William stood respectfully before the elevated table at which Guillaume and his chief followers ate until, in reaching for his wine-goblet, De Tancarville looked up and saw the waiting squire. He beckoned William round the other side of the table, making way for him and indicating a page should draw forth a stool for him to sit upon.
‘We have had you close under our eye, William,’ he began quietly, waving aside William’s obligatory words of respect. ‘Ever since Gerard spoke so highly of you, you have manifested promise, even perhaps prowess in your skill and conduct.’
William blushed to the roots of his brown hair. ‘My Lord…’
Guillaume silenced him again. ‘Now it is the time to see if all these compliments are justified. Tomorrow I am intending to place you at the head of half of the men-at-arms in the retinue of Roger de Vaux here,’ Guillaume indicated the elderly knight on his right. The older man nodded and half smiled at the younger, but did not speak. William was astonished and it took some time for the import of De Tancarville’s words to sink-in. ‘Sir Roger will ride some little distance behind you with his knights, but you will lead and command his vanguard. He and I will give you your instructions tomorrow. Now go and pray and then sleep.’
Overwhelmed with this sudden responsibility, William quit the great hall, Rolf following him.
‘What is amiss, master?’
‘Nothing is amiss, Rolf,’ William said, turning, his spirits alternating with a mixture of apprehension and a quickening eagerness, ‘but much is afoot…’
*
William held up his hand, turned in his saddle and, once the column had halted, sent word for all lance heads to be lowered. Then, indicating that only the herald Gerard should ride forward with him, he kicked his horse forward, approaching the top of a hill near Gournay-en-Bray. Gerard had been especially assigned to William’s entourage, a nursemaid-cum-assessor in the serious game of war in which to which the entire mesnie of Guillaume de Tancarville had been turned-out in all its panoplied magnificence six days earlier.
The track which William’s column had been following had emerged from the woodland covering the Pays de Bray shortly before and his outriders had reported the low summit ahead of them without exposing themselves, falling back on the main body as William had ordered. Now he went forward with Gerard, stopping short of the skyline where he slid from his horse and handed the reins over to Gerard who took them with a rueful grin. ‘The world, FitzMarshal, rolls on, eh?’
William was too consumed by anxiety to respond to Gerard’s mock use of his inflated name and his reference to their reversed roles. He knew Gerard was sent as nursemaid, ready to prevent him getting into too serious a scrape and thereby both compromising and dishonouring De Tancarville’s military household. Crouching, he loped forward, half hoping to see the spread of landscape that he and Gerard had witnessed two years earlier, which would have made of what was to come all the easier, but as his eye-line topped the low summit he saw no such well-defined features as the wood and river and rocky crag. The land descended, the track re-entering the dense woodland that covered a low, rolling country, the hill being an odd anomaly, a concealed hummock of barely covered rock nurturing some scrubby grass, but little else. Aware that he was not merely on his mettle but that some form of success was expected of him, if he was to advance his status among the squires, he was seized with a sudden dread. This seemingly benign landscape might prove the ruin of his ambitions for it occurred to him that he had just escaped ambush, that in his cautious approach – the lance-lowering and moving forward with Gerard – he had prevented them falling into the enemy’s hands. It had not been the reason for so doing; on the contrary, being young and inexperienced he had assumed that it was he who was laying an ambush for others whilst in fact, had he crossed the crest he would have exposed the size of his force to anyone watching in the dense woodland below.
And the thought provoked a conviction that that was exactly what was happening. A sixth-sense told him that there was indeed an ambush awaiting him and that he was confronted with his first real decision in the tournament. Lying full-length upon the damp grass he studied the woods into which the track descended. Used for running livestock to market in the distant town, it lost its definition going over the hill, where the cattle wandered onto a wide front, but narrowed again as it entered the close-packed trees lower down. There was dense undergrowth there, especially under the edge of the wood’s mantle, before the canopy of spring leaves kept the ground clear, so…
Then he saw something move. He could not be sure but he watched closely. The sun was half-way up the sky: mid-morning. No cooking fires would betray an enemy party at such an hour but he was almost certain he had seen movement, unnatural movement, just within the line of trees. He felt a strong compulsion to return to Gerard for advice and opinion, but a stubborn pride held him to the ground and he thought of a piece of advice a huntsman had once given him when flushing prey: do not stare at where you think something is, but lift you eye a little above it; any movement will the more readily catch your attention.
William did this for some moments without result. Then another disturbing thought came to him. Supposing the enemy was lying in wait; what then? There was, as far as he could see, no obvious way of out-flanking an opponent just at the point where the track led into the trees. Besides, fighting in the woods would be a desperate business, a matter of every man for himself. He ran his eye to left and right. What in the name of Christ was he to do?
In his final instructions from De Tancarville he had been sworn to consult Gerard if
he encountered any difficulty, but was this a real difficulty? He was unwilling to wriggle back like a child and seek the herald’s advice.
And then he did see movement. Two movements in fact, the first a fluttering of lance pennon just beyond the first of the trees, with just enough breeze blowing through them to reveal them as green, the same colour as the spring leaves; then a man came forward, breaking cover a little, looking up the hill as though he could see William’s head. William froze, knowing that with the wind ruffling hair to have moved might have betrayed his presence. Instead he kept still, like a grass tussock, watching and waiting. Half a mile away the scout, in a plain leather hauberk, emerged from the cover of the wood and appeared to scan the hillside. For what seemed an age he raked the crest and then, with an almost eloquent gesture of disappointment, he turned about and disappeared. In that instant, William knew what to do.
Very slowly he wormed his way below the skyline then he half-stood and bent as an old man shuffled back to where Gerard patiently held the horses. ‘Take your post on the crest. They lie in wait where the track enters the wood and are impatient. They know we are coming; I don’t know how, but they do. We will lure them but I need half an hour to make preparations. Do you keep watch. If they move out of the wood let me know.’
‘Are you certain you know what to do?’ Gerard asked.
‘Aye. Give me both horses’ reins and watch out front. The enemy is there.’
Gerard nodded and William led the two animals back to where his column of armed men waited. Some had dismounted and they spoke in the low tones of seasoned campaigners. At William’s approach they looked up and he motioned them to gather round.
‘The enemy lie in ambush on the edge of a wood about half a mile beyond the ridge. They are expecting us, of that I am sure, so I have a mind to draw them out, but it will need clear heads and fine judgement. I want four men to join me and move up towards the ridge. We will then raise lances and wave pennons. A small fire may convince them we are careless, that we have stopped for some reason; we shall light a fire and strike a stone as if attending a horse after a shoe has been shed. We shall make a noise but I will watch the ridge. The instant they are seen I will send up an alarum, shout and we shall mount up and ride back into the woods behind us. That is where we shall ambush them; that is where the rest of you shall be, half on either side of the track.’
William looked back
at the ridge where Gerard lay, his heels towards them. ‘D’you understand?’ Murmurs of assent came from his men. ‘Now who will stand with me?’
Almost the entire party held up their hands and William picked the first four with a wide grin on his face, his heart thundering in his chest with the excitement. They began to move closer to the ridge, lance pennons aloft, one of them singing as though the beauty of the morning was all that mattered. William watched them and then looked back towards Gerard, still at his post. The others mounted and began to trot their horses back to the woodland they had left earlier, all except Rolf, whose eye William caught.
‘Ride back to Sir Roger, explain what is happening and urge him forward but not too fast. We shall be making a noise by way of lure and I do not wish him to think us troubled until it is the clash of arms.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand, master,’ Rolf responded impatiently, pointing over William’s shoulder so that William spun round to see Gerard, bent double hurrying towards him.
William walked swiftly towards him and handed him his horse’s bridle. ‘They’re on the move…the moment they saw that lot,’ he nodded at the decoys who were already alerted by Gerard’s hasty retreat as they waved their red and white pennons aloft.
‘Do you get back into the wood with the others. I shall remain here.’
Gerard regarded William for a moment. ‘Is that wise?’
‘Go!’ William said swiftly moving towards the waiting men. ‘Make ready,’ he said unnecessarily, for each man was poised to mount and the singer had fallen silent. William, his heart pounding, drew in a breath and began to sing himself, an air he had first heard sung by a troubadour said to have learned it at the Court of Her Grace of Aquitaine: ‘My heart is laid low as the grey-goose at sundown…’ His fine voice rang out and he no longer minded that it had irritated his fellow squires at Tancarville. He gave little thought to that now and he glanced back down the hill as Gerard followed the last of the column into the wood and vanished. ‘My lady bestows smiles on all…’ and here he trilled nobly, ‘but me…’
He got no further. One of the decoys threw up a warning shout and the horses were all too truly startled so that the mounting up of the quintet had every appearance of surprise and disorder as twenty lances bearing green pennons broke the line of the hill against the sky. They were coming up at the gallop only yards away. ‘Ride!’ William shouted, throwing aside his lance. Catching his intention, two others did the same. Now all was breathless terror. William was seized with a strong urge to laugh maniacally even as he all but felt the breath of his pursuers’ horses upon the back of his neck. He looked back once, then lowered his head as his palfrey lifted his hooves to the drum-beat of a gallop matching, then out-running, horses that had already covered half a mile uphill.
William was no longer laughing but urging his horse on with unintelligible words that Gerard had taught him, words that sounded very like those used in private by Angharad ap Gwyn. And he was lugging his sword from its scabbard, a surer weapon to use among the fast approaching trees than a lance
Then they were into the woods, lashed by branches, slowed by the constraints of the narrow track and the horses slowing to avoid the tree-roots so that it seemed an age before, to William’s intense relief, shouts from behind him told where the rest of his men sprang into action. Reining in he shouted to his companions who joined him in drawing-up their horses, turning about and joining the mêlée. Immediately behind them their pursuers were in confusion as William and his party drove amongst them. Lances pierced the shoulders of the leading enemy horses and as they stumbled and fell, all behind them blundered into the falling beasts.
The remainder of William’s men, having hitched their own mounts among the trees, were now running among the tangle of men and horses slashing at saddle girths or pulling the riders down and kneeling on their chests with daggers and swords at their throats, knocking off helms. If submission was not instant they struck the pommels of their swords to lay out their victims, leaving them unconscious so that they could the better dispose of the remainder.
In dragging his horse’s head round William had got his sword clear of its scabbard. One man, the last of the enemy to ride into the wood, had hauled about too and set his heels to his mount, eager to escape the fate of his comrades. William made after him with a loud whoop, driving his horse through the chaos of men fighting on the ground and amid the undergrowth on either side of the track. The animal never lost its footing and horse and rider were suddenly clear of the wood again. But the other’s mount was blown and William caught its rider’s helm a tremendous blow with the flat of his sword. Senseless, the fellow toppled and sagged sideways, so that his horse, unbalanced, eased its stride until William grabbed the bridle and pulled it to a standstill with his own. Fortunately it was no highly strung destrier and submitted as William gathered up its reins and led it back into the wood where his men sat upon their prisoners and from the depths of the trees beyond Rolf, Sir Roger de Vaux and his retinue emerged. De Vaux took in the scene in an instant and sent a man up the hill to ensure no-one followed the assault. Reassured that they had taken the entire party, it was time to take the tally.
‘You have done well, FitzMarshal,’ the old man said. ‘But next time I suggest you wear your helm.’
In the haste and excitement William had left his helmet at his saddle-bow. He grinned and nodded, wiping the sweat from his forehead. ‘Aye, Sir Roger. Next time I shall do as you say.’
CHAPTER FIVE: THE HOUSEHOLD KNIGHT 1165 - 1167
William was eighteen when, in the autumn of 1165, word reached him of the death of his father. The news did not tempt him to return to England, for he felt nothing for the loss of an old man for whom he had had no affection and who had left him nothing by way of patrimony. Nor did the death of his brother Gilbert shortly afterwards prompt him to go home, even though this made him heir to his elder brother John. John, he had heard by way of a missive from Nicholas de Sarum, being short of his majority, was in any case in royal wardship, King Henry having assigned Alan de Neuville, a man noted for his greed, to manage the young Marshal’s affairs. The almost illiterate William required assistance to get the sense of Nicholas’s letter, but the priest made it clear enough that he at least found this situation unsatisfactory, a further marking of the fading fortunes of the family.
The truth was that ever since his coup d’oeil his star in the mesnie of Guillaume de Tancarville had been rising. Technically his first small triumph had been under the banner of Roger de Vaux to whom went the greater glory, but the affair yielded several fine horses, among which was a destrier which was given to William as a reward for his part in the affair, whilst he received a share in the ransom of three minor knights from Hainault. While success raised his status in De Tancarville’s household it furthered jealousy among his fellow squires, chief among them Adam d’Yquebeuf. Still the honour of knighthood as recognised by the House of Tancarville eluded William, the wily Guillaume using William’s growing prowess to his own ends. Retaining William in a subordinate position cost him less, but it also increased the young man’s desire for recognition, obvious to Guillaume as William strove ever more and more to add to his achievements.
In this Guillaume De Tancarville misjudged his man. William’s striving was not to attract his master’s approbation; it was simply a product of his natural ambition as he improved at what he was expected to do: fight in his Lord’s service. As for the honour of knighthood, he knew that as a distant relation of Guillaume it must come one day, accepting that all the influence he wielded lay in his cousin-german’s power. Although ambitious, he was not as greedy a young man as De Tancarville supposed and the steady augmentation of his possessions was satisfaction enough. Moreover, he nurtured the private conviction that he had already been girded and dubbed in secret by King Stephen. There may have been something of mockery or indulgence in Stephen’s act, but the contempt with which John the Marshal had dismissed his son’s claim to have been thus dubb
ed only increased the act’s validity in William’s eyes now that the old man was dead. William kept these things in his heart, along with the quiet advices of Angharad ap Gwyn and the exhortations of Nicholas de Sarum, all of which were a sure armour against the envy of his peers at Tancarville. Most of all, they were enough to prevent him from returning home to beg a living of his elder brother or even to position himself as John’s heir. This William might have done in 1167 when, still bereft of the status of one of De Tancarville’s household knights, John reached his majority. Early that year Nicholas de Sarum again wrote to him again, advising him that the effect of De Neuville’s guardianship had been deleterious, that his own presence in Wiltshire might restore prestige to his brother. William pondered both the personal advantage to be gained by assisting his brother, and the satisfaction that might bring him after the schism driven between them by their father and his cutting of William from his will, but the notion palled. He did not care to be beholden to John and, in any case, John was sure to wed and father a son of his own body, if he had not already done so. The mesnie of De Tancarville offered brighter prospects which held a greater and more immediate an allure, factors more certain to attract a young man’s fancy. There was besides, a young woman named Anne in the household with whom William had become intimate. He was fool enough to think he was her only lover, but his lust for her was an added factor in him ignoring Nicholas de Sarum’s plea long enough for matters to be taken out of his hands.
Beyond the small world of the tilt-yard of Tancarville and the tourneying grounds on the borders of Normandy, Flanders and the Vexin, greater affairs were in train. The same year that brother John came into his own, King Henry II and King Louis VII fell out. Among other rumbling disagreements, Henry resented Louis’ protection in the Abbey of Pontigny of the exiled Thomas Becket. The disparate characters of the dogged and charming Louis and the ruthless, clever, cunning and intemperate Henry drew to each a degree of support among the great noblemen. Among those attracted to Louis’ banner were Philippe, Count of Flanders, his brother Matthieu, Count of Boulogne, and the Count of Ponthieu, whose lands were contiguous to the eastern border of Normandy, all of which made war inevitable.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 9