William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series

by Richard Woodman

  The day following John D’Earley spoke for William’s party, arguing that Morgan ap Howell was a rebel, allowing Henry to turn to William for advice. In the presence of the opposition of Ranulph and Des Roches, William’s response was masterly.

  ‘The fate of Caerleon lies in your gift, Sire. It was mine and was taken unlawfully in this time of peace by a rebel Prince, but it is no longer mine since it is in the hands of another and being so, is not in your hands either. The noble Prince Llewelyn, here present in good faith and being in love and good grace with yourself, my Liege, being linked with your house through marriage, would prove a most excellent castellan of Ceredigion and Carmarthen and, as Lord of Gwynedd and being in amity with myself as being Lord of the Southern March, would preserve Your Grace’s peace throughout your Kingdom. This, I submit to you, Sire.’

  Henry could only judge in William’s favour. Caerleon was returned to him and an aggrandised Llewelyn must tell Morgan to evacuate the place and then make his peace with Ap Howell.

  ‘By Christ’s bones did you see the look upon the faces of Chester and Winchester,’ guffawed D’Earley later, his good humour quite restored after William’s brilliant discomfiture of the Prelate and the Lord of the Northern March. ‘Even now they will be gnawing upon their own bowels, God rot them.’

  William’s conciliation, though not completely subduing the ambitions of the Welsh Princes, nevertheless led to a great oath-taking by many of them at Worcester in late May. It was as much as he could hope for and as much as he could achieve, for he had greater problems in England. The restoration of all lands to their Lords as held before the rupture of civil war had left most castles in the hands of John’s appointees and although they had taken opposing sides in the rebellion, one characteristic marked their conduct: they were united in their rapacity. Contemptuous of a boy-king and a septuagenarian regent, they reverted to the plundering of the countryside and it was clear to William that while his failing physical condition precluded him from taking the field against them all, he should make an example of one or two. The question was – which? The matter was settled by the Bishop of Lincoln.

  ‘My Lord Bishop complains that Newark Castle has not been returned to him as it should have been, my Lord,’ Thomas reported one day, indicating the missive that lay before him as the two men sat in a chamber of The Tower of London. ‘He sends one hundred marks against expenses, and requests that you restore the place to him, with its revenues.’

  ‘Newark, eh?’

  ‘Aye, my Lord.’

  Both men were thinking the same thing. Newark was where John had died and it had therefore a symbolic significance to the power of young Henry. It had been in the fiefdom of the Bishop of Lincoln, but was being held by Robert de Gaugy in defiance of the terms of the Treaty of Kingston. William sighed, then smote the board before him and let out an imprecation.

  ‘May such disloyal bastards be thrown into Hell without redemption! Write Thomas! Summon my nephew John and his mesnie, and tell the mayor and burgesses of Stamford that I require the services of thirty good miners to muster there by late July…say the 23rd or 24th. And order siege engines advance towards Newark at once. Send Will as escort…’

  With King Henry at his side, on 8 July 1218, William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, Lord of Leinster and Guardian of the Realm of England led a substantial force north out of London. He did not know it for sure, but he felt in his bones that he was going to war for the last time.

  Besides his own and John Marshal’s mesnie, William also commanded the Bishop of Lincoln’s knights who joined him at Stamford. It was among these that the main casualties were caused as they charged into Newark and seized the town to prevent De Gaugy’s men burning the towns-peoples’ dwellings and thereby depriving the besiegers of cover from which to conduct operations. After a few days’ hiatus as Will Marshal brought the slow-travelling siege engines up and placed them about the castle, which abutted the River Trent on one side.

  But now William was personally obliged to withdraw to Nottingham, whence he had sent the King for safety, but where he shortly afterwards followed for fear of betraying the pain he was in. Will and John Marshal were left to begin siege operations. Happily these did not last long. The very appearance of the grim visaged old man at the head of a determined force had changed De Gaugy’s mind and a surrender was negotiated.

  William and Henry returned to London. There was little more William could do, though in November he ensured that the proceedings of the Court of King’s Bench were revived. All around him his younger associates of so many crucial years were falling away, some, like Des Roches and Ranulph, in opposition; others, like the Papal Legate Guala de Bicchieri ‘from exhaustion’. That December Pope Honorius III sent Cardinal Pandolpho back to England.

  William spent Christmas at Marlborough, near the scenes of his childhood, dreaming in the winter sunshine in the company of Isabelle.

  ‘Where are my chicks, Belle?’ he asked.

  ‘You have married all but one of them off, William, playing politics, for all the good it has done you,’ Isabelle said, a hint of the steel that characterised her indomitable spirit beneath the sadness.

  William frowned. ‘Ah, yes, I recollect, Young Belle took the hand of your distant kinsman, Guilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, who fell into my hands at Lincoln…and Sybil, who was named for my mother…what happened to Sybil, Belle?’

  ‘You sought to placate Ranulph of Chester by marrying her to one of Earl Ferrars’s lads.’

  ‘Ahh yes.’ William stirred awkwardly. ‘He that is Ranulph’s kin… Chester proved an ingrate, God damn his soul.’

  ‘Tush, William, you should not speak so. Tell me, are you in pain?’ Isabelle’s tone was concerned. Thus far William had concealed his distemper from her.

  ‘No, my love. ’Tis but grey geese that fly over my grave…’

  *

  In January 1219 William and Isabelle rode to Westminster. During the journey Isabelle became aware that her husband was seriously ill. He had great difficulty easing himself, he ate little and lost weight. By now his household all knew of the master’s diseased state.

  ‘What ails my Lord?’ a tearful Thomas had enquired of John D’Earley. That worthy, convinced that William’s illness was not only fatal, but owed everything to the betrayal of his former friends, Ranulph of Chester and Peter des Roches, replied with a bitter and brutal frankness, which shocked poor Thomas.

  ‘’Tis either or both the galloping knob-rot, or the creeping arse-ache, but whatever I fear it marks the end of my Lord’s life.’

  Taking up affairs of state, William was obliged to retire to his bed at Candlemas. The doctors Isabelle called in could prescribe nothing but nostrums and while they waggled their heads it was clear that, whether or not they knew the deep-seated source of William’s malady, they could do nothing.

  To be close to the King William left his bed, painfully mounted a horse and with Isabelle and a modest household, rode east to quarter himself in The Tower. Here he remained until Lent, attended by the faithful Thomas and the closest of his knights. He discussed his Last Will and Testament and made confession weekly, chiefly to Aimery St Maur.

  In March he decided to leave London for a quieter place. ‘I bethought myself of Caversham, Belle. ’Tis neither Striguil nor Leinster, but it is lovely in the spring.’

  And so they came to Caversham by boat, William in one, Isabelle in a second, with the household partly afloat and partly following, a dolorous train of roncins and gloomy servants and sumpters.

  Hard behind came King Henry and his Court, to lodge in Reading Abbey, close to Caversham Manor from where, in his sick-bed, William ran the King’s government. In close and constant attendance were John D’Earley, John Marshal and Will Marshal. In his last days his other sons arrived, summoned by Isabelle who now slept in William’s chamber.

  On Easter Monday, William, with Henry at his side, held a Royal Council. Its attendees included Hubert de Burgh, Peter des Roches,
Aimery St Maur and the new Legate, the returned Cardinal Pandolpho. Aware than the end was close, William rendered an account of his doings since the death of John and in the service of the young King. Before he expired, he told them, the matter of a Guardian must be settled, for the King had many years yet before attaining his majority.

  ‘My Liege,’ interrupted Des Roches, ‘your person was placed in my hands…’

  ‘That is not true,’ said William, raising himself from his pillows, his face wearing a ghastly expression that stopped Des Roches’ mouth. ‘You it was, with my Lord of Chester, who begged such a cup to be taken from you that I might drink from it. I and I alone can decide who best to entrust our beloved Henry to…’ And here William twisted to smile at the King.

  ‘My Lord…’ the boy managed, his eyes full of tears.

  ‘With your permission, Your Grace, I pray you all withdraw, for I am tired and I shall give you my answer and opinion on the morrow.’

  Henry rose. ‘My Lords and Gentlemen, let us give the Marshal that time to reflect that he requires, and God grant him wisdom in the choice, for I would as fain listen to him than any other man alive.’

  The company crossed themselves as the King left the chamber.

  It was next morning before William felt able to discuss the question with his family and closest adherents. It was a Sunday and the bells of Reading Abbey could be heard faintly across the water-meadows of the Thames. Shafts of sunlight lit the room and the cool air of spring wafted the scent of new growth into the chamber.

  ‘It is still a chancellery,’ William jested, ‘and not yet the ante-chamber to the tomb.’

  ‘Have you come to any conclusions, my Lord?’ John Marshal asked, his voice full of supressed anxiety. ‘The Papal Legate is without and is eager to press you…’

  ‘And he brings word that the King comes hither.’

  ‘Very well. I shall not detain the Legate long. I have given the matter much thought and can see but one answer, given the squabbling and quarrelling nature of most of my Peers, men who ought to know better, having lived the greater parts of their lives through the troubled times of these past years. Perhaps they have not yet lived long enough; perhaps they lack the wit to discern truths hidden to minds clouded by over-learning, letters and their own ambition.’

  William opened his eyes and stared at about him. ‘My friends, if the land may not be defended by those supposed to defend it, whose false desires lead them in other paths, then it must be defended by the Apostolic See. Had my Lord of Chester proved a more constant friend I should have commended him to you, but his dog was in the manger and he has taken the cross out of envy of me. God’s work is mysterious, but it is clearly not His will that Ranulph should take up my mantle.

  ‘Nor is it fitting that I should hand so great a responsibility over to my heir; such a presumption would sit ill with many,’ he went on, looking at Will and speaking in a conciliating tone of voice, ‘such that I fear for my son’s life.’ William paused, allowing his words to sink-in.

  Placing the Kingdom under Rome secured it from invasion and immeasurably strengthened Henry’s position during his minority. Periodically the Kings of the House of Anjou had, for reasons of expedience, done the same thing, but William’s entirely voluntary renunciation of power in favour of the church, was done in his lifetime, before he received Holy Unction and while he possessed his wits and his influence. It was his last great act.

  Having outlined his intentions, there came a knock upon the chamber door and Will, having ascertained that the King was then arriving, allowed William to ask one last question. ‘Do any of you dissent from this my determination?’

  They shook their heads and Isabelle, sitting quiet beside him, squeezed his hand as it lay upon the coverlet.

  William nodded. ‘Admit them,’ he commanded.

  ‘Peter des Roches is in their company, Father.’

  ‘He would be,’ remarked William, shaking his head. ‘Admit them all,’ he added.

  ‘Are you sure, Father?’ asked Will.

  ‘Aye; I am sure.’

  When Henry, Pandolpho and Des Roches had entered, William closed his eyes and began to speak.

  After repeating the gist of the argument he had laid before his close following and affinity, he addressed Henry.

  ‘My Lord King, I am shortly to bow my knee before one greater even than thou, so indulge me if I should speak like a father. I abjure you to grow up in Christ, to be worthy of your Crown and Throne, and look to God in Christ and the Holy Ghost to cut short your life should you become like some felonious ancestors that are, alas, in your bloodline.’

  William held out his right hand to the King, who took it meekly, murmuring ‘Amen to that my Lord Marshal.’

  William continued, his voice strong, over-riding the waves of pain made manifest by the sweat pouring down his face.

  ‘I can truly say that I have served you loyally and to the uttermost of my power. I would fain serve you yet if it pleased God to enable me but, as you and all present can see, it is no longer His Will that I should abide longer in this world and I must now make my composition and preparation for redemption according to the teachings of our Holy Mother, the Church.

  ‘It is fitting that I lay down my charge certain that in my successor is one that pleases both God and men, one that is agreeable to our still-divided Baronage…’

  William beckoned Pandolpho to approach.

  ‘Therefore, fair sweet Prince, I beg that you place your Kingdom in the hands of God’s Vicar here on earth and I have every hope of its prosperity…’

  William held out his left hand towards Pandolpho.

  ‘My Lord Cardinal,’ William began, only to be interrupted by Des Roches, pushing himself forward to the bedside.

  ‘My Lord Cardinal this is not fitting!’ the Bishop protested.

  A rustle of indignation moved everyone in the room. Isabelle, who had risen to make way for the King, put a hand out, John Marshal reached for his sword only to realise he was not wearing it, but Will Marshal had his dagger in his hand. Unfazed, Des Roches’ arrogance brooked no intimidation as he made his argument.

  ‘If my Lord Marshal is handing over his authority to Holy Church it should first come to me in the absence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, I am besides appointed tutor to the King and it is I who should…’

  William roused. ‘Stand clear, you dog!’ snarled William from his pillow. He was breathing heavily now, exhausted by the effort of coherent thought and its enunciation, but roused to a furious indignation at Des Roches’ presumption. ‘You of all people do not stand betwixt the King’s grace and the Holy Legate! In my renunciation, I hand my office directly to the Apostolic See. My Lord Cardinal, thank God for your presence here; I beseech thee, take the King’s hand and lead him in Holy ways for the glory of God and the good of the Kingdom.’

  Appalled by Des Roches’ intervention and moved by William’s words, a stunned silence fell upon the chamber, broken by Pandolpho, who – embarrassed by the Bishop’s behaviour - muttered an acceptance of William’s decision, called it wise and uttered a benediction at which the entire company crossed themselves, but he got no further, for it was the King who ended the affair.

  ‘My Lord Marshal,’ said Henry in a trembling and emotional falsetto. ‘We have reposed our trust in you and thank you for your loyalty. As your counsel has ever been, you speak wisely.’ Henry turned to Pandolpho, ‘My Lord Legate, I willingly submit my Kingdom to the protection and love of the Apostolic See until I come of age. God grant the Holy Father’s counsel be as loving as my Lord Marshal’s…’

  The boy could manage no more, but as they left the chamber, they saw that William was smiling through his pain.

  *

  In the hours that followed, utter silence hung in William’s bed-chamber as he lay breathing slowly. Either Isabelle or one of his daughters, all of whom had been summoned to Caversham, sat quietly at his bed-side. The sun set without him taking any sustenance and th
e hours of darkness fell upon him. Outside his chamber opinion among his following was that he would die in the dawn, but he did not. Before the twilight of the May morning lifted the gloom of the room William stirred. ‘Summon the family,’ he murmured, ‘and John D’Earley.’

  His voice was weaker than it had been, but his mind was lucid and his thoughts ordered. He spoke of love, love for Isabelle whom he named as his ‘beautiful friend,’ love for his sons and daughters, ‘for whom he had provided right well,’ though there was some difference of opinion over this.

  After Isabelle’s death, Will would inherit all her lands: the Earldom of Pembroke, Leinster and Striguil; their second son, Richard, was gifted the scattered estates that lay both in England and Normandy granted by the Lionheart; Walter had Goodrich Castle and Gilbert was in Holy Orders. Only young Anselm seemed left out, his father arguing that he might make his way in the world as he, William, had had to do.

  Yet to be knighted, Anselm seemed upset and John D’Earley stepped forward. ‘My Lord, if I might presume on your son Anselm’s behalf. Do you assign him to my mesnie, I shall see him dubbed in due course. If I may presume further, but some allowance to cover the cost of horse-shoes…’ D’Earley broke off, his face smiling sadly.

  There was a shocked silence among William’s family at D’Earley’s effrontery. It was too soon after Des Roches’ grossly miscalculated intervention for D’Earley’s words to sit easily with anyone. But William recognised the brave jest, smiled and lifted a hand, making a gesture towards D’Earley.

  ‘Ever thoughtful John,’ he said, turning to Anselm. ‘You heard what your good friend John D’Earley asks for in your name; you shall have one hundred and forty pounds a year, enough to maintain you until you make a marriage proper to your standing.’ William paused again, looking about him at the ring of pale faces surrounding the bed. The sound of weeping came through the tinnitus that had rung in his ears ever since he had had his casque all but beaten into his skull during his tourneying days.