by H A CULLEY
The march from York across the Pennine Hills that ran down the spine of the country was horrendous. The army struggled through blizzard after blizzard across the high moors and there were a number of desertions. At one point William’s mercenary conrois threatened to mutiny and were only persuaded to continue by an additional payment from the royal coffers.
Hugo made sure his men kept their extremities warm and so avoided the frostbite that affected others. They lost two horses and had to discard some kit. Even Ralph, who was always so lively, was reduced to abject misery.
Many who fell by the wayside were left to die, so sunk in their own misery were their companions. Even the occasional knight died in the blizzards that swept along the high route through the Pennines. At one point Ralph and Sweyn saw a squire sitting on a stationary palfrey by the side of the track almost hidden in the snow. As Ralph drew near the lad fell sideways off the horse into a snowdrift. The two got off their horses and pulled the boy clear. They changed his sodden cloak for a dry one from Sweyn’s pack and pushed him up in front of Ralph so that his body could shield the frozen squire until they made camp that evening. Sweyn followed leading the other squire’s palfrey.
Gradually the lad thawed out in front of the fire and some colour returned to his cheeks. They managed to get some hot broth inside him and then asked who he was and which knight he served.
‘No knight.’ The boy replied, taking another sip. ‘The king. I’m Robert de Belleme. I have to thank you both for saving my life.’
‘No!’ Ralph was incredulous. ‘I recognise you now.’
‘Oh. Have we met before? I don’t remember your face.’
Ralph nodded. ‘At Domfront. I was squire to my brother, Tristan, who fought in the melee that your uncle lost.’
Robert’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, a day that shamed my name. I don’t recall your knight though. Is he part of the Belleme mesnie?’
‘He died at Senlac Hill, just before the end.’
‘Oh. Then who do you serve now. I must tell him of your heroism in saving me.’
‘We both serve Sir Hugo de Cuille.’ Sweyn chimed in, not knowing of the enmity between the two.
Robert de Belleme nearly choked on his soup. He put the wooden bowl down. ‘Do you mean that my life has just been saved by the squires of a man who I have sworn to kill?’
‘It looks that way. Perhaps we should have left you to die?’ Ralph gave him a hard stare and Robert knew that he was only half joking.
He sat in silence for a while, looking into the flames and lost in thought. The he raised his head . ‘Is de Cuille here?’
‘Why?’ Ralph was immediately suspicious.
‘I have something I wish to say to him. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything foolish; far from it.’
Ralph took him over to the nearby fire where Hugo sat with Yves, Baldwin, Tomas and several other knights. Hugo got up as the approached.
‘What is it Ralph, who is this?’
‘I think you know who I am, Sir Hugo.’ Robert raised his head and looked straight into his eyes.
‘De Belleme! What are you doing here?’ Somehow Hugo sensed that the lad didn’t mean him any harm, at least at the moment.
‘Your two squires saved me from a cold and lonely death today. I may have a long memory and be careful of my honour but I acknowledge a debt where it is owed. I say a life for a life; my life for yours. Don’t expect me to be your patron when I come into my inheritance but any animosity I felt towards you exists no longer.’
‘I am heartily glad to hear it, Robert.’ Hugo smiled and, after a hesitation, Robert smiled back briefly. ‘But it was Mabel de Belleme who tried to have me killed, I think?’
‘Don’t worry about my mother. I will make sure she knows what happened today. Now I had better collect my horse and find the king; he will be wondering where I am. Goodbye, Sir Hugo.’ With that he nodded to Ralph and Sweyn and trudged off through the snow.
King William’s arrival before Chester was totally unexpected and, after three days of negotiation, the city surrendered. The conquest was complete. No city or major town still held out against him and the task begun at Senlac Hill was finished. There would still be isolated outbreaks of trouble but William the Bastard now ruled all of England.
Epilogue – July 1119 A.D.
Robert de Cuille put down the manuscript he had found in his father’s papers after his death and sat deep in thought for a while. No-one had known that Sir Hugo had written down the events up to the completion of the conquest. He didn’t remember his mother but his father had talked to him and Tristan a great deal about her so that he felt that he knew her well. In these days of arranged marriages it was rare to find a love match such as that between Hugo and Rowena. It was such a tragedy that his mother had died in a riding accident less than a year after Hugo’s chronicle ended. His father had never remarried.
His mind turned to events since 1070. Life had never ceased to be uncertain. After all Saxon resistance had been crushed with the death of Hereward the Wake and Earl Morcar at Ely, the Normans started plotting amongst themselves. The rebellion of William’s eldest son, the revolt of the earls, further trouble within Normandy and continuing conflict with Anjou all conspired to keep King William in the field. It wasn’t until just before his death in 1087 that he managed to complete the survey of all the manors in England, an enterprise that Gilbert had been heavily involved in.
William Rufus of cursed memory, who became king when his father died, had taken the Burneham manor away from his father to give to one of his favourites. He had heard that Hugo was very angry about it at the time but there was little he could do. Robert’s uncles, Oswin and Wulfric, had come up to join Hugo’s mesnie and he had knighted them both.
Robert knew that his father had grown to love the wild country on the Scottish border. However, as he grew older he spent more and more time in the High Peak and left Robert’s twin, Tristan, to manage the Northumberland estate.
When King Henry had created the Northumberland baronies a decade ago he had made Hugo baron of Cheviot but Hugo had asked that Tristan become the baron in his stead. At the same time he had made it clear to Robert that he would inherit the Derbyshire estate when he died. It was not usual to split up estates - the aim was to accumulate more land, not divide it up – but twins were a special case in Hugo’s view.
Robert’s thoughts turned to his father’s friends. Roland had had two sons and Ralph a daughter called Eleanor, who one of Roland’s sons later married.
Hugo never returned to Cuille but he had wept when he heard that both his father and his half-brother Richard had been killed fighting for Normandy against Anjou during yet another power struggle over who ruled Maine. Hugo’s younger half-brother, Edward, had inherited Cuille but the two sides of the family had lost touch after that.
Gilbert married a Saxon girl and they had six children. One of his sons, Herbert, was the present steward of the Northumberland estate. Sweyn had been knighted by Hugo when he reached the age of twenty one. The story went that Sweyn had fallen head over heels in love with the daughter of a freeman at Edale but her father had dedicated her to Christ in expectation that his soul would thus be saved. The girl was forced to become a nun and Sweyn never saw her again. He was devastated and never married, continuing to serve in Hugo’s mesnie until he died a few years ago.
Guillaume Peverel married Adelina of Lancaster and had a daughter in 1075 and a son, William, in 1080. He died in 1115.
When he died aged seventy-five Hugo de Cuille had outlived all his contemporaries.
THE STORY OF THE DE CUILLE FAMILY CONTINUES IN
ENGLAND IN ANARCHY
To read the Prologue and the first chapter, please continue
ENGLAND IN ANARCHY
Prologue – Barfleur 25th November 1120 A.D.
William Adelin certainly knew how to throw a party. He had arrived in Barfleur with his father, Henry Beuclerc, accompanied by their respective retinues of nobles, knig
hts and attendants ready to embark for their return to England. Henry had been king of England ever since his brother, William Rufus had been killed in the New Forest in mysterious circumstances twenty years previously. He was a scholarly man but he had also proved himself as a warrior, defeating his eldest brother Robert at the battle of Tinchebrai to settle the fraught question of the succession after the death of William Rufus.
The king had set off first leaving his son to follow on the White Ship, a newly built craft captained by Thomas FitzStephen, the son of the man who had commanded the Maria, William the Conqueror’s flagship. However, the twenty year old William had other ideas once free of his father’s company. He was Henry’s only son and the king doted on him. Consequently William had grown up as a spoilt brat. He was self-indulgent and attracted young rakes with a hedonistic disposition to him like flies to a corpse. One of these was the twenty five year old Geoffrey de l’Aigle. Another of his companions was Edward de Cuille, the second son of Sir Robert de Cuille, who held several manors in the High Peak of Derbyshire.
Edward was twenty two and recently knighted. He had been delighted initially when his father had secured a place for him in William’s mesnie; to be a companion of the future king was both an honour and a chance to advance himself. As a second son he would not inherit the estate, or any part of it, and he had to make his own way in the world. Like his father and his grandfather, Hugo, he was a handsome young man. The one difference was that he wore his fair hair long in the manner popularised by King Henry. But he was rather serious by nature and felt uncomfortable with William’s dissolute lifestyle.
Instead of boarding the ship as soon as the baggage was loaded, William and his friends refused to leave the tavern where they were slowly getting drunk and enjoying the local whores. William’s half-sister, Matilda FitzRoy, countess of Perche, remonstrated with him but, just when he had decided it was time to go, Geoffrey de l’Aigle brought the master, Thomas FitzStephen, to him.
‘My lord, please have no worries about your departure. My ship is so fast that it can make headway against any tide. In fact, I am confident that we will be able to overtake the king and arrived in England before him, even if we don’t leave for another few hours.’ The master boasted.
‘William, why don’t we at least repair on board? We can always take a few barrels of wine with us to slake our thirst on the journey’ Edward suggested. He felt that once on board they could at least get under way before the tide went out any further.
It didn’t quite work out that way. Once on board the barrels were broached and, overriding the protests of the ship’s master, Prince William insisted that the crew join him in several toasts to a successful crossing. Most on board were so drunk that they could hardly stand by the time that the crew cast off.
The White Ship made its way somewhat erratically out of the harbour. Instead of departing in daylight, as intended, it was now dark and the lookout in the bow could see very little. His powers of observation were somewhat diminished by the amount of wine he had consumed and he was almost asleep when he saw the tell-tale white foam that indicated water breaking over some rocks on the port bow. By the time his befuddled brain had realised what this meant and he had cried a warning it was too late.
The ship was travelling at over ten knots and the impact tore a gaping hole all along the port side as it came to a shuddering halt. Everyone on board was thrown to the deck by the impact and some fell overboard. For several moments the ship hung there, impaled on the rocks. With great presence of mind Thomas FitzStephen managed to find four of his crew who were sober enough to launch the small skiff. He ran to where Prince William lay and, with the help of Gilbert and Edward, they managed to get him into the boat. The seamen started rowing for the shore but at that moment the sea dragged the mortally wounded ship off the rocks. Water rushed into the port side and it started to sink.
‘William, don’t leave me here to drown.’ The scream of his half-sister penetrated William’s befuddled consciousness and he suddenly shook off the stupor induced by the alcohol.
‘It’s Matilda, we must save her. I can’t let my sister drown.’ He cried in anguish.
‘My lord, there is nothing we can do. If we turn back all the people in the water will swamp this small boat. We must concentrate on saving your life’ Edward pleaded with the distraught prince.
But there was no reasoning with him. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ His voice rose in anger. ‘Turn this boat round now and save the Countess Matilda or every one of you will hang.’
There was nothing Edward could do as the sailors rushed to do as they were bid. The boat didn’t even reach where Matilda was flailing at the water to keep herself afloat. There had been three hundred people on the White Ship and quite a few of those could swim. As the first of them reached the skiff and tried to climb aboard the gunwale was pushed under water and it capsized.
Edward was a good swimmer and struck out to where he had seen Prince William disappear under the surface after a few moments of ineffectually trying to keep his head above water. When he got to where he thought William had sunk under the waves he dived down and, just as his lungs were about to give out, he found him drifting with his arms outstretched and his head on his chest. Edward knew he was dead but he valiantly tried to bring him to the surface. By this time he was beginning to black out through lack of oxygen. He let go of William and involuntarily gasped for air. The sea water rushed into his lungs and he drifted down to join the dead prince.
When a fishing boat left Barfleur the next morning they were astonished to find two figures clinging to the rocks: Geoffrey de l’Aigle and a butcher from Rouen called Berthold. They were the only survivors of the three hundred souls on the White Ship and both died of hypothermia shortly after they had related their tragic tale.
Chapter One – England 1135 A.D.
The chill November rain lashed down on the seven horsemen who were following the trail of the cattle thieves through the Cheviot Hills. They were soaked to the skin, despite wearing oiled woollen cloaks. On the last ridge before the land fell away to rolling moorland the leader reined in and tried to detect any sign of movement below him. Suddenly the rain eased and he caught a glimpse through the gloom of the stolen herd a couple of miles away.
‘They’re crossing the Till. It looks as if they are heading for the ford over the Tweed at Norham. We can still catch them this side of the border.’
The last thing that Sir Humphrey de Cuille wanted was to chase the Scots across the Tweed into their own lands; not with just four sergeants and two young squires to back him up.
Humphrey was the grandson of Sir Hugo de Cuille, one of the knights who came over with William the Conqueror. He was a well-built man in his late thirties with a handsome face topped by a mop of light brown hair worn down to his shoulders in the style made fashionable by King Henry. His father, Tristan de Cuille, baron of the Cheviot and Redesdale, was now in his sixties and, although he was still a fit man for his age, he left it to his son to pursue raiders from over the border. However, so as to give him valuable experience Ademar, Tristan’s squire, had been allowed to come along in addition to Humphrey’s own squire.
The horsemen slithered down the hillside and pounded across the moorland below. Half an hour later they splashed through the ford across the Till and followed the trail of cow dung towards Norham. Driving cattle without losing control of them wasn’t a swift business and Tristan’s men caught up with the herd three miles further on. The Scots and their pursuers had left the Cheviot Barony some time ago but the Prince-Bishop of Durham, whose territory they were now in, was only too happy to see others deal with the perennial problem of cross border raids.
The rain muffled the sound of the pursuers until they were nearly upon the four Scots bringing up the rear of the herd. These were mounted on garrons, nimble and surefooted ponies well suited to the border country but no match for the larger horses ridden by their pursuers. Humphrey, like his men, was wearing a padded gamb
eson and helmet for speed, rather than heavy chainmail,. He drew his sword and aimed for a man who had managed to turn his pony, fumbling with his bow - not that that the string would have produced much power in such a heavy downpour. The heavy sword cut through the bow and struck the man’s chest, smashing his ribcage and cutting a deep gash across his torso. He was lifted off his mount and hit the ground with a thump that drove the wind out of him. He lay there mortally wounded as his smashed ribs had punctured his lungs.
Humphrey pulled up and looked around him. His four sergeants had accounted for the other three members of the rear guard. The remainder of the raiders – about a dozen or more – had ridden in from their positions controlling the herd and were trying to organise a charge. Before they were ready their attackers formed a tight wedge with Sir Humphrey in the centre, the two squires on either side and the sergeants on the flanks. The Normans were famed throughout Europe for the effectiveness of their cavalry and the solid formation smashed through the centre of the milling Scots like a hammer. Humphrey’s sword took the head off one man whilst several others fell to the swords and long horseman’s axes of the sergeants. A number of the garrons were knocked to the ground by the heavier horses, pitching their riders into the mud. They made easy targets for the mounted Normans who quickly cut the demoralised Scots down. With most of their number either wounded or dead the remaining raiders made off for the border and safety as fast as they could go, scattering the cattle as they went.
It wasn’t until Humphrey had started to congratulate his men, none of whom had more than a scratch or two to show for the skirmish, that he noticed Ademar lying on the ground, his neck at an unnatural angle. As they had smashed into the raiders one of the Scots must have landed a lucky blow, half severing the fifteen year old’s neck.
