William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series

by Richard Woodman

  ‘I am too old for games,’ he grumbled to Isabelle. ‘Our boys will be safe enough…’

  But if he had thought a quiet life awaited him in Leinster he was mistaken. Despite the iron grip of his old comrade-in-arms and chief bailiff Geoffrey FitzRobert, William had found himself trapped, for the competing claims and internal squabbles of the hard-bitten Norman nobility in Ireland, whose writ derived not merely from conquest over the Celtic chiefs, but from John himself who had once been declared Lord of Ireland by Henry Curtmantle, his father, meant that even in Leinster they claimed a feudal loyalty that entirely by-passed the parvenu William, whose powers were derived entirely through his wife and would return to her upon his death, should he predecease her. And besides the squabbling Anglo-Norman Barony, whatever appearances to the contrary, the Irish chieftains remained unsubdued, while the episcopal power of the Bishops, owing allegiance directly to Rome, was ever a further source of ferment.

  Fearful of what hornet’s nest William might create, and thanks to the machinations of Meilyr FitzHenry and other Barons close to him, by the end of 1207 he had been summoned home by King John. Along with William John had recalled Meilyr and a host of knights. The feast of Michaelmas approached and with it the chills and rains of autumn. Moreover the gales of the Equinox threatened a quick passage to England, but he was anxious to contact his castellans and constables who held his castles in South Wales and the southern March, and eager to learn of his two sons, William and Richard – now both hostages at John’s Court. Most of all he feared further meddling in Ireland when his back was turned and while Meilyr was to accompany him across the sea, Meilyr’s influence and intrigues were sufficiently well-known to give little comfort to William by his presence in England. To further weaken William’s hand, Geoffrey FitzRobert was ill and it was to the Countess Isabelle that power now devolved.

  Thus it was to remind those of his vassals who remained in Leinster of their duty that he had called the present assembly and now he cleared his throat, holding out his right hand which was taken by his wife. Isabelle rose to her feet, obviously pregnant, smiling graciously as William formally presented her as was prescribed by protocol.

  ‘My Lords and gentlemen, many of you will know that His Grace the King has summoned me to attend his presence and in my absence the Lady Isabelle will act in my stead. May I remind you of the duty you owe to her, the grand-daughter of Dermot MacMurrough, King of Leinster. She is your Countess by birth, not in my name, but in that of her father, Richard Strongbow, Earl of Clare, who first enfeoffed you. Since she is heavy with child I charge you to guard her well and in doing so you will do that service to me that is also your meet and bounden duty, both to myself and to the King. For myself, I shall not brook disloyalty, for loyalty I prize above all other chivalric virtues.’

  He stared about him as they responded with their declaration of loyalty, a mumbling crowd of men whose faces bore a variety of expressions: of obedience, acquiescence, indifference and, he thought, dissembling. As he withdrew with Isabelle to their private quarters he remarked: ‘I did not like what I saw conveyed upon the countenances of many of them, still less could I hear sincerity in their voices.’

  To which his wife, ever stoic, replied: ‘They will do as they will do, husband. I shall be safe enough. It is my sons for whom I feel the greater fear.’

  ‘John will not harm them…’

  ‘He harmed Arthur of Brittany and is intemperate enough.’

  ‘I think him more circumspect after the loss of his Norman lands.’

  ‘Nevertheless, my Lord, I would have you watch your back. A man of John’s stamp is never to be entirely relied upon.’

  That evening John D’Earley, the closest of his mesnie and a knight banneret in his own right, came to William.

  ‘My Lord, I am fearful of the outcome of this summons of the King’s…’

  ‘You have been talking to the Lady Isabelle…’

  ‘Aye, my Lord,’ D’Earley snapped back, his broad and usually untroubled face wearing an expression of extreme anxiety, ‘but I can think for myself…’

  ‘So what are you thinking for yourself, John?’ asked William, divesting himself of his footwear and bending to fondle the ears of his favourite wolf-hound.

  ‘That my Lord would be wise to take hostages from among those…’

  ‘No, no, no, John,’ William waved his friend’s advice aside, ‘most are to accompany me to England…’

  ‘What about the Chief Justiciar?’

  ‘Him too, though he leaves a following here.’ There was a touch of misgiving in William’s voice.

  ‘Aye my Lord. He does. And FitzRobert ails. There are those who say he will not live long.’ D’Earley’s tone was emphatic.

  ‘And you must watch them, John

  *

  Five weeks later, when November’s frosts lay heavy upon the land, William and his large entourage arrived at Woodstock, near Oxford, where the King’s Court then lay. John made them welcome with an exaggerated bestowal of largesse that split William’s mesnie. To his dismay and public humiliation, and in a process that lasted a few weeks as the Court moved on to Tewkesbury, the King ripped the heart out of William’s larger military following, his intimate mesnie and his very family. His nephew, John Marshal, along with Isabelle’ brother-in-law, Philip of Prendergast, were both given honours and titles, the younger Marshal being entitled Marshal of Ireland and given a land-grant. They, John declared in a very public snub to William, together with Meilyr FitzHenry, were the chief pillars of his trust in Ireland. Among the other knights and Barons who had supported William against Meilyr and who John now equally conspicuously detached from Earl William, were the Marcher lords William of Barry, David and Eustace de la Roche, Gilbert d’Angle, Robert FitzMartin de Cemaes, Robert FitzRichard de Haverford and Adam de Hereford. Although almost impossible to refuse, acceptance of the King’s grants and gifts amounted to a wholesale defection of all those who had accompanied William from Kilkenny.

  It was brought gleefully to William’s ears that one of his courtiers asked the King why he had not offered John D’Earley some inducement to abandon the ageing paladin, only to be told that he, the King, had no wish to find himself infected of a mange that only too closely clung to an old hound’s skin. In fact William had left a reluctant D’Earley in Ireland in support of the Lady Isabelle, charged with the defence of half of Leinster, but there could be no doubt of John’s disregard for William, exposing him politically and militarily, leaving him to recall Isabelle’s – and D’Earley’s - warnings.

  Faced with this impasse William affected a supreme indifference, maintaining a cool courtesy towards all that at first was seen as folly, as a too-easily given acquiescence to John’s whim, but – as John’s volatile character played out in vacillating policies – many came to appreciate William’s quiet dignity and restraint as a mark of great courtesy.

  To his private consternation William also received word from his wife that Meilyr FitzHenry’s adherents had risen in revolt almost the moment the sails of William’s ships had vanished over the horizon. Meilyr’s troops had carried out a series of chevauchées, raiding William’s lands and taking the port and borough of New Ross where William had been busy establishing a presence. Hearing of his men’s successes Meilyr, in presenting them to the King, suggested William’s officers, chief among them John D’Earley, be recalled to England, a plan to which the King acceded. He also granted the Chief Justiciar permission to return himself to Ireland with a free hand to secure the whole of Leinster in the King’s name, cutting William out of the political picture and disinheriting the Lady Isabelle

  Not knowing that William already knew of the action taken by Meilyr’s men, the Chief Justiciar came armed into William’s presence to inform him of the turn events had taken.

  ‘My Lord Marshal,’ FitzHenry began smoothly, regarding William with some contempt as he sat dictating to his personal clerk, Thomas, ‘I am directed by the King’s Grace to inform you
…’

  Waving Thomas and his papers away, William did not trouble himself to rise, but took a wrinkled apple from a bowl of fruit set before him and bit into it with a crunch that interrupted the triumphant Meilyr.

  ‘That you have broken your promise of loyalty, taken my land and the borough of New Town, and have had the insolence to carry out raids and make war upon a peaceful land.’ William said, munching his way noisily through the pippin, unfazed by Meilyr’s malevolent bombast, then tossed aside the core for his hounds to fight over and looked up at his enemy.

  ‘You are a false fellow, FitzHenry, and your society displeases me. As you are about to leave for Ireland, I would take it as a kindness, if such a thing exists with you, to absent yourself from my company without delay.’

  For a moment Meilyr stood non-plussed, then he retorted, ‘I have heard the Lady Isabelle’s heart may be laid siege to, having only a cur to defend it.’

  ‘Get out,’ William said quietly, ‘get out before I strike you dead.’

  It was a bold remark to make to a man fully armed. William’s sword lay upon a side table and had he made a move to seize it, FitzHenry could most certainly have cut William down. But William made no move to rise and simply sat confronting his declared enemy, a look of utter contempt upon his face. Meilyr FitzHenry had no option but to retreat, for the dishonour of attacking a seated, unarmed man would redound to his ultimate discredit and so he forbore the temptation.

  William gave FitzHenry a few moments to clear his chambers and then sent for Thomas. ‘That despatch I was dictating, bring it hither that I may make my sign manual upon it.’

  Thomas hung his head. ‘My Lord, knowing its gravity, I sent it at once, before the Chief Justiciar closed the gates. Forgive me…’

  William smiled his satisfaction. ‘There is nothing to forgive, Thomas, you did right by me and I thank you for it. Come, pour some wine. By-the-by, who took it?’

  ‘Edgar, my Lord.’

  William frowned, his mood changing. ‘He that is but lately come into my service?’ It seemed to William that Thomas’s initiative, welcome though it was, might have been placed in entirely the wrong hands. He recalled the man as not having been much in evidence, a man of Saxon blood, if William was not mistaken, well enough looking, to be sure, with a frank and open appearance, but with a withered arm. A man with something of the cloister about him, and not enough of the physique for a confidential go-between.

  ‘Forgive me my Lord,’ Thomas said again, ‘but he is known to me, my eldest sister’s eldest son. Knowing he could read and write, I brought him hence to find a place for him. But for his mis-shapenness he would be fitted for one of your guards, my Lord, for he is both a good swordsman and excellent horseman and therefore fitted for such a task as I have laid upon him.’

  ‘He fights with his left hand?’

  ‘Aye, my Lord, and writes with it too, and in a good, clear script.’

  William regarded his clerk with a shrewd eye. ‘You quietly taught him his penmanship and ability with letters did you not?’

  Thomas flushed and looked down.

  ‘With a view to insinuating him into my household…’

  ‘My Lord!’ Thomas protested, looking-up, but William was smiling at him. ‘Come where is that wine? If the fellow proves as you commend him, we shall make good use of him, I have no doubt.’

  *

  But that was the last happy thought William had that long winter. Meilyr and his entourage crossed over into Leinster shortly in early January, after Epiphany, and by the middle of the month a series of furious gales cut off all communication with Ireland. William was obliged to trail in the King’s wake, neither seeking John’s approbation, nor acting with anything other than a strict propriety. He sent and received messages to and from his remaining castellans, bailiffs and constables, those whom John had left him in a slow reduction of the Earl’s powers and he also made peace with his nephew, John Marshal, who approached his uncle in secret, eager for a private understanding, but the accommodation – welcome though it was – brought no real consolation: what a man could do once, he could do again.

  In many ways the increasingly open hostility of the King made it easier for William to remain aloof. It betrayed John’s fear of him, yet William knew it goaded the King; on the other hand it offered him no pretext for directly attacking William. Instead John confiscated the Leinster lands of John D’Earley, whom John knew was as close to William as any son, informing William by letter that his orders recalling D’Earley to England, sent by way of FitzHenry, had been ignored, an intolerable situation for the King. But William held his counsel close and refused to react. Not the least of his reasons was to forbear from giving the King the slightest pretext to take back more of his own and his vassals’ lands than he had already done.

  The King’s arbitrary and inconstant character could not cope with a stony wall of polite indifference. Being a man of violent intemperance, William’s cool acceptance of the status quo riled him. Whilst William offered John every sign of obedience and deference, a display of a politesse that, while observers quailed at the outcome, earned William greater and greater respect for his courtliness, it inflamed the King to that petty, petulant impotence for which he was so well-known.

  Matters came to something of a head at Guildford, at the end of January, when John came across William walking quietly with his clerk. William, seeing the King, stopped to make his obeisance. Instead of passing by, John walked up to William and, without greeting, asked in an insinuating tone of voice William knew well: ‘My Lord Marshal, hast heard the news from Leinster?’

  ‘No Your Grace, I have heard nothing.’

  ‘I am better informed then,’ John sneered, ‘Kilkenny is under siege, the castle closely invested. Your household knights, in an attempt to relieve the Lady Isabelle within it, have been ambushed and cut to pieces. John D’Earley was mortally wounded and is now dead and the Lady Isabelle must shortly come to her senses and surrender the castle of Kilkenny…’

  John peered up at William’s immobile features, expectantly awaiting a reaction he might have rehearsed when at stool or in some other private place of meditation, but William, confident that no such news had crossed from Ireland, stared back at the King. His face flushing with a growing anger, John prodded William.

  ‘Well, what think you of this intelligence?’

  William shook his head gravely.

  ‘My Lord King, the death of D’Earley and his companions is indeed tragic for both of us, for they were your knights as much as they were mine, as obedient to me as I have been to you these last months. If Kilkenny is under siege it is being held against rebels to your Crown and my Lady’s authority under it.’

  John opened his mouth to retort then snapped it shut and turned away, muttering. William bowed as the train of courtiers followed their master.

  ‘God’s blood, the man tries my patience,’ William murmured to himself and catching the eye of the faithful Thomas. ‘Did you hear what the King said, Thomas?’

  ‘Aye, my Lord. We would assuredly have heard something if there was substance to it,’ Thomas said, reassuringly. William nodded.

  *

  When, on Ash Wednesday, late that February, the weather abated sufficiently for news to finally reach the Court, William’s old heart beat with a quiet satisfaction. Unable quite to believe the first rumoured tittle-tattle, he had Thomas send word to his nephew Edgar, now fully acknowledged as William’s confidential messenger, who, under the pretext of carrying letters of administration into the Earl’s Pembrokeshire domain, rode for the little port of Solva to determine the truth. Edgar executed his commission well, returning with the full story before it was common knowledge at Court, though the King had known it for some days, deliberately concealing it.

  Ushered into William’s presence, Edgar, still in his travelling clothes, his cloak spattered by the rains of late winter, rubbing his withered arm and aching from hours in the saddle, bowed to William. Despite hi
s woebegone appearance, however, it was clear to William and the ever attentive Thomas that Edgar’s tidings were good, for the man’s eyes gleamed.

  ‘What news man? Come, a glass of wine…’

  ‘I thank thee, my Lord, but later,’ replied the under-clerk his voice imbued with excitement. ‘My Lord, the Lady Isabelle has Meilyr FitzHenry a prisoner in her keeping in Kilkenny, the promise of his son as a hostage and the promises of others disloyal to your Lordship to surrender their sons hostage to the Countess. Philip de Prendergast and…’

  ‘That is good news indeed,’ William broke in, ‘But what of John D’Earley? Tell me of him?’

  ‘He is safe, my Lord…’

  ‘Thanks be to God,’ interjected William piously crossing himself. ‘He and my Lady have been much in my thoughts and more in my prayers of late.’

  ‘Would my Lord hear more?’

  ‘Aye, if you have more to tell.’

  ‘Oh aye, my Lord, for it seems that matters passed thus: My Lord FitzHenry and his force, having been delayed by contrary weather, arrived late in Ireland with the King’s order to Messire D’Earley and his close companions to return to England. As you well know, my Lord Marshal, since my Lord FitzHenry came hither with my Lord at the fall of the leaf last, FitzHenry’s following rose and made war against the forces my Lord left in Leinster, enjoying some success. However, during the winter months, D’Earley and others, including Lord de Lacy, taking counsel of the Lady Isabelle, contended with the rebels for control of the country.