‘Can you even speak English any more?’
‘I’m sure I’ll pick it up again soon enough,’ said Edward, who had never even considered this before. ‘It doesn’t matter, no one will know. The point is, the people will call for me. I know they will. Then, and only then, I will answer their call.’
‘If you really had the guts it takes to rule a country, you would not wait to be called, any more than a real man waits for a woman to beg him to take her. You’re not married, are you?’
Edward found himself quailing before the power of his mother’s gaze. ‘No,’ he replied, unable to suppress the involuntary shudder that seized him whenever he found himself forced to contemplate union with a woman.
‘Well perhaps you might see to that while you’re waiting to be called to your throne,’ Emma said. ‘The people like to see a queen standing beside their king. And sons . . . they expect those too.’
Edward felt himself floundering. This had not gone at all the way he had expected. He knew, because she had written to him often enough, that his mother wanted him to join her in some madcap expedition against England. His intention had been to see her, dismiss her foolish plans out of hand, put her properly in her place and then ride away having satisfied some of the sense of vengeance that he felt far, far more strongly towards her than he ever had against Harold Harefoot. For a moment, the whole scheme had been working even better than he had imagined, but somehow he had lost control of proceedings. Now he did not just feel abandoned and betrayed by his mother, but humiliated and unmanned by her too. Well, enough of that.
‘I don’t have time to waste on women’s talk of marriages and babies,’ he said, decisively. ‘I will be on my way. I’m sure Count Baldwin will be happy to put me up at the castle. Good day.’
With that he walked straight out of the hall and back on to the street. All these years he’d waited to see her, and now he knew for sure how much she despised him. Well damn her! Damn them all! He’d have nothing to do with the conniving bitches. Ever.
Emma watched her oldest son make his spiteful way out of her house and sighed. She’d always found Edward hard to love, he was right about that. There had just been too much of Ethelred about him; that mean spirit came straight from his father. Alfred, on the other hand, had been a little charmer from the day he was born, always ready with a smile, able to wind his wet nurse and nanny and anyone else he ever met around his little finger. He was open-hearted, brave and true, and yet – again Edward was right – what good had it done him?
She sighed for all the love that was lost and the love that never had been, and then told herself to stop feeling so glum. There was a little girl in her kitchen in need of help, and it would make her feel better to give it to her.
She found Agatha, wearing a woollen dress far too big for her meagre form, sitting in front of a trencher of bread that was empty save for a few traces of gravy.
‘Two bowls of my best chicken stew that one’s gobbled down,’ said Berenice cheerfully. ‘I’m worried there won’t be any left for Your Majesty.’
‘Give her a third if she needs it,’ said Emma.
‘Did you hear that, girl?’ Berenice said. ‘Queen Emma is giving up her food so that you can have your fill. What do you say to that, eh?’
The girl looked up at Emma. ‘Thank you . . . Y’Majesty.’
‘That’s all right. If I know Berenice, there will be plenty more food in the larder. Your baby looks peaceful.’
‘I fed him,’ the girl said proudly. ‘My own milk.’
‘Good for you. And now, I wonder, will you do something for me in return?’
Agatha fell silent, frowning, trying to understand how she could possibly do anything for someone as unimaginably grand as Queen Emma.
‘Course she will, won’t you, girl?’ said Berenice.
Agatha nodded.
‘Thank you,’ said Emma. ‘I want you to have your little boy christened properly. I will have one of the priests at the cathedral do it for you. And I want you to call him Alfred.’
7
Rouen
There was no point Ralph de Gacé standing around waiting for the ducal guardians to take him under their wing, as his father’s will had put it. He had to take matters into his own hands, and the sooner the better, while the old man’s wishes were still fresh in the mind of Osbern Herfastsson, the only guardian to have been present at the reading. The archbishop’s grieving widow had kept him out of the church, presumably as punishment for being the spawn of the old man’s philandering. But he was damned if he was missing the feast, not when there was so much he could accomplish there. So before the roistering got under way, while all the guests were milling round the great hall of the archbishop’s palace, he sidled up to Osbern and asked, ‘When does my training begin?’
The older man must surely have known what he was talking about, but he affected an air of bafflement. ‘Sorry, what training?’
‘The training my late father, our beloved archbishop, stated that you and your fellow guardians should provide for me, so that I can best serve the duchy of Normandy.’
‘That’s what you have in mind, is it, a life of faithful service?’
‘Absolutely, my lord. I plan to dedicate myself to a life of selflessness such as you have shown over the years. You are the master and here I am, waiting to be your pupil.’
Osbern looked at de Gacé through narrowed eyes. He had a strong feeling that he was being mocked, and that what this strange young man most wanted to emulate was his wealth and influence. But now he realised that Donkey-Head’s appearance gave him certain advantages. Since he looked so grotesque to begin with, it was more difficult to read his precise expressions than with someone more normal. Finally Osbern nodded. ‘Very well then, wait here a moment while I talk to the others. I’ll come and get you when the time is right.’
De Gacé watched as Osbern walked across the hall towards the nearest of his fellow guardians, Gilbert of Brionne. The two men started talking. Gilbert flashed a look in his direction and de Gacé imagined with relish the annoyance that his father’s will would be causing. The three nobles must have found it unwelcome enough to have a mere monk included in their number. But that had been Duke Robert’s decision, made before he left on his fatal pilgrimage to Jerusalem and justified by Brother Thorold’s day-to-day experience of teaching William. The monk knew the boy’s character and appreciated his strengths and weaknesses in a way that his fellow guardians did not, and was thus well placed to advise on what was best for him. It was also no bad thing to have a representative of the Church amongst them, and so, however grudgingly, Thorold had been accepted. Now de Gacé too was supposed to be granted if not equal status, then certainly a position that stood somewhere between apprentice and anointed successor, on no other basis than a dead man’s command.
Osbern had not yet returned to him when the archbishop’s funeral feast began, so de Gacé took his seat by his half-brothers and the three of them toasted their father’s memory and the good fortune he had bestowed on them all. The meal began with a splendid array of seafood. Crabs, lobster, shrimp and mussels were piled high alongside jellied eels. Whole pikes were served with their heads still on and their underslung jaws jutting out indignantly at the diners about to eat them. Having sampled all those treats, de Gacé helped himself to thick slabs of meat from the mighty joints of beef and pork that had been laid out upon the table, then devoured the pastries and sweetmeats that followed. He made sure that his wine glass was never empty for long, too, for he was greedy and thirsty, and not just for the things that a man could eat and drink.
William was seated at the place of honour in the centre of the high table. It was his duty to say a few words of welcome to his guests and to propose the toast giving thanks for the life of the man in whose honour the entire event was being staged. Thanks to the training that had begun whi
le his father had still been alive, he managed that duty as well as most adults would have done. He enjoyed the entertainment provided by the musicians, acrobats, clowns and a bawdy poet who had been invited to perform at the archbishop’s particular request, even if some of the latter’s verses, which had the adults around him in stitches, sailed right over his head. That aside, the entire occasion was torture. William had to sit still in his place, pretending to be interested in what the grown-ups were saying, while all the time he could see his friends dashing back and forth across the great hall as they played. They could behave however they liked while he, who was meant to be the ruler of Normandy, was forced to behave himself. It just didn’t seem fair at all.
Finally, when he was practically dying of boredom, Osbern got up from his place, stepped across to his chair and whispered, ‘You can get down now, if you like.’
William leapt to his feet, waited for a moment as everyone in the hall stood in his honour, and then stepped away from the table, jumped down off the dais and left the hall. The moment he was out of sight of the guests, he broke into a run, dashing up the winding stone stairs that led to the solar – the room where the women and children of the household spent their days. His mother Herleva was waiting for him there. William dashed across the room and threw himself into her arms, almost knocking her over with the force of his impact.
Herleva stumbled backwards, regained her balance and laughed. ‘Oof! You need to be a bit more gentle with women, William. You don’t know your own strength!’
Still holding her son in her arms, she ran a hand through his thick mop of ginger hair. William frowned. It worried Herleva that he looked so serious so often. He was much too young to be weighed down by the cares of the world. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
William stepped back a little and looked up at her. ‘Did Papa look like Great-Uncle Robert when he died?’ he asked.
‘Oh my darling boy . . .’ Herleva sighed, pulling him close again. ‘I don’t know what Papa looked like. He was in Asia Minor, on the other side of the world. But I do know one thing for certain. He is in heaven now.’
William wrestled himself free of her grasp so that he could look her right in the eye. It was all Herleva could do not to turn away from his gaze. It was so determined, so unflinching.
‘But people said he was the devil, that he killed his own brother,’ he argued, as if he were accusing his mother of deceiving him. ‘What if he’s in hell and being tormented and burned in the fire and—’
‘No, William, your father is not in hell,’ Herleva insisted. ‘I know he’s not.’
‘How? How can you know?’
‘Because he went on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and prayed at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is built on the very place where Christ Our Lord was crucified. That act alone meant that he was absolved of all his mortal sins, so that he died in a state of grace and went to heaven.’
‘Even if he killed his brother?’
‘William! How can you ask such a thing? What on earth makes you think your father did that?’
‘Because people keep saying he did. I’ve heard them.’
‘What kind of people?’
‘I don’t know . . . servants, some of the men-at-arms, grown-ups. They think I don’t hear them, but I do. And my friends have heard people say it too. Guy of Burgundy teased me about it.’
‘But that’s awful! What a mean thing to do!’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Mama,’ William said, matter-of-factly. ‘I hit him and made him cry, and then he stopped.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Herleva knew she should scold William for hitting another boy, but privately she was delighted that he was so well able to stand up for himself. She decided to get back to the point. ‘Listen to me. Your father did not kill his brother Richard.’
William gave her an even more piercing glare than usual. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because he gave me his solemn vow that he hadn’t, and I know that he never lied to me. He loved me too much to do that. I can prove it too. There was a time when your father could have killed Richard in battle and no one would have thought the worse of him. But he refused to hurt him even when he had the chance. So why would he kill him later?’
William’s attitude changed in an instant from fierce scepticism to eager interest. ‘When did Papa and Richard fight? What happened?’
‘Well, when I first met your father, I was just a girl—’ Herleva began.
‘Yes, I know, a tanner’s daughter,’ William interrupted, wanting her to get to the good bit.
‘That’s right, and I lived in a little cottage by my father’s tannery in Falaise, with my parents and my brothers. Now, your father lived at the castle. But his brother, Duke Richard, said that he didn’t have the right to live there. So Richard brought a big army to Falaise and laid siege to the castle. The siege went on for months and months—’
‘Were you in the castle with Papa?’
‘No, I was hiding in the woods, because I had you in my tummy and Papa didn’t want you or me to be hurt.’
Herleva laughed at the look of horror on her son’s face as he gasped, ‘In your tummy? Ugh!’
She went on. ‘After your uncle Richard attacked the castle, your father went looking for him and they had a fight.’
‘Who won?’ asked William, getting straight to the only thing that really mattered so far as fights were concerned.
‘I was just about to tell you, if you’d stop being so impatient! Your father won.’
‘Yes!’ shouted William triumphantly. Then he stopped and thought for a moment before asking, ‘But he didn’t kill Richard, even though he’d won?’
‘No,’ Herleva replied. ‘He had Richard at his mercy. Richard’s sword was broken and his shoulder was wounded so that he couldn’t fight. But Papa couldn’t bring himself to kill him.’
‘Why not? I’d kill him, I’d go like this!’ William lunged forward, swinging an imaginary blade. ‘And this! And I’d stick my sword right through his guts and—’
‘That’s enough! Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?’
William’s shoulders slumped crossly. ‘All right.’
‘Good. Well, the reason Papa didn’t kill Richard is simple: he loved him. Even though they argued and fought and even went to war, they were still brothers, and brothers should love one another.’
‘That’s true,’ William agreed. ‘I wouldn’t kill Odo or Robert.’
‘I should think not.’
‘Not unless I was really, really angry . . .’
Herleva sighed. No matter how hard she tried to soften the edges of William’s personality, he couldn’t help but be abrasive. But perhaps that was a good thing. What chance would a boy with a more gentle, contemplative nature have of surviving the life that William now faced? From the day she first set eyes on Robert of Normandy, her life had changed in ways she had never anticipated, and her children would have lives she could not even have imagined. She had undergone a magical transformation worthy of a troubadour’s tale. Yet her dreams of a life spent as Robert’s wife had been snatched from her, and when she thought of the future that awaited William as Duke of Normandy, she sometimes wished that she had married the baker or farrier or peasant farmer who would otherwise have been her destiny, and that their son had been nothing more than an ordinary village lad.
De Gacé was watching the duke leave the feast when he felt a tap on his shoulder and heard Osbern’s voice in his ear quietly telling him, ‘Don’t make a fuss. Just get up and follow me.’
De Gacé did as he was told. Osbern led him up a twisting stone staircase and along a gallery that looked down upon the great hall. They entered a small chamber hung with tapestries showing scenes from the life of Jesus depicted in vivid colours, so that the blood flowed in bright scarlet torrents from the Saviour’s
nailed hands, and the halo around His head gleamed with golden thread.
‘This was your father’s private study,’ Osbern said. He introduced de Gacé to the other three guardians. Alan of Brittany and Gilbert of Brionne were polite but curt in their greetings. Thorold was more friendly but correspondingly less sincere.
‘We are agreed that you are to be given the right to attend and observe our meetings, though we may need to ask you to leave if particularly sensitive matters are going to be discussed,’ Osbern informed him.
De Gacé was about to protest that those were the very matters he most badly needed to observe, but caught himself in time. It would do him no good to be uppity now; far better to play the dutiful young man wishing to learn from his elders and betters. ‘I understand,’ he said.
‘It goes without saying that everything we discuss is confidential and you are never to repeat it to anyone without our express permission.’
‘Of course not. I can assure you all, my lords, Brother Thorold, that you can count on my discretion.’
‘We hope so, de Gacé. For if you were ever to say anything that could help an enemy of the duchy, or of the duke himself, that would constitute an act of treason . . . with the usual penalty.’
Osbern is threatening me with death, thought de Gacé. They really don’t want me here, do they? And then it struck him that these four men now had effective day-to-day control of Normandy, and yet they did not dare defy the old man, even in death. That was power. That was something to aim for.
‘As I say,’ he assured them, ‘I will absolutely respect the confidentiality of our meetings. Or rather, your meetings. Please, forgive my presumption, it was not intended.’
Osbern gave him a long, searching look. Then he turned to the others. ‘While we’re all together, there’s something I wanted to mention. I’m sure you all saw William become upset at the cathedral. When I asked what troubled him, he said that he was worried he had killed His Grace the archbishop, because he was the last person to talk to the old man before he died. Then he added, “Apart from the serving woman who came in to give him his medicine.” And that puzzled me, for I was not aware that the archbishop had called for medicine before he died. William, however, remembered this woman very clearly. He was particularly struck by her extreme beauty. And it made me think of someone.’
The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2 Page 6
