William spun on his heel, clapped De Salignac on his shoulder and left the stables for the brief comfort of the adjacent inn. Behind him he left a moment’s silence which suddenly erupted into a clamour of debate and fury. He heard it only as a muffled anger. Ever since he had had his helm knocked off at Pleurs his hearing had been impaired and he failed to distinguish the rallying shout of Harry the Northman: ‘God for the Marshal!’
Ten minutes later Robert de Salignac found William staring glumly into thin air and called for wine. ‘All but two will come with us, Will,’ De Salignac exclaimed, his eyes dancing with excitement.
‘Us? What do you mean...?’
‘You have men loyal to you, William. No, better than that you have men devoted to you.’
‘And you? Will you hazard everything?’
‘Do you have to ask? I am a younger son; my parcel of land is small; enough but small and if the King disinherits me I should not wish to be better placed than you.’
‘No, no,’ Robert. ‘You must not follow me. You warned me often enough.’ William straightened up. ‘Nor must the others; tell them that. Tell them that I thank them for their service…’
‘You have already done that.’
‘Then tell them that I cannot countenance their accompanying me.’ William rose, suddenly resolute; De Salignac remained seated, looking up at his tall companion. ‘I shall go now, at once. Do me one last service, my friend, and summon my horses, squire, page and armourer.’
‘Where will you go? Not to Richard?’
William scoffed. ‘No, that would be treason, thought the temptation is sore. To be truthful I do not know.’
‘Go to Count Philippe…’
‘Why would I do that?’ William asked, laughing bitterly. ‘Have you not heard what he does to adulterers?’
William held out his hand but De Salignac refused to take it. Instead he too rose and strode out of the inn. William looked down at his out-stretched hand and felt the folly of the day in its palm. Dropping it to his side he saw the inn-keeper and his wife staring at him and he sat down again. He must give De Salignac a moment to ready his horses and he needed a moment’s quiet to order his thoughts. He took a deep draught of the wine and opened his pouch to find gold to pay for the quartering of his mesnie. Perhaps he should have confronted D’Yquebeuf and his miserable followers and challenged them to mortal combat. But that would embarrass Young Henry and seem like further arrogance. No: it was better that he assumed the sentence of banishment dutifully and in all humility. He would go first to Bruges and settle his affairs with the bankers there and then pass over into England with what remained of his fortune after making arrangements to pay his mesnie.
He rose again, throwing gold upon the scored and worn boards of the table to the gasping joy of the landlord who feared a decampment without payment. The whole of Alençon knew of the disgrace of William Marshal and the jubilation of being chosen to accommodate so noble a knight had evaporated rapidly with the arrival of the knight Eustace.
Outside the westering sun shone directly down the narrow street and after the gloom of the pension rendered William almost blind. His palfrey held by Adalbert was ready for him, and Adalbert’s own horse was followed by William’s destrier on its long rein. The pack-horses too were loaded and there were his two squires. One bore William’s banner which hung listlessly in the still and fetid air. He felt a twinge of pity for them having to follow him into exile and resolved to give them their freedom in a day or two, once they had passed Aumale into Ponthieu on the road to Flanders.
Nodding to Adalbert he took the palfrey’s reins, mounted and kicked the horse’s flank. The shamed and insignificant cavalcade clattered up the street, watched by the curious citizens. They turned the corner towards the northern gate and trotted into the town square.
Here he ran into several ranks of mounted knights and it took his a moment to realise that they were his own mesnie, not some intimidating muster ordered by Young Henry or – worse still – his enemies. He ordered his banner lowered in salute to this last mark of respect but even as the squire dipped the bloody lion, Robert de Salignac kicked his horse forward, grasped the banner and lifted it vertically again, stationing himself at the haunch of William’s palfrey. Then, to William’s astonishment, Harry the Northman blew his trumpet and sang out: ‘God for the Marshal!’ and as he passed, William, with tears in his eyes, heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles as his mesnie fell-in behind him. They were approaching the northern gate and the sergeant of the guard fell back allowing the cavalcade to pass and, as it did so, echoing from the ramparts and the tightly clustered houses within the walls there went up a terrible roar of ‘God for the Marshal!’
Almost blinded by emotion, William did not see the long shadow cast by the town gate, nor those of the figures who, alerted to the imminent departure of their enemy, watched from a-top the barbican.
‘What hauteur!’ Adam d’Yquebeuf exclaimed, his hatred yet unsatiated.
‘He is gone,’ said his companion, Thomas de Coulonces, feeling the warmth of the setting sun upon his back.
‘But whither does he go?’ asked D’Yquebeuf, ‘to Philippe of France, or Philippe of Flanders, for he takes the road north?’
‘To England, perhaps,’ suggested De Coulonces. ‘That is where he comes from and at least he does not go to join Duke Richard.’
‘Wherever he goes,’ added De Laon, ‘if it is not to Duke Richard then it is sure that our own advance will end here.’
‘Think you that?’ D’Yquebeuf asked, surprised.
Jean de Laon nodded. ‘Without him our Henry will not go to war against his brother…’ But De Laon was not giving much thought to Duke Richard; he was more concerned with the impact of William Marshal’s departure upon the politics of his own secret master. King Philippe of France was proving less the callow and pallid youth of his coronation and, for all his disdain of bodily cleanliness, was revealing an astute and scheming mind.
As the walls and faubourgs of Alençon fell behind them William’s head cleared. He half turned in his saddle and Robert de Salignac rode up alongside him. He had returned the banner to its squire and wore a smile. He reached out his right hand.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ William said, reaching out and clasping Robert’s fist. ‘Now tell me, was Jean de Laon among the knights that left my mesnie?’
‘Aye, Will.’
William nodded and stared ahead to where the road led north and east and the world rolled into night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: AN END TO AMBITION 1182 – 1183
The presence of his loyal mesnie persuaded William not to pass through Aumale, but to cross the Seine at Rouen and head for Eu, a more direct route to Flanders which avoided Evreux. However, he was in no hurry and the mood of the mesnie improved with every day that passed, so that when they reached Bec, to the south-west of Rouen, they were all imbued with a sense of freedom. William had not yet decided to cross the Channel to England, where the tourney was forbidden. There was a lingering regret that he had left D’Yquebeuf and his cronies triumphant and this wore on his spirit. He was veering towards remaining in Flanders where, with Count Philippe’s permission, he might maintain himself and his retinue. Somewhere at the back of his mind he hoped for the chance to better prove his innocence and his thirst for vengeance did not diminish, politic though it had been at Alençon to act otherwise.
Then, out of the blue, a few hours before their arrival at Eu, as dark clouds roiled up from the west, a courier came galloping up from the south-west. It proved to be one of Young Henry’s heralds and he drew rein alongside William with a flourish. ‘My Lord Marshal, I have orders from my Lord King.’
‘You have ridden hard,’ William observed drily, giving the newcomer’s steaming mount a cursory glance before staring ahead and maintaining the pace of his palfrey. He was eager to reach Eu before nightfall.
‘A message, sir, I am commanded to deliver a message,’ insisted the herald.
‘Then d
eliver it,’ William responded curtly. Beyond Eu lay the border of the Angevin dominions and he was now keen to shake the dust of his old master’s provinces off his horses’ hooves.
‘The Young King, our master requires your presence at the forthcoming tournament. The lists will be opened between Gournay and Ressons.’
‘Is not the Young King your master campaigning in Aquitaine?’
‘No, my Lord Marshal.’
‘And why not?’
‘The decision was made not to proceed following your departure.’
William sat his horse in silence then motioned to De Salignac. ‘Did you hear that, Robert?’ De Salignac nodded. ‘What think you of it?’
‘That you must obey, William.’
William nodded, turning to the herald. ‘Gournay and Ressons, you say.’
‘Aye my Lord, north-west of Paris…’
‘I know that. Tell His Grace I shall wait upon him with my mesnie there.’
‘I will, my Lord.’
‘And give him my greeting… But stay, there is bad weather coming, you will ride to Eu with us and shelter for the night.’
That night William learned from the gossip disseminated by the herald in his cups and brought to him by De Salignac that Queen Marguerite had been ordered by her husband to proceed to Limoges. ‘Is that for fear of you?’ De Salignac asked drolly, or are the Angevin leopards about to fall out again?’
*
The tournament that autumn of 1182, fought between Gournay and Ressons was an ill-tempered affair. William’s mesnie received no welcome from the Young Henry’s and the evident rupture between the two leaders was plain for all to see. If the Young King’s knights shunned those of the Marshal, William’s got their own revenge by too frequent a use of the battle-cry ‘God for the Marshal!’
William had attempted to curb this near-treasonable excess but he could not suppress it, and the capture of knights in D’Yquebeuf’s mesnie only added to the ill-feeling and resentment. Although William resisted the temptation, saving the moment for a later date, De Salignac’s several assaults failed to take either D’Yquebeuf himself, or Thomas de Coulonces. Predictably, Jean de Laon was not present.
Despite having been summoned to tourney by the Young King, it dawned upon William that Young Henry’s motives were dishonourable, borne of the darker and raging facet of the King’s character, designed not for reconciliation but for a display of displeasure and estrangement. Indeed, the palpable divide between the two prompted the pragmatic Count of Flanders to publicly remonstrate with Young Henry, warning him that he was acting like a peevish youth to throw off the support of so staunch and able a warrior. It was even rumoured that in private the two men had argued over the alleged adultery.
‘He may go over into England and lay his sword at your father’s feet, or join your brothers,’ Philippe argued, ‘and appear in the field against you with vengeance in his heart, for I hear he did not bed the Lady Marguerite, though others imagined he did.’
Henry, it was said, had confronted Philippe with his own conduct when he had caught Isabelle de Vermandois with her lover. It was the only thing that unscrupulous nobleman felt any prick of conscience over. Stung, he told the Young Henry he deserved to lose his wife and should have brought her to bed of a second child long since.
But William was oblivious to all this, just as he was oblivious to the intrigues and under-currents of diplomacy that were obvious to others that Christmas. After the unsatisfactory encounter at Gournay-cum-Ressons, William received a secret emissary from the Old King, passed by way of Guillaume de Tancarville. He was to attend King Henry II’s Court at Caen, part of the most magnificent gathering ever seen in that part of the world, an assembly of over one thousand nobles and knights, including the Old King’s four sons. Indeed, it was remarked behind hands held to mouths that the only personage of note that was missing was Queen Eleanor. She remained, everyone thought, a peripatetic prisoner in England.
Flushed with wine and confidence, basking in the glorious company and especially in that of his cousin-german Guillaume de Tancarville, bolstered by the fact that it been the Old King who had surreptitiously invited him and stung by the Young King’s disregard of his obeisance as the Young Henry passed him as he went to Mass, William forgot himself.
It was a tradition after the great feast for the Lord of Normandy to hear and redress grievances. William sat and heard Guillaume de Tancarville lay before the Old King some arguments as to his loss of powers and privileges as Chamberlain of Normandy. After Henry had handed down his judgement William, still starting from the snub he had received from the son and banking on exploiting the fragile affection of the father, jumped to his feet and appealed to the Old King. The whole Court, all of whom recognised William and scented a gross impropriety to add to the scandal of his alleged cuckolding of the Young King, fell deathly silent.
‘My Liege I plead a case of injustice,’ William said. The Old King waved him to proceed, his face flushing as William blundered on. ‘My Liege, certain allegations have been laid against me that impugn my honour. I know my accusers and would have them meet me in mortal combat one-at-a-time that Almighty God may strengthen my arm for a just result. Moreover, my Liege…’
‘How many men do you propose to fight, FitzMarshal?’ the Old King asked. The sound of supressed laughter could be heard.
‘Three, Sire.’
‘Name them.’
‘Adam d’Yquebeuf, Thomas de Coulonces and Jean de Laon, my Liege.’
‘And do these three accuse you?’
‘Not directly, Sire, no, but it is they who…’
‘Who accuses you?’ The Old King’s question was made amid total silence. Even the hounds seemed to await William’s response and it was only then that he realised that he had walked into an ambush. He shifted his gaze to the Young King Henry, sitting at his father’s right hand and swallowed hard, trying to clear his head of the wine.
‘I do not know, my Liege,’ he answered and it seemed the whole Court expelled its breath as one. ‘I only know I stand accused and was banished from the presence of the Young King on the words of others.’ It was a clever ploy and the curl of admiration might have been seen on the Old King’s mouth until William over-reached himself. ‘And my Liege, I would fight with these men with one finger of my right hand cut off to seal my defeat if they are bested.’
All eyes turned to the Old King. Most who knew him had already noticed his gathering ill-humour. He leaned over towards the Young King and then turned his steely blue eyes upon the suddenly hapless and exposed plaintive.
‘You mock my justice, FitzMarshal, and you mock my son by your presence here. As your Suzerain I confirm the sentence of banishment.’
William stood stock-still for a moment. Had not this very man ordered his presence at Caen? Was not the purpose of this Court to dispense justice? What was the evidence against him? He felt a plucking at his sleeve and looked round to see De Salignac’s hand.
‘Get out! Go!’ bellowed the Old King, drowning his friend’s advice to withdraw.
*
William rode north-east, back to Eu and over the border into Ponthieu and Flanders beyond. In Bruges Count Philippe of Flanders offered him five hundred English pounds if he conjoined his mesnie with his own. Within a sennight Hugh of Burgundy sent him an equal offer and, but days later, his old friend Baldwin de Béthune offered one thousand pounds and the hand of his daughter, a renowned beauty.
Angry and humiliated, William turned his back on such blandishments. Later, in the New Year he accepted an income from one quarter of the rents raised from the Count of Flanders’ ownership on the town of St Omer, whither he withdrew under Philippe’s protection. That spring, in the closed season for tourneys, he embarked upon a Lenten pilgrimage to Cologne in the company of Jacques d’Avesnes where he knelt in contrition at the tombs of the Three Magi and prayed for humility and peace of mind. But not even the offers of support, money and opportunity, nor the refuge provided by
the Count of Flanders, nor the conspicuous friendship of so great a knight as Jacques d’Avesnes, not even penitential prayer before the Holy Shrine of the Magi could assuage the deep feeling of wounded pride and seething injustice that wracked his soul with endless torment.
God had deserted him, or had raised him just high enough for pride to cause his fall. Perhaps, after all, he was the Devil’s spawn, a mere plaything of Kings, a Court fool. Only the steadfast friendship of De Salignac and the firm affirmation that there were those who, like Jacques d’Avesnes and Count Philippe, considered him ill-used and kept him from dismissing his mesnie, though even that had shrunk after Caen.
‘The wheel will turn,’ De Salignac remarked consolingly one night on the return journey from Cologne to St Omer, ‘just as the wind changes eventually.’
‘I have seen thirty-five summers, Robert,’ William said miserably. ‘I am already old and all I have is one quarter of my Lord Philippe’s rents in St Omer. Why ’tis less than you lay claim to and you claim only poverty keeps you cleaving to me.’
‘That and a small thing called love and regard, William,’ said De Salignac sardonically. ‘Besides the bankers of Bruges still greet you like a Prince.’
William stared hard at his friend. ‘Forgive me,’ he said quickly, ‘that was unpardonable. You know I value your love and loyalty…’
De Salignac brushed William’s apology aside. ‘ ’Tis nothing. Your spirits are low but tomorrow they may take a turn for the better.’
‘I cannot for the life of me see why you should think that,’ William said, chuckling despite himself.
‘Because I feel it in my piss-water,’ De Salignac said, rising to relieve himself. ‘It is never wrong,’ he threw back over his shoulder as he went out into the darkness to relieve himself.
*
‘Who comes here?’ De Salignac asked rhetorically.
Ahead of the mesnie the vanguard had first arrested and then allowed to pass a solitary horseman who now spurred headlong towards them.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 26