by H A CULLEY
‘Excuse me, my lord’ a voice piped up ‘but what’s happened to Rollo?’
‘His face was cut open from eye to chin in the brawl and he has been sent home. I’m sorry but it will be some time, if ever, before he is fit to continue training as a squire.’
The constable’s eyes widened in surprise at the cheer that rang out from the younger squires. Then a smile of understanding flitted across his face.
~#~
Robert de Cuille was exhausted. He had escaped easily enough when the monks were harvesting by pretending to go behind some bushes to relieve himself, then making a run for the woods. So intent were the monks on getting the corn cut before another rain shower stopped work that the sub-prior didn’t even notice that he had gone until the monks took shelter under the hay cart.
That night he had slept under a tree. He was soaking wet from the rain and only had his field-hand lunch of bread and cheese to eat. The next day was sunny and he slowly dried out as he plodded along a track leading to the village of Brulon. His novice’s habit was of coarse brown homespun, unlike the somewhat finer black woollen habits worn by the Benedictine monks once they had taken their vows. He thought that he could possibly pass as an itinerant friar apart from his lack of tonsure. If he kept his cowl up he hoped that no-one would notice.
That evening he arrived at Brulon but, learning that the lord of the manor was an Angevin, he decided to keep going. Once again he slept in the open; on the plus side it didn’t rain but it was now twenty four hours since he had last eaten. He was a strong man but the past two days had taken it out of him. He hadn’t slept well and he was beginning to ache all over.
The next morning he reached Loue a few miles from Le Mans, the capital of Maine. He learned from a man working in the fields that there was no Angevins in residence. The lord of the manor lived elsewhere and the bailiff was born in the village, as was the local priest. He was hesitant about seeking out the priest as his religious knowledge was less than might be expected of a friar but he was so hungry that he decided to take the risk.
In the event the priest turned out to know less about the Christian faith than Sir Robert did. He shared his meal of fish and bread with Robert and invited him to preach the Sunday sermon the next day. Robert felt that he could probably make a better first of it than the ignorant priest could and agreed. It would be good to sleep under a roof too, even if the priest’s house was little better than a hovel.
As the next day was the third of August and St Nicodemus’ saint’s day he decided to base his homily on the need to speak out for what is true. Nicodemus had been a member of the Jewish ruling council in Israel during the life of Jesus but he was also a secret disciple of Christ, meeting him by night to avoid the wrath of the other members of the council. But eventually the saint had summoned up the courage to speak out to them, insisting that Jesus had a right to a hearing.
On entering the little wooden village church the next day he was dismayed to see a man and his family in the front of the congregation who were obviously not villagers. The man was speaking to the bailiff who was bobbing his head and saying ’my lord’ at every opportunity.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked the priest beginning to sense that he might be heading into trouble.
‘Sir Drogo de Ballon, the lord of the manor. You are honoured. He doesn’t often visit Loue as he normally stays at his castle in Ballon.’
‘Is he a Mainard or an Angevin?’
The priest looked at him curiously. ‘He is one of Geoffrey Martel’s council. Why?’
‘No reason, just curious.’
Robert walked to the tiny altar and stood beside it whilst the priest conducted the service. Robert was well aware that the ignorant priest was hardly following the mass as laid down by the Church of Rome and he noted with some trepidation that Sir Drogo was starting to look annoyed. He considered changing the homily but he had nothing else prepared and if he made a mess of it he had a feeling that both he and the priest would be in trouble.
He started by outlining the history of St. Nicodemus, who had also helped Joseph of Arimathea to lay out Christ’s body. Then he continued by praising the bravery of Nicodemus in speaking out in Jesus’s defence to the Jewish council.
‘There are few men who have the integrity to say what is right when the easy course is to follow the common line like sheep’ He was warming to his theme now. ‘You must have the courage of your convictions and stand up to the bullies and those who you know are wrong.’
‘Enough!’ bellowed Sir Drogo. ‘You are close to preaching rebellion against authority, friar. That is a dangerous road to tread.’
‘I mean no disrespect to you Sir Drogo,’ Robert countered. ‘But men should stand up for what is right. Can you argue against that?’
‘Enough I say.’ He signalled to two retainers that were standing at the rear of the church. ‘Arrest this troublesome friar.’ Turning back to Robert he said ‘I will interrogate you later.’
The two men moved forwards. One was only seventeen or eighteen and probably his squire, the other appeared to be a servant. Only the squire wore a dagger. Robert allowed himself to be led to the church door but when the servant opened it Robert tore his arms free, slammed the door back on the face of the servant, breaking his nose and kicked the squire in the groin. He sped out of the church only to be confronted by four sergeants lounging in the shade. A group of horses were tied to pegs in the ground off to one side so he sprinted towards them whilst the soldiers gathered their wits and started to lumber after him, weighed down as they were by hauberks, helmets and swords. One even managed to get his scabbard caught between his legs and fell over.
Robert reached the horses and, climbing into the saddle of a palfrey, he yanked the reins of the others free and headed away from his pursuers leading the other horses. Soon he had left the village and slowed down to a trot. After a couple of miles he led the horses off to the side of the road and searched the panniers. Putting all the apples, bread and cheese into one bag he unhooked a crossbow and a bag of quarrels hanging from a saddle horn. He had also found a spare tunic and discarded his filthy habit for this. Several cloaks were tied to the saddles, one was very fine and probably belonged to Sir Drogo. He was tempted by this but felt it was a trifle conspicuous so he chose the best of those belonging to the sergeants. Setting the other horses free he rode back to the road and headed for Conlie.
He was afraid that it wouldn’t be too long before the alarm was raised and he became a hunted man so he set off at a smart canter. Conlie lay on the road to Ballon but there was no other road he could take unless he took to the woods and, not knowing the country too well, he didn’t want to get lost. He skirted around Conlie until he struck the road from Le Mans to Mayenne. This was a major thoroughfare linking two of the most important towns in Maine. Robert had hoped that it might be relatively deserted, being a Sunday, but it was packed with people making their way towards Le Mans. He was concentrating so much on wending his way against the flow that at first he didn’t notice the oncoming travellers moving to the sides of the road until Robert realised with a start that a mounted party of knights and sergeants were cantering towards him. He hastily drew to one side to let them pass.
The leader rode beside a knight carrying the banner of Geoffrey de Mayenne, a Mainard baron who Martel had appointed to govern Maine in his name. He gave Robert’s palfrey a quick appraising glance as they passed each other, then he pulled his horse to a standstill, turned and rode back alongside Robert whilst his escort were left milling in confusion trying to regain control of their horses.
‘Why are you riding de Ballon’s palfrey?’ he demanded. Robert looked puzzled.
‘That’s his personal device on the saddle cloth.’ The man reached for his sword. Robert’s heart sank. How could he not have noticed?
~#~
Hugo felt on top of the world. He rode a courser behind Sir Guillaume leading his destrier and a pack horse laden with armour and weapons. He didn’t even mi
nd eating the dust of the hundreds of men ahead of him, all heading for the great muster at Falaise. After the ignominious downfall of Rollo he was something of a hero to the younger squires and even the older ones gave him some respect. He had tried not to let this go to his head but had only partly succeeded until Tristan had told him that his head was getting too big to fit inside his helmet. He felt deflated for a while but it soon passed. He did try to be more modest though. The only real thing he had to worry about was the vengeance that Rollo’s father and elder brother had vowed to wreak on him.
They had come to Caen loudly demanding justice from Duke William, who told them to go and cool their heads before seeking audience again. Instead they had sought out Hugo on the training field and threatened to kill him there and then. When faced by twenty armed squires and their instructors they had backed off but rode away swearing retribution for Rollo’s ruined face. This had worried Hugo for a time but the prospect of imminent battle had driven all other thoughts from his mind.
Hugo followed Sir Guillaume through the army encamped outside Falaise and into the castle where the duke had set up his headquarters. The castle was full but Hugo managed to find Guillaume a small room in one of the towers on the outer wall. There was a truckle bed for the knight and Hugo filled a paillasse with straw for himself. At least he would be more comfortable than the majority of the army who would have to sleep in the open.
The great hall was packed so Hugo found his way to the kitchens and managed to grab some food from a tray being taken up to the high table before being cuffed round the ear and kicked out. He went back to the tower and started to clean Guillaume’s armour. He started with his steel helmet made from a single piece of metal with a nose protector riveted to it to protect the face. He had managed to acquire a pad of steel wool which quickly removed the rust. The chain mail hauberk, which reached below the knee and had sleeves down to the elbow, was more difficult to clean as it was made of thousands of steel rings linked together. He put it and the coif, which protected the neck and sat under the helmet, in a stout bag with some sand and shook it until his arms ached. When he took it out there were still flecks of rust visible so he did it again. This time it came out spotless and shiny. He brushed the mud off stout leather gauntlets and used the wire wool on the small steel plates sewn on the upper side. Then he brushed the leather boots lined with metal strips to protect the lower leg. Many knights just wore shoes but Guillaume’s Saxon grandfather had encouraged him to use the boots as the stout metal strips protected the legs below the hauberk. He polished the sword, which was worn from a baldric slung across the body from the right shoulder, and checked the heavy spiked iron mace with a wrist loop and several eight foot lances made of oak with a steel point. A kite shaped shield made from lime wood, covered in leather and banded with iron completed the knight’s equipment and Hugo brushed the dirt off the three black crosses on a yellow background painted on it.
With a sigh he turned to his own gear – a short sword, dagger and a segmented helmet. He wore a Gambeson or padded jerkin to protect his body but a squire’s role was not to fight. He would bring up a spare horse and weapons to his knight as required. His own equipment was just so that he could protect himself if attacked. Finally the weary squire went down to the horse lines – the stables were full – and checked over the two coursers and the heavy destrier. By this time it was quite late but Guillaume still hadn’t returned to the tower room. Hugo should have waited up to help him undress but he couldn’t stay awake any longer and lay down to sleep.
It was still dark when Guillaume shook him awake.
‘Get up. We’re leaving.’ Sir Guillaume was already dressed so Hugo scrambled into his own clothes.
‘Do you want me to arm you?’
‘Yes; quick as you can. King Henri and Martel are camped a few miles from the ford over the River Dives near Caen. We need to trap them against the east side of the river.’
As dawn broke the Norman army was already on the march towards Varaville. Guillaume and Hugo rode with the duke’s party in the van. After three hours they halted on a ridge overlooking the village and the river Dives. The French and Angevin army had already started to cross. By the time that the main body of the Duke’s army came up half the enemy would be on the other bank but the duke didn’t seem to be unduly concerned.
Guillaume came riding back to Hugo. ‘The tide is due to turn shortly and at least half of their men should still be on this side when the river becomes unfordable. Ride back and find the count of Evreux. Tell him to bring his men up to take position on the left flank down there.’ He indicated where he meant.
Hugo was riding one of the two coursers. They were lighter and faster than destriers but still too slow for messenger duties so he changed it for a jennet being ridden by another squire and sped off alongside the track down which the army were advancing. He ignored all those who shouted questions at him until he spotted the Evreux banner of gold fleur de lys on a blue field defaced by a bend sinister, indicating Evreux’s royal, if illegitimate, birth. He explained the situation to him and then sped back to the ridge to find Guillaume Peverel. Having recovered his courser, he took up position behind him.
As predicted the tide had turned and several French soldiers nearly drowned as they were caught out midway across. A few mounted men were still able to cross but as soon as one of them was swept away by the incoming tide the others retreated to the east bank. From where Hugo was watching he estimated that about half had managed to reach the far side. Annoyingly the banners of both King Henri and the count of Anjou could be seen on the west bank.
An hour later most of the Normans host was in position and the duke signalled the advance. This was led by the archers and crossbowmen then the foot with the mounted knights and sergeants on each wing. Hugo tried to keep his eyes on Sir Guillaume but soon lost sight of him in the mass of horsemen. The French and Angevins were pinned against the river to their rear and so were unable to manoeuvre easily. Many were cut down by arrows and quarrels whilst only a few missiles came back in return as most of the enemy archers were on the other bank. Their horsemen made a disorganised charge but the Norman cavalry swept round in a pincer movement. They cut through the flanks of the enemy horsemen like a wolf pack through sheep. The survivors fought their way clear and fled along the river towards Falaise where they ran into the still advancing rear guard. With cavalry coming up behind them most threw down their weapons and surrendered. A few fought on but it was soon all over.
Hugo turned back to where the enemy foot were now trapped. The Normans were pushing them back and many were forced into the river where many drowned whilst the other half of their army watched helplessly from the west bank. Eventually a knight rode out of the host on the far bank bearing a white flag on his lance and called across to say that King Henri wished to negotiate a truce.
Eventually Guillaume rode back towards the ridge and Hugo rode down to meet him. The knight had a cut to his forearm and was covered in blood.
‘Not all mine though’ he smiled, dismounting. ‘But stitch up my arm would you.’
‘What a great victory.’ Hugo pulled out a length of gut and a needle from his pannier.
‘Yes. I doubt we will be troubled by another incursion into Normandy any time soon.’ He gritted his teeth as the boy pulled the needle through his skin.
‘What happens now?’
‘Well, I should imagine the duke will want to consolidate his success and then see about recovering Maine for Count Herbert.’
Hugo smiled in satisfaction. ‘Then perhaps my father can recover Cuille.’
Chapter Two - Normandy 1058 to 1063 A.D
Robert de Cuille had other things on his mind than the recovery of his manor. He was stunned when the man he assumed was Lord Geoffrey de Mayenne realised that the horse he was riding belonged to Drogo de Ballon but he was quick to recover once de Mayenne started to pull his sword from its scabbard. Robert’s only weapon was the crossbow dangling from his saddle. I
t was unloaded but it was quite heavy. Robert reached down and swung it at the other rider’s head just as he pulled his sword free. It connected with his helmet with a satisfying clunk and, although not hurt, de Mayenne was dazed. He dropped his sword and clutched at his saddle to avoid falling off.
Pulling his palfrey’s head round hard, Robert kicked his flanks and the horse sprang away from the road heading for the woods some hundred yards away. Lord Geoffrey’s escort was taken unawares but quickly sorted themselves out and set off in pursuit. Most were clad in mail and rode coursers –powerful horses that were quicker than a destrier, though they lacked the weight and spirit of the more expensive war horses – but they had little chance of overtaking a palfrey ridden by an unarmoured man. However, several squires were also riding palfreys or jennets and they were lighter and younger than Robert.
By the time he reached the trees three of the squires were only twenty yards behind him. Robert headed for a game trail and prayed that it didn’t end abruptly in the thick undergrowth. Luck was with him as it was a narrow but reasonably straight track initially. He had to duck down alongside his horse’s head to avoid the worst of the twigs and branches that overhung the track. The leader of his pursuers was not so lucky and he heard him yell before the thud of his body hitting the ground told Robert what had befallen the squire. His two companions, closely following him, couldn’t avoid the fallen youth and his horse and it took some time for them to sort themselves out. The unseated squire had been trodden on and was seriously injured. By the time that Lord Geoffrey and the rest of the escort had threaded their way down the track Robert was out of sight. Suddenly the track ended in a clearing with no obvious exit. He would have to retrace his steps. That risked coming face to face with his pursuers before he found another track to follow so he quickly loaded his crossbow. At least firing it might buy him some time.