5
Like Edward the Confessor, William of Normandy had begun the year 1052 with a sense of triumph, having successfully bested a fearsome opponent.
The man in question was Geoffrey Martel, count of Anjou. Son of the notorious Fulk Nerra, whose skills as a warlord and castle-builder had transformed Anjou into one of France’s great principalities, Geoffrey was a figure cast very much in his father’s mould. His surname, which translates as ‘the Hammer’, was later said to be self-awarded, and signified his belief that he could beat anyone into submission. ‘A man of overweening pride’, confirmed the contemporary William of Poitiers, but also a man ‘remarkably skilled and experienced in the art of war’.1
Even before he succeeded his father in 1040, Geoffrey had been pursuing the same policy of ruthless expansion, capturing his neighbours in battle and detaining them until they agreed to his extortionate demands: both the count of Poitou to the south and the count of Blois-Chartres to the east had suffered in this way and been forced to cede territory. But when in 1047 Geoffrey moved northwards into Maine and seized and imprisoned the bishop of Le Mans, his other neighbours eventually decided that something had to be done. Two years later, the king of France summoned a coalition army of other French rulers and led a punitive invasion of Anjou. The duke of Normandy, being heavily in the king’s debt since the battle of Val-ès-Dunes, naturally rode by his sovereign’s side.2
But despite the invasion, and excommunication by the pope, Geoffrey continued to grow stronger. He refused to relinquish his grip on the bishop of Le Mans in the hope of extending his power northwards, and in 1051 that ambition was realized. In March that year the young count of Maine died, and the citizens of Le Mans invited Geoffrey to come and take over the whole county.3
This was ominous news for Normandy, for Maine had been a buffer with Anjou. From March 1051 the expansion of Anjou menaced Normandy directly, and indeed it was probably soon after that date that Geoffrey invaded the duchy, seizing the town of Alencon.4 No doubt he considered this justifiable revenge for William’s participation in the earlier invasion of Anjou, but the doubly distressing fact for the duke was that here too the invader had come by invitation. The lords of Alencon, who took their name from nearby Bellême, held lands that straddled the border between Maine and Normandy, and, like border families everywhere, they tended to wear their loyalties lightly as a result. After Geoffrey had advanced into Maine they evidently decided that he, not William, was their preferred overlord, and threw open the gates of Alencon in welcome.
William responded forcefully, but indirectly, laying siege to the Bellême stronghold of Domfront, a fortified town some thirty-five miles to the west of Alençon but on the Maine side of the border. A short while later Count Geoffrey advanced with an army towards Domfront, intending to raise the siege, but withdrew on hearing that William was advancing to meet him with an army of his own (a fact that William of Poitiers naturally made much of). With his men up in arms and the way ahead suddenly clear, the duke proceeded towards his own town of Alençon, which fell very quickly: ‘almost without a battle’, says William of Poitiers.
Poitiers is in fact being rather coy. A fuller version of the encounter given by William of Jumièges reveals that the duke rode through the night to reach Alençon, but on his arrival was confronted by the defenders of a fortress, set apart from the town itself, who mocked him with insults. Orderic Vitalis, adding to Jumièges’ account, explains that the men inside the fortress beat animal skins and shouted ‘pelterer’ at William – the joke apparently being that his mother’s family, as undertakers, had also worked with skins. Suffice to say, the duke was unamused. In short order the fort was attacked and its defenders captured. Then, ‘under the eyes of all the inhabitants of Alençon’, William ordered his mockers maimed. Thirty-two men, says Orderic, had their hands and feet cut off. It was a spectacle sufficiently horrifying that the citizens of Alençon immediately surrendered, fearing that they would receive similar treatment if they held out any longer. Nor was it just Alençon. When news of the duke’s actions reached Domfront, the defenders there also decided that submission would be the wisest course of action.
Thus, by a calculated act of brutality which provides us with an early character note, William swiftly regained one town and acquired another into the bargain. ‘The victor returned home and made his whole native land famous by his recent glory and triumph,’ says William of Poitiers, resuming his airbrushed panegyric, ‘at the same time inspiring even great love and terror everywhere.’5
It is likely that the siege of Alençon was over before the end of 1051, leaving William free to cross the Channel and visit Edward the Confessor before the year was out. But, like Edward, William soon discovered how quickly fortune’s wheel could turn. A few months after his victory, the duke made the alarming discovery that the king of France and Geoffrey Martel had sunk their differences and forged a new alliance. The first we hear of it – and perhaps the first William knew of it – is a charter of August 1052, which shows Geoffrey keeping company with the king at Orleans.
What had driven the former enemies into each other’s arms, it is clear, was their shared anxiety about Normandy. No longer was William a desperate teenager who needed to be saved from his own subjects. On the contrary, he was a rising star, with a burgeoning reputation in arms and a marriage that allied him to the count of Flanders. But, most of all, he was now the recognized heir to the kingdom of England. If he succeeded to the English throne, he would become the most powerful figure in France, able to deploy England’s vast wealth and resources in any future Continental struggles. This, one suspects, was the development that drew Anjou and France together.
William, for his part, immediately realized the implications of the rapprochement. The friendship between France and Normandy, assiduously cultivated by his ancestors and maintained in his own time, was over. In September 1052, just weeks after the visit of Count Geoffrey, we find William himself at Henry I’s court. Doubtless he tried hard to dissuade his overlord from this change of heart, but evidently without success, for this is the last occasion we find the two men in each other’s company. ‘King Henry conceived a cruel enmity towards him,’ says William of Poitiers, ‘persuaded by the eloquence of evil men.’6
It was not long before enmity became open hostility. Henry’s first move was to sponsor a rebellion within Normandy itself, led by a senior member of William’s own family. The count of Arques – yet another William, unhelpfully – was the duke’s half-uncle, a son of Richard II by a second marriage. During the minority he had been pre-eminent among ducal counsellors, and had been rewarded with vast estates in Upper Normandy. But thereafter, for reasons unknown, he had become disaffected: William of Poitiers reports that he deserted from the siege of Domfront, and that as a result the castle he had built at Arques (near Dieppe) had been confiscated.7
It was by retaking Arques that the count signalled the start of his rebellion. At some point, probably in the first half of 1053, he bribed the ducal garrison, re-entered the castle and began plundering the surrounding countryside to stock it for war. William, warned that almost the whole of Upper Normandy was in revolt against him, responded swiftly and succeeded in forcing the count to retreat inside the castle walls. The fortress itself, however, could not be easily recaptured. ‘A rampart of pride and folly’, as William of Poitiers described it, Arques was probably the mightiest castle in all of Normandy. The duke’s only option was to build a siege castle to confine the rebels, with the hope of eventually starving them into submission.8
King Henry entered the fray in the autumn of 1053, leading an army into Normandy with the intention of raising the siege. Norman chroniclers report with satisfaction how some of his forces were lured into a trap by the garrison of the siege castle, with the result that many French knights were killed or captured, a disaster that apparently decided the king to retreat. Nevertheless, the same chroniclers admit that in spite of their losses the French succeeded in getting additional men and supplies into Arques. Not until William returned to prosecute the siege in person did the castle finally surrender, probably towards the end of the year.9
There was little time, however, to celebrate its fall, because soon into the new year (1054) the king of France returned. Anxious to avenge his earlier humiliation, Henry had assembled a great army, a coalition of the kind he had earlier directed against the count of Anjou. Except now, of course, it was Count Geoffrey who rode at the king’s side, along with the counts of Aquitaine and Blois, while the duke of Normandy had become the target. Julius Caesar himself, says William of Poitiers, who loved a classical reference, would have been terrified of such a mighty host.10
Sadly, our accounts of the action that followed are extremely scant. From what little the chroniclers do tell us, we can see that the French had decided on a two-pronged invasion: one army, led by Henry’s brother, Odo, was to advance into north-eastern Normandy, while another, led by the king himself, would enter from the southeast. The intention may have been for the two forces to converge on the Norman capital at Rouen.11
We can also see that the tactics that Henry employed were entirely typical. Medieval commanders, contrary to popular belief, rarely went in search of battle. Only when their very survival was at stake (as William’s had been in 1047) would they take such a colossal risk. Normally (as William’s more usual resort to siege-craft suggests) they relied on attrition. Invading armies did not have supply lines stretching back to base; they lived off the land, seizing supplies from the inhabitants as they advanced. Inevitably this meant that many of those inhabitants were killed, but there was no law against that. On the contrary, harming non-combatants was an integral part of warfare, for it exposed the weakness of the enemy’s lordship, and showed that his protection was not worth having. Thus William of Poitiers, commenting on the French strategy in 1054, said that the people of Normandy ‘feared for themselves, their wives, their children and their goods’. The French intention, he added, was to reduce the duchy to a desert.
Faced with such a prospect, yet anxious to avoid battle, what could a conscientious defender do? Poitiers, predictably, gives the impression that William set out in 1054 to confront his enemies head-on, but the reality was probably different. According to William of Jumièges, the duke, ‘accompanied by some of his men, shadowed the king, and inflicted punishment on any member of the royal army whom he was able to catch’. By staying close to Henry’s army, William could prevent it from spreading out, limiting the amount of damage it could do and – crucially – the amount of food it could collect. Denied the opportunity to ravage and forage, the invaders would soon be forced to retreat.12
It was the need to keep themselves fed, and the failure to realize that they were being followed, that cost the invaders the campaign. While William shadowed Henry’s own forces through south-eastern Normandy, another group of Normans had been dispatched to meet the king’s northern army. According to Jumièges, they found their opponents near the town of Mortemer, just across the border, ‘engaged in arson and the shameful sport of women’ – in other words, exactly the kind of ravaging operation that would have left them dangerously exposed. Seizing the opportunity, the Normans surprised their enemies by attacking at dawn. The battle that followed was clearly hard-fought – the bloodshed reportedly lasted until noon – but the attackers’ advantage proved decisive. ‘At length’, says Jumièges, ‘the defeated French took to flight, including their standard-bearer, Odo, the king’s brother.’ William of Poitiers adds that a great many were captured as they fled.
Defeat at Mortemer spelt the end of the French invasion. When news of the Norman victory reached Duke William later that night, he immediately dispatched a herald to Henry’s camp, who shouted the details into the darkness from the top of a nearby tree. ‘Stunned by the unexpected news,’ says William of Poitiers, ‘the king put aside all thought of delay and roused his men to flight before dawn, convinced of the need to escape Norman territory with the utmost speed.13
And so the invasion crisis of 1053–4 drew to a close. Not long afterwards William and Henry formally made peace: in return for the release of the prisoners taken at Mortemer, explains William of Poitiers, the king recognized the duke’s right to retain any territory he had taken from Geoffrey Martel, and any further lands he might wrest from him in the future. In other words, William had effectively compelled Henry to abandon his alliance with Anjou, and ensured that any future fighting would be concentrated on a single, southern frontier.14
It remained for William to deal with those Normans who had supported the French invasion. The chief rebel, of course, was the count of Arques, who surrendered his giant castle and went into exile, where he would remain for the rest of his life. His fall, and the similar fate of those who had supported him, handed William a welcome opportunity to impose his authority more firmly on Upper Normandy, awarding lands confiscated from rebels to those who had proved their loyalty, and almost certainly obtaining in return more precise professions of dependency and service.15
The other outstanding casualty of the failed revolt was the count’s brother, Mauger. Precisely how involved he had been is impossible to say: later chroniclers took his complicity for granted, but contemporaries were altogether less committal.16 The reason for their caginess probably owed much to the fact that Mauger, as well as being the duke’s half-uncle, also happened to be the archbishop of Rouen (he had succeeded William’s great-uncle, Robert, after the latter’s death in 1037). As the most senior churchman in Normandy, Mauger could not be dismissed in the same summary manner as his brother; in order to secure his removal in the spring of 1054 William had to go to the trouble of convening a special Church council. From William of Poitiers’ account, the case against the archbishop was constructed entirely on the grounds of his unfitness for office, and the charges were fairly obviously trumped-up. Nevertheless, Mauger was in due course deposed and sent to live out his remaining days on the island of Guernsey. In truth he was probably no worse a churchman than any of his episcopal colleagues. It was simply his misfortune to have been implicated in his brother’s rebellion, and to have been the head of a Church which in his lifetime had experienced revolutionary change.17
The Normans had arrived in Normandy as destroyers of churches – marauding Vikings, pirates in search of treasure, they had fallen like wolves upon the province’s undefended cathedrals and monasteries, massacring their occupants and making off with their sacred objects of silver and gold. Very little in the way of institutional Christianity can have survived this initial onslaught. In the case of the monasteries it seems likely that none survived at all, except in a few instances where the monks stole a march on the invaders, fleeing into neighbouring regions to preserve their communal existence in exile.
Quite soon, of course, the Normans had settled down to a more peaceful way of life, and their leaders, anxious to adapt to the norms of the host society, had converted. Within a few decades of their arrival, the dukes of Normandy had re-established some of the monasteries their ancestors had ruined, tempting back their former residents with promises of protection and restituted riches. But progress during these early generations was painfully slow. By the turn of the first millennium, only four monastic houses had been re-founded, while as late as 1025 the bishop of Coutances was still living as an exile in Rouen, he and his predecessors having all but abandoned their diocese in western Normandy to the rule of the heathen.18
Matters began to improve soon after the millennium when Duke Richard II, having re-founded the monastery in the coastal town of Fécamp, invited the celebrated monastic reformer William of Volpiano to act as its new abbot. Father William had established a reputation as the man to whom the powerful turned when they were serious about their pious investments. Born in northern Italy, he had trained at the abbey of Cluny in Burgundy, itself the birthplace in the early tenth century of a movement that aspired to reform not just monasticism but Christian society as a whole. At first he reportedly rejected Duke Richard’s offer, declaring that Normandy was too barbarous even for his considerable talents. But at length he was persuaded, and under his direction Fécamp became the model for all other Norman monasteries, as well as a training ground for priests who would reintroduce Christianity to the world beyond the cloister.19
During the rule of Richard’s son, Robert, reform initially stalled and went into reverse, as the new duke and his aristocracy preyed upon the Church for land with which to reward their knights. Robert in due course repented, restoring his usurpations and founding two new monasteries of his own at Cerisy and Montivilliers. Moreover, for the first time, the duke’s example was followed by certain Norman aristocrats, a handful of whom also established new religious houses during the final years of his rule. But this nascent trend was arrested after Robert’s death in 1035 and the accession of his underage son. William’s troubled minority saw no new foundations, ducal or private, and the fortunes of existing houses threatened by the eruption of violent aristocratic feuds.20
It was in the worst throes of this convulsion, however, against all odds and expectations, that the most influential of all new Norman monasteries was nurtured into existence. Its story began in the early 1030s when Herluin, a knight in the service of Count Gilbert of Brionne, grew tired of the pursuit of arms and fixed his mind on higher matters. Much to the amusement and derision of his military companions, the thirtysomething nobleman prayed and fasted, dressed in cheap clothes, let his hair and beard grow long and gave up his horse for an ass. At length his lord gave him leave to follow his new vocation, but Herluin failed to find solace in any of Normandy’s existing religious houses. And so, in 1034, he established a community of his own on his estate at Bonneville-Aptot. Around five years later, it migrated a few miles to a more suitable site beside the River Risle called Le Bec. Today, appropriately, it is known as Le Bec-Hellouin.21
Herluin’s humble establishment would have doubtless remained just that, had it not been for the unexpected arrival of Lanfranc. A scholar of international distinction, Italian by birth, Lanfranc had come to Normandy several years earlier to teach the liberal arts, but he too had grown disenchanted with his lot and increasingly religious. In or around 1042 he entered Bec as a monk in search of a simpler existence. It was not long, however, before the great scholar began once again to take on students, who began to arrive in droves from every corner of France and eventually beyond. By the end of the 1040s, with Herluin as abbot and Lanfranc as prior, Bec had become the most celebrated centre of learning not just in Normandy but across the whole of Europe.22
It was also by the end of the same decade, if not before, that Lanfranc had become spiritual mentor to the young Duke William. The first evidence of their friendship concerns its temporary breakdown around this time, when William, for reasons that remain obscure, destroyed one of Bec’s estates and ordered Lanfranc into exile. As the latter was leaving, however, he chanced to encounter the duke on the road, and (thanks to an icebreaker occasioned by Lanfranc’s amusingly useless horse) all was forgiven. Thereafter the most famous scholar in Europe became the most trusted of all William’s advisers. ‘He venerated him as a father, revered him as a master, and loved him as a brother or a son’, says William of Poitiers. ‘He entrusted to him the direction of his soul, and placed him on a lofty eminence from which he could watch over the clergy throughout the whole of Normandy.’23
And, indeed, throughout the whole of Normandy there are clear signs that the end of the duke’s minority marked the start of a remarkable religious revival. In terms of the establishment of monasteries, for instance, it was a veritable golden age. William contented himself for the time being with the completion of his father’s house at Cerisy, but elsewhere in the duchy his closest followers were establishing brand-new communities. William fitz Osbern, for example, founded one at Lyre, Roger of Montgomery another at Troarn, while the duke’s stepfather, Herluin de Conteville, established a new monastery at Grestain. ‘At that time the people of Normandy rejoiced in the profound tranquillity of peace and the servants of God were held in high esteem by all’, wrote Orderic Vitalis, whose own monastery at St Evroult was established by the Grandmesnil family in October 1050. ‘Each of the magnates strove to build churches in their land at their own expense to enrich the monks.’ In the period between the battles of Val-ès-Dunes (1047) and Mortemer (1054), the Norman aristocracy founded no fewer than seven new houses, and would create as many again during the decade that followed.24
Their actions were not without self-interest. Some of these new aristocratic benefactors had previously been among the worst despoilers of monastic property, and the houses they founded might still be expected to provide benefices for their knights or to assist in the organization of military service. An abbey or a nunnery also advertised its owner’s status, and proclaimed his lordship over a particular locality almost as effectively as his castle. As the number of monasteries multiplied, so too did the competition between magnates to be seen as the most magnanimous. Nevertheless, even when all these considerations are taken into account, there can be little doubt that piety was the major factor behind most if not all new foundations. It was, after all, in his own monastery that a lord would eventually be buried, and here that the monks, in gratitude for his munificence, would say prayers for his soul in perpetuity.25
These monasteries were also new in another sense, in that they were built in a wholly novel architectural style. Prior to this point, the churches of Normandy had been constructed in the fashion that had prevailed across Europe since the fall of Rome, their walls simply flat expanses, devoid of decoration unless it was added in the form of paintings or tapestries. But in the second quarter of the eleventh century, thanks to the bigger budgets of patrons and the superior skills of masons, the surfaces of such buildings suddenly burst into three dimensions, their designers alternately adding and subtracting depth with shafts, arches, niches and galleries. It was a revival of the kind of sophisticated, monumental and above all orderly architecture that had ended with Rome, a fact which led historians of the early twentieth century to dub it ‘Romanesque’. Having first appeared in neighbouring Anjou in the 1020s, it was adopted with enthusiasm by the Normans in the decades that followed. One of its earliest and best-surviving examples is the abbey church at Jumièges, rebuilt from 1040 on the orders of Abbot Robert, shortly before he embarked for his tumultuous career in England at the side of Edward the Confessor.26
Quite how much the wider Church was affected by these developments in the monastic world is difficult to say. Normandy’s bishops, for instance, certainly liked the new Romanesque style, and were quick to begin rebuilding their cathedrals on a lavish scale.27When it came to some of the other ideas espoused by their cloistered colleagues, however, the secular clergy were less enthusiastic. To be a bishop in the Middle Ages was essentially to be a great administrator, wielding considerable power over people, cities and provinces here on earth. For this reason, kings and princes liked to ensure that the men who filled such positions were reliable, and this usually meant they appointed their closest relatives. As we have seen, the archbishopric of Rouen was held during William’s minority successively by Robert and Mauger, both of whom were the sons of earlier dukes. Similarly, when it fell to William himself to make new appointments, he too kept it in the family, appointing his cousin Hugh as the new bishop of Lisieux in 1049, and a short time later awarding the bishopric of Bayeux to his half-brother, Odo.28
Being drawn from the highest level of society meant that medieval bishops were generally loath to forsake the luxurious lifestyle in which they had been raised – even if it occasionally meant selling a Church appointment to the highest bidder, or divesting their cathedral of some of its excess property. They were also usually unwilling to give up other pleasures enjoyed by their non-clerical relatives: like the majority of the parish priests under their jurisdiction, many bishops had wives or mistresses, which naturally meant that many of them also had children.29 To monastic reformers, these were matters of the highest concern. The selling of ecclesiastical offices (simony) obviously meant that Church positions frequently went to unsuitable candidates, as did the existence of married clergy if they insisted on promoting their offspring. But while the selection of senior churchmen remained in the hands of kings, dukes and princes, there was little hope that the reformers’ denunciation of such practices would have any real effect.
It came as a shock to everyone, therefore, when the reformers suddenly took over the Church at the very top. For centuries the papacy had been a distant irrelevance to all but the ruling dynasties of Rome itself, who preferred to have one of their own on the throne of St Peter. But the picture changed dramatically in 1048 when the German emperor, Henry III, appointed his kinsman Leo IX as the new supreme pontiff. Both men were champions of reform, and Leo immediately set about enforcing its ideals, demanding that the clergy should be celibate and dismissing any bishops who had bought their offices. In 1049, only ten months into his pontificate, he visited France – the first pope to do so in 171 years – and held his celebrated council at Rheims, denouncing any attendees who failed to meet his exacting standards and excommunicating those who stayed away.30
Those members of the Norman episcopate who obeyed the papal summons, like their colleagues from other parts of France, were tested and found wanting. The bishop of Séez was condemned for having accidentally burnt down his cathedral during a military operation; the bishop of Coutances, who had obtained his position earlier in the year by purchase (presumably from Duke William), escaped dismissal only by swearing that his family had forced him into accepting the job. As for the duke himself, this was of course the occasion when the pope forbade his planned marriage to Matilda of Flanders. One can only imagine what Leo would have made of William’s decision to fill the bishopric of Bayeux with his half-brother, Odo, barely out of his teens and allegedly ‘devoted to the delights of the flesh’. As it was, Odo appears to have been appointed shortly after the council had ended.31
Even a firebrand like Leo, however, could be persuaded to change his mind, provided the sinful showed themselves to be truly repentant. The bishop of Séez accepted his error and promised to build a new cathedral church, to which end he set off across Europe on a fund-raising tour, returning with riches from his relatives in Italy as well as a relic of the Holy Cross from Byzantium. One suspects that the bishop of Coutances, who also immediately embarked on the rebuilding of his cathedral, again after a successful Italian tour, may have done so for similar penitential reasons. Moreover, as we have already seen, the papal prohibition of William’s marriage to Matilda was lifted within a matter of months, a reversal that was almost certainly due to the advocacy of Lanfranc. The duke’s chief spiritual adviser was probably also present at Rheims, and during most of the year that followed he remained in Leo’s entourage, earning the new pope’s praise and admiration. During these months Lanfranc must have convinced Leo that great things were afoot in Normandy; that new monasteries were being founded, new priests were being trained, and that its new young duke, despite his regrettable choice of bride, would be a sincere and valuable ally in advancing the work of reform. The pope was duly convinced, and the ban was lifted – probably on condition that the newlyweds should each found a monastery by way of atonement.32
Thanks to Lanfranc’s efforts, then, and the dynamic response of the duchy’s bishops, what could have been a crisis in Normandy’s relationship with Rome proved to be a crucial turning point. During the decade that followed the Council of Rheims the signs are that William actively promoted the cause of reform – for example, by convening regular councils of the Church over which he personally presided – and that as a result he came to be regarded as one of the papacy’s favourite sons.33
Hence, when the duke wanted to remove his half-uncle, the archbishop of Rouen, following the great rebellion that had threatened to end his rule, Leo IX was happy to oblige. Chief among those who heard the case against Mauger in May 1054 was Ermenfrid of Sion, a papal legate dispatched especially for the occasion. As we have noted, the archbishop’s record, while hardly outstanding, was not all that bad. He had, for example, convened at least one Church council of his own, the statutes of which had condemned the prevalence of simony in Normandy several years before Leo had done so at the Council of Rheims. Judged by the standards now being demanded by Rome, however, Mauger was inevitably deemed inadequate and deposed. The only problem with removing him in this way was that no Norman nobleman could possibly meet such standards, and so the solution had to be a break with tradition. In place of Mauger, and no doubt at Lanfranc’s suggestion, William appointed a monk named Maurilius. A scholar of distinction, a former abbot and sometime recluse, Maurilius was in many respects the reformers’ dream candidate – a man so committed to rigorous discipline that monks had previously rebelled against his rule. ‘The worthiest of all men for the archbishopric by merit of his birth, person, virtue, and learning’, said William of Poitiers, Maurilius effectively placed the Church in Normandy above all criticism, and showed how far the Normans had travelled since the days of their Viking ancestors.34
Having sent both rebels and suspected sympathizers into exile, and settled matters with the king of France, William immediately resumed the struggle on his southern border against Geoffrey of Anjou. His aim was now to carry war back into enemy territory, weakening Geoffrey’s recently established hold on the intermediate county of Maine. Six weeks after sealing the French peace, William led an army into Maine and began constructing a new castle at Ambrières, some thirteen miles south of Domfront. Geoffrey did all he could to resist this advance, raising a large army of his own and laying siege to the fortress, but ultimately to no avail: the garrison held out, and the count’s forces withdrew on learning of William’s approach. In the end the local lord of Ambrières decided that the wisest course of action would be to accept the duke of Normandy as his overlord.35
Geoffrey, however, was not about to take such losses lying down. Nor, it soon transpired, was the French king prepared to forget his humiliation at the duke of Normandy’s hands. By the start of 1057, as a surviving charter shows, the two former allies were once again in each other’s company. William must have known about this and probably feared the worst. Possibly it was at this point that he took action against another of his paternal relatives, the count of Mortain, on suspicion of disloyalty. The count’s crime was apparently to have advised one of his knights not to leave Normandy, on the grounds that a time of plunder was imminent; when this news reached the duke he packed the count off into exile and handed the lordship of Mortain to his other half-brother, Robert. Orderic Vitalis, our only source for the undated story, clearly thought that the charges against the count were flimsy, but William would have had good reason to be suspicious if these rumours reached his ears in the spring of 1057. Mortain lies just fourteen miles from Domfront, close to the area that he and Geoffrey Martel were contesting. Perhaps the count of Mortain really had known what was coming.36
For in August 1057 Normandy was again invaded by Count Geoffrey in alliance with King Henry of France. William of Poitiers’ comment that their combined army was not quite as large as before has led some modern historians to downplay this invasion; but the rest of the chronicler’s description suggests that the result was, if anything, more serious. Previously they had barely crossed the border before being defeated, but now, having entered Normandy from the south, they burned their way far into the interior – ravaging William’s land, as Poitiers puts it, ‘as far as the seashore by fire and sword’. Moreover, on this occasion, the skill in reconnaissance that had served William so well in the past seems temporarily to have failed him, to judge from Poitiers’ remark that the invaders kept their movements as secret as possible.37
At last, however, William caught up with his enemies on the north coast of Normandy, at the mouth of the River Dives. Poitiers says that the duke had only a small number of men with him, which suggests that once again he was shadowing his opponents, hoping for an opportunity of some kind. And, at that very moment, an opportunity presented itself. Henry and Geoffrey had forded the Dives at a place called Varaville, presumably intending to continue their path of destruction towards Caen and Bayeux. But while their troops were crossing the river the tide had begun to rise, leaving their army divided, and thus handing William an unmissable advantage. The duke and his small force, says Poitiers, fell upon the stranded rearguard, cutting them down under the eyes of the king and the count who could only watch, powerless, from the opposite bank. Some were captured, says William of Jumièges, but the impression is that many more were killed. ‘Fearful and distressed at the death of his men’ says Poitiers, ‘the king, with the Angevin tyrant, left the bounds of Normandy with all possible speed.’ As both chroniclers noted, it was a signal victory, for the king of France never again dared to invade William’s duchy.38
The king of England, meanwhile, had discovered he had a long-lost nephew.