would be no greater power in Europe — not even the Emperor in Cologne, nor the Pope in Rome. However, I soon put an end to such vainglorious fantasies, content that I was being treated as an equal at a King’s high table.
Robert’s cause and the colours of the gallant young King of France attracted many supporters, mostly men of a similar age whose fathers had made their fortunes and won their titles fighting to acquire England’s riches with William. Their fathers were now ageing, wealthy and content. Their sons, on the other hand, were ambitious, virile and restless for their own adventures. Ives and Aubrey of Grandmesnil, Ralph of Mortemer and Hugh of Percy were soon joined by Robert of Belleme, son of Roger of Montgomery, Earl of Shrewsbury, Hugh of Chateauneuf-en- Thymerais, William of Breteuil, son of William Fitz Osbern and Roger, son of Richard Fitz Gilbert, Lord of Tonbridge and Clare.
They were a fearsome group, the rising cream of Normandy’s warrior elite.
At the end of 1078, Philip and Robert decided that the time was right to launch an attack on William and word was sent to all their allies to gather their forces. By the end of January 1079, a force of over 300 knights and an army of 4,000 cavalry, infantry and archers entered Normandy. We camped at the formidable fortress of Gerberoi in the Oise, situated in the disputed border area between Normandy and France, a stronghold that had been fought over for years.
It did not take long for William to answer the challenge. A week later, he appeared on the opposite bank of the River Therain, a tributary of the Oise, with an army at least the match of ours. After making camp, he asked for a parley on neutral ground, which was granted. He brought two of his Matilda Conroi, but not Rufus, who usually accompanied his father on his campaigns.
‘So, my son and heir is now my adversary and recruiting help from my lifelong enemies.’
‘You give me no choice, Father.’
‘Of course you have a choice! You could serve your father and Normandy instead of dishonouring me and siding with my rivals.’
‘You talk of honour, yet you insult me at every opportunity. And now you encourage my brothers to do the same.’
‘I have entrusted you with Normandy and this is how you repay me.’
‘I have served you well in Normandy. But what of England? I suppose you have promised it to that red-faced brother of mine.’
‘What would you prefer me to do? Give it to you, so that you can give it back to Prince Edgar and the English?’
William then turned to me with a look of contempt.
‘I suppose that’s why you sniff at my son’s backside, hoping that when he passes wind you will get a whiff of England?’
‘Sire, your insult is not worthy of you. My friendship with Robert is not at odds with my loyalty to you as King of England. The issue here is between you and your son.’
‘You speak like an ambassador. Do you fight like one? Or like a warrior?’
I chose to ignore the new insult — as I had said, this was a dispute between a father and his son.
William, seeing that his provocation was not working, turned back to Robert.
‘I will make my decision about England in due course. For now, your rights and privileges in Normandy are forfeit and I would advise you to return to Melun with your lackeys.’
That insult prompted Philip to intervene. Despite his relative youth and the towering presence of William, he was calm and self-assured.
‘I will not trade insults with you, William of Normandy. We will settle this on the field of battle. Shall we say tomorrow morning, on the meadows by the Therain?’
‘Agreed.’
With a crushing look of scorn for his son, William turned and rode back to his camp. Philip turned to Robert and me.
‘There is much to do. Tomorrow we face a formidable foe.’
The evening was spent in animated conversation about how to defeat William.
We all agreed that a solid wall of infantry and well-positioned archers and crossbowmen was vital. Philip had heard the accounts of Senlac Ridge and how the mighty English shield wall had been breached only by the crucial intervention of a withering hail of arrows. For years, he had been recruiting the best archers and bowmen he could find and was confident that they were the key to victory against William’s renowned destriers.
After the Council of War, Edwin, Sweyn and I returned to our tents.
‘Sire, may I be in your conroi tomorrow?’
I was not surprised by young Sweyn’s plea. He was an impeccable trainee warrior. His sword arm was strong and he was excellent in the saddle, but his greatest gift was his speed of thought and reflexes. On the training ground, he could outwit far bigger opponents and use guile and feint to overcome them in combat.
‘How is your chess coming along?’
‘Good, my Lord. Edwin is a good teacher, although I am yet to beat him.’
‘Edwin?’
‘He learns quickly. He has learned to open solidly, but is still too rash in the middle game.’
‘That’s not good, Sweyn.’
‘I know, sire, I am still impetuous. But in combat I am stronger and wiser by the day, and I am sixteen now — old enough to fight.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, I am not sure of the month of my birth, but I am sure I am sixteen this year.’
‘Yes, but it’s only January.’
Edwin and I both smiled; Sweyn scowled.
‘What do you think, Edwin?’
‘Well, if he stays close to me, he should be fine.’
‘Then it is agreed. But, Sweyn, think on this tonight. Tomorrow the contest will be for real, and death will be commonplace. You must stay away from the carnage unless the situation is dire and you are fighting for your life. Do you understand?’
‘I do, sire. Thank you. I will not let you down.’
By late morning both armies were in position. The vibrant mingling of kings’ standards, lords’ gonfalons and knights’ pennons along neat rows of men and horses made a vivid spectacle, the pageantry of which was only a masquerade for the mayhem that was about to ensue. Soon there would be but a single dominant colour — the red blood of the fallen.
As Robert of Normandy and Philip of France rode along the lines encouraging their men, I checked on my companions. Edwin was steadfast on his mount, while Sweyn gripped his reins tightly and looked around confidently.
It was then that a sentry appeared and addressed me.
‘My Lord Prince, there is young knight at the picket lines. He asks to join your retinue.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘He calls himself Alan of St Cirq Lapopie, my Lord. But he is clean-shaven and can’t be much more than a boy.’
Unable to resist the sarcasm, I smiled at Sweyn before replying.
‘Let him pass. I am always happy to have knights at my side, even if they haven’t started shaving.’
He and Edwin looked mortified, but did not say anything.
When, moments later, the knight appeared, I knew why. The knight in question presented himself with the usual courtesy of removing his helmet, only to reveal the tender skin and the soft, flowing locks of a young woman.
‘My Lord, forgive my deception, but I needed to get beyond your picket lines. I am Adela of Bourne.’
Edwin was furious.
‘Adela, this is unforgivable! I forbade you to come. Yet you appear, and in the garb of a knight.’
I was intrigued but, even so, this was not the time and certainly not the place to start recruiting women to the Order of Knights.
‘Madam, I am honoured that you would consider joining my retinue, but a more formal introduction, and in
