In the morning when the tide withdrew Henry led his small force across the causeway and in at the castle gateway. Above him the path rose steeply to where the claustral buildings covered the highest point in the island and the monks came hastening down to assure him of their loyalty. His own garrison cheered him in, but nevertheless his solder’s instinct told him that despite the solid walls and the protection of the sea he was entering a false security, that he was cornered in this last resort, for there was no escape except by water and he had no ships.
They were trapped and he knew it.
The mount was in itself no more than a small rocky island set in the midst of great sand banks, the causeway providing access to the mainland only at low tide. Here were castle and monastery and little else but wild sea birds’ nests, gulls crying mournfully overhead, and the sea grey and turbulent under a leaden March sky.
It was more than a week now since Henry’s small force had arrived here and this morning he paced along the sands by the causeway, the smell of the sea in his nostrils, the keen air fanning out his red mantle like a sail behind him, his hound, Lyfa, following his footsteps. He was glad to be alone for a while, though Roger and Herluin walked by the causeway, talking together and watching him. They were his friends, but he needed solitude occasionally and it was singularly hard to come by.
Beneath his feet small rocks jutted from the sand, encrusted with mussels and other shells and now and then he saw tiny crabs in the pools left by the receding tide, while Lyfa slithered about in the water, snapping vainly at the crabs. He liked this wild coast, the sense of freedom the sea gave, a freedom that might, now, have all too short a duration. For, looking across the short distance that separated him from the mainland he could see movements of men and horses and a few days ago one of his scouts had brought in the news that the Duke with his forces had arrived at Arderon, blockading the southern side of the sand banks, while further away to the north-east English soldiers and mercenaries in Rufus’ pay had entrenched themselves at Genets on the northern coast. The King himself it seemed was at Avranches, royally entertained by Earl Hugh in the castle that until ten days ago had been Henry’s.
So, cut off on three sides by his brothers and with the sea at his back, it was small wonder that he paced now with no pleasant feelings towards his closest kin, for he who had been Count of the Cotentin was now, by their will, Count of no more than a rock set in a wilderness of sand and sea. Robert, indeed, had defrauded him in so flagrant a manner that he still found it hard to comprehend, especially when he remembered last November in Rouen. Were they his brothers, Rufus and Curthose, born of the same mother from the same noble seed, or were they the devil’s spawn?
He, who was rarely bitter, turned now into the biting March wind, and found it hard to maintain his usual sanguine outlook. Not only did he have the lives of his followers in his hands, but Alide and his children were within the walls and even when he lay with her at night, thankful for the comfort of her presence, he wished he had sent her to safety before his brothers blocked the way.
He would not let either her or his men see his anxiety, which was why he walked alone, nor would he return to them until he had fought and beaten this mood of desperation and doubt – miserable doubt, for deep below the surface he had begun to wonder if this reversal of fortune was not a punishment for his treatment of Conan. Was God so angry with him that He had sent this lonely reversal, driving him to the last windswept corner of his county, that he might be chastened and brought low? He knew more of his own nature now, that he was capable of violent rage, that it could seize and dominate him, yet he had repented and Anselm had absolved him. What was it Anselm had said? Penances indeed he had laid on him, coupled with some words which came back to him now – ‘if misfortune should come, take it not as a blow from the Hand of God, but as His path to strength’. He had not thought a great deal of those words at the time, but now began to understand what the Abbot had meant. If this present change of fortune was sent to prove him, then it was imperative that he summon up every resource to meet it with courage.
He turned so that the wind was behind him and began to walk back, bracing his shoulders against its buffeting, as if it were a physical expression of the forces he must resist.
When he reached them, Herluin said, ‘My lord, we are short of water. Let me take a party across the sands to fill our casks.’
Henry stared out towards the mainland, brown and dull grey- green, awaiting the new clothing of spring. ‘Do you think my brothers will stand by and let you ride where you will? There have been enough skirmishes these last few days to show us that.’
Herluin smiled. ‘You forget this is my own land. I know every track, every stream, every wood hereabouts, and I can find my way in the dark with no need of a lantern. Six men will suffice.’
‘We need the water,’ Roger put in. ‘There is only one cask left in the castle and less in the Abbey.’
Henry agreed reluctantly, though he knew they were right. Together they walked back through the gates. The castle was a simple affair of hall and gatehouse, walls and a single tower, which Henry had at once put in a state of defence, setting Gerard of St. Lo in command of the garrison. Abbot Roger’s monks eagerly offered their services, appearing with cudgels in their hands prepared to support the Prince whose rule had brought order to the Cotentin, and with them came Milo La Barre to greet his brothers. He was a lean serious young man and said gravely that no one in the Abbey wanted anyone but Henry for their overlord. Still smarting from the lack of support at Avranches, the enthusiasm of his pitifully small band of supporters here on the mount was some comfort. The Bretons among the garrison were eager for the fight; border warfare with the Dukes of Normandy was bred in them and the fact that Henry was of the same house bothered them not at all.
In the castle his men were gathered in the hall for dinner. Provisions they had in plenty for a long siege, and but for the water problem, he thought, they could last out here for months. He was somewhat reluctant to let Herluin go on a foray – he was too valuable a leader – but there was no other man so well qualified, and they were laying their plans after the meal when the cry went up from the guards, ‘Raiders on the sands!’
Every man scrambled to his feet, stools were overset and benches tipped up as there was a concerted rush for the courtyard where arms were stacked and horses stabled. Men ran for hauberks and helms, thrusting their arms into stiff chain mail, cursing as they struggled to fasten swords and find shields. Gerard the captain joined the stampede and outside marshalled the men, selecting some twenty or so to drive the enemy off, not risking all their small force in one skirmish.
Henry himself, growing used to these raids, went calmly to the top of the gatehouse and there saw a party of horsemen galloping over the sands seemingly chasing two riders who were making for the causeway.
He called down to Gerard to take out his troop and chase off the enemy. ‘It seems we have two friends left. It would be churlish not to escort them in, eh?’
Gerard grinned appreciatively and led the way out. Within a few minutes they had reached the two riders who turned and rode with them straight for the ducal forces. There was a short sharp scrap, which seemed to Henry more like a tourney than a serious fight, and then their opponents disengaged and rode off for the mainland. A cheer went up from the watching men on the mount and Gerard led his soldiers back with the addition of two knights from Brittany who came to offer their swords to the Prince.
He greeted them warmly. Even two swords were welcome in his present predicament, but it was his own cheerful and optimistic presence that kept spirits high and to Herluin it was a source of intense annoyance that the only glum countenance was that of his own brother.
‘If you knew Henry as well as I do,’ he said as they watched the riders returning, ‘you would not fear that he will survive this and any other adversity that may come.’
‘You are besotted by him,’ Simon scowled. ‘Just because he smiles and make j
okes you think he has lost nothing. I tell you, you will find yourself without a roof over your head or a silver piece in your pocket if you stay with him.’
Herluin looked down at him. ‘I was earning my bread by my sword before you were breeched and I can do it again if I have to. Better fall on bad times with a Christian prince than serve a blasphemer or a goodnatured weakling. And who is to say Henry will come out of this the worst?’
‘You delude yourself if you think otherwise,’ Simon retorted. Herluin fought down the desire to slap his brother’s handsome, insolent face. ‘And you forget yourself.’
Simon glared at him. After a moment he burst out, ‘And I’ve not even had the chance to fight yet. There have been half a dozen skirmishes but that captain has not once chosen me to go.’
Herluin smiled faintly. ‘If that is all, I’ll ask him to send you on the next foray.’ He did not mention his own proposed raid planned for tonight; he did not want a fiery young hothead with him, but chose quietly and without causing attention only men who were seasoned fighters, Raoul the Deer among them.
They went in the darkest hour soon after midnight, slipping unobtrusively out of the castle and over the causeway when the tide was at its lowest, thankful that there was no moon to light their going. Their horses’ hooves were wrapped in cloths, the mules bearing the casks led by ropes instead of harness.
Henry rose from his bed and went to stand in the highest room of the gatehouse, peering out into the darkness and waiting anxiously for his friend’s return. An hour passed and then another. He wrapped his mantle about him and went up the narrow stair and out into the clear cold air.
The sentry turned smartly as he came through the narrow arch. ‘If they don’t return soon, my lord, the tide will catch them.’
‘I know,’ the Prince said. When the tide turned it seemed to come in very fast, sweeping over the sands, cutting off all access to the mainland, and there was still no sign of Herluin and his men.
But at last when he could both see and hear the return of the waters he caught sight of darker shadows in the darkness and then the faint sound of muffled hooves far below. He ran down the stair and was in the bailey as Herluin led his foraging party under the gateway.
‘Thank God,’ he said and clapped his friend on the shoulder as he dismounted. ‘I was beginning to be anxious.’
Herluin looked grave as he eased the helm from his head. He was sweating inside the heavy chain mail and his hair clung damply to his head. ‘We succeeded this time, my lord, but your brothers’ men are everywhere and a pedlar fellow we disturbed from his sleep in a wood told me that more arrive all the time.’
A week later the need for water was again acute. It had been a week of small raids. A few men had been lost, two killed and several wounded or captured, but otherwise the time dragged by wearily. Henry walked the shore or the castle walls, chewing the end of his whip, cheering the men, inspecting arms, organising practice at the butts and knightly exercises to keep them alert. But it was heavy work and he wondered how long his brothers would sit on his doorstep before making their intentions plain.
He sent Herluin to the mainland again for water, but this time the royal forces were waiting for them and they came back empty-handed. The water on the mount was low now, and even though he rationed it strictly the casks were almost empty.
Alide came to him, her face anxious. ‘I must have water for the children, my lord, Robert cries from thirst.’ A spark of anger lit her eyes, ‘Are your brothers so turned against you that they would deny us what we need to live?’
‘I wish I knew,’ he answered grimly. ‘Do not ask me what activates them, for I do not know.’ He paused, laying his hand on her plait where it lay over her bosom. ‘Don’t fret, my love, I’ll get water somehow. Robert shall not cry any more.’
He called a knight to him, a Breton suitable for a go-between, and bade him ride under a flag of truce to Duke Robert’s camp at Arderon.
‘Tell my brothers,’ he said, ‘that if they wish to make war on me that is one thing, but they need not press the powers of nature into their service by depriving us of our bodily needs. Ask them to allow my men to fetch fresh water and let the valour of our soldiers decide the outcome.’
He hoped his messenger would find Duke Robert alone, for his eldest brother was more likely to yield to his request than the harder headed Rufus. In due course the knight returned, his white flag fluttering from his spear, not only with the request granted, but bearing with him a tun of the Duke’s best wine.
Henry set his hands on his hips and laughed as he had not done for some days. ‘God’s death, but Robert is predictable! I’m very sure Rufus would not have parted with wine nor allowed Robert to do so had he been in the camp. He’ll roast Curthose for that.’
His men went out at once and returned with laden casks for the Duke kept his promise, despite, as Henry had suspected, some hard words from his fellow commander.
‘Holy Face,’ Rufus exploded when he rode into Robert’s camp the next day. ‘What are we doing here? Making war or fighting a tourney? You are a fool, Robert.’
For once the Duke did not allow himself to be swayed by his brother’s bluster. ‘I may be a fool,’ he retorted with spirit, ‘but I’ll not be inhuman. Beauclerc was thirsty and I gave him to drink, that’s all.’
‘We are m-making war,’ Rufus repeated, stammering in his annoyance, ‘And in war sentiment has no place. We mean to b-beat Henry, do we not?’
‘Beat him in fair fight, yes, but I’ll not stand by and see him die of thirst. If we lose him where shall we find another brother? Heaven would frown upon us if we caused a brother’s death.’
Rufus gave a great burst of raucous laughter. ‘What has heaven to do with it? To hell with heaven, I say,’ and he slapped his thigh in amusement at his own joke. ‘What is the difference? We are out to put Henry in his place and if he resists us and suffers in consequence, who is to blame but himself?’
‘I suppose so,’ The Duke looked reluctant. ‘At least – I would have his lands, but I would not harm him.’
‘Oh, rest you,’ Rufus cast him a scathing glance, ‘he’ll come out of this in one piece as long as he yields to us. If that is not why we are here, then by Lucca’s face, I’ll take my men home again.’
Afterwards Robert de Beaumont said to Grandmesnil, ‘I swear there were never two stranger bedfellows than the King and the Duke. This alliance will not last overlong.’
‘How can you have peace when three dogs fight over one bone?’ Grandmesnil queried caustically and sighed for the days of his old master.
William of Breteuil laughed. ‘And who wants peace, for God’s sake? What would a fighting man do all day if we had peace?’
For the next few days the skirmishes continued and one morning Henry and Herluin stood by the gate and watched as Gerard led out a party, one of whom was Simon La Barre.
‘The boy is developing some skill in the art of fighting,’ Herluin said with satisfaction. ‘He handles his horse well and his sword.’
‘Thanks to your teaching. I’ve watched you show him how to bear himself. Look – see that troop coming over the sands? I know that emblem, that’s de Beaumont, and there is de Toeni’s banner too.’ Was Ralph there, Henry wondered, and how many more of his friends come against him? It seemed that when the King and the Duke commanded together no man dared to disobey the call.
It was fine today, the persistent rain of the last few weeks had cleared away and a pale watery sun had broken through the clouds, lighting the pools in the wide stretches of sand. To the watching men the sand seemed to stretch out endlessly as the two groups of horsemen converged.
There was a short exchange of blows, a clash of weapons. One of the Prince’s men fell, a spear in his chest and his maddened horse galloped for the mainland. Henry swore under his breath.
Herluin kept his eyes on Simon. ‘Oh, well done, boy. That blow was hardly dealt. See, my lord, Simon has unhorsed a man.’
Henry
put up a hand to shade his eyes for the sun was directly before them. It was difficult to see exactly what was happening in the fight, men splitting into groups or fighting singly hand to hand but in the mêlée he had picked out young Simon striking out at an opponent. The enemy broke his spear on the pommel of Simon’s saddle and at once Simon swung round and caught the man a blow on the back with the flat of his sword, sending him to the ground. The horse reared and thrust its way from the group, dragging the unfortunate rider flat on his back along the sand, for his spur had caught in the stirrup. Simon, yelling ‘La Barre! La Barre! ’ at the top of his voice rode after the animal and catching the reins sprang down from the saddle. Shortening the sword he stood over his gasping enemy, ready to deliver the death stroke.
And then to the surprise of the watchers he stood transfixed, the blow undealt.
Henry of the High Rock Page 16