Despite being King in England, Henry was a subject of Louis, holding Normandy and his wife Eleanor of Aquitaine’s extensive domains as French feudatories. However, as Philippe, Matthieu and Ponthieu mustered a large army on the Norman boundary with Flanders and Picardy, his marcher lord, the Count of Eu, joined by the Constable and Chamberlain of Normandy, namely De Tancarville and the Earl of Essex, poured garrisons into the castles of eastern Normandy. De Tancarville and Essex were charged with the defence of Neufchâtel-en-Bray, lying on the River Béthune, five leagues from the border.
It was here, on the eve of war, with little ceremony beyond a formal girding and the rough shoulder-punch of the dubbing, that De Tancarville made knights of William FitzMarshal, Adam d’Yquebeuf and several others among their fellow squires.
*
The position of Neufchâtel-en-Bray was supposed to permit its garrison to respond to any threat along a wide sector of the frontier. Notice, it was presumed, would be brought to Essex and De Tancarville in good time for them to ride out at the head of their combined retinues and throw back any invader. In the event the enemy crossed the Bresle between Eu and Blangy and laid waste the counties of Eu and Aumale, lying to the east of the stronghold, before those at Neufchâtel-en-Bray knew anything. Led by Matthieu of Boulogne, the main column of the Flemings appeared before the Norman fortress, taking Essex and De Tancarville completely by surprise.
So complete was this that D’Eu temporarily lost his wits, while the Earl of Essex, gathering a group of hot-heads, had the presence of mind to arm immediately, mount-up, and ride to the west gate of the little town that surrounded the ramparts and seize the bridge carrying the road that led to Eu.
De Tancarville stayed his own hand, roaring for his household knights to form up in good order to meet the enemy force that was better prepared than his own. With quickening heart, William, clad in mail and hauberk, steadied his now thoroughly restless destrier, leapt into the saddle and seized his helm and lance from the faithful Rolf. Rolf mounted beside him and both made ready to ride out to repel the invaders in the train of Guillaume de Tancarville.
As they approached the west gate they could see beyond the hard-pressed handful under Essex fighting for their lives on the Chausée d’Eu, the narrow road which lay between the houses of the faubourg that lay on the far side of the ditch. Here a large troop of knights leading mounted man-at-arms and foot-soldiers were pressing forward. It was clear that the defenders were insufficient in numbers to hold the bridge and, as De Tancarville rode up to the gate it was equally obvious that the town guard were eager to drop the portcullis and leave Essex to his fate in order to save the inner town.
Guillaume de Tancarville took-in the situation at a glance and drew-rein below the portcullis to prevent its being lowered and waved his knights forward. William kicked his heels into his charger’s flanks but as he drew level with his master, Guillaume grabbed his bridle.
‘Hold hard, FitzMarshal! Get back! Be not hasty, we are the reserve.’
William drew-up sharply and Guillaume let go, only to find the young knight took scant notice and, an instant later, drove his destrier forward, lowering his lance. There was a brief thunder of hooves crossing the wooden bridge and then he pitched into the mêlée as one of the leading knights coming to Essex’s aid.
So savage was his short charge that William’s lance shivered at the first impact. He pulled the destrier up short so that the beast sat back on its haunches, caracoling and kicking out its fore-hooves as it had been taught, giving William time to draw sword from scabbard. He laid about him indiscriminately, aware only of the pressure of many men and horses in the narrow street as the Normans felt the pressure of the assaulting Flemings. Suddenly William felt himself caught by the shoulder. A hook used to drag thatch from the houses in case of fire had been seized by a Flemish foot-soldier keen on ransom and William found himself toppling sideways. Almost at the same moment he sensed his charger founder under him. Another Fleming had run in and with a belly-knife eviscerated the destrier so that William fell to the ground among the steaming entrails of his horse.
He fought unsuccessfully for a footing, slithering in the mess of guts and stink of shit, losing hold of his sword; but he recovered sufficiently on one knee to whip out his dagger and drive it into the nearer of his assailants. The man’s entrails joined those of William’s horse, giving him time to stagger to his feet with the help of the wall of an adjacent dwelling. He picked-up his sword only to find that the crisis of the vicious skirmish had passed; Count Matthieu had called off his people and, for the moment, Neufchâtel-en-Bray was saved for King Henry.
‘Cut it up for supper, have you?’ asked Adam d’Yquebeuf superciliously, sitting his destrier in high good humour at William’s discomfiture and indicating the remains of William’s war-horse.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ William responded, turning and walking back towards the town gate with D’Yquebeuf’s sarcastic laughter ringing in his ears.
That evening at table as the Normans, secure behind the barred gate of Neufchâtel-en-Bray, ate and drank to celebrate their triumphant defence of the castle, Essex also ribbed the young knight. ‘Hey, FitzMarshal, make me a gift for your love and honour in the name of God.’
William swallowed his pride, eager perhaps to salvage something from the day. ‘Willingly, my Lord. What service can I render?’
‘Oh, some piece of harness that you took this day; a crupper, perhaps, or an old collar,’ replied Essex with a grin, raising expectations of general amusement in the great hall of the castle.
‘My Lord Earl, I have none, since I lost my horse. What I have left belongs to my Lord de Tancarville,’ responded William gauchely, only vaguely aware of having become the butt of Essex’s crude humour. What he might have expected from D’Yquebeuf, he had not anticipated from a great Lord.
‘What?’ Essex mocked him. ‘In the name of Christ, I could have sworn you had, oh, forty or sixty at your disposal this forenoon. How can you claim to have nothing now and use me so ill as to refuse me such a small thing!’
A roar of laughter met this guying. Most had heard of William’s precipitate rush forward and while they conceded his gallantry, his arrival back in the castle covered in slime and shit had provoked the ridicule readily released in the aftermath of struggle.
William rose, red-faced at the loud guffaws, aware that Essex was sharply reminding him that he had lost a destrier and failed to take any prisoner in recompense, not even an item of horse-harness. The taunting of D’Yquebeuf still rang in his ears and the rush of blood was accompanied by a flush of anger which he instantly supressed, going down onto one knee, an unexpected action that quickly compelled silence.
‘My Lord Earl, what need of harness have you when you command my life!’
There was a moment of complete quiet then Essex raised his goblet to De Tancarville. ‘My Lord Chamberlain, you have raised the eyass well. He has the keen eye and the quick stoop. Perhaps he will yet strike his prey for your enrichment.’
More loud laughter rang round the hall. Essex was not merely needling William, but making an oblique thrust at De Tancarville’s lost opportunity.
Slow to comprehend at first, William quickly grasped the Earl’s jibe, and looked sharply at his master. De Tancarville lolled back on his chair and, without looking at William, coolly responded.
‘The eyass slipped his jesses, my Lord of Essex. I shall either bind them tighter or abandon him to the crows.’
More laughter ensued and William, redder than ever, returned to his place at table to finish his meal in silence. He was ignored by most of those about him, except, of course, Adam d’Yquebeuf and those others who wished to make him the butt of their jokes.
*
The peace agreed between Henry and Louis in November of 1167 had a profound effect upon young William. He might have expected Guillaume de Tancarville to make good the loss of William’s destrier at Neufchâtel-en-Bray, but this the Lord of Tancarville seemed disin
clined to do. Whispers circulated the mesnie that their Lord was out of funds following the campaign and the Chamberlain of Normandy made no secret of the fact that those among his retinue who wished to leave and seek employment for their lances elsewhere were at liberty to do so. If William was meant to count himself among this number he was too naïve or trusting to act. Rather, relying upon his distant kinship with Guillaume, he assumed that both this and his youth bound him to De Tancarville’s household, so he remained, on sufferance, awaiting a turn of events in his favour.
Like De Tancarville, William found his purse as pinched as his master’s. He was obliged to sell the cloak he had purchased for the bare ceremony of his dubbing to purchase a squire’s roncin to act both as pack-horse and – when required – destrier. This left him his palfrey to ride, a situation which William bore with some fortitude amid an unprecedented restlessness among the mesnie of the Chamberlain of Normandy. And then came news of a great tournament to be held in Maine, across miles of land between St Jaume and Valenne. The household of Tancarville, including William, was ordered to make preparations. Money was suddenly forthcoming for new equipages; saddles, harness, bright lance-pennons and even war-horses. These were dispensed among the younger members of the mesnie, all excepting William. In vain did he approach De Tancarville’s Steward for a destrier, pleading the service he had given at Neufchâtel-en-Bray, only to be told that: ‘His Highness is not inclined to include FitzMarshal since, having granted him the honour of knighthood, he had failed to return the complement with hostages or ransom therefrom.’
This cold refusal angered William and he went directly to Guillaume to confront him. Seeing the lad in a half-supressed rage, D Tancarville laughed. ‘Oh, have one if you must,’ he replied off-handedly, ‘But do not forget that I held you back at Neufchâtel-en-Bray, you were disobedient and paid the price in losing one of my horses. Well, no matter.’ Guillaume summoned his Steward and whispered into his ear. This made the latter smile and William found himself the master of a fractious beast whose spirit had not been broken. Amid more laughter from his fellows as they gathered at the news, William took possession of the horse which tossed its head and struck sparks from the cobbles as the young man clung to its bridle and attempted to mount.
Drawing back his clenched fist he struck the horse hard upon its nose and, in its suddenly quiescent state, led it out through the gate. That evening he entered the castle upon its back, returning it to the stables where he rubbed the animal down, all the while talking to it in a low voice. The incident did not go unremarked and at table that evening De Tancarville caught William’s eye and silently raised his goblet in salute.
That same night he spent in the dismal chapel of Tancarville. Prior to his dubbing he had had no vigil, as the sons of Norman noblemen were wont to do, the expedience of the moment had eliminated that from the hurried ceremony prior to the defence of Neufchâtel-en-Bray. But now, driven by some imperative to seek guidance from Almighty God consistent with the principles inculcated into him by Nicholas de Sarum, he sought a spiritual strength. Full of promise, the years at Tancarville had worn him down with the constant need to keep his end up against the unholy jesting and victimisation of his fellows. That he had stood the test with little outward appearance of hurt was a measure of his inward steel; but it had not left him unaffected. The small triumph of besting a difficult horse that was clearly given to him as a further humiliation had failed to raise his spirits; rather it emphasised his isolation, forcing him to come hither and pray.
Now fully aware that he too should have left De Tancarville’s service when the hint had been dropped, he went down upon his knees to seek God’s purpose for him, just as Nicholas de Sarum had taught him. In truth the experience yielded him little beyond an excruciating pain in his knees and back and, in the cold light of dawn, he emerged tired and discontented. The castle was already a-stir, for the mesnie was to ride out that day for Maine and, on his way to the stables to tend his horses, he ran into the girl Anne.
‘You leave today,’ she said simply.
‘Aye.’
‘Then you must kiss me,’ she laughed, drawing him off into the stable and pushing him against one of the wooden pillars as his three horses snickered their welcome and the destrier pawed his stall and rolled his eyes.
*
William rode off in the rear of De Tancarville’s entourage. Twice he looked back to see Anne waving, but at the second glance she had gone, swallowed by the massive curtain wall and her duties within the bailiwick. Their encounter had been brief, intense and exciting and it left William’s tired mind troubled. Part of her attraction had been a certain likeness to Angharad; a similar cast to the way she carried her head, the colour of her hair and something about the lilting way she spoke Norman-French, for she came from the far western county of Brittany. If God had not touched him, he had the weird sensation that Angharad had conjured-up Anne to restore his faith in himself and his star. In his sleepless state it seemed a natural enough thing and, as he half dozed in the saddle of his palfrey, he forgot the carnal encounter and thought of the Old Ways of his childhood-nurse. Until, that is, his new destrier, still fractious and trailing on its lead, demanded his full attention. He administered a sharp embrillade, which so jerked the animal’s head that it moved forward obediently.
*
Whether it was God’s good grace, Celtic magic, or the acquisition of the destrier, in the ensuing tournament William added to his reputation for prowess. Such was his quite extraordinary run of success, all of which added to the lustre of De Tancarville, that it was quietly put about that it was no longer acceptable to speak pejoratively of the young man. In a series of brilliant encounters he unseated three distinguished knights, one a courtier of the King of Scotland. In the parley which followed the discomfiture of their opponents by William’s martial proficiency, he set aside the heralds’ services and proved a suddenly and surprisingly canny negotiator. In this way he raised a considerable sum in ransoms, besides horses, harness and saddles.
That his companions-in-arms were now full of praise for him was only to be expected. Even Adam d’Yquebeuf was less of a thorn in his side, but they were no longer lads, William being close to his coming-of-age when it was natural enough that men would cease to torment him. Although he had not forgotten the taunting and the jibes, these were of little consequence, to be thrown aside with contempt, for he had gained a sudden maturity during the events of the last year, taking matters more-and-more into his own hands. Such an assertion of independence, crowned as it was with martial success, transformed his situation. He found the fact that Anne had, in his absence, taken-up with another less easy to bear. Indeed, he learned that she was not averse to stringing along several of the young men of the mesnie. His new triumph made her reassess her relationship with William, but she was too late.
In repudiating Anne it occurred to him that he had no need to remain in thrall to the whim of Guillaume de Tancarville either, that he might now – if belatedly – take the hint and leave the service of the Chamberlain of Normandy. Not that it would do him any good to do so peevishly, so he sought formal permission to return to his family, which De Tancarville granted with a show of equally formal reluctance.
‘I trust in God that we shall see thee in Normandy again,’ he had said, pleasantly enough, displaying that courteous manner that was becoming a fashionable trait, disguising inner feelings. And William had responded, bowing and going down upon one knee to kiss his master’s ring. ‘King Henry does not permit tourneying any longer in England,’ Guillaume remarked, as though reminding William that he was venturing to the uncivilised wilds of Ultima Thule.
‘I hope, my Lord, that I shall swiftly return to this country. I thank you for your kindness to me, but my neglect of my family demands I seek thy goodwill and settle my affairs in England, tourneying or no.’
In such a courtly speech William dissembled. He had little interest in continuing to add to Guillaume’s achievements, nor, for
that matter of attending to any family demands beyond what might be expected of him. He had set his heart upon seeking service under the device of another relative, for he had heard whispers of a campaign being prepared by King Henry against rebels in Poitou. And among those named in this connection was the Earl of Salisbury.
CHAPTER SIX: THE KNIGHT ERRANT 1168 - 1170
‘William, Her Grace the Queen would speak with you.’
‘My Lord?’ William looked uncomprehendingly at his uncle, Earl Patrick of Salisbury, in whose train he now rode though the Poitevin countryside. Patrick jerked his head, indicating that William should answer the summons with promptness. ‘You heard me. The Queen commands your presence by her side.’
William kicked his mount, broke out of the line of riders, both men and women, trotting forward, the Earl close behind him. The hawking party was in gay mood, the day having been successful and besides the Queen’s courtiers and her retinue of knights, consisted of her servants and falconers, who walked with their circular perches slung upon their shoulders, encircled by the hooded raptors. William noted the Queen’s magnificent white gyrfalcon on a perch of its own, carried by Her Grace’s personal falconer. Not for Eleanor of Aquitaine any mere lady’s merlin and the thought made him wonder at his summons.
On his return to England William had found his uncle at Salisbury itself. The young knight’s reputation had preceded him and, and on Christmas Day, 1167, he had offered his services to Patrick. Appointed Constable of Poitou and ordered by King Henry II to cross the Channel, the Earl invited William, accompanied by the faithful Rolf, to join his mesnie. Henry had just subdued his rebellious vassals in his most troublesome possession, Aquitaine, and Earl Patrick had been attached to the Court of Queen Eleanor, consort of Henry II but Duchess of Aquitaine in her own right. His duties were military protection and the policing of her restless duchy.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 10