For all the fulsomeness of William’s welcome back to Curtmantle’s mesnie, amid Henry’s seething yet extravagant Court, William Marshal found himself – just as he had feared – a landless knight. True, provision was made for him to maintain his status as a knight banneret, but it was plain that he was but one of many. Nevertheless, his establishment as an independent knight, with his own small mesnie that formed but part of the King’s own, brought William some advantages. Near illiterate himself, his acquaintanceship with one of the King’s confidential clerks, justices and administrators, Geoffrey FitzPeter quickly ripened into friendship for no better reason that both men possessed what the other lacked. This, instead of exciting jealousy, conjured up a form of dependence in which the kind of candour William had enjoyed with De Salignac rapidly matured. A quiet, genteel and scholarly man, FitzPeter seamlessly polished William so that the burgeoning courtier who had graced the Courts of both Eleanor of Aquitaine, the King’s estranged wife, and that of their son, the ‘Young King’ Henry, acquired the graces required of a preudhomme, a virtuous knight deserving of respect at every level of the social hierarchy jostling for position amid the splendour of the Angevin Court. Most specifically, FitzPeter taught him the absolute necessity of self-control, of never provoking an argument with anyone hostile to his own advancement. William had never been a true hot-head but if not a man of letters, he had a ready enough wit and a tongue to match it. Fortunately his prowess in the field had conferred upon him a soundness of judgement and a coolness of execution that matched FitzPeter’s expectation and gave the lay-lawyer a powerful protection in the counselling of the King and his closest advisers.
That August a great tournament was held and William sought to enrol his mesnie but was directly forbidden to do so by the King himself. It was FitzPeter who told him of the injunction and at board that evening Henry beckoned William to the high table and indicated that he should pour his wine. It was the first time Curtmantle had taken any notice of William since their encounter on William’s return and, mindful of FitzPeter’s advice, he kept his own counsel. It did not deceive the King.
‘You are troubled that I barred you from the tournament, FitzMarshal,’ the King said after drawing a great draught from his goblet that, William noted, seemed accompanied by a wince of pain. The King extended his arm and William refilled the vessel. ‘Well? I am not a fool, man. I can see thunder on a man’s brow even when he bites his tongue.’
‘My Lord I would support my mesnie and my honour by any means at your service but the chance at the tourney is a means of…’
‘Of making money, eh?’ The King chuckled. ‘Oh, you were ever good at that, FitzMarshal,’ Henry said, setting down his drink, leaning forward and lowering his voice. ‘As for your honour, that is a matter that rests with me. I do not wish you to tourney because I wish to keep you close. You are no longer young; the tourney is a young man’s occupation and I take you for a man of parts who may be of greater use to me than obliging me to pay for your ransom and release. Go back to your place at board and leave me to find a way of rewarding you that is better than the hazard of the tourney.’
Henry dismissed William and he bowed his head. On the one hand the King had distinctly rebuked him, using an old jibe about his desire for money that stung him deeply and that night he sought out FitzPeter and vented his spleen. When he had finished his friend smiled.
‘What in the name of God’s bones do you find amusing in all this?’ William demanded.
‘Henry’s days may be numbered, William, but they are not yet out and he plays the game of policy right well and with great cunning. You did well not to rile him for not only is he easily angered – more so now than ever with his distemper – but he still holds what is his own in a grip as firm as when the Young Henry challenged him and he forgets neither that you were an adherent of the Young King, nor that you were a loyal one. Forget the tournament and bide your time…’
‘For what?’
FitzPeter shrugged. ‘Who knows, but something will come of it in due course.’
But neither man forgot the grand tournament that year for in the mêlée the King’s third son, Geoffrey, Count of Brittany, was dragged from his horse, fell and was trampled by the high-bred destriers of his own retinue. Grievously hurt, he was rushed to Paris where he died, leaving his wife gravid.
The loss of a second son sent King Henry into intermittent fits of rage and anguish. Beset by doubts and the pain of a condition that would kill him, Henry thought himself still laid under a curse after the death of Becket. Although he had atoned for the instigation of the Archbishop’s death and received the Church’s absolution, his off-hand remark – an off-hand remark made by a King and taken as a command by the four murdering knights of his mesnie – rebuked the very nature of his kingship. The death of the Count of Brittany caused the King to order the removal of the Court and amid the turmoil William was left bereft of any hope of advancement, notwithstanding FitzPeter’s encouragement.
But then, the following summer, FitzPeter’s quiet influence led directly to his prophecy coming true when the King granted William a parcel of much-longed-for land and two ward-ships. The land-grant of Cartmel in Lancashire was not large but it would yield William a handsome thirty-two pounds per annum, money enough for him to hold his head up at Court, though he must needs ask FitzPeter to show upon a parchment map where it lay.
As for the ward-ships, one was that of John de Earley, the son of a minor baron, with lands in England, in Somerset and Berkshire. De Earley’s father had been Royal Chamberlain, much as William’s had been Marshal of King Stephen’s horse, a post which had conferred upon his sons a form of surname. The appointment of the young John as William’s ward and squire was an honour, since it granted William the right to marry the sixteen year-old lad off to whom he pleased and in patronising William thus, the King enabled William to dispense a modest form of patronage himself.
The two got on well, John de Earley reminding William of himself as a young boy, hostage to King Stephen against his father’s good behaviour. As for John, his duties as squire quickly led him to revere the man in whose service he found himself. To John, William Marshal was no landless knight, but a hero of the tourney, a man who had a military reputation at home, who bore his own device – a red lion rampant upon a ground of green and yellow – who had his own mesnie and who had broken his lance in the Holy Land against the Turk.
And with that of John de Earley came a second ward-ship, that of the orphaned Heloise of Lancaster, heiress to the barony of Kendal in Westmoreland which lay close to the borders of the royal lands of Cartmel in Lancashire which effectively increased William’s fiefdom.
With two ward-ships and his lands of Cartmel came two English knights, summoned by the King and ordered to join William’s mesnie at the latter’s expense. Geoffrey FitzRobert and William Waleran were both from Wiltshire, William’s own natal county and they brought news of an England William, growing older had not forgotten and for which he found he suddenly felt an attachment.
‘I had not much cared for the place since I left it,’ he confided to FitzPeter, provoking his friend to laughter.
‘That is because you had title to no land there, William. Matters are different now, as I predicted.’
‘Aye,’ acknowledged William ruefully, rubbing his jaw. ‘You are right.’
‘You should marry the Lady Heloise, William,’ Geoffrey FitzPeter advised. ‘The transfer of one of His Grace’s wards to yourself is a mark of considerable esteem and your lands – both Kendal and Cartmel - would be extensive.’
Yet William havered; although the grant of land was exactly what he most desired, it was, of course, conditional. As for the lady herself, though her looks were ‘pleasing’ and she possessed ‘great elegance,’ he experienced no strong attraction. And while he dithered King Henry was warned by agents of Richard of the possibility of hostile action by the French monarch and William was ordered by the King to take a force towards the Vex
in. But the duplicitous Richard had served his father disinformation, for instead of the Vexin, Philippe of France launched an attack on Berri, quickly laying siege to the Angevin fortress of Châteauroux.
Unaware of his son’s treachery Henry ordered his forces under immediate arms and, with Richard by his side, rode south, through Le Mans, Tours and Loches, to the relief of the castle. From Le Mans he sent a courier hot-foot to William to join him as quickly as possible with the greatest force at his disposal.
***
The army of King Philippe of France that lay about the ramparts of Châteauroux was immense. Among his own, Philippe was being called ‘Augustus,’ an acknowledgment of his rising star. Henry, with an inferior force but with the murderous and experienced Richard at his side, cut the French king’s direct communication with Paris. When William rode into camp and bent his knee to Henry Curtmantle, Count Richard was absent.
‘Ride the lines with me, FitzMarshal,’ the King ordered without offering William the chance of refreshment and William quickly called for John de Earley to bring up his second destrier. While he waited he observed that the King not only required assistance to mount but seemed to sit uneasily in his saddle. A light rain had begun to fall and the day was drawing to a close as the King and a small escort passed through the Angevin encampment. The soldiers had lit their bivouac fires and the damp pressed the smoke low so that it drifted over the undulating countryside, catching in their nostrils as they passed.
Mounted, William caught-up with the King and took post behind him until, half-turning, Henry beckoned him forward.
‘Should we seek a pitched battle here, William?’ he asked in a surprising display of candour. Such a thing posed great risk, such affairs usually being settled by sieges and negotiation once both sides had sufficient of the enemy’s strong-points, or held for ransom the nobility of the other.
‘I have sent Duke Richard to open a conference with that bastard Philippe, but if we could destroy him with a bold stroke I would die happier…’ The King spoke in a low tone, kicking his mount forward so that he and William detached themselves slightly from their escort which, as it caught-up, Henry waved back.
‘My Lord,’ William began, but the King waved him to silence and drew rein alongside a large scrub of gorse. The French lines lay in full view, the great fortress beyond, the twin leopards of Anjou just visible lifting languidly above the dongeon in the dank twilight. For a long moment Henry contemplated the scene that lay before them, leaving William somewhat non-plussed. It was unusual for Henry to call Richard ‘Duke,’ a courtesy title for his lordship of Aquitaine which he held in right of his still-living mother and which rightfully resided with her estranged husband, Henry Curtmantle. Richard was usually called the Count of Poitou and William thought there had been more than a hint of sarcasm in the King’s tone.
Henry leaned from his saddle and broke off a sprig of the yellow flower and, leaning forward, stuck it between the metal rosette and the leather strap of his horse’s head-gear. ‘A pretty thing, la plante genet, do you not think, eh?’ he remarked inconsequentially.
‘Pretty enough, Sire,’ a puzzled William responded.
‘I am dying, William,’ the King went on, ‘and I have been tricked too many times by my sons to rely upon their word any longer. Philippe has the twisting of their tails and by theirs mine. For all Richard’s talents in the field, he is a fool and no match for that French turd. Jesu Christ…’ The King’s voice dropped as he uttered these last words and William realised that he was positively squirming in his saddle.
‘My Lord King, you should return to your quarters…’
The King turned upon him. Even in the encroaching twilight William could see the ice in Henry’s eye. ‘You presume too much, FitzMarshal!’ he snarled.
‘Then I beg Your Grace’s pardon and will confine myself to answering Your Grace’s question as to whether we should seek a battle.’ William’s response was cool and Henry grunted his assent. ‘I think,’ William went on, ‘that neither the ground nor the relative weakness of our force would enable us to entertain the slightest hope of success. Had you struck the moment you arrived, then surprise might have yielded something…’
‘Richard dissuaded me,’ replied the King. ‘Think you that odd?’
‘May I speak frankly, Sire?’
‘Why do you think I brought you here?’
‘Then yes, Sire. Duke Richard and I have discussed such matters, before Neufchâtel-en-Bray to be specific. He seemed inclined to my view then and to prevaricate now seems odd enough. My Lord,’ William went on, articulating a concern that he had pondered since being sent to defend the Vexin. ‘what was your source of the intelligence that led you to believe that King Philippe would attack the Vexin?’
The King swivelled his head with the speed of an old eagle, regarding William through narrowed eyes. ‘By the Holy Rood, it was him!’ Henry jerked his horse’s head round and was about to dig spurs to its flanks when William put out his hand.
‘Stay my Lord, I think the Duke comes now.’
Henry followed William’s pointing arm. A small cavalcade was riding towards the main Angevin encampment. Even in the twilight Richard’s huge white destrier was conspicuous.
‘Come, we shall meet him at my tent.’
Ten minutes later, almost simultaneously, father and son reached the entrance to the King’s pavilion.
‘My Gracious Lord,’ said Richard, his handsome face flushed with wine or wind, or both, thought William as he slid from his horse and followed the King, who beckoned him into his great tent. ‘I bring good news.’ Richard glanced at William, then ignored his presence as the two met and stood eyeing each other. ‘In your behalf I have negotiated the terms of a two-year truce and treaty. The expense of a campaign is avoided…’
‘When did the expense of a campaign ever trouble you?’ the King asked curtly.
‘Perhaps never,’ riposted Richard smiling calmly in the lamplight as they entered the tent, ‘but it is a feature of your own rule and that I respect.’
‘How very good of you.’ Henry’s tone was deeply sarcastic.
‘Besides,’ Richard ran on with a smooth candour that William found profoundly suspicious, ‘I would not have Aquitaine bled dry to support Normandy.’
The barb had an almost physical impact upon Henry. He had half-turned away from Richard, in the act of handing his gauntlets to a waiting squire, and seemed to freeze. Then William saw his broad shoulders sag and he turned, his features like stone.
‘No, of course. Aquitaine is sacrosanct.’ Henry took the goblet of wine proffered by one of his squires.
Richard said nothing but made a little bow as if to acknowledge and agree with his father’s apparent concession. Observing this curious exchange William felt a creeping sense of prescience but any analysis was dashed from his mind as Richard turned and regarded him.
‘Why Marshal, you have come at last.’
‘My Lord Duke.’ William made his obeisance.
‘Then the Vexin is quiet, hmm?’
‘My Lord the King summoned me hither, my Lord Duke, as I am sure you know.’
‘Well,’ replied Richard with the air of one who considered all troubles laid aside, ‘the Vexin and Berri are safe enough now…’ he turned to the King, ‘provided, of course, His Grace my father ratifies the terms…’ And with a half-smile, half-sneer upon his handsome features Richard made his bow and withdrew.
William made to do the same but Henry stopped him. ‘Stay a while, FitzMarshal…’ The King indicated that wine should be offered to William and a stool was placed for him. He awaited the slow and obviously painful seating of the King then, as Henry expelled his breath and nodded, William too sat down.
‘Draw close. I would have counsel of you, William,’ the King said when they were alone. William pulled the stool closer to the King’s chair so that he sat adjacent to but lower than Henry.
‘Your Grace?’
‘I am not long for this wor
ld,’ the King began, ‘and when I am gone my work is like to be all undone by the fools I have bred of the Lady Eleanor.’ William was acutely aware that this confidence of Henry’s was a mark of huge esteem and he met the King’s cool gaze of appraisal. ‘I have trusted few men and those that I have, have usually turned treacherously against me so you may lay it upon your own soul if you betray this, my faith, that I this night invest in thee, William Marshal.’
‘My Lord, I am not the man…’
‘Do you think that?’
‘Aye, my Lord…’
‘Then that is why I judge you to be just the man.’ Henry paused, allowing William a moment to digest the importance of the charge. ‘Now hist me well for the burden I intend for you makes my son’s charge light. When I am dead and Richard dissipates my power and treasure in endless war, as he is bound to do, being of the blood that he is, do you always think beyond tomorrow. Men say my son has the heart of a lion, but he has not always the judgement of a King. I would have thee act this part as best you may. I cannot advise you of the particular, since I may be a King but am no necromancer, and you must needs employ wisdom in how to proceed, but you have years yet and may serve the good of my cause long after the years of my body.’
‘My Lord, I am an unlettered man…’
‘You are not a fool and I see you have made a friend of FitzPeter, guard that and other friendships among such men as he is.’ Henry paused, adding wistfully: ‘Becket was such a one until… but that is no matter now.’ The King cleared his throat. Such men will serve you well if they find you protect them and you are a warrior, perhaps the only knight in my mesnie that might match Richard.’
‘How should I match Duke Richard, Your Grace, unless you have named Count John…’
‘No, no,’ the king said testily, ‘Richard will succeed me and you must serve him well with the wisdom of your counsel, having always the things that matter to the Kingdom in your heart.’ The King paused, then asked, ‘do you understand of what I speak?’
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 30
