William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series

by Richard Woodman

  ‘That was well done!’ William shouted.

  And then all that was left for a rear-guard, Des Roches, Waleran, John de Earley and William himself, were riding north, leaving Le Mans in flames.

  ***

  For a mile they rode through the cultivated fields of the demesne lands dotted with burnt peasant hovels. William looked back: the burning wagons had delayed any pursuit. He was swept by the sensation of reaction to the exertions and anxieties of the past hours, overwhelmed with a sense of disgrace at having to abandon the city and the troops, especially the Welsh mercenaries, who would be massacred by Richard and Philippe. But he had little time for remorse. They had hardly cleared two or three miles before John de Earley called out a warning and William turned in his saddle.

  Without a word all four men spurred their horses to a gallop for, over the brow of a low eminence came a troop of armed knights and well ahead of them rode two who had all but gained upon them. Upon the instant William threw caution to the winds, risking everything upon a foolhardy toss of the dice. Without slackening his pace he shouted: ‘William! John! Ride on! Des Roches, if you’re minded to, stand with me!’

  For perhaps three heart-beats William continued his headlong gallop, then he drew rein and, as the pace of his destrier slowed to a halt, he swung round and couched his lance. For a further moment he was alone as the two advanced pursuers rapidly closed the distance, then he was conscious of Des Roches reining in alongside him.

  ‘By the Christ, Marshal, you are either bold or mad! ’Tis the Lionheart!’

  There was less than fifty yards between them when William too recognised the leading horseman. Des Roches was right. Richard in a hauberk with only the glint of sunlight on a steel helm: no coif; no coat of mail; no lance; no shield, riding like the impetuous wind. Just as his father had been that very morning. ‘The fool,’ breathed William, gathering his reins. ‘He’s mine!’ he called, digging his spurs viciously into the destrier’s flanks so that the great stallion leapt forward.

  The distance between them closed as Richard, lugging out his sword shouted: ‘Don’t be a fool! I am unarmed!’

  William’s lance was levelled at Richard but as the Count threw his weight upon his reins and drew-up the destrier, William lowered his weapon’s point and drove it hard into the breast of Richard’s rearing charger. He held it tight, feeling it dig into his back and slow his own horse, wheeling him inwards with such violence that the lance bent, forcing Richard’s magnificent destrier to twist then rear and fall over, onto its back. At that point the lance broke.

  William wheeled round, threw away the haft of his shattered lance and drew his sword, Richard’s charger gave a terrible whinny of pain and fear, its hooves kicked wildly in its death throes as Richard attempted to throw himself clear. As Richard attempted to stagger to his feet, casting about for his sword, he was flecked with the foam that flew from William’s own wounded destrier as William rode round about him, his sword-point at the unarmed Richard’s throat.

  The knights of Richard’s escort were no more than seventy yards away as William worked his charger round to place Richard between himself and them. Des Roches and his opponent had not yet settled matters between them, though William sensed they were evenly matched.

  ‘FitzMarshal, ’tis indeed you, by Christ! Remember your oath to me.’

  ‘Aye my Lord, but I am as yet still the King’s man.’ William’s eyes flickered from Richard to the knights who now, seeing Richard’s plight, drew rein for a moment, taking stock.

  ‘You cannot kill me. See…’ the kneeling Richard, kicking himself free of the death throes of his destrier, spread his hands. ‘I am unarmed and unarmoured…’

  ‘A hasty and foolish thing to be, My Lord. Call off your men…’

  ‘You cannot kill me Marshal, it would be a dishonourable thing to do in cold blood.’

  ‘Call off your men! I have bested you in fair fight and shall not do murder as you would do me…’

  The two men glared at each other until Richard turned his head slowly and shook it, gesturing with one hand for his men to remain where they were. William’s destrier moved restlessly, the smell of blood from Richard’s dead horse filling its nostrils but William kept it under control, his sword-point still at Richard’s throat.

  ‘What would you do now, FitzMarshal?’

  ‘Leave you to the disposal of the Devil, my Lord, and have you turnabout for Le Mans…’

  Then, very slowly, William backed his horse away as Richard, picking up his dropped sword, rose to his feet.

  ‘No treachery, my Lord,’ William called. ‘You have no horse and your father is long gone…’

  ‘I would have had my father but for you,’ Richard snarled.

  ‘I should be poor recompense for your father, and you have Le Mans.’

  Still Richard hesitated. A few yards distant from Richard, William reined-in again and offered Richard an alternative. ‘Then to the death, my Lord? As you are, unsuited in mail but in single combat? Or honourable withdrawal? The matter lies upon your own soul…’

  The two men continued to stare at each other and, without taking his eyes off Richard, William called out: ‘Des Roches, give ground! Now call off your men, my Lord and give me your word for free passage.’

  Out of the corner of his eye William saw Des Roches and his opponent detach from their duel and Des Roches backed his charger to range alongside William. For a further moment the two lone knights sat their horses, confronting some thirty or forty, between which stood Richard alongside the mounted knight who had engaged Des Roches.

  Then Richard gave a brief nod to William, laughed and waved his men back. ‘Get out of my sight Marshal! That was no fair fight, God damn you, but you have my word. It shall stand today, but thereafter…’ Richard left the threat implicit.

  Then William did something he afterwards had no explanation for; he backed his horse a further few yards and as he did so, keeping his eyes locked upon Richard, he raised his sword hilt to his lips and bowed his head.

  ‘Until we meet again, my Lord,’ William said. For a further ten seconds Richard stared at him, then his face cracked into a smile.

  ‘The Devil will have you sooner than me, Marshal!’ he called out, motioning the knight with whom Des Roches had been engaged. The man helped hoist Richard up behind him and pulled his horse’s head round to re-join their restless companions and William felt his guts twist.

  ‘Come,’ he said, backing his horse for a further ten yards before swinging round. Then, at a canter, he continued his journey north with Des Roches at his side.

  ‘By the Holy Rood, my Lord Marshal, but I shall ne’er forget this day,’ remarked Des Roches, looking nervously back over his shoulder. William grunted; under his surtout, coat of mail and hauberk, he was sweating with relieved tension. Des Roches seemed inclined to work his own nerves off with conversation.

  ‘You will pay for that effrontery,’ Des Roches said.

  ‘Aye, I fear so,’ William replied curtly.

  ‘But ’twas well done,’ added Des Roches, chuckling to himself. ‘To have unseated the Lionheart! Why, that was very well done indeed!’ Again William grunted. He felt over-whelmed by thirst, for the summer’s day was hot. ‘Dost know the device of the knight with whom I fought?’ Des Roches asked.

  ‘Aye. ’Twas Robert de Salignac.’

  PART TWO: RICHARD COEUR DE LION 1189 - 1199

  CHAPTER FOUR: THE STENCH OF DEATH 1189

  William Marshal stood at the chamber door appalled by what he saw. Covering his nose against the stench of piss and excrement he advanced into the room.

  Henry lay uncovered, dead upon a tousled couch of shit and blood stained linen. His head was drawn to one side, his right arm out-flung, his legs splayed. He wore a shirt torn to reveal his powerful torso, and a breech-clout that could not conceal the horror of what lay beneath it. His mouth was open, clogged with clotted sordes and crusted blood; his eyes too stared up at the low roof timbers and his o
nce golden hair, now thin and grey, was plastered across his forehead by dried sweat. The Lion of England, of Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine lay in death as low as any villein; no bejewelled rings adorned the fingers of his right hand; no cross lay upon his breast. A heavily bound chest that stood at the foot of the King’s couch had been forced; its lid stood open: it was empty save for two gold marks.

  William looked about him. The chamber was as bereft of any evidence of kingly status as the corpse that lay stinking before him. The King’s body had been looted, his effects stolen. The chamber window had not even been opened to allow the escape of his soul.

  William trembled; had the King been shriven? Or had his soul been carried to Hell as many predicted it would – and should – be? Did William stand close to the portal of that fearful place? He crossed himself with sudden fervour.

  ‘Christ have mercy,’ he murmured, ‘God have mercy…’

  No-one had stopped the body’s natural orifices, let alone the unnatural one. The Devil had had a free hand with the King, William thought in horror. He crossed himself again then searched the chamber. There was nothing. With trembling hands William laid hands upon the King’s body and, closing its eyes, straightened it. Taking up the two gold marks he laid them upon the King’s eyelids then tore a strip from his bedding and bound-up the jaw, removed his cloak and covered the remains of the mightiest King in Christendom. He was no longer so, and William knelt in prayer against the couch, the sharp stench of urine released from Henry’s bladder even stronger in his nostrils that that of ordure.

  That was how John de Earley found him an hour later when he dared to investigate. William, Des Roches and a handful of knights had ridden hard from Alençon in response to the King’s summons and it was clear, as they clattered into the mighty fortress of Chinon, that all was not well. The handful of foot-soldiers and men at arms at the gate were commanded by few knights, though in the great hall milled the greater part of the King’s mesnie, which included those of his own men who had escaped from Le Mans in Henry’s train. All that remained of the King’s personal household were a few indecisive servants who had failed to profit from the King’s death. The rest had pillaged the corpse and slipped away before anyone knew of the manner of the King’s demise and once the event had occurred, not one among the combined mesnie had dared approach the corrupted body of their anointed Sovereign.

  Only one person remained who had actually witnessed the King’s last moments, a poor-woman whose task had been to empty the King’s piss-pot. She had been kept by chance in the death chamber in fear of her life. When brought shaking with fear before William she fell on her knees and told of the King’s delirium, of his sudden blindness and then the end: ‘A gr…reat b…bursting of the heart, my Lord,’ she stammered.

  ‘Was there a priest present?’ William asked, not unkindly.

  The woman shook her head. ‘I saw no p…priest, my Lord…only…’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘Only a great spewing of b…blood, my Lord, and then his Grace gave up the ghost…’

  The men about William shuddered and crossed themselves.

  ‘You did not open the casement,’ William said.

  ‘No, my Lord. All was disorder… I…I…’

  ‘Go on,’ William commanded gently.

  ‘I was told the Devil had his soul…’ She crossed herself.

  ‘Did you feel you were in the presence of the Devil?’ William asked.

  The woman hesitated, terrified of her ordeal and of this great man who interrogated her. ‘I am not a witch, my Lord…’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ William soothed, turning to De Earley. ‘Give me silver, John.’

  De Earley produced some coins and handed them to William. ‘Canst though stop the orifices and wash the body? These would be for your pains, woman.’ She eyed the money, hesitating. ‘If the Devil has his soul,’ William reassured her, ‘then he has long since taken it and I have prayed by his side. Go and open the chamber casement. This man here will stand with you until your work is done. Find clean linen for a shroud.’

  The woman slowly took the coins and William nodded, saying, ‘get you gone.’ He looked at De Earley. ‘Go with her John, stand guard within the chamber and bring me word when she is done.

  De Earley withdrew obediently in the wake of the woman and William rose to gather round him the few knights that he had in attendance. Most of his mesnie were assembled, FitzRobert and Tresgoz among them, and he looked about him seeking some explanation. In the hour that followed he pieced together a little more of the events of the night of the 6th July, discovering why the knights of the King’s mesnie had failed their Lord, the King.

  ‘They had already departed, my Lord Marshal,’ explained Geoffrey FitzRobert, ‘ridden out with Count John when he so nobly abandoned his father to join his brother and Philippe of France.’

  At first William was incredulous. That John had defected to the enemy was almost as shocking as the state in which he had found the Prince’s dead father, given the standing he had in Henry’s eyes. Then William learned that its impact upon the ailing Henry had proved fatal.

  ‘At the news of John’s disappearance, His Grace fell into one of his towering rages,’ FitzRobert continued sadly. ‘He had an apoplexy, falling into a fit and then a raving of nonsense such that no man knew what he said.’

  ‘Why was no-one with him when he died, but that pathetic creature and his body-servants?’

  ‘My Lord, it was night…’ FitzRobert began.

  ‘And one Odo de Caux slept outside the King’s chamber,’ put in Tresgoz, ‘but without our knowing he was of Count John’s party and slipped the leash during the hours of darkness, the bastard.’

  ‘They opened the gates for him?’ queried William.

  ‘There was gold loose enough to buy the moon that night,’ said Tresgoz contemptuously, ‘though some of us,’ he gestured at the knightly assembly surrounding William, ‘were too far in our slumbers to know until morning.’

  ‘Some of you…? And then? The King was not attended… No priest sent for to give him Holy Unction… Why was that?’

  There was an awkward silence and William looked from one face to another; some were flushed, others pale, while some stood with down-cast eyes.

  ‘Tresgoz?’

  ‘My Lord,’ Tresgoz coughed with embarrassment, looking about him as if to seek permission to justify their neglect of the King. ‘Most of us had ridden after Count John, to bring him back. We would have done battle to do so,’ he added, as if to add emphasis to their commitment.

  ‘But…’ put in William witheringly.

  ‘But he had given us the slip, my Lord. No-one quite knew when he had left, nor which road he had taken.’ Tresgoz fell silent.

  ‘We might have guessed, My Lord Marshal,’ added FitzRobert, ‘but we knew His Grace had sent word for you to come hither urgently and by the time we had returned here the King was dead and…’ his voice trailed off, intimidated by the look in William’s eyes.

  William stared from face to face and then it came to him in a flash. Henry had so closely kept these men under his control, just as he had kept the Young Henry, and afterwards his brother Richard, that none had the capacity to use their initiative. Except Richard, of course, and even Richard’s intelligence took him no further than to King Philippe in search of understanding. As for the knights ranked about him, the flower of Angevin chivalry, they were but great boys, the armed might of Henry’s puissance, to be sure, but that was all. It was like a revelation, yet quite unconsciously they had awaited William – the almost unlanded knight banneret – to guide them in this crisis. He expelled a great sigh and rose, the men about him almost subconsciously falling back in a circle.

  ‘You, Tresgoz, will organise a guard upon the late King’s chamber. I want a priest, better still a bishop, sent for and a Requiem Mass sang for the King’s soul before another sun has set. Where is the Seneschal of this place?’

  ‘Here, my Lord.�
� The man was of venerable years and wore a plain gown with a fine gilded belt but was otherwise unwarlike.

  You, master Seneschal, will open the treasury and distribute alms to the poor of Chinon in the King’s name.’

  ‘That I cannot do.’

  ‘Cannot or will not?’

  ‘Cannot.’

  ‘Pray why is that?’

  ‘Because, my Lord, it is empty. Count John looted the treasury before he departed.’ There was a sharp intake of breath at this effrontery.

  ‘And did you nothing to prevent it?’

  ‘I had not the authority, nor the means to prevent it.’

  William guessed had he made motion, several of his mesnie would have taken the old man and slit his gizzard for failing in his duty.

  ‘Go then, and consult your conscience and determine if our late Lord King would have smiled upon thee, or whether, were he alive he would have you damned.’

  The old man shrunk away and was jostled by several of the knights. Someone remarked crudely that ‘Curtmantle is looking up your arse from Hell, Master Seneschal,’ and a ripple of amusement followed William as he left the great hall of the castle and went to tend his destrier.

  ***

  In the days that followed William acted as he had done after the death of Henry Curtmantle’s heir, Henry the Young King. In due course, the old woman having washed and straightened the corpse, and it having been dressed in clothes purchased from a rich merchant of Chinon, a High Mass was sung for the King’s soul. This effected, William called Guillaume des Roches to his side.

  ‘You are of the late King’s mesnie, Guillaume,’ William said, adding ruefully, ‘and Count Richard will not have forgotten you.’

  ‘No, by God, he will probably hang me as soon as look at me!’

  ‘He will not do that, but I would have you go to him and inform him that the King his father is dead. Can you write?’