The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2

by David Churchill

  ‘I think . . .’ Montgomery looked at Ralph, still not entirely sure if he could trust him. But then desperation got the better of discretion. ‘I think he’d want us to take revenge on Osbern for ruining our lives.’ He stopped, not daring to say anything else until he saw Ralph’s reaction.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Ralph. ‘I’m certain that’s exactly what your father would want, and if you and your brothers have any pride left whatsoever, you should surely act on his wishes.’

  ‘But how? We can’t just walk into the palace and kill him, can we?’

  Ralph shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes the simplest plan is the best. But I agree it’s risky. Personally, I don’t have anything against Osbern. There’s no reason why I should wish him harm. But if I did, I think I’d wait till the duke is travelling around Normandy. Osbern always goes with him. They stay at barons’ castles or the duke’s own properties, and even though they have guards, they’re still more vulnerable than they are in Rouen. I mean, just as an example, they’re going to be in Vaudreuil in about three weeks’ time. That would be somewhere you could try attacking Osbern, particularly if you knew someone who could get you into the castle.’

  ‘But Vaudreuil’s on the other side of Normandy,’ Montgomery whined. ‘We don’t know anyone there!’

  ‘Don’t you?’ asked Ralph, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Are you sure?’

  Montgomery looked back at him, not quite understanding what he meant. Ralph waited until the penny dropped and Montgomery said, ‘Oh, you mean . . . ?’

  ‘Exactly. Talk to your brothers. Think about what you want to do. And think about where your truest loyalties lie.’

  ‘What loyalties?’

  Ralph sighed. The boy really was remarkably dense. ‘I mean that every man has a duty to God, and to his master here on earth, which in our case is the duke. But is there any loyalty stronger than the blood ties between a family? Is there any duty more sacred than a son’s respect for his father’s wishes? I don’t know about you, but I would have done anything for my father . . . absolutely anything.’ He smiled at William. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take this.’

  He held out his hand, fist clenched, then opened it to reveal five silver pennies – enough to keep them in food and animal feed for weeks. He waited for Montgomery to take the money, and when he did, Ralph smiled broadly and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good lad. Talk to your brothers. I’ll be back in five days’ time to hear what you decide.’

  Then he got back on his horse and rode out of the compound, down the hill and along the track that led to Jumièges with joy in his heart. For he knew that he was close, oh so close, to the fulfilment of all his plans.

  12

  ‘I hate funerals,’ said William, standing by the grave into which Brother Thorold’s coffin had just been lowered.

  ‘Me too,’ said his best friend, Fitz. ‘It’s fine for the grown-ups. They can drink wine and mead afterwards to cheer them up. We just have to stand around feeling bored.’

  ‘I never liked Brother Thorold when he was alive. I mean, he was all right, but he made us work too hard and he got so cross whenever I got something wrong. But now that he’s dead, I actually miss him.’

  ‘So do I. The new monk they sent to teach us is rubbish. At least Thorold had a few good stories, even if he did tell them again and again, but this one . . .’

  ‘And he’s got such a stupid voice,’ said William. ‘He sounds like he needs to blow his nose all the time. He goes, “Dow, boys, can you tell be duh dames of all the twelve aposs . . . aposs . . . aaaaa-tishoo!”’

  Fitz burst out laughing at William’s impersonation, and the two boys spent the next couple of minutes trying to outdo one another in the accuracy and outrageousness of their mockery.

  Then they heard Fitz’s father, Osbern Herfastsson, calling them to follow him back into the abbey of Saint-Ouen, where the abbot was proposing to hold what he described as ‘a modest repast, as befits an institution dedicated to poverty and simplicity’, in honour of his former brother monk.

  William suddenly felt sad. It was the kind of winter’s day when there was barely any light in the flat grey sky, the cold and damp in the air seemed to seep into the bones and the golden warmth of summer was an eternity away. ‘I feel like I’ve spent the whole year going to funerals,’ he said.

  ‘Me too,’ Fitz agreed.

  ‘I used to have four guardians, and now three of them have been killed.’

  William stopped walking. Fitz went on a couple of paces before he realised that his friend wasn’t with him, then turned around to see what had stopped him.

  ‘Can I tell you a secret?’ William asked.

  ‘What sort of secret?’

  ‘A really important one. But if I tell you, you have to swear on the Holy Bible that you’ll never tell anyone.’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Fitz impatiently. ‘I told you, I swear on the Holy Bible not to tell anyone. All right?’

  William nodded, but said nothing, still trying to find the courage and the right words.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ Fitz asked.

  William kicked a stone that was lying at his feet and watched it skitter away across the dirty yellow-green grass.

  ‘I’m scared.’ The words hung in the air between them, then William hurriedly added, ‘I’m not a coward, I promise.’

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ Fitz assured him. ‘But why are you scared?’

  ‘Because of all my guardians dying. First Alan, then Gilbert, now Thorold. I feel like there’s someone out there trying to get me, and he’s getting closer and closer.’

  ‘But you don’t know that anyone killed Count Alan. He just dropped down dead. That might have been a demon inside him. And Count Gilbert was only killed because he got mixed up in a fight between the Fitzgiroies. No one planned to kill him.’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ said William. ‘I think someone is trying to kill all my guardians.’

  ‘I hope not. One of your guardians is my father.’

  The two boys looked at one another, both horrified by the prospect of Osbern dying, neither knowing what to say. Finally William blurted, ‘Well anyway, I’m frightened that one day he’s going to try and kill me too.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘So that he can become Duke of Normandy, of course.’

  ‘But if someone became duke because he’d killed lots of people, then no one would follow him.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Not if they didn’t know that he was a murderer.’

  Fitz looked as if his head was spinning, trying to follow William’s logic. ‘Well I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘But I know my father would never let anyone hurt you. And I know what he’d say if he was standing here, right now, instead of staring at us from over there.’

  ‘What would he say?’

  ‘He’d say that a man must never show his fear. He always says that to me. He says that all men are frightened sometimes and there’s no shame in that. But you must never, ever show it because then your enemies will think that you are weak and it will make them believe that they can beat you.’

  ‘Maybe whoever’s killing my guardians can beat me.’

  ‘Or maybe not . . . But whatever happens, you mustn’t make them feel like they’re winning. Because then they’ll be all confident and sure of themselves, and you’ll be all miserable and sorry for yourself, and of course then they will win. That’s why Dad says never, ever to show it.’

  William nodded thoughtfully. ‘I wish I had a dad to tell me things like that.’

  Fitz nodded understandingly. Then he said, ‘Let’s go and get some food.’

  William’s unhappiness vanished in an instant, as he grinned and slapped Fitz on the b
ack. ‘Good idea. I’m starving!’

  William Montgomery did not tell his brothers about the visit from Ralph de Gacé. So far as he was concerned, this was his chance to make his name in his own right and earn his father’s respect in a way that none of the others would be able to match. So when the fifth day came, he found an excuse to get out of the house by himself, took up a position in the churchyard from which he could see everyone come and go, and waited for de Gacé to arrive.

  The sun was beginning to sink towards the west and Montgomery was freezing cold and damp down to the very marrow before he saw the ducal councillor riding into the village from the direction of Jumièges. He went out on to the track to meet him, but de Gacé did not seem pleased to be accosted in this way. He looked around with darting, nervous eyes to see if anyone was watching them. Only when he was satisfied that no eyes were upon them did he ask, ‘Is there anyone in the church?’

  ‘No, there won’t be anyone around until the priest comes for vespers.’

  ‘Very well, go inside. I’ll meet you in a few minutes.’

  It was barely any warmer within the church than it had been outside. The thick walls provided shelter from the cutting wind and snow flurries, but the stone seemed to exude an even deeper chill than the open air, and Montgomery shivered as he sat in the family pew, drawing his cloak tighter around him as he tried to keep the cold at bay.

  There was a sudden draught and a dusting of snowflakes on the air as the main door opened and de Gacé came in.

  ‘Where are the rest of you?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re not coming. I was the only one had the balls for it.’

  ‘You’re telling me that you told them there was a chance to avenge your father and they said no?’

  Montgomery did his best to hold his ground. ‘If you don’t believe me, ask them!’ he insisted, praying that Donkey-Head would do no such thing.

  De Gacé gave one of his twisted, toothy smiles. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. Though I know what they would say if I did, and I’m glad of it. You’re prepared to lie in the service of your ambition. For a scheme such as this, that counts as an advantage. Now, pay attention. I am going to tell you what you need to know, and everything – including your life – depends upon you remembering every word.’

  13

  Vaudreuil, Normandy

  If there was one thing that his short life had taught William, Duke of Normandy, it was that love brought him pain. He loved his mother, but his father had sent her away – for her own good, he said, though William had not understood how that could be – and though he had seen her many times since, still the shock of seeing her leave, that terrible sense of abandonment as her carriage had clattered away through the gates of the palace at Rouen, had stayed with him ever since.

  Then his father had left him too, gone on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem from which he had never returned. William had ridden with Papa to Paris to swear fealty to King Henry of France. The king himself had explained what that meant, telling him, ‘You must do me service if I call on you. But I have to look after you too. So if you ever have serious trouble and no one can help you in Normandy, I will do what I can to solve your problems, or defeat your enemies.’

  William had understood that his father was doing his best to protect him. But the only reason he was doing that was because he was going away. The following morning, William had been packed off back to Rouen, while his father set off on the long journey to Jerusalem. ‘Don’t worry, Will, I’ll come back,’ he’d said.

  William had begged him, ‘Please don’t go, Papa,’ and all the way to Rouen, three days on the road, he’d been hoping and praying that his father would think about what he’d said to him, change his mind and come home again to be with him. But Papa had gone to Jerusalem and died on the journey home, so far away that William would never even be able to visit his grave. He did his best not to think about things like that. But there were nights when he just couldn’t help it, and dreams when his father would come back to visit him and it would seem so real he could hardly believe that Papa would not be there when he awoke. When morning came, William would have to clamp his jaw, and frown and be rude to everyone, just so they didn’t know that what he really wanted to do was run to his mother and cry. But how could he run to her when she lived in Conteville with her husband Herluin and William’s two brothers, and he was in Rouen or wherever he happened to be travelling in the duchy? And so William retreated further into his shell, ever more convinced that only a fool let himself feel anything for anyone.

  The only man who came even close to understanding William’s true feelings was Osbern Herfastsson. William trusted him completely and without reservation. Osbern had been part of his life for as long as he could remember, first as his father’s steward and then his own. He was absolutely loyal and never, under any circumstances, took anyone’s side against William. But if he thought William had made a mistake, he would never be too shy or cowardly to tell him so, in private, when nobody else could hear.

  ‘You are my duke and I will always obey you,’ he would say, ‘but you’re also my whippersnapper young cousin. I knew your father and your uncle, and your grandfather before them. I loved and served them all and I know they’d want me to teach you all the things they can’t, and to put you right if you’ve got something wrong.’

  William always argued his corner, but secretly he was glad that Osbern loved him enough to put him in his place when he deserved it. When they spent time away from Rouen, Osbern would always sleep in William’s room to guard him. In all the nights he’d done that, no one had ever tried to do anything bad, but William still kept Osbern there because he liked nothing better than lying in bed listening to the old man’s stories of days gone by. More than anything, he enjoyed the tales about the battles Osbern had fought alongside Duke Richard the Good when they’d both been young men. He would lie in bed, drifting off to sleep to the comforting sound of Osbern’s voice spinning the same old yarns for the umpteenth time, constantly repeating the lessons about how Duke Richard had arranged his troops to trick the enemy, or draw them into a trap, or prevent the opposing general from doing what he wanted. Osbern would recite the speeches Richard had given to his men on the eve of battle, or describe how the old duke had plunged into the thick of the fighting to show both his men and the enemy that he was afraid of nothing. And with every retelling, those lessons would become just a little more deeply and firmly lodged in William’s mind, so that without even knowing it, he was receiving an education in strategy, campaigning and leadership that would stay with him all his life.

  Even now, though William was far from a small boy any more, he still looked forward to Osbern’s storytelling last thing at night. Lying beneath his woollen blankets in the ducal bedchamber at the castle of Vaudreuil, with a fur throw laid on top of them to keep out the midwinter cold, he watched Osbern clamber into his own bed, and as he did so, he was struck by a thought that had never occurred to him before. As a small boy, he had thought of Osbern as ancient: his hair had always been thin on top, his face lined and his beard grizzled. But at the same time he had still seemed strong and solid, like a towering oak, its size and might undiminished by age. Now, for the first time, William saw that just as he himself was on the verge of becoming a grown man, so Osbern was close to being an old one. His skin was sagging and his body softening, so that his chest, which had once been broad and muscular, now looked pendulous and womanly. As he lifted his arms above his head to let his nightshirt fall down around him, he winced, struck by a twinge from his back, and he got into bed somewhat gingerly, as if fearing another aching joint.

  His voice, however, was as deep and reassuring as ever. ‘Did I ever tell you the story of how your grandfather and I went to fight the Burgundians for old King Robert of France?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Cousin Osbern,’ said William, for though he had heard the tale a myriad times before, it
suited them both to pretend that each new retelling was the first.

  ‘Well,’ Osbern began, ‘it all started when Henry the Venerable, Duke of Burgundy, died without a son of his own. Now Henry had married a woman called Gerberga of Mâcon, who was the widow of King Adalbert of Italy. She had a son by Adalbert called Otto-William, and Henry adopted him and made him his heir. But of course, Otto-William had none of Henry’s blood in him . . .’

  ‘Can you miss out this bit and go straight to the battles?’ asked William.

  ‘No, I can’t,’ Osbern said. ‘The story doesn’t make any sense unless you know why the war began, and anyway, you need to know how all the great families of Christendom are related, because you’re going to have to deal with them, and you’ll have to find a wife from one of them.’

  ‘But I don’t want a wife.’

  ‘Not now you don’t, but you will. How else will you have a son to follow you if you can’t find a nice girl to be his mother, eh? Anyway, when Henry of Burgundy died, Otto-William claimed his title, and there it might have ended except that King Robert of France said that Burgundy should belong to him, because Henry had been his uncle on his father’s side and so he was Henry’s closest blood relative. And blood, he said, was what counted. So he went to war against Otto-William to see who would be Duke of Burgundy. Your grandfather supported King Robert of France because he was Robert’s vassal, and also they were cousins, so there was a blood connection there too. So off we all went, a mighty army of Normans, to join the French and fight the Burgundians. Well . . .’

  Osbern settled into his tale, but long before he reached the battle scene that William had been pleading for, he realised that his young master had fallen fast asleep. He kept talking for a little while longer, as was his custom. He told himself it was just to make sure that the boy really was properly asleep and wouldn’t wake up the moment he stopped, but the truth was that it was as comforting for him to tell his stories as it was for William to hear them. Soon, though, Osbern felt his own eyelids drooping, and a short while later his voice fell quiet, he rolled over on his side and a moment later his snores were echoing softly around the otherwise silent bedchamber.