing his raw swordsmanship. Unlike all those with whom he had been previously matched, William conceded no quarter, nor submitted to the Young King’s rank when in the tiltyard. ‘Á outrance…’ became a jest between them as they measured swords or lances, but William was careful not to let this camaraderie spill over into any presumptuous intimacy elsewhere. William became a stickler for the observation of protocols such that the other knights laughed as those had done by his exceptional conduct whilst at Tancarville, and William suspected a continuing hostility on the part of D’Yquebeuf. Such behaviour no longer troubled William; his time in the Court of the Queen had further taught him the wisdom of keeping his own counsel. He gradually became a man to be respected, if not yet feared, his prowess at arms remarkable and, as far as the Young King was concerned, to be kept as a great asset in Henry’s mesnie.
Amid all this William considered FitzHubert’s prophecy proved accurate: the Young King did indeed have little to do beyond his military exercises. For the moment this seemed not to trouble him for the admission into his household of a man of William Marshal’s prowess diverted the young man’s energies to an increasing desire to tourney. His revenues were meagre and he privately nursed an ambition to shine amid the noble game practised by the Franco-Norman knights across the Channel. For the time being, even as his younger brothers made names for themselves on campaign, he was confined to England by his father’s orders.
For William these were months of both honing not only the Young King’s skills, but those of his household knights. Henry’s constant references to tourneying and the very obvious necessity of preparing the man destined to rule over the Angevin Empire drove William to seek ways of extending his charge’s wider experience. When Henry suggested a hawking expedition, William agreed, but refused to take his falcon. When asked why, informed the Young King that he would presently reveal the reason. Such was the growing respect and even affection of Henry for the newcomer, that he took no umbrage. Upon reaching open country north of London Henry and his entourage sought some sport but the instant Henry had loosed his bird, William drew him aside.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 13
