We camped on the south side of the Fosse Dyke, west of Brayford Pool on the River Witham, and plotted our strategy for the next morning. Miles of Gloucester would take the left flank to the north, leading his own men and reinforced by Welsh mercenaries. Ranulf of Chester would take the right flank, to the south, also supported by the Welsh. Robert of Gloucester, Brien FitzCount and I would lead the centre, with our most formidable group of men, an elite force of knights supported by archers and infantry. In all, we numbered close to 1,800 men, far superior to Stephen’s force of 1,200.
The night brought a fierce storm; the ferocious winds played havoc with our tents, and the hard ground was softened to heavy mud by torrential rain. Stephen would have to fight on foot, penned in by the walls of the castle at his back. With the River Witham to the south, his only viable escape route would be to his right, heading north along Ermine Street to the Humber.
Sunday 2 February 1141 did not start well for Stephen, as the monks who came out to hear the confessions of our men were eager to tell us. He had attended mass in St Mary’s Cathedral at dawn and, according to tradition as King of the realm, had carried the lighted candle for the service. But the candle broke and fell to the floor, extinguishing the flame. Even worse, during the service a pyx containing the Host fell from its fastening above the altar and broke on impact, scattering its contents at the priest’s feet. The audience gasped and crossed themselves; all agreed that it was a very bad omen for Stephen.
Rain was still falling as we rode across Fosse Dyke. Our mounted knights kept their torsos dry; not so our foot soldiers, who had to wade across the swollen dyke submerged up to their shoulders. Stephen’s men were not much better off. They had been formed up for almost an hour and stood in the pouring rain, sinking up to their ankles in freezing mud.
We formed up close to Stephen’s lines, close enough to hear one of Stephen’s supporters, Baldwin FitzGilbert, rallying his men for battle. Although they were outnumbered, they were led by seasoned warriors in the best Norman tradition. Besides FitzGilbert, Stephen’s left flank was commanded by William of Aumale and William of Ypres, who brought Flemish troops to the fray. His right flank was taken by Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norwich, once my mentor, who had since perjured himself by swearing that King Henry had changed his mind about the succession. Stephen held the centre with his senior men: William Warenne, Earl of Surrey; Simon de Senlis, Earl of Northumberland; Waleran, Earl of Worcester; and Alan of Penthièvre, Earl of Richmond, who had been our ambusher at Stephen’s court at Oxford.
Robert of Gloucester had asked me the night before if I would speak for Maud before the battle. I was not daunted by the challenge; I knew it was my duty. My grandfather had made his famous speech at Ely when the Brotherhood faced King William’s squadrons for the final battle, so I knew it was also my destiny.
I knew what should be said and rode in front of our line confidently. I was also fortified by the Talisman, which Maud had insisted I take with me. It had been worn by so many brave men: Macbeth at Lumphanan, Harold at Senlac Ridge, Hereward at Ely and Alexius Comnenus at Levunium. It was easy to feel inspired by it.
Eadmer acted as my standard-bearer and held aloft my gonfalon. I had had it made in Gloucester, displaying the colours – gules, sable and gold – that my grandfather fought under at Ely. I had also created a new shield: two gules lions rampant on a golden field, bordered by a tierce in sable. Maud had suggested the design, and I felt very proud to carry it. I had commissioned replicas of my grandfather’s helmet and sword to replace the ones I had lost while serving the Doge of Venice; I could feel the helmet’s nose guard resting gently on my face, and I gripped the pommel of my sword firmly.
I stood high in my stirrups to speak, as Eadmer led my mount backwards and forwards along the line. The ground was flat, and my voice carried far and wide.
‘Soldiers of England, warriors from Wales, fighting men of Normandy! We stand together today to right a terrible wrong. This land is in agony. Its people are suffering and dying in their thousands; its ruler is a usurper. Old King Henry’s wish that the throne should go to the Empress Matilda, our Lady of the English, is known to every soul in the realm. Opposite you are men of evil. They are men who have stolen a crown, men who have perjured themselves before God and before their kin, and men who have killed, tortured and maimed to further their own cause. We can end their savagery here today.’
I raised my sword high above my head and filled the sky with my voice.
‘For Matilda, Lady of the English, a daughter of the royal families of every Celt, Englishman and Norman! A Queen for all our lands!’
A great roar echoed across the battlefield and travelled all the way up the hill to Lincoln itself. The speeches were over, the battlelines set. I felt certain that, by the end of the day, England would have a new ruler.
Eadmer was the first to congratulate me on my rousing speech, but in his own distinct way.
‘Well done, Hal. I think you’ve just written a new ballad for me!’
Robert was also very complimentary.
‘Quite the orator, Earl Harold. If that doesn’t win us the day, nothing will!’
Robert ordered his herald to sound the advance. The Battle of Lincoln had begun.
We dismounted most of our knights, so that they could fight on foot, and left only a few cavalry in reserve. The mud was deep and progress was difficult, especially in trying to maintain close formation. I called for several volleys from our archers at the rear, aimed specifically at Stephen’s flanks, where his less committed Breton and Flemish mercenaries stood. The arrows plummeted to earth like hailstones; men covered their heads with their shields, but many arrows hit their targets, cutting into exposed legs, arms and feet. They were not fatal wounds, but they put men out of action and spread fear in the ranks.
As we advanced, it was clear that our numbers were significantly greater than Stephen’s. I could see the anxiety roll through his army like a wave. Sergeants began to bellow orders, commanders tried to steady their men.
Robert turned to me and shouted.
‘I am going to commit our left and right flanks!’
‘I agree – they should attack at a run, while we go on slowly. Stephen’s flanks are crumbling.’
Robert sent orders to Miles and Ranulf to charge, and I ordered more volleys of arrows to precede them.
‘Robert, I propose we divide the cavalry to attack those who desert the field. I will send most to Ermine Street, and some to cover those who try to cross the river.’
‘Yes, do it, my friend!’
The Welsh on our left and right hurled themselves forward like packs of hunting dogs. They made no attempt to keep formation, but just ran like banshees, screaming obscenities at the enemy. They attacked bravely, like a barbarian horde. Against resolute opponents it could have proved disastrous, but Stephen’s flanks were already beaten.
The front ranks of Breton and Flemish soldiers turned as the Welsh closed on them, running into those behind, so that when the Welsh horde struck, their lines were in disarray and easy prey for the ferocious Celts. The knights loyal to Miles and Ranulf were close behind the Welsh vanguard. When they lent their disciplined cohorts to the melee, the whole of Stephen’s forces on the left and right streamed from the field. It soon became a stampede, but one met by our cavalry, who started to cut into the fleeing men at will.
A slaughter ensued; all Stephen’s previously brave and loyal senior men deserted him and galloped away, leaving him to stand alone at the front of his knights. Our advance had taken us within fifty yards of him. Robert and I were at the front of our men; by then, we were sinking up to our knees in mud.
I turned to Robert.
‘He faces annihilation; we should
offer him surrender.’
‘I agree.’
But before we could call a halt to our advance, Stephen let out a mighty cry and ran towards us waving his sword in great arcs to encourage his followers. We were hit by a wave of sound as the whole of his central column rushed towards us in a frenzy.
Robert and I had no choice but to respond in the same vein. The two columns of men, at least ten deep, closed on one another at alarming speed. Our column was 600 strong; Stephen’s contained perhaps 100 fewer. His desperate tactic was both brave and his only possible salvation. His one chance was to break through our centre like a battering ram and destroy our High Command.
The clash of sword on shield was deafening, the screams of dying men terrifying. The hand-to-hand fighting was ferocious; men swung their weapons wildly, often hitting friend and foe alike. It was difficult to find room to use tried and tested training techniques, the pressure of men from behind making such discipline impossible. The only effective method was to move forward like a Roman legionary, deploying the shield as a bludgeon, and using the sword to make short stabbing thrusts.
When men fell, they were trampled underfoot by wave after wave of the massed ranks moving forward. The mud changed colour from brown to a bloody purple, with countless distorted bodies protruding from the mire like broken dolls. I looked up as often as I could to see that our line was gradually eating up the ground towards the walls of the castle, leaving no space into which Stephen could retreat.
I felt no fear. I had been in too many battles; I was hardened to warfare and, like all seasoned warriors, I relished the primordial thrill of combat. There was always anxiety before an encounter and afterwards always reflection, usually tinged with regrets. But during the heat of battle there was only the crude thrill of warfare, and pride in the supreme skills of the professional soldier. Many men fell before me and I despatched them without mercy. There was no other way. In battle, there is no room for sympathy – a moment’s hesitation could cost you your life.
I caught sight of Stephen several times, no more than five yards away. He had lost his sword, but was wielding an English battle-axe to awesome effect. I saw him turn towards the western gate of the city and lead away those close to him. The weight of their numbers managed to force the gate open and more than a hundred men poured into Lincoln’s narrow streets. But they were unable to close the gate behind them, and we followed them into the burgh.
The fighting spread to all corners as Stephen’s men tried to find an escape route. Now civilians were caught up in the maelstrom, and the cries of women and children were added to the cacophony of battle. Fires broke out and smoke started to fill the air. Many of our troops, including the Welsh mercenaries, flooded into the burgh and began looting.
Robert tried to issue the order to desist. But it was to no avail; bloodlust had taken over.
Eadmer saw Stephen first. He was surrounded by fewer and fewer knights, and was trying to lead his men up the steep ground towards the cathedral and the main gate of the castle.
Robert of Gloucester had taken a heavy blow to his side and sank to his knees. He grabbed for my hauberk and entreated me urgently.
‘Go after him! He won’t get into the castle, he’ll go for the cathedral. Don’t let him reach it – we don’t want blood spilled on consecrated ground.’
With Eadmer at my shoulder and a posse of knights behind me, I headed up the hill. We had to battle our way through several ranks of Stephen’s knights, but Eadmer and I had developed a powerful close-quarters battle technique. We soon reached the small plateau in the shadow of the great western front of the cathedral. Stephen was on top of a mounting block, circled by a dozen knights. It looked as if he had chosen his ground for a final redoubt.
Held by his giant bearded standard-bearer, and flying proudly above him, was his war banner – a golden manticore with a hunting bow. His azure shield with argent bend signified his home in Blois, while to honour his wife’s county he flew the gonfalon of Boulogne – three roundels in gules on a field of gold.
He was breathing heavily. His armour and cloak were dripping with blood – as were his face and beard – though none of it seemed to be his own. The ground around him began to clear as people rushed towards the cathedral for sanctuary. I ordered several knights to place a cordon around the area to make sure none of our marauding Welsh troops made a crazed dash for Stephen.
I stepped towards him, my knights a pace behind. Eadmer whispered to me as we walked.
‘Be very careful. This is a proud brave man, and he’s about to lose a kingdom.’
Stephen caught my eye, and put out his hand to calm his men.
I called out to him.
‘Stephen of Blois, I am Harold, Earl of Huntingdon! On behalf of the Empress Matilda, I offer you quarter.’
Enraged by the fighting, his chest was heaving with anger and exertion. He cried out in an anguished voice.
‘I am Stephen, King of England, Duke of Normandy and Count of Boulogne! And you, sir, are a traitor! My sources tell me that you are also my cousin’s tup, and that you are cuckolding the Count of Anjou.’
I tried to remain calm.
‘I offer you quarter and the mercy of Matilda for the last time.’
Stephen still sounded desperate, like a man in a bear trap.
‘You are a knave! I believe you claim to be the bastard son of King Henry Beauclerc. But Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norwich, tells me that your family name is Harold of Hereford and that the King once ordered your arrest for the murder of one of his men.’
‘Attempting to provoke me will change nothing. Will you surrender or not?’
‘Not even to an earl, and certainly not to the likes of you!’
Stephen jumped down from the mounting block and hurled himself across the ten yards that separated us. He held his axe two-handed, high above his head, poised to strike me as soon as I came within range. He was so overcome by his emotions, he was oblivious to danger. But it was a futile attack; he was exhausted and outnumbered.
When he got within striking distance, he unleashed a fearsome lunge at my helmet, but I easily parried it with my shield. I hit him in the face with the gauntlet of my right hand, which was firmly coiled around the pommel of my sword, knocking him to the ground. This time the blood on his face was his own; his nose was split and there was a deep gash to his cheek.
He tried to get up, but I put my foot on his chest while Eadmer put his foot on his axe. Stephen’s knights moved to come to his aid, but did so half-heartedly. They were surrounded, their brave retreat over.
Stephen continued to struggle on the ground and had to be restrained by several knights. His taunts and insults were endless, and he tried to break free at every opportunity. Eventually, we had to bind and hood him and tie him on to the back of a cart, but still he cursed and strained at his ropes.
I ordered that he be treated with respect and asked Miles of Gloucester to take him in hand so that Eadmer and I could assess the situation on the battlefield and in Lincoln. I suddenly realized that it was still raining heavily; I could now hear the rain lashing the ground and the wind swirling around the tall towers of the cathedral.
The battlefield was strewn with bodies; fresh puddles of rainwater had filled the hollows we had made and blood was beginning to seep into them, turning them into pools of crimson. I could see some men still moving in agony, or breathing their last. Our men were already among the corpses, collecting weapons; the scavengers from the burgh were robbing the dead of anything they could find.
‘Eadmer, I want burial parties organized immediately. All the dead are to be buried – friend or foe. And get rid of those ghouls robbing the dead.’
The burgh was in chaos; fires were still burning, and th
ere were still the harrowing screams of rape and looting to be heard.
‘Find the senior burgesses and the Dean of the cathedral; we have to help them restore order.’
I thought back to my reflections in Aquitaine many years previously about the price people have to pay in pursuit of a cause. Even if a cause is worthy and just, a war on its behalf unleashes the beast in us and, once free, it’s almost impossible to get the rampant creature back into its cage.
England had lost the peace and security of its rigid Norman rule; the Normans were now fighting among themselves. But one of them was a woman who was so precious to me, and who carried the English blood that I also cared so much about.
I just hoped that the price so many were paying was worth it.
It took us several days to complete our tasks in Lincoln, and another week to march back to Gloucester with our quarry. Stephen was still being awkward and Earl Robert, feeling sore from his wound, lost patience with him and had him put in chains. When Stephen continued to abuse the Earl, he had him gagged, made him go barefoot, dressed him in sackcloth and had his head and beard shaved like a common criminal. Stephen still shouted abuse when his gag was removed, so Robert made him walk at the back of his cart, which in winter, and without shoes, was a painful experience. Still he would not be cowed and slowly earned the grudging respect of his guards and the whole army.
When we reached Gloucester, Maud had organized a guard of honour to greet us. She summoned Miles, Brien, Ranulf and Robert to congratulate them, and she thanked her High Command for all that had been achieved. After this, she asked that Stephen be brought before her.
When he arrived, she was visibly shaken by his chains and filthy appearance, but she chose to say nothing in front of him.
Anarchy Page 36
