Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  Grieving for his old tutor’s passing, Henry said, ‘No one had greater influence for good. Has my brother named his successor?’

  ‘No, nor does he seem likely to do so. When the Prior of Canterbury came asking for a new abbot to be elected he sent him packing in no uncertain terms. We all do Flambard’s bidding now.’

  ‘That cheap trickster? God knows how such a fellow wormed his way into high office.’

  ‘He achieves what your brother wants,’ Gilbert told him drily, ‘and I know that it is he who pours more soldiers and money into the eastern part of the duchy. My grandfather has a bet with Robert de Marmion that the Red King will be the Red Duke as well before five years are out.’

  Henry glanced briefly at Walter Giffard, sitting beside his grand-daughter on her wedding day; the old man had served the Conqueror all his life and was renowned for his farsightedness. Could he be right? After his brother’s two-faced action over his mother’s lands Henry did not relish the prospect of a Rufus all-powerful in Normandy, and he remembered what Rufus had said to him once in the cloister at St. Gervais when their father lay dying, that if he had to fight Robert he would.

  ‘The Duke can hardly be said to keep order in the duchy,’ Gilbert was continuing. ‘No man dares ride alone for fear of the ruffians that rob and plunder unchecked – indeed,’ he glanced at Henry, ‘I have heard it said more than once that there is justice nowhere but in the Cotentin.’

  ‘I’d not tolerate the state of things Robert endures,’ Henry said and was conscious of a moment’s pleasure in Gilbert’s compliment.

  ‘We could do with your methods in England,’ the latter added, feelingly, and it seemed briefly as if there was an undercurrent of meaning in what he said. But then he went on to talk of the Countess Maud and the fine son she had borne to her husband, Earl Simon.

  Henry was glad for her, knowing what happiness he gained from his own son. Alide was pregnant again and he hoped this time for a daughter, finding to his surprise that his own children delighted him, and he rode back to Avranches from the nuptials glad to be returning to his own city and domestic harmony.

  His southern borders were safe enough now for Helias had become Count of Maine, ousting a cousin who had proved so useless that the Manceaux drove him out, cast off Normandy’s overlordship and invited Helias to rule them. He entered his city to overwhelming acclamation and the women of Le Mans lost their hearts to the tall handsome count as he came riding through the streets.

  Peace might reign now in Maine and in the Cotentin, but in the autumn of 1090 unrest flared into open rebellion in the very heart of the duchy, in Rouen itself. The citizens of that city, tired of Robert’s misrule, or more correctly no rule at all, rose in protest. Under their leader, Conan, a wealthy merchant, the citizens rebelled against their Duke, declared for King William, dreaming perhaps of making their city into an independent commune, merely acknowledging the King as their overlord.

  Robert, shut in his castle, cast about desperately for help. Personally brave, he would have dashed out with a few men at his back and attacked his enemies, but his advisers restrained him, warning him of the possible disastrous results of an attack without sufficient troops, thus throwing him back upon the need for moral courage which he sadly lacked.

  It was useless to approach Philip of France who preferred Rufus’ gold to martial glory, and instead the Duke sent south to Bellême, to William of Breteuil, and west to the Count of the Cotentin.

  ‘Will my brother come?’ he queried doubtfully. ‘Has he forgiven those months in Bayeux tower? It seems to me, uncle, that if you have made me an enemy out of young Beauclerc you have rendered me poor service.’

  Bishop Odo bristled. ‘Nonsense. We merely taught him who was master here. He owes his freedom to you – of course be will come.’

  Henry did come, but not from any sense of gratitude.

  ‘We will go,’ he said grimly to his men, ‘because rebellion against a Duke must be punished. God’s wounds, my father would have made mincemeat of such traitors as Conan and his fellows. This is Normandy, by heaven, and they must learn whose house they serve.’ He did not add that if the citizens of Rouen successfully seized power, the men of other cities might choose to follow their example.

  Leaving Alide in Avranches, watched over by Roger the Priest and a small garrison, he collected troops from all parts of his county and took them across the duchy with a speed that put at least one of his barons, Earl Hugh of Chester, who was on a brief visit to his native city, in mind of the old Duke.

  Approaching the outskirts of Rouen, they paused briefly at Hermentrudeville, by the half finished monastery of Our Lady of Good News. It had been begun by the Duchess Matilda and Henry went in briefly to pray for the soul of his mother. A further half mile and they were on the west bank of the Seine where they found the bridge open and, crossing without hindrance, entered the city by the south gate.

  The streets presented an unusual aspect. No one was about their normal business; companies of men were moving towards the castle, stalls were deserted and women stood about talking together, their tasks neglected, while children ran wild, excited by the turmoil. Henry and his followers were cheered the moment they appeared through the gates, and when he asked how things stood one man told him that Conan and his forces were gathering in the northern and western parts of the city and had occupied all the streets in that area.

  Henry immediately turned into the castle fortifications and found Robert, who had seen his approach from the tower, hurrying to greet him in the bailey as he dismounted. There was a broad smile on the Duke’s face and his words of welcome were given in his usual open manner.

  ‘You would think he had never set fetters on our lord nor sent him to Bayeux tower for six months,’ Hamo remarked to Raoul the Deer.

  Raoul grunted. ‘We’ve come on a fool’s errand if you ask me. Let the Duke fend for himself, I say. We were well enough where we were and our master owes him nothing.’

  ‘I suppose Bishop Odo is here?’ Fulcher put in tentatively. ‘I wonder what he and the Prince will have to say to each other.’

  Gulfer spat expressively. He had left his birds behind and carried a spear in hands gnarled and hardened by years of handling fierce hawks. ‘The Bishop can choke on his own spleen, for all Henry cares now.’

  The Duke swept his brother into the castle, arm in arm. ‘I knew you would come,’ he said gaily. ‘That business eighteen months ago was none of my doing, you know. It was our uncle who said you had engaged to help Red William seize my duchy. I never believed it.’

  If he had not, Henry thought, why then had he left him to kick his heels in prison for so long? But he did not say so, merely asking what had been done for the defence of the castle.

  ‘I’ve all my own men here,’ Robert said, ‘and some from Bayeux, Ivo and Alberic of Grandmesnil came in a day or two ago with theirs, and messengers have gone to Gilbert of L’Aigle and Bellême, Breteuil and others to come with all speed.’ He squeezed Henry’s arm. ‘It is good of you, little brother, to hurry to my side.’

  ‘Rebellion is not to be countenanced,’ Henry said briefly and entering the hall saw his uncle standing by a table spread with parchments.

  Odo’s eyes narrowed when he saw the Prince. ‘Well, nephew, I see you have come about your duty this time.’

  ‘I never did otherwise, as you well know,’ Henry retorted. He neither bent the knee nor kissed the Bishop’s ring, an omission not lost upon Odo. ‘And I may as well tell you, uncle, that I hold you responsible for the rift between my brother and myself.’

  Odo opened his mouth to return a sharp answer, but Robert stepped hastily between them. ‘Well, there is no rift now and we are grateful to Beauclerc for coming to our aid. Here is Edgar, brother, returned from Italy to join us.’

  Henry turned to meet the Saxon Prince who had long been Robert’s boon companion. Edgar was tall and slender with a gentle face and fair hair beginning to grey a little. He held manors in England an
d lands in Normandy and was no longer considered a menace to the Norman royal house. He spoke in a low pleasant voice and embraced Henry, calling him cousin, though their relationship was somewhat distant, and accompanied him and the Duke on a tour of the castle to see what troops and arms were gathered. Most of the soldiers were assembled in the inner courtyard, sorting arms, sharpening swords and spears, everyone talking and shouting orders at once. Ivo of Grandmesnil, Hugh’s son, called a greeting to Henry; he had his father’s powerful frame, a fighting man who, with his brother, had adhered to Curthose all through the latter’s exile. The troops seemed in good heart and cheered their Duke so that he walked among them, smiling and gay.

  During the afternoon, on Henry’s advice, he sent one last message to the rebel Conan, commanding him to yield to his liege lord, offering him reasonable terms if he did so. ‘Better a treaty than a battle,’ Henry said, but by dusk the man had returned, bringing Conan’s refusal in insolent terms.

  ‘What folly,’ the Prince remarked angrily to his brother, ‘he will bring fire and death on our city, and for naught.’ And with vigour he set about preparations for the morrow’s inevitable fight. At this point Odo, deeming a street brawl unworthy of his personal attention, departed to watch affairs from nearby Hermentrudeville.

  Fighting broke out soon after dawn, the citizens who were for Robert surprised while barely from their beds, and Conan and his men won through to the south gate. Henry stood with the Duke and Edgar on the roof of the tower, watching.

  ‘Come,’ Robert said eagerly, ‘we must attack. We cannot stay mewed up here while our friends in the town die.’ He had his sword out, and his face was flushed with excitement.

  Henry laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Not yet. Look! ’ In the distance where the hills sloped gently towards the river he could see the pale November light reflected on steel, and again to the south beyond the bridge a cloud of dust indicating many riders.

  ‘Aid has come,’ Robert exclaimed exultantly, ‘I knew they would not fail me. God be praised. Now we shall send the rebels packing.’

  ‘Give them time,’ Henry urged. ‘For the most effect we must attack when they reach the gates.’

  They waited, Robert fuming and impatient, Henry well aware that a cool head was needed at this moment, and Edgar wholeheartedly supporting his assessment of the situation.

  He watched his brother in some exasperation as the Duke hurried about the castle, asking superfluous questions, disturbing the armourers at their work, seizing the archers’ arrows and feeling their balance, and generally getting in everyone’s way.

  ‘I know one thing,’ Henry said amusedly to the Saxon prince, ‘Robert may be a gallant captain, but by God he’ll never make a general! ’

  The men too were straining at the leash, eager to be out in the fight, which at the moment was little more than desultory, though a few houses had been fired, but still Henry, who had taken complete command, held them back, calmly confident that he was right to do so.

  Then Gilbert de L’Aigle attacked the west gate. At the same time Bellême and William of Breteuil thundered with their troops over the bridge and launched themselves at the south entrance with battering ram and fire and mangonels, while archers aimed at the men on the walls.

  ‘Now,’ Henry said grimly. The castle gates were opened and the ducal troops poured out.

  There was utter confusion in the streets, disorganised fighting in lanes that were too narrow for anything but wild hand to hand scraps, and the fires spread, timbers crashed and sparks flew, catching in thatch and straw. Henry led his men in an attack down the main street towards the open space before the cathedral church, hacking and thrusting at citizens who were ill-armed and untrained, and anger at this utter waste of life and property lent a strength to his arm.

  Robert galloped out and flung himself into the fray, wielding his sword with considerable skill, but without bothering to see if any supported him. Henry tried to keep some sort of order, but as soon as the loyal townsmen saw their Duke and began shouting for him Robert was away, laughing with excitement. His superb horsemanship was such as to draw admiration, but he appeared to have no sense of what was needed in a Duke and behaved as if he were a simple knight and his life as expendable.

  ‘He will be slain if he exposes himself like that,’ the younger Grandmesnil said to Henry. ‘My lord, what point to this fight if he is killed?’

  Wiping the sweat from his face Henry, with his own men solidly behind him, rode down the street where the fighting was hardest and making his way through the mêlée, seized Robert’s rein. His men forced a passage and he dragged his brother clear.

  ‘You fool,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Will you throw your life away with those whose duty it is to die for you? Come away.’

  ‘No – no . . .’ Curthose struggled to free his rein. ‘I will be a fighting Duke as my father was.’

  ‘He was never foolhardy,’ Henry retorted tartly. He ducked to avoid a missile thrown from a window and Rougeroy reared wildly so that he was hard put to it to hold his seat. The Grandmesnil brothers came up on either side of the Duke and swept him back.

  ‘Come, my lord Duke,’ Ivo said. ‘You cannot stay here.’

  ‘Get him away,’ Henry shouted to them. ‘Out of the city, if you can – try the east gate.’

  The last he saw of Robert then was the Duke, red-faced and protesting, being forcibly led off by the Grandmesnils and several other lords.

  Now he could get on with the serious business without the hindrance of Robert’s ill-timed heroics, and he sent a detachment of men to the south gate which was burning fiercely. It fell in with a crash and the attackers from outside, the men of Breteuil and Bellême, regardless of the flames, poured in over it, their lords in their midst. They rushed through the streets yelling their battle cry, ‘Talvas! Talvas!’ and not long afterwards the soldiers of L’Aigle with Richard of Redvers and his followers broke in at the western side of the city so that the forces of Conan were forced back and contained in an ever decreasing area. Only the east gate remained free, and this was mainly because it opened on to a strip of marshy ground, almost under water on this damp November day and useless to troops, and it was out of this that the still protesting Duke was led, to be put into a boat and ferried across the river to await the outcome in his mother’s monastery.

  In the city the streets were one mass of struggling men-at- arms. Those from Bellême and Breteuil were slaughtering indiscriminately, fleshing their swords on the town, killing men, women and children, seizing prisoners for ransom, so that the air was filled with terrified shrieks. Rufus’ hired soldiers who had come to assist Conan, now saw no point in continuing the fight and fled towards the north gate.

  Standing on the steps of the cathedral church which had caught the flames Henry directed his men as they endeavoured to dowse them. The clergy had come scurrying out, protesting volubly and only too eager now to make their peace with the victorious brothers. Henry promised them life and limb – -they were men of God, holy priests, and he would not risk his own condemnation by harming them, in spite of their support of Conan and Rufus.

  Edgar Atheling came up, his fair face pink with exertion. For all his gentleness he had spent half his life fighting and had a professional attitude towards war. ‘There’s not much defiance left in the rebels now,’ he said cheerfully and went off down a lane where a pocket of them was being rooted out.

  The market was a shambles, pigs squealing wildly, and all kinds of fowl, ducks and geese, waddling and flapping their wings and tripping up the men under whose feet they scampered; stalls were overturned, buckets of milk spilling so that more than one man met his death by skidding in a white pool of liquid to fall at the mercy of an enemy.

  Henry had his sword in his left hand for he had been slightly wounded in the right one, his gauntlet stained with blood, and his helmet was dented by a missile, but otherwise he was whole. Herluin stood beside him, his long face more melancholy than usual as he gaz
ed at the carnage in what yesterday had been a fair city.

  Bellême and Breteuil, their swords arms bloodied to the elbow, were riding from one street to the next, killing as they went; Bellême was laughing, his lips drawn back from his teeth, his head lifted as if the scent of blood was life to him. At one point he seized a woman by the hair and slit her throat so that she fell, a red-stained horror to be trampled under his hooves.

  ‘God in heaven!’ Herluin said. ‘These are our own people. What harm had she done?’

  His mouth shut hard, Henry ran down the steps and remounted, taking the reins from Hamo, but before he could move off Ivo of Grandmesnil came up, dragging with him the dishevelled figure of Conan.

  The rebel leader was blackened by smuts, his clothes rent, a cut on his cheek, his head bare. They had set a halter about his neck and dragged him by it so that he was choking and half throttled.

  ‘See, my lord,’ Ivo said, ‘we have taken their leader. They have all yielded now – those that still live.’

  Henry glanced swiftly across the street where Robert of Bellême and his companions had gone to slay and burn, to seize men for ransom, women for their pleasure. He said to Hamo, ‘Send trumpeters. Bid every captain call off his men. The fight is over.’ But he knew well enough that there was little chance that the Devil of Bellême would heed.