factor in the lives of several diverse people and that they would keep it as an anchor point for everyone for as long as possible. For Sweyn, St Cirq Lapopie now offered only terrible memories of Mahnoor’s death; it was time for him to resume his life as a warrior.
I had sent word to Count Robert, explaining our delay but, after a few weeks, with a strong hint of spring in the air, we bade farewell to Ingigerd and Maria once more and travelled down the Lot to Cahors. This time we headed north at the old city and began the long trek to Normandy.
Sweyn was still quiet, not brooding, but he seemed hollow, the flame of life flickering only faintly. Adela and Edwin stayed very close to him; he was lucky to have them. For my part, stoicism seemed to sit well with me and I thought it wise to represent that for Sweyn.
The stay at St Cirq Lapopie had been yet another link to Hereward that made me feel even closer to him and his extended family. The thought did cross my mind that it might be my resting place one day.
The journey through Aquitaine, into the Limousin and on to the Paris of Philip of France, reminded me of the immense scale of Europe. It was a confusing place with boundaries that were difficult to defend, its many counts and dukes fighting over every village and town and fortified position.
In the North, the two great powers — France and Normandy — were at one another’s throats again, where, ironically, in a land so large, the heartland of each was right on top of the other.
Under the circumstances, I thought it wise to make a courtesy call on Philip, during which I could gauge his current view of Robert. As always, the King was charming and reiterated that the real fly in his Frankish ointment was William, not his son, for whom he still had a high regard. Armed with this, we headed for Caen, where Robert was assembling his army.
It was good to see my old friend again. He had survived another three years of his father’s boorishness and bad temper and was as relaxed as I had ever known him. Typically, when he heard of our service to Roger of Sicily — a fellow Norman whom he greatly admired — and of Sweyn’s bereavement, he immediately granted Adela and Sweyn a small estate near Bosham in Sussex, the ancestral home of King Harold. He knew that Roger would appreciate the gesture, a reward for the two young knights who had served him so well, and that its location would be very special to both of them.
By the end of June 1087, the Norman host was on the march: 4,000 infantry, 2,000 crossbowmen and archers and 2,000 heavy cavalry. It was led by nearly 200 knights and the same senior commanders who had been with Robert since his rebellion against his father: Ives and Aubrey of Grandmesnil, Ralph of Mortemer, Hugh of Percy, Robert of Belleme, Hugh of Chateauneuf-en-Thymerais, William of Breteuil and Roger of Tonbridge and Clare.
When we reached the Vexin at Gisors, we were met by William and 1,000 more cavalry, including his elite Matilda Conroi mounted on their huge black destriers. They were an impressive sight, but he was less so. He had become fat to the point of ridicule. His face was mottled and swollen, and his breathing was laboured. However, despite his appearance, he had lost none of his swagger and fortitude.
His greeting to me was perfunctory; for Robert, there was no gratitude or even recognition for his efforts in assembling a mightily impressive body of men, just an order, barked in that unmistakable voice.
‘We leave at first light.’
We turned south-east at Gisors and followed the south bank of the River Epte until it met the Seine. We then made camp next to the great river in the lea of the Bois du Chenay. The Fortress of Mantes was in sight through the trees, less than four miles away. Since we had entered the lands of Guy of Poissy — the French Castellan installed in Mantes by King Philip — William had adopted his usual scorched-earth campaign tactic, burning everything we passed.
His assault on Mantes began early the next morning. The fortress and church stood on slightly higher ground on the opposite side of the river. The modest buildings of its surrounding community huddled around the fortress walls and ran down to the water’s edge, where there was a small wooden bridge and quayside.
The Mantes Bridge had been torched during the night by the defenders, but William’s cavalry had forded the Seine downstream, at Bonnieres, and were ready to attack from the north-west. He was using the north-east bank of the river as a shooting position for his archers, while his infantry and supporting crossbowmen were following the cavalry and marching to their rear, preparing to cross the bridge at Bonnieres.
The weather had been extremely hot for several days and this morning was no exception. Already large clouds of dust were making for poor visibility, which only added to the discomfort of men and horses in searing heat in full battle armour.
The Norman force outnumbered the French garrison at Mantes by a huge proportion and, as is usually the case when a vastly superior force threatens an attack, the defenders would have readily surrendered had terms been offered. They were not forthcoming. William intended to teach the Castellan — and, in particular, his lord, Philip of France — a lesson.
Robert looked concerned.
‘Father, there are many civilians in Mantes and an order of clerics. They are just simple folk of the Vexin and care nothing for Normandy or France.’
‘They will in the morning.’
I tried to support Robert in persuading the King to show restraint.
‘Sire, you will lose men in the assault and gain many enemies. However, magnanimity will cost you nothing and will win many friends.’
‘You are clever with words, Prince Edgar. My son likes you and I have come to respect your counsel, but you know nothing of war and how to win. Leave that to me.’
He stared at me with a look that suggested I had reached a line of tolerance with him, but that I should be careful not to cross it. I took the hint. William was a brute and always would be. Age had tempered him a little, and he had learned that pragmatism sometimes demanded judicious restraint, but he was a force of nature, a warrior with instincts as old as time.
William turned away. He ordered his archers to shoot their first volley into the fortress and signalled for his cavalry to charge. After three volleys of arrows, a volley of incendiary arrows was loosed. It created mayhem among defenders and civilians alike. The whole place was soon alight and the fortress’s small garrison rapidly emptied itself down the streets to try to reach safety.
It was a pitiable sight. The houses were so close together that the fire swiftly spread from roof to roof, turning the narrow streets into infernos of smoke and flame. The few, both civilians and soldiers, who did escape were met with the brutality of the Norman cavalry, who cut them down without mercy.
We sat on our mounts on the opposite side of the river in total silence. Sweyn, Adela, Edwin and I looked at one another. This was a very different Norman approach to their enemies from the one we had witnessed in Sicily. This was the old Norman way — total war.
The archers, their work done for the day, stood and stared without a flicker of emotion. The whole of the Norman high command sat impassively. They had seen it all before. It was William’s way; it had always been so. Only Robert and his personal retinue of knights looked ill at ease.
We could hear the roar of flames and the screams of the dying and every time the wind created a gap in the veil of smoke we could see people staggering around, their clothes alight, trying to reach the river, or rolling on the ground to try to extinguish the flames.
‘After them!’
William suddenly bellowed and pointed to the south-east. Guy of Poissy was making a run for it towards Paris with a small group of knights from the rear of the fortress.
‘Some hunting at last!’
Despite the intense heat, with his Matilda Conroi trailing in his wake, he was off at a gallop like a young huntsman in pursuit of his quarry, shouting orders as he went.
‘Occupy the city! Offer no quarter! Spare no one!’
Then William’s age and bulk finally got the better of him. The dust was swirling around so prodigiously that it was difficult to see exactly what happened, but the mighty warrior had made his last charge. He had gone no more than 100 yards when he appeared to slump forward in his saddle. His mount stumbled and he plummeted over his horse’s shoulder and hit the ground heavily.
Robert rode off to help his father immediately. By the time he arrived, a large group of the King’s squadron was trying to get him to his feet.
‘Leave him be!’
