Clinging onto the reins of De Neauphle with all his strength he dragged the Frenchman after him, chasing the others as they fled from Anet. The going got easier after a few seconds and William quickly came up with his fellows who had drawn breath half a mile clear of the town to regroup. Here a number of the mesne who had gone in hot pursuit of the broken French were coming in to rejoin Henry’s banner just as William came up to the Young King who was flushed with the excitement of their escape.
Seeing Odo, William commanded, ‘secure this knight, sirrah!’
At this point the gathering of knights and squires burst out laughing and Young Henry asked to which knight William referred. William turned to see the destrier’s saddle empty; there was no sign of Simon de Neauphle who had jumped clear soon after William had grabbed his mount’s reins.
‘But I have a horse, my Lord King,’ William said, joining in the laughter and reviewing the animal’s caparison. ‘And some harness of value, I think,’ he added as he passed the reins into the hands of a grinning Odo.
The Young Henry rode alongside him and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘By God, William,’ the King said with a sudden flare of warm familiarity, ‘but that was nobly done for all you lost your quarry!’
And as the mesnie gathered its own and returned to the lists, the Young King and his entourage were in high spirits.
*
‘May I have private conference with you, Sire?’ William asked one day. The relationship between William and the Young King, and indeed the fortunes of the Young King’s mesnie, had changed after Anet. Ever capricious, the Young Henry turned again to the man who showed him loyalty and, as far as it was possible for a landless knight, a friendship the Young King was much in need of. That evening the two men came together.
‘What would you say to me?’
‘My Lord King, I have word that there is a tourney to be held at Pleurs… The whole of French chivalry will be there…’
‘ ’Tis too far, William, the expense of the baggage train is such that…’ Henry broke off and shrugged. ‘ ’Tis too far.’
‘I have thought of that, Sire. But would you permit me to suggest something: deception.’
‘What? As practised by Count Philippe?’ the Young Henry asked, referring to the practice of Philippe of Flanders arriving at the lists with his mesnie to rule out a contest and declare himself a spectator, only to throw himself and his companions into the field when both parties engaged were exhausted. ‘How would that help? I have told you it is the distance…’
‘No, no, Sire,’ William interrupted, presuming upon the Young King’s amity. ‘What I am proposing is that you permit me to attend with some among my following. We would wear no device, just plain surtouts. We would travel light and, should we be successful, profits shall be as if you were in our company.
As Henry perceived the guile in William’s proposal his face broke into a grin. ‘Perhaps I should accompany you in disguise.’
William smiled back. ‘As you wish, Sire, but if the affair miscarries and your presence became known I should not wish you to be thought of as a losengier.’
‘Well, being a deceiver in the tourney does not seem to trouble Count Philippe,’ Henry countered wryly.
‘True, Sire, but he is not a King.’
‘No…’ The King thought for a moment or two and then said. ‘But if you wished to deceive by your plain surtouts, a mesnie would be too conspicuous. What say you entered the lists with one other knight and each with a squire? Such a small party would rouse no suspicions en route and should secure you anonymity. Should you prove your prowess, half the profits to my Treasury.
William did not hesitate. ‘My Lord King, I go as you command.’
‘In secret, William.’
‘Aye, Sire, in secret.’
That night William spent on his knees and the following morning approached Robert de Salignac. ‘I would have words with you, my friend, but before I do I require an oath of secrecy. The matter which I wish to discuss I have only spoken about with my Lord King.’
‘Not, I hope, a plot against his father, William. Surely you have not sunk so low,’ De Salignac responded sardonically. ‘Or is it a challenge to Adam d’Yquebeuf, for you have him half out of the saddle, now you might give him the coup de grâce.’ Here De Salignac feigned a sword blow.
‘No, but I have two choices as regards yourself.’ William told De Salignac what he had proposed and the Young King approved.
‘Well, I can see one choice you have as regards myself and that is whether I accompany you or not. What, pray is the other?’
‘That you remain here and keep my place and I take another.’
‘Huh. Who would you take?’
William shrugged. I had not thought of it. FitzStephen, perhaps, even D’Yquebeuf to heal the rift between us.’
De Salignac shook his head. ‘Too risky; D’Yquebeuf would see you ruined by capture and count it no dishonour… No, by God, William, leave FitzStephen in your room and I shall go with you. When do we leave?’
‘Ten days hence.’
*
The grand tourney at Pleurs in the Champagne was a splendid affair attended by a myriad nobles including Count Philippe of Flanders, Theobald of Blois, Hugh of Burgundy, Jacques d’Avesnes and Guillaume des Barres among a host of other gallants. William and Robert rode in, each accompanied by a squire and with an armourer and smith between them. The four followers had been given five marks each to stop their mouths and promised more pending the verdict of fortune. They had been told, if asked, that they served William ap Gwyn and Robert de Morlaix, Breton knights and was these pseudonyms that they entered at the lists. Neither wore any device, but both bore surtouts of plain black.
‘To whose mesnie do you belong?’ they were asked by the heralds.
‘We venture our fortunes as free-lances,’ William replied for them both, amused at the sceptical stares this bold assertion drew from the heralds and those within earshot.
William’s imposing frame sitting upon his obviously well-trained destrier sparked a rumour that gained currency with every passing hour: he was a great nobleman come to tourney for the love of it; he must be great for without wealth no man would venture to enter the lists; without a mesnie he would gain great prowess if he achieved anything. By morning all were certain they knew William’s identity: he was Duke Richard of Aquitaine and had dyed his beard to fool them all. But who would take on such a formidable foe? No-one in single combat, but he had no mesnie and might be trapped. Duke Richard would fetch a handsome ransom…
The two free-lances entered the lists late. Across the countryside the fighting swirled in a riot of colour and fury but once in the field William and Robert made their presence felt. Leaving their squires to await the outcome of the day’s events they both headed for the main mêlée and drove the contending parties asunder in the fury of their onslaught. They passed clean through the fight, leaving the body of horsemen like a partridge struck by a falcon, spinning headless to earth surrounded by a cloud of whirling feathers.
Unlike a stooping falcon they did not stop, but checked their horses a little and rode on until they encountered another group of tussling men. Riding out from behind a clump of bushes, they struck in the flank, bowling over horse and man with such success that they left it to others to capture the unhorsed, even though, but a moment before, they had been losing.
Five times they struck thus, like thunderbolts out of the blue, causing consternation as they eschewed the spoils they had earned in a formidable display of prowess such that it could only result in one outcome, a combination forming against them.
Having broken out of their fifth encounter with little more than a few bruises, they dismounted and watered their horses beside a stream. Taking off their helms they knelt and scooped water into their own mouths, grinning at each other.
‘They will combine,’ De Salignac said blowing out his cheeks, resuming his feet and flexing his body.
‘Of course
they will, though they have yet to find us.’
‘That will not take them long.’
‘Well, since they must, let us ride directly back towards the lists if we…’
‘I hear…’ But De Salignac said no more, both men were up in their saddles thanks to a fallen tree than the stream had under-mined in last winter’s floods.
‘Good fortune, my friend. Stay close.’
They rode back onto rising ground and began to trot across open country. Rolling grassland and scrub, gorse and bramble bushes failed to conceal them from hostile eyes and it was not long before a large body of horsemen broke out of woodland to the north and begun to gallop towards them.
‘I do not fancy a chase,’ William called to De Salignac.
‘Nor I. They cannot all fight us at once.’
‘Quite so,’ said William, ‘let us make for that eminence and let them wind their horses and then…’
With every appearance of panicked flight, the two free-lances dug spurs into the flanks of their mounts and the fear of their escape caused their pursuers to redouble their efforts to catch them. Then, to the astonishment of the pursuers, at the top of a small hill they saw one of the strangers rein in his destrier. William tugging the animal’s head round to meet the oncoming chivalry and De Salignac followed him; both hefted their shields and drew their swords for close fighting.
‘Shall we take them back to back?’ De Salignac queried.
‘Only when they surround us or we are on foot…’
Perhaps it was the rising ground or perhaps it was something else that caused the attackers to check their onward race, but the sight of the two isolated and lonely knights stemmed their enthusiasm until a man on a gorgeously caparisoned horse broke free of the others who were at the same time spreading ominously around the two black figures.
‘ ’Tis Jacques d’Avesnes,’ said William recognising that knight’s device. ‘I shall take him and then do you charge the thinnest part of their line…’ William brought his destrier’s head round to confront D’Avesnes as he covered the last few yards, his lance lowered. It was one of William’s most favoured moves, but he exposed his right breast and kept his sword vertical and at the precise moment swung his right arm in a wide arc, carrying the lance point clear of his body. The instant it was clear, using his immense strength, he swung his sword back, dropping the blade and catching his foe a fearful blow right across his breast so that he sprawled back in the saddle. Then D’Avesnes was past and William stared at his following. There was a moment of hesitation and then another knight rode forward and waved them all on. A second later and William was fighting for his honour if not his life, for the effrontery of the two black clad free-lances had angered many there present.
The blows fell thick and fast, but William, skilfully using his destrier’s hooves, kept himself in the saddle and fought off that first onslaught. He caught sight of De Salignac, equally hard-pressed, but holding his own until a dismounted knight ran in under his horse’s belly and severed the girth strap. It was a concerted attack and the next thing William knew as he warded off three mounted men, was that De Salignac was on foot and his horse was being dragged away.
William’s destrier despatched one of his assailants, a shod hoof breaking the man’s shoulder; a second was laid out by a sword-blow across his helmet and then the third made the mistake of leaning forward to seize William’s reins, shouting: ‘You are outnumbered and my prisoner!’
William flattened the helm about his head so that his ears rang for three days afterwards. This apparent invincibility caused the attackers to draw off for a few moments and another knight rode forward and shouted: ‘You cannot win, Sirs! Your conduct does you honour, but you cannot win!’
While they waited for the expected capitulation, William backed his horse to cover De Salignac, but the knight saw what he was doing and rode forward with a shout of ‘God’s blood, but I shall make him mine, stand clear!’
For fear of interrupting, the remainder stood where they were and William faced the oncoming threat. The knight bore a mace and first feinted and then dodged William’s parry, bringing the mace across his helm with a sound like the striking of a cracked bell. William reeled from the blow but, his own ears now ringing, he caught the next swing on his shield and thumped the pommel of his sword into the ribs of his enemy, hearing the gasp of distress as, out of instinct, the knight wheeled his destrier aside.
‘Robert! Mount up!’ William threw down his shield, clutched both reins and sword and reached down, swinging De Salignac up behind him. Then he rode at the astonished ring of armed men who, in acknowledgement of their extreme prowess, made way for them.
That evening the fires burned beside the tents and the most distinguished knights met in conclave to determine the division of the spoils and send their stewards about the business of negotiating promissory notes of ransom. There was too the usual debate about who had earned the accolade of the worthiest warrior and while there was much talk of the two strange free-lances, not everyone had witnessed the extraordinary nature of their deeds. Hearing these stories, several knights who had among their train numerous prisoners awaiting ransom, declined the honour out of modesty and curiosity, among them Count Philippe of Flanders who set about finding the strangers.
Having returned to their squires, both William and De Salignac had divested themselves of their black surtouts, but William was unable to remove his helm and it was only by accident that someone recognised in the firelight William’s destrier. As the man looked about him he saw two men, attended by two squires and an armourer. He sent word to the Count of Flanders who, with a train of knights arrived to find William kneeling on the ground, his head on an anvil while the rivets of his helm were carefully sheered by a sharp chisel. De Salignac looked up to see in the half dark a ring of figures sporting the heraldic devices of half the nobility of France and Flanders that waited for the revelation.
In those few moments there were those who maintained that it would be Richard of Aquitaine whose head would rise from the anvil unencumbered by the battered helm.
‘Who are you?’ Philippe of Flanders asked, coming forward and addressing De Salignac.
‘Robert de Salignac,’ my Lord Count.
‘And who is he?’ asked Philippe impatiently, pointing at the still prone figure from whom the severed helmet was even then being lifted clear.
‘William Marshal,’ said De Salignac as William, his ears ringing painfully, rose unsteadily to his feet.
Philippe of Flanders peered into his face. ‘By the Rood, so it is! Well, by the Lord of Hosts, you and your companion in arms have done some fine execution this day, William Marshal.’ He looked about him, seeking approval. ‘Yours shall be the accolade, I trow,’ and turning to De Salignac, he said, ‘and you, sirrah, shall have your horse back free of ransom upon my word.’
*
The tournament at Pleurs marked a turning point in William’s life, establishing his reputation for prowess which, as he said to De Salignac, had perforce to stand in the place of land. However, his failure to secure booty or ransom raised eyebrows in the Young King’s mesnie, and while Young Henry remained friendly, D’Yquebeuf began again to manoeuvre against William. William might have avoided trouble had he heeded his master’s advice to cleave to him both on the field and off it, but William’s head was turned by sundry invitations to attend the Courts of others and, at first Henry indulged him. After a string of lucrative tourneys in Henry’s mesnie and on the eve of another, William was invited to dine in the company of Count Theobald of Blois at his lodgings in the town of Épernon. The evening was drawing to a bibulous close when shouts of alarm rang out and everyone feared some piece of treachery.
Characteristically, William was first on his feet and taking no leave of his host ran outside to see Odo, his head streaming blood, reeling, as from a blow.
‘Your destrier, my Lord…’
‘God’s blood!’ Out of pride William had ridden into Épernon on h
is war-horse, leaving it in the care of Odo and Odo, it was clear, had lost the great beast to a thief.
‘That way…’ gasped the barely conscious squire and with a great bellow, William set off after his stolen mount. The narrow streets, slimy with dew and excrement inhibited a speedy escape and William could hear the clatter of hooves in the night. Hesitating briefly at one corner as he recovered himself from a slither in shit, William bethought himself; it was his trained war-horse that he pursued and he whistled, a piercing shriek of command. Someone threw open a casement, shouted a protest and flung the contents of a chamber-pot into the night. The body of the contents missed him, but he felt droplets of piss and cursed the fellow that dared to so embarrass him as to take his horse.
‘I’ll pay no ransom…’ he thought as he redoubled his effort to catch up and then, beneath a cart loaded with brushwood standing idle before a warehouse and awaiting the morning light for discharge, he caught sight of movement. The destrier’s restless hooves, oiled by Odo, caught the weak starlight and he heard the snort of the beast, objecting to the mauling of the unfamiliar rider as the wretch sawed at the bit of the near-ungovernable beast.
Unarmed, William, grabbing the end of a piece of wood, drew it from the cart and dodged round the thing.
‘Hola! Hup! Hup!’ The destrier, wild-eyed, foam flying from its mouth, obeyed the familiar voice and reared in the caracole. Stepping clear of the pawing hooves, with a swipe of the brushwood, William completed what the horse had begun and swept the thief backwards over the rump of the great horse. The destrier, freed of its torment, made off and William, raising the branch so that the brushwood stuck up above his right shoulder, brought the cut stump down upon the half-seen head of the man who tried to roll away under the shelter of the cart behind which he had hoped to escape detection.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 22