The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2

by David Churchill

  ‘Moriella,’ Brother Thorold interjected. ‘The tart who serviced Duke Richard’s needs on the night he died. There was a lot of talk in the abbey refectory about her, I can tell you.’

  ‘And what did you and your fellow monks conclude, Brother Thorold?’ asked Alan of Brittany, suppressing a smile at the thought of a dining hall filled with gossipy, sex-starved monks.

  ‘That she had been the weapon used by the duke’s killer to gain access to his chamber. I dare say she let the killer in when no one was looking. Or maybe she gave the duke poison without even knowing she was doing so.’

  ‘Or maybe she was the killer herself,’ Alan of Brittany interrupted, in a bantering tone that drew laughs from the men around him.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Brionne, though even he had a smile on his face. ‘If someone killed the archbishop – and I’d bet every dog and falcon I possess that they didn’t – then that someone was a man. Women exist to make life, not take it. It’s not in their nature to kill in cold blood.’

  De Gacé took Brionne’s point: it was ridiculous to go looking for a woman who went around killing people. But when he had the opportunity and the means, he’d start trying to track down the man who might be doing so with such quiet efficiency. And then he’d bide his time until he had need of his services. In the meantime, there were two other men, both much easier to find, whose friendship he needed to acquire.

  Returning to the feast, de Gacé made his way through the crowds of raucous guests, who had cheerfully abandoned any pretence at funereal piety now that the serious eating and drinking had begun. He stepped over discarded bones, puddles of spilled wine, fresh vomit and even the occasional semi-conscious body of a reveller who had already succumbed to overindulgence, all the while keeping his eye out for Mauger and Talou. Finally he found them and wormed his way into their conversation.

  When he finally had their attention, de Gacé did his unconvincing best to produce a charming smile. ‘May I offer my congratulations to you, Cousin Mauger, on your forthcoming appointment as Archbishop of Rouen? It is surely no less than you deserve. And you, Cousin Talou . . .’ He beamed affably. ‘I can’t wait to see the castle you build at Arques. I’m sure that its strength and magnificence will bring you a position of tremendous stature and respect within the duchy.’ He chuckled. ‘I hope you won’t mind if I steal your mason’s best ideas for the place I’ll be building at Gacé.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Talou, who had never in his life drunk so much and was suddenly filled with a tremendous surge of affection for his poor, ugly bastard of a cousin. ‘Not . . . at . . . all.’

  ‘Thank you so much, your lordship. You have no idea how much that means to me, coming from the legitimate son of a duke of Normandy. I wonder if I might ask you both a question? I don’t need an answer right away; it’s just a thought, really, for you both to ponder. And it is this: as great as the title of archbishop may be, and as splendid as the castle of Arques certainly will be, do you really think . . . oh, I don’t know . . . are they actually quite enough? You both have a duke’s blood in your veins. I don’t know about you, but I think you’re entitled to a great deal more. To everything, in fact . . .’

  8

  Rouen, August 1039

  Two years had passed since the archbishop’s funeral. It was a rainy Sunday morning and the long, empty hours between mass and the midday meal were stretching out into what seemed to William like an eternity of boredom and inactivity. Desperately looking for something to do or someone to talk to, he was wandering around the palace when he saw his English cousin Edward up ahead. He was just bidding goodbye to a priest – in William’s experience, Edward was rarely far from a member of the clergy – and as always, he looked like the family’s poor relation, which indeed he was.

  ‘Hello, Cousin Edward,’ William said.

  ‘Good morning, William,’ Edward replied.

  A deep, deathly silence fell. There was not a sound to be heard anywhere. It was as if they were the only two people in the entire building. And neither of them could think of a thing to say.

  William racked his brain for a topic of conversation, and just as Edward was about to move on, he came up with one.

  ‘You know how you’re the King of England?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Edward stood just a little bit taller and pushed his shoulders back.

  William frowned, thoughtfully. ‘There’s something I don’t get. I mean, if you’re King of England, why aren’t you in England, instead of living here?’

  ‘Because my kingdom was stolen from me by my mother, and a very bad man called Canute,’ said Edward, with feeling.

  William was shocked. ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edward, and now a distinct edge of bitterness entered his voice. ‘My own mother. Can you imagine that, William, to have your rightful inheritance taken from you by the woman who brought you into the world, whose most sacred duty is to attend to your well-being?’

  ‘No,’ said William slowly, shaking his head, shocked at the very idea. ‘My mother would never do that. She loves me. But . . .’ He twisted his mouth to one side as he tried to phrase his next question. ‘How can you steal a whole kingdom?’

  ‘By violence, treachery and deceit.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  Edward sighed. ‘It’s a very long and complicated story. The only important thing is that my father was King Ethelred of England, the rightful king. And I am his rightful heir, just like you are your father’s heir. Your father was Duke of Normandy, so now you are Duke of Normandy. My father was King of England and so—’

  ‘You are King of England!’ answered William, for if there was one thing he understood, since it had been drilled into him from birth, it was the significance of inheritance.

  ‘Exactly.’

  There was, however, a catch, and William spotted it. ‘I’m a duke, and I have a palace, and soldiers and things. And you’re a king . . . but you don’t have a crown, or any land or treasure or anything. That’s why you have to live here with us.’

  Edward gave a sharp little intake of breath, as if he had just been pricked by a needle. ‘I don’t have a crown or property here in Normandy, that’s true,’ he conceded. ‘But I shall have all England when I am king. In any case,’ he added, recovering his dignity, ‘I am more interested in the spiritual treasures waiting in the kingdom of heaven than the material ones here on earth.’

  ‘I want both,’ said William, decisively.

  ‘How very Norman of you.’

  William was rather pleased that he’d hit upon the subject of kingship. This conversation was turning out to be much more interesting than he’d expected, and he wanted to pursue it further.

  ‘So when will you be the actual King of England . . . in England, I mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, William. But I have faith that my cause is just and that God will deliver me from exile. Just as he delivered Moses and his people from bondage in Egypt and took them to the Promised Land, so He will take me to my promised land too.’

  A picture came to William’s mind and he couldn’t help but share it.

  ‘It would be funny if you could part the waters and walk across to England, like Moses parted the Red Sea!’ he said, and laughed. He hoped that Edward would laugh too, but no such luck.

  ‘You should not make jokes about the stories in the Holy Bible, William,’ the self-styled king rebuked him. ‘They are the word of God and not to be taken lightly.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ said William, feeling squashed. But it wasn’t in his nature to let himself be beaten, so he had another go. ‘You have sailed to England, though, haven’t you? I remember you went there just before your brother Alfred died. I liked Alfred, he used to play games with me. He was nice. So when you sailed to England, was that because you thought you would be able t
o become King of England properly, with a crown and a throne and everything?’

  ‘I am the proper King of England already,’ snapped Edward. He looked quizzically at William as if trying to work out whether the boy was deliberately mocking him. His abortive expedition to England was one of the sorest of his sore spots. ‘It is that bastard spawn of the usurper Canute, Harold Harefoot, who is the impostor . . .’ he added, then changed tack in mid-sentence. ‘What’s the matter, boy? Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘You said “bastard”,’ William told him, with the cold, hard anger that was his immediate response to any mockery – real or imagined – of his illegitimacy. ‘I don’t like that word.’

  ‘No, no . . .’ Edward was taken aback by the unmistakable air of menace that this mere child could project. ‘I don’t suppose you do.’

  Another silence fell. Once again it was William, his temper now subsiding, who broke it.

  ‘You didn’t say if you went to England to become king . . .’

  ‘Not exactly. I went . . .’ Edward gave a barely perceptible squirm of discomfort. ‘Well, I suppose you could say I was on a sort of reconnaissance mission. You know, when soldiers go in advance of an army to see what’s up ahead.’

  ‘Was that why you came back so quickly? You were only gone a few days.’

  ‘When I got to England, there was a large force of Saxons on the shore.’

  ‘Why didn’t you fight them? I would have.’

  I’m sure you would, you beastly little boy, thought Edward. He did his best to sound magisterial. ‘We did engage the enemy, as it happens. There were, ah . . . skirmishes on the beach and these were actually quite successful. The enemy withdrew, but I made the judgement that they were merely regrouping and would return in much larger numbers, and so it was best to make an orderly retreat while we still could.’

  Even William, young as he was, could tell that Edward was talking nonsense. It sounded to him very much as though there was a simpler explanation.

  ‘Did you run away?’

  ‘No I most certainly did not! There is all the difference in the world between a defeated army running away in a blind panic, like an absolute rabble, and a calm, considered withdrawal. You will learn this in time William, when you are leading your own army. There are times when it is foolhardy to stand and fight. I withdrew and am here, alive, in front of you. My brother Alfred insisted on marching on into England . . . and look what happened to him.’

  ‘Harold Harefoot killed him,’ said William with eager relish. ‘He took out his eyes with a hunting knife . . . well, that’s what Cousin Ralph told me.’

  ‘Cousin Ralph should mind what he says to impressionable boys.’

  ‘If anyone did that to one of my brothers, I’d kill him. And whatever he did to my brother, I’d do it right back to him, only worse.’

  ‘And what do you suppose God would make of that?’ said Edward, seizing the moral high ground. ‘It is not for us to take revenge on our fellow men, William. Our Lord will judge us all soon enough, and those who deserve to be punished will be sent to suffer in hell for all eternity.’

  If he was hoping to win the theological argument, Edward was to be disappointed.

  ‘God said, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth”,’ William riposted. ‘I know because Brother Thorold told us so in Divinity. Harold took out both Alfred’s eyes, so you should take out both of his.’

  Edward had heard enough. ‘Really, this is too much! I’m going to have a word with the abbot of Saint-Ouen. Clearly his monk has been filling your head with a great deal of dangerous nonsense.’

  Now he had struck a wounding blow. Getting someone else into trouble went against any self-respecting small boy’s deepest code of honour.

  ‘Oh please don’t do that, King Edward . . . Your Majesty . . .’ William pleaded. ‘It’s my fault, not Thorold’s. I shouldn’t have said bad things about the Bible.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Edward tried to adopt a suitably regal, forgiving air. ‘Do you promise to tell the priest about your sin the next time you go to confession?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘And to obey whatever penance he gives you?’

  ‘Yes, I promise.’

  ‘Very well then . . . Our Lord and Saviour taught us the value of repentance, and I’m delighted to see that you are suitably penitent. So I wish you good day, William. I will see you later, no doubt.’

  With that, Edward walked off. As William slumped, relieved but exhausted, against a wall, another figure appeared in the corridor: Ralph de Gacé. Don’t call him Donkey-Head! William reminded himself. These days, Ralph was quite a power in the duchy.

  ‘Oh dear, have you upset the king-without-a-kingdom?’ Ralph asked. ‘I was watching you both. He seemed to be giving you quite a dressing-down.’

  ‘He was cross because I said that if Alfred was my brother, I’d go and kill Harold Harefoot and rip his eyes out,’ said William, who still couldn’t really see what was wrong with that.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Ralph encouragingly. Then a mischievous, even malicious smirk crossed his much-mocked face. ‘So, Your Grace, would you like to hear something very surprising about King Edward and his older brothers?’

  ‘Older brothers?’ William asked, his voice rising in surprise. ‘But I thought Alfred was his only brother, and he was younger.’

  ‘Alfred was Edward’s only full brother and, yes, he was younger,’ Ralph agreed, ‘but Edward also had six older half-brothers. They were his father’s sons by his first wife, before he married Queen Emma, your great-aunt.’

  William took the hint. ‘But if they were older, then . . .’

  ‘Exactly, they had a prior claim to the throne of England. One of them, Edmund, actually was King of England, if only for a few months. He died. But he had two sons, which means . . .’

  ‘They are his heirs, so . . .’

  ‘So their claim to the throne is at least as good as our cousin Edward’s and probably better,’ Ralph said. ‘So don’t you worry about him.’

  ‘Thank you, I won’t.’ William fell silent.

  Ralph could see that the boy was thinking about something, wondering whether to say it or not. ‘Is something the matter?’ he asked.

  William shook his head. ‘No . . . well, maybe. I was just thinking, I’m sorry if I laughed at you and called you names. You know, in the past . . .’

  ‘That’s all right. I know you’ve had your share of people being rude about you too, just because your parents weren’t married. I know how that feels.’

  ‘People call me “William the Bastard”. I hate it.’

  Ralph laid a hand on William’s shoulder and twisting his face into an affectionate smile said, ‘We little bastards had better stick together then, hadn’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ William said, ‘I suppose so.’

  But as he watched him walk away down the hall, William couldn’t help thinking that Ralph really did still look like a donkey. And he still didn’t feel like his friend.

  9

  Échauffour, Normandy

  Conan of Saint-Briac, a Breton monk, had been sent by his abbot to convey various items of correspondence to his counterpart at the abbey of Saint-Ouen in Rouen. A surprisingly high number of monks had been soldiers before they took orders: often they had spent so many years away on campaign that they had neither families nor homes of their own, so joining a monastery put a roof over their heads. And after so much time spent taking life, many felt the need to get back into God’s good books.

  Conan was just such a retired fighting man. His route from Brittany to Rouen took him close to Échauffour, and so it was only natural that he should visit Giroie, his old comrade from his soldiering days, who owned most of the land thereabouts. For his part, Giroie considered it his duty to gi
ve food and lodging to any passing monk, let alone one he knew as well as Conan.

  Giroie had not seen his friend since he had taken holy orders, and it took a few seconds to accustom himself to seeing him riding a donkey rather than a charger, and clad in a monk’s simple, rough woollen robe instead of a coat of chain mail. But soldiers, particularly those who had survived into later life, tended to have a strong streak of piety and an even greater sense of gratitude to God for their deliverance from death. So while Giroie was delighted by Conan’s presence and slapped him heartily on the back, there was not the slightest trace of mockery in his voice as he said, ‘Monastic life seems to suit you, Conan. Must be good for you not wasting all your energy chasing women any more!’

  ‘Not wasting it saving your scraggy old neck, more like,’ the monk replied.

  ‘I think you’ll find it was mostly me saving yours! Come on, it’s dinner time. Dare say you could use a decent meal after a long day in the saddle.’

  The two men ate and drank well, then repaired to Giroie’s private chamber with another bottle or two of wine with which to wash down their reminiscences. They talked of many battles won and a few that had been lost: old friends who had died and others who still thrived. Then Conan pulled his chair closer to Giroie’s and leaned forward to speak in a lower voice, though there was no one but Giroie to hear him.

  ‘One of your boys is in the service of young Ralph de Gacé, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, my fifth son, Robert. Gacé Castle is just half a day’s ride away, as it happens . . . What of it?’

  ‘I’d find him another position if I were you, and soon.’