Longsword nodded and held out his hand. ‘I am right glad of that. I feared for a moment that His Grace’s allusion to having raised you was to indicate you were an accomplice in all his machinations.’
‘No,’ William replied with a shake of his head. ‘Nor was I flattered by such an insinuation.’ He paused a moment, then went on, ‘and if it troubles you that I cleave to John and do not slip the leash and lay my sword down at Philippe’s feet, I will tell you, for you deserve to know and we cannot embark upon so desperate a campaign that now awaits us if you nurture suspicions about me and my loyalty. I do so because, in the first place I owe him fealty for most of my lands, especially those in Ireland, a loyalty I put above much else, but also those on the Welsh march and elsewhere in England…’
‘And second…?
‘And second, I see in England a brighter prospect for this House of Anjou, free at last of its curtailments and obligations to the House of Capet. Philippe grows over-weening in his manner and will wrest all his vassals’ lands from them before he feels easy under his Crown. Better for John to let him have them, securing a large indemnity that would fill his own coffers, and withdraws to hold England in his own right…’
‘You inferred that you had made some such proposal to him?’ Longsword asked, interrupting.
‘Aye, I have, and moreover, I suggested that he might yet retain some influence hereabouts by setting Arthur free under the condition that the Prince held Brittany as a fiefdom of John’s, proof if it were needed that I would sooner have the young man alive than dead.’
‘And John?’
‘Thought me a madman, could not even consider the possibilities arising from my suggestion and all but lost his mind at the mere mention of Arthur’s name.’
‘From which you deduced the boy dead?’
William shrugged. ‘What else was I to think? John is not the man to enjoy being reminded that he has destroyed a weapon useful in his possible diplomacy.’
Longsword nodded. ‘Aye. Thank you for your candour. Now we must go our separate ways,’ he said and as they parted William continued to be troubled by the brooding look in the eyes of his companion-in-arms.
For a long moment William stood alone in the Council chamber. He should himself make preparations for departure, but first he must dictate a letter to Isabelle and went in search of Thomas, his confidential clerk.
***
Amid the glittering chivalry of Normandy and England a High Mass was sung in Rouen cathedral next morning for the success of John’s arms and afterwards the King rode out to speed Longsword and his men upon their way to the westward. William rode at his side, turning back into the city to review his own troops, massed under arms in an encampment beyond the eastern faubourgs.
John lingered, intent on an afternoon’s hawking, which William privately deplored. While it gave him a free hand with the last of his preparations for war, it set an evil note to the King’s leadership.
‘The soldiers should see you, My Liege,’ he expostulated.
‘Have they not seen me enough?’ John retorted sharply.
‘They need to be imbued with a sense of readiness, of urgency,’ William argued. ‘They need to understand we are ready to move at a moment’s notice…’
‘Oh, fie,’ replied John, summoning his falconer and looking up at the clear and near windless sky. ‘Bring the peregrine tiercel,’ he said, ‘I have not flown him for a while and the day looks promising…’
‘My Liege…’ William expostulated.
‘Get you gone Marshal,’ John snapped, ‘be about your business and may your chevauchée strike with its usual effectiveness.’
For a moment William regarded the King as he waited impatiently for the arrival of the peregrine. Was there a note of sarcasm in John’s tone as to William’s intention to employ the hit-and-run raid of his last campaign, or was he simply going to leave matters entirely in William’s hands?
As the hooded bird arrived and took all of the King’s attention William knew the answer to his unasked question. All was to be left to William and Longsword; if they failed John had scapegoats. ‘My Liege,’ he said curtly, by way of respectful farewell, tugging his horse’s head around.
‘You will sup with me this evening, Marshal, and we shall await news of Philippe’s first move,’ John called out after him, preening the slate grey plumage of the beautiful bird.
‘As you wish, my Liege!’ William shouted back, over his shoulder and without turning round.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: PHILIPPE AUGUSTUS 1203 – 1204
Philippe’s first move was swift and devastating. Not even William had guessed it, though he marvelled at its cleverness. It seemed the French King had learned something from his enemy, for Philippe, his army and siege-train, moved directly on Vaudreuil, by-passing Chateau Galliard and appeared before the place in such over-whelming force that the garrison threw open its gates without resistance. The circumstance had John grinding his teeth and muttering imprecations against treachery but William, less interested in matters of loyalty, realised that Philippe – whether or not he had secured his coup through treason or just sound strategy – had isolated Chateau Galliard and the Lionheart’s great military complex of adjacent Les Anderlys.
‘He has gained the whole left bank of the Seine, by God!’ William growled at John de Earley, ‘and stolen more than a mere march upon us.’
‘I see the hand of William des Barres in this,’ remarked De Earley.
‘Maybe, but Philippe is no fool and we have taught him his business well, John, too well, I fear.’
‘We must relieve Chateau Galliard,’ De Earley responded, ‘even though it is cut off.’
‘Aye,’ replied William, ruminating and rubbing his beard. ‘And it will prove costly, I have no doubt.’
‘Well, at least we have an objective,’ added De Earley in his cheerfully breezy manner, reposing an utter faith in William’s military skill.
William considered the matter, visualising the lie of the land and sending word for Wolfscar to join him. When he had done so, the mercenary captain and William sat late into the night discussing a plan for the relief of Chateau Galliard.
***
‘Is this the fellow?’ William asked De Earley, looking at the matelot, who stared back with a matching curiosity. He looked as little like the mariners who had conveyed William and his retinue from Milford Haven to Ireland as a rabbit resembled a hare, reminding him more of the seaman he and poor Robert de Salignac had conversed with, on their return from the Holy Land.
‘These men know their business, if not their place,’ remarked De Earley, the man’s lack of deference towards his master irritating the faithful knight.
‘He will need to,’ muttered William, turning to the matelot. ‘I am told you are a good pilot for the Seine, and the chief among the barge-masters?’
‘I am the Master-Pilot, Messieur,’ the man answered bluntly, provoking a cough of outrage from De Earley, who growled something inaudible to William.
‘How many barges can you muster, Master-Pilot?’ William enquired.
‘As many as your Lordship can pay for,’ the matelot answered, eschewing any title.
‘Thirty?’
‘Forty if you wish it.’
‘Forty then,’ William turned and beckoned to his clerk, Thomas. ‘This man will discuss terms. I require forty barges, well-manned and to be at my disposal for seven days. You will tell no-one of this until I tell you to gather them…er…’ William struggled for the right phrase.
‘You will want them alongside at the city quay to embark troops, I suppose.’
‘I will,’ agreed William, supressing a smile as De Earley fretted at the lack of respect the matelot appeared to be affording William. In fact William rather warmed to the man and his direct approach.
‘At the new moon,’ he persisted, stating the fact to show he guessed William’s intentions.
‘Indeed…’
‘That will be in September…’
The Master-Pilot shrugged. ‘No…’ the man paused, as if considering something, then he said, ‘no matter. The barges shall be at your disposal as you wish.’
‘And the need for secrecy…?’
‘I shall swear my fellow guild-members to that, have no fears.’
‘Very well. Thomas here will settle the matter of money.’
The fellow spat on his hand and held it out to William. An outraged De Earley jumped forward and pulled the Master of the River away as William grinned at De Earley’s action and the bewilderment on the Master-Pilot’s face.
That evening William and Wolfscar sat at board with the King and afterwards withdrew into John’s private chamber, the better not to let their plan leak out.
When he had heard what they had to say, John nodded agreement, asking only: ‘And when do you intend this manoeuvre?’
‘In the small hours of the night of the next new moon, Your Grace.’
‘Very well,’ the King responded, biting his finger-nails. ‘That is what, ten days away?’
‘Nine, Your Grace,’ put in Wolfscar.’
That night it began to rain.
***
For six days it rained intermittently but heavily at times, the sky full of thick cloud, so that William considered the precaution of moving under the darkness of a new moon unnecessary. However, on the eve of the initiation of the operation the sky cleared, and the wisdom of the measure proved itself. That evening the King’s army received its final instructions. William and Wolfscar were to lead a powerful mounted column by a roundabout route to reach the Seine near Chateau Galliard unobserved, much in the manner they had approached the French siege-lines before Arques. Meanwhile a second party of foot-soldiers and cross-bowmen were to embark in the barges and, working upstream past Vaudreuil in the darkness, to reach Anderlys shortly before dawn.
Two days before the new moon, on a crisp autumn morning, William’s chivalry mounted up and rode out of the encampment and away from Rouen, disappearing into the countryside.
***
‘Well?’
‘There is no sign of them,’ John de Earley said, drawing rein and pulling his charger alongside William as, with Wolfscar, he waited at the head of his column in woodland near Les Andelys. It was still dark, but the September day was advancing fast and the lack of news from the river was disturbing. Everything turned upon the simultaneous attack of William’s heavy, mounted chivalry and the water-borne contingent with its archers and foot-soldiers.
‘May Hell’s mouth swallow the bastards,’ snarled Wolfscar, ‘I smell ignominy in this mist…’
‘There is a good deal of mist on the Seine,’ added De Earley, ever optimistic, ‘there is yet time.’
‘Perhaps,’ temporised William, his heart sinking in private agreement with Wolfscar to whom he now turned.
‘What think you?’ he asked.
‘I am paid to fight,’ Wolfscar replied shortly, ‘though I would rather do so in better circumstances…’
‘You could have no better company,’ snapped De Earley, sensing the sneer in the mercenary’s tone and jumping as always to William’s defence.
‘John!’ snapped William. ‘This is no time for divisions. Return to your post and let us know the moment you have word of the barges.’
Without a word De Earley spurred his destrier into a canter, leaving William and Wolfscar to sit their mounts in a pre-dawn silence broken only by the snicker, stamp and snort of horses, the creak of harness and a low murmuring among their waiting retinue. Above their heads the canopy of trees barely moved in the still air. After half an hour they heard again the thump of hooves and De Earley appeared, now a dark, shadowy figure in the twilight.
‘The first barges are in sight!’ he said, reining in.
‘Very well,’ responded William turning in his saddle and staring into the gloom, down the long line of mounted knights and men-at-arms. ‘Pass the word,’ he commanded, and heard the diminuendo of the spoken command as all grasped their reins more firmly, adjusted their buttocks in their saddles and readied their weapons.
‘Pray God this is Arques all over again,’ William said, crossing himself. Alongside him De Earley and Wolfscar did the same, De Earley whispering ‘Amen,’ then William ordered the column to advance.
Although the approach to Chateau Galliard was far longer than William’s last such attack, just as at Arques they advanced under the distant but looming battlements and dongeon of the Lionheart’s great castle high on its rock. And just as at Arques, the still air was full of the wood-smoke of the enemy’s bivouac fires, but there the similarity ended. For if Philippe had been caught at Arques with his breech-clout round his ankles, at Chateau Galliard his sentinels were alert and his army had slept on their arms. As William’s men deployed to attack, shouts of alarm went up and the great French encampment sprang to life. In an instant of comprehension William realised that Philippe had prepared for a surprise, that if he did not get his knights mounted, his chivalry stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his infantry, forming a wall of steel round his siege lines even as William’s column closed with them.
What followed was a disaster for John’s cause. Although few among William’s force were killed, they were unable to get at the enemy, let alone break through the siege-lines. As for the showers of cross-bow quarrels that were supposed to have laid waste the enemy along the river’s bank, William saw not a sign, though the broad bosom of the Seine was covered by a thick mist. Rather than an attack on two fronts, William’s men found themselves under a heavy fire of bolts and arrows which did great execution among the horses and, after perhaps twenty minutes of almost futile wheeling about and shouting obscenities, Wolfscar withdrew his routiers and William followed suit with his mesnie and attached knights.
‘Where in the name of Christ were your barges?’ Wolfscar snarled at De Earley, reining in and removing his helmet once they had withdrawn into the forest again. All about them swirled the remnants of the bold column that had left the shelter of the trees two hours earlier, many with two men mounted up on a single horse, evidence of the damage they had suffered at French hands.
De Earley bit his lip. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted sheepishly, ‘I swear to God I saw them…’
‘Be quiet!’ William commanded, and they all heard the faint thunder of horses and jingle of harness. ‘They pursue us!’ he added.
‘They’d be damned fools not to!’ Wolfscar retorted.
‘We must split our force and take advantage of this mist before it clears,’ William ordered quickly. ‘Do you retire the way we came,’ he turned to De Earley, ‘John, get the mesnie to follow me.’
As Wolfscar turned about and shouted an order, William spurred his horse forward, turning to the west. For a few minutes he rode alone, then he heard his men catching up with him. It was now full daylight but the autumn sun was insufficiently warm to burn off the mist quickly and after an hour William ordered a halt. Jumping down from his horse he laid his fingers against the ground. There were neither vibration nor sounds of pursuit, only a puzzling and low but monotonously rhythmic thud-thud, coming from the direction of the Seine. William looked at De Earley.
‘The barges,’ he said shortly, jerking his head. Without a word and calling half a dozen of his own knights to him, De Earley set off to reconnoitre. While William waited for De Earley’s report, he rode back down the column, still anxious about a French pursuit. It was here that he heard indistinct words, recognising De Earley’s voice and that, he guessed, of the Pilot-Master of Rouen. When the voices ceased, so too did the rhythmic thudding and a few moments later De Earley rejoined William.
‘I did see a barge,’ De Earley said quickly, in an attempt to exonerate himself, ‘but only one. The rest had been held back by the strong flow of the river…’
‘The rain,’ growled William, suddenly comprehending the effect of freshets in
the river. ‘The bastard did not take account of the effect of the heavy rainfall, by the Rood!’
‘Aye, my Lord,’ De Earley responded.
‘And he could have warned us, but preferred to take our gold rather than lose the opportunity of getting his hands on it.’
‘Aye, my Lord. He said he did send one barge on ahead, to warn us of their slow progress…’
‘The one you saw and doubtless empty of bow-men to speed its progress!’
De Earley said nothing, but hung his head in shame.
‘My Lord Marshal!’ William turned in his saddle as a knight of his mesnie rode up to the head of the column. ‘I hear noises of pursuit!’
William lost not a moment. There was no point now in bringing on a fight that would only end in further humiliation and probably capture and the protracted agonies of ransom. He waved the column forward and headed downstream for Rouen.
***
William made his obeisance to the King and to the Queen. They had just come from Mass and the young woman looked pale and frightened, her small, round face almost haggard in the jumping flames of the flambeau in their sconces. ‘The horses are ready, My Liege.’
John grunted. His eyes were heavy lidded, though whether from lack of sleep or an excess of wine the previous evening, William did not know. Nor, he found himself thinking, did he much care, though Queen Isabelle’s plight touched him and as John drew his cloak about him and made for the steps, William offered his arm to her.
‘The tower steps are slippery, Madam,’ he remarked solicitously.
‘My Lord…’ she murmured timidly, her thanks implicit in her acceptance of his courtesy. When William and Isabelle of Angoulême reached the torch-lit courtyard, John was already mounted, nodding to his bodyguard to start the long journey, not down the Seine to Harfleur, but west to Barfleur. Above them stars glittered in the clear sky and William felt the tremor of the slender body at his side as Queen Isabelle confronted the prospect of the long and arduous ride. Assisting the Queen onto her side-saddle, William waited while she arranged her fur-lined mantle about her. It was cold, a frosty morning, the last of November, and the horses’ breath wound about them in steamy wreaths.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 49
