5
William Marshal was drawn into the world of the tournament from late 1176 onwards and, for the next three years, both he and Henry the Young King became increasingly obsessed by these knightly contests. With his political ambitions stymied, the tournament offered Henry a new arena in which to earn the respect of his peers, to achieve a degree of renown, even celebrity, which might somehow offset the rankling sense of dissatisfaction that still gnawed at this king without a kingdom. For William and his fellow household knights, meanwhile, these chivalric games offered a chance to redeem some of the frustrations of the last five years – time spent in the loyal service of a lord and king, loved and honoured, yet ultimately incapable of advancing their careers. Triumph in these contests would serve not only to affirm their prowess after the defeats endured during the rebellion; it could also bring them rich material rewards. It is little wonder that Henry and his knights were soon in the thrall of the tournament.
This period of intense dedication to the tournament circuit had a transformative effect on William Marshal’s career. Up to this point, he had shown himself to be a competent knight and loyal retainer, moving through a series of military households and coming to the notice of the Angevin dynasty. In spite of the glory that the History of William Marshal was already prepared to associate with his name, in real terms William remained relatively little known or recognised outside select social circles, such as the Young King’s entourage. Marshal’s tournament successes wrought a dramatic change, bringing him international renown and considerable wealth, and cementing his already close connection with Young Henry. William became the preeminent figure within the Young King’smesnie and, for the first time, truly began to stand out within a much larger peer group of knights, drawn from across Western Europe. Now around thirty years of age – a hardened warrior in peak physical condition – he proved able to prosper in these chivalric contests when others enjoyed only mixed fortunes, or in the worst cases, faced financial ruin, suffered injury or even death.
This was not simply luck, though there must have been an element of good fortune, because William succeeded across such a large number of events, spread over more than five years. He evidently turned tourneying into an art, almost an industry. Indeed, as an old man, William would claim that he captured no less than 500 knights during his tournament career. So what made him a winner, and what do his achievements in this hugely competitive environment reveal about his qualities and nature as a man? The answers lie within the History of William Marshal, but as always, the text has to be read with care.
The biographer dedicated a large portion of his work to this phase of William’s life, giving over some 2,300 lines of the History to describing his tournament exploits, when just thirty-six had been expended on the six years Marshal spent training at Tancarville. This probably reflected William’s own enthusiasm for his glory days as a tournament champion. This period seems to have been etched into his memory as one of the happiest phases of his life: a time of few responsibilities, but many victories, and a source of countless stirring tales. Needless to say, the History often presented William as the all-conquering hero of these contests, but a nuanced picture of Marshal’s progress through the tournament world can be reconstructed. It reveals a knight who was skilled in feats of arms and horsemanship, but also resolutely acquisitive, devious, proud and even preening.
LEARNING TO WIN
Victory on the tournament circuit did not come early or easily. Historians have generally assumed that the Young King burst on to the tournament scene in the mid-1170s, with William Marshal at his side, and immediately achieved widespread success. But this impression largely derived from the idea that Marshal had already mastered these contests and somehow remained a revered champion. In fact, William’s earlier tournament career was probably quite short-lived (perhaps ending nine years earlier, in 1167) and his track record was solid, but not necessarily spectacular. Marshal likely understood the game and its rules better than anyone else in Henry’s household. But he was no tournament superstar, not yet at least.
Far from being an instant sensation, the Young King’s retinue were more of a comedy sideshow at first. Indeed, the History of William Marshal admitted that for eighteen months, Henry’s knights ‘never came to a single tournament site without being humiliated and ill-used’, and his warriors were routinely ‘captured and ill-treated’. French knights apparently became so accustomed to battering the Young King’s team that they started agreeing the divisions of ransoms and booty among themselves on the eve of each tournament. Henry’s men had a stirring battle-cry, using the traditional Norman shout of ‘Dex aïe’ (‘God our help’), their horses, arms and armour were all impressive enough and, given that he could draw on the Old King’s bankroll, the team contained the ‘pick of fighting men’, all used to ‘high exploits’. The real problem was discipline and, at first, William Marshal appears to have been an arch offender. His biographer conceded that, at an early event, ‘Marshal left the king and spurred his horse in the direction of another company’, and thereafter happily ‘launched himself into the fray’. This was all well and good in terms of displaying individual prowess – William duly sent many a foe ‘on their way with his mighty blows’ that day – but he had also abandoned his lord, Henry, and the Young King rightly chided him for it on his return.
Over time the team improved. Marshal learnt to curb his headstrong enthusiasm, and the History subsequently made constant reference to the fact that he always remained ‘close by the king’, protecting him with blows that were ‘exceedingly mighty and dangerous’. Henry’s knights gradually honed their skills and, with more experience, they began working together as a compact and coherent body of horsemen – recognising, as the biographer bluntly put it, that ‘a man who breaks ranks too early is a fool’. The Young King and his household were also mentored by Henry’s old ally, Philip of Flanders, by now an established patron of the tournament circuit and an acclaimed participant to boot. Philip was something of a scoundrel: ruthless, unprincipled and unswervingly ambitious. He had hitched his wagon to the Young King’s cause when he saw advantage, but he was an unreliable ally. The History of William Marshal did its best to paint him in a heroic light, as a ‘worthy man, who in wisdom surpassed’ all contemporaries, but remarkably it was also quite candid and accepting of his devious conduct on the tournament field.
Count Philip’s tournament tactics mirrored his approach to real life. He bent the rules, employed wily, even underhanded, methods, and pursued victory and gain with singular focus. His preferred technique in knightly contests was to arrive with his retinue at the lists (or assembly points), but publicly declare his intention merely to spectate rather than participate. Only after the grand charge and first phase of the mêlée had left his opponents ‘weary, disarrayed and disorganised’, would Philip spur his warriors into action, suddenly entering the tournament after all. Using this trick, the count’s retinue was able to cut a swathe through the field, leaving scores of knights ‘knocked to the ground . . . injured [and ultimately] captured’. This ruse echoed the use of a reserve troop in real battle – the highly effective tactic of holding a portion of one’s force back from the fray until the fighting reached its peak, and then timing its deployment so as to strike a decisive blow. In the context of a tournament such duplicity might today seem like blatant cheating, but Philip’s peers appear to have accepted his ploy as a canny manipulation of the rules. The History lauded him as ‘wise and brave’, and what is more, it went on to reveal that William Marshal himself embraced this tactic.
Acting as Young Henry’s tournament captain and strategist, Marshal advised the retinue to imitate Philip of Flanders’ methods. At the next event, they arrived ‘giving no indication that [they were] going to tourney that day or carry arms into the fray’, and then abruptly launched a blistering attack ‘when the other side were unable to defend themselves’. It proved to be an overwhelming success. The muddy field was left strewn with enemy banners and flags, and for once, ‘the King’s men made great gains’. William’s biographer gleefully declared: ‘After that the King never came to a [tournament] without availing himself of this sort of trick or deception.’ Much as the History might chastise loathsome losengiers (deceivers) in the real world, here it seems that a degree of dishonesty was fair game.
THE DAYS OF GLORY
By the end of 1177, the Young King’s retinue – with William Marshal at its heart – was enjoying ever more success on the tournament circuit. Victories began to mount, and ransoms and spoils started to flood into the household’s coffers. Henry, Marshal and the retinue as a whole were now seen in a different light. No longer easy victims, they were garnering a reputation as accomplished, steely-eyed practitioners of the art, and fast becoming one of the most feared and respected teams in northern France.
William and Henry had now known each other for seven years; the boy-king had grown up to become a tall, stunningly handsome twenty-three-year-old. These two men had fought and lost a war together, and the bond forged between them in 1170 had only strengthened. They were not (and could not be) equals, given Henry’s rarefied royal blood, but they were firm friends; and these years fighting side by side on the tournament field seem to have been the happiest that they shared. Of course, the History would be expected to emphasise Marshal’s especially esteemed position within Young Henry’s mesnie, so we might wonder whether the suggestion that ‘the king loved [William] dearly, more than any other knight he knew in any land’, should be taken at face value. But other external sources confirm Marshal’s pre-eminent status – most importantly, Henry’s surviving acta (issued documents), in which William consistently appeared in pride of place, as the first witness drawn from the military household.
The History painted a vivid picture of the exuberant joy shared by William and the Young King at their daring exploits, evoking an unmistakeable sense of unfettered bravura and camaraderie. This was never clearer than at a ‘grand and excellent’ tournament held on the Norman-French border between Anet and Sorel. Henry’s retinue performed well in the early stages of this event, timing their charge to perfection so that they ‘drove right through’ the French ranks. With their opponents in full flight, most of the Young King’s household set off in pursuit, but Marshal remained at his lord’s side. Together they ‘rode downhill until they came out clean in the middle of the main avenue in Anet’. The town seemed deserted until they turned a corner and were suddenly confronted by the sight of the mounted French warrior, Simon of Neauphle, blocking the way ahead with a well-armed party of infantrymen. The History related that: ‘The King said, “We shall not get through, and yet there is no question of going back.” The Marshal replied, word for word: “So help me God, there’s nothing for it but to charge them.”’
Hammering headlong down the street, the throng of foot soldiers scattered before them, all desperately trying to avoid being trampled to death. A way through opened up, but William was not content merely to make a getaway. He rode in towards Simon of Neauphle, deftly snatched his horse’s bridle and, holding on with all his might, began dragging his opponent along behind him, as Henry followed. This was one of Marshal’s favourite techniques – it had earned him plenty of captures back in the 1160s – and he now rode off to the lists, with Simon in tow, intent on declaring the French knight his prisoner. Simon had other ideas. As they raced through the town, with William ‘paying no attention to what was going on behind’, the French knight leapt out of his saddle to grab an overhanging gutter, and was thereby plucked from his mount. Marshal remained oblivious, but the Young King witnessed this spectacular feat, yet said nothing.
When they reached the lists and William instructed his squire to ‘Take this knight into custody’, Henry cheerily enquired in reply: ‘What knight?’ and then revealed Simon’s ‘splendid trick’. The History presented this as a comical moment: Marshal ‘burst out laughing’ as both men savoured the joke, and the tale was heartily retold for weeks to come. The episode has the feel of a favoured, and perhaps embroidered, anecdote, but the kernel of truth – William’s intimate friendship with Young Henry – seems authentic.
A ‘hero’ rises
The History recorded many of William’s own individual, and equally colourful, exploits, as he gradually mastered the tournament circuit. By the late 1170s Marshal began to attend events on his own as a way of gaining experience, reputation and reward. The first of these ‘freelance’ ventures seems to have been a tournament held at Pleurs, in the Champagne region, east of Paris. The biographer maintained that, because this was judged to be too far for the Young King to travel with his ‘heavy baggage’ train, Henry gave ‘his bosom friend’ William leave to go with only one other knight in his company. In reality Marshal may well have had to pester his lord for permission to depart, and he does not seem to have borne Young Henry’s colours or device at this event, because his biographer indicated that, once the contest had begun, ‘many looked at him hard [but] had no idea who he was’.
The tournament at Pleurs attracted some of France’s most illustrious barons and knights: Philip of Flanders was present, as were Duke Hugh of Burgundy and Count Theobald of Blois. Two of Europe’s finest warriors – James of Avesnes and William des Barres – also attended. These two men were Marshal’s direct peers in the 1170s, knights who garnered widespread renown for their skill-at-arms. William revelled in the day, fighting ‘like a lion amongst oxen’, and according to the History, as he clove a path through his opponents, ‘he struck and hammered like a woodcutter on oak trees’. In reality, though Marshal evidently relished the fracas and more than held his own, the lack of protection from a disciplined retinue left him exposed. Targeted by numerous attacks, he received such a pummelling from sword and mace blows that his helmet was crushed down ‘to his scalp’. All in all, Marshal seems to have regarded it as a splendid day, with many knights displaying noteworthy prowess. William had impressed his peers and begun, in the words of his biographer, ‘to establish his reputation’, but his actual winnings may have been fairly modest.
The fighting at Pleurs gradually petered out by mid-afternoon, but the main field retained a chaotic, fairground atmosphere, as knights and their stewards milled around, sharing stories, securing ransoms and hunting down lost equipment. A lengthy, chivalrous debate ensued about who should receive the ceremonial spear gifted to the day’s worthiest knight. To affirm their courtly modesty many declined, Philip of Flanders included, and it was eventually decided that William Marshal should be given the award. The only problem was that he was nowhere to be seen. Two knights and a squire eventually tracked him down to a local forge. There they found Marshal on his knees, his head lain upon an anvil, as a blacksmith struggled to pry his ‘smashed and battered’ helmet off with an assortment of ‘hammers, wrenches and pincers’. It all made for a laughable scene – one that William evidently remembered with great affection. He was duly presented with his prize spear and, though he too humbly declared himself undeserving of the award, he accepted it nonetheless.
In the months that followed, William’s tournament career flourished. At an event held at Eu, on Normandy’s eastern frontier with Picardy, he captured ten knights and twelve horses in a single day, and the History reported that ‘the tide of his valour and reputation now began to rise, lifting him to high eminence’. Marshal’s fortunes depended in part on the quality of the warriors surrounding him in the Young King’s mesnie: knights hand-picked and recruited through William’s contacts, and paid for out of Henry’s allowance. But William also possessed innate qualities and acquired skills that set him apart. Marshal’s raw physicality allowed him to absorb battering blows that might fell others, while his strength lent jarring force to the attacks he delivered with either lance or sword. Few could match the assured agility of his horsemanship and a canny, guileful strategic awareness meant that he was able to outthink opponents.
As a flurry of successes followed, William was soon fêted as a champion – revered within the enclosed, hothouse atmosphere of the tourney circuit – and courted by the great and the good. The History recounted how, on the eve of a great contest at Épernon in the province of Blois, Marshal was welcomed as a guest by the local magnate, Count Theobald. The custom was for ‘high-ranking men’ to visit one another’s lodgings through the evening, sharing stories, gossip and wine. By this time, Marshal’s standing was such that even the most powerful men in France were happy to be seen in his company. On this particular night, however, things almost went awry.
William had ridden into Épernon on ‘a tall and valuable horse’, which he left in the care of a young local lad. But, just as he was basking in the attention of Count Theobald’s gawking guests, a violent commotion was heard in the street outside. Marshal leapt to his feet and, ‘without taking his leave’, sprinted outside to discover a thief riding off on his precious steed. The scoundrel must have thought that he would easily make good his escape under the cover of darkness, mounted as he was; but he had not counted on William’s determined pursuit. Racing down the street, Marshal tracked the clatter of the horse’s hooves. Even when the thief darted down an alley and hid behind a cart full of branches, William managed to catch the faint sound of the beast stamping its feet. Closing in, he grabbed a piece of wood from the cart and battered the thief so hard that one of his eyes popped out. The horse was recovered, and though the Count of Blois called for a hanging, Marshal supposedly showed mercy, arguing that, with his head half caved in, the wretch had ‘suffered enough’.
Victory on an industrial scale
In spite of his biographer’s continued emphasis upon William’s upstanding behaviour and the honour he accrued in knightly contests, there can be no doubt that for warriors like Marshal the attraction of tournaments was not simply related to abstract notions of chivalry. Reputation mattered enormously to be sure, but the great beauty of the tourney, as far as Marshal and his peers were concerned, was that it allowed knights to earn renown and, at the same time, amass booty, ransoms and wealth. The author of the History of William Marshal had a fascinating attitude to this question of material gain. On the one hand, he insisted that his hero gave no thought to riches, stating that: ‘Not for a moment did [William] have gain in mind, [and] he was so focused on noble exploits that he had no concern for making profit.’ But at the same time, he could not bring himself to wholly conceal the fabulous wealth Marshal now accumulated, because these material assets were such an essential component of William’s meteoric progress.
The biographer may have struggled with these issues, but Marshal himself apparently saw no shred of incompatibility between chivalry and materialism. In his world, these two fundamental concerns were inseparable. The mechanics of the medieval tournament meant that the taking of prisoners and plunder served both as the visible affirmation of prowess and the source of practical gain. Indeed, as William won more and more victories, he began to treat the tournament circuit almost like a business. In the late 1170s he struck a deal with Roger of Jouy, a Flemish knight who had been recruited into the Young King’s household.
William’s biographer did not really approve of Roger, characterising him as ‘a brave and doughty man, renowned for feats of arms, venturesome and clever, but inclined to be greedy’, but Marshal seems to have been more interested in Roger’s well-known ability to win copious amounts of loot. The two men forged a formal agreement to fight side by side in tournaments so as to make ‘greater gains’, and then split their winnings evenly. They even employed one of the Young King’s household servants – his kitchen clerk, Wigain – on the side, to keep a tally of their victories. Years later, William’s biographer saw one of these account sheets covering the period between Lent and Whitsuntide (which probably equated to no more than two months of tourneying at most), and seemed both appalled and impressed to discover that in that time, Marshal and Roger took an extraordinary 103 knights prisoner. The ‘companions’ worked together for two years and must have made a fortune.*
Even with this flood of money coming in, William shepherded his assets with meticulous, almost miserly assiduity. During a second tournament between Anet and Sorel, two horses were snatched from him when he was caught momentarily on foot and thus unable to mount a defence. It was an opportunistic capture, but hardly criminal. That evening, Marshal haggled mercilessly for hours to secure the horses’ release and later gloated that he had cannily managed to buy back one of the mounts for only £7, even though it was actually worth £40. In the course of this episode, William also made calculated use of his reputation to browbeat one of the ‘cowardly’ knights involved, Peter of Leschans, forcing him to admit his supposed thievery in front of his uncle, the distinguished knight William des Barres. Marshal’s status meant that his word could not be challenged, even by des Barres (who did his best to smooth over the embarrassing affair). In the opinion of his biographer, William was merely putting the upstart youngster in his place, but it is hard to avoid the conclusion that Marshal was actually exploiting his position in a rather unscrupulous manner.
Through this critical stage of his career, thriving on the tournament field, William’s character edges a little further into the light. He comes across as a man imbued with rare physical prowess and clear fortitude; one who understood, and carefully adhered to, the knightly code of honour prevalent in his day. Some of his actions might sit uncomfortably alongside modern conceptions of ‘chivalry’ – from the use of crafty battlefield tactics, to the instances of prideful self-promotion and ceaseless materialism – but there can be little doubt that Marshal’s contemporaries lauded him as a paragon of chivalry. His conduct and achievements evidently exemplified the behaviour expected of a ‘chevalier’.
The father of chivalry
The Young King Henry also emerged as a celebrated luminary of the tournament world in the late 1170s. But unlike his friend and retainer William Marshal, Henry’s fame did not derive primarily from his own skill-at-arms, nor was his worth measured in ransoms and spoils. The Young King fought at the heart of his retinue, of course – though it was naturally expected that his household would shield him from the fray – and the reflected glory of his warriors’ achievements on the tourney field did augment his own reputation. But above and beyond all this, Henry was hailed for his largesse and patronage.
Contemporaries compared the Young King to Alexander and Arthur, the great heroes of old, and hailed him as a ‘father of chivalry’. They did so because after 1177 Henry assembled one of the most impressive military households in all of Europe, packed with warriors drawn from across the Angevin realm and beyond. The visible proof of Henry’s eminence was the quantity and quality of the knights in his mesnie. The author of the History of William Marshal lauded the Young King’s determination to always keep ‘worthy followers in his service’, because his seemingly inexhaustible generosity set a new standard in northern Europe. The likes of Philip of Flanders followed Henry’s example because ‘they saw very well that neither king nor count could raise his standing except through the worthy men he had with him’.
This was all well and good for the leading knights of the day, and it was their view – or, more particularly, William Marshal’s view – of the tournament circuit that the History reflected. These warriors had everything to gain from Young Henry’s bounteous munificence. He gave them all the ‘horses, arms and money’ they wanted – and, better still, ‘he did not haggle’ – and they worshipped him in return. But elsewhere, this massive inflation in the market for knights had consequences. Men such as Philip of Flanders and Hugh of Burgundy must have inwardly groaned at the Young King’s unfettered generosity, because it meant that they, and other rival patrons, had to pay through the nose to recruit the best warriors. Eventually, the massive expenditure also put Henry’s own finances under pressure. More than ever before, his retinue left a trail of debt to armourers, farriers and innkeepers as they criss-crossed northern France. By 1178, the Young King was dangerously addicted to the pageantry of the tournament circuit. He ‘journeyed through many a land to win fame and glory’, according to the History, ‘for he could never have enough of risking and giving generously’, and was ‘incapable of refusing anything to any man’.
Nonetheless, the grandiose display of largesse, honour and status worked its magic. As the 1170s drew to a close, the Young King ascended to the very pinnacle of the tournament scene. For the knights and nobles of northern France, increasingly obsessed with the ideals of chivalry, Henry became almost a cult figure. He was the talk of every tourney and contest, the focus of awestruck rumour and feverish gossip – the golden celebrity of his day. In the words of the History, ‘every man would have liked to be like him’. This iconic standing was felt in England too, where a chronicler portrayed Henry as an inspiration to both his class and his generation, calling him ‘the glory of all knighthood’ and the ‘flower and mirror of youth and generosity’.
The Young King’s fervent dedication to the world of chivalry and tournament might seem like the frivolous excesses of an indulgent playboy. Yet that was not the full picture. Tourneys were mere games of prowess, but they were played by many of the most powerful men in the West – barons and magnates driven by a deepening fixation with chivalric culture. By the late 1170s, it was clear that displays of military might and knightly eminence had an impact that stretched beyond the confines of the tournament field. This lent Young Henry’s stardom an edge, because as the famed ‘father of chivalry’, he inevitably came to enjoy a measure of influence in the real world. As a teenager he had sought power through rebellion; now he had made his name, and affirmed his regal status, in a different arena.
These achievements could not be ignored by Henry’s father, the Old King. Historians have often suggested that Henry II viewed his son’s lavish tournament career as merely ‘wasteful and trivial’. But by 1179 his attitude was unquestionably more positive. This was apparent to Ralph of Diss, the well-connected dean of St Paul’s Cathedral in London, who offered this balanced estimation of the Young King’s activities:
[Henry] passed three years in tournaments, spending lots of money. While he was rushing all over France, he put aside the royal majesty and was transformed from a king into a knight, carrying off victory in various meetings. His popularity made him famous; the Old King grew happier counting up and admiring his victories [and later restored] his possessions that he had taken away.
Henry II may not have tolerated tournaments in England, but he could hardly ignore the near-fanatical popularity of these contests across the rest of Europe. The Old King’s Capetian rival, the ageing Louis VII of France, had made little or no effort to represent himself as a patron of chivalry. That left a significant gap, within which the Young King might usefully operate, wielding influence and forging a network of connections to advance Angevin interests. In all likelihood this had been apparent from an early stage, and the Young King’s relationship with the likes of Philip of Flanders (his former ally) probably had a political subtext from the start. When the ‘high-ranking men’ visited one another on the eve of tournaments, not all their talk can have been of sport and prowess. Certainly, by 1179 at the latest, Henry II was intent upon harnessing his eldest son’s celebrity. In mid-Lent that year, the Young King returned to England for the first time since 1176, and later attended his father’s Easter Court at Winchester. Young Henry was back in the fold.
THE GRANDEST TOURNAMENT
By the summer of 1179 it seemed that the Young King’s career had been rejuvenated: the defeats and disappointments of his rebellion were now in the past, the irksome sense of paternal containment and manipulation largely erased. Young Henry’s tournament career might have been bankrolled by his father’s generous allowance, but the mark he had made on the world was his own. Now twenty-four-years old, he was the doyen of Europe’s knightly aristocracy. Henry’s star had risen alongside that of his friend and leading household warrior, William Marshal. In the decade since he entered Angevin service, Marshal had climbed the ladder to an entirely new level. Such was his fame and wealth that William began to attract a retinue of his own, becoming in the terms of the day a ‘knight banneret’ – a warrior in service to a lord, yet permitted to carry his own banner. Now in his early thirties, Marshal proudly bore his new colours and device: a red lion rampant, against a halved green and gold background. These arms, echoing the lions of the Norman banner, would remain with William for the rest of his career. Both he and the Young King were in the prime of life, and the events of late 1179 would give them the perfect opportunity to display their quality.
King Louis VII of France was now around fifty-nine-years old, and his grip over the Capetian realm was faltering. A third marriage had finally produced the long-awaited male heir his dynasty needed and, by 1179, this boy, Philip, was fourteen and plans were in hand for his imminent coronation. But that summer the young French prince endured something of an ordeal. During a boar-hunt in the wild forests near Chartres, Philip became separated from his companions and was soon hopelessly lost. By day’s end, he was still wandering aimlessly – alone, afraid and exposed to the elements. Luckily Philip spotted the faint glow of a woodsman’s campfire and the peasant kindly led him to safety. But the prince fell gravely ill thereafter and his survival was soon in doubt.
Fearful for the future of his Capetian royal line, Louis VII took the extraordinary step of making a pilgrimage to the shrine of Thomas Becket in Canterbury, hoping that his pious appeals for saintly intercession might save young Philip’s life. The king was by now a rather elderly and frail man himself. He managed the long journey, crossing the Channel in late August to be greeted on the Dover sands by Henry II himself, and escorted to Canterbury. Given their longstanding rivalry, contemporaries were astounded by this unprecedented, peaceful visit. After three days, Louis returned home. The Angevin King Henry had endowed the shrine with lamps after his public flogging in 1174; the Capetian monarch now promised Canterbury’s monks an annual supply of 100 barrels of fine French wine with which to slake their thirst. Louis’ prayers seemed to have been answered when Philip made a full recovery, but the trip left the king shattered, and soon after his arrival back in Paris he suffered a massive stroke. Paralysed down one side of his body and barely able to speak, the Capetian monarch was forced to withdraw from public life, remaining an invalid until his death in September 1180.
To secure the succession, it was now imperative that Philip be crowned and anointed while Louis VII yet lived, so a grand ceremony was scheduled for 1 November 1179 in the royal city of Rheims. This would be the greatest assembly of the decade, with representatives of all of Western Europe’s leading dynasties and noble houses in attendance, and to top it all, a massive tournament was also organised to celebrate Philip’s investiture. That autumn the close correlation between practical power and chivalric spectacle was laid bare. With the creation of a new French king, the chessboard of politics was about to be reordered, and naturally, all the key players were angling for influence and advantage. Leading figures such as Philip, count of Flanders, and Duke Hugh of Burgundy would attend the coronation, eager to establish themselves as the young Capetian monarch’s preferred mentor.
At this critical juncture, King Henry II looked to his eldest son to represent the Angevin house. With the Old King’s sponsorship, Young Henry would travel to Rheims and the coronation tournament in the most magnificently regal style imaginable. Standing beside William Marshal, his illustrious champion, the beautiful Young King would astonish the world with his chivalry and, it was hoped, gain an unbreakable hold over his brother-in-law Philip of France. This was not the first time that Henry II had spent a fortune to create the aura of opulent majesty. Twenty-one years earlier, when the Old King still enjoyed the trusted service of Thomas Becket, he had sent his then chancellor to negotiate Young Henry’s marriage to the infant Marguerite of France. The low-born son of a Cheapside textile merchant, Becket was determined to appear every inch the noble diplomat during this critical embassy to Paris in 1158, so he demanded the most extraordinary entourage. Onlookers were left agog at the sight of the passing procession, with Thomas accompanied by 200 knights, a small army of infantrymen, clerks and stewards, eight wagons (two of which were packed with barrels of the finest beer) each drawn by five massive horses, and twelve packhorses bearing Becket’s own luxurious possessions, each of which had a small monkey riding upon its back.
The Young King travelled in similar majesty in 1179, but this was not – as some historians have suggested – simply extravagant frivolity; this was chivalric display with a political purpose, enacted at Henry II’s urging and paid for out of his pocket. The Norman chronicler Robert of Torigni, writing at this time, noted that the Young King travelled to the coronation bearing ‘gifts of gold and silver’ and in the company of ‘a large knightly retinue’, but specified that ‘by his father’s orders, [Henry] had brought with him such provisions for the journey, that he accepted free quarters from no one, either on the road or during the festivities’.
The History of William Marshal provided further details of the Young King’s entourage that autumn. He was accompanied by a select band of eighty leading knights, but no less than fifteen of these warriors, including William Marshal, were ‘knights-banneret’ and therefore trailed by around ten household warriors of their own. Young Henry paid each of these additional knights twenty shillings a day for the full duration of the journey. Even excluding all the other associated expenses, the cost of paying this war-band has been estimated at over £200 per day, and the group seems to have been maintained, at least, for the best part of a month. Bearing in mind that, at this time, the royal income from the entire county of Worcester was £200 per year, it is obvious that the Young King’s magnificence came with a crippling price tag. As the History ruefully observed, ‘it was a source of wonder where this wealth was to be found’.
Yet costly as it was, the splendour marked the Young King out as the guest of honour at Philip II of France’s coronation. The count of Flanders was also present, and he was privileged with the task of carrying the ceremonial royal sword as young Philip processed into Rheims Cathedral. But it was Henry who took pride of place. He moved through the crowds, talking ‘with all the nobles present’, and claimed the supposed prerogative of Norman dukes by bearing the royal crown as William, archbishop of Rheims (Philip II’s uncle), performed the coronation. Henry’s close connection to the new French king was clear for all to see.
After a round of feasting, the grandiose celebrations moved to a large area of open terrain east of Paris, at Lagny-sur-Marne – a setting which today, rather incongruously, hosts the site of Disneyland Paris. The tournament held at Lagny in November 1179 was on a scale ‘never seen before or since’ according to the History. No less than 3,000 knights attended – more than enough to wage a crusade in the Holy Land. Such was the throng that ‘the entire field of combat was swarming with [warriors]’ and ‘not an inch of ground was to be seen’. William Marshal was one of the most renowned participants, and he may well have been given a special commemorative parchment listing all of the leading knights present, because his biographer appears to have used such a document when drafting his account. The History thus recorded a long and detailed roll call of all those from France, Flanders, England, Normandy and Anjou.
Almost every knight received a short epithet, so the biographer described the great William des Barres as a ‘wise and valorous knight’, while noting that the Norman warrior John of Préaux ‘was as good as gold when it came to taking blows’. In fact, John was just one of five Préaux brothers who appear to have served in the Young King’s mesnie. Not surprisingly, many of Young Henry’s household knights received special mention. Like Marshal, the Flemish warrior Baldwin of Béthune was a knight-banneret. He had recently entered Henry’s retinue and soon became one of William’s closest confidants. Simon Marsh was styled as ‘a courageous, valiant and indomitable knight’, Gerard Talbot, as a man ‘truly fit to be king’ and Robert of Tresgoz as a ‘valiant knight and a witty man’ while the newer arrival, Thomas of Coulonces, was said to be exceedingly worthy. These were the men who were William Marshal’s everyday associates – his friends, compatriots and sometime rivals.*
The tournament at Lagny was remarkable for its size and splendour, but not necessarily for its sport. Indeed, as a martial contest it may even have been somewhat disappointing. With such a horde of knights packed on to the field, the mêlée was extraordinarily chaotic. Some of the knights unhorsed were trampled and injured. Amid the swirling fray, the Young King briefly became isolated from many of his knights and William Marshal had to intervene, wrestling Henry’s horse free from a group of opponents. In the resulting scuffle, the Young King’s helmet was ‘torn from his head’, which was ‘a source of great annoyance’, but otherwise the event passed without major incident. More than ever, the point of this tourney was to be seen at the head of – or within – a resplendent household; and to have been part of a unique spectacle, awash with the colour of hundreds of unfurled banners, and resounding to the thunderous din of 3,000 charging, battling knights.
Lagny marked the apogee of William Marshal’s tournament career and the Young King’s dedication to the cult of chivalry. Both men had been elevated to positions of prominence in these years of glory. With his fortunes resuscitated, Henry was once again ready to assume his royal mantle and claim the realm he had been promised. In that pursuit he would turn to his friend and loyal retainer, William, a man now starting to be regarded as one of Europe’s greatest knights.
ENGINEERING A CRISIS
William Marshal’s career, and that of his lord and friend Henry, the Young King, continued to blossom in the early 1180s. The animosity and suspicion that had once coloured Young Henry’s relationship with his father thawed, and the pair actively cooperated to deepen Angevin influence within the Capetian court. Count Philip of Flanders began to distance himself from the Young King, seeking instead to take the new French monarch Philip II (or Philip Augustus) under his wing. In these early years of his reign, King Philip remained a timid, sickly teenager, prone to vacillate in his allegiances. At first he favoured the count of Flanders, and together they led a rather heartless assault against his mother, the French queen. Later, the pendulum swung in the Angevins’ favour: a peace treaty with the new Capetian monarch was settled at Gisors in the Norman Vexin, and Young Henry found himself fighting a short-lived, but ferocious military offensive against both Philip of Flanders and the duke of Burgundy. William Marshal may well have participated in this campaign, but it was not recorded in the History and only briefly described in other sources. The Young King emerged victorious, and Henry II began to show signs of deepening respect for his eldest son.
Nonetheless, the question of Young Henry’s status remained unresolved, and by the autumn of 1182 his patience was running thin. In a move calculated to alert the Old King to his wavering allegiance, Henry made a formal visit with his wife Marguerite to King Philip in Paris, and then issued a demand for the duchy of Normandy. The same problems that had underpinned the Young King’s rebellion a decade earlier now resurfaced. In the words of one chronicler, Henry sought territory ‘in which he and his wife might take up their abode’, but also added that the Young King wished to own land ‘from which he might pay his knights and servants for their services’. This suggests that, in spite of their tournament successes, William Marshal and the other members of Henry’s mesnie may well have been pressurising their lord for further reward. As always, the Old King prevaricated, merely promising Henry a renewed allowance of 100 Angevin pounds per day (plus a rather measly ten for Queen Marguerite) and the service of an additional 100 knights.
What made this all the more galling was that the Young King’s brothers, Richard and Geoffrey, were thriving. Both were now grown men, governing the territories of Aquitaine and Brittany in their own name. Richard, in particular, was garnering a formidable reputation. He would come to be known by the nickname ‘Cœur de Lion’ or the ‘Lionheart’ and later play a critical role in William Marshal’s career. Deprived of his mother Queen Eleanor’s influence and guidance since 1174, Richard had nonetheless held his own in the south. In physical terms he bore some resemblance to his elder sibling, though it was always Henry who possessed the easy good looks. A chronicler who knew Richard personally wrote of his ‘tall, elegant build’, adding that ‘the colour of his hair was between red and gold [and] his limbs were supple and straight’. But in temperament, Richard differed from the Young King. He shared more of his father’s mercurial energy, was at once cultured and learned yet readier to resort to violence, even casual brutality, and he showed little interest in the knightly pageantry of the tournament. Some of these qualities perhaps emerged in response to the incessant demands of pacifying Aquitaine, but Richard had proven himself to be up to the task. Through hard-nosed military campaigning, siege warfare and destructive raiding, he was busily thrashing his independent-minded subjects into submission, and finding the time to eye territory to the north in neighbouring Anjou, the county to which Young Henry held rights.
As the Young King’s brothers grew in stature, an obvious, but troublesome question came more into focus: would the Angevin Empire endure beyond Henry II’s death? Or would Brittany and Aquitaine become fully fledged, independent territories? This divisive issue served only to inflame Young Henry’s nagging anxieties. For close to three decades, his father had stood as overlord of the realm, at the head of the Angevin world. When the Young King finally came into his inheritance, he naturally expected to enjoy this same, pre-eminent status. He was, after all, his father’s eldest son and primary heir – an anointed king. Surely it was only right that he should stand above his younger brothers; be able to call on their allegiance and expect their subservience. Just as naturally, Duke Richard and Count Geoffrey held a rather different view of the future; one in which any formal sense of empire would die with the Old King, leaving them free to govern their domains – the lands which they sweated over and shed blood to hold – as autonomous lords. The wrangling over this thorny issue, and Young Henry’s renewed focus on the issue of his position, would draw William Marshal back into the arena of high politics.
The path to a second rebellion
In Young Henry’s eyes, the Old King remained frustratingly evasive on the subject of the empire, equivocating just as he did over the duchy of Normandy. Henry II was now almost fifty – a man entering his twilight years – yet he showed no sign of loosening his grip on the levers of power. By the second half of 1182, the Young King had waited long enough. He wanted clear answers and definitive action. It is not known whether he sought the advice of leading retainers like Marshal and Robert Tresgoz, or formulated a plan of action on his own, but Henry certainly resolved to place his father in a position where choices could no longer be avoided or postponed. First, Young Henry declared that he was considering a crusade to the Holy Land. Crusading was viewed as an act of knightly virtue and Christian piety. It was customary for those planning such a campaign to make a ritualised crusading vow – a formal promise to God of their intent – and to ‘take the cross’ by sewing a simple cloth crucifix on their cloak or clothing as a visible symbol of their crusader status and an affirmation of their resolve. In the autumn of 1182, Young Henry announced his intention to take these two steps and thus make a formal commitment to crusade in the East.
In some respects, this decision was hardly surprising. Calls for aid from the embattled Latin Christian settlers in the Levant were becoming increasingly desperate. Henry also had a close family connection to the Christian rulers of the Holy Land: his great-grandfather, Fulk of Anjou, had become king of Jerusalem in 1131, establishing a bloodline that still held. Jerusalem was now ruled by Fulk’s enfeebled grandson, King Baldwin IV – a tragic figure who had contracted leprosy as a child – while, by contrast, the Muslims of the Near East were uniting under the rule of Saladin, a fearsome Kurdish warlord. The future survival of the crusader states thus hung in the balance.
The Young King’s crusading impulse also had clear precedent. King Henry II had himself frequently promised to lead a crusade to the East, though as yet those vows remained unredeemed. As a king struggling to govern the great Angevin realm, Henry constantly protested his inability to leave Europe, and instead sent money to help pay for Jerusalem’s defence. Count Philip of Flanders had actually followed through on a crusading vow taken in 1175, travelling to the Levant in the summer of 1177 at the head of a sizeable military contingent and fighting in Syria. At one level then, Young Henry’s suggestion that he too might answer the call to crusade made perfect sense. But his declaration also sent the Old King a clear message. Should his requests remain unanswered and the future of the Angevin Empire unresolved, the Young King might be forced to seek a different future in the Holy Land – perhaps even to pursue a claim to the Jerusalemite crown. That would leave Henry II’s precious plans for the succession in ruins and shatter the finely tuned balance of power with Capetian France.
With his crusading project still under discussion, Henry the Young King eyed a more direct means to force Henry II’s hand, one that would play out far closer to home. As the Old King refused to give him lands of his own or to confirm his pre-eminence, Young Henry might have to take power for himself and thereby prove that he stood above his brothers. Aquitaine seemed to be a likely target. The sprawling province remained prone to unrest, and much of its populace saw Richard as a brutish tyrant. Even English chroniclers admitted that he ‘oppressed his subjects with unjustified demands and a regime of violence’ and acknowledged that ‘the great nobles of Aquitaine hated him because of his great cruelty’. Indeed, one shocked contemporary stated that Richard routinely ‘carried off his subjects’ wives, daughters and kinswomen by force and made them his concubines’, later handing them on to his men to enjoy.
William Marshal had a well-established familiarity with this region dating back to 1168, but the Young King also knew the depth of the Aquitanians’ antipathy from first-hand experience. The spring and summer of 1182 had seen Richard fighting yet another string of campaigns in Angoulême and, further south, in Périgord. Henry II had come to his son’s aid and later summoned the Young King to join the war effort. Young Henry obliged, marching through Aquitaine with William Marshal and the rest of his military household, to arrive at the siege of Puy-St-Front in Périgord on 1 July. In the face of this overwhelming concentration of Angevin might, the locals reluctantly sued for peace.
However, the Young King also used this visit to establish links with a number of local nobles, surreptitiously forging a loose network of connections and alliances, testing the water. It was clear that many Aquitanians were eager to throw off the yoke of Richard’s rule, and Young Henry could easily present himself as the man who might bring justice to the province, especially in aristocratic circles. After all, he was the grandiose hero of countless tournaments, a famed paragon of chivalry and the lord of renowned knights like William Marshal. It was perhaps with a view to cultivating this image of regal magnificence and honourable piety among a wider audience that Henry travelled to Limoges – the scene of his first open rift with the Old King in 1173 – to visit the revered Abbey of St Martial. There he received a joyous welcome from ‘the monks, the clergy and the people’ and then made a special gift to signal his devoted patronage: a majestic cloak, wrought of the finest materials, and richly embroidered with the legend Rex Henricus – King Henry.
In spite of the summer’s campaigning, open resistance to Richard’s authority resurfaced in the autumn of 1182. Young Henry sensed his opportunity. A number of Aquitanian nobles were already encouraging him to intervene and release them from oppression. If he answered their call, he could argue that he was pursuing a just cause, snatch the duchy from Richard and leave his father no option but to acknowledge his standing. The question was whether the Young King had the stomach to wage open war against his brother.
But then, just at the moment that Henry was weighing up these momentous choices – when he most needed the steadfast support and measured guidance of his trusted household knights – a dreadful rumour reached the Young King’s ears. He had been cuckolded. One of his warriors was bedding Queen Marguerite, his wife. And most shockingly of all, the man accused of this heinous crime was none other than William Marshal.