The Conqueror (23 page)

Mortain gave a great yawn. ‘Oh, we beat him before! Where shall you lie, William?’

‘Here, in mine own town.’

They bent over the map, and saw his finger upon Falaise, his birth-place. De Gournay rubbed his nose. ‘Well … But he will pass you to the west if he make Bayeux.’

‘But I shall lie between him and Auge.’

‘If he means to reach Auge he must cross the Orne and the Dives,’ said De Gournay. ‘The Orne at Caen, certainly; no hope of an ambush there. The Dives –’ He broke off, and looked sharply at William. ‘Ha, do you plan to take him at the ford of Varaville, seigneur?’

‘Where else can he cross the Dives?’ William said. ‘Not at Bavent, nor at Cabourg. At Varaville, where the tide runs in faster maybe than he knows, we may hope to catch King Henry and that Angevin dog, Martel.’

‘Normans and French have fought before at Varaville,’ said Walter Giffard. ‘But why must we wait for him to reach thus far, lord? There are other places where we might catch him.’

‘A score,’ the Duke agreed, ‘but none so sure. If he heads for Varaville, as I think he will do, I have him at my mercy.’ He rose up from the table, and clapped the Lord of Longueville upon the shoulder. ‘Bear with me, Walter,’ he said, smiling. ‘I have not yet led you to defeat.’

‘God’s light, that thought was not in my mind, beau sire!’ Walter said in a hurry. He coughed and exchanged a look with De Gournay. ‘What part in this will your bowmen play, seigneur?’

William laughed. ‘Trust me, they shall win the day for us, old war-dog,’ he said, and saw his councillors go off shaking their heads at what they deemed his folly.

In August, when the corn was on the ground, King Henry broke the Norman border again after a truce of four years, and plunged into Hiesmes with Bayeux for his goal. At his side, swollen with the self-esteem no reverse could abate, rode the Count of Anjou, a gorbellied man with a choleric complexion. With him were joined his two sons: Geoffrey, his namesake, called Als Barbe, and Fulk le Rechin, crabbed and surly, picking quarrels with friend and foe alike. King Henry had something to do in keeping the peace between this bellicose trio and his own barons. France might join hands with Anjou in a common cause, but no Frenchman had any love for an Angevin. Squabbling broke out very early in the allied camp, and upon more than one occasion daggers were drawn between the rival men-at-arms, and ill-feeling flared high between their leaders.

Anjou was for battering down the donjons they passed upon their route. King Henry, observing fosses newly cleaned, and walls impregnably repaired, would waste no time in fruitless sieges. If he could sack Bayeux and Caen and ravage the rich land of Auge he would then be in a position to dictate terms to Duke William. This he told Martel, but the Count, who had become bull-headed with increasing years, was too easily diverted from his goal by the sight of a fortress held by some enemy. He was for turning aside to wrench from Montgoméri’s hold that castle of La Roche Mabille which had galled his pride for three years. Curbing his exasperation King Henry weaned him from this project only to see him blunder along a fresh trail. He had an old grudge against one Walter de Lacy, and since de Lacy’s hold lay upon their road, or very near to it, Martel could see little sense in leaving it unmolested. He devised a plan for splitting their force in twain, with himself at the head of one half to lay siege to such castles as housed men towards whom he nursed a personal spite, and King Henry at the head of the other half to march on to Bayeux.

It was not likely that the King, with the disaster of Mortemer in his memory, would agree to such a plan. Martel was dragged off his quarry again, and lured northward with promises of plunder for his reward.

The French followed their usual custom of war upon this march to Bayeux, trusting to get absolution for the atrocities they committed. Unfortified towns, hamlets, bondmen’s dwellings were spoiled and burned; any man found lurking in hiding was slain in such a way as to make good sport for the soldiery; the women were seized and shared amongst the men-at-arms. No religious qualms hindered the King from sacking the abbeys and monasteries he found, but for the most part the monks, forewarned by their vigilant Duke, had carried their treasures to places of safety. Martel, incensed at such miserly ways, flew into a passion, and seized the person of an abbot, threatening to see whether torture would induce the good man to reveal the hiding-place of his treasure. Scandalized Frenchmen intervened: this was going too far. It needed all King Henry’s eloquence to convince the Count that such dealings could end only in his excommunication.

In such wise the invading force made its way north through Hiesmes to the Bessin, but however his men might plunder and burn, however careless Martel might grow, King Henry saw to it that whenever he lay in a town the guards were vigilant all night. King Henry had no mind to be burned in his bed as had been the unfortunates at Mortemer.

Hearing from his scouts of the strict watch kept by the enemy, Duke William laughed, and said mockingly: ‘What, does the King think I have only the one ruse in my head? Come, come, you must be schooled, O timid King!’

The French force reached Bayeux loaded with plunder, but the King was soon convinced that the town was too strongly fortified to yield under an assault. It was commanded by Duke William’s warlike half-brother Odo, who was not deterred by his holy calling from ordering the defence in person, a mace in his hand instead of a crozier, and his dalmatic tucked up to allow him to bestride a horse. Directed by their fiery young Bishop the inhabitants of Bayeux repulsed the attacking party with a storm of javelins, darts, boulders, and pitch; and when the French fell back in disorder some bold chevaliers made a sudden sortie and did much deadly work before they were finally chased back into the town.

King Henry abandoned his plan of sacking Bayeux, and drew off towards Caen, laying waste the whole countryside. Bishop Odo laid aside his mace, and took up a quill to write the news of Bayeux’s triumph to his brother.

Reading Odo’s Latin phrases in Falaise William said with a curling lip: ‘God’s dignity, could Henry do no better than that? By the Rood, I could think of a score of ways to take Bayeux!’

Day and night his scouts galloped into Falaise with tidings of the King’s progress; day and night barons such as impetuous Tesson of Turie-en-Cingueliz and gay Hugh de Montfort led their skirmishing parties to harry the enemy’s flanks. Step by step William was watching the King’s advance, like a hawk hovering before his stoop.

King Henry was by no means careless of his vassael’s might, but he knew that William had disbanded the greater part of his army and was far too wise a warrior to hurl his little force at the invading host. He feared surprise-attacks by night, or ambushes laid for him upon the road, but from open battle he thought himself safe. While he lay at Caen his guards were doubled, and the penalty for drunkenness amongst his men was death. But no sign came from William, and King Henry began at last to lend ear to those who said that the Norman dared not attack him. He pushed on eastward, and it was seen that he was in better spirits than he had been for many months.

But while he approached nearer and nearer to the ford of Varaville the man whom he believed to be afraid of him called in his skirmishing parties, and summoned all the franklins and bondmen of the district to arms.

The King’s scouts crept as near to Falaise as they dared, but could learn nothing. They reported that the Duke still lay in the town, and had made no movement to march out. Emboldened, the King led his host on. Once across the Dives he would feel himself safe: only at the crossing over the narrow causeway that led through the marshes did he fear a mischance. He kept a strict watch for the Duke, expecting to hear of a sortie from Falaise. Within a day’s march of Varaville he had certain tidings that William had not stirred from his post. He gave a cackle of laughter, and said to Martel with unwonted good-humour: ‘The Wolf’s cunning has failed him at last! I thought to hear of him marching to lay an ambush for me at Varaville, and I tell you had I heard of a sortie from Falaise I would have turned south to Argences rather than have risked an engagement at that treacherous ford.’ He rubbed his dry hands together. ‘Ha, William, do you sleep?’ he said with something approaching glee.

Martel called boisterously for wine. While he drank success with Henry, and cracked jests over the Normans cowering in safety, there was not a knight nor a man-at-arms left in Falaise. The Duke had moved at last, when all fear of such a happening was banished from King Henry’s mind, and was marching north with a speed the laden French force could never hope to emulate.

The army he led had a strange appearance. A body of his chivalry rode in the van with polished hauberks gleaming in the hot sunlight, and gonfanons waving on the ends of lances. Behind came a motley gathering of spearmen and serfs, some wearing breastplates and carrying their proper shields and gavelocs; some clad in leather tunics, with bows in their hands; some holding scythes and hatchets for weapons, and mounted on whatever horses they could come by.

‘Holy Face!’ exploded Hugh de Gournay, ‘what rabble is this we lead?’

The French reached Varaville when the tide was at its lowest. A causeway led through long marshes to the ford; beyond, upon the eastern bank, a different country held out its promise to the invaders. There were no boggy flats ahead of them, but gentle hills rising immediately beyond the river bank.

Slowly the van led by the King and Martel in person forded the river, and began to climb the heights upon the further side. Upon the causeway the unwieldly rear-guard made ready to follow: horse, foot, sumpters, and laden wagons. The tide was rising as the last of the van made their way across the ford. King Henry, surveying all from the hills beyond the river, began to fear that the water would soon be too high to allow men to pass, and sent out the word to make all speed. Martel caught his arm unceremoniously, and pointed with a shaking finger across the river. He tried to speak, and made only a gobbling noise in his throat. The King looked up quickly, and saw armed men to the west, galloping down the causeway. He shouted an order, but as the words left his tongue his favourite, Renault de Clermont, cried out: ‘The marshes, the marshes! God on the Cross, look yonder where the swamps are alive with men!’

The King started forward, glaring where Renault pointed. Amongst the rushes and rank shrubs of the swamp men were running along the hidden paths only they knew, leaping from foothold to foothold, winding in and out of the bushes, to close in on the causeway.

The King sent a messenger galloping down to the ford with orders for the men on the causeway. ‘A few spearmen and a horde of serfs,’ he said, with his gaze still on the marshes. ‘Do you lose heart so easily, Renault? You shall soon see that rabble beaten off, I promise you.’ He looked towards the horsemen, halted at some distance, and said: ‘Ha, the Wolf tarries yet awhile! He mislikes the look of my meinie, messires.’ His voice changed. He said sharply: ‘God’s grace, what is that?’ His hand gripped de Clermont’s shoulder; his eyes were fixed on the men scattered over the marsh. ‘Bowmen!’ he whispered. ‘Arrows … !’

Martel found this so ridiculous that his spirits revived. ‘Ho, ho! does the Bastard think himself at the chase?’ he demanded. ‘A good jest!’

‘Jest!’ the King cried. ‘God’s pity, where is your jest?’ He swung his horse about, calling to Saint-Pol with new orders.

Across the river William’s bowmen had already loosed their first volley of shafts. Some fell short, some soared over the Frenchmen’s heads, but many found their marks. The men on the causeway were thrown into disorder, frightened by the rain of arrows; those who had formed hastily to oppose the advancing chivalry were seized by panic, and huddled together on the narrow road, unable to retaliate, and appalled by a form of attack they had never before encountered. Some spearmen tried to struggle through the marsh to come to grips with the archers, but they did not know the paths, and the ooze sucked them under.

The King was livid, and his hand shook on the bridle. His first thought was to wheel the van back across the ford, but while he sent out commands for a new formation his captains urged him to see how impossible a return across the river had become.

The tide was running in fast, and even while Henry swung his men about the archers and the spearmen on the marsh were spreading along the river bank to hold the ford.

‘Sire, sire, our foot can no longer wade across!’ Saint-Pol cried.

‘My chivalry can make it still!’ the King flung back at him.

Montdidier interposed. ‘Madness, sire, madness! We cannot do it;
we should fall before those accursed arrows as we struggled across. There is nothing we can do!’ He put up his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. ‘Ha, Du Lac has them in hand again! See, beau sire, they stand fast!’

‘The Bastard is moving forward,’ Saint-Pol said, watching the horsemen far down the causeway. ‘He is there in person; I can see the golden lions of his gonfanon. Now God send our men throw him back! Ah, heart of Christ, can no one reach to those bowmen?’

A renewed storm of arrows was whistling over the causeway; it was plain to the watchers upon the eastern bank that the terror of this death from afar was throwing the French rear-guard into blind confusion. The Norman spearmen had reached the causeway over the marsh and fallen upon the French flank; the horse, charging down the causeway itself, threw the front lines into chaos. The French were bewildered, not knowing which way to turn. Arrows sang through the air; the Norman foot was all amongst them, fighting hand to hand; and the weight of the chivalry was forcing them back and back to fall victims to the archers and men-at-arms who held the ford behind them.