‘No, by the Christ!’ cautioned William sharply. ‘We cannot risk a disaster such as Bouvines. All might be lost in a single hour. Fortify your strongest castles, my Liege,’ he went on, switching his thoughts from the personal to grapple with a strategic answer that might best protect his own ambitions as much as the King’s future. ‘I doubt that with such power arraigned against us here in England and the dubious loyalty of our field force that we can prevent the French from landing, but a string of fortresses held in your name in territory the enemy may over-run quickly, will be a constant thorn in their side. Dover above all, Sire…’
‘Aye Hubert de Burgh will hold Dover…and Windsor,’ added the King.
‘Aye and Windsor,’ agreed William, ‘and Lincoln…is Lincoln still in the hands of the Lady Nicola de la Haye?’
‘Aye,’ replied the King, his voice gaining conviction. ‘And the Earls of Derby and Warwick are to be counted on, so too are Arundel, York and Surrey…’
‘And Ranulph de Blondeville of Chester, but you do not mention Longsword, Sire,’ William observed. He had heard rumours that, during the captivity of the King’s half-brother John, Earl of Salisbury, the King had seduced Ela, Longsword’s Countess; the Earl’s loyalty was therefore in doubt. John shrugged and William passed quickly on. ‘Very well, Sire. Our situation is not lost. I suggest we draw off our main puissance to the west where the greater loyalty lies in lands most distant from the power of France and from where we may launch strong and unpredictable chevauchées…’
‘You into the Southern March?’
‘Aye, my Liege, if you would have it so…’
‘You would have it so,’ the King said, a hint of wryness wrung from him as he warmed to William’s confidence, a confidence the Earl himself was far from feeling.
‘They are strong castles, my Liege, and many can be supplied by sea from Leinster whither I may send the Lady Isabelle.’
‘Aye, Pembroke donjon is strong place I have heard, thanks to you, and Striguil…’ John mused, giving Chepstow its Anglo-Norman name. ‘But have you castellans capable and willing to hold them in my name?’
‘My men are loyal, my Liege.’
The King nodded. It would not do to break his fragile optimism to question too closely as to whom, exactly, William’s castellans were loyal.
‘And what of London, William?’
‘Let London go, as you did before. It is full of merchants. The City will come back to you when your arms are successful, and God grant that…’ Both men crossed themselves with an ‘Amen to that.’ ‘But your son, my Liege, above all things, Prince Henry must be sent to a place fast enough to hold him until God’s will is made known by the outcome of this affair.’
‘Aye.’ The King thought for a moment. ‘Devizes. What think you of there? The boy will be safe there, methinks, and I shall make Corfe a stronghold upon which I may fall back if it becomes necessary. That is how we shall proceed,’ John agreed.
‘And speedily, my Liege, for I doubt we have much time.’
*
But Louis did not arrive immediately, for in Paris Philippe was initially thwarted by the Pope’s new emissary to England, the Italian Legate Guala di Bicchieri, who arrived in Paris to warn the French King of the great impiety he was about to undertake by pressing Prince Louis’ weak claim to the English crown. ‘England,’ Guala reproved Philippe, ‘was the Patrimony of St Peter,’ adding that John, having repented, was deserving of and had had, Pope Innocent’s blessing with the lifting of the Interdict on the King and his Kingdom. Having delivered this blow to Philippe’s ambitions, Guala crossed the Channel to give John moral support, arriving at his Court at the end of April.
Although this hiatus bought William and his master time to throw men and provisions into their strongest fortresses, to remove Prince Henry into Devizes Castle and lay some measures of preparation, it proved as short-lived as William had anticipated. Encouraged by Guala’s assurances, John advanced his reconstituted band of brigands to Canterbury, intending to intimidate any mooted landing. His good relations with the Cinque Ports’ fleets led them to make a raid on the considerable amount of shipping gathering on the French coast, but Philippe remained undeterred, for he had got wind that Innocent III was ailing and decided to act against the Holy Father’s wishes. On 22 May 1216, and despite being harried by English ships armed for war, a French army led by the Dauphin landed almost unopposed at Sandwich in noth Kent. John advanced to Dover but was there assailed by one of his fits of cowardice. He failed to prevent the enemy coming ashore in great numbers. His unpaid troops were mutinous, his following unreliable. Worst of all, the one man who might have stopped the rot was absent, far away, strengthening the Welsh March. Leaving Hubert de Burgh to hold Dover, John roaring his frustration in rage and tears, fled west
In the weeks that followed men other than William fought and manoeuvred for the future of England. Louis, arriving in person on English soil, acted as a magnet to the ambitious and disaffected nobility who, despite the Papal Interdict, had been appalled at the indiscriminate damage wrought earlier in the year by the King’s army as it moved north. All now knew that Pope Innocent III lay dying and messages from Langton in Rome indicated the influence he hoped to bring to bear on whichever Cardinal was chosen as Innocent’s successor.
Consequently the Earls of York and Surrey defected to Louis’ standard, as did William Longsword. So too did William Marshal – young Will – who secured the appointment of Marshal to Louis’s English Court, not the least to guarantee his Norman domains. Greatly augmented by these defections, Louis, swiftly over-ran the whole of the south-east of England, taking Canterbury and Rochester Castle. He occupied London, whose citizens welcomed their new ruler with shows of enthusiasm, though The Tower of London, Dover and Windsor held out in the occupied territory.
John retreated west, briefly raising his standard over the ancient capital of England, Winchester. Louis followed, taking the King’s castles at Reigate, Guildford and Farnham, hanging the wretches making up their respective garrisons. When Louis caught-up with John at Winchester, he fled, leaving two small garrisons to resist the invader for ten long days. Odiham fell to the French after a siege lasting a further week, following which Louis took Marlborough, while the younger William Marshal occupied Worcester.
During these troubled months, although active throughout the Southern March between Gloucester on the Severn and Pembroke on the Cleddau, by a great irony, William enjoyed some of the sweetest days of his life with Isabelle and their younger children. John D’Earley, Henry FitzGerald FitzRobert, William Waleran and his confidential messenger Edgar continued to be despatched with heavy escorts hither and yon, keeping supply lines open and gleaning news. No lover of the King, D’Earley maintained a communication with John as the King fell back to the west, the back-bone quite out of him. Despite this Ranulph of Chester, Lord of the Northern March, retook Worcester in an attack marked by its savagery, though young Will escaped with his life.
William’s brief and intermittent idyll was threatened in early June. Llewelyn ap Iorworth had invaded Gwent and forced the local knights to bend the knee and swear fealty to him. William betook himself to horse, and led a large following out of Chepstow.
With impressive vigour William, with William Waleran at his side, struck west, missing the Welsh Prince but striking at one of his columns as it fell back from Usk. It was a rout as utter as anything in the grand achievements of his youth in the tourney. Within an hour Walleran had brought the chief of the raiders before the Earl and thrust him down upon his knees.
William regarded the man without rancour but was pitiless. If the fellow had been expecting arrangements to be undertaken for his ransom he was disappointed. ‘I know you,’ he remarked, you are Rhodri ap Richard are you not.’ It was statement, not question and the prisoner made no reply, though he stared defiantly up at William. William gave him a look of contempt and turned to Waleran. ‘Treat him as you shall his followers,’ he ordered.
‘My Lord?’ Waleran queried, as if reluctant to relinquish his prisoner without any gain.
‘This fellow has done fealty to me for lands in the Gower and beside the Loughor. One so easily torn from my side,’ William said pitilessly, ‘may be flung like his fellows to perdition. Put them all to the sword!’
*
All that summer of 1216 war flared across England and Wales. Prince Louis entered London in triumph and amid an enthusiastic welcome on 2 June. At a magnificent service in St Paul’s great church he promised to right all wrongs and restore all properties lost to John’s rapacity and arbitrary justice. He would, he swore on oath, restore all of England’s traditional laws and he made a peace with King Alexander of Scotland, who began preparations to march south to catch John between his own and Louis’ army. This now grew as, with the news of Innocent’s death, those among the Barony who had clung to King John for spiritual reasons had less argument for doing so. Meanwhile his unpaid mercenaries and routiers abandoned John, either to return home or to take service under Louis’ banner.
Having secured London and before marching to meet Alexander, Louis desired the securing of his communication with France and laid siege to Dover, battering the ramparts with a huge trébuchet brought over from Calais for the purpose. The loyal De Burgh held out against all expectations and eventually Louis threw-up the investment and turned instead upon Windsor which also put up stout resistance.
John, meanwhile, fled west to Bristol then turned south-east and mewed himself up in Corfe Castle in Dorset, where he remained two months listening to the blandishments of the Legate Guala di Bicchieri. Here, to his chagrin, John also learned of more defections, summoning D’Earley and sending him to William with orders that would bring about the great crisis of William’s life.
‘My half-brother Salisbury has joined the rebels, God rot his immortal soul,’ the King informed D’Earley, ‘And of my chief Barons, Arundel, York and Surrey have followed. Besides Earl William and Ranulf of Chester, of my Earls, only Derby and Warwick now remain loyal. Ride to Striguil and order my Lord of Pembroke to move his power to Gloucester whither I am sending the Papal Legate for his safe-keeping and cover the lands to the south and west. My Lady De la Haye is in peril and I intend taking my force thither, for if that rogue Alexander of Scotland and the usurping bastard Louis once join up, I am lost. Inform your master that I am making a chevauchée and if God grants my arms success I shall send for him to Lincoln or Newark.’
It was with this message that John D’Earley rode into Chepstow in mid-September and ended William’s strange, spasmodic days of happiness with Isabelle. Within the compass of the day he had mustered all his own following, his whole household less the garrison of Chepstow, and his chief knights’ personal mesnies who held his fortresses across the Southern March, and headed north-east towards Gloucester.
Here William found the Papal Legate, Guala di Bichieri, and the two men struck-up a curious friendship in which the one prayed fervently for the success of the King’s arms and the other chafed at the lack of news. When, finally, it came that autumn, it came thick and fast, and from both sides. Edgar arrived first from London, whither he had ventured to carry messages and money from William to Aimery St Maur. Here he had learned of the hot news in the capital where Louis was losing favour. The Dauphin and his knights were known to be acting arrogantly towards the English Barons and a more sinister reason for this was revealed by William’s old companion-in-arms, Robert de Meulan, who lay dying in the Temple hospital.
In fear of death and dishonour, De Meulan had revealed to St Maur that, once crowned King of England, Louis was intending to exile, dispossess or execute all those Barons who had risen in rebellion against John, reckoning them essentially disloyal and therefore untrustworthy.
‘The very men who summoned him to what he is pleased to declare his rightful inheritance,’ Edgar explained to a scarcely credulous William. ‘Many of those under such a threat have betook themselves to think again of their enthusiasm for a King Louis of England.’ He paused a moment, then added, ‘though few, I warrant, will come immediately into the King’s camp, some my Lord, might be persuaded into yours.’
William grunted. ‘Robert de Meulan would not lie,’ he said simply, asking, ‘is his life despaired of?’
‘It is feared for, my Lord.’
‘May God have mercy upon him,’ William said, crossing himself.
‘There is one thing more, my Lord. The French are to some extent beleaguered, for the seamen of the Cinque Ports are proving loyal and have taken numerous French vessels, many of which bear remounts and arms.’
‘Which will yield them a good harvest,’ William commented wryly, rubbing his beard as he digested the news. Over the following week or so the defection of several Barons proved Edgar correct, as they rode into Gloucester seeking to make their peace, not with John, but with William and offering to serve under him.
‘They believe that whatever the outcome you shall prevail, my Lord,’ remarked John D’Earley with his wide smile.
As for news of the King, this filtered through more slowly. With the remnants of his mercenary Brabantine routiers he had once again embarked upon a ruthless chevauchée, intent upon punishing those Barons of the Midlands who had defected to the French. Reaching Lincoln to the mixed feelings of Nicola de la Haye, John prepared for a second raid and in October left Lincoln and struck south-east.
Thereafter all went quiet until, towards the end of the month, John’s cause lay ruined in the mud of the Wash and his own gross appetites.
William had retired for the night when he was wakened and told a messenger had arrived from Newark. William pulled on a robe and an ageing knight was admitted to his presence.
‘God’s blood, sirrah,’ William remarked irritably, ‘what is amiss that you must trouble a man’s sleep.’ But before giving the fellow time to reply William, frowning and scratching himself realised he was vaguely familiar. ‘I know you, sir, but forgive me…’
‘Savaric de Mauléon, my Lord. We last met in a tourney in the Vexin…’ De Mauléon growled, adding, ‘you unhorsed me.’
‘Did I? Then I must crave your pardon.’
‘’Tis no matter. I command a division of the King’s Flemish troops,’ the routier captain explained, and have come from Newark-upon-the-Trent.’ De Mauléon’s language had a decidedly French cast. William recalled him now, remembered too that in the wars in Normandy and Anjou Savaric De Mauléon had acquired an unsavoury name. No doubt his violent character endeared him to John, for such men, at the head of a large company of Flemish routiers would have no compunction in burning English towns and villages, nor of allowing his men to rape and loot to their hearts’ content. Carrying out John’s scorched-earth policies with enthusiasm would have made him no friends beyond the King’s closest familiars and only such fellows could master the fractious rabble that constituted John’s army.
Mindful that De Mauléon must have undertaken so long a ride out of urgent and dire necessity, William called for wine refreshment, asking, ‘What brings you hither at this time of the night?’
‘The King is dead, my Lord Earl.’
‘Dead? By the Holy Ghost…’ William crossed himself. ‘May he rest in peace.’ De Mauléon did not trouble himself to follow William’s pious example. ‘How came this about?’ William asked as the wine arrived, indicating that De Mauléon should drink deep after his journey.
‘Were you aware that the King advanced to Lincoln?’ De Mauléon asked, wiping his hand across his mouth.
William nodded. ‘Aye, and from there His Grace raided south…’
‘And east,’ said De Mauléon curtly, ‘having burned all the possessions and farms of Croyland Abbey he headed for Lynn and Wisbeach. Here he was misled, crossing the sands of the Wash by a causeway that rapidly flooded when the tide made into the mouth of the River Welland,’ De Mauléon went on, so matter-of-factly that William had trouble taking in the scale of the events that De Mauléon was r
ecounting.
‘The King was drowned?’
‘No,’ De Mauléon shook his head. ‘The King and most of his close affinity escaped with their lives, but the greater part of the train, the sumpter horses and roncins with almost the entire baggage, including the Treasury and many men, most mine own, were lost.’
‘God’s blood. Then what…?’ William began but De Mauléon needed no prompting.
‘We proceeded to the Cistercian House at Swineshead where His Grace delivered himself of a rage before enjoying the Abbot’s hospitality. Thereafter he gorged himself on new cider, pears, peaches and lampreys which, during that night brought on a great eruption and then a bloody flux such that he could not mount his palfrey the following morning. He was placed in a horse-litter and carried to Sleaford Castle where the fever grew hotter, whereupon and with great difficulty, the following day we carried him into the castle of Newark.’
William sat silent as De Mauléon concluded his sorry tale. ‘With the shadow of death upon him he sent for the Abbot of neighbouring Croxton, who shrove him and administered Holy Unction until such time as he gave up the ghost.’
‘And that is all?’ William asked as De Mauléon fell silent, letting the implications of his news sink in.
‘No my Lord, it is not all. Before his final hour, whilst in the agonies of death upon the 18th of this present month, His Grace appointed his son Henry his heir and successor, dictated a letter to the new Pope entreating His Holiness to uphold the boy’s right to the throne and protect his other children. Those of us present swore upon the peril of our own souls fealty to the boy Henry and orders were issued to all castellans, burgesses and every other man in the Kingdom holding office of authority to render the Prince that loyalty which they lately did by obedience to John.’
‘This alters everything,’ William murmured to himself, biting his lower lip and rubbing his beard as De Mauléon watched. William had the sensation that De Mauléon had him under observation, for the knight wore a curious expression, as if he was enjoying the irony of this tale of death, and the impact which it would have upon the man before him. Prince Henry was nine years old and the news of John’s death would already have reached London, immensely strengthening Louis’ position. With the Dauphin at the head of an army quartered in the Kingdom the future of Prince Henry was bleak. Given the opportunity, Louis would almost certainly dispose of him, just as John had disposed of Arthur of Brittany. Nor was William’s own future much brighter, though he might retreat into Leinster, and he must secure Isabelle’s safety, along with that of his children.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 59