‘I think not.’
‘I hope to Christ Jordan de Sauqueville has Arques in some state of preparedness,’ William said ruminatively as his mind switched to the practical problems now confronting him. ‘And that Philippe and Baldwin are delayed at Aumale or Eu…’
***
In May 1202 William was in Normandy with his own and the King’s one hundred knights, sergeants-at-arms and a war-chest supplied by John. William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury rode at his side as they made for Arques. De Sauqueville had done his best, but there was more that could be achieved to strengthen the great fortress at Arques, and in a flurry of activity during June William dispersed huge sums of money in anticipation of an imminent attack. Everywhere he went now he ordered stone and stone-masons to enhance the more primitive castles of which he had tenure. He had left Isabelle augmenting the fortifications of Striguil and Pembroke, and the newly married FitzRobert was not only responsible for the Raising of an abbey at Tintern Parva, but raising stone castellations in Leinster.
But the border fortresses of Aumale, Eu and Neufchâtel-en-Bray had already fallen at Philippe’s feet, surrendered at the French King’s first thrust. Then, in July, word came that Gournay had capitulated and that Philippe and Baldwin had turned their war-host and its siege-engines north; their objective - Arques.
John, meanwhile, was at Rouen with a large war-host. A Council had been held there after the King and his military commanders had crossed over into Normandy and it had decided that the Earls of Pembroke and Salisbury should hold the east of the Duchy while the King, supported by William’s old companion-in-arms at the escape of Henry Curtmantle from Le Mans, William Des Roches, contained any incursion by the Lusignans from the south or the Bretons from the West.
‘The Queen, my Mother, is gone into the castle at Mirebeau,’ John had confided to William, in a rare moment of confidentiality. Not for the first time was William perplexed by the conflicted character of the members of the House of Anjou: one moment blowing hot and intimate, the next cold with hatred. ‘You must hold the north, Marshal,’ the King insisted.
‘I will do what I can, my Liege.’
Both William and Longsword knew their situation was weak, if not hopeless. No castle could endure a siege indefinitely and if – or when – Arques fell, then the whole of Normandy lay open to the invader. Nevertheless, as soon as news of the fall of Gournay reached him, William called a Council in the keep of Arques.
‘Messieurs, I shall not deceive you. Our position is weak and Philippe’s is strong. He is mobile, we are like to be mewed-up here, therefore I propose to divide our forces.’ A murmur of shock went through the assembly. One or two made to intervene and challenge William.
‘This is a Council, my Lord, you have yet to ask our opinion…’
‘No,’ countered William. ‘And I cannot. I am charged with the King’s will. To ask your opinion will invite an endless discussion…’
‘But you have already said our forces are weak, a division only worsens our position.’
‘I pray you, hear me out,’ William pleaded as dissent caught on and voices were raised.
‘God damn you! Listen to the Marshal!’ roared William Longsword, quelling the incipient rebellion.
‘You, William Mortimer,’ William went on, referring to one of the King’s senior knights, ‘you shall hold this place as long as you can while the Earl of Salisbury and I maintain our forces to the westward. Arques will be invested and our presence somewhere other than here will not be known, for we shall give it out that we ride to join the King at Rouen. Once the siege lines are set, we shall launch a series of raids to discomfit the besiegers. Philippe has a history of not standing long at his post. If God favours our arms and the justice of our cause, we may wear him down such that he raises the siege. If he does not, we may have the opportunity of resupplying the garrison from time-to-time and thus prolonging the siege and detaining Philippe’s host under the considerable walls of this fortress. With summer comes the sickness men get from drinking river water…’ William left the sentence unfinished; they all knew what he meant: the flies and the endless shitting. ‘Keep your men to their wells, Mortimer, and do not sally,’ he concluded.
Mortimer acknowledged the good sense of William’s strategy, by which time the Marshal’s confident tone had cleared the doubts of most of the rough fellows who the King had sent to serve under him.
After all except Longsword and De Earley had gone to make their preparations for departure, William turned to Longsword and thanked him for his timely intervention. ‘I am obliged to you,’ he said with a tired smile. ‘God knows we need his aid as much as he knows our cause is far from just,’ he added ruefully.
‘It is just insofar as Philippe has no right to act as he does,’ responded Longsword.
‘Aye.’ William looked at his fellow Earl. ‘Then let us ride out and lose ourselves in the countryside.’ Longsword nodded, then De Earley caught William’s eye. ‘You would have words with us, John?’
‘Aye my Lords. There is a man among the routiers who has given me an idea…’
‘Go on.’
‘Do you recall, my Lord Marshal, after we had taken Nottingham Castle, King Richard rode out into Sherwood forest?’
‘Aye. He went hunting, if I recall aright.’
‘And there was talk of a band of ne’er-do-wells who robbed travellers and hid deep in the forest glades?’
‘Exactly what I intend for us in the coming days, but what has your man to do with our present situation?’
‘This routier, in his cups, claims to have been among this band and I heard him boasting of some exploit using a ruse that, upon close enquiry, and a little pressure,’ De Earley smiled and touched his dagger hilt, ‘he confessed was no lie, though one might have hanged him for it, but which set my mind a-thinking.’
‘Tell us, John.’
When De Earley had finished, William looked at Longsword, who nodded his approval and William asked: ‘A week, you say?’
‘Aye, my Lord. No more.’
‘And you would go with this fellow?’
De Earley nodded. ‘To ensure he does not betray us.’
‘And what is his name?’
‘He calls himself Red William,’ my Lord, on account of his ginger hair.’
William thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well. But you must take care John. God go with you.’ And the three men crossed themselves before De Earley withdrew.
‘A week,’ mused William. ‘That should give Philippe’s men time to have settled into their siege lines…’
***
It was raining when they set out on that first chevauchée against Philippe’s siege lines surrounding Arques, not the torrential downpour of Leinster, but wet enough to depress an army sat down outside the grim walls of a fortress such as confronted the French and Flemish war-host on the banks of the River Bèthune.
Having withdrawn well to the westward, William and Longsword first concealed their force in a small manoir whose occupants they held in respectful self-keeping until John de Earley and his accomplice returned. Disguised as a pair of mendicant clerks the two men had pretended to offer letter-writing and other services to the men of Philippe’s war-host, mixing among the inevitable hangers-on: camp-followers, whores, quacks and hucksters. In this way they had walked the entire circuit of the siege lines without let or hindrance, withdrawing under cover of night to rejoin William within the allotted sennight.
Having been briefed by De Earley, all but the foot-soldiers had been roused out and prepared for the chevauchée, moving off in three parties making their way south and then east, to cross the road that ran along the left bank of the river, whither the French army had come from Neufchâtel-en-Bray. The smallest of the three divisions, under De Earley, consisted of two wagons requisitioned from the manoir and laden with supplies, including forage, cider and grain. A third wagon bore live sheep, and all three wagons were accompanied by a small escort of mounted sergean
ts-at-arms and some knights devoid of their armour, but dressed like routiers in leather hauberks. The other two parties, one commanded by William, the other by Longsword, comprised their own household knights and greater retinues, including a number of mounted archers, a striking force at the head of which William now sat his horse in the mizzling rain and awaited the first light of dawn.
They had broken the last camp of their circuitous march at about three that morning. Few had slept much that damp night and all were eager to be at their work as the column mounted-up in the darkness and silently made their way towards their objective.
William stilled his destrier as it snickered at the approach of another and Longsword appeared beside him.
‘You can just make out the castle,’ William said quietly, pointing. Longsword peered through the trees and the drizzle and caught the loom of the great fortress upon which, it was said, William had spent over fifteen hundred pounds in recent improvements.
‘We must wait until we can see the ground under our feet,’ Longsword observed. ‘It will be heavy going after this rain.’
‘A matter of nice judgement,’ offered William. ‘I think we can be no more than a mile from the lines.’
The two men sat in silence for some minutes, then Longsword remarked, ‘I think it time,’ and William growled assent.
‘Get De Earley on the move then,’ William said, wheeling his destrier and moving aside as Longsword rode off and motioned De Earley to lead the supply train as if replenishing Philippe’s besiegers. After giving De Earley’s wagons a head start, without a word, William waved the remainder of the column forward. They cantered along, catching up with and then over-taking the wagons, William’s division to the left and Longsword’s to the right. As they main two divisions passed De Earley’s wagons and their escort, the entire force picked up speed.
There was sufficient daylight now to see, below the ramparts of Arques, the extensive siege-lines and the engines and forces King Philippe and Count Baldwin had massed about the fortress. The pale pyramidal shapes of the pavilions of the chief chevaliers were interspersed with the plainer tents of lesser nobles and knights, while the rising smoke of cooking fires being relit after the night’s rain laid a grey pall over the entire encampment as another tedious day began for the besiegers. The vague shapes of men, coughing in the smoke, and moving sleepily about, could now be made out.
But William had scant time to take in these details; his single focus was closing the distance before some shout of alarm or recognition went-up. If the enemy were deceived into thinking he led a column of support they would soon be disabused, so everything now hung upon his and Longsword’s chivalry reaching the siege-lines as quickly as possible.
The destrier was in his stride now and it could not be anything other than clear that a force of advancing knights whose mounts shook the wet earth were hostile. Sure enough, a shout of alarm went up when they had yet a quarter of a mile to go. They had left their lances with the foot-soldiers and some of the archers at their base-camp and as the distance closed William drew his sword. As instructed, his division was fanning out, to strike the lines from behind on as wide a front as possible and then to turn north, harrowing the entire encampment, leaving Longsword to execute a similar manoeuvre, parallel to William’s, but nearer the river’s bank. In this way they hoped to spread confusion and terror along the entire line on the western bank of the Bèthune.
The next moment they were in the thick of it, slashing left and right at tents, horses and men. Some disablement of the siege-engines was under-taken by cutting the ropes on the windlasses, while a few fires were started where burning brands could be lifted off the bivouac fires and flung into the dry trappings of the pavilions. De Earley, meanwhile, sped hell-for-leather for the gate of Arques, holloaing to the startled garrison that they were friends.
‘For John and the Marshal!’ De Earley raised the war-cry, which was taken up by his men and, although a few arrows and quarrels were fired by the defenders, these soon ceased as, once in the shadow of the walls and outside the gate, De Earley left the wagons, hauled about and raced back the way he had come, to cut his way through the half-rallied wreckage of the besiegers who were still reeling from the rude awakening that had utterly surprised them.
Seeing the abandoned wagons, the besieged flung open the gates and drew the supplies inside before quickly re-securing the defences. It was all over in half an hour of strenuous endeavour; William, De Earley and Longsword departed as swiftly as they had come, and although William laid an ambush under De Earley for any pursuit, it had rejoined the main force by mid-afternoon, reporting that no real attempt at pursuit had been made.
‘Some twenty of their chivalry rode to within a half mile of us before they abandoned the chase,’ De Earley reported, his wide grin cracking his broad features. ‘But they looked wrecked,’ De Earley went on, laughing, ‘just like us, my Lord, when we landed off that God-forsaken ship at Waterford! Though by no means destroyed, I think the enemy will feel their vulnerability to their rear from now onwards,’ he added, relishing the morning’s work.
***
‘Well, my Lords,’ crowed John, lounging at the head of the board as was his wont, a goblet of Bordeaux wine within reach. ‘While you have been next to idle, God or the Devil has smiled on me.’
William resisted the urge to remonstrate, though he thought to himself the Devil had more to do with it all than Almighty God; he and Longsword had been far from idle, but the King’s achievement was remarkable and it behove him to say so before Longsword, positively bristling at his elbow, said something impolitic.
‘Indeed, my Liege, it seems the spirit of the Lionheart lives on,’ William murmured diplomatically.
‘The Lionheart be damned,’ John almost chortled, ‘’twas an accomplishment worthy of my father, Curtmantle himself.’
‘As Your Grace says,’ William agreed with a smile.
Sensing sarcasm, John sat up. ‘Who else could cover eighty miles in two days and raise a siege, eh? Did you raise the siege of Arques, Marshal? No, you did not, but I relieved Mirebeau, set the Queen my mother free, captured two hundred and fifty two knights and…’ and here John sat back again, an expression of malicious satisfaction on his face, ‘and I took Arthur of Brittany a prisoner.’
The King had every right to be pleased with himself, though he owed much to the energies of William des Roches and William de Briouze, the actual captor of Arthur. Both men were present at this summoning of the Angevin nobles to Rouen, for it seemed that - thanks to the King’s swift chevauchée - the tide of war had turned in John’s favour and a grand celebratory banquet was to be held that evening. Such had been the effect of John’s unexpected triumph that Philippe and Baldwin had thrown-up the siege of Arques, for fear of John racing north and defeating them in the field, a state-of-mind induced in fact by the hit-and-run raids that William and Longsword had relentlessly maintained against the besiegers’ supply lines and foraging parties.
‘And Her Grace, the Queen Mother, my Liege; is she well?’ William asked.
‘Indeed, Marshal, she has retired to Fontevrault Abbey,’ John said smoothly.
‘Then, my Liege, your position is transformed.’
‘Indeed, Marshal, it is,’ responded John, only too obviously pleased with the triumph of his arms and the complimentary acknowledgement coming from a warrior of William’s prowess.
Later that same night as William rose from the festive board, half sozzled with wine and anxious to find his bed, he bumped into Des Roches returning from the garde de robe.
‘I have drunk too many toasts,’ William said apologetically, seeing his old companion-in-arms. ‘But you did well, my friend,’ he added generously.
‘Aye William, but God save us, I fear he will throw it all away for he has ordered all his captives into fortresses here and in England.’ Wine had loosened Des Roches tongue but the assertion puzzled William for a moment.
‘What d’you mean?’
&nbs
p; ‘That there is no intention to ransom them. He intends them to starve. Many are friends…relatives of mine.’
‘You have heard him say so?’ William was incredulous.
‘Aye, to Hubert de Burgh. And the Count of Brittany is to be held close…too close for my liking, for I am Arthur’s man before I am John’s… None of this bodes good, only evil…’ Des Roches belched and wiped his face with his hand.
William frowned, struggling to comprehend the utter stupidity of such a policy. Knowing he was befuddled with drink he thought Des Roches might be similarly encumbered.
‘D’you mean…?’ Under the influence of far too much wine William’s reasoning powers were as slow as his speech; he frowned as he tried to tease out Des Roches’ meaning. Des Roches stared back at him, the two men swaying slightly in the stone passageway, their weather-beaten faces, both lined by years of campaigning thrown into craggy chiaroscuro by the flickering of a near-by torch in its iron sconce. ‘But if what you say is true,’ William went on, ‘he throws all that he has gained away and, in the process loses all honour.’
‘An’ all support,’ added Des Roche, with an air of finality as he took his leave of William and reeled off to his bed-place.
William stood for a moment, supporting himself against the cold stone wall, watching Des Roches stagger away. The fall of the leaf was already upon them and the campaigning season at an end; much mischief could be done in the wintery months and Philippe’s deficiencies on the field of war could be more than made up by the skill and cunning of his diplomacy. William shook his head clear of the fumes of the celebration. John must not be allowed to treat his captives as Des Roches suggested he intended, but the key to everything lay in Arthur of Brittany.
If Arthur was to repudiate Philippe and pay homage to John, all might yet be well.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 47