William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series

by Richard Woodman

  De Mauléon’s eyes bored into William and, with an effort, he recalled himself to his duty.

  ‘Did His Grace stipulate where he wishes to be laid to rest?’ William asked.

  ‘In his final moments the Abbot of Croxton asked the same question to which the King declared a great and hitherto unsuspected love for St Wulfstan,’ De Mauléon said sarcastically, ‘whose remains lie at Worcester…’

  ‘Worcester,’ William broke in, recovering his composure and grasping the significance of John’s choice. Denied Westminster or Fontevrault by virtue of enemy conquest, John had bethought of Worcester where, in 1158, his parents had laid aside their Crowns upon the shrine of Wulfstan, the last Saxon bishop, a reformer whom Pope Innocent III had canonised in 1203 and at whose shrine John had prayed five years later.

  ‘Aye, my Lord,’ De Mauléon went on, ‘even now his corpse is being conveyed there, escorted by Falkes de Bréauté, which is why you have me here to summon you thither.’ William nodded. ‘There is one thing more my Lord de Pembroke,’ De Mauléon added, that expression of wry malice still playing about his features. ‘The King named you as the only man fit to entrust with the care of Henry’s person. He named you Guardian of the Realm.’

  PART TWO - GUARDIAN OF THE REALM 1216 - 1219

  CHAPTER FIVE - HENRY OF WINCHESTER - 1216

  ‘ “In the first place, therefore, I desire that my body be buried in the church of St Mary and St Wulfstan at Worcester,” ’ Cardinal Guala di Bicchieri, the Papal Legate read the concluding paragraph of John’s short will and testament. ‘I appoint, moreover, the following arbiters and administrators: the Lord Guala, by the Grace of God, Cardinal-Priest of the title of St Martin and Legate of the Apostolic See; the Lord Peter, Bishop of Winchester; the Lord Richard, Bishop of Chichester; the Lord Silvester, Bishop of Worcester; Brother Aimery de St Maur; William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke; Ranulph, Earl of Chester; William Ferrers, Earl of Derby; William Brewer; William de Lacy; John of Monmouth; Savaric de Mauléon and Falkes de Bréauté …” ’ Di Bicchieri broke off to look round at the men ranged about him in the chapter-house of Worcester cathedral: the Princes of Holy Church, the great magnates whose loyalty to John was emphasised by their continued presence at the side of the King’s body as it lay awaiting interment, the administrator with a talent for government, William Brewer; the lesser loyal barons, De Lacy and John of Monmouth, and the two powerful Franco-Norman mercenary knights, De Mauléon and De Bréauté.

  In the brief silence the sound of the abbey’s brothers chanting over John’s corpse came to them as they stood, the last remnants of John’s regal puissance, a fact of which they were reminded as Di Bicchieri coughed and concluded his reading. ‘ “And furthermore, be it known that it is my last wish that the said arbiters and administrators heretofore mentioned do provide support to my sons towards obtaining and defending their inheritance.” ’

  The document was short and small in its appearance, evidence of the deplorable end to a sad monarch who had lost his Treasury - even his Crown - in that disastrous crossing of the estuary of the Welland.

  Di Bicchieri laid the exiguous parchment aside and murmured a prayer at the termination of which all present crossed themselves. A heavier silence now settled upon the assembly, which included all the Lords Temporal mentioned in the dead King’s will, with the exception of Ranulph, Earl of Chester, who had yet to arrive, and Aimery St Maur who was half-captive in London. Also present was Oliver d’Anjou, bastard son of the dead King. Each man looked one to another, none daring to take the initiative. William held his tongue, anticipating what would come but unwilling to be the first to speak of it. In the House of God and in the presence of the Papal Legate, it did not seem seemly for the secular Commissioners and Executors of John’s will to be presumptuous, whatever their private sentiments. William thought again of Isabelle and the green lands of Leinster, calculating that if Louis assumed the throne the Southern March would be lost to him, but he knew in his soul that he could not abandon the boy-King-in-waiting.

  It was Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, who spoke first. After the Legate, he was the senior Prelate and all knew that he and William had been entrusted with John’s highest diplomatic missions.

  ‘My Lords Spiritual and Temporal I humbly submit to you all here who are charged with the late King’s wishes that we seek the advice of My Lord William. We know from those present that His Grace abjured those about him to ensure that the Earl of Pembroke take charge of his son, Henry of Winchester, and always keeps him under his protection, for the Prince will never govern this Kingdom without the help of my Lord of Pembroke…’

  That was untrue, William thought to himself; Ranulph of Chester had proved as loyal and was, moreover, a younger man, but Des Roches had made the late King’s wishes clear.

  As Des Roches’ voice petered out there was a quick chorus of agreement. Howsoever each man saw his own future, whether in the minutes that William had been dreaming of Leinster, others had been considering retiring upon their lands, consolidating their positions and seeking a compact with ‘King’ Louis, they were all at that moment ready to pledge themselves to young Harry of Winchester, as the boy was known.

  ‘My Lord of Pembroke?’ Di Bicchieri prompted in his foreign accent.

  William stepped forward, gathering his thoughts. ‘My Lords, we have one pressing duty before us, to bring Prince Henry into our presence without delay. With your permission,’ here William turned towards the Papal Legate, ‘I shall see to the matter at once and have him brought to Gloucester as a place appropriate for his Coronation. We must also see his father laid to rest.’

  ‘But my Lords, should we not await the arrival of the Earl of Chester?’ asked Earl Ferrers.

  ‘Aye, it would be unseemly to undertake the Coronation before he joins us,’ added Derby.

  This dissenting note gave rise to an outburst of vociferous controversy, the very thing that William feared and which made him dream again of Irish pastures and the silver waters of Waterford Haven. Such argument over matters of such comparative triviality would be the undoing of the new King’s shaky cause and he could have none of it. He resorted to the only stratagem that he could think of, unconfirmed and possibly untrue though it was. ‘My Lords,’ he raised his voice and commanded silence. ‘I have word of the enemy being in an advanced position. We have no time to await my Lord of Chester’s arrival. If I know my Lord’s mind he would not permit us to wait. We can brook no delay, for whatever reason.’

  Once Guala di Bicchieri and the Prelates had come to William’s support, the argument subsided and the matter was closed, but William was wary of the mood of those present at the beginning of the new King’s reign.

  It was sunset on that October afternoon when William despatched Sir Thomas de Sandford, the man who had had in his charge William’s second son, Richard, to ride immediately to Devizes and bring the young Prince to Gloucester.

  ‘Go quickly, good Sir Thomas, before the rat’s nest of London stirs. The Cardinal has excommunicated Louis that he might not be crowned, but London being London might yet proclaim him and, either way, I should not wish Prince Harry to fall into the hands of the Dauphin. Be on your guard that you do not fall into an ambush,’ he added, dissembling but putting fire into De Sandford’s belly. ‘There is word of Louis’ men being no great distance away.’

  ‘I understand, my Lord,’ responded De Sandford grimly.

  ‘And bring forth the Queen too. She should have been here for her Lord’s interment…’ William shrugged. ‘Well, ’tis too late now. We shall ride to meet you on the morrow.’

  William watched the cavalcade ride out within the hour, his son Richard bearing William’s own standard as a symbol of De Sandford’s authority. Whatever else he was, and whatever his heir’s pretensions claimed, William was still the Earl Marshal of an England ruled by an Angevin King-in-waiting.

  That evening John was laid to rest in the cathedral church of St Mary and St Wulfstan as he had desir
ed, and before they retired the Council of Regency began the planning of an extempore Coronation.

  *

  Before dawn the following morning a large cavalcade left Worcester led by William, his household knights and those of the others charged with executing John’s will. Leaving the Bishops to ride directly to Gloucester under escort, the Lords Temporal moved in impressive force across the country and at Malmesbury met the young Henry of Winchester.

  The boy reminded William of the so-called ‘Young King’ in whose service he had spent some years of his younger life and who would have been Henry III had he not predeceased his father, Henry Curtmantle. Despite his nine years, this young Henry mounted in front of Peter d’Aubigny, looked half the size William had been at six. But for all his small size, it was apparent that the lad had a quick mind, for he addressed William in extraordinarily submissive but courtly language.

  At first William and all those new to the Prince thought he had been schooled in the matter, probably by his mother, Isabelle of Angoulême, but it turned out not to be the case. Henry possessed an extraordinary rapid grasp of facts and forms that went way beyond mere precocity and seemed some God-given compensation for his smallness of stature.

  Having halted his own column, William rode forward, his head bared, drawing rein alongside D’Aubigny and his royal companion, and bowed from the saddle.

  ‘I give myself over to God and to you, my Lord of Pembroke,’ the boy said in his falsetto voice, ‘so that in the Lord’s name you may take all charge of me.’ Having delivered himself of this oration he began to cry.

  ‘My Lord,’ replied William, moved to tears which started unbidden down his own grizzled cheeks, ‘I have long given service to your House and I will henceforward be your liege-man in all good faith and as long as there is breath in my body to do that which is necessary to serve you…’

  Upon arrival at Gloucester the loyal Lords Spiritual and Temporal reunited and fell to the planning, or rather the extemporising, of a Coronation. The first pre-requisite was to have Harry of Winchester dubbed knight, an office which William agreed to undertake.

  Thus, as suitable robes and a circlet of gold were hurriedly prepared, on the evening of 27 October, in the presence of all the chivalry that could be mustered in Gloucester cathedral, William gently boxed Henry of Winchester with his gloved fist once on each shoulder and, with the dubbing over, knelt and girded upon the lad a sword that proved too large but which was soon afterwards removed so that the Prince could retire for the night.

  On the 28th, ten days after his father had died at Newark, the Papal Legate delegated the honour of crowning Henry to Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester.

  The preliminary oaths were administered by the Bishop of Bath wherein Henry promised to faithfully execute his duty to protect Holy Church, to deliver justice and protect his people both from foreign invasion and from evil laws and customs. Most significantly he did homage for his Kingdom to the new Pope, Honorius III, continuing the expedient submission made by his father, but thereby securing a legitimacy against the pretensions of Louis. The vow included the payment of the ten thousand marks promised by John.

  Following this came the solemn moment; Des Roches, assisted by the Bishops of Worcester and Exeter, anointed Henry’s bare breast and forehead with Holy Chrism and placed upon his brow the hurriedly hustled-up circlet of gold that must stand substitute for the Crown of England John had lost in the tidal waters of The Wash. Then, as Philip d’Aubigny lifted the boy King high above his head, the three Prelates presented Henry to the assembled Barony, pronouncing him ‘King of England, Lord of Ireland,’ adding the empty titles of Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Count of Anjou and Poitou, titles the Holy See recognised, at least for the time being.

  At this the Barons shouted their ‘Vivats!’ and each knelt before the awkward boy to clasp hands and do him homage by their oaths of fealty, after which the almost exhausted boy was carried off by Peter d’Aubigny to be divested of his heavy robes and prepared for the Coronation feast which was to follow.

  At the banquet which followed, William sat at the King’s left hand, the Legate being upon his right. Compared to the binges enjoyed by John and his father, Henry II, the Coronation feast of the boy-King was a poor affair and would have been unmemorable but for the sudden bursting-in of a travel-weary knight whom William recognised as being Henry FitzGerald, a knight banneret of his own following, whom he had last seen in Ireland.

  ‘My Lord,’ the fellow shouted without ceremony or deference to the boy-King who appeared terrified at the sudden intrusion. ‘My Lord, Goodrich Castle is pressed hard by the enemy! You are requested to relieve it forthwith!’

  ‘By the Rood!’ William blasphemed, annoyed by the fellow’s importunity as much as the dreadful news. Goodrich was on the Wye, fewer than twenty miles away; it lay between his power at Gloucester and the southern March and it was, moreover, one of William’s own strongholds. ‘Is this the Welsh?’ he asked FitzGerald.

  ‘Aye, my Lord.’

  ‘What means this, my Lord Earl,’ squeaked an agitated Henry.

  ‘It means war comes to us, my Liege,’ he responded, his voice reassuring. ‘With your Grace’s permission, I shall call a Council…’

  Henry raised his right hand in a dog-tired gesture of assent and a moment later William saw him borne from the hall to his bed, whereupon William called for order and the dismissal of all but the men named in John’s will, those arbitrators and administrators then present.

  ‘My Lord Cardinal, I beg you to preside. I have promised my Lord the King that advice and service that I am able to render, and I am willing to take the field…’

  ‘But you must stand as the King’s guardian, take command in all things outside the charge of Mother Church as Justiciar of England,’ Des Roches said in a tone that seemed to admit no argument and contained a hint of disappointment, even contempt. ‘The matter must be resolved now, this night,’ he urged.

  William shook his head. ‘My Lords, Hubert de Burgh is Justiciar of England. Stand loyal guardian to the boy I will, but for ought else, I am too old. The task is too heavy for me. Leave the decision until my Lord of Chester arrives, he is a younger man. Besides, the hour is late and there is time enough for us to sleep and think more soberly upon the matter tomorrow. I must this night take thought for Goodrich, for to have an enemy, even a Welsh enemy, at our back, is not a position I can sleep easily with. For the nonce, I need but this Council’s approval that we move as quickly as possible.’

  William waved aside further argument and the Council, having given its assent, broke up noisily. For William there was too much to think about, for the strategic position was altered by the presence of the enemy at Goodrich. He summoned FitzGerald, whom he had last left in Ireland, to learn more about the position at Chepstow, in the March and, most crucially, at Goodrich. When FitzGerald had finished, William rebuked him.

  ‘Dost try and be more discreet when in the presence of the King.’

  ‘My Lord, I fear I did not notice the boy…’

  ‘He is no longer a boy, FitzGerald. He is, God save his soul, King of England.’ FitzGerald asked his pardon, but William’s mind was racing. ‘How large is you mesnie?’ he asked.

  ‘I have twenty-seven lances at my back, and thirty mounted men-at-arms.’

  ‘And you came hither with them today?’

  ‘Aye, my Lord, this very evening, ’tis but seventeen miles.’

  ‘They will not be tired then. I shall reinforce you tomorrow, but you are to return at once to Goodrich to clear the Welsh dogs from my land. Fall upon them at dawn and put all those whom you seize to the sword. When you have done so, return to my side. Go, get your men up and send me William Waleran, he shall come with you.’

  FitzGerald withdrew and William sent for Edgar. ‘Ride at first light for London and the Temple church. Convey my greetings to Aimery St Maur and tell him he is named by the late King among the Council of thirteen arbiters and administrators. Ask
him for any intelligence he may have of Louis’ intentions, the strength of the French and any other information you may glean from him. Do you understand?’

  ‘Perfectly my Lord.’

  ‘Then God speed.’

  Having despatched Edgar, William turned his attention to Walleran, ordering him to rake-up a substantial muster of knights and men, both horse and foot to relieve Goodrich. He watched the two knights banneret leave Gloucester in the flare of torch-light before throwing himself down upon his bed-place.

  *

  The following morning Ranulph de Blondeville, Earl of Chester and Lord of the Northern March rode into Gloucester’s castle-yard. Many of his following were openly resentful that matters had been carried as far as they had in the absence of their Lord, but as the Council convened an hour later, Ranulph had the good sense to approve of all that had been done.

  There were few precedents to guide the arbitrators and administrators in the matter of a minority government and Peter des Roches called upon Sir Alan Basset, one of John’s late household knights and a close confidant of the dead King, for his opinion. Dispensing with all formality, Basset declared what many where thinking in that desperate hour.

  ‘By my faith, my Lords, though I look up hill and down dale, I see no man fitted for this great task save the Marshal or the Earl of Chester.’