‘My Lord Marshal,’ the King began, indicating a number of rolled documents on a camp-table at which a dark-robed clerk with tired eyes sat at his ink-well. ‘Here are your commissions and those for some others among those that I have left to govern England under William de Longchamp. It is my will that Geoffrey FitzPeter be granted lands attaching to the Earldom of Essex and he shall join you, Hugh Bardolf and William Briwerre as co-Justiciar’s to support and curb my Chancellor. Your especial charge is to mind the actions of Count John, my brother, who is charged with the governance of my lands of Anjou, Aquitaine, Maine, Touraine and all those on this southern side of the sea. You have interests in Normandy now,’ the King added pointedly, ‘and matters must be left to your diplomatic skills…’
The King went on at some length, reiterating what he had spoken of before, but now he placed the various charters and writs, together with FitzPeter’s patent of his ranking as an Earl, into William’s hands. It was on William’s lips to request some similar signal of his own elevation, but he held his tongue, mindful of the warnings of FitzPeter himself. He suffered an envious twisting of his gut at the prospect of his own confidential clerk being elevated having warned him to be modest; he even wondered if FitzPeter had acted with some duplicity in the matter, but cast the thought aside as being unworthy of both of them. He himself possessed the Lordship of Striguil and other lands, he stood high in the King’s favour and held immense power in Richard’s name, a fact confirmed by Richard presenting him with a ring as a token both of William’s delegated authority and the King’s trust.
William went down on one knee in recognition of the honour conferred upon him and when he rose Richard looked directly at him. ‘Serve me well, Marshal. Do not give me cause to regret raising you.’
Sensing himself dismissed, William bowed, saying, ‘God go with you my Lord King, and lend strength to your arms that you might smite the unbeliever and free the Holy Places.’
For the rest of that long summer’s day William and his mesnie remained static as, all about them, the great army of Angevin England and Capetian France broke camp and took the road south, leaving a litter of discarded and broken items, besides midden heaps, ash-pits, fire-wood and lost souls – the abandoned harlots, jugglers and hucksters for whom the great rendezvous had been a commercial opportunity. Besides these opportunists there was a handful of knights, like William and his mesnie, whose attendance on their liege-lords had been obligatory but whose duties required them to remain at home.
About mid-morning Robert de Salignac had come to take his departure from his old friend. Having expressed his envy at De Salignac’s return to the Holy Land, William wished him well and presented him with his own sword. ‘Strike me some blows in my name, Robert,’ he said solemnly, ‘that I might not be entirely absent from this great enterprise.’ He gestured round him where, amid the rising and falling of a psalm, the clatter of an army on the move rent the soft air of the June forenoon.
‘With pleasure, William.’ De Salignac drew his own sword and handed it to William in exchange.
‘Go with God,’ he concluded as Robert leaned from his horse and, without a further word, clasped William’s right forearm in amity. Then he straightened up in his saddle, wheeled his horse and – with his squire bearing his standard riding behind him – joined the great throng as it drew out along the road and faded from view in a cloud of dust.
Watching De Salignac disappear amid such a host William was touched with a terrible and poignant sadness. His heart ached to be among those left behind, denied an opportunity to show prowess in the recovery of the Holy Places from this Saladin and his warriors. But then he bethought himself of the great work entrusted to him by Richard, work the better fitted for an older man, a man with a new wife who would soon produce an heir of his body, an heir – perhaps a boy – who bore the blood of Kings in his veins. And he thought too of Isabelle herself, and of how Angharad ap Gwyn would have approved, for close acquaintance had convinced him that Isabelle was herself one of the Old People for whom William had always nursed a private affection. He could almost hear his old nurse approving the title marriage to Isabelle had brought with her: Lord of Ystrad Gwy; Lord of the Valley of the Wye, which transliterated into Striguil in the Anglo-Norman tongue.
The day drew on and the dust settled. As the great host disappeared into the forests to the south, William had great reason to be satisfied. Just as he had taken the Young Henry’s cloak to the Holy Land in symbolic pilgrimage, Robert de Salignac would convey his own sword thither and do great work with it. Instinctively he touched the pommel of Robert’s weapon that nestled in its scabbard at his own hip.
That night William remarked to his brother that they ate their meat as though upon a field of battle such as he had seen in the Holy Land, such had the two armies stripped the neighbouring country for game and firewood.
‘This is nothing,’ John responded, his tone grim. ‘Your Lionheart hath stripped England with his Saracen Tax. Methinks the chalice His Grace has conferred upon you as Justiciar is poisoned, brother.’
CHAPTER EIGHT: JUSTICIAR OF ENGLAND 1190 - 1194
‘Pray be seated,’ said William de Longchamp as he settled at the head of the table in the Council Chamber of the White Tower, motioning the four co-Justiciars to their seats. On De Longchamp’s right sat Geoffrey FitzPeter, and beside him was Hugh Bardolf. Opposite FitzPeter sat William Briwerre, next to William Marshal. A clerk occupied a side table to record the deliberations of the conference, his quill poised while the five men addressed the business of the morning.
All looked to De Longchamp, Bishop of Ely, Chancellor of England and Guardian of the Tower. William Marshal did so with an especial interest. For a man who had been to the Holy Land there was an uncanny resemblance in De Longchamp’s features to those of the rock apes seen there. And besides this unfortunate cast of feature the Lord Bishop of Ely limped and had an unsavoury reputation for an unholy interest in young boys. For all that, he was a man of parts, cunning and unscrupulous, with a reputation for law-making in the service of Henry Curtmantle, and trusted by the now absent King Richard.
‘So,’ Longchamp remarked contentiously, looking round the table and fixing his gaze on William, ‘it seems we have Marshals with fingers in every pie in England.’
The clerk’s pen remained poised, the other co-Justiciar’s drew in their breath and, after shooting glances at William, lowered their eyes and regarded the parchments in front of them. They all knew that William was illiterate, that he could barely scrawl his name to a charter and that De Longchamp regarded him as ill-equipped for his new role. But William’s reputation for prowess in the field and a certain sagacity in Council posed a dangerous challenge to the Chancellor’s authority.
William had been anticipating some such assault and stirred in his seat. ‘I had hoped to make of my Lord Chancellor a friend,’ he said in level tones, addressing his fellow co-Justiciars, ‘but it seems that he is set upon a path of enmity. Why else would he personally attack my castle at Gloucester whilst I was absent in Wales, huh?’ William stared about him, staring directly at De Longchamp and adding, ‘perhaps my Lord Chancellor, you would say precisely to which pies you allude.’
A smile flickered across the face of Geoffrey FitzPeter and William heard Briwerre expel his breath.
‘Mark this in your record, Master Clerk,’ William said, turning to the scribe who looked anxiously at De Longchamp.
‘That will not be necessary,’ De Longchamp said sharply. ‘I am sorry my humour missed its mark,’ he went on, his tone of voice now oily with dissimulation. ‘I intended to congratulate the Lord of Striguil on his success, along with that of his brothers.’
William smile wryly. ‘I think your humour hit the mark right well,’ riposted William, ‘and in another place I should have knocked you down for it,’ he concluded with a chuckle. ‘But that is no explanation for why my Lord Chancellor laid siege to Gloucester whilst I relieved the castle at Aber Tawe after it had lai
n under siege for ten weeks.’
‘There were reasons,’ De Longchamp stirred uneasily in his seat. ‘Now, shall we, proceed…’
‘Reasons of state, no doubt,’ persisted William.
‘Just so, now…’
‘Which would, of course, be beyond my understanding.’ William pointedly flicked at a parchment on the table, as if contemptuous of those who pushed a goose-quill.
‘It is unwise to put words into the mouth of another man,’ De Longchamp responded.
‘It is unwise to wrest from me what the King has given me in fief, though you may be inclined to act thus to others.’
De Longchamp flushed. William’s threat was not so veiled as to be unclear. ‘We must to our business messieurs,’ he hurried on, anxious to change the subject.
‘He is as deeply bound by perceptions of honour to the House of Anjou as are you, William,’ FitzPeter said to him afterwards, but he sees you, thanks to the connection of your brother John, to be Count John’s man. Longchamp rightly entertains suspicions of Count John’s intentions, for all that Richard made him swear to keep his feet off English soil. For the nonce you are suspected of a greater loyalty to John than Richard.’
‘By the Rood, Geoffrey, it was the King who appointed me a Justiciar, and warned me against both De Longchamp and Count John.’
‘Exactly, Will, and De Longchamp probably knows your first charge, if not your second.’ William shook his head. ‘But you dealt with him on his own terms with gusto, Will,’ FitzPeter chuckled, ‘and he wasn’t expecting that from an old knight best known for battering his foes into submission with a mace.’
‘I rarely use a mace,’ William replied solemnly, until he realised FitzPeter was guying him. ‘God’s bones, I am too old for this game,’ he said as both broke out into open laughter.
***
As the weeks passed, the Council of State settled down to its affairs. De Longchamp’s provocation of William, part deliberate and part in contempt, left the two men in a condition of mutual suspicion. They often voted against each other, but FitzPeter’s skill and the good sense of Briwerre and Bardolf, generally managed their business well-enough. The Customs Dues of the ports were properly levied, the differences between two contending trade-guilds in the City of London satisfactorily and amicably settled and De Longchamp’s only direct move against the interest of the Marshal brothers, the removal of the Shrievalty of York from John Marshal on account of the ill treatment of the Jews in that city, was voted down. The event did, however, increase De Longchamp’s power by bringing into his camp the Archbishop of York, who was equally hostile to Marshal influence.
Reports arrived from Normandy of the King’s slow progress towards the Holy Land. He was known to have lingered in Sicily, where a marriage contract was arranged with the Lady Berengaria of Navarre, intelligence that brought with it the probability of a rupture between Richard and Philippe Augustus over the repudiation of the long-standing betrothal agreement that Richard would marry Alice of France. This intelligence came directly from Walter Des Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, who was among the informants of Queen Eleanor who redirected his couriers to William Marshal. By thus opening a channel of communication with Des Coutances, William had the benefit of confidential counsel with a man of wisdom, a faithful servant of the House of Anjou to whose nephew William had, upon King Richard’s desire, surrendered his lordship of Kendal.
At first this correspondence, carried by John de Earley, had consisted of letters concerning the increasing difficulties Des Longchamp was causing within the body politic of England. His disregard of the co-Justiciars was bad enough, but his arrogant encroachments upon the rights and privileges of the Barony was dragging the Council of State into a mire of the Chancellor’s own making, and none of the co-Justiciars was prepared allow matters to run on thus or, as Briwerre remarked, Richard would hear of it.
Des Coutances advised the co-Justiciars to isolate and dispose of De Longchamp and then, out of the blue, sent a warning of his own. Rumours had reached him that Count John was making secret preparations to break his word and cross the Channel into England.
***
William was at Winchester when FitzPeter sent word of this to him from London. Here he and Isabelle had been enjoying a few rare weeks of domesticity with their first-born, a son named William after his father. Here too they spent some time in the company of Queen Eleanor and it was to the Queen-Mother that William went directly that the intelligence of John’s intentions reached him.
‘Your Grace, I would have your counsel,’ he said, coming straight to the point after having made his obeisance. ‘I am pledged to the King, though my lands in Ireland I hold in fief from Count John. Howsoever, it is to the House of Anjou that I am chiefly pledged and Count John swore to remain in Normandy and I fear for your own lands, for Philippe is, so it is said, returning from his crusade for fury of King Richard’s intended marriage to this Lady of Navarre.’
‘An alliance with King Sancho of Navarre might be to some advantage,’ the Queen mused, ‘but should John make mischief in England you are right to be apprehensive, FitzMarshal,’ the Queen nodded, her eyes as shrewd as ever. She sighed. ‘We are no longer young, you and I, and yet it seems the world still lays its troubles at our feet.’
‘Indeed Your Grace…’
‘You hesitate?’
William bit his lip. ‘Aye, Madam, for while I fear for Aquitaine, the late King, your husband, laid upon me a specific charge.’
‘And what was that?’ Eleanor asked coolly, her long estrangement from Henry Curtmantle falling over them like some dark shadow.
‘That England must be my first concern, for there the Crown lies…’
‘While Aquitaine is little more than an ungovernable Duchy,’ Eleanor said, smiling ruefully. ‘There, I have finished your thought for you, to save you the embarrassment.’
‘Madam, I mean no disrespect, but a man cannot be in two places at once and I have but lately come from the Welsh marches where there has been trouble ever since Rhys ap Gruffydd raised his standard on hearing of my Lord Henry’s death.’
‘And that has nothing to do with your lands in Nether Gwent?’ Eleanor asked, one eyebrow raised under her coif.
‘Aye, Your Grace, it has everything to do with Striguil, but Nether Gwent I hold in fief for the Crown of England.’
‘I should not tease you, FitzMarshal, it was ever a fault of mine and you are right to consult me.’ The Queen rose and walked to a window which looked out over a small rose-garden. William, standing behind her heard her whisper to herself the one word: ‘Aquitaine.’ Then she fell silent and remained staring out over the vista. A sharp shower was falling, but sunshine was not far behind the clouds which were swept across the sky and threw their swift moving shadows across the garden and the stone walls that enclosed it.
‘Marshal,’ she said without turning her head, ‘come hither.’ William moved across the chamber and stood next to her. ‘Do you recall the affair at Lusignan, when you saved me from ambush and seizure?’
‘Aye, My Lady, and Your Grace ransomed me after my own capture.’
‘The years have grown long since then.’ Eleanor paused, still regarding the rose-bushes where the sunshine now twinkled on raindrops. ‘But the Lusignans have proved only their eternal faithlessness, now as on that day, for the Holy Land has fallen to the infidel,’ she mused, her voice quiet, confidential. ‘Meanwhile Richard tarries in Sicily or Cyprus, God knows what Philippe intends and now John has come into England, from which no good will issue.’
‘Nay Madam.’
‘God forbid that what my Lord Henry and I built-up should be torn down, but for the sake of holding Aquitaine I should not give-up England.’ She suddenly turned to face William. ‘I thank you for your courtesy in coming to me, FitzMarshal. Loathe as I am to do so, and much as I have disliked my long exile in this damp and unenchanted island, England must be our chief hope. I cannot tell you how to handle Count John, he defies all pred
ictions, but do you cleave to your liege lord, who is Richard. Should Richard return from his crusade, he has yet years enough to undo whatever damage John’s conduct will effect in Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine. What will ensue in England I likewise cannot guess, I am too removed from the heart of things here, but your place now is in London.’ She smiled at him and held out her right hand. William dropped to one knee and kissed it.
‘He is like to come here, Your Grace,’ William said, concerned.
‘Count John?’
‘Aye.’
‘And you would have me tell you what I shall say to him?’
William shrugged. ‘That is not a matter for me to say, Your Grace.’
‘God go with you, FitzMarshal.’
***
‘What are we to do?’ Geoffrey FitzPeter asked William. ‘The fool has now fallen-out with the Archbishop of York and half the barons in England and should we have John claiming the right to rule the Kingdom as his brother’s Regent in de Longchamp’s place…’ FitzPeter let the speculation hang.
‘Longchamp must go,’ William said decisively. ‘He is not indispensable and we must have a free and unencumbered hand…’
‘But we cannot act alone, what of Bardolf and Briwerre?’
‘Summon them,’ William said. ‘I surmise John will make first for Winchester and will be here in London a day or so later.’
‘But that plays into the hands of all those who say that you at least are John’s man.’
William nodded. ‘Aye. I am bound to him for my Irish estates,’ he said ironically, ‘and so too is Hugh Bardolf.’ Then, suddenly intense, he went on: ‘but Geoffrey, Longchamp is cunning whereas John is fickle; John we can manage, John we can cajole, flatter, John we can throw over when Richard returns.’
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