William’s increasingly close acquaintance with Richard meant that he was one of the few men with unfettered access to the king and able to treat with him in relatively frank terms. This intimacy was glimpsed after the Lionheart emerged, boiling with rage, from a meeting with the papal legate, Peter of Capua. Peter had travelled to Normandy in the hope of engineering a peace between the Angevin and Capetian dynasties, so that a new crusade could be launched. Richard was understandably indignant at the prospect of Rome’s intervention; the papacy had, after all, failed to lift a finger when Philip Augustus invaded Angevin territory in 1193, even though, as a returning crusader, the Lionheart’s land should have been under Rome’s protection. The pope had been similarly unforthcoming during Richard’s imprisonment. The History was utterly scathing on the issue of papal corruption, noting that any envoy to Rome needed to come bearing the relics of St Gold and St Silver, those ‘worthy martyrs in the eyes of Rome’. Peter of Capua was also branded untrustworthy; said to be ‘incredibly adept in the arts of trickery and subterfuge’, with a face ‘more yellow than a kite’s claw’. After dismissing the legate from his presence, King Richard was apparently ‘so furious that he was unable to utter a word; instead he huffed and puffed in anger . . . like a wild boar wounded by the huntsman’. Peter hurried away, not even pausing to collect his cross, apparently convinced that ‘he would lose his genitals if he did’. Retiring to his rooms, the Lionheart ‘ordered the doors to be closed’, but William was allowed to enter and eventually calmed Richard’s rage, persuading him that any peace agreed at this point would actually be more damaging to the French.
By this time, Marshal was in his fifties, yet was still to be found in the front line of battle – commanding contingents, sometimes even jumping into the fray. Having recovered a section of Upper Normandy and much of the duchy’s frontier, the Angevins were, in 1197, in a position to cross the border zone and threaten French-held territory in the region of Beauvais. In May, William was sent to capture the fortress of Milly-sur-Thérain (some five miles north-west of Beauvais). The History’s account of this engagement was somewhat misleading, because it indicated that Richard I actually attended the assault, while other sources make it clear that it was actually John who fought alongside Marshal that May – as ever, William’s biographer seems to have been determined to gloss over any hints of association with the count.
The castle at Milly was well defended, with a dry moat, stout walls and a steely willed garrison. Nonetheless, William and John ordered a frontal assault, relying on the quick deployment of scaling ladders and sheer weight of numbers to overwhelm Capetian resistance. As the first wave of knights rushed in, the French showered them with an ‘incessant rain of arrows’; then, once the Angevins reached the battlements and began trying to ascend, the defenders unleashed volleys of crossbow bolts, dropped ‘huge blocks of wood’ on their enemy and used ‘great forks and flails’ to swipe them off the walls. Even so, the onslaught continued apace. Marshal’s contingent looked to be making good progress, surging up a pair of ladders, when a number of French warriors atop the parapet managed to shove one heavily laden ladder back off the wall. As it crashed to the ground, many knights were badly injured, and the Welshman Walter Scudamore broke his leg. Looking up, William realised that another knight from Flanders, Guy of la Bruyère, had crested the battlements only to find himself dangerously isolated, and when the French closed in, Guy was pinned down with ‘spiked pikes’.
Marshal leapt forward and, charging at speed into the dry moat, he rushed ‘full armed as he was, sword in hand, up the other side’. William mounted the remaining ladder, heaved himself over the wall and began laying about him, dealing ‘so many blows right and left with the sword [that] those inside fell back’. This was a valorous act, and the sight of Marshal battling on the parapet seems to have inspired the Angevin and Flemish forces to renew their assault, but William had placed himself in a precarious position. At that moment, one of the leading members of the garrison, William of Monceaux, rushed forward, running ‘straight at the Marshal with the intention of doing all within his power to do him harm’. Marshal’s ageing frame was feeling the strain – the hurried climb in armour having left him ‘somewhat out of breath’ – but he was able to muster one mighty sword blow to Monceaux’s head. The strike cut straight through the Frenchman’s helm and the mail coif below, ‘piercing his flesh’ and stopping him in his tracks. ‘Battered and stunned’, he collapsed. Now more than a little unsteady on his feet, Marshal promptly ‘sat on [Monceaux] to hold him firm’ while Angevin troops surged around him to seize the fortress.
The History gave the whole incident a heroic spin and William’s exploits on the day certainly seem to have been burned into the memory of his household knights – stirred by the sight of their veteran lord outlined atop the walls, still felling his enemies. Even so, Marshal’s reckless bravura was more than a little foolhardy, and the episode could easily have ended in his capture or injury. The biographer admitted that King Richard later chided William for his impulsive behaviour, pointing out that ‘a man of such eminence’ ought not to be in the thick of the fighting, preventing other, younger men from earning renown.
Towards victory
By the end of 1198, after years of relentless campaigning and deft diplomacy, Richard had restored much of his Angevin realm’s former strength. One critical step in this recovery had been the contest for control of the Vexin – the border zone seized by Philip Augustus in early 1194. Gisors had long been regarded as the key to this entire region, and the Lionheart’s problem was that this fearsome stronghold could not be taken. This was not to say that the castle was somehow impervious to assault, massively imposing though its fortifications were. In truth, no medieval fortress – regardless of its size or technological sophistication – was truly invulnerable. With sufficient time, resources and determination, a besieging force would always prevail: either breaking through the lines of walls and towers, or more often, simply starving the garrison into submission.
All castles in the Middle Ages relied on the support of allied field armies, and were designed to withstand assault just long enough for a relieving force to arrive. With a doughty outer wall and looming central keep, Gisors was more than capable of holding out for a week. According to the simple mathematics of medieval war, that made it impregnable in practical terms, because Gisors could expect to be relieved by French troops in a matter of days. If Richard attempted a siege he would soon find himself confronted by Philip’s army and facing a desperately risky battle on two fronts.
The Lionheart adopted a masterful, two-fold solution to this seemingly intractable problem. First, he constructed a huge new military complex on the Seine at Les Andelys, on the Vexin’s western edge, boasting a fortified island, a dock that made this site accessible to shipping from England and a hugely imposing fortress that was christened ‘Château Gaillard’ – the ‘Castle of Impudence’. Built in just two years, between 1196 and 1198, the project cost an eye-watering £12,000; more than Richard spent on all the castles in England during his entire reign. This installation protected the approaches to Rouen, but perhaps more importantly, it also served as an offensive staging post for raiding attacks into the Vexin.
Richard and William Marshal then developed a novel strategy, based around the complex at Château Gaillard, to neutralise Gisors and reclaim effective control of the Vexin. The new fortifications at Les Andelys meant that, for the first time, large numbers of Angevin troops could be billeted on the fringe of the Vexin with impunity, and then deployed to police the region at will. Using Gaillard as a base, the Lionheart’s forces proceeded to dominate the surrounding area and though the French retained a number of strongholds in the Vexin, including Gisors, their emasculated garrisons were virtually unable to step out of their gates. The History of William Marshal proudly declared that the Capetians were so pinned down ‘in the castles that they could not take anything outside them’, and the French in Gisors were not even able
to draw water from the nearby spring at Beaudemont.
By these steps, King Richard reasserted Angevin dominance in northern France, shifting the balance of power back in his favour. It had taken a monumental effort, but the ruinous damage wrought by John’s folly had finally been repaired. Both sides were now ready for a pause in hostilities, and the young, energetic new pope, Innocent III, was trying to orchestrate another crusade. Handing over the justiciarship of England to Geoffrey FitzPeter, Archbishop Hubert Walter crossed over to Normandy to assist in the negotiations. In January 1199, a five-year truce was duly agreed and, though its exact terms are unknown, Richard looks to have been confirmed in possession of all the territories he had re-conquered. Nobody expected the peace to last; it served merely to formalise a lull in fighting, during which both sides could regroup ahead of the summer and the new fighting season. It also gave Richard a chance to deal with a fresh outbreak of unrest in Aquitaine.
THE CATASTROPHE AT CHLUS
King Richard left William Marshal to watch over Normandy and travelled south through Maine and Anjou to reach the Limousin in mid-March 1199. By this time, Viscount Aimery of Limoges – Young King Henry’s old ally – had made cause with Philip Augustus, and the Lionheart was planning a short, sharp, punitive campaign to bludgeon Aimery into submission. Richard marched into the region around Limoges, where sixteen years earlier he had battled against his elder brother, and ‘devastated the viscount’s land with fire and sword’. In late March he moved on to besiege the small, relatively insignificant, castle of Châlus.
The investment proceeded at a good pace. Richard sent in sappers to undermine the stronghold’s walls, while the paltry garrison was kept at bay by the Lionheart’s crossbowmen. After three days, Châlus was close to collapse; only one lone defender, Peter Basilius, was perched on the battlements, popping up to take an occasional potshot at the Angevin forces below. Around dusk on 26 March, Richard left his tent having finished his supper and strode out to survey the siege. As was so often the case, he was virtually un-armoured – wearing an iron headpiece, but no mail hauberk – yet enjoyed the protection of a heavy shield, borne by one of his knights. In the half-light, Peter Basilius took aim and loosed a bolt in the king’s direction and, against all expectations, the quarrel struck its mark, thumping into Richard’s left shoulder. Some would later claim that this bolt had been poisoned, so that ‘death was the inescapable outcome’, but this does not seem to have been the case. The closest evidence indicates that a surgeon successfully removed the quarrel that same night, but the resulting wound then turned gangrenous and, from that point, there was no chance of recovery.
While still in possession of his wits, Richard dispatched a letter to Normandy, instructing William Marshal to take control of Rouen. He also sent for his mother, Queen Eleanor, then residing at Fontevraud, and she rushed south to attend his deathbed. It was said that the Lionheart pardoned the crossbowman, Peter Basilius, and declared John to be his lawful successor before he died on 6 April 1199. After his death, Richard’s brain and entrails were quickly buried at a nearby abbey. His heart would later be interred at Rouen Cathedral. But his body was carried north to Fontevraud, where he was laid to rest ‘at the feet of his father’ Henry II, two rivals, both now consigned to the grave.
King Richard’s unheralded demise seemed to contemporaries, as it still does today, a shocking and senseless waste. There had been no great feat of bravery or daring at the end; no final struggle against his nemesis, Philip. One of the greatest warrior-kings of the Middle Ages was cut down at the age of forty-one by a single crossbow bolt. Writing nearly thirty years later, William Marshal’s biographer described this terrible moment as ‘a source of grief to all’, adding that ‘everyone still mourns [Richard’s] death’. The Lionheart had been, the History declared, a man ‘who would have won all the renown in the world’ had he lived. Other chroniclers were equally effusive, with one proclaiming: ‘O death! Do you realise who you have snatched from us? . . . The lord of warriors, the glory of kings.’
It was perhaps Roger of Howden – a man who had followed Richard on crusade and chronicled the reigns of both the Lionheart and his father – who offered the most poignant insight into his complex character. In Howden’s estimation, the king had been driven by a mixture of ‘valour, avarice . . . unscrupulous pride and blind desire’; and his demise had proven that ‘death was mightier than Hector’. ‘Men might conquer cities’, Roger declared, but ‘death took men’. The Lionheart has sometimes been criticised for neglecting the kingdom of England, but such attacks ignore his far wider responsibility to govern and defend the vast Angevin Empire. In the course of his reign, this realm had almost been brought to its knees by Capetian aggression and the treachery of his brother John, yet Richard had dedicated the last five years of his life to its restoration, and through tireless effort, could bequeath a newly rejuvenated domain to his successor. The question was who that successor might be?
The choice before William Marshal
King Richard’s letter describing his injury, and the expectation of his death, reached William Marshal in the Norman castle of Vaudreuil on 7 April. It had been borne in secret and, in spite of his shock and sorrow, it was essential that Marshal moved quickly to take possession of the citadel in Rouen before news spread of the terrible events at Châlus. It was there, in the great keep of the ducal city, that William received the fateful news of Richard’s demise. The message arrived late at night on 10 April, when ‘the Marshal was on the point of retiring and was having his boots removed’, and its contents ‘struck him to the quick’, leaving him, in the words of the History, consumed with ‘violent grief’.
William crossed the Seine that same night, bringing the news to Hubert Walter at the royal palace of Le Pré. Marshal had now outlived three anointed kings. One he had watched die in agony as a young man; another had had power stripped from his failing grasp. William had only been able to mourn their passing. But now, as a man of power and position, he might have some part to play in shaping the future, and seeing the Lionheart’s legacy protected. No news of Richard’s final wishes regarding the succession had yet circulated, so Marshal and Hubert debated their next step into the small hours. There were now two candidates for the crown: Count John and the twelve-year-old Arthur of Brittany. The archbishop argued in favour of the latter’s claim. As the son of John’s late elder brother, Geoffrey of Brittany, Arthur had the best claim by precepts of primogeniture, though it was far from clear that this principal was in any way binding across the Angevin world. The History admitted that William counselled against this choice, supposedly cautioning that ‘Arthur has treacherous advisors about him and he is unapproachable and overbearing’. Instead, Marshal supported John, arguing that he was ‘the nearest in line to claim the land of [the Angevins]’. Hubert eventually agreed, but was said to have warned William: ‘You will never come to regret anything you did as much as what you are doing now.’
Marshal’s decision was undoubtedly driven by a measure of self-interest. A man in his position could expect to reap rich rewards in return for championing John’s claim. William already had a degree of association with the count through his Irish lands, and had moved with caution in his dealings with John whenever possible, though he had opposed him without reservation during the attempted coup of 1193. But Marshal’s hand was also forced by the desperate predicament now facing the Angevin Empire. Having only just re-established the balance of power with France, the realm was sure to face a scouring new wave of Capetian aggression once the news of Richard’s death spread. Under these conditions, the choice between an unproven boy and a fully grown man, with experience of war, was no choice at all.
Part IV
OLD AGE: ENGLAND’S
GREAT MAGNATE
10
AN ENEMY OF NATURE
As dawn broke on 11 April 1199, a new era began for William Marshal. Having chosen to serve and to support John, he threw his full weight behind the count’s claim to t
he English crown. That morning, Marshal’s most trusted household knight, John of Earley, was immediately dispatched to England to bring word of King Richard’s death to Marshal’s old ally, Geoffrey FitzPeter, now justiciar of the realm. Earley also must have informed Geoffrey of the choice made by Marshal and Archbishop Hubert Walter at Rouen, for together these three great men would now work to ensure that the kingdom of England passed to John.
Count John appears to have been in Normandy when he himself heard the news of Richard’s death, and though he evidently received some form of declaration of allegiance from William and Archbishop Walter, they are unlikely to have met in person. The count’s first thought was to rush south to Chinon, to claim the Angevin treasury; meanwhile, Marshal and the archbishop were sent across the Channel to prepare the ground for John’s arrival. The History dealt with this whole period in vague and brief terms, trying wherever possible to distance William from John’s cause, but it is clear from other contemporary evidence that Marshal played a leading role in securing the support of the English nobility.
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