The Devil is Loose

by The Devil is Loose (retail) (epub)

  Marshal matched his smile and replied, ‘That wouldn’t have done. I’d have found you and cut off your hands. Then you could have said you’d fallen under a plough.’

  ‘My lord, it was only a joke! I would not have done it!’

  ‘That’s why you’re able to clap.’

  The boys had seen enough of the ring and started shouldering each other. Isabel separated them and took them across to where one of her maidservants waited by the fire. ‘Put them to bed for me. If they behave, give them a piece of honeycomb. If not, let my Lord Marshal know.’ With feigned severity, she asked her sons if they would abide by the arrangement. The elder was five-and-a-half years old, the younger just turned four. They nodded solemnly, aware that they could enjoy a brief wrestle and still cajole the maidservant into parting with the honeycomb. They knew her; she was soft and easy to manage.

  Isabel rejoined her husband and the emissary. ‘When will you leave?’ she asked.

  ‘In a day or two,’ Marshal said. We’ll collect des Roches on the way.’ He managed to make it sound like a statement for the messenger, and a question for his wife. She nodded slowly, resigned to the inevitable.

  They had been together for the longest, unbroken period since their marriage. Almost ten months had elapsed since he had been dumped in the cart and brought down from Badgeworth to Pembroke, his neck bruised where Richard had punched him, his scalp split by des Roches’ mercy blow.

  He had recovered quickly enough, but when Isabel heard about the hangings at Nottingham and of Marshal’s subsequent attack on the king, she implored him to stay out of things for a while.

  ‘I cannot detain you, no one can, but I beg you to let Richard go on without you. God knows, you deserve a rest, even if it’s against your will. The war in Normandy will continue, whether or not you are there, and it’s senseless to risk another confrontation with the king. Wait until he sends for you. I fear he’ll do it soon enough.’

  Marshal was then forty-eight years old, and ready to enjoy the first long respite of his career. As a young man he had seen service with several overlords, earned a reputation as one of the champion jousters and errant knights of the West, then gone on to serve King Henry, first as a soldier, later as the king’s right arm – and legs.

  With the death-flight of Henry had come the duel at the bridge, and eventual reconciliation with Duke Richard. Loyal to whomsoever was the justly-crowned king, Marshal had supported the Lionheart, accompanied him to Sicily, then returned to keep the balance between John and the hunchback, Longchamp. And, after Longchamp’s expulsion, he had sold off his own lands to raise King Richard’s ransom, and had gone to drive the rebels out of Nottingham.

  Isabel had not needed to plead with him. He did deserve a rest, and had welcomed it.

  But the glow of the ruby was like a beacon, blazing on one of the turrets at Loches. The king had sent for him, and he would go. The beacon was a signal, and the three leopards clawed at his sleeve, but he would have gone anyway. Not that he would tell that to the king, for Richard would be furious to think he had squandered a priceless ring on loyalty.

  The messenger was quartered for the night, and the Lord and Lady of Pembroke took glasses and a wine jar to their rooms. When they were settled, and gazing at the fire in the corner hearth, Isabel murmured, ‘This time we have had to ourselves… It’s not something 1 shall ever forget… But while we were here, we heard about Queen Berengaria, and your patroness, the dowager Queen Eleanor… They have both retired from the world, from King Richard’s world really, forced out by his inattention… Men can do that to their women and, for the most part, the women have no choice but to accept it… But I tell you, William— No, that does sound odd, I’ve had too much to drink, or too little – I tell you, Marshal, I shall not allow events to prise us apart…’

  He was so quiet that she glanced at him, worried that he’d fallen asleep. But he was there, looking at her, his wine ignored. ‘Go on,’ he murmured, ‘though I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps you do, I think you do, for you have never made me feel discarded. But what I want to say – Go to Normandy. Support the king. But if he commands you to stay on there, then command me to join you. I shall not tread down your heels, don’t worry. But neither shall I be a widow-by-distance, a foreign wife, call it what you will.’ She thought – of something that had happened long ago, in the White Tower of London, and added, ‘You know I don’t flinch from thunder and lightning. Nor will I flinch from the snap of tent cloth. It’s more natural for me to be with you, than a hundred miles away.’ She paused, aware that she had no real control over what he did, or where he went, or how long he was away. She was his property, to be coveted, or abused, or ignored, as he saw fit. He had always treated her well and, to some extent, encouraged her to speak her mind. But tonight she had gone further, and made demands, and she awaited his rebuff.

  ‘One year,’ he said. ‘It may be less, or more, I can’t say. I don’t know the extent of Richard’s success. He might capture Philip in the week. Or he, himself, might be struck down. But I must allow him a year, is that fair?’

  ‘Your sons will be twice as boisterous,’ she smiled. ‘Yes, it’s fair.’

  ‘I’ll teach them to ride Norman ponies.’

  Trusting the advice of her physician, who had so far been correct, Isabel said, ‘Three ponies. You’ll need three.’ It was a reasonable statement from a woman who would, in her life, present Marshal with ten children.

  And it was reasonable that he should receive the news with equanimity, since he had always intended to sire a large family. His smile was sufficiently warm and self-satisfied, but he would have been unbearably conceited, had he known that five of his ten children would be sons. And that each would, in turn, become Earl of Pembroke and Lord of Leinster. And that, as their father’s name foretold, they would all earn the title, Marshal of England. Marshal the Marshal, for those with a turn of wit.

  * * *

  During the next three years, the nations devoted themselves to war. The struggle became more intense, for both sides were well-matched in manpower and determination. Philip Augustus continued to surprise his Angevin enemies, but Richard Lionheart remained unconquered on the field. The guile and quick-thinking of the former were balanced by the personal magnetism of the latter. Philip and his chevaliers would appear where they were least expected, ambushing a column of Norman knights, or overcoming one of the border watchtowers. But they wisely avoided pitched-battles, for they knew who would be leading the Angevin forces.

  In the spring of 1195. King Richard was delighted to hear that Leopold of Austria had been thrown from his horse, broken a leg, and that the leg had become infected. In keeping with the times, a clumsy physician had amputated the limb and the duke had promptly died from loss of blood. With no sense of pity whatsoever, Richard thought it admirable that the Austrian should have been punished for draping his flag on the walls of Acre, and for daring to imprison the Lionheart. Serve him right. Let it be a lesson to all would-be upstarts.

  Sometime later, England was delighted to hear of the death of the monkey, William Longchamp. Let that be a lesson, they thought, to all foreign upstarts.

  On their arrival from England, Marshal and des Roches had been given an unrestrained welcome by the king. During the winter they had stayed with him at Loches, their backs pounded by their exuberant monarch. He had made no mention of the business at Nottingham, though, when there were prisoners or felons to be hanged, he had first sent Marshal on some errand to Tours or Chinon.

  With the warm winds of spring, Richard had given Marshal and des Roches command of the troops in Touraine and Aquitaine. He, himself, had taken charge of the army in Normandy, and created a senior post for brother John. They managed to recapture Rouen and drive the French from a number of border villages, but they were unable to engage Philip on the field.

  For more than a year now, nothing had been heard of Robert Pernel. Several of his friends had sent word to
Philip, asking the king to allow them to ransom the Crusader, but he had done no more than admit that Pernel was alive, and a resident of Paris. He left it to the barons to decide whether the Crusader was there by choice, or as a prisoner. It was another example of his ability to sow dissension among the Angevins, and there were renewed squabbles between those who saw it as proof of Pernel’s treason, and those who insisted the man was being dishonoured.

  It was des Roches who found a solution, in the form of a senior French count who had been knocked senseless in a border skirmish. The man was a distant relative of King Philip, and des Roches informed the king that the count was alive, and a resident of Touraine.

  Never one to overplay his hand, Philip immediately agreed to an exchange of prisoners. Robert Pernel and the French count were escorted to a ford on the border, east of Tours. Then, when both sides were satisfied, the two men splashed across the Loire, nodding to each other as they passed.

  By now it had become apparent that the French were making more progress than their enemies. They had won no decisive battles, but the Angevin empire was being eroded, village by village, fief by fief. As yet, there was no cause for alarm, but it worried the leaders.

  It worried King Richard, who led more reckless charges against the chevaliers. He could be seen with a dozen arrows lodged in the chinks of his link-mail tunic, and others that had pierced his boiled-leather boots. His reputation as a warrior was unsurpassed, but he was one lion loose on the continent, a devil loose, according to Philip, and no one lion or devil could patrol the entire Norman border.

  It worried des Roches, who terrified the French by his appearance, but kept secret the fact that he was now totally blind in one eye, and afflicted in the other. He had long ago decided that he would not creep away to die, sightless, so he strained his good eye to the utmost and herded the enemy from Touraine. If he died in a headlong charge, well and good, but please God, not in an infirmary.

  It worried Marshal, who had his family with him, and he, too, reaffirmed his reputation as a warlord. He had three sons, now, as Isabel had promised, but he had not yet found the time to lift them on to their ponies. Recent French advances into Aquitaine convinced him that his wife and children must be sent back to England. He would ask his old friends, Fitz Renier and Malchat to assume the responsibility for their safety. The garrison at Pembroke could be trusted to defend their chatelaine, but he would feel happier knowing that Fitz Renier and Malchat were in residence.

  Isabel agreed without demur. She had been with him at Loches for almost half a year, and was quite happy to return home in time for the birth of her fourth child.

  And it worried Prince John, who thought seriously of defecting to the French. He had already suffered one severe shock this year-the sudden reappearance of Robert Pernel. The Crusader had greeted him civilly, then explained to Richard that he could well understand how John had mistaken him for a traitor. Perhaps he had been foolish to leave Rouen at such a crucial time. And perhaps he had been over-ambitious to think he could capture Philip. John had every right to doubt his loyalty, and to air his beliefs.

  The Crusader scratched at his throat and gazed directly at John, not smiling, not scowling. It brought John to the verge of panic.

  What was Pernel up to? What did he mean by these generous admissions? Why didn’t he yell liar and go for his sword? Hell’s dripping fangs, what was his game?

  Since then, John had worried day and night, and his bedchamber resembled an armoury. Pernel was re-established as Constable of Rouen, and he invited the prince to every conference, however trivial the agenda. Then he gazed at him, until John began to sweat.

  In the leafless October of 1187, John was leading a patrol through one of the shallow valleys, east of Rouen. The patrol was surprised by a large French force, and the riders scattered. John managed to reach a nearby village, where he bribed a group of local children, who grudgingly directed him to one of their hay-store hideouts. He stayed there until nightfall, then fled back along the valley, leaving the children to divide a Byzantine bracelet into five equal segments, hacking at the silverwork with a borrowed hoe.

  When he had regained the city, John barricaded himself in his chamber and surrendered to a spasm of tears. He could take no more of it; not Richard’s bellowed encouragement, nor Pernel’s penetrating gaze, nor the tension, nor the dangers, nor the miserable quarters he had been allotted, look, the place was alive with insects!

  He would do what he should have done years ago. He would write to Philip.

  When he had fled from the Louvre Palace and surrendered to his brother at Lisieux, John had claimed that he’d supported Philip for fear that the French king would have had Richard assassinated in Durrenstein, or Berengaria murdered in Aquitaine.

  Now he told Philip an opposite tale. Justifying his flight from Paris, he said he had returned to Richard for fear that the Lionheart would punish the guiltless Hadwisa.

  ‘You know I don’t love my wife,’ he wrote. ‘It is your own sister, Alais, who stirs me. But, in all conscience, I could not leave Hadwisa to Richard’s vulgar mercies. That was the only reason I left you, and I will rejoin you whenever you wish.

  ‘Now that I have been with my brother again, after his absence in the Holy Land and in Durrenstein, I know he offers no future for me. He is a gross, rancid creature, more like a tusky boar. And, as you may know, he is unnaturally attracted towards you. He disgusts me, my dear Philip, and I would rather be with you, whom I admire and respect.

  ‘Your recent victories have caused consternation in our camps, and it’s time my brother made some reasonable settlement with you. When I join you, I will help you arrange the terms.’

  As soon as he had dispatched the letter, John worried again, sure that he had overdone the sentiments. But, within a few days, he received a secret and compassionate reply. The King of France did not yet invite him to defect, but asked a number of searching questions, all of which required long and thoughtful answers. John replied as best he could, in the privacy of his insect-infested chambers.

  And in that way he fell headlong into Philip’s trap.

  Chapter Nine

  The Trap

  November 1197 – April 1198

  This was not the first castle he had designed, but it was to be the finest. Château Gaillard, on the outer bank of the Seine where the river looped eastward between Vernon and the recaptured city of Rouen. Château Gaillard, built to defend that city and command the eastern border of Normandy. Château Gaillard, named by its designer and meaning vigorous, hearty, insolent. Château Gaillard, as the monarch-turned-architect might have been called Richard Gaillard.

  The chosen site could not have been more suitable. A long, limestone rock reared three hundred feet above the river and was surrounded on all sides by near-vertical cliffs. As though this was not already a perfect foundation for the castle, nature had levelled the top of the rock, providing a plateau almost six hundred feet in length. The rock was shaped like a galley, its prow to the south, and from the plateau one could look over the entire loop of the Seine.

  Beyond the valley that entrenched the northern, or stern end of the rock, was the village of Les Andelys. A small island was situated in the middle of the river, due east of the village, and this added still further to the natural advantages of the site. A watchtower would be erected on the island. The land between the inner banks of the loop would be walled in. The village would be fortified with walls and turrets. And the river itself would be barred in two places, directly opposite the rock and downstream, on either side of the island.

  When that was done, and the island, village and foundation rock had all been incorporated in the outer fortifications, work could begin on the castle itself.

  Richard had visited the site many times before, but he never ceased to be amused by the ignorance of his predecessors. It was true that he looked at it with a militarist’s eye, and that he’d had first-hand experience of the great fortresses of Palestine. But even so, he wa
s astonished that no one had ever thought to build on the rock. It invited a castle, and its size and shape demanded something more than a simple keep and curtain wall. God’s legs, he thought, the walls are already there. One need only add another thirty feet to the existing three hundred.

  The man-made structure would, of course, follow the edge of the plateau, so that not even a goat could make its way around the clifftop. Towers would be constructed here and there, five of them in the prow section, seven on the larger body of the rock. A deep ditch would be chipped out between the two sections, then linked by a narrow causeway. The he of the land was such that the castle could only be approached from the southeast, and that, if it was to be taken, it must be taken piecemeal.

  First the prow, or outer bailey, must be stormed. Then the causeway captured. Then, confronted by the main section, with its seven massive towers, the attackers would have to break through into the central bailey, the midship area. That done – and how could it be done under a constant rain of arrows, crossbow quarrels, boiling oil, spears, rocks and lime? – the enemy would find themselves faced by a third walled enclosure. If they could get through that they would be superhuman. And at the foot of the towering keep…

  Since his first visit to the rock above Les Andelys, the king had drawn scores of plans, which he had then amended and embellished. He was assisted in his task by three architects, Sawale, Matthew and Henri, but it was Richard Lionheart who positioned the towers, decided on the thickness of the walls, the depth of the dividing ditch. His assistants corrected his geometry and assessed the strains and stresses, but they bowed to the king’s superior knowledge and experience. He was, without doubt, the most perfect soldier of the times. A skilled tactician, an expert horseman, adept with the crossbow and sword, lance and battle-axe, blessed with tremendous physical stamina, and with the ability to rouse a flagging army and lead it to victory. He also understood the need to control what he had conquered, to keep open lines of supply and communication, to be merciless with cowards and to embrace the brave.