A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  There were other sounds now, all too familiar – the heavy rhythm of hooves approaching, the thud of marching feet, the jingle of accoutrements. ‘Keep down,’ William hissed and they flattened themselves behind the bank, peering out through some alder bushes.

  The whole of the French army was passing along the road on the further side, a vast army. At the forefront rode King Philip himself – though King Philip did not like war and preferred the Council chamber or the tree at Gisors for settling his problems – and beside him was the tall, martial and magnificent figure of Duke Richard.

  The pennons and standards hung limply as they passed, but the mist was beginning to lift, a pale circle of sun trying to penetrate, with all the promise of a bright June day to come. William slithered backwards down the bank and beckoned to his companions.

  Henry was coming from Mass when they returned, his face grey, his eyes showing the depth of his sorrowful memories, but he became alert on the instant. He ordered the bridge to be broken down, the ford blocked, all the banks strengthened. But the next day, riding out with William and a few followers, he saw the French sounding for another ford. It seemed they had had some local help for a sudden yell of triumph carried across the water and a party of Frenchmen plunged in, splashing through the shallows.

  The King and his small contingent hastily retreated towards the gate. ‘Go in, sire, go in!’ William shouted. ‘I’ll hold them. For God’s sake, get him in, Will!’ A dozen knights ranged themselves beside him, including the young Earl of Essex, Geoffrey de Mandeville, who was burning to distinguish himself, while Will Longsword and the rest hurried the King through the gates.

  The French caught up with the rearguard in the jumble of houses outside the walls and there was fierce hand-to-hand fighting. William struck out at an exultant face, saw the blood as he split the skull and the man went down under plunging hooves. He dealt more blows, warded off a mace swung high at him and caught sight of young Essex bearing himself well. They held the enemy, keeping the road clear, though William was grimly aware that if reinforcements came up they would be hopelessly outnumbered, but as yet he dared not withdraw his little force nor leave the enemy free in the suburbs.

  The end came suddenly. Some Frenchmen, seeking to clear the way to the gate, set fire to a few houses; a breeze had got up and was fanning the flames towards the whole of the town so that in a short time the fire was out of hand. The French slipped away, their work done for them, but not before William had slain two more knights and de Mandeville driven his sword into another’s guts. The Frenchmen fell into the mess of blood and cinders in the road and William ordered his men through the gates. These closed behind him, the great bars were set into place, and he rode up to the castle where, hot, grimy and blood-stained, he sought the King.

  Henry was in consultation with his chief men. ‘We must retreat,’ he was saying savagely. ‘God’s curse on them! William, what do you say? Is the fire spreading?’

  ‘It is, my lord, the wind is against us. I think you should leave before the French attack in force. We shall only be burned if we stay here.’

  ‘Then we go,’ Henry said, ‘towards Fresnay – at once, by the south postern.’

  Fifteen minutes later, with his pitifully small force he turned his back on Le Mans, his birthplace. The flames were consuming the town and he gave a harsh and bitter laugh. ‘Do you know, William, my grandfather the Conqueror received his death wound in that city? I think it is my death wound too.’

  ‘I pray God not, sire.’

  ‘Pray?’ Henry’s face was convulsed and he looked up into the sky. ‘God does not hear prayer. He has taken everything from me, my sons, my honour, this place, and I – I –’ He ground his teeth in fury, glaring up at the blueness above. ‘I will make recompense to You, jealous God! Not one prayer will I offer again, not one!’

  ‘My lord!’ William was shaken by the biting despair, shocked by such blasphemy. ‘My lord, your fortunes will turn. God has not deserted us.’

  ‘You think not?’ Henry turned and William with him to look back at the burning place, the hill on which it stood a mass of flame. As they did so they saw a troop of the enemy tearing at full gallop out of the west gate, swerving towards the road they had taken.

  William snatched up his reins. ‘I’ll hold them,’ he said once more. ‘Go, your grace – I need only a few men. Get you to Fresnay and I’ll follow.’

  The King flung out a hand and seized his. ‘By God, I never had so loyal a man,’ and Will cried out, ‘God be with you, Marshal.’

  William turned back, taking the last twenty men with him, refusing de Mandeville and ordering him to stay with their lord. Then he set his face back towards Le Mans with his little troop, cutting off through a copse to surprise the enemy. The leader of the French was outstripping his own men in his eagerness and it was as he came headlong down the road that William saw that the figure was familiar, that in his determination to seize his father, believing his victory absolute, Duke Richard had for once allowed his feelings to get the better of his judgement.

  William dug in his spurs and brought his horse out from among the trees, drawing it up sharply on its haunches not twenty yards from Richard. He had his lance in his hand and for the first time saw fear in the Duke’s face.

  ‘Don’t slay me!’ Richard cried out and tugged at the reins. ‘Can’t you see? I’ve come after my father, unarmed. We’ve won the day and it’s enough – it’s enough. God’s mercy, Marshal, hold your hand!’

  William gave him a grim, hard smile. ‘I never thought to see this. I shall not kill you, Duke Richard’ – over the Duke’s shoulder he could see his followers coming up fast, and he added, – ‘I will leave that to the Devil.’ He drew back his arm and threw his lance with expert aim so that it plunged deep into the neck of Richard’s horse. The animal fell, his rider with him. And such was the confusion among the Duke’s followers as they came up that William and his men escaped without hindrance to join the King.

  Two days later they were at Chinon and could breathe safely. ‘Holy Saints,’ Will said, ‘I did not think we would come alive out of that – nor see you again, William.’

  ‘I’ll die in my bed yet,’ William retorted.

  But the situation was little better. Philip’s host was too great and a good many Norman barons were reluctant, even on Henry’s orders, to attack their suzerain – and Henry himself was ill again. The old sickness had recurred and in the scrap by the gate he had been slightly wounded in the heel; little more than a scratch but it was turning septic and every day grew more painful, lines of red inflammation creeping up his leg.

  Princess Alice came to Henry’s chamber with a physician, tending the King herself, sponging his face with a damp cloth, holding his head while he sipped a cooling drink. She was thirty-two now, still betrothed to Richard, still at Henry’s side, and she asked the physician in a fierce voice if he would live. The man looked doubtful and her eyes met William’s across the bed. He could read what thoughts were in her mind: if the King died what then would she do, what would Richard, her brother Philip, demand of her? William said nothing. In all justice, he thought, she had brought this situation on herself and he had never liked her. But then in the old days his eyes had been all for Margaret and Alice’s invidious position meant nothing to him. He left her to the nursing and sat in the hall with Will and de Mandeville, a heaviness lying on them as they waited.

  The Count of Flanders, a sensible and politic man, came to Chinon and suggested that the King should make terms with Philip and Duke Richard. Henry called his bastard sons to him and wished that John were not so far away, holding for him in Normandy. William and de Mandeville also came to his chamber with Walter of Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, and he asked their advice.

  ‘Treat, my lord,’ the Archbishop begged. ‘You are ill, you cannot go on.’

  No one could disagree with this and wearily the King nodded, but he added, ‘All I need is rest. I’ll get my strength back and then by
God, Richard had best look to himself.’

  Four days later William sat on a stool by a narrow window and looked out into the darkness. There was a moon but it was hidden behind heavy thunder clouds rolling in from the west. Duke Richard had no more need to fear his father’s vengeance, for the man lying on the bed was clearly dying. They had been four wretched days, days of humiliation and despair, of pain and defeat. The King and his inner council had gone to Colombières, the place appointed for the meeting, and on the way had spent the night at a Commandery of the Knights Templars, where he had been so ill that it was feared he could not go on. William had talked for a long time with Amaury, the Master of the Commandery whom he had known for many years, remembering how once he had thought of joining the Templars – but that was before he had loved Isabel.

  The King insisted on going on in the morning and at Colombières Philip showed concern for the sick man. He saw that his old enemy was not fit to sit in the saddle and offered to have a cloak laid for him on the ground. Duke Richard said sternly that if his father thought illness was a way to treat for better terms he was mistaken.

  Jesu, William thought, is there no trust left anywhere? They must see this was no sham and when Henry refused to dismount, he and Chancellor Geoffrey sat their horses on either side of the King, ready to support him if he fell. But he had stuck grimly in the saddle, clinging to the pommel and agreeing one by one to the ignominious terms – to do homage to Philip, to surrender Princess Alice, to make his barons swear fealty to Richard, to surrender a number of castles, to keep his vow to go on the Crusade.

  Watching the scudding clouds William felt his anger rise again at the memory of that last demand. He could see Philip and Richard, both young men – Richard thirty and the French King less – relishing it, aware of the mockery of it, that they used that ultimate weapon of youth to bludgeon a sick old man. Henry was forced to give his son the kiss of peace and William had heard him mutter, ‘I’ll not die until I’ve had my revenge on you – traitor!’

  Only one concession he had gained, that a list of the allies on both sides should be made, and he sent his seal keeper, Roger Malchet, to see it done.

  The King groaned suddenly and stirred. The physician had gone to his own bed for there was nothing more he could do, and it was William and Geoffrey who watched beside him. Geoffrey was nodding against the wall and William rose softly and came to the King. He bathed the flushed and swollen face, straightened the bedclothes.

  The King’s eyes opened and out of a fog of memory he muttered, ‘William? Was it hot in Jerusalem? I am so hot. You took his Cross – you were his friend –’ he broke off, mumbling unintelligibly. Then he said quite clearly, ‘I have held so much – but God is angry. I – I blasphemed Him, did I not?’

  Geoffrey had woken now and come to the other side of the bed. ‘His mercy is greater than His anger, my lord. I will pray, we will all pray.’

  Henry’s eyes rested on him. ‘You have been the best of sons, you and Will. Call Will, I would see him.’

  William rose silently and sent a sleepy page for Will, and the three of them knelt by the bed. The King was quieter now. For a while he lay and listened to the ominous roll of thunder, and a flash of lightning illuminated the drawn face. ‘A storm is coming,’ he said, ‘but I think my storms are over. William,’ he reached out a hand and William took it, ‘whatever is to be done I can trust you and these my sons to do it. I leave all in your hands.’

  Daylight came and the storm died. The King was shriven and some semblance of peace came into the wan features. In the afternoon Roger Malchet returned and with him a shattering of that peace. At the King’s command he read the list of names and at the end came to a sudden halt.

  ‘Well?’ the King asked weakly. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No – no, sire,’ Malchet answered in a low voice. ‘There is one other, but I dare not –’

  ‘By Christ and His Cross!’ Henry roused himself once more, struggling to his elbow. ‘You will speak, Malchet, or feel a rope about your neck. Tell me –’

  Malchet retreated slightly, but he said, ‘The last name, my lord, the last name – is that of – Prince John.’

  Henry cried out and fell back on the pillow. ‘Not John? Not my John? Everything I have done has been for him.’ He gazed at Malchet, saw nothing but the truth in the seal-keeper’s frightened face, and turned his own into the pillow. ‘Then there is nothing left to live for.’ In a broken voice words tumbled from him. ‘Shame – shame on a conquered King – shame that his own flesh should betray him.’

  Geoffrey, his plump face disfigured by tears, lifted his father into his arms that the lion might lie more comfortably, resting against him. The King spoke no more. The three watchers remained where they were in silence and about noon the laboured breathing ceased.

  The King was carried to Fontevrault, his bier set beneath the soaring vaults and ribbed columns of the abbey he had favoured above all others. In the light of tall funeral candles the nuns watched, praying for his torn and restless spirit.

  ‘Requiem aeternam dona eis, domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis…’ their voices reiterated, and William, kneeling in the dark shadow of a pillar, echoed the words.

  The day’s events at Chinon had been horrifying. He had gone with Will and Geoffrey to see messengers sent with the tidings to Duke Richard, the heir, and to King Philip – would Philip rejoice at the death of his enemy? – to England to Queen Eleanor and to Prince John in Normandy. And on their return to the death chamber they found the servants gone with everything they could lay their hands on. Knowing how low the King’s resources had become they had taken what they could in recompense for their services. It was William who had covered the King’s body, found suitable raiment and jewels for the burial.

  Now he knelt, praying for Henry’s soul and thinking at the same time of the change in fortune that it might mean to him. Henry had promised him Isabel, but would Richard honour that promise? Would Richard want to see him Earl of Pembroke, Lord of Leinster, Sieur of Longueville? If not what should he do? He thought of her, ignorant as yet of what had happened, waiting for him, and he could have groaned aloud. He would have her somehow, despite Richard, despite every obstacle, yet he knew he could not storm into Winchester castle and abduct her – what life could she have with a man who thus outlawed himself? Mother of God, he prayed, help us, for Jesu’s sake.

  He was deep in his thoughts, his eyes on the tall yellow candles, the bier, the circle of kneeling black figures surrounding a face at peace at last – perhaps God had forgiven that blasphemy on the road from Le Mans – when there was a creak as the small south door opened.

  It was Richard, clad in a black cloak and alone. He strode across the stone flags to stand in silence, looking down at the face of his father. After a moment he knelt, crossed himself, and then rising left as silently and impassively as he had come.

  CHAPTER NINE

  King Richard rode to Chinon to claim his own and in the great circular hall William Marshal waited with the half-brothers of the new King and the few members left of the previous royal household.

  ‘I fear for you,’ Will said in a low voice as they heard the hooves of a vast mesnie clatter into the courtyard. ‘My brother will remember that encounter outside Le Mans.’

  ‘Aye,’ Geoffrey added, ‘you bested him, William, and he was never one to like that. And how he will view us, only God knows.’

  ‘I regret nothing I have done,’ William said. He was richly dressed this morning in his eastern silk mantle, wearing his gold chain and elaborate sword belt. If he was going to be dismissed he would at least go out with dignity. ‘I trust in God, who has ever helped me since I became a knight.’ But he knew it was a moment of decision that might mean a reversal of all he had achieved.

  Richard came in attended by his brother John and a large company of barons and knights, fully caparisoned in mail and helm and as imposing as ever. He paused at the door and without taking his eyes off the three awaitin
g him, removed his helm, handing it to a page who sprang alertly to receive it. His face was expressionless as they came forward to kneel before him. He looked slowly from one to the other. ‘I am your King,’ he said at last. ‘Well, Geoffrey?’

  His half-brother raised both hands. ‘Your man, sire, life and living,’ and Richard covered them, repeating the gesture as Will raised his.

  Then he turned to their companion. ‘And you, William Marshal? What have you to say to me? You have been my enemy.’

  ‘Only when you made your father yours,’ William said. Nothing but honesty, he thought, would serve him now. ‘As for our last meeting, I had it in my power to slay you, sire. Yet I only slew your horse.’ He saw a sudden and appreciative gleam in the eyes above his and went on boldly, ‘But if I had slain you I would not have committed a crime since my hands were set long ago between your father’s and I served him while he lived. When I pay homage I keep my word.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘And you will swear to me?’

  ‘I will.’

  Richard set his hands over William’s. ‘I believe you, Marshal, your word is enough for me. And by God the two greatest warriors in Christendom should not oppose each other, eh? You will serve me as you served my brother and my father?’

  ‘Life and living,’ William repeated, and he thought, for good or ill, only please God for good, and Isabel.

  Richard was about to proceed to the dais when he turned back to Geoffrey and said, ‘I shall require the chancellor’s seal, brother. You will not serve me in that office.’ Seeing the reaction in Geoffrey’s face he added, ‘I shall make you my Archbishop of York. Will that please you? Aye, I thought it would. They made Becket priest and Archbishop on the same day and they can do the same for you – but you’ll not set foot in England until it is done.’

  For some reason they had never liked each other. Geoffrey was clever and popular and easy-going, none of which qualities was likely to endear him to his more severe half-brother, but though Geoffrey was clearly shaken by Richard’s decree he now did a thing which was typical of his kindly nature. He bowed low and said, ‘Your will shall be obeyed, sire, but I would ask one thing. Our father promised the heiress of Pembroke to William here. Will you honour that promise? William has given years of loyal service to your family.’