Edwin and Sweyn were at my side as we watched Robert contemplate the impasse.
‘This is not the most auspicious of military adventures, my Lord.’
‘It is not, Edwin. Robert does tend to act before he thinks.’
‘Sire, may I make a point?’
‘Yes, of course, Sweyn.’
‘Well, sire, doesn’t anger sometimes serve a man well? When we’re angry, we fight better, and Count Robert certainly has a lot to feel angry about.’
‘You are right about anger in the heat of combat, but battles are won as a result of calm calculations by leaders before the contest commences. If tactics need to change during the encounter, again, it is the wise general who thinks of all the consequences of his actions, weighs them carefully, then makes his decision. Do you play chess?’
‘I do not, sire.’
‘Do you, Edwin?’
‘I do, my Lord.’
‘Then you must teach young Sweyn. There is no finer teacher of the military art than the game of chess.’
‘Thank you, sire. I will learn this evening.’
Edgar laughed.
‘I think it might take a little longer than that. I will get one of the Count’s carpenters to make a set and board for you.’
Hugh Percy returned from the city with the news that I feared. Robert was forced to listen to the unwelcome outcome of his rash plans.
‘My Lord, Roger of Ivry has refused your request, and not in the politest of terms.’
‘Spit it out, man.’
‘He said that I should tell “Shortboots” to run home to his father where he will get his arse kicked again… I’m sorry, sire.’
Robert seethed.
‘Who does he think he is, to refuse me? I am his Lord, the Count of Normandy!’
I tried to reason with Robert.
‘Remember, he will be more frightened of your father than of us. Let’s withdraw and plan a more careful strategy. We will go to Philip of France.’
Robert eventually calmed down, realizing he had overplayed his hand and that his bluff had been called. As we withdrew, he rode next to me.
‘You were right, Edgar; I’ve made a fool of myself. Next time I will use your wise counsel and think before I act.’
It was gratifying to know that Robert had begun to realize that my advice was worth listening to. I remembered Margaret’s words when I left Scotland, and took comfort in thinking that she may have been right. In time, I might find a niche in the dangerous world of intrigue and war in which my birthright had placed me.
6. Battle of Gerberoi
Philip, King of the French, cut a dashing figure. A handsome man in his mid-twenties, he offered us not only excellent advice, but also men, weapons and silver. Like his nemesis, William of Normandy, Philip had inherited his domain as a child, his mother acting as co-regent with Count Baldwin of Flanders until his full accession as the fourth Capetian King of the Franks in 1066 at the age of fourteen.
He had inherited his good looks from his mother, Anna of Kiev, the daughter of Yaroslav, Prince of Kiev, and his wife Ingegerd, Princess of Sweden. It was his mother who, it was said, had given him his Greek name in honour of antiquity’s Philip of Macedon. Her choice was inspired, as Philip had developed into a strong leader of his people and a superb general of his army.
We travelled to Philip’s seat at Melun on the Seine, south-east of Paris. He greeted us with lavish ceremony and, after an extravagant feast in his great hall attended by his many allies and knights, offered us a plan of campaign.
‘Gentlemen, we have an opportunity to bloody the nose of England’s new King, the fat Duke William. Now that my friend Robert, Count of Normandy, has decided he has had enough of his father’s behaviour, we have, if we act in unison, the strength to meet him on the battlefield and deal him a mortal blow. We will build our forces here, harass his lands on his borders and, when we have vexed him sufficiently, we will strike.’
I was impressed, and so were Edwin and Sweyn. Philip had great charm and a commanding presence.
Towards the end of the feast, Robert and I introduced Edwin and Sweyn to the King, who was thoughtful and appeared to be genuinely interested in them.
‘Gentlemen, you have chosen well in giving your allegiance to Prince Edgar and Count Robert.’
Philip turned to me and embraced me like a long-lost friend. He then put his arm around Robert and began to tease him.
‘Edgar, I see you have found one of the few Normans worthy of being called a noble friend.’
‘Indeed, sire, he is rare creature – a Norman with a few redeeming features!’
The banter between the three of us continued as we drank copious amounts of the King’s excellent wine. The three of us were in our prime, with the world at our feet. I felt invigorated. While it was true that Philip already had his kingdom and Robert was a de facto duke, whereas my kingdom was an impossible dream, I nevertheless let my mind wander. What a powerful triumvirate we would make: Robert in Rouen, Philip in Paris, I in Westminster! There would be no greater power in Europe – not even the Emperor in Cologne, nor the Pope in Rome. However, I soon put an end to such vainglorious fantasies, content that I was being treated as an equal at a King’s high table.
Robert’s cause and the colours of the gallant young King of France attracted many supporters, mostly men of a similar age whose fathers had made their fortunes and won their titles fighting to acquire England’s riches with William. Their fathers were now ageing, wealthy and content. Their sons, on the other hand, were ambitious, virile and restless for their own adventures. Ives and Aubrey of Grandmesnil, Ralph of Mortemer and Hugh of Percy were soon joined by Robert of Bellême, son of Roger of Montgomery, Earl of Shrewsbury, Hugh of Châteauneuf-en-Thymerais, William of Breteuil, son of William Fitz Osbern and Roger, son of Richard Fitz Gilbert, Lord of Tonbridge and Clare.
They were a fearsome group, the rising cream of Normandy’s warrior elite.
At the end of 1078, Philip and Robert decided that the time was right to launch an attack on William and word was sent to all their allies to gather their forces. By the end of January 1079, a force of over 300 knights and an army of 4,000 cavalry, infantry and archers entered Normandy. We camped at the formidable fortress of Gerberoi in the Oise, situated in the disputed border area between Normandy and France, a stronghold that had been fought over for years.
It did not take long for William to answer the challenge. A week later, he appeared on the opposite bank of the River Thérain, a tributary of the Oise, with an army at least the match of ours. After making camp, he asked for a parley on neutral ground, which was granted. He brought two of his Matilda Conroi, but not Rufus, who usually accompanied his father on his campaigns.
‘So, my son and heir is now my adversary and recruiting help from my lifelong enemies.’
‘You give me no choice, Father.’
‘Of course you have a choice! You could serve your father and Normandy instead of dishonouring me and siding with my rivals.’
‘You talk of honour, yet you insult me at every opportunity. And now you encourage my brothers to do the same.’
‘I have entrusted you with Normandy and this is how you repay me.’
‘I have served you well in Normandy. But what of England? I suppose you have promised it to that red-faced brother of mine.’
‘What would you prefer me to do? Give it to you, so that you can give it back to Prince Edgar and the English?’
William then turned to me with a look of contempt.
‘I suppose that’s why you sniff at my son’s backside, hoping that when he passes wind you will get a whiff of England?’
‘Sire, your insult is not worthy of you. My friendship with Robert is not at odds with my loyalty to you as King of England. The issue here is between you and your son.’
‘You speak like an ambassador. Do you fight like one? Or like a warrior?’
I chose to ignore the new insult – as I had said, this was a dis
pute between a father and his son.
William, seeing that his provocation was not working, turned back to Robert.
‘I will make my decision about England in due course. For now, your rights and privileges in Normandy are forfeit and I would advise you to return to Melun with your lackeys.’
That insult prompted Philip to intervene. Despite his relative youth and the towering presence of William, he was calm and self-assured.
‘I will not trade insults with you, William of Normandy. We will settle this on the field of battle. Shall we say tomorrow morning, on the meadows by the Thérain?’
‘Agreed.’
With a crushing look of scorn for his son, William turned and rode back to his camp. Philip turned to Robert and me.
‘There is much to do. Tomorrow we face a formidable foe.’
The evening was spent in animated conversation about how to defeat William.
We all agreed that a solid wall of infantry and well-positioned archers and crossbowmen was vital. Philip had heard the accounts of Senlac Ridge and how the mighty English shield wall had been breached only by the crucial intervention of a withering hail of arrows. For years, he had been recruiting the best archers and bowmen he could find and was confident that they were the key to victory against William’s renowned destriers.
After the Council of War, Edwin, Sweyn and I returned to our tents.
‘Sire, may I be in your conroi tomorrow?’
I was not surprised by young Sweyn’s plea. He was an impeccable trainee warrior. His sword arm was strong and he was excellent in the saddle, but his greatest gift was his speed of thought and reflexes. On the training ground, he could outwit far bigger opponents and use guile and feint to overcome them in combat.
‘How is your chess coming along?’
‘Good, my Lord. Edwin is a good teacher, although I am yet to beat him.’
‘Edwin?’
‘He learns quickly. He has learned to open solidly, but is still too rash in the middle game.’
‘That’s not good, Sweyn.’
‘I know, sire, I am still impetuous. But in combat I am stronger and wiser by the day, and I am sixteen now – old enough to fight.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, I am not sure of the month of my birth, but I am sure I am sixteen this year.’
‘Yes, but it’s only January.’
Edwin and I both smiled; Sweyn scowled.
‘What do you think, Edwin?’
‘Well, if he stays close to me, he should be fine.’
‘Then it is agreed. But, Sweyn, think on this tonight. Tomorrow the contest will be for real, and death will be commonplace. You must stay away from the carnage unless the situation is dire and you are fighting for your life. Do you understand?’
‘I do, sire. Thank you. I will not let you down.’
By late morning both armies were in position. The vibrant mingling of kings’ standards, lords’ gonfalons and knights’ pennons along neat rows of men and horses made a vivid spectacle, the pageantry of which was only a masquerade for the mayhem that was about to ensue. Soon there would be but a single dominant colour – the red blood of the fallen.
As Robert of Normandy and Philip of France rode along the lines encouraging their men, I checked on my companions. Edwin was steadfast on his mount, while Sweyn gripped his reins tightly and looked around confidently.
It was then that a sentry appeared and addressed me.
‘My Lord Prince, there is young knight at the picket lines. He asks to join your retinue.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘He calls himself Alan of St Cirq Lapopie, my Lord. But he is clean-shaven and can’t be much more than a boy.’
Unable to resist the sarcasm, I smiled at Sweyn before replying.
‘Let him pass. I am always happy to have knights at my side, even if they haven’t started shaving.’
He and Edwin looked mortified, but did not say anything.
When, moments later, the knight appeared, I knew why. The knight in question presented himself with the usual courtesy of removing his helmet, only to reveal the tender skin and the soft, flowing locks of a young woman.
‘My Lord, forgive my deception, but I needed to get beyond your picket lines. I am Adela of Bourne.’
Edwin was furious.
‘Adela, this is unforgivable! I forbade you to come. Yet you appear, and in the garb of a knight.’
I was intrigued but, even so, this was not the time and certainly not the place to start recruiting women to the Order of Knights.
‘Madam, I am honoured that you would consider joining my retinue, but a more formal introduction, and in more relaxed circumstances than on the cusp of battle, might be more appropriate. May we discuss your request tomorrow? Sergeant, take our guest to the rear and see that no harm comes to her.’
The sergeant grabbed the bridle of Adela’s horse. As he did so, Adela drew her seax and had it at his throat in an instant.
‘Take your hand off my horse.’
Seeing the tenacity in her eyes, the sergeant relented.
‘Prince Edgar, I will leave the field at your request, but only if Sweyn leaves with me. He is like my little brother; we have been very close since our village was massacred. I will not see him in battle unless I am at his side. We learned to fight together and I am as good as he is.’
‘I have heard of the wretched circumstances of your encounter with Hereward and his companions.’
‘Sire, I was only a baby when Hereward left our village but, many years later, he saved me after my innocence was so cruelly stolen. I watched with delight as he exacted a terrible revenge on the Normans who defiled me. Ever since Ely, I have lived with his memory. Now, like Sweyn, I model my life on his. I am not a man and will never equal the feats of Hereward of Bourne, but I can follow his example.’
Edwin’s demeanour softened, and Sweyn looked proud of his sister-in-arms. I admired her resolve.
‘Very well, the battle will soon be upon us. Stay close to Edwin. Sweyn is under strict instructions not to engage the enemy unless his life is threatened. The same applies to you, is that clear?’
‘It is, my Prince. Thank you.’
‘Edwin, unfurl my standard.’
As he did so, tears welled in the eyes of Sweyn and Adela. My standard was the Wyvern of Wessex, the emblem of Harold at Senlac Ridge and of all the Cerdician Kings of England as far back as Alfred the Great.
A most bizarre sight then appeared on the battlefield. The Pythoness of Gisors was a peculiar creature, quite frail and slight, but with a shock of silver-grey hair and startling bright-green eyes which never seemed to blink. She wore a plain black cassock tied at the waist by a woven leather cord and carried a large staff elaborately carved in the shape of a serpent, replete with inset rubies for eyes and a forked tongue painted blood red. Around her forehead was a richly chased band of silver, also in the form of a serpent, the head of which ran down between her eyes and finished just above the bridge of her very large nose. She had marched out beyond William’s front line by at least twenty yards.
Philip looked bemused. It was left to Robert to provide an explanation.
‘She is a local sorceress from the Bastide of Gisors. Among my father’s many increasingly odd habits, resorting to seers and witches is one of the more harmless.’
‘Is she going to win the battle for him?’
‘Yes, she will cast a spell on us and damn us to Hell for eternity.’
The Pythoness began to chant and moan in what she called her ‘diabolic’ – her language of the dead – before scattering charms and potions on the ground.
‘Do you think my archers could put an end to this farce?’
‘Possibly… It’s worth a try.’
Philip summoned his master bowman and a company of his finest archers and gave the order.
To loud cheering from William’s army, the end of the witch’s performance saw her raise her python staff and damn us
all to Hell, after which she turned her back, pulled up her cassock to bare her buttocks and proceeded to urinate profusely on the meadow.
But Philip’s archers had already taken deadly aim and their arrows were in flight, plummeting from the sky at a steep angle. From a distance of almost 200 yards, the arrows started to land all around her, striking deep into the ground. To the great amusement of our army, just as the old crone was concluding her stream of insults, one of the archers scored a bull’s-eye, impaling her in the top of her rump with a four-ounce arrow. Another struck home moments later, hitting her between the shoulder blades. It was the last spell she would ever work.
William, in a rage at the skewering of his favourite enchantress, ordered his cavalry to advance at the gallop and the infamous thunder of his conroi of destriers began. I gulped and prepared myself for the onslaught, casting one last glance at my companions. The Norman cavalry was a chilling sight, their ordered lines broken only by the dashing knights who led the charge, a glistening brown phalanx of equine muscle topped by armoured killers wielding finely honed swords and spears and massive cudgels and maces.
Robert knew his father’s tactics well and saw that on this occasion he had chosen the brute force of a massed attack by his horsemen. This played into the hands of Philip and his bowmen. Relying on Robert – who had ridden in many of his father’s charges – to judge the timing, Philip ordered his archers to launch their first onslaught on his ally’s signal. Many more followed in rapid volleys.
The missiles came out of the sun like hailstones, landing in lethal rhythmic waves; most hit the soft earth, penetrating to half their length, but tens of dozens hit human or horse flesh with devastating consequences. The tightly packed conroi was reduced to a mass of stricken bodies as horses and men hit the ground and careened into one another. The din was terrifying as men screamed and horses screeched in agony.
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