At Montlouis near Tours, in late September, they were joined by Duke Richard who, weeping in contrition or rage – for none could tell – fell to his knees at his father’s feet. King Henry, greeting his sons, raised Richard to his feet and kissed him as a sign of peace. Such an act of penitence from so proud a spirit compelled his siblings to follow and they were all led to a great feast. On the following day a magnanimous and munificent Henry, blaming their various defections upon their youth and the influence of others, most notably their mother and King Louis VII, forgave them their disloyalty and settled castles and revenues upon them.
Yet these generous provisions were not without encumbrances. The three were obliged to swear an oath that they would never henceforth demand anything further from their father, nor would they raise their swords against him, nor cavil against the present settlement. In return Henry would not revenge himself upon their followers beyond ordering the destruction of any unlicensed fortifications. For all his apparent bounty, not one morsel of power did Henry II relinquish; though enriched by increased revenues, the Young King was left to accept the loss of his castles to brother John, whose inheritance now included lands in Normandy, Touraine, Maine and Anjou, the obvious favourite of the Old King. And beside him in Henry Curtmantle’s affections stood Geoffrey the Bastard, the man who had ravaged the north of England in the Old King’s name, so that William, the threat of execution lifted from his shoulders, heard the tittle-tattle among the Old King’s household when, after the fight at Alnwick that had secured the person of the Lion of Scotland, Henry had said to his illegitimate son: ‘You alone have proved yourself my true son, ’tis the others who are the bastards.’
As for her sons’ concerns for their mother, they were set aside by the Treaty of Montlouis. Eleanor was to remain incarcerated; where, no-one but Henry and his confidants knew, as she continued to be moved about his fortresses in southern England. Nor, for the time being, was the Young King’s wife restored to him.
CHAPTER NINE: A-TOURNEYING 1175 - 1178
‘You shall not go to Compostella,’ the Old King said dismissively, turning again to his clerks and the litter of papers spread about them.
‘You did not deny yourself pilgrimage when you felt your soul imperilled,’ Young Henry remarked insolently, colouring up, but he failed to rouse his father to anger. ‘But your soul is not imperilled,’ retorted the Old King coolly. ‘You renewed your vows of allegiance at Bayeux but a year ago and I have kept you close since…’
‘Oh, aye, you have done that,’ snarled Young Henry, ‘and I have traipsed in your train hither-and-yon, I have met Papal legates, Welsh chieftains, Irish savages, Scots lords and slept in more castles than even my little brother John possesses, but not one act of governance have I initiated for all that I am named to succeed you when the Devil comes for your soul…’
The Old King looked up as the clerks crossed themselves at the blasphemy. ‘Guard your mouth Henry. You cannot be certain that he will not come for yours first. You are besmirched by treason and have that which you hold by my clemency and the holiness of your oaths. I have shriven my soul…’
‘Not of my mother’s foul imprisonment!’
‘Do not bring that hoary chestnut to my fire, boy,’ growled the Old King. ‘You better know your mother’s part in the troubles in my Kingdom – our Kingdom, had you the good sense to see it thus.’
‘She is your wife…’
‘Aye and I wish to God she was not…’ The Old King ground his teeth in suppressed anger and grief. Rosamund de Clifford had died and he felt bereft. For all his louche living Eleanor had been his dynastic companion and helpmeet and to have this insolent, disarmingly good-looking young product of their conjoined loins acting like Almighty God was more than he could bear.
‘But you cannot annul your marriage on grounds of consanguinity for fear of making bastards of us and losing Aquitaine…’
‘Get out of my sight, before I take the flat of my sword to your arse!’ Henry Curtmantle governed himself with great but impressive difficulty. ‘D’you think I do not divine your wish to,’ and here the Old King assumed a sarcastic tone, ‘go on a pilgrimage? Eh? It is but a ploy to slip across the Channel and make mischief, or go a-tourneying for your amusement. Who put you up to this, eh? That upstart and landless Devil’s spawn William Marshal?’
‘Do you not think that I can make my own decisions?’
‘Very like you can and FitzMarshal has too much wit to forward such a foolish cause.’ The Old King paused and seemed to be considering something. ‘Maybe I should make him a grant of land and tear him from your side.’
Young Henry opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again as he perceived his father had bested him. ‘Christ’s bones,’ he blasphemed under his breath and stormed out of the chamber.
It did not take long for almost every exchange between the Old and Young Kings to percolate throughout the Court. Ever since the Treaty of Montlouis the Old King had kept his heir beside him as he rode through his empire and most of that time they had been in England, Henry’s French possessions being left in the hands of Duke Richard. Given the free-hand denied the Young Henry, Richard now ruled in his father’s name with an impressive loyalty and although he was not fully trusted, the Old King knew that his son’s love of war in such ungovernable country kept him devoted to the Old King’s cause. Meanwhile the Young Henry had followed in the Old King’s wake, unimpressed by his diplomacy and bored by the endless ceremonial, willing to load every word with contempt for those his father held in esteem. And with him went his mesnie and his own household, William among them.
It was during Lent 1176 when the two Kings were in London, in the White Tower, that the summons came to William after dark, secretly, borne by the Constable, who insisted William wore his hooded cloak. He was led to an upper chamber where Henry, the Old King, took a frugal supper alone, but for his hounds. After the Constable had been dismissed and told to wait without, King Henry himself refilled the goblet set before him with wine and pushed it across the table to William.
‘My Lord King…?’ William said uncertainly.
‘Drink,’ Henry commanded. ‘I would have conference with you.’ Henry paused while William took a draft from the goblet and laid it down again before the King. Henry indicated he should drink more and said: ‘You will know that some weeks since my son, your master, did seek my leave to make pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, eh?’
‘Aye, Sire.’
‘And were you behind this request?’
Astonished, William shook his head. ‘No, my Lord King, I was not!’ William loaded his response with as much indignation as he dared.
‘You would swear on the blood of Christ that you were not the evil courtier that I was informed urged my Lord Henry to this enterprise?’
‘I would, Sire, without hesitation.’ William thought fast. It was no mere fancy that brought him to this interrogation. Henry’s sword lay across the Lenten board and the Constable waited without. It even occurred to him that the goblet from which he drank had not been that from which the King supped, but one containing poison. He could be quietly murdered and thrown into the River of Thames and the act would whip the Young Henry into frightened compliance with his father’s will once again.
‘My Lord King, I will admit to remarking, perhaps injudiciously, that I should better like to spend my own time a tourneying but, since that is forbidden here in England…’
‘Why? To make money?’
William shrugged. ‘I have no lands, Sire, I am wholly devoted to your son’s service.’
‘Aye,’ remarked Henry sarcastically, ‘to my great disservice. But say, was this remark made in my son’s hearing?’
William thought a moment. It was pointless to dissemble. ‘No, my Lord King. I was in the company of Robert Tresgoz, Robert de Salignac, Adam d’Yquebeuf and Jean de Laon. It was no more than an expression of my private desire in my cups.’
‘When you were gorging yourself upon cra
ne, do doubt,’ Henry remarked, indicating that he knew a great deal of what went on in his son’s Court. ‘And which of them, think you, may have suggested it to my son?’
‘Sire?’
‘Come, FitzMarshal,’ you are not so modest a man as to think no-one thinks evil of you, nor would besmirch your honour were it to be useful to another’s ends.’
William frowned. ‘De Salignac I would trust with my life…’
‘And Tresgoz?’
‘Is close to the Young King…’
‘And the Sieur Jean?’
William saw where the trail led and nodded. ‘Is close to King Louis… as for D’Yquebeuf he does not love me.’
‘Just so. What was an inconsequential remark of yours assumed a greater value than you intended. You should guard your tongue in the presence of such men. D’Yquebeuf and De Laon are of your own mesnie are they not?’
‘D’Yquebeuf is of the Young King’s, Sire, De Laon holds to me and I am aware of his loyalty. I keep him close that he may not draw closer to your son. The truth is that I had not thought the remark worthy of note any more than had I hoped for sunshine on the morrow.’
‘But it seems that it may well have been.’
‘Aye, my Lord King.’ William was contrite.
‘Well, no matter. There is something of greater importance I would speak of. There is unrest again in Angoulême and I would have Duke Richard reinforced. I would ease myself of an irksome son were I to send the Young King to his brother’s assistance but I may only do this if I can vest the chief power held by the Young King elsewhere…in you, FitzMarshal. Both the Young King and Duke Richard respect you… You have ability in the field… You would have my blessing, and my leave to abandon them if they combine to foment trouble…’
William’s head span. Here was a chalice bearing more potential poison that that of the King’s goblet. But Curtmantle had not yet finished with him.
‘You have sworn fealty to the Young Henry and the Young Henry has sworn fealty to me. There is no higher authority in my domains, FitzMarshal. This is no off-hand remark such as we have both made in our turn, but a matter of policy. Angoulême must be pacified and Richard must be helped. The Young King may garner some glory thereby and offer further proof of his loyalty to me. You may serve us both in equal measure, you understand?’
‘I do, Sire.’
The Old King was silent for a moment, appraising William who felt his gaze keenly, like a burning brand searing his bent head. ‘I do not blame you for what occurred at Chinon. In truth you had little choice, though Blund and Barre saw the danger, but they are both older men and not headstrong warriors.
‘My Lord King is gracious.’
‘Mmm,’ Henry growled and held out his hand. ‘You shall say nothing of my intentions, is that understood?’
‘Aye, my Lord King.’
William knelt and kissed the ring that he wore, after which the Old King called for the Constable and William, his hood raised, returned to his own rude lodging.
*
It was after Easter that Henry revealed his intentions to his son, extracting a further oath of obedience and releasing Queen Marguerite into his company. The Young King was permitted by his father to visit Paris with his wife to relieve Louis’ anxieties in his daughter’s behalf. He was then to make for Poitiers to join Duke Richard, but to keep him on the leash the Old King had temporarily reduced his allowance. The Young King and his following crossed the Channel and arrived in Paris. Here, to William’s consternation, the Young King threw off the traces. Leaving his wife in the care of his father and gathering his mesnie privée, he rode north, to the Court of Count Philippe of Flanders. Here he bemoaned his father’s parsimony and cheerfully embraced Philippe’s invitation to tourney. For three weeks Young Henry’s mesnie excelled upon the field, compromising William. He was obliged to bend to the wind and did so not unwillingly and his personal success after so long an absence of opportunity somewhat restored his private coffers.
But they could not tarry long and William counselled departure. The Young King grew peevish and William feared the onset of a rage but good sense prevailed and the Young King was obliged to head south to establish his Court at Poitiers, where Robert de Salignac rejoined his mesnie and a brief conference was held with Duke Richard. Soon afterwards he took the field with William and De Salignac at his side. As he had sworn, William never mentioned a word of the Old King’s confidence to Duke Richard, nor did Richard seek to give more than a hint of where he required his older brother’s assistance, so that William wondered if he truly wanted it. Richard made war on his own terms and, as Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Poitou, the notion of submitting to his elder brother’s orders was anathema to him. In the event the Young Henry and William were left to deal with pockets of resistance chiefly around the fateful town of Lusignan.
To William’s frustration, this rather desultory and aimless warfare acted against the Old King’s interest, for its undemanding nature and the presence of Marguerite drew the Young Henry back again and again to Poitiers. Within weeks the Young King was adding to his mesnie. To the great grief of Robert de Salignac, Robert Tresgoz and William himself, the Young Henry encouraged a score of knights known for their hostility to his father to join him. Led by Thomas de Coulonces, they were men whose adherence to Queen Eleanor had cost them heavily and their supplications to the Young King did not fall on deaf ears, renewing his outrage at his father’s treatment of his mother. William, De Salignac and Tresgoz were not alone in their private condemnation of the Young Henry’s actions, his Chancellor who – unbeknownst to William – had also been charged with a secret duty, was caught attempting to despatch the news to England.
William was beside himself with private anger: at the Old King, for not confiding that he had a spy planted in the Young Henry’s household, at the Young King for his continued treachery and at the Chancellor for allowing himself to be discovered.
‘God’s bones! Are we to have no end of this intrigue?’ he railed one evening in the company of De Salignac. ‘We are both summoned to sit in judgement on this fool,’ he said, pouring his friend wine.
‘Aye…’
The following day the Young Henry had the man, named Adam Churchdiune, arraigned before a Court of Honour, which was obliged to sentence him to death. Only the intervention of the Bishop of Poitiers saved Churchdiune’s life, though not his entire skin.
‘He shall suffer for his treachery!’ the Young King roared when the Bishop stood before him.
‘But not with is life, I beg of you, my Lord King. He has the benefit of clergy; think what your father did to Thomas Becket. Would you have that stain upon your soul?’
Henry ground his teeth with anger. It seemed that every time he sought to rule as a King should rule he was thwarted! Adam Churchdiune had betrayed him under his very nose! And who else might there be in his household who had been planted by his thrice damned father?
‘Show mercy, my Lord King,’ beseeched the pleading Poitiers, going down on his knees, piously crossing himself.
‘Mercy? Mercy? Was ever mercy shown me… or my mother, eh?’
‘To be a King is not easy, Sire,’ Poitiers continued, ‘But to show mercy is to act as a true Christian King, in expectation of that mercy promised by our Lord Jesus Christ before the throne of God on the Day of Judgement…’
The Young Henry was breathing hard, the Bishop’s appeal working upon him so that, in the end, he commanded Poitiers to rise. ‘Very well, my Lord Bishop, I shall heed your wise counsel and I thank you for it.’
The Bishop of Poitiers rose, offered his ring for the Young Henry to kiss and withdrew, whereupon the King gave his final ruling to William.
‘In the matter of Adam Churchiune. Have him whipped and, if he is flayed thereby, then that is God’s will.’
William bowed and carried the order to the city’s executioner. ‘You need not kill him,’ William said quietly, pressing ten marks into the man’s filthy hand. The next d
ay Adam Churchiune was very publicly whipped in the market square before being exiled to Normandy. Notwithstanding this act of clemency, it sent a message of renewed defiance to the Old King, for Churchdiune escaped to England where he revealed his back to Curtmantle. Henry flew into a furious passion, one of his greatest rages, not so much out of pity for Churchdiune, but out of fury over his son’s continuing disloyalty and the fact that he himself had let his heir out of his own clutches.
As the winter approached the Young King left Poitiers to his brother Richard and led his household into Normandy to hold his Christmas Court at Bayeux. It was an act of provocation, of course, but one taken after some consideration. After Mass, at the great feast celebrating the birth of Christ, the Prince of Peace, the Young King’s Court was made aware of the coming birth of another Prince, for Queen Marguerite was pregnant.
*
In the spring following, no recall came from England and the Young King expressed his anxiety that his father might soon land in Normandy, but the weeks dragged on. In the spring, at the Old King’s behest, they rode out to quieten Berri, to the east of Poitiers, but it was a tame affair, the usual burnings, lootings, and a brief siege hardly worth remarking. On their return the Young Henry grew uxorious, for the dynastic implications of Marguerite’s being brought to bed were considerable.
William could not tolerate the endless debates that seemed to entertain so many members of the Court. He nursed the private heresy that beyond a clear succession sanctified by the anointment of Holy Oil the members of a great house proved best their greatness by loyalty. It seemed a perfect system, ordained by God, that a man of wealth and power should be raised up to rule, to be duly consecrated by another man called by God to a spiritual life and thereafter to be acclaimed by his most immediate vassals, to whom those beneath owed fealty. He thought too that the Old King’ divergence from this divinely simple succession, sanctioned by every precedent of church and state that William could think of since the Crucifixion of Christ, had led to so much misery for the people under the Angevins. The furious antagonism between Henry Curtmantle and his sons – most particularly the Young King – and the collapse of the Old King’s marriage to Queen Eleanor, seemed a folly. True the Old King was a satyr, but William continually puzzled over the dynastic complications he had of himself constructed. They seemed so like the estrangement his own father had effected between himself and William, lacking in any quality of kingship, to cause William to wonder. Has it been truly wise to crown his heir before his own death? The King’s action could only be thought sensible if seen to secure the succession but, if his sons had proved as loyal as they should, it remained an unnecessary precaution, a following of the practice of the Capetian Kings of France.
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