William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series

by Richard Woodman

  ‘When, therefore Meilyr FitzHenry landed he had one of his mesnie convey to John D’Earley, my Lord de Lacy and the other Barons charged with the defence of Leinster, their recall from the King, D’Earley rejected the letters.’

  ‘Ho!’ Exclaimed William, his attention fixed upon the under-clerk’s animated face. Thomas had chosen well. The man impressed him, as did so many who could read and write with fluency, for they seemed capable of grasping and ordering facts in a way which often astonished William for whom they formed nothing but patterns in his brain. He could ‘read’ the country and often divine the intentions of his enemies in the field with an impressive prescience; he could devise strategies, order a line of march and organise military stores, reinforcements, remounts, even fire-wood and watering places; he could contrive an advantageous order of battle, even sniff out a plot at Court and see dissembling in a man’s eyes, but the precise marshalling of facts in such a close and ordered narrative by means of the aides memoire that he knew Thomas maintained, was a skill of the literate which he both admired and envied.

  ‘Is there more, Master Edgar?’ he enquired with an almost boyish eagerness now that his anxieties regarding Isabelle and D’Earley were laid to rest.

  ‘Aye, my Lord.’

  ‘Then tell it, tell it.’

  ‘It is reported that on receiving FitzHenry’s emissary, Thomas Bloet…’

  ‘Brother to Ralph Bloet of my mesnie and half-brother to FitzHenry himself through Nest ap Iorwerth ap Owain of Deheubarth?’

  ‘The same, my Lord.’

  ‘God’s wounds, what a tangle, but pray go on.’

  “Sir,” D’Earley said to Bloet, “Contrary to your expectations, the land does not lie at your feet. We have several knights of your master’s household held prisoner awaiting ransom and his garrisons under siege.”

  “You will lose your lands in England if you defy the King,” Bloet apparently interposed, to which John D’Earley responded:

  “Better to lose land of our own than to lose our Lord’s land to whose defence we have sworn and by the doing of which we shall lose honour and the love of our Lord of Pembroke. Besides,” D’Earley, had then added, apparently dissembling, “I see more of FitzHenry’s hand in this than that of the King who did ever love my Lord the Marshal for his steadfastness…”

  “This is the King’s seal,” Meilyr’s man had expostulated, showing the charge upon which he met them.

  “Perhaps it is,’ D’Earley is said to have responded, peering at it, “I would not know, by my troth, but my Lady, the Countess Isabelle, has charged us to hold these lands in the name of our Lord, and I am bound by my oaths to My Lady and my Lord, to uphold their legitimate rights until my Lord, who resides at the King’s Court and owes His Grace allegiance, orders me otherwise.”

  ‘Having turned FitzHenry’s man Bloet away, D’Earley awaited the reaction, ordering up his forces to cover the landing place whereupon, two hours later Philip de Prendergast arrived and, seeing which way the wind blew, let it be known that he would come to terms. The following day others among the chief knights of Leinster, for fear of losing their lands, and knowing the King’s hold on them was weaker than their own, made their composition with the Lady Isabelle, some with a son, others bereft of offspring with their younger brothers. ‘’Tis said Kilkenny castle and the Lacy’s strongholds harbour more rebels than loyalists,’ Edgar quipped as he brought his narrative to its conclusion.

  ‘Well,’ remarked William himself pouring wine for the under-clerk and a second pot for Thomas, ‘I am indebted to you, Master Edgar, for my mind was much troubled on these matters. I shall sleep the easier tonight knowing that the Lady Isabelle and John D’Earley are safe, though I do conjure you both, as you love me, to show no sign of this triumph, even after the King hears of it.’

  King John heard of it a week later, summoning William from Chepstow to Bristol, and asking him whether he had heard anything from Ireland. William dissembled, replying that he had heard nothing from the Lady Isabelle, which of itself was true, telling the King, ‘Sire, when I departed from Ireland I knew of no man who intended war against me and mine, nor against the King’s Grace.’

  John stared at William, whose bland expression gave nothing away, then smiled. Happily Isabelle’s dispatch caught up with him two days later, by which time the King had shrugged off the mishap as of no consequence. William’s reference to the King’s Grace implied all had been attempted by rebels, that as far as he was concerned Meilyr FitzHenry had acted falsely and against the natural order of things, giving John sufficient pretext to resolve the matter by a formal ceremony of demanding Leinster from William and then reconferring it upon him. This demarché reduced William’s powers a little, allowing the King a small sense of victory, but Meilyr FitzHenry was deprived of Offaly which was returned to William.

  FitzHenry’s fall from grace was permanent; he was deprived of his office as Chief Justiciar and retired to his estates but William was exhausted by these troubles. He sought the King’s permission to retire to Leinster.

  ‘My Lord King, I would go thither and keep thy peace. I am old and of little use to Your Grace and would fain settle Leinster and see order in that rich and promising land.’

  John tugged at his beard, regarding William through narrowed eyes, then he thrust out his right hand with its regal ring. William bent and kissed it.

  ‘Go,’ John said dismissively, ‘and may God or the Devil go with you. We shall have no further use for you in our Kingdom of England for your bones are old and deserving of rest.’

  William drew back, made his obeisance, turned on his heel and was gone.

  *

  With his Countess beside him, William sat in his chair of state in the hall of Kilkenny castle and regarded the two men before him. Arraigned behind William were a number of his chief Barons and knights, among them John D’Earley, his broad, open features split by his famous grin as he too stared at Meilyr FitzHenry and his heir. Their heads bowed in every outward appearance of solemn contrition, father and son awaited William’s expression of displeasure.

  ‘Is there any person present that wishes to speak for this man?’ William asked formally, whereupon Countess Isabelle stirred beside him.

  ‘My Lord, he is false and besides the King, betrayed both you and me…’

  ‘I did not betray His Grace the King,’ FitzHenry broke in, his head coning up, his eyes ablaze with protest.

  ‘Say you that you were in connivance with His Grace?’ Isabelle interjected sharply before William could respond.

  Perceiving he had been entrapped, FitzHenry cast about vainly for support; there was none, for while everyone present knew the untrustworthy King played a double game, what always mattered in such circumstances was the moment, and at that moment he, Meilyr FitzHenry was a lamb surrounded by wolves. Having opened his mouth in vain, FitzHenry clamped it shut again.

  My Lord FitzHenry,’ William said in a mild and judicial tone, ‘the best that can be said of your conduct is that you have been misled. I should not be here had I not come with the King’s full confidence and his royal blessing. You were here at Michaelmas last and swore your allegiance to my Lady in my absence and, even though you accompanied me into England, you had laid a plot and rebellion against her and for that I must hold you responsible. You shall leave your son in our custody against you continuing good behaviour and retire to your lands, as for breaking your word I have here,’ William broke off and motioned to Thomas who rose from the table at which he recorded the council’s meeting and stepped forward holding a parchment, ‘an instrument surrendering to me as of this moment, your fortress at Dunamase, and thereafter...’ William let FitzHenry peruse the conditions of his release.

  Meilyr’s took the document from Thomas and scanned it, his face draining of all colour and his hand shaking as he read it to the end. When he had finished he looked up at William.

  ‘My Lord Marshal,’ he protested, his voice cracking, ‘this cannot be… All my
lands to you upon my death? My son an alleged bastard? This is infamous…’

  ‘No, FitzHenry,’ William’s voice was now hard, ‘this is rough justice, for you requited my love with rebellion, planned and carried out behind my back, while you pretended amity in my company. You may thank me for my leniency and that I do not take your lands within your own lifetime. As for the alleged bastardy of your son here, it is commonly spoken of and, if it is infamous, I can only say that many hold it to be true. It may be that you disregard him. Let me see to his future; you have my word I shall treat him as if he were my own for I know what it is to be held a hostage against a father’s good conduct. Now, do you go in peace, for know you this, the King my master has confirmed my Lordship of Leinster. If you live quietly I shall not trouble you beyond your feudal duty to supply me in men-at-arms, but if you seek alliance with any other Lord or Chief in Ireland, Wales or England, I shall utterly destroy you. Now, your oath upon this, your sign upon this document and the hand of your son.’

  ‘That was well done husband,’ Isabelle remarked after FitzHenry had withdrawn and left his ten year old boy, in William’s custody.

  ‘I cannot stand bad faith, Belle,’ he replied, calling for wine.

  ‘I would that you had treated all that followed him in like manner,’ she added, ‘for I trust none of them.’

  ‘Well, we shall see…’

  ‘This is not a quiet place, William. Would that it was, but no-man can settle here without offending his neighbour and conquest is not enough, one must hold what one has with an iron hand.’

  CHAPTER TWO - THE INCONSTANT KING 1209 - 1214

  Isabelle’s words were no warning; they took on the character of a prophecy. As William sought to ground his administration into the feudal order of his lands in England and the Welsh March, he found himself in arms against an uprising of the indigenous Irish led by Ailbe Ómáelmuaid, the Cistercian Bishop of Fearns and a former associate of King John from the days when John had been Count of Mortmain. Such was the ferocity of William’s campaigning and his prejudice against the Bishop, that Ailbe successfully sought a ban of excommunication against William, an Interdict that would follow William for the rest of his life. William felt the excommunication keenly, but his preoccupations were temporal, rather than spiritual, for by now he had little sympathy with anything he saw as disloyalty or disruption of what he conceived to be the King’s peace, believing that as Lord of Leinster under John’s hand, he was bound to supress all disorder.

  In part this uncompromising response was engendered by the fact that his two eldest sons were in the King’s hands, but he was also tired of war and so, when compelled to wage it, did so with a savagery intended to bring it the quicker to a termination. He could, he felt, make his peace with the church later.

  But such a neat, self-serving policy received a strong check late in 1209 when in spite of the winter gales a fellow Marcher Lord, William de Briouze, washed-up upon the Wicklow strand with his household and most of his mesnie. De Briouze had married into the family of Hugh de Lacy, Lord of Ulster, whose support of Isabelle during the rebellion of FitzHenry’s making, William appreciated. Thus he and Isabelle welcomed De Briouze and his entourage to Kilkenny. It was only after this gesture that William learned that De Briouze had foolishly and precipitately risen against the King and that he harboured a rebel in his own stronghold.

  The news infuriated William and he privately raged in his chamber, Isabelle white-faced before him as he paced up and down in a frenzy.

  ‘I am most assuredly compromised!’

  ‘My Lord, still you ire, ’twill do you no good, you will bring on an apoplexy!’

  ‘God forgive me but an apoplexy would do me more honour than this impasse. I must, of necessity pitch De Briouze out and send him north to his kinsmen in Carrickfergus…’

  ‘Have you intelligence of the King’s intentions?’ his wife asked.

  ‘Do I need it?’ William stopped his pacing and ran his right hand through his mane of grey hair. ‘By all the Saints, John will be here when the season opens…’

  ‘And you must join him. Better still, William, that you pass over to Pembroke and receive him there if he is coming into Ireland.’

  William nodded, calming himself. ‘You speak with wisdom, Belle, but oh what a fool De Briouze is…can he have fallen so far in the King’s favour that he must make war against his Liege Lord?’

  ‘Not all men are like you, husband,’ Isabelle remarked drily.

  ‘Huh,’ William grunted. He walked to the narrow lancet in the keep and stared out, seeing nothing, his mind seething. Then he turned back into the chamber. ‘I must send Edgar to warn me of the King’s coming…’

  *

  William bent his knee before John at Pembroke Castle in June 1210. He had come hither with a handful of his mesnie to welcome the King and assure him of his loyalty.

  ‘But you harboured a rebel, My Lord of Pembroke,’ John said, tugging his beard in secret delight that he had the upper hand.

  ‘Unknowingly, my Lord King.’

  ‘Unknowingly? Come, come, does a man turn-up in mid-winter with his whole household and convince a man of your intelligence that he is taking a hunting trip into Ireland without you suspecting some other reason?’

  ‘Your Grace, the King’s cause, upheld by the Countess Isabelle in my absence, had some obligations to my Lord De Lacy of Ulster. It was for this reason that William De Briouze was offered hospitality. When I knew the reason for his leaving of England I ordered him to leave and am here to protect my loyalty.’

  ‘Words, words, words; you were ever good with words, Marshal,’ John snarled, using that most junior of all William’s titles, calling for wine and waving William out of his presence.

  William was furious but could see no purpose in protesting. He knew John’s temper and the Angevin character. Besides, he was in no mood for further prolonged conflict and wanted only to return quietly to Isabelle’s side.

  William accompanied John’s army back to Waterford where it landed, the largest Anglo-Norman force ever seen in Ireland. John marched on Kilkenny and quartered this vast assembly of eight hundred and ten knights and men-at-arms with over one thousand foot-soldiers upon William until he was ready to march north. Before he departed he summoned William and, his face a mask of vindictiveness, took from him the keys of Dunamase Castle.

  ‘You obtained the place with ease,’ the King remarked, ‘and lose it likewise.’

  *

  John’s campaign in Ireland was among the few military successes of his troubled reign, though it was not without set-backs and left a legacy of hatred. He took Carrickfergus and scattered De Briouze and his Lacy allies before marching on Dublin where, in the full flush of victory, he again accused William of disloyalty. Now, however, William was indignant; he had supported the King’s arms in his Irish foray and had given no cause for John to suspect him. It was, as Isabelle had pointed out but a few weeks earlier, as if William’s great age and experience, his long service to the House of Anjou, and his steadfastness, acted like an itch to a man of John’s inconstancy.

  ‘You are a reproach to him, husband, and while he knows he would be a fool to destroy you, he needs must keep you at a distance for fear he relies upon you too much and thereby displays his own weakness.’

  ‘That is cold consolation,’ William responded, slipping into bed next to her. ‘He has summoned me to Dublin.’

  ‘Render to him that service that he requires,’ Isabelle advised. William nodded.

  But the King’s new charge of bad faith irked him when he was confronted with it in front of the assembled Barons. He bit his tongue, even as the King demanded as a hostage the person of ‘he whom you love like a son, that mangy cur John D’Earley’.

  William was about to protest the injustice of the King’s extortion, but he recalled Isabelle’s words and some sixth sense warned him that this was not the moment to cross John. Instead he drew himself up and bowed to the King.


  ‘As God is my witness, Your Grace, I challenge any man to contest my guilt of this charge in armed combat.’ He had thrown down the gauntlet in such a way before and, once again, the response was the same. No-one moved to uphold John’s honour, a fact not lost on the King who glowered at his Barons and called for more wine.

  Nevertheless, William was obliged to acquiesce. The best he could do was to ensure D’Earley knew that he would seek to make his friend’s incarceration as bearable as possible as John was sent a prisoner to Nottingham.

  But while King John returned to England and William withdrew to Kilkenny, the King left his new Justiciar, John de Gray, the Bishop of Norwich, to harry the Irish chieftains out of little more than pure malice. When the Irish King of Connacht refused to give up hostages to John, De Gray led a mighty and brutal chevauchée into Connacht’s lands, only to provoke an equally fearsome uprising led by Cormac O’Melachlin. O’Melachlin twice defeated the Bishop in open battle and went on a bloody rampage of his own at the end of which several Anglo-Norman fortresses lay in smoking ruins.

  William took no part in these unhappy affairs, though the tide of disruption and displacement affected Kilkenny. He had lost his chief confidant in England with the death of Hubert FitzWalter, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and despite his private desire to rusticate in his Irish lands, he had hoped to do so in some semblance of tranquillity. The confiscation of most of William’s Welsh privileges and possessions by a suspicious King John, the hostage taking of John D’Earley and the continued holding of his two sons, William and Richard, gnawed at William and brewed discord between man and wife. Though Isabelle’s concerns for her boys was, as William constantly assured her, needless, he had had word that the King had ordered John D’Earley kept in close confinement in Nottingham Castle, deprived of those easements usual in such cases as his was. William knew that the King wished William to know of this, such casual cruelty being a direct threat to William and a mark of the King’s continuing displeasure.