Crusade (23 page)

I knew that Sweyn and Adela would not hesitate in choosing the life of risk and reward, and that Edwin would always follow them. For me, there were still moments of doubt.

Would I be courageous enough to meet the challenges that lay ahead?

Would I be strong enough to overcome them?

Although I was not certain what the answer to those questions would be, I knew I had to find out.

PART FOUR

Brothers at War

17. An Ignominious Death

Our journey back across the Mediterranean and through Aquitaine was a much less frenetic one than the journey that had brought us back to Sicily. Sweyn wanted to return to Mahnoor’s grave and carried some of Sicily’s rich volcanic soil to scatter on her resting place.

Although the mood at St Cirq Lapopie remained sombre, we relaxed and gave Sweyn time to come to terms with the awful tragedy that had befallen him. There was some talk of selling the estate and moving away from Aquitaine – Count Roger’s Sicily was discussed, as was a new start in England. Eventually, Ingigerd and Maria decided they were too old to start a new life elsewhere. They concluded that St Cirq Lapopie was the one constant factor in the lives of several diverse people and that they would keep it as an anchor point for everyone for as long as possible. For Sweyn, St Cirq Lapopie now offered only terrible memories of Mahnoor’s death; it was time for him to resume his life as a warrior.

I had sent word to Count Robert, explaining our delay but, after a few weeks, with a strong hint of spring in the air, we bade farewell to Ingigerd and Maria once more and travelled down the Lot to Cahors. This time we headed north at the old city and began the long trek to Normandy.

Sweyn was still quiet, not brooding, but he seemed hollow, the flame of life flickering only faintly. Adela and Edwin stayed very close to him; he was lucky to have them.
For my part, stoicism seemed to sit well with me and I thought it wise to represent that for Sweyn.

The stay at St Cirq Lapopie had been yet another link to Hereward that made me feel even closer to him and his extended family. The thought did cross my mind that it might be my resting place one day.

The journey through Aquitaine, into the Limousin and on to the Paris of Philip of France, reminded me of the immense scale of Europe. It was a confusing place with boundaries that were difficult to defend, its many counts and dukes fighting over every village and town and fortified position.

In the North, the two great powers – France and Normandy – were at one another’s throats again, where, ironically, in a land so large, the heartland of each was right on top of the other.

Under the circumstances, I thought it wise to make a courtesy call on Philip, during which I could gauge his current view of Robert. As always, the King was charming and reiterated that the real fly in his Frankish ointment was William, not his son, for whom he still had a high regard. Armed with this, we headed for Caen, where Robert was assembling his army.

It was good to see my old friend again. He had survived another three years of his father’s boorishness and bad temper and was as relaxed as I had ever known him. Typically, when he heard of our service to Roger of Sicily – a fellow Norman whom he greatly admired – and of Sweyn’s bereavement, he immediately granted Adela and Sweyn a small estate near Bosham in Sussex, the ancestral home of King Harold. He knew that Roger would appreciate the
gesture, a reward for the two young knights who had served him so well, and that its location would be very special to both of them.

By the end of June 1087, the Norman host was on the march: 4,000 infantry, 2,000 crossbowmen and archers and 2,000 heavy cavalry. It was led by nearly 200 knights and the same senior commanders who had been with Robert since his rebellion against his father: Ives and Aubrey of Grandmesnil, Ralph of Mortemer, Hugh of Percy, Robert of Bellême, Hugh of Châteauneuf-en-Thymerais, William of Breteuil and Roger of Tonbridge and Clare.

When we reached the Vexin at Gisors, we were met by William and 1,000 more cavalry, including his elite Matilda Conroi mounted on their huge black destriers. They were an impressive sight, but he was less so. He had become fat to the point of ridicule. His face was mottled and swollen, and his breathing was laboured. However, despite his appearance, he had lost none of his swagger and fortitude.

His greeting to me was perfunctory; for Robert, there was no gratitude or even recognition for his efforts in assembling a mightily impressive body of men, just an order, barked in that unmistakable voice.

‘We leave at first light.’

We turned south-east at Gisors and followed the south bank of the River Epte until it met the Seine. We then made camp next to the great river in the lea of the Bois du Chênay. The Fortress of Mantes was in sight through the trees, less than four miles away. Since we had entered the lands of Guy of Poissy – the French Castellan
installed in Mantes by King Philip – William had adopted his usual scorched-earth campaign tactic, burning everything we passed.

His assault on Mantes began early the next morning. The fortress and church stood on slightly higher ground on the opposite side of the river. The modest buildings of its surrounding community huddled around the fortress walls and ran down to the water’s edge, where there was a small wooden bridge and quayside.

The Mantes Bridge had been torched during the night by the defenders, but William’s cavalry had forded the Seine downstream, at Bonnières, and were ready to attack from the north-west. He was using the north-east bank of the river as a shooting position for his archers, while his infantry and supporting crossbowmen were following the cavalry and marching to their rear, preparing to cross the bridge at Bonnières.

The weather had been extremely hot for several days and this morning was no exception. Already large clouds of dust were making for poor visibility, which only added to the discomfort of men and horses in searing heat in full battle armour.

The Norman force outnumbered the French garrison at Mantes by a huge proportion and, as is usually the case when a vastly superior force threatens an attack, the defenders would have readily surrendered had terms been offered. They were not forthcoming. William intended to teach the Castellan – and, in particular, his lord, Philip of France – a lesson.

Robert looked concerned.

‘Father, there are many civilians in Mantes and an order
of clerics. They are just simple folk of the Vexin and care nothing for Normandy or France.’

‘They will in the morning.’

I tried to support Robert in persuading the King to show restraint.

‘Sire, you will lose men in the assault and gain many enemies. However, magnanimity will cost you nothing and will win many friends.’

‘You are clever with words, Prince Edgar. My son likes you and I have come to respect your counsel, but you know nothing of war and how to win. Leave that to me.’

He stared at me with a look that suggested I had reached a line of tolerance with him, but that I should be careful not to cross it. I took the hint. William was a brute and always would be. Age had tempered him a little, and he had learned that pragmatism sometimes demanded judicious restraint, but he was a force of nature, a warrior with instincts as old as time.

William turned away. He ordered his archers to shoot their first volley into the fortress and signalled for his cavalry to charge. After three volleys of arrows, a volley of incendiary arrows was loosed. It created mayhem among defenders and civilians alike. The whole place was soon alight and the fortress’s small garrison rapidly emptied itself down the streets to try to reach safety.

It was a pitiable sight. The houses were so close together that the fire swiftly spread from roof to roof, turning the narrow streets into infernos of smoke and flame. The few, both civilians and soldiers, who did escape were met with the brutality of the Norman cavalry, who cut them down without mercy.

We sat on our mounts on the opposite side of the river in total silence. Sweyn, Adela, Edwin and I looked at one another. This was a very different Norman approach to their enemies from the one we had witnessed in Sicily. This was the old Norman way – total war.

The archers, their work done for the day, stood and stared without a flicker of emotion. The whole of the Norman high command sat impassively. They had seen it all before. It was William’s way; it had always been so. Only Robert and his personal retinue of knights looked ill at ease.

We could hear the roar of flames and the screams of the dying and every time the wind created a gap in the veil of smoke we could see people staggering around, their clothes alight, trying to reach the river, or rolling on the ground to try to extinguish the flames.

‘After them!’

William suddenly bellowed and pointed to the south-east. Guy of Poissy was making a run for it towards Paris with a small group of knights from the rear of the fortress.

‘Some hunting at last!’

Despite the intense heat, with his Matilda Conroi trailing in his wake, he was off at a gallop like a young huntsman in pursuit of his quarry, shouting orders as he went.

‘Occupy the city! Offer no quarter! Spare no one!’

Then William’s age and bulk finally got the better of him. The dust was swirling around so prodigiously that it was difficult to see exactly what happened, but the mighty warrior had made his last charge. He had gone no more than 100 yards when he appeared to slump forward in his
saddle. His mount stumbled and he plummeted over his horse’s shoulder and hit the ground heavily.

Robert rode off to help his father immediately. By the time he arrived, a large group of the King’s squadron was trying to get him to his feet.

‘Leave him be!’

Robert knew there may well be broken bones or internal injuries and ordered that a space be cleared so that his father could be laid flat and get some air. William was barely conscious and badly shaken. He complained of severe dizziness and started to retch. This gave him great pain in his groin, which he seemed to have ruptured on the pommel of his horse.

‘Send for the physicians, quickly!’

After several minutes of examination by his doctors, they concluded that William had had a seizure, which had caused the fall, and that his stomach had indeed been ruptured when his massive frame struck the pommel of his saddle. Taking Robert to one side, his senior physician, the learned Gilbert of Maminot, a former chaplain who William had made Bishop of Lisieux, explained that the seizure was not the first, but was a particularly severe one. Paralysis was a distinct possibility – at least, in some parts of the King’s body. The physician was also very concerned about the rupture. It seemed to be a deep one, and there was certain to be internal bleeding.

He added that, in normal circumstances, the King should not be moved, but given that he was lying on a battleground beyond Normandy’s borders, he recommended that William be taken to Rouen as quickly as possible.

Although a wagon was made as comfortable as possible for him, the journey to Rouen, a distance of over forty miles, was agonizing for William. When he was conscious, he was constantly sick and complained that the world was spinning around him. The pain in his groin and stomach was so great that he was unable to move, and his chest and jowls were so large that it was impossible to get a bowl under his chin, so new vomit replaced the old before his servants could remove it.

He was eventually taken to St Gervais, a priory on a hill to the west of Rouen, clear of the noise of the city and the heat of the lower reaches of the Seine Valley.

The great warlord, William, King of England and Duke of Normandy, the most fearsome figure of his age, languished in his bed, drifting in and out of consciousness for many weeks. He was in great pain from slow internal bleeding, which became more and more acute as time passed. There were surely many who thought a slow and painful death was what he deserved, given the suffering he had inflicted on others.

As he lay dying, the manoeuvring and scheming at court intensified. There were many scores to settle and debts to pay.

Robert was at the centre of it all and tried, as firstborn and regal Count of Normandy, to act as honest broker, but the ambitions were too great, the greed too excessive and the rewards too tempting to assuage – especially between Robert and his brothers, Rufus and Henry. Robert was now thirty-five. Rufus was twenty-nine and still a great trial to Robert, while Henry, aged nineteen, was old enough to be a real nuisance.

I gathered up Edwin, Sweyn and Adela and went to Robert to offer our support.

His mood was sombre.

‘There will be war. Even if I can keep the peace between myself and my brothers, there are too many powerful earls to keep in check. Odo is still in my father’s dungeon, but he is just one of many looking for an opportunity. My father has surrounded himself with the biggest gang of bullies in Europe, and now I am going to have to try to control them.’

As I had several times over the years, I felt truly sorry for my friend.

‘Has the King given any hint about his succession?’

‘None – it is driving Rufus insane. He wants everything and has hinted to Henry that if he gets England and Normandy, he will install him as Count of Normandy, with the authority I currently exercise under my father.’

‘What of the earls and bishops?’

‘The English earls will support whoever is made King of England; they are my father’s men. The Norman bishops and counts will support William’s choice as Duke of Normandy; they are loyal Normans and, mostly, less ambitious than those who went to England.’

‘And what about your support? Who can you count on?’

‘My friends only – no political allies – but they are a powerful bunch; most of them are the sons of my father’s biggest supporters.’

Robert had revealed his naivety. In saying he counted on his friends, not on political allies, he had exposed his lack of tactical cunning – not a sin for any man but, in the position he was in, it was innocent at best, gullible at worst.

In early September 1087, William’s demise appeared imminent. His pain had not subsided, and his bouts of consciousness were shorter and less frequent. He summoned his entire family and senior acolytes to his bedchamber and proceeded to announce his Verba Novissima.