William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series

by Richard Woodman

  ‘For which I have ever done you full fealty, even in the teeth of the Lionheart, My Liege,’ William snatched the advantage, though John’s stale breath was hot on his face. John’s eyes flickered and he turned away; William sensed a sudden change of mood.

  John flung himself into his chair and grasped his wine, lifted it and drank deeply. After a long and pregnant moment of silence he expelled his breath and looked up at William. ‘I fled, William, fled from my ancestral lands,’ he said, his voice suddenly low, his eyes moist.

  ‘My Lord King,’ William said quietly, ‘allow me to do homage to Philippe for my wife’s lands in Normandy and I will swear to you upon the heirs of my body that, in any conflict, I shall cleave only to you and Your Grace’s service as I have ever served your family.’ William paused, then added what he considered his master-stroke, alluding to his reputation for military prowess. ‘Think, My Liege, if Philippe thinks he has bought me, a man not unknown to him, then I might draw close to him to your advantage.’

  The King frowned and stared at William. ‘You would hold your homage to Philippe that lightly?’ he asked after a pause.

  William smiled wryly. ‘My Liege, there is precedent enough for that. Even oaths of fealty have been cast lightly aside.’

  John caught William’s meaning; many had been the time he himself had broken an oath to his father, Henry Curtmantle, and his brother, Richard, Coeur-de-Lion. ‘You would swear to act as you say, always, even unto death?’ John asked, softening towards William.

  ‘I would My Liege. Even unto death.’

  John rubbed his chin then fell to unconsciously biting upon his finger-nails. Suddenly removing this hand from his mouth, he asked, ‘but what of Leicester? What I give to you, I must give to him.’

  Conscious that the King was about to change his mind again, William pressed his case. ‘The Lord Leicester is ill. Let us await God’s will. Should he recover and come open-handed to Your Grace, then welcome him and reward him for his embassy. If not,’ William shrugged, ‘then this conversation can lie quiet between us.’

  John thought for a moment then, looking at William, nodded. ‘Very well, my Lord,’ he said slowly, ‘but should you betray me, you and the male heirs of your body shall suffer in every manner I can devise and order.’

  Aware that he had been a most fortunate man, William made a deep obeisance and made to withdraw. As he did so, John added, his voice hard again, ‘do you keep your word, or most assuredly I shall keep mine.’

  ***

  ‘Was that wise, husband?’ Isabelle asked as William told her of his audience with the King. Isabelle lay a-bed in their chamber at Chepstow Castle.

  ‘Wise or not, it is done now,’ replied William resignedly, slipping under the coverlets beside her. ‘And Leicester is not expected to live, I hear.’

  ‘Is that God’s will? Isabelle asked.

  ‘What else can it be, eh?’

  ‘The Devil tempting my Lord’s pride.’

  ‘By Heaven and all I hope for, I would not wish such a thing upon Robert of Leicester. God forbid it! Surely you do not think that I…’

  ‘I merely fear for you, William,’ Isabelle replied, laying a hand upon his arm as he sat up in bed. ‘God knows I pray for you and our boys, but I have no ruling of you. Your courage and stout heart may lead you astray from piety.’

  William sighed. ‘By the Rood, ’Belle, you sound like my old tutor Nicholas de Sarum.’

  ‘Perhaps that is why God ordained that I became you wife. You forget sometimes, husband, that I am daughter of a King…’

  William turned to her and smiled. ‘That I do not, my love, but John does.’ Then, attempting to change the subject, he remarked upon his pleasure at the betrothal of their eldest son, William, to the daughter of Baldwin of Béthune, an old friend of William’s.

  ‘Of that we are both glad,’ Isabelle said wearily, composing herself for sleep.

  But as Isabelle’s breathing grew regular, William lay awake, troubled. He had not told his wife all that had occurred for there had been an encounter with another old acquaintance from his tourneying days, Robert de Meulan, Count of Aumale. In the collapse of Angevin power in France, De Meulan had lost almost everything and, in the name of friendship, had sought William’s help. Fearful of losing Longueville, William had offered De Meulan money for his English manor of Sturminster.

  ‘That is a harsh bargain, William…’ De Meulan had said and William had noted the pathos in his old friend’s eyes.

  William, his head full of his most recent joust with the King, had hardened his heart and brushed De Meulan off. Now his conscience troubled him deeply; he had used De Meulan ill. Isabelle had just remarked upon his growing conceit. Now he recalled Geoffrey FitzPeter’s advice not to over-reach himself, and the pride with which he had confronted his father in the hall of Hampstead Marshal after King Stephen had released him from his custody when he had hung a noose on the beam above his father’s chair. Staring up into the darkness he rebuked himself, praying for Christian humility; God forbid that he should lose what he had gained through over-weening conceit.

  It did little to console him that he had Sturminster passed to one of his household knights, for to compound his sin in dispossessing De Meulan of the manor, he had insisted that in granting the land to him in the first place, the King set aside the claim of two Countesses who disputed the grant. He knew that his intransigence in the matter had angered John, going as it did against the advice of others on the King’s Council. He knew too that John had had an entry made by the clerks in the justice rolls; this act held the spectre of a dark threat over an illiterate man. Now, as he lay sleepless and troubled by his own folly, William could only see in his mind’s eyes the reproach in the eyes of Robert de Meulan.

  ***

  The rain fell in sheets as the war-host under the Earl of Pembroke trudged north-west, out of Carmarthen town and into Ceredigion. John De Earley led them with his own small mesnie, a van-guard with its out-riders to root-out any ambush set by the Welsh.

  In the aftermath of his confrontation with the King, John had swung like a weather vane. Having lost Normandy, a rising tide of disfavour among his English barons made John preternaturally nervous of losing the loyalty of William. And if he disapproved of William’s conduct over Sturminster, he nevertheless tried to placate William. In typical conduct that was both vacillating and cunning, John sought to buy William’s complete loyalty by turning the tables upon him: if John must give-up Normandy, then William must relinquish Longueville and, at Winchester in early October, John had granted him in compensation the castles of Goodrich, in the east of the March, and Cilgerran in the far west. Whilst Goodrich lay in the gift of the King, Cilgerran did not, for although it had formerly been part of the Earldom of Pembroke, the Princes of Deheubarth had seized it seventy years earlier and held it ever since. Now, at the head of a force composed of William’s own vassals and those who owed scutage, backed by a contingent found for him by the King, he marched to recover the lost fortress.

  William had met the Princes of Gwynedd and Powys at Worcester in July and knew of the internal dissension among the Princes of Deheubarth, Maelgwyn ap Rhys having been engaged in civil strife with his nephews. With the year far advanced, William nevertheless brooked no delay, eager to make his compact with John and ease his troubled conscience. Besides, his failure to relieve Chateau Galliard had stung him and he needed some feat of arms to re-establish his reputation for prowess and recover the esteem of John in the face of a clique of the barons who, though no friends of the King, were happy enough to see the uppish ‘Marshal’ brought low.

  As the host descended yet another hill, slipping and sliding on the wet track, William drew aside, out of the line of march, and allowed the troops to pass him as though in review. Whether mounted or not, most advanced with eyes downcast, shielding their faces from the driving rain, and they did not see William until they drew abreast of him. A ripple of recognition passed along the sodden column as m
en recognised the big man on his destrier. Although most marched in miserable silence, William heard the grumblers and the swearers, noting their sudden silence as they caught sight of him. At several points he rode a few yards with them before again pulling up, repeating the process over and over, until he had reached the rear, commanded by his nephew, John Marshal.

  As he accompanied each detachment he spoke to them, encouraging them and promising them a short campaign and wine at the end of the day’s march. A dry bed was beyond his powers to guarantee, but his words had some effect and John Marshal exchanged a grin nearly as wide as John de Earley’s, when William fell in beside him and outlined his plan.

  ‘This rain is excellent cover, then,’ remarked John when he had heard all William had to say.

  ‘Let us hope so. That and the darkness of this coming night.’

  Few in the war-host slept that night although the rain eased in the small hours of the morning. Sent on ahead to reconnoitre, John de Earley reported the way open and so William roused his force and, long before the winter’s dawn, marched on. Intent on surprise he knew he could push his men for two or three days before the vomiting sickness or hunger took hold of them.

  Low cloud concealed their descent from the Prescelly Mountains and no-one reported their coming as they closed the castle on its rock between the Teifi and the Plysgog Rivers. In the last hour of their advance, William ordered the scaling ladders brought forward from the small train of light-weight siege engines and had them carried forward by the mounted men-at-arms.

  ‘Get you up ahead, John,’ he shouted at De Earley, urging his tired men forward in one last effort as they came in sight of their objective. Riding up and down the line, his sword drawn, William was a fury of activity and succeeded in galvanising most of his force, though a number had dropped by the wayside in the last hours of that gruelling march.

  Those that stayed the course took heart on coming within sight of Cilgerran and William was obliged to ride hard to recover his position with the van as they ran and rode the last half-mile. Only then did the teulu of Maelgwyn see the approach of their doom, too late to offer more than a token resistance as the scaling ladders were flung up against the ramparts and a forlorn hope of the enemy stormed their defences, swiftly securing the barbican and throwing open the gates. As John de Earley’s mesnie clattered under the archway and called upon the castellan to surrender they found themselves confronted with unarmed men, or men who wore neither mail nor hauberk and bore only a hurriedly snatched-up sword.

  The outnumbered and surprised garrison capitulated quickly, calling for quarter which William, riding up at the head of his own mesnie, his great standard with its red lion rampant fluttering in the damp air, granted immediately.

  ‘Tell your men to lay down their arms and we shall harm no-body,’ he told the castellan, adding an invitation to dine that evening at his own board and of his own food, but at the behest of the victors.

  Within two hours William’s entire war-host was warming itself within the keep, laughing, eating and drinking at the expense of the Princes of Deheubarth, and extolling the brilliance of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, who had taken back what was rightfully his.

  In the castellan’s chamber William called for John de Earley, pen, ink and parchment. ‘Write me two letters, John,’ William said, beginning to dictate. The first was to King John, informing him that Cilgerran had fallen to his arms, the other was to Isabelle. Then he called John Marshal to him.

  ‘My Lord,’ complained his nephew ruefully, ‘you left nothing but the pickings to me.’

  ‘No, John, but you shall have the ruling of this place until the spring, for I must to the King. See that you send out a strong party to bring in those men who fell by the wayside. I would not have them taken by the resentful Welsh.’ John nodded his understanding. ‘I shall have you relieved in the spring,’ William went on, ‘when we have re-ordered our forces, I intend you to pass over into Ireland and ensure my fiefs are secure in Leinster. I shall have Thomas write to you in due course, but I tell you now in order that you may prepare such of our present force that owes myself allegiance. I must, perforce, return to the King what is his before myself crossing into Normandy. Do you write your report to the Lady Isabelle at Striguil…’

  After William had left the chamber to carry out a survey of the castle, John looked at De Earley. ‘The man exhausts me,’ he said, wiping his brow as he poured a cup of wine.

  De Earley grinned. ‘That is his secret, my Lord Marshal. Note his capacity for detail; the large and the small, nothing escape his notice,’ he said admiringly.

  ‘But Leinster…’ John Marshal pulled a face, ‘I hear Geoffrey FitzRobert does not enjoy his time there.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ De Earley remarked consolingly, ‘but I hear his private fortune grows there.’

  ***

  William reached the King’s Court at Clere in Hampshire by mid-December, laying one of the keys of Cilgerran Castle symbolically at John’s feet as he made his obeisance. William had brought Isabelle with him and it seemed, that Christmas, that John had forgiven him for his dubious conduct. As a sop to his conscience, William sent De Earley with a sum of money to De Meulan, who was now existing on royal charity alone.

  In April 1205, with John’s permission under the guise of a second embassy, William crossed over to France with letters of licence to King Philippe, who lay at Anet, once the scene of William’s triumphs in the tourney. He presented the documents kneeling at the King’s feet.

  ‘You come alone this time, my Lord Pembroke,’ Philippe observed, smiling slyly. ‘I hear that God has called Robert of Leicester to account for his sins.’ Philippe crossed himself. ‘And may the Lord have mercy upon him.’

  ‘Amen,’ responded William, following the King’s example.

  ‘And the time of your oath-taking is upon us…’

  ‘Aye, Your Grace.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said the King slowly, ‘in the cathedral of Notre Dame, you shall do me fealty for your lands in France.’

  William’s heart missed a beat. There were others present in the King’s chamber; two clerks wrote at a table, his Chamberlain stood with his rod of office close to the throne, An attendant baron or two idled further off, in nominal attendance upon their King; he could not challenge Philippe, yet he must do something to avoid the trap he suddenly realised the French King had laid for him and upon the brink of which he now teetered.

  ‘I come humbly to do Your Grace homage,’ William said with quiet but contradictory emphasis.

  ‘You come to obey,’ the King said, rising and dismissing William as he swept from the presence-chamber, the two barons falling in behind him. One of them looked back with a grin and William recognised Guillaume des Roches.

  ***

  When he returned to England, William found the Court knew all about his humiliation at the feet of King Philippe Augustus and, in paying his respects to John, it was clear that John knew all about it too.

  ‘By God’s bones, my Lord of Pembroke, this time you have surpassed yourself in your arrogance!’ John roared at him.

  ‘My Lord King, I can tell you in all honestly that I have done nothing against you! What I did, may it please you, I did with your leave…’

  ‘By my leave? D’you think me a fool? Then that I gave you a licence to swear fealty to the enemy of my house, and now that you can brush aside such an oath as mere homage? Eh?’ John paused, cast about for a moment, then added: ‘By the Christ, I gave you no such licence!’

  William stood aghast. While the King was right in claiming he had given him no licence to swear fealty, he had given him permission to do Philippe homage for his French lands. Now John seemed to be denying even the existence of a limited authorisation. For a man who could neither read nor write much more than his name, William had no real idea of exactly what the King had given him. It seemed to William in that brief moment that his sins had found him out and that he had indeed far, far over-reached himself. Th
en John terminated the interview.

  ‘Get out of my sight!’ he snarled, ‘and consider the fate of others; the times for serving two masters are past. Ask Robert of Meulan what befalls those who try it…’ William hesitated, prompting John to roar: ‘Get out before I call the guards to have you thrown out and the clerks to draw up an instrument of banishment.’

  ***

  A few weeks later, in June, William was summoned to return to Court at Winchester where most of the barony of England had assembled. Unknown to him the King had for some months been assembling the ships and men for a major expeditionary force to sail across the Channel and recover the heartlands of the House of Anjou. Huge sums had been expended upon the hire of mercenaries and the chartering of ships, a fleet of which lay in Portsmouth Harbour. Now John mustered his chivalry to give his final orders, only to find a great number of the barons opposed to the expedition, fearing that in attempting to recover what he had lost, the King would lose what he had.

  Thwarted at this late hour, after laying out considerable sums in preparation, John was in no mood for debate. In a cold rage he resolved to command his vassal Lords, one by one, to serve him in France. He began with William, who demurred.

  ‘My Liege, as you well know, I cannot fight for you in France being in that country King Philippe’s man. Command me anywhere else and you shall find me…’