‘He has an unnatural and extra orifice,’ explained FitzPeter further.
‘May the Lord have mercy,’ said William and they all crossed themselves, appalled by the horror to which even a King must submit if it be God’s will.
‘They say it is where the Devil goes in and out of him,’ added FitzPeter, reminding them all of the old stories about the supposedly Satanic origins of the House of Anjou. ‘And through which, when his time comes, his soul will be dragged down into Hell.’
‘Jesu Christ!’ said FitzRobert, crossing himself again. The three knights sat bolt upright, their faces pale with the horror of the thing.
‘I thought you all knew,’ remarked FitzPeter looking from one to another, half amused by the effect his explanation had had upon such fearless warriors. ‘God knows His Grace has smelt of excrement for months now.’
‘I merely thought him…unable to contain himself owing to a growth,’ said William, whose own birthmark had persuaded his parents he was Satan’s imp.
‘Cancerously incontinent, you mean,’ FitzPeter said, pedantically. ‘No, no, this is far worse than a mere consequent loosening of the bowel. This is a rotting of the body.’
Geoffrey FitzRobert laid aside his knife and put down the chicken leg he had been holding for some moments. He motioned for more wine and his squire, who had been listening attentively, refilled their goblets with a shaking hand.
‘Then it is fatal?’
‘Oh yes, my Lord. In time. They put salves into it which I understand eases the King’s pain, and pledgets that divert the anal canal, and he is advised not to over-indulge himself but,’ FitzPeter shrugged, ‘he is Henry, Count of Anjou and King of England and does not take instruction, even from learned men.’
***
By May Henry had rallied sufficiently to leave his bed as news came in of the renewed offensive of Philippe and Richard. The latter, who men now frequently called Coeur de Lion – the Lionheart – began his own pitiless and brutal war across a great swathe of Maine and down into Aquitaine. News came in of the fall of castle after castle, including Chateauroux, enraging Henry who suspected, rightly, that their constables and castellans had surrendered their keys knowing their own master was close to death and that they would soon enough serve another.
But despite the King’s miraculous recovery, few of Henry’s Norman vassals mustered their mesnies at Le Mans and in early June Henry learned they had instead combined and awaited the outcome of events at Alençon.
‘I am betrayed,’ snarled Henry, as intelligence also arrived that a huge army led by Richard and Philippe was rapidly advancing towards Le Mans. But at Le Mans Henry received a Papal-Legate, come from Rome to remind the King, along with King Philippe and Count Richard, that they had all taken the cross and sworn to deliver the Holy Land from the Turk. Touched by his own mortality and moved by the new Pope’s appeal, the King sullenly agreed to once again meet Philippe and Richard, this time at La Ferté-Bernard, a day’s ride north-east of Le Mans.
Thither went William, in the train of Henry, who rode his palfrey with difficulty and great courage, behind which his squire drew after him his destrier caparisoned for war. This was to be a show of splendour, reminding the world that Henry of England, Normandy, Anjou and Maine was not yet dead and a warrior capable of a crusade. The knights of Henry’s own mesnie, and the accompanying entourages of his vassals like William Marshal, had all been ordered to ride armed and accoutred for war. But they did not come in great force and at La Ferté-Bernard they found the huge entourages of Philippe and Richard not only similarly equipped, but backed by a war-host of immense size, a fact that profoundly affected the outcome. Having listened for some two hours as the emissary of Pope Clement III harangued the two Kings as if chastening children, lecturing them that it was not seemly for Christian Kings and Princes to make war upon one another when the Holy Places were lost to the King of Jerusalem, Henry could no longer contain himself.
‘Why, in all good faith, dost thou come hither with a war-host?’ he asked Philippe, turning to the Papal-Legate with an expression of despair. ‘Do you not see how here, upon my own land, this perfidious King,’ and here Henry pointed a shaking but accusing finger at Philippe, ‘and a treacherous son, bring an army? What hope have I of doing the bidding of the Holy Father faced with such constant perfidy?’
It was a tour de force of sorts, Henry playing the part of the faithful Christian, thwarted by deceit, but it did no good. The meeting broke up in disorder with threats and curses being thrown by each party and only the Legate’s presence of mind in raising his crozier, prevented the drawing of swords. Then, abruptly, Philippe withdrew and Henry was left to plead further with the Legate until Robert de Tresgoz, who had sniffed a rat in this sudden departure and followed the French party, came hurrying in with the news that, rather than retiring east into the French lands, Philippe’s knights were ordering an advance on Le Mans.
‘Jesu Christ!’ roared Henry, tearing at his hair. ‘See! See!’ he spat in the face of the Legate who, thoroughly alarmed, passed word for his own hasty departure.
‘Your Grace!’ called William, recalling the King to the nature of the moment, ‘we have not a moment to lose. We must to Le Mans.’
‘Aye, by God, you are right!’
***
Henry and his entourage rode into the city of Le Mans towards sunset on the 10th June. The city stood proudly behind its sturdy walls at the confluence of the River Sarthe and its narrower tributary, the Huisne, the latter crossed by a single bridge. To the south-east of the ramparts lay rough country seamed by a marshy ravine. The defences had been further strengthened earlier that summer, stakes having been driven into the beds of the rivers at any fording places and a number of hovels close to the city walls that might give cover to an attacker had been destroyed.
As Henry entered the southern gate he was met, as was customary, by the city fathers, answering their anxious enquiries about the situation with the assertion that Le Mans was the city of his birth and the burial-place of his father, Geoffrey of Anjou, who lay at peace in the cathedral of St Julien.
‘I shall never give up this place, messieurs, never!’
But that evening Henry summoned William and ordered him to conduct a survey of the city’s outer defences the following morning.
‘Divine the point of attack, Marshal,’ the King said, confidentially, ‘for this place, strong though it seems, is unlikely to hold-up my bastard of a son for long. I may have been born here, but I am not minded to die here also.’
Shortly after daybreak, lightly armed and with only a handful of knights in attendance, William rode out into a thick mist that rose over the two rivers and spread out over the flood plain of the Huisne. It was from here that the enemy could be expected and they had hardly crossed the Huisne when they were suddenly in sight of a party of French knights.
‘Come away, my Lord,’ one of William’s knights advised. ‘We are but lightly armed.’
‘Wait!’ ordered William, aware that the warmth of the rising sun was swiftly dispelling the mist. Rather than retreat he spurred his horse and took post on a low knoll from where he could observe the surrounding countryside for some distance. With a palpably uneasy air his knights followed and as they halted their mounts and regarded the vista William saw first the sunlight twinkling upon the bobbing lance-heads of the enemy. Slowly the great host emerged from the mist.
‘Holy Christ!’ someone behind him blasphemed and without looking round William heard the rustle as his companions crossed themselves. Then William turned his horse and caught the eye of Robert de Tresgoz.
‘As soon as we are across, hold the bridge. John, ride back into the city and bring out combustibles and axes! Ride for your life! The rest of you, retire to Le Mans.’
For a moment he hesitated, Tresgoz by his side, watching the advancing front at the head of which he could see the leopards of Anjou.
‘Philippe, the cunning bastard, has Richard doing all his dirty wo
rk for him while Richard, revelling in the business he knows best, acts like the Capet’s favourite hound, God rot him.’ Robert de Tresgoz turned his horse. ‘D’you follow, my Lord?’
William nodded, leaving Tresgoz at the bridge with a handful of followers and riding hard for the city main, southern gate. As he arrived John de Earley was emerging with two mounted men-at-arms leading mules with firewood, cans of oil and large axes.
‘Hurry, John. They will reach the bridge ’ere long.’
But the enemy did not press the attack that day. As they awaited the arrival of the full war-host they left the defenders free to retire from the wreckage of the bridge and set fire to the remaining dwellings, barns and byres that might afford the enemy shelter.
In the city the defenders spent an uneasy night but at dawn William roused his mesnie, ordering it under arms before making a tour of the ramparts and seeking the King’s presence.
‘Well, Marshal, what news d’you bring?’ The King was at stool, a page holding cloth in front of him and William heard the grunts of unnatural defecation. The stench was appalling.
‘We should make the city ready for a siege, Your Grace. They will not delay an attack.’
‘You mean Richard will not delay an attack,’ the King said ruminatively as he emerged. As William stood in attendance he ordered his leather hauberk. ‘We will delay them at the Huisne,’ Henry said. I will conduct a reconnaissance myself and you will hold the southern gate, to be open in my absence. Call the men to arms and let us have the ramparts manned. A show of force will not hurt.’
With some misgivings William made his obeisance and left, but his anxiety only increased when, shortly thereafter, he pulled his horse aside to let the King pass under the portcullis at the southern gate and noted Henry had not donned mail. The unwisdom of this struck William forcibly so that he checked the King.
‘Your Grace…’
‘Well?’
‘You eschew your armour, my Lord. Is that wise?’
‘Perhaps not,’ snapped the King, jostling William aside and leading a number of knights out. ‘We have rendered the Huisne impassable, have we not, Marshal?’
‘But they have archers…’
‘They did not hit me at Limoges, Marshal…’ the King replied, kicking his horse into motion. William watched him go, followed by his youngest son, Count John, Baldwin of Béthune and Robert de Trsegoz. Tresgoz had heard the exchange and lifted his shoulders, as if to imply it was the King’s affair if he chose to risk his life, leaving William to recall the narrow escape Henry had had when reconnoitring the defences of Limoges several years earlier. That had occurred when confronting a rebellion by his eldest son, the late Prince Henry, the Young King; now he was threatened by his second son, Richard. Then it struck William that perhaps Henry sought death, and a death in the field at the hands of his treacherous offspring rather than from a – what did FitzPeter call it? A fistula? Patricide would lay an ineradicable mark upon Richard’s soul.
William advanced his horse clear of the gate; he had an uneasy feeling gnawing at his guts. Behind him mounted sergeants, men-at-arms and foot soldiers clustered reassuringly, and above, on the ramparts, archers had been stood-to, but he was unable to throw off the sense that all was not well. As on the previous morning a low mist hung over the rivers, lighter but – oddly – more persistent. The King and his retinue had passed beyond his line of sight, and William rode some way out of the city so that he could see the broken bridge over the Huisne. A party of French knights were milling around it, then trailing off to either side, as if prospecting along the river bank. He could see that from time-to-time, one would drive his horse into the river, leaning forward to test the bed with his lance. But they had impeded all the fords… or had they?
William felt his vague anxiety form a ball in the pit of his stomach. It was one thing to experience the heart-thumping exhilaration of waiting a well-planned ambush in the tourney, or the sudden lust for blood and triumph that carried one through the execution of a coup d’épée, but he disliked awaiting something amorphous over which he had no control.
Above his head someone cried out. He looked up. They were pointing south and east, to something hidden by undulating ground. Then he heard shouts go up: ‘The King! The King!’
Christ! Had Henry found his death? William strained to see what was going on above his head but could make nothing out. Then someone - William thought he recognised the voice of a knight of the king’s household - shouted, ‘hold your discharge!’ So the archers could not fire for fear of hitting the King, William concluded, turning to pass back to the gate and await events.
He did not have long, nor did he understand until Tresgoz told him much later what had happened, that Henry riding along the Huisne had encountered some of Richard or Philippe’s knights on the opposite bank. They had traded insults, Henry amused that they were prospecting for a ford, secure in the knowledge that they had all been spiked. The two parties, moving in opposite directions had passed out of sight of each other in the mist when the enemy discovered a perfectly serviceable ford, one previously unknown to anyone and within minutes had sent word for reinforcements.
Within minutes first a handful and then a flood of the enemy knights was across the river and rapidly overtook the King who was compelled to ride for his life, all thoughts of a glorious death tossed aside. The pursuing enemy caught the rear of Henry’s escort and butchered it, but the head-most few of the French rode on, intent upon over-taking the King before he could find refuge inside the city.
‘And now, just as the sun had burned off the mist the day before,’ Tresgoz had explained afterwards, ‘a breeze picked up…’
The first William knew of all this was shouting, shouting from the ramparts and, carried on the rising wind, shouting from somewhere beyond his line-of-sight. Then Henry himself rode pell-mell up to the gate, followed immediately by a great press of men and horses wearing the devices of Anjou, Normandy and France, a wild and moving mêlée. Sword in hand, William found himself driven back by the weight of men and beasts, unable to defend the narrow gateway as a fierce tussle took place.
‘Lower the portcullis!’ Henry roared as he wheeled his horse and slashed about him. They could despatch a handful of pursuers within the walls if they could drop the portcullis, and William added his own voice to the commands to do so, but suddenly he realised they were too late. They were no longer under the shadow of the great stone gateway, but had been forced back into the narrow street leading to it. The gate and the first few adjacent houses were already in the hands of the enemy. Townsfolk, drawn by curiosity to see what was going on were caught up and impeded the fighting; women and children were screaming and as William tried to drag one of Richard’s knights from his horse, his own destrier slithered in the blood and guts of some fool who had got trampled underfoot.
William too was fighting for his life now, his breath coming in gasps stung by the sharp stink of smoke. Christ! But they had entered the first houses and turned over the cooking fires and William could see, as more and more of the enemy forced their way into the city, the flicker of flames. Suddenly a great lick of fire shot out from an adjacent bakery; William’s well-schooled destrier baulked at the sudden, almost explosive inferno that followed. William was driven back as he felt the scorch of heat and the destrier screamed and tugged at the bit.
But the ferocity of the attack was easing as the Angevins fell back and the French drew breath, or so it seemed. William found the King’s standard in the square, and Henry standing in his stirrups, Count John beside him, looking decidedly scared.
‘The citadel, my Lord?’
‘The citadel is lost, Marshal,’ the King snarled. ‘Having cleared us from the gate they made directly for the citadel. We were too slow. Le Mans is lost. By the Christ we must get out! Now!’
William looked about him. God knows where his mesnie were; everything was in a riot of complete disorder, towns-people, archers and foot-soldiers – most of them Henry�
��s Welsh mercenaries – milled about or ran, panic-stricken, from place to place, though mostly towards the sanctuary of the cathedral. Above the crowded streets a dense and growing pall of smoke rose slowly, only to be torn away by the steady summer breeze. William Waleran rode up to him, his shield indented, his mail coat seeping blood.
‘Get you to the north gate, Will,’ William ordered. ‘But stay; have you seen FitzRobert?’
Waleran shook his head. ‘Get you gone then,’ said William curtly, his voice all but lost under the King’s. Henry was roaring orders: ‘Tresgoz to me! Béthune to me! Raise your standards, damn you, that you may summon your men! Des Roches to the Marshal! And you, Marshal, shall cover my retreat! God grant that they have not yet taken the north gate!’
‘I have sent to see it secured. But where to?’ William asked abruptly.
‘You north to Alençon,’ Henry said, drawing up his reins, ‘draw them off and when you get there bring those cowardly bastards that think Henry of Anjou and England is done to join me at Chinon!’
‘My Lord!’ It was the ever vigilant Tresgoz, shouting a warning. On the far corner side of the square, above the mass of seething humanity a brace of knights could be seen clearing the way. Their intent was obvious and with them came the leopards of Anjou – Richard’s men.
‘Come away!’ and the knot of mounted knights about King Henry moved as one in a swirl of harness and horse-hair, making for the northern gate, their duty to secure the person of Henry Curtmantle from capture, or to die in the process. William watched them go, then turned his attention to the group of enemy knights. Des Roches was alongside him. He did not know the man but he took his advice.
‘Time to go, Marshal.’ The two were the last to leave the square and within a few seconds the enemy were in hot pursuit. Only then did William realise that his destrier was wounded.
At the south gate William found Waleran with three wagons full of straw and firewood; as soon as William and Des Roches had passed, the wagons were drawn across the passage of the northern gate and set on fire. Waleran, with an axe, broke their wheels that they might not easily be rolled away.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 33
