The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2

by David Churchill

  ‘The woodland and the market were both within my estates. The abbey had no right to either.’

  ‘Yet you were forced to pay restitution.’

  ‘Wrongly.’

  ‘Now we come to the present matter. You have been accused of plotting rebellion against Duke William—’

  ‘I have done no such thing!’

  ‘You have increased your lands by the seizure of farms and villages that lie within the ducal estates. If you take the duke’s land by force, what is that if not insurrection?’

  ‘It’s the way the world is,’ said Montgomery. ‘It’s happening right across Normandy. You know as well as I do, Osbern.’

  ‘You killed three knights who were the duke’s sworn vassals. Again, if you hurt them, you defy him.’

  ‘They were defying me. They were on my land. I have a right to defend myself.’

  ‘They fled to the safety of a church, a sacred place. You burned it down.’

  ‘They were up in the damn clock tower, shooting arrows at me and my sons. What the hell was I supposed to do? Let my boys be used for target practice.’

  ‘They were the ones who were defending themselves from attack, not you,’ Osbern said.

  Now Montgomery leaned forward. ‘We can prattle away like old women at their weaving, but we all know the truth of the matter. What I did was no different from what men up and down the duchy are doing. Take that old drunk Tosny. He died trying to make himself richer. I didn’t. That’s the only difference. Am I to be punished just because I fight better than other men?’

  ‘No, you’re to be punished because men like you should not be fighting at all,’ William answered. ‘When I am older, I will put an end to it. People will see what happens to anyone who disobeys me, and they will think twice before they do anything to anger me.’

  ‘Let the council do that for you, Your Grace,’ said Osbern. ‘With your permission, we will put this traitor to death. The sight of his head on the end of a spike will make men stop and think all right.’

  ‘You can’t put me to death,’ Montgomery said. ‘This isn’t a proper trial. I have the right to defend myself if my neck is at stake.’

  ‘He’s right, Herfastsson,’ said Ralph de Gacé, in a way that made Osbern wonder whose side he was really on. His own, of course, who else?

  ‘Is there any other punishment we can impose?’ William asked.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ said Osbern. ‘Banishment.’

  ‘How long?’ asked Montgomery, evidently preparing to haggle over the term.

  ‘Life.’

  ‘Life?’ Montgomery looked aghast. ‘No one gets banished for life. Three years, five years, maybe. But life? Forget it, I won’t go.’

  ‘Life, and the loss of your titles. Your castle will be torn down and you will forfeit all your estates—’

  ‘No! You can’t do that! What about my sons?’

  ‘All your estates,’ Osbern repeated, ‘excepting only your home villages of Saint-Germain-de-Montgomery and Sainte-Foy-de-Montgomery. They will provide land and a modest living for your sons. But you and your wife must be out of the duchy within thirty days, or you will be executed – and I won’t need a court to hear your case if you’ve tried to escape fair punishment.’

  Montgomery looked at Osbern. ‘You bastard, Herfastsson. I won’t let you get away with this. As God is my witness, I’ll even the score between us. Now get these chains off me so I can go and tell my family what you’ve done to us.’

  ‘No,’ said Osbern. ‘You will remain here, under lock and key, until it’s time for you to leave the duchy. It’s for your own safety. After all, if you’re here, you can’t do anything that might get you killed. Take him away.’

  Montgomery was led away screaming blue murder. Osbern watched him go, and so did not see the half-smile on de Gacé’s face as he watched the disgraced nobleman being brought low. In any case, the steward was more concerned by the duke’s two uncles, Mauger and Talou. He could tell that they were uneasy about the severity of Montgomery’s punishment.

  ‘I’m not convinced this is a good idea,’ said Mauger, his face twitching as always and his shoulders giving a series of sharp little jerks.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Osbern. ‘It will serve as a warning and make men think twice before they do anything wrong.’

  ‘It might just as easily make them feel sorry for Montgomery and think he’s been hard done by,’ Mauger countered. ‘The next thing you know we’d have a rebellion on our hands, and what good would that do us, eh?’

  ‘Well for one thing,’ said Osbern, ‘at least we’d know our enemies.’

  The men who had attended the council dispersed until only Osbern and William were left. Osbern got up and made ready to leave, but William stayed in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on the table and his chin resting on his clenched fists.

  ‘Are you coming, William?’ Osbern asked.

  ‘I was just thinking about something.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Yes . . . I was thinking about the argument that started all this, Montgomery and the monks at Jumièges arguing about the woods and the market that they said he’d taken from him.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, there wasn’t a way to prove who owned what things. Even though he lost the judgement, Montgomery still thinks he was right.’

  ‘Don’t you pay any attention to Montgomery. He always thinks he’s right! Anyway, there are ways to know who owns what. There are deeds and charters that set it all out.’

  ‘Who has them?’

  ‘Whoever owns the land.’

  ‘Or says they own it,’ William pointed out. ‘But we don’t know, do we? And we should. I think it would be better if every duke or king knew exactly what was in his kingdom or his duchy, and who owned it. What’s the name of that book that merchants keep showing all the money they’ve made from selling things and spent on buying things?’

  ‘A ledger?’

  ‘Right . . . so I should have a great big ledger, with everything in Normandy written down. It would say that there was a market at this particular place, and how big this market was, and who had the right to take money from it, and things like that. And then if there was an argument about the market, I could just look it up in the ledger – well, a monk could find it for me, because I wouldn’t know where to look – and there would be the answer that would sort out the argument.’

  ‘It would have to be a very big book,’ Osbern chuckled. ‘Just think of how long it would take to find every house, and farm, and woodland, grazing land, tradesmen’s workshops, fishing rights, market rights, customs rights . . . you’d need an army of clerks to do that. And by the time they’d finished, lots of things would have changed and they’d have to start all over again. I mean, every time someone died, they’d have to take a note of who’d inherited his property. They’d be working from now till doomsday and they’d never be finished!’

  William could not think of an answer to that, so he gave a cross little grunt, said, ‘Well, I still think it’s a good idea, anyway,’ and got up from the table. ‘I’ve got a lesson with Brother Thorold,’ he said, and stalked off towards the schoolroom.

  Only when he was climbing the stairs did he suddenly think: what if everyone who owned anything had to declare it themselves? That way they would do half the work and that would solve the problem. A moment later, an objection popped into his mind: what if two people both declared the same thing? How would you know which one was right?

  William sighed. He’d argued himself into a corner. But then, as was his habit, he simply cut through his own objections by sheer force of will.

  I don’t care. I think it’s a good idea. And one day I’m going to do it.

  11

  Rouen and Saint-Germain-de-Montgom
ery, Normandy

  Whenever Duke William was in residence in Rouen, Brother Thorold made his way every morning from the abbey of Saint-Ouen to the ducal palace to teach his young master. He was in the habit of stopping on his way at a bakery, whose patron, Tallifer Pie-Man, was happy to exchange the prayers that Thorold promised to offer up on his behalf (and did so, for he was a man of his word) for one of the piping-hot meat pies that had made his name.

  ‘I’ve got a nice bit of mutton for you today, Brother Thorold,’ said Tallifer proudly one morning, presenting his latest offering. ‘That’ll keep you warm on a cold winter’s day.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Brother Thorold replied, rubbing his hands together and stamping the snow off his sandal-shod feet. He blew hot breath into his cupped palms and gave an appreciative ‘Mmm . . .’ as the baker cracked open the thick pastry crust revealing the treasure within. The savoury smell of mutton in a rich onion gravy filled Thorold’s nostrils.

  The baker handed him a knife and a warm piece of crusty fresh bread. ‘There you are, Brother. That should be worth a benediction or two, eh?’

  ‘Indeed it should. God will not forget the kindness you have shown a humble servant of His faith when the time comes for you to present yourself before Him in heaven.’

  He stabbed a piece of meat with the knife and lifted it to his mouth. A long, slow bake had left it tender and moist, while the gravy was rich and spicy. ‘You have surpassed yourself, Tallifer,’ Thorold said, dabbing his bread into the pie to mop up even more of the delicious juices. ‘This is nothing short of a triumph.’

  ‘Just remember to tell everyone at the palace how much you enjoyed it,’ Tallifer said. ‘I’d be happy to make His Grace the duke one too. A growing lad needs plenty of meat to feed him.’

  ‘Very true . . . very true,’ Thorold agreed, though he could barely speak for all the food in his mouth.

  In due course the pie’s contents were consumed, leaving nothing but the pastry. No one of any substance ever ate this thick, flavourless crust, but plenty of the gravy had seeped into it, and there were little scraps of meat and shiny slivers of onion scattered across its surface.

  ‘That will make a fine meal for a lucky beggar boy or two,’ Thorold said. The donation of his leftover pastry to the poor was almost as important a part of his daily ritual as the eating of the pie itself, and there was always a knot of small children waiting for him to emerge from the back door of the bakery into the refuse-strewn alleyway that ran behind it.

  ‘I’ll say!’ Tallifer agreed, breaking the pastry into pieces and wrapping it in a scrap of old cloth. He handed the small parcel to Thorold and then moved aside to let the monk pass him and walk through the shop and the family’s one-roomed home behind it.

  Thorold stepped out into the alleyway expecting to be assailed at once by grasping little hands trying to get at his parcel of scraps, and plaintive, high-pitched cries of ‘Me! Me!’

  But there were no children waiting for him, not one. He stopped, frowned in puzzlement and looked around.

  The alley was empty. It was a dead end, and there was only one way in or out, but the light from the entrance was blocked by what looked to Thorold, whose sight was not as sharp as it had been in his youth, like a huge dark shadow.

  Then the shadow moved.

  Thorold felt a sudden stab of fear. His pulse raced.

  The shadow was looming larger now as it came towards him, and Thorold heard the slapping of boots on the slushy ground, and the panting of breath. Then he made out the swollen features and cold, piggy eyes of the biggest man he had ever seen, holding a sword whose length matched his giant proportions.

  Thorold opened his mouth to shout out in alarm, but terror clamped his throat and no sound came out.

  A second later, Odo the Fat drove his blade point-first into Brother Thorold’s chest, skewering his heart just as Thorold had skewered that piece of meat just a few minutes earlier. And in that moment, the third of William of Normandy’s guardians died.

  Ralph de Gacé was feeling particularly pleased with himself as he rode into the village of Saint-Germain-de-Montgomery. It was a very long time since anyone had called him Donkey-Head. These days men looked at him more in fear than contempt, for many suspected that he was in some way responsible for the deaths of the men who stood between him and Duke William, though no one could produce any evidence, let alone proof. In the case of both Alan of Brittany and Gilbert of Brionne, he had been nowhere near the killings, as many a witness could testify. Now, if all had gone according to plan, Brother Thorold should have died in Rouen just as Ralph made his way to the abbey of Jumièges to conduct a straightforward piece of business on Duke William’s behalf.

  With Roger Montgomery now exiled to Paris, some of his former lands had been given to the abbey in recognition of the wrongs it had suffered at his hands. That being the case, it was perfectly natural that Ralph, as Duke William’s representative, should stop along the way at the village where Montgomery’s sons had made their home. After all, William had no quarrel with them and wished to make sure they had not been excessively harmed by their family’s fall from grace.

  Ralph stopped in the village to ask for directions. ‘Go to the church, my lord, and look for the track that leads uphill,’ a woodsman leading a cart piled high with logs told him. ‘Bad Roger’s boys are at the end of it. Mind, it’s not the kind of place they’re used to.’

  All the colour had been leeched from the landscape as Ralph rode on. The ground was covered by a blanket of snow, the skeletal trees were black, and smoke drifted upwards from the village houses in charcoal plumes against a dove-grey sky. Sure enough, there was the church, and beyond it a path, muddied by horses’ footsteps, leading up a hill topped by a crude wooden stockade that could not offer any but the most token obstacle to any determined attacker.

  There were no guards at the open gate. Within the fence stood a barn, its doors hanging open to reveal a few bales of rotting hay within. The solitary horse whose head poked out of the stable next to the barn looked hungry and unkempt, while the chickens that pecked miserably at the frozen earth had muddy, bedraggled feathers. The house at the centre of the compound was little bigger than a farmer’s cottage, though as he stepped inside, Ralph had a strong suspicion that he would find it far less tidy and well-maintained than any dwelling cared for by a self-respecting farmer’s wife.

  He was delighted to see that the reality was even more depressing than he had anticipated. The air was rank with the smoke from a smouldering, untended fire, mixed with the sweat, shit and stinking feet of young men forced to fend for themselves. Only one of the Montgomerys could be seen through the fog, a lad just a few years shy of twenty, by Ralph’s estimation. He had the haughty, disdainful expression of one born to lord it over his fellow men, though his unshaven face, his filthy clothes and his matted hair were little better than a beggar’s.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Ralph de Gacé, councillor to Duke William of Normandy.’ Ralph noted with satisfaction how the lad bristled at the very mention of the duke’s name.

  ‘Are you the one they call Donkey-Head?’ The question was delivered with sullen contempt.

  ‘I’m the one they used to call that. Not any more. Not by anyone who has any sense. And you are?’

  ‘William Montgomery. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Nothing . . . aside from the fact that I’m concerned for your well-being. This place needs a good clean. Can’t you afford a housekeeper?’

  ‘We don’t have any money. That bastard William took it all. I thought he was our friend. Got that wrong, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes . . . but not the way you think. Duke William isn’t responsible for your present situation. It was Osbern Herfastsson, the duke’s steward, who delivered the verdict against your father. I was there; I saw him with my own eyes, heard him with my
own ears.’

  William Montgomery grunted.

  ‘Where are your brothers?’ Ralph asked.

  ‘Out hunting. I couldn’t go. My horse is lame.’

  ‘And half starved. When did your animals last get a decent meal?’

  ‘The same time any of us did . . . ages ago. I can’t even remember when.’

  ‘Hmm . . . I’m very sorry to hear that. I might be able to help you buy some food, but first I want to ask you a question: what do you think your father would want you to do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he’s in exile in Paris. You and your brothers are living in worse conditions than most of the peasants round here. Meanwhile, Osbern Herfastsson, the man responsible for your suffering, is the duke’s steward, his senior councillor, the master of estates and castles scattered all over Normandy. What would your father want you to do about that?’

  Montgomery looked at Ralph suspiciously. ‘Is this some kind of a trick?’

  ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you trying to trick me into saying something against Osbern, just so you can have another excuse to persecute us?’

  ‘Absolutely not. That’s the last thing on my mind. I just asked you a question, that’s all. How you choose to answer is entirely your business. If it’s any help, I can tell you that if someone had sent my father into exile, I’d not have stood by and let them get away with it. But perhaps you’re different. I apologise, it’s none of my business . . .’

  Ralph turned away and stepped towards the door. He took one pace . . . two . . . three . . .

  ‘Wait!’ said William Montgomery. ‘Don’t go. You said you were going to give us some money.’

  ‘Then I asked you to answer a question. But you didn’t, so why should I give you anything?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, I promise!’

  ‘So . . . ?’