Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  Robert’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Best get to your arms, my lord. The Mass is over.’ He pointed to the inner door of the keep where men had begun to emerge and Henry crossed the courtyard to find the men of his own household. They were waiting close under the walls, his gonfanon with its device of a single leopard on a red ground fluttering in the hand of Hamo, his standard bearer. Raoul the Deer held his mail tunic and as Henry dismounted and raised his arms flung it deftly over his head. It fell heavily into place and he tied the thongs at the neck while Raoul knelt to fasten on his sword. Raoul cared for the horses and had earned his nickname by being able to run at phenomenal speed and catch all but the fast runaways; he was past his first youth and had been placed in the Prince’s household to add experience to the younger element.

  Fulcher held Henry’s reins and in a few moments, helmed and armed, he walked over to the great entrance where his brother Rufus stood awaiting their father.

  Red William nodded to him. ‘I thought you were still abed.’ There was a mocking note as always in his hoarse, grating voice.

  For once Henry felt stung to reply. ‘I was about a man’s pursuits.’

  Rufus laughed. He was twelve years older than Henry and such a shaft from his nineteen-year-old brother was not likely to disturb him. ‘The Cub is airing his manhood, eh?’

  Henry shrugged. He disliked the nickname Rufus had for him and preferred Robert’s gentle, teasing ‘Beauclerc’, but he took either in good part and retorted readily enough with ‘Rufus’ or ‘Curthose’.

  ‘But you would have been wise,’ Rufus was continuing, ‘to forsake your rose-bed before the sun was on it. Our father would have been better pleased to see you at Mass – and my lord of Evreux is never above counting heads.’

  Henry relaxed, leaning on his sword hilt, the moment of irritation gone. Red William might have odd habits and prefer a train of pretty boys to a healthy desire for a mistress or two but he had a ready wit that Henry appreciated. ‘I thought the Crane would not be hurried even on this morning, but he might bear in mind that the sun’s been up an hour or more.’

  Rufus grinned. He had a wide mouth and a set of teeth that appeared startlingly white in contrast to his highly-coloured complexion. Was it their eldest brother Robert, now in exile for rebelling against their father, or was it Richard who had first nicknamed the young William ‘Rufus’? Richard had made them all laugh, had been gay and friendly and yet had mixed that friendliness with his father’s austerity and Henry had loved him as he loved neither Robert nor Rufus. But Richard was dead, killed in that forest south of Winchester that their father had made his hunting ground. The English had bitterly resented his seizing of land that had been theirs and when Richard was struck to the ground by a branch, breaking his neck, they said it was God’s vengeance. But whether it was Divine intervention or not, Richard was dead and Henry was thrust more into the company of Rufus, both of them dancing attendance on their autocratic sire.

  During the early part of this summer the King had been absorbed by the great survey that was being made in England so that he might know exactly how many hides of land, how many sheep or pigs each man owned, but the weather had been cold and wet and he had left the work to his barons, returning to his duchy to rest until called from his sick-bed by Philip’s impertinence.

  Rufus said now, ‘We may thank the gods our uncle Odo is clapped in prison or we’d be here half the day while he harangued us. He’s too damned officious and our father was right to shut him up, whatever the Pope may say.’

  ‘It’s the Earl of Kent who’s shut up, not the Bishop of Bayeux. For all they are one and the same person if our uncle acts treacherously in one capacity he can’t expect the other to protect him.’

  ‘Odo is a fool and no match for the King,’ Rufus said drily. ‘Our lord knows how to deal with him and the French too. Here he is – best pay your respects, little brother.’

  William, by the grace of God King of England, Duke of Normandy and lord of Maine, stood on the steps, tall and stiffly erect, regarding his assembled army. His head was still bare for he had just come from his prayers and his jet black hair was only lightly streaked with grey, his face lined but with lines of strength. He held himself well despite the huge stomach that had caused the King of France to be witty, the stomach he resented so bitterly for having all his life been an abstemious man in the matter of food and drink – when so many of his barons ate to satiety it seemed an unjust thing. Yet he was still a warrior, girt with his long sword, a worthy descendent of Duke Rollo and Richard the Fearless.

  By his side stood his half-brother, Robert Count of Mortain, shorter and square set, a stolid unimaginative man whose main virtue was loyalty to William, a loyalty not shared by his brother Odo, whom their nephews had just been discussing in so derogatory a manner.

  Behind the King stood the eldest son of his greatest baron, Roger of Montgomery. Robert of Bellême was tall and black-haired with hard handsome features and a blue jowl, a man fast gaining a reputation for vicious cruelty and not a few who had happened to offend him disappeared into his donjon at Bellême never to be seen again. A man to be feared, Henry thought, tainted with the evil Talvas blood inherited from Montgomery’s first wife, Mabille, whose savage practices had led to her murder some years ago.

  Beside Bellême stood the King’s chancellor, Robert Bloet, smiling and friendly, while next to him hovered Ranulf, one of the King’s chaplains, nicknamed Flambard for his gay dress and overbearing manner. He stood now, his quick intelligent eyes taking in the scene, itching to be away – a man of Bishop Odo’s stamp, scheming, unscrupulous, a worldly cleric. He had risen from nothing and made his way by sheer effrontery so that he even embraced his nickname with a certain pride. The giver of that name was Eudo Dapifer, steward to the King, who was a constant companion to the young princes and kept them amused with his witticisms at the expense of the members of the King’s court.

  Henry caught his eye now and saw Eudo glance amusedly at the Crane and raise his eyes heavenwards in an impatient grimace. But at last the Bishop was lifting his hand and Henry knelt with every man in the courtyard for the Church’s blessing. When the Bishop had finished he remained on his knee looking up at his father.

  ‘We have a fine day for our venture, sire.’

  William stared down at him. ‘It would have been better begun for you if you had heard Mass with us. You sport yourself too much upon the pillow and too little upon your knees, my son.’

  Henry fought down the desire to laugh. His brother's attendance at church owed more to his habit of accompanying their father everywhere than to a desire to serve God. In fact, Henry knew and half the court knew that Rufus did not care a snap of his stubby fingers for the Church and that he would rather offend his Maker than his father – whereas he, Henry, did care for God, when he had time.

  ‘Your pardon, my lord,’ he said meekly and smiled up at the King. His colouring he took from the Norman line, but his smile was his mother’s and because of it William bent and raised him to his feet.

  ‘Come, boy, we must waste no more of this day. Ride with me.’ He flicked his fingers at his trumpeter to sound the general call.

  They moved off slowly in the growing warmth of the day, crossing the river Epte by the narrow bridge at Gasny. The advance guard kept a wary eye for any Frenchmen there might be lurking in the woodland ahead, but all was still and quiet and the few peasants who saw them ran from them, too frightened to raise any alarm. They were in the disputed land now and William sent men to either side of their path, setting torches to the corn standing high in the fields, while other groups of soldiers were detailed to spoil the vines and cut down apple trees. It hampered their progress but men should know, the King said grimly, which way their overlord has passed and not dare to defy him again.

  Henry rode beside Rufus, talking little, aware of the heat in his heavy hauberk, thinking about the fight to come.

  It would be his first assault and he wanted to hurry
the march, to face the enemy city, to plunge into battle, to blood his sword. Last year in England Archbishop Lanfranc had presented him for knighthood and he wished now that he could have set out with the old man’s blessing. It had been something of a unique privilege to have the greatest scholar in Europe responsible for his education, and in consequence he had received such schooling that Robert and Rufus treated him with an amused indulgence which hid a certain envy – neither of them could read Latin nor write and from his infuriatingly inferior position in the family it gave him a weapon they had not. Even the name of ‘Beauclerc’ lent him a certain prestige which counteracted, if only slightly, the fact that he had been born so much the youngest of the Conqueror’s brood.

  But the other side of the coin had not been neglected either and he had been taught knightly exercises by Robert de Beaumont when he was in Normandy and by Hugh Lupus, Earl of Chester and Lord of Avranches, when he was in England. Both men, old enough to have fathered him, nevertheless became his friends and with Lanfranc, still alert and keenly interested in all things despite his eighty years, brought him in due course to the great church at Winchester. There his father had set a sword at his side and he had received the Host at Mass, swearing to be God’s knight and the King’s.

  It was all very impressive and the memory of it lingered today at the back of his mind for now he must prove his knighthood.

  At last when the sun was high the great army came in ever increasing numbers over the brow of a long rise of ground above a deep valley where the city lay. Walled and gated, on the bank of the wide river, it stood seemingly strong and serene, a neat city, confident in itself, prosperous, with many church towers and a fine castle. It looked a rich prize for the invaders and as Henry and Rufus paused beside their father, staring down into the valley below, it was clear that they had caught the enemy unaware. Everywhere in the fields men were busy harvesting, piles of weapons indicating that the soldiers of the garrison had gone out to help the local people bring in the corn and the grapes from laden vines. There was an air of busy prosperity and ease and William leaned on his saddle bow, staring, the end of his whip caught between his teeth in a habit he had when he was thinking deeply.

  After a moment he said, ‘Wine of Christ, there will be nothing left of that place when darkness comes this night. Then the King of France will see the candles lit for my churching from the windows of his palace in Paris itself.’

  Rufus’ grey eyes with their curious brown flecks rested briefly on his father’s huge figure and a spasm of anger crossed his face. ‘What are we waiting for? Let us be at it, my lord. Look! They have seen us.’

  Away below them there were startled cries now, men rushing to and fro, collecting weapons and hauberks, shouting and gesticulating, many near to panic. The castle gates were open and others were running out to see what was happening, colliding with those who were hurrying in; on the battlements more men appeared and suddenly the quiet, pleasant day disrupted into chaos.

  William gave the order to his trumpeter and the Norman army crashed down on to the peaceful fields and vineyards. Those too slow to reach safety were caught and killed. Fire was set to the corn and as the smoke rose the army reached the city, the barons leading their men, gonfanons high in the light breeze, knights and vavassours behind great lords, men-at-arms jostling each other to get into the fray. At the city gates a struggling mass of Frenchmen endeavouring to gain the protection of the walls had blocked the gates so that the men inside could not close them, and William’s knights fell on these unfortunates, hacking, slashing, forcing their way in over piles of bodies to the barbican itself.

  Here there was fierce fighting but the garrison, hampered by the refugees from the fields, could do nothing but die where they stood. Henry and Rufus were among the first into the town. Here the Norman troops split up, pouring down the narrow streets, killing as they went. They were followed by men with torches who fired the houses, systematically. In a short while the place had become an inferno, flames and smoke shooting into the summer air, the dry wood of the houses burning quickly and the screams of those caught within mingled with the groans of dying soldiers and the shrieks of wounded horses.

  Henry saw a woman running with a babe in her arms go down before Eudo’s horse and a lad of perhaps ten, carrying a spear too heavy for him, endeavour to thrust it at Eudo only to be speared himself and fall beneath the plunging hooves. After half an hour of such flame-ridden, screaming horror he found himself in a narrow lane between high houses, his men behind him and with them the men of Poix and their lord, Walter Tirel. At the end of the street a small determined group of French soldiers stood spanning the narrow distance between the houses and with a triumphant yell he called his men on, standing in his stirrups and waving his sword, caught up now into a hot excitement.

  From the windows above women hurled cooking pots and receptacles of all kinds down on to them and Henry saw a pot catch Eudo on the head, causing him to swear volubly. He was shaken with laughter himself even as he struck at an indefinable figure before him. The man went down and another sprang in his place, lunging with a spear. It caught the Prince’s horse in the belly. The animal fell, throwing Henry violently forward into the mêlée. He fell against a mass of struggling men and found himself on the ground where he lay for a moment, stunned. Then, as the man sprang at him he rolled aside and leapt to his feet, driving his sword deep into the Frenchman’s chest; the fellow collapsed with one loud cry and he swung round to fend off another attack at the same time looking about him for another mount.

  A knight rode up, bearing a shield with a device he did not know, and sliding from the saddle thrust the reins into his hand. ‘Here, lord, take my horse.’

  He nodded his thanks and sprang up as the knight darted away. It was a somewhat sorry horse, spindle-shanked and old, but at least he was mounted again, and as the French gave way he pressed forward with the rest of his men. Young Hamo, bearing his gonfanon, caught up with him now and he heard a roar from behind him as they finally burst out of the lane into the wider street beyond. Here the fire-setters were already doing their work, women running screaming from the houses. Many were burned alive, unable to escape, some thrust back into the flames by Norman swords, others trampled by the excited horses. Pausing breathlessly to watch, Henry saw a dog, its coat aflame, running towards him, yelping and rolling over and over in an endeavour to beat out the flames, and the sight roused his pity so that seizing a spear from Hamo he put the animal out of its misery. For a woman, screeching, her hair alight, he spared less thought – she was French and part of the insult offered to Normandy.

  Emerging into the main street he found William of Breteuil, his sword arm red to the elbow, fighting furiously at the head of his large following of knights while at the far end Robert of Bellême, his lips drawn apart by a smile, his dark face blazing with grim satisfaction, was bearing down on a terrified group of young men who had thrown down their weapons and were crying for quarter. They might have saved themselves the trouble, Henry thought, for they got none from the heir of Talvas. Across the street Robert de Beaumont was supervising the firing of the great church and de Toeni was shepherding some protesting priests from the vicinity of the fire. He grinned and waved to Henry and pointed down the street.

  William the King, conqueror once again, was riding into the city that was now his. It was all ablaze, black smoke rising into the blue August sky, roofs crashing into the burning shells of buildings, every church flaming, a tower falling now and again with a clash of bells. Everywhere the soldiers were plundering, taking what they might, their arms filled with jugs and pots, silver cups and bolts of cloth, weapons and anything that might be carried. And through it all William rode, his face set and hard beneath the nose-piece of his helm. Smuts and sparks flew, cinders falling like black snow; one fell on Henry’s gloved hand and began to smoulder until he noticed and beat it out.

  He called out to his father but at that moment the King’s horse trod on a burning piece o
f wood among the rubble. The animal reared, neighing wildly and flinging his rider hard against the iron pommel so that it was pressed deep into William’s abdomen.

  William let out an involuntary groan but by consummate horsemanship kept his seat and controlled the terrified warhorse. Only when the animal was calm again did he turn to his sons who were both now beside him. His face was grey and taut with the ferocity of his pain. He tried to dismount but could not get his leg over the saddle.

  ‘G-God’s Body,’ Rufus stammered, his face suffused with even deeper colour. ‘Quick, some of you, help the K-King down. He is hurt.’

  Men sprang forward to do his bidding, Henry among them, and slowly the King was lifted from the saddle. He had not lost consciousness and his eyes were open, dilated by pain as they carried him, breathless under his great weight, to a relatively clear space beneath a stone wall that still stood. The city was utterly destroyed now, the French beaten, the castellan, Ralph de Malvoisin, in the hands of the Normans and the insult avenged, but William the King had fallen with it.

  They laid him down and someone rolled a mantle to set beneath his head.

  CHAPTER 2