‘I thought it diplomacy, Robert, and learned much of it from yourself.’ The two men chuckled, their eyes meeting.
‘But I could not go with you.’
‘Which would be to your benefit,’ William said then, taking advantage of the accord between them and airing a matter that was increasingly preoccupying him. ‘There is one other matter. Know you anything of this new-comer, Bertran de Born?’
‘The troubadour? Only that he is madman of violent passions who writes poetry and enjoys slaughter. They say he dispossessed his elder brother of his lands in the Dordogne.’
‘He has too quickly gained the ear of the Young King, I fear, through my Lady the Queen.’
‘You would have a watch kept upon him?’
‘Aye, Robert, if it pleases you to do so.’
Although by the end of November the Court of the Young King had been duly summoned to join King Henry at Chinon on the River Vienne in western Touraine, the Young King had no intention of obeying and told William so.
‘Do not counsel me otherwise, Marshal, I will not go.’
‘Sire, I would never advise you to act against your interests, but do you not see that you are falling victim to the policy of King Louis, who would exploit the estrangement between yourself and your father?’
‘Since when did you have an opinion upon matters of policy?’ the Young King asked sarcastically.
‘Since Your Grace made it a necessity. By your own conduct you have been indiscreet and if Louis suborns you it will be for his own purposes…’
‘What do you know of King Louis’ purposes?’ Henry flared. ‘You forget yourself, Marshal…’
‘Is that not why Bertran de Born is in My Lady the Queen’s retinue? Surely,’ William went on knowing that the only way to choke off the rage rising with the Young King’s complexion was to persist with his argument, ‘surely Your Grace can see that you will not lose your Kingdom by your father’s malice, but you would certainly do so by Louis’. Come, Sire, if you would not join your father, to mark your independence you need only leave Paris and pass into Normandy where you would be less of a hostage to fortune.’
The compromise cooled the Young King and he fell into a musing, turning the idea over.
‘Is that what I am, a hostage to fortune?’
‘That is what you may become,’ replied William, greatly relieved that he had mollified his master.
That evening at board the Young King drank a good deal of wine and, towards the end of the meal raised his glass and called out: ‘Would that I was not called Henry after my father; would that I was Christened William after my friend. William, I take wine in your honour.’
‘Sire, I…’ William lowered his head with embarrassment as the Court raised their goblets to him. ‘My Lord King…’ he began but Henry had not finished, announcing that they would travel to Bonneville, not far from Bayeux in northern Normandy, and celebrate the great and Holy Feast of Christmas there. Glad at the prospect of leaving the stink of Paris there was a sudden revival of conversation in the hall.
‘By God, what is it about FitzMarshal that he has the ear of the King our master?’ De Salignac overheard Adam d’Yquebeuf remark to his neighbour. But there was more to aggravate the growing jealously of D’Yquebeuf. All of a sudden a voice rose above the others as a clever and quick-witted courtier named William St John shouted out than none but those named ‘William’ ought to dine with the King at Christmas. Even as the Young Henry assented, not ruling out others, William sought out Bertran de Born. The man looked up sharply at the Young King’s decision, and although his face was a mask, William knew his own master, Louis, would be furious.
And thus it fell out: that Christmas King Louis fumed in Paris, and King Henry II did likewise at Chinon, keeping a wary eye on Queen Eleanor, Duke Geoffrey and Duke Richard. Meanwhile, far to the north, the Young King, having attended Mass, kept a merry board and on St Stephen’s Day more than over one hundred gentlemen named William sat down at his table.
‘ ’Twas a near masterful compromise, my Lord Marshal,’ Robert de Salignac said to William afterwards, referring to the holding of the revels at Bonneville, ‘but I fear it will have consequences.’
William nodded gravely. ‘Aye, I have little doubt but that it will.’
Neither man could, however, have guessed how quickly, nor in what dramatic manner the matter would culminate.
*
Marking the Young King’s open defiance by his spending the Holy Festival at Bonneville, King Henry II issued a summons that his eldest son could not ignore, for it included other magnates and his absence would not merely be noted, but would act to his obvious disadvantage. The message came with the New Year and threw the Young Henry into a dark and suspicious mood. Nevertheless preparations were immediately put in train for the Court to ride south, beyond Chinon into the Limousin region where, at Limoges in late February 1173, King Henry II revealed his latest dynastic intentions in the presence of men whose writ ran from beyond the Pyrenees to beyond the Alps. They were King Alfonso II of Aragon, King Sancho VI of Navarre, Count Raymond V of Toulouse and Count Humbert of Maurienne, and all were inclined to ally themselves with the Old King. Robert de Salignac was not of the company, but had leave to ride with his retinue farther south to his lands on the Dordogne.
‘Farewell, William. I know not where we shall meet again,’ he had said on their parting. ‘I fear little good will come of this assemblage.’
This meeting of such great lords was to affirm the situation pertaining across the Angevin Empire so assiduously constructed by Henry II, that they might bear witness to his diplomacy and calm any remaining division among his sons by the intimidation of their collective presence.
The Old King optimistically opened the gathering with an announcement. The commitment of his youngest son John to Mother Church was to be revoked. Although only five, the princeling was promised in marriage to Alice, daughter of Count Humbert. Humbert had no sons, so such a union would, in due course, add the trans-Alpine provinces of Savoy and Piedmont to the Angevin Empire.
‘And with my son’s hand,’ Henry went on, ‘and upon my death, the Lord John shall have the castles of Chinon, Loudon and Mirebeau here, in my lands of Anjou and Touraine, and in England he shall inherit three English counties…’
He got no further. Unfazed by the presence of the Kings of Aragon and Navarre, the Counts of Toulouse and Maurienne, the Young King thrust himself to his feet in an explosion of wrath and high dudgeon.
‘God’s blood, father! All are promised to me!’ roared the outraged Young King as the assembled kings, nobles and courtiers stirred at the unseemly outburst.
‘Stay your temper, sir, until I die what I have I hold and is mine to do with as I please,’ roared Henry, equally furious at the interruption of what, for him, was intended as a solemn moment.
‘But your promise…at Montmirail…’ spluttered the Young Henry.
‘The workings of diplomacy must needs be flexible,’ Henry retorted, embarrassed and reining-in his own temper with difficulty, ‘as you shall learn in God’s good time.’
‘This means that Chinon remains yours until your death!’ the Young Henry shouted back, forsaking all attempts at self-control. ‘Shall I never come into mine own? Look at Richard! Look at Geoffrey! They rule in their own right! I, I am the elder son! I am Count of Anjou, yet you would hold Chinon and Mirebeau until John comes of age!’ The young man was beside himself with rage now such that William was truly alarmed.
‘Hold hard, my Lord,’ growled William, standing behind Young Henry who turned away to hide his face and his wounded pride, choleric and almost choking in his fury. ‘In all faith,’ he gasped, ‘God’s good time cannot come soon enough.’
‘Come sir,’ the Old King commanded, ‘you shall set your hand regnant to this instrument of betrothal…’
Young Henry caught his breath and partially recovered himself. ‘Would that my hand was regnant,’ he snarled. ‘You betray me, my Lord.’
>
William half expected the Old King to burst into one of his own famous rages but in front of others he continued to retain his temper. ‘Your hand, Harry, I command it,’ replied the Old King quietly, tapping the parchment on the table in front of them where a clerk in holy orders patiently held quill and ink-pot.
‘I shall not!’
‘By God you shall, sir! Or I shall have you arraigned for treason. You are still my sworn liegeman.’
The whole assembly waited in a silence so absolute that it was said afterwards they could all hear the agonised breathing of the Young King. Finally, however, with a shaking hand and cheeks the colour of a russet apple he scrawled his signature as a witness, disinheriting himself with each mark of the goose-feather which he flung from his hand the instant that he had finished, as though it were white with heat.
‘That is well and nobly done,’ the King remarked in a bland and conciliatory tone, pulling at his beard and smiling about him. Lowering his voice he added for his son’s benefit, ‘you will attend me in my privy chamber presently.’
Later that evening, when the Young King returned to the company of his household he flung himself on a fur-covered settle with a high oath. ‘He buys me off,’ he said with a petulance that startled William.
‘How so, my Lord King?’ William enquired.
‘Do not call me that! I am nothing, nothing until he is dead!’
‘You must not speak so, my Lord,’ snapped Richard Barre, the Chancellor, crossing himself, lest you imperil your own soul…’
But Henry was not listening. ‘His Grace goes into Brittany, but I am to be given money with which to amuse myself…’ Henry looked around him, trying to read the reactions of his closest associates. Were they his friends? Would they cleave to him or his father if he did what he was contemplating? ‘Methinks,’ he said in a low tone, ‘that the hawk has grown too hungry to obey. What think you of this humiliation, my Lords?’
There was a non-committal mumble from those present. Young Henry sighed. ‘You are all a-feared of Henry Curtmantle…’ Damn it, he would put them on the spot: ‘What say you, William Marshal?’
‘My Lord, in jest I recommend wit; in tournament I advise boldness; in war I commend caution; in the Court of His Grace I counsel filial acquiescence.’
There was a surge of agreement among the company, an acknowledgement that the Marshal had rescued them all from a pit yawning before them. Emboldened, Richard Barre, added his own advice: ‘My Lord you still have your own seal.’
‘What difference does that make to a King without honour or place of government, eh?’ It was clear the Young King was not to be mollified and scowled at them all, but most pointedly at William.
‘Damn you, Marshal! You have become too much the courtier…’
‘No Sire,’ William responded, ‘I can claim no aptitude for diplomacy, but I have ever striven to be a strategist.’
The Young King shook his head. ‘In God’s good time, eh?’
‘Just so, my Lord King,’ William answered with a bow.
*
The Young King sulked for several days and awaited the departure of the King of Aragon before he again raised the subject as the Court lolled at table and the Old King threw scraps to his hounds. The atmosphere of mistrust was palpable: Queen Eleanor remained regally non-committal though it was well-known that she favoured the company of her two sons Geoffrey and Richard to that of her husband. The two young princes likewise avoided their father and were barely civil to him. For himself, the Old King held his tongue and his temper, maintaining a cool front while visitors remained in his company and hoping that matters might blow over. Secretly he gnawed upon the humiliation that the Young Henry had meted out to him and he must needs keep his eye on Richard, Geoffrey and his wife.
There was little conversation and the awkward silences were eased by a more than usual quaffing of wine until, just as it seemed the Queen might rise, Young Henry spoke out clearly.
‘You deprive me, my Lord King, of my lawful right as agreed. What use is a Treaty such as was made under your hand at Montmirail when you can repudiate it at will? Pray tell me if that is wise and prudent kingship? Surely, if a King cannot keep his word why dost thou chastise your vassal lords when they break theirs? What would you do if I were to swear I signed that instrument of disinheritance under duress?’
King Henry leaned forward, his brow furrowed, his expression intense as he again governed his temper.
‘Are you questioning my fitness to rule?’
Eating a preserved orange brought by Alfonso, the Young Henry shrugged. ‘It would seem so,’ he remarked with casual insolence.
‘Who has put you to this effrontery, eh? Which among the foolish hawks in your mesnie or the priests who minister…’
‘Think you that I cannot make an argument for my own sake?’ responded the younger man furiously. ‘Am I not a son of Anjou myself, a leopard in my own right?’
‘Is it Robert de Salignac, or William FitzMarshal? They are uncommonly close, I hear.’
‘By the Holy Blood, Father, it is I, I, Henry, Count of Anjou that claim these things for myself!’ The Young Henry was on his feet now, stabbing his index finger at his own breast. ‘What interest have FitzMarshal or De Salignac in these matters?’
‘Then learn obedience, boy!’ Henry roared, rising to his own feet, watched by the assembled courtiers who were all obliged to stand.
‘At my father’s knee, Sire and by my noble Father’s example,’ responded his son, ‘I have learned nothing else but obedience and in return you filch my Lordships and make me thus a creature of your own intention when I am but lately crowned your equal…’
‘You are NOT crowned my equal! You are crowned my successor! Be careful that I do not further disinherit you…’
‘Ah! Then you admit it!’
‘Aye, I admit it, and I would further disinherit you if it is politic so to do, by the Holy Cross!’
‘And give all to sweet brother Richard,’ Young Henry sneered, ‘or perhaps the boy John who will suck his thumb for years yet…’
‘Aye, perhaps, if they show more kingly qualities than you display at this moment. Go, lie with your wife and vent your manhood within her, for you show no such talent here…’
‘Ha!’ raged the now incandescent Young King, ‘I shall most certainly take the advice of one whose whores litter this place like hounds beneath the board…’ The young Henry gestured below the table as his father flushed and all braced themselves for the coming outburst, for he seemed lost for words. But Young Henry had not yet finished. ‘And whose household knights cut down a prelate in the House of Almighty God!’
King Henry staggered forwards, leaning on the table as his son stared about him. ‘And ask how dost thou treat thine own Queen, my mother, Sire, that you should advise me therein? Go, Sire, and fall upon the tired paps of the Fair Rosamund!’ And here the Young King turned his back on his sovereign lord, took Marguerite’s hand and swept from the chamber.
There was a stunned silence as all watched aghast the Old King who let out a bull-roar of fury, closing his eyes and striking the table with both fists before sweeping it clear and over throwing the board itself. Those standing about it jumped clear, retreating from the insensate monarch. No-one could assuage his rage as he began stalking up and down the dais kicking aside the vacant stools, his fists beating his head and tearing at his own hair. Oaths and blasphemies poured from his mouth in a torrent of abuse that had the priests present clamping their hands over their ears.
In the end he fell upon his knees, his hands clasped as if in prayer, tears running down his face into his beard. But whether the tears were of anger or contrition, or whether he prayed to God or the Devil, none could say as they backed away and left him to Eleanor and his waning rage.
The following morning William received a summons from the Old King and appeared before him. Nothing about Henry’s appearance gave any hint to his tempestuous outburst of the previous evening other t
han that he dismissed his attendant clerk and rose to stare out onto the bailey below where the Young King’s retinue was preparing to leave.
Slowly King Henry turned towards William and in an instant he read the agony in the King’s eyes. For a long moment Henry scrutinised him.
‘Did you put him up to this, FitzMarshal?’
William was affronted. ‘No, my Lord King, I did not,’
‘You are his counsellor, are you not?’
‘In military matters, yes. In matters of state, no.’
‘Have you no opinion?’
‘What opinion should I have, Sire? He is your son. Who am I to have…?’
‘Oh, what courtesy, FitzMarshal,’ Henry cut him off sarcastically. ‘You have learned well in the Queen’s Court, by God, but I did not appoint you to my son’s household to encourage…’
‘I have encouraged nothing, my Lord,’ interrupted William with great temerity, ‘beyond a skill at arms.’
The King regarded him sharply. ‘By God, FitzMarshal, you o’er step the mark!’
‘Then I crave your pardon, Sire.’
There was a prolonged silence and then the Old King said, almost conversationally. ‘I am told you bear the mark of Satan.’
William expelled his breath, a vile spectre rising before him. He was aware that he had risen far and fast; he was aware too that he had his enemies; was it all to be torn down by this mischance of birth and the foul temper of two powerful men?
‘I bear a blood-mark upon my back, my Lord King. I am told by some it has the appearance of Lucifer on the presumption that the appearance of Lucifer is known. Others tell me it resembles a lion. Not having a silvered mirror I am unable to tell you what I think of it myself.’
‘What? You have never seen it?’ There was a genuine astonishment and curiosity in the Old King’s tone of voice.
‘No, Sire, not properly.’
‘Disrobe, sir.’
‘Sire?’
‘You cannot mistake my meaning. The opinion of a King has the rule of Law, does it not?’
‘Aye, my Lord King.’
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 15