The Bastard's Son

by H A CULLEY

  When asked by Anselm who he supported, the king prevaricated and said he hadn’t yet decided. The truth was it suited him not to support anyone as pope. Popes had a nasty habit of interfering in the internal affairs of Christian countries in William’s opinion and he wanted no-one adding to his problems.

  Much to Anselm’s disgust, most of the bishops and abbots who had gathered for the Great Council agreed with the king that it wasn’t for their primate to decide which pope to support, it was a matter for the king.

  Anselm refused to accept this and William Rufus became angrier and angrier with him, eventually threatening that, as he hadn’t yet received his pallium, he would demand back his ring and staff of office and deprive him of his archbishopric. It was a mistake.

  The barons, who had remained supremely indifferent to what they had hitherto regarded as an ecclesiastical matter, became alarmed. If the king could dethrone the Archbishop of Canterbury, then none of their lands and titles were safe. The bishops were no less worried. They could see that, if an archbishop could be dismissed by the king, he could do the same to any of them. It wasn’t an idle concern either, given Rufus’ propensity for keeping dioceses vacant so that he could pocket the revenues in the interim. Suddenly the mood in the Great Council swung against the king.

  Unsurprisingly, this infuriated William even more.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ He challenged them. ‘I’m not going to accept any subject of mine dictating foreign policy to me. That’s unthinkable and I challenge any of you to disagree with me on that point? No? I thought not! So what is your advice to me? This man,’ he said pointing a furious finger at the luckless Anselm, ‘refuses to accept that it is my right to decide which pope, if any, I should recognise. He insists that Urban is the true pope, a man supported by our enemy, the King of France. However, I have serious doubts about Clement, who is the creature of Emperor Henry. My feeling is that we should wait and see who emerges as the true pope.’

  ‘That cannot be acceptable to me, lord king,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Until I receive my pallium I cannot regard myself to be a bishop, let alone Archbishop of Canterbury.’

  ‘Fine, go back to your abbey at Bec,’ William shouted, even redder in the face now.

  ‘No, sire. We have been without a primate for too long as it is. We can’t have another interregnum.’

  This time it was Thomas of Bayeux, Archbishop of York, who spoke. There was a general muttering of agreement amongst the barons and other nobles. William could see that this was getting him nowhere and he adjourned the Great Council for the day.

  That evening Anselm requested a private meeting with the king.

  ‘Sire, I very much regret that it has come to this. It was not my desire that we should disagree so openly; I therefore wish to propose a compromise.’

  William hadn’t risen to greet the archbishop, or welcomed him in any way. He sat in a chair and continued to regard him suspiciously and said nothing. Anselm found this reception a trifle unnerving.

  ‘I suggest that you appeal for a ruling from the Curia in Rome as to who should grant me my pallium. Perhaps it could be brought to England by a Papal Legate so that I don’t have to go to Rome, or elsewhere, to kneel at the feet of his Holiness. If we can’t agree on a way forward, then I have no option but to request a safe-conduct so that I can go into exile. However, if I do, I’m not prepared to relinquish my position as the Archbishop of Canterbury,’

  Anselm finished speaking and waited for the king to respond. However, William continued to regard him balefully, without speaking. As the silence lengthened, the archbishop grew increasingly uncomfortable.

  Finally William spoke.

  ‘You have been badly advised, my lord archbishop. I blame Baldwin of Tournai and others of your clerics for this and I intent to send them into exile, but you will remain here. I have already sent men to arrest your chamberlain to face trial for treason. However, I am prepared to forgive you provided you don’t cross me again. In return, I will send emissaries to Rome to request the presence of a papal legate with the pallium you so earnestly desire. Not get out before I change my mind.’

  Anselm was horrified at the unjust treatment of his advisers and servants but he had been outmanoeuvred. William had given him what he desired, but he had taken a petty and small-minded revenge on him in return.

  -X-

  Sweyn and Godric had almost given up on finding de Mowbray’s recruiters when they struck lucky. Four heavily armed soldiers came into the tavern in which the two were enjoying a tough mutton stew and started to go around the tables speaking to likely looking men. Sweyn and Godric studiously ignored them until one of them came and sat at their table uninvited and another stood behind him.

  He studied the faces of the knight and the squire and nodded with satisfaction when he saw an old scar caused by a sword a decade before on Sweyn’s cheek and a few minor cuts and abrasions on Godric’s hands that showed he was used to cleaning and polishing armour.

  ‘Well, well. What do we have here then? An old soldier and his servant if I’m not mistaken. Who are you then?’

  Sweyn saw no reason not to use their real names; they weren’t known in Tynemouth.

  ‘I’m Sweyn and the lad’s called Godric.’

  ‘Saxons?’

  ‘I am, he’s an Angle.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘Hold hard, just trying to be friendly. If you’re looking for employment I may be able to help you.’

  Sweyn shrugged, looked at Godric, and then replied.

  ‘We were part of the retinue of a Norman knight in Scotland before that Celtic buffoon Donald Bane kicked him out and we found ourselves without a master.’

  ‘What happened to your knight then?’

  ‘Took ship to Normandy with just his squire, or so I heard. His father is a viscount or something over there.’

  The man opposite nodded sympathetically and the man behind him leaned down and whispered something in his ear.

  ‘What were you? Serjeant, man-at-arms, crossbowman?’

  ‘Serjeant. I still have my rouncey and the boy has a hackney. Who are you recruiting for and what does he pay?’

  ‘Steady on! I haven’t said we want you yet.’

  ‘Oh, you want us, judging by the mixture of idlers, drunks and useless apprentices you’ve already signed up tonight. They’ve never used anything more dangerous than their own pricks before.’

  The soldier laughed and the man behind broke into a grin.

  ‘You’ll do. We work for the earl and he pays two groats a week, that’s for you and the lad. You get fed too, and your horses.’

  ‘That’s a just over penny a day; it wouldn’t even keep me and the boy in ale.’

  The soldier shrugged. ‘Take it or leave it; it’s twice what the other lads are getting.’

  Sweyn sighed with a show of apparent reluctance.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Good. Go and get your horses and meet me at the market cross just after dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? It’s Sunday. We always go to mass on Sunday.’

  ‘God preserve us, you’re as bad as the earl. He will insist on going to church on Sundays. Our captain keeps telling him how dangerous it is, but he’s convinced that no-one will recognise him now he’s shaved off his beard and wears homespun.’

  The soldier had obviously relaxed his guard now that Sweyn and Godric had agreed to become part of the earl’s new army. His companion leaned over to whisper a word of caution in his ear but the other man, who was evidently in charge, just waved him away.

  ‘I think you and me will get on well, Sweyn. See you tomorrow at the market cross; don’t be late.’

  -X-

  Sweyn and Godric collected their belongings from the tavern they were staying in and then saddled their horses. It was late but Tynemouth didn’t have a wall around the town, just the fortified priory on the headland. However, it wasn�
��t to there that Sweyn was headed. He didn’t know the prior or the captain of the garrison stationed there and, in any case, his allegiance was to Sir Hugo. He and Godric therefore set out to ride to his camp in the woods nearby to tell him what they had learnt.

  In the twilight they led their mounts through the press of people until they were a few streets away from the tavern where there was more room. Just as they were about to mount three men appeared from a side alley. It was dark by now and the only light came from the nearly full moon in the sky, and that kept disappearing behind clouds. However, Sweyn was still able to recognise the man in the centre as the one who had stood behind the soldier who had recruited them.

  ‘Now I thought that there was something not quite right about you two. You seemed too interested in the fact that the earl goes to mass for my liking. My fool of a captain told me I was being paranoid but here you are about to do a moonlit flit. Now why would that be I wonder?’

  ‘Got a better offer,’ Sweyn replied drawing his sword.

  There was no point in pretending they weren’t about to leave the town. As Sweyn rolled his shoulders, readying himself for the impending fight, Godric went back to their packhorse.

  The other two men were carrying spears and were therefore the greater threat than the man in the middle, who only had a sword. As the three men moved towards Sweyn an arrow shot past his ear and buried its head in the thigh of the man on the left. He squealed like a pig and, clutching his leg, he fell to the ground, dropping his spear as he fell.

  Godric quickly nocked another arrow to his hunting bow and aimed it at the second spearman. However, he didn’t need to let fly as both of their remaining opponents turned tail and fled, leaving the third man screaming in pain on the ground.

  ‘Quick, let’s get out of here. That fool’s bleating will soon bring the town watch here.’

  One or two shutters had already been thrown open and curious heads looked out to see what the commotion was all about. Sweyn and Godric swung up into the saddle and, with Godric leading the packhorse they trotted down the last few streets and then they were clear of the town.

  A few hundred yards later Sweyn pulled his horse to a halt and took a swig from a wineskin hanging from his saddle horn before handing it to Godric to do the same. Knocking the leather plug back in he set off again at a canter, eager to tell Sir Hugo what they had discovered.

  -X-

  Robert de Mowbray, Earl of Northumbria, rode through the open gates and up to the parish church, which was also the church of Tynemouth Priory. He had founded the priory five years previously and believed himself safe in its precincts. It was a curiosity in that it was both priory and fortification. It was sited strategically on the headland overlooking the North Sea and King William had secured it on its way north, installing one of his men as captain of the garrison, who lived in a separate area surrounded by a palisade within the precincts. The main left in charge of the garrison had either connived at de Mowbray’s comings and goings or he was ineffectual; either way it would be the king’s problem to deal with him, not Hugo’s.

  As Sweyn and Godric had been told, the earl had adopted the dress of a peasant but his arrival riding a palfrey, a very expensive riding horse, give the lie to his attempt to appear as a humble freeman. He was accompanied by six men, also dressed inconspicuously, but the swords they wore at their waists indicated that they were soldiers.

  Hugo watched as they entered the church, leaving a groom outside to hold the horses. He turned to one of his men and whispered that he wanted him to take care of him with his crossbow when he gave the signal. As half a dozen of his serjeants went to secure the priory’s main gate he nodded to the crossbowman who put a quarrel in the groom’s heart, killing him before he had a chance to cry out. De Mobray was now trapped. The horses, suddenly released, were startled and Hugo held his breath worried that they would panic and start to make a noise. Thankfully, after a brief period of milling about, they settled down again and resumed eating the grass in the graveyard.

  Hugo walked forward towards the west door of the church with six knights and an equal number of serjeants, each of the latter armed with a crossbow, whilst Godric remained outside with his bow in case anyone tried to escape. Two more serjeants had been positioned by the other door into the church – the door that gave access directly from the priory.

  Two of the knights moved ahead and threw open the double doors in the west entrance to the church. The crossbowmen entered first, three of them covering the men, women and children standing on each side of the central aisle.

  Hugo walked down the nave with the crossbowmen flanking him, followed by his knights. Between the chancel steps and the altar, where the prior stood, the monks were facing inwards and chanting a psalm. As he walked towards the east end of the church the chanting faltered and faded away as the monks turned and gawped at the armed men approaching them. The prior grew puce in the face.

  ‘By what right do you interrupt God’s Holy service, sir?’

  ‘By order of the king, traitor,’ Hugo barked back. ‘You harbour the rebel Robert de Mowbray in your midst and I am here to arrest him and all who aid him.’

  He was conscious of people moving towards the west doors anxious to leave the church, but his two knights had closed the doors again and stood, stony faced with drawn swords to prevent de Mowbray and his men escaping with the crowd.

  ‘I am no traitor and I know nothing of the presence of the earl here; as you can see, there are no nobles present.’

  Hugo smiled grimly.

  ‘No, just a churl dressed in homespun riding a palfrey and escorted by half a dozen knights. However, he is no earl; the king has stripped him of all his titles. You have just betrayed yourself by calling him an earl. That in itself is treason enough.’

  ‘The king has no jurisdiction over me! I am an ordained cleric.’

  During this exchange he had spotted de Mowbray, who he had recognised even with his hair shorn and his beard shaved, edging towards the priory door with his escort.

  ‘Save yourself the bother, my lord. I have men outside that door as well.’

  ‘Curse you de Cuille! Who has betrayed me?’

  ‘Your own arrogance, my lord, in riding to mass on a palfrey. Did you think it wouldn’t be commented on in the taverns?’

  The congregation had scuttled away from the former earl and his men as soon as the crossbowmen levelled their weapons at them. With a curse, de Mowbray threw his dagger on the tiled floor of the church and reluctantly his men dropped their sword belts one by one.

  Hugo breathed a sigh of relief. He had feared that some fool would try to resist arrest or a panicked crowd would rush his men, trying to escape. It had all gone better than he dared hope. The earl and his men were led from the church in chains and, as he left, he turned to the pompous prior.

  ‘I have no orders concerning you, sir prior, but you knew that de Mowbray took mass here yet did nothing to report the fact. It will be for Bishop William de St. Calais to decide what to do about you, as you come under the mother house in Durham. One question though; did the captain of the garrison know of this?’

  The prior snorted with contempt.

  ‘He has his own chaplain who conducts mass in the small wooden chapel inside the bailey. The man came here once but proclaimed my sermons too long.’

  Hugo nodded. It fitted with what he had found out. The knight installed by the king as captain after he captured the castle was fat and indolent and doubtless found the lack of seating in the austere priory church a strain.

  The following day he sent Sweyn and a few men to inform the small army that de Mowbray had recruited that their master was now a prisoner and, on instruction from the king, they were to disperse forthwith. As they were there for the money and no more would be forthcoming, they grumbled but did as they were bid. In the meantime Hugo took de Mowbray to Bamburgh, where the king was now heading, and handed the knights who had been with de Mowbray’s over to the fat captain in Tynemo
uth. They were chained and lodged in spare monk’s cells in the priory pending trial by the new sheriff, Ivo de Vesci, in due course.

  -X-

  William Rufus was pleased by Hugo’s capture of de Mowbray but furious that Bamburgh Castle still held out against him. De Mowbray had left his new wife, Matilda, niece of Hugh d'Avranches, the Earl of Chester, to hold the castle for him. Despite the fact that both her father, Richard de l'Aigle, and her uncle were two of the king’s strongest supporters, she had stubbornly held out against William.

  ‘Why won’t the bloody woman surrender?’ the king demanded to know.

  ‘One can only assume that her devotion to de Mowbray means that she is in love with him,’ said William de St. Calais contemptuously.

  ‘What do you know of love, you sanctimonious prat. I don’t suppose that you have ever dipped your wick in your whole life.’

  Ranulph Flambard held his council but he was tempted to ask how often the king had dipped his own wick – at least in a woman.

  ‘I doubt it is love, sire.’ He interrupted diplomatically. ‘De Mowbray may be powerful, rich and a fierce fighter, but he is arrogant, vain, untrustworthy, stern and grim. He is not exactly handsome either. He stands head and shoulders over most men but he is swarthy and very hairy and never bathes. I doubt that such a character would endear himself to a young bride.’

  ‘Then why does she hold out against me?’ William demanded petulantly.

  ‘Perhaps she is more scared of him than she is of you, sire?’ Ranulph suggested.

  ‘Then she is a fool.’

  ‘Perhaps if you brought him before the castle and threatened to kill him or something, she would realise that whatever hold he has over her is no more?’