July 1166 A.D. – Normandy, France – First Battle

The boy had turned into a man. As a younger son of a noble from England, it had been made crystal clear to him that he would have to make his own fortune in life. Live by his wits and his skills in combat. He had the luck, when he was a young man, to be taken in at the court of Tancarville in France. William Marshal had arrived at the age of fourteen.

He was a clever, strong youth and determined immediately to make the most of his good fortune. He had quickly gained the nickname of scoff food, as he never slept when there were any comestibles available to eat. He was lucky that at his home in England he had been schooled early in French, as well as English. So he had no problem communicating with his new hosts.

The Court at Tancarville was renowned throughout France, as a military training academy of the highest order. The Chamberlain of Tancarville retained a strong military force. It was required to maintain control over his three castles. At Tancarville, the square stone keep dominated the flat-topped hill on the north side of the Seine estuary. Further inland was the smaller castle at Albosc. Mezidon was in central Normandy above the valley of the Dives. The Chamberlain was an influential nobleman.

William learnt the skills of fighting in the great bailey of the castle. He was taught to hunt in the forests of Tancarville, and to hawk in the marshes around the Seine. As his voice developed, he greatly enjoyed singing lessons in the chamber of his Lord’s wife.

William’s good looks and fast developing abilities, gained him the attention of his Lord, and the envy of many others at court. The youth quickly developed a self-deprecating wit and a keen eye for disarming potential enemies. So as he had grown into a man, William had rapidly acquired all the skills an aristocrat required.

This particular night however, even the confident young fighter was feeling a slight feeling of nervousness. The evening had been one for which he had long waited. His master had knighted him in the garrison of Neufchatel, where they were massed to defend against an invading Flemish army. The ceremony had been simple, a sword girded to his side and a ritual dubbing blow from his Lord’s sword. But to William, the ceremony was great beyond measure. He was now a full member of the Chamberlain’s military structure.

The next day, William knew he had been justified in his sleepless night. This was no tournament but combat in the raw. He was mounted on his horse with the rest of the knights, standing still on a bridge just outside the town. Racing towards them were the massed ranks of the Flemish troops.

William lowered his lance and with the rest of his cavalry, charged the invading crowd. He smashed into three foot soldiers and his lance shattered, knocking him sideways. Quickly drawing his great sword, he used the techniques he had learnt at court, to splatter the heads of any Flemish soldier foolish enough to get within range.

Covered in gore and blood he was forced by sheer numbers, to back up against a wall at the side of the bridge. Two of the attackers had found a great metal hook. It was lying on the road as a fire precaution. Its intended use was to pull down burning thatch if any cottage roofs caught alight.

That wasn’t the purpose for which the men decided to use it. They swung it in an enormous arc and flung it towards the new knight. It caught him on the shoulder and threw him from his horse. He struggled free and stood, his back to the stone wall with his beast lying directly in front of him. The largest of his assailants thrust his own sword deep into the horse’s belly with a sense of abandoned relish.

William Marshal took a deep breath and prepared for the worst. But at that point there were raised voices and shouts from the rear of the Flemish troops. Exchanging looks of regret, the men in front of the knight, turned and raced back towards their retreating comrades.

The young man’s mind was racing. All the endless days of training had proved worthwhile. A quick reckoning suggested four men had died by his sword, and maybe another by the lance.

After taking a few moments to recover his composure, William began to make his way on foot back to the garrison. He was tired and his shoulder was throbbing painfully. He thought of nothing but returning safely to the castle and getting something to eat and drink. As he travelled back over the bridge, he picked his way around his battle companions. They were carefully engaged in relieving their fallen opponents of anything of value.

That night there was much revelry in the great hall of the castle. The tables groaned under the weight of the banquet that had been provided for the victorious knights. Remnants of the dinner remained strewn around the room.

The first course had been a soup of onions, leeks and ham cooked in milk. A fair amount of the liquid had been spilt and was lying about in small lakes on the tops of the tables. A civet of hare had followed. The meat grilled and cooked with onion, wine and vinegar thickened with breadcrumbs. Great earthenware jugs of wine had been passed backwards and forwards all night long.

A tall wooden T perch stood in the corner of the hall. The Chamberlain’s hunting birds were standing there. They had soft leather thongs on their feet and their eyes were hooded. The birds would lose their balance regularly. To keep their position on the perch they would flap their great wings, to the obvious amusement of the assembled fighting men. There were several dogs of indeterminate breed, running noisily around the room. Weaving in and out of the tables. Their yapping rewarded with the occasional scrap of meat, thrown to them by an indulgent knight.

The whole gathering was in high spirits, and the cavernous chamber echoed to the sound of loud, raucous laughter. William Marshal was feeling exhausted, but elated, after his first experience of fighting in earnest. He was reliving the day in his own mind, when his train of thought was interrupted. William de Mandeville, the heir to the Earl of Essex, called out to him from across the table.

“Marshal, I beg of you, will you grant me a gift out of friendship?”

The young man was surprised by the request, but replied politely.

“Willingly! What would you have?”

The answer came in a loud roar.

“A sword perhaps. Or failing that an old horse bridle!”

The room erupted in laughter. Mandeville was making the point that William had alone amongst the Chamberlain’s knights, failed to profit by this afternoon’s success. It was a salutary reminder that his profession was now arms. And its rewards were the equipment and ransom of those he had defeated. It was a lesson that the Marshal would take to heart. He never needed to be told anything twice.