England in Anarchy Read online

  Edward was a good swimmer and struck out to where he had seen Prince William disappear under the surface after a few moments of ineffectually trying to keep his head above water. When he got to where he thought William had sunk under the waves he dived down and, just as his lungs were about to give out, he found the prince drifting with his arms outstretched and his head on his chest. Edward knew he was dead but he valiantly tried to bring him to the surface. By this time Edward was beginning to black out through lack of oxygen. He let go of William and involuntarily gasped for air. The sea water rushed into his lungs and he drifted down to join the dead prince.

  When a fishing boat left Barfleur the next morning they were astonished to find two figures clinging to the rocks: Geoffrey de l’Aigle and a butcher from Rouen called Berthold. They were the only survivors of the three hundred souls on the White Ship and both died of hypothermia shortly after they had related their tragic tale.

  Chapter One – England 1135 A.D.

  The chill November rain lashed down on the seven horsemen who were following the trail of the cattle thieves through the Cheviot Hills. They were soaked to the skin, despite wearing oiled woollen cloaks. On the last ridge before the land fell away to rolling moorland the leader reined in and tried to detect any sign of movement below him. Suddenly the rain eased and he caught a glimpse through the gloom of the stolen herd a few miles away.

  ‘They’re crossing the Till. It looks as if they are heading for the ford over the Tweed at Norham. We can still catch them this side of the border’.

  The last thing that Sir Humphrey de Cuille wanted was to chase the Scots across the Tweed into their own lands; not with just four serjeants and two young squires to back him up.

  Humphrey was the grandson of Sir Hugo de Cuille, one of the knights who came over with William the Conqueror. He was a well-built man in his late thirties with a jovial face topped by an untidy mop of light brown hair. His father, Tristan de Cuille, baron of the Cheviot and Redesdale, was now in his sixties and, although he was still a fit man for his age, he left it to his son to pursue raiders from over the border. However, so as to give him valuable experience Ademar, Tristan’s squire, had been allowed to come along in addition to Humphrey’s own squire.

  The horsemen slithered down the hillside and pounded across the moorland below. They splashed through the ford across the Till and followed the trail of cow dung towards Norham. Driving cattle without losing control of them wasn’t a swift business and Tristan’s men caught up with the herd three miles further on. The Scots and their pursuers had left the Cheviot Barony by now but the Prince-Bishop of Durham, whose territory they were now in, was only too happy to see others deal with the perennial problem of cross border raids.

  The rain muffled the sound of the pursuers until they were nearly upon the four Scots riding behind the rear of the herd. They were mounted on garrons, nimble and surefooted ponies well suited to the border country but no match for the larger horses ridden by their pursuers. Humphrey, like his men, was wearing a padded gambeson for speed, rather than heavy chainmail. He drew his sword and aimed for a man who had managed to turn his pony and was fumbling with his bow - not that that the string would have produced much power in such a heavy downpour. The heavy sword cut through the bow and struck the man’s chest, smashing his ribcage and cutting a deep gash across his torso. He was lifted off his mount and hit the ground with a thump that drove the wind out of him. He lay there mortally wounded as his smashed ribs had punctured his lungs.

  Humphrey pulled up and looked around him. His four serjeants had accounted for the other three members of the rear guard. The remainder of the raiders – about a dozen or more – had ridden in from their positions controlling the herd and were trying to organise a charge. Before they were ready their attackers formed a tight wedge with Sir Humphrey in the centre, the two squires on either side and the serjeants on the flanks. The Normans were famed throughout Europe for the effectiveness of their cavalry and the solid formation smashed through the centre of the milling Scots like a hammer. Humphrey’s sword took the head off one man whilst several others fell to the swords and long horseman’s axes of the serjeants. A number of the garrons were knocked to the ground by the heavier horses, pitching their riders into the mud. They made easy targets for the mounted Normans who quickly cut the demoralised Scots down. With most of their number either wounded or dead the remaining raiders made off for the border and safety as fast as they could go, scattering the cattle as they went.

  It wasn’t until Humphrey had started to congratulate his men, none of whom had more than a scratch or two to show for the skirmish, that he noticed Ademar lying on the ground, his neck at an unnatural angle. As they had smashed into the raiders one of the Scots must have landed a lucky blow, half severing the fifteen year old’s neck.

  An hour later they had rounded up nearly all the cattle and hanged the raiders, both the wounded and the dead, from nearby trees as a warning to others. Then they set off on the long journey back with Ademar’s body tied over the back of his jennet. Thankfully the rain had eased to a light drizzle but, realising that night was drawing on, Humphrey decided to head for a nearby village.

  The priest lived in a tower which served as a place of refuge for the villagers when the Scots came over the border. This was newly constructed from stone and, once Ademar’s body had been laid out in the tiny wattle and daub church, the horses had been cared for and the cattle penned, Humphrey was glad of its shelter and welcoming fire, in front of which his clothes gently steamed as he dried out. The priest was honoured to have the baron’s elder son and his men as guests and, after a simple meal of pottage and bread, he offered to give up his bed to the knight. But Humphrey declined and settled down to sleep on the floor of beaten earth with his men. He would normally have enjoyed a warm glow of satisfaction at having recovered the cattle and at dealing with the raiders but the death of his father’s squire left him feeling depressed instead.

  ~#~

  The party of horsemen appeared like ghosts out of the twilight. The snow was falling hard making them almost indistinguishable from the white landscape as they approached the gatehouse of Peverel Castle. Originally Hugo de Cuille had built a timber castle on the orders of Guillaume Peverel. He had chosen an impressive location. Steep sides fell away in every direction. The only approach was from the north where a zig zag track wound its way up the hillside to the east gate. Now the timber buildings and defences had been replaced in stone, except for the bastion that guarded the western side: not that you could see much of the castle through the blizzard.

  The gates had been locked for the night but, after the long ride south from Northumberland, Sir Richard FitzRobert was in no mood to be kept waiting to enter his home. Although he was the son of Robert de Cuille, he was more usually known by the sobriquet FitzRobert, meaning the son of Robert, than he was by his family name.

  ‘Open this gate and be damned quick about it.’ The soldiers on duty were huddled over the brazier in the guardhouse playing a game of chance. The sound of the mounted party’s approach had been muffled by the snow and both men were startled by the shouted command. One of the soldiers peered out of the arrow slit that commanded the approach to the gate and through the falling snow he could just make out the black banner with a white chevron born aloft by one of the escort.

  ‘Oh hell, it’s Sir Richard!’ He grabbed his fellow guard and they quickly unbarred the gates and swung them open. Then one of them raced over to wake the stable boys to take care of the horses.

  Sir Richard threw back his hood and shook most of the snow from his cloak as he stomped up the steps leading up to the entrance to the newly completed stone keep and thence into the great hall. This served as meeting place, refectory and dormitory for the servants, most of whom were clearing away the trestle tables used for dinner as the space doubled up as the dormitory for most of the castle’s inhabitants. His wife came out of the solar, where the constable’s family lived, and greeted him with a kiss and an embrace before recoiling.

  ‘Richard, you’re wet through and freezing cold. Come over to the fire and get warm. We didn’t expect you until tomorrow’. There was still a good blaze in the large fireplace set into one wall of the hall but she poked it and put on another log.

  He threw his sodden cloak over a chair. ‘I decided I couldn’t face another night in a gloomy monastery and, in any case, I didn’t want to risk getting snowed in. The roads are nigh on impassable as it is.’ He gratefully took the goblet of wine and plate of cold meats that one of the servants had brought him and started eating.

  The door opened to admit his squire who was carrying his lord’s travelling chest. It was the squire’s duty to care for his master’s horse and baggage before he could attend to his own needs. Richard nodded his thanks and the lad headed down to the kitchen to get something to eat and dry his clothes.

  Richard looked across at his wife and worried about what he would have to tell her. She was a somewhat sensitive soul and never in the most robust of health. He knew that she would take the news he had for her badly. He just hoped that she wouldn’t get ill with fretting; something that had happened more than once in the past.

  Then a 13 year old boy entered and rushed across the room to greet his father. Guy was their only son and tended to be somewhat spoiled by his mother. He had fair hair like his father and, despite a rather long nose which dominated his face, was already attracting the interest of most girls he came in contact with. At the moment he had become rather gangly, having just had a growth spurt and he hadn’t quite got used to his enlarged body. As a result he was proving to be rather clumsy, to the concern of his mother and amusement of his father.

  Richard had only recently inherited the four manors and been appoin
ted to the position of constable of Peverel Castle, the seat of William Peverel, the sheriff of both Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire. This was a post that William had inherited, along with over a hundred manors, from his father, Giullaume Peverel. Guillaume and Hugo de Cuille, Richard’s grandfather, had both taken part in the battle of Senlac Ridge, now being called the battle of Hastings by the chroniclers, and both had been granted lands in England by William the Conqueror. Guillaume’s share had been far more generous than Hugo’s; no doubt because he was generally thought to be the king’s bastard.

  In Hugo’s case he had been given the manor of Burneham in Buckinghamshire and a large estate in Northumberland in addition to his manors in the High Peak of Derbyshire. Hugo had lost Burneham during the reign of William Rufus, who had given it to a favourite of his instead and, as this was the first manor Hugo had been granted and had been the home of his wife, Rowena, he had never forgiven the king.

  William Rufus’ brother and successor, Henry Beauclerc, had divided Northumberland into twenty baronies, one of which consisted of the de Cuille lands in the Cheviot Hills and Redesdale. Instead of keeping the whole of his property together, as was normal, Hugo had decided to give the barony in Northumberland to Tristan de Cuille, one of his twin sons. The other, Robert, Richard’s late father, had received the estate in Derbyshire when Hugo died.

  Both twins were happy with their father’s decision and had remained on good terms in their adult life. Tristan had fallen from his horse and broken his leg while out hunting the previous year and hadn’t been able to attend his twin’s funeral, so Richard had decided to travel north the following September to take his uncle Tristan the few personal items that Robert had bequeathed to him.

  This also provided the opportunity for Richard to visit his younger sister, Margaret, who was married to Robert de Muschamp, baron of Wooler and Tristan’s neighbour. Richard and Margaret had been close as children, especially after the death of their brother, Edward, on the White Ship, and Richard had enjoyed seeing her again.

  Margaret and Robert lived in a small wooden motte and bailey castle in the township of Wooler at the northern end of Glendale. Richard had found it very cold, exposed as it was to the winds that whipped along the base of the Cheviot Hills, but they seemed happy enough. He has also thoroughly enjoyed playing with his five year old nephew, also called Robert, his sister’s only child. However, he found the much larger castle at Harbottle, where his uncle Tristan lived, much more comfortable, sheltered as it was on the southern side of the Cheviots.

  He had thoroughly enjoyed his visit but needed to get back to Derbyshire before the weather deteriorated too much as autumn advanced. On his last night at Harbottle Richard raised something with Tristan that he had already begun to think about – placing his son Guy as a squire. The boy was nearly at an age when he should start training for knighthood, as was the case for most sons of the nobility unless they were destined for the Church. However, before he could raise the matter Tristan got in first.

  ‘You know that my squire was killed recently in a raid by the blasted Scots?’ Tristan began without preamble. ‘I was thinking about Guy as his replacement. Our families have always been close and I have a feeling that a change of scenery might be good for him.’

  Tristan knew only too well that Guy’s mother was far too protective of her only son and, like Richard, he obviously felt that he needed to be exposed to the rough and tumble of life as a squire away from home.

  ‘That’s very good of you. I would be honoured to place him with you, uncle’ Richard replied smiling; relieved by the offer but, at the same time, dreading telling his wife.

  ‘I think that you too will be looking for a squire soon.’ Tristan’s son, Humphrey joined in the conversation.

  ‘Yes, my present squire will be knighted soon. I had intended to seek a replacement for him when I got back to Derbyshire. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Have you forgotten that Hugh is only a few months younger than Guy?’ Humphrey smiled, referring to his own son who was serving as a page at another of the baronial families locally.

  ‘No, but I didn’t think that you would want him serving as squire so far from home?’

  ‘Why not? Guy will be.’

  So it was settled that Richard would send Guy north in the spring and his escort would take Hugh back with them. It was probably his reluctance to face his wife with the news that made him set a slow pace on the way home. It was late November but he wasn’t too worried about the weather at first as it was cold but fine when Richard and his escort set out. However, that changed as they journeyed south. The weather had stayed fine but turned colder and then the blue skies had been replaced by ones of steel grey. On the third day they had been subjected to icy rain but it changed into sleet then the snow started as they entered the southern part of Yorkshire. By the time Richard reached Peverel Castle at the end of November he had never been so glad to see anywhere in all his life.

  ~#~

  The icy wind that blew around Peverel Castle also gusted through the slushy streets of London on the third of December in the year of our Lord 1135. People hurried home to get out of the biting cold as soon as possible. Even the stench which normally pervaded the air seemed more muted.

  ‘Have you heard?’ one merchant asked his neighbour ‘King Henry has died in Normandy.’

  His neighbour nodded. ‘Yes, my brother told me. Do you think the barons will accept the Empress as our queen?’

  ‘They promised to, didn’t they?’ He was well aware that when William Adelin drowned the Empress Maud became the king’s only surviving legitimate child. ‘They knelt and swore fealty to her as her father’s successor, not once but twice.’

  ‘Yes, but barons are a proud bunch. I bet you two marks that few of them will willingly accept being ruled by a woman.’

  The merchant looked glum. He was worried that the decades of prosperity that had characterised King Henry’s reign were about to be replaced by uncertainty and strife.

  Three days later the news of Henry’s demise reached Derbyshire. Despite the wintery conditions William Peverel had left his main residence in Nottingham to visit the castle that bore his name. He was a tall, broad shouldered man who stood a head taller than most of his contemporaries but, at the age of fifty five, he was beginning to put on a little weight. In contrast Richard FitzRobert, his constable and deputy sheriff in Derbyshire, was very fit for a man of forty and could still hold his own on the tourney field.

  ‘Of course, it wasn’t so bad when she was married to the Emperor but it would be impossible to accept a queen married to an Angevin.’ William sat in front of a roaring fire in the solar playing shatranj with Richard.

  ‘But I thought that Maud had separated from Geoffrey?’ Richard was referring to the Count of Anjou whom Maud had married after the death of the Holy Roman Emperor, her first husband.

  ‘Huh, they were for a time but they must have become reconciled because Maud bore him a son two years ago.’

  ‘So much for the rumours that she was barren when she was married to the Emperor then.’

  ‘It did seem as if she might be though when he had no trouble producing bastards.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it doesn’t alter the fact that her husband is count of Anjou and there is nothing that we Normans detest more than an Angevin.’ William was speaking of the enmity between Normandy and Anjou which dated back to well before the conquest of England.

  A fortnight later Richard stood in a corner of the bailey watching Guy training with several other boys. His son was getting quite adept at fighting with sword and shield. Richard still hadn’t faced up to telling his wife that he had agreed to place Guy with his uncle Tristan in distant Northumberland. In some ways Richard regretted not following the practice of some noble houses which had started sending their sons away at the age of eight or nine to serve as pages before they became squires. He thought that the break might have been easier for his wife at the younger age. He sighed; but then again it might not have been.