I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  “What? Is this how Normandy greets her visitors?” Harold had shouted in indignant French. “Is your duke so weak that he must welcome an envoy from England with such hostility?”

  The reply was drawn daggers and “Ponthieu does not take kindly to pirates!”

  The fighting was brief for the English were outnumbered and not prepared for such a ferocious reception. Harold’s mission was peaceful; coming in armour and bristling with weapons would indeed have sent the wrong signals. It seemed this bevy of undisciplined ruffians were incapable of noticing the obvious, however.

  Bound and tethered like slaves, Harold and his men were marched to Beaurain. Several times Harold attempted to convince their captors that their lord would have something to say at this gross misunderstanding, but no one listened.

  On entering the fortress the reason why became clear. Guy de Ponthieu was not on the best of terms with Duke William and he was an astute opportunist. With the number and quality of merchantmen sailing between Flanders, Normandy and England, he found it was worth setting a patrol along his coast. Worth the easy pickings that bad weather provided. And occasionally there was a windfall: a rich mariner or passenger to be ransomed.

  Harold’s head throbbed. A cut above his right eye was oozing blood, his ribs ached. For three days had they been incarcerated here and the novelty was beginning to pall.

  “I am Harold, Earl of Wessex, come as a peaceful emissary of Edward, King of England, to William, Duke of Normandy.” What had been the point? Ponthieu had not listened, except to prick his ears and increase the price of the ransom he was anticipating. His only comment had been rude and officious: “Then you are unfortunate. I have a hatred of the English and I am not the Duke.”

  The insult was compounded by his arrogance in chaining Harold as if he were a common thief. Mind, that had partly been of Harold’s own doing, for he had refused to give his parole not to attempt to escape. “I’m buggered if I’ll give word that I’ll sit idle and scratch my arse while you send to England for an extortionate ransom!”

  Again, Harold tugged at the chains attaching his fetters to the wall; to no avail, the fastenings were secure. One of his men, needing to relieve his bladder, fumbled as well as he could at the lacings of his breeches, half turned to the wall, let his water stream to the floor. The smell of fresh urine made little difference to the already appalling stench. Eadric straightened his garments and reseated himself as far from the noxious puddle as his chains would allow. “I am not impressed by the accommodation here, my Lord. In fact”—Eadric’s grin revealed more gum than teeth—“it stinks.”

  “Let us just hope Tofi managed to get clear,” Harold answered with a sigh of frustrated boredom. There was little use in shouting, allowing full vent to his anger—he had already tried it—but once he was restored to freedom and status, then God help Guy de Ponthieu!

  “He is a good housecarl, Tofi,” another of Harold’s men said, “one of our best. If anyone can reach Eu for help, he can.”

  “I am not so concerned about whether he can reach the cursed place,” Eadric responded with a growl of frustration, “just when. What if those poxed Normans are as block-headed as this lot here? What if they’ll not listen to Tofi? How long will we be sitting like surplus fowl, trussed ready for the pot?”

  “You speak for yourself, Eadric!” someone else laughed. “You’re plump enough, with that ale-belly of yours. Some of us have no dinner meat clinging to our bones.”

  “Aye, some of you would be better boiled down and used for toothpicks!”

  “What would you know of such a nobleman’s accessory, Eadric? You have no teeth to use one on!”

  At least, Harold thought to himself, though we may be in a damned awkward situation, we have our lives—and our humour.

  ***

  Duke William was residing at Rouen. At Eu, Tofi, one of the most faithful and quick-thinking of Harold’s housecarls, went straight to the fortress and demanded to speak with the man who held highest authority. The constable listened in silence to the Englishman, and acted promptly in response. Given a swift horse and an escort to Rouen, Tofi found himself attempting to explain to the Duke of Normandy in person that Earl Harold of England was in desperate and ignominious straits.

  At first, William could not make sense of the garbled, breathless plea from the Englishman who spoke very little French very badly. Something about a strong wind and renegades? He did recognise the name Guy de Ponthieu. A creeping snail. An obnoxious, slime-trailed…

  “Est-ce qu’il y a quelqu’un qui parle anglais ici?” he demanded, looking at the men clustered in curiosity around the visitor. “Does anyone here speak English?”

  A man—Tofi took him to be a man, for he was heavily bearded and wore male apparel—stepped forward with a bow. This incongruous person stood barely the height of a large dog. “I am Turold,” the dwarf said. “You must forgive my poor English, but it is better than your appalling French, n’est-ce pas?”

  Tofi recognised, with relief, his own tongue and explained briefly but precisely the difficulty that his lord Harold had fallen into. Turold translated rapidly as he spoke.

  William’s face grew more clenched and venomous as this Englishman’s meaning became plain. Before Turold had finished, William was on his feet, enraged, bellowing for horses to be saddled. “That upstart will not get away with such discourtesy! How dare he dishonour a man of rank who comes in peace to visit me? By God’s Grace, Ponthieu will regret his greed and this personal insult to me!”

  Tofi could barely believe that within the hour he was riding back along the same route, mounted on a fine stallion with the Duke’s guard and the Duke himself. Two messengers had been sent ahead at the gallop, carrying dire warnings from Normandy. Ponthieu was to present himself and William’s visitor, unharmed, at the fortress of Eu. William’s curt message had carried an addendum. Explanation for embarrassing the Duke would be required.

  If comte Guy de Ponthieu valued his land—and his head—he would be at Eu with Earl Harold, awaiting the Duke’s pleasure.

  22

  Rouen—September 1064

  This was more palatable!

  Eadric sat on a narrow bench before the immense heat of the cooking fire in the grand kitchens of Duke William’s castle at Rouen, a blushing serving maid pulled firmly into his lap, a tankard brimming with golden cider in his hand. The smell of roasting pork on the spit and pies and pastries coming from the ovens filled his nostrils. The Normans, he had always been led to believe, were an uncouth, inhospitable, arrogant lot; that might be true of the nobility, but not of these buxom, cheerful-faced women of William’s domestic buildings. Nor of the tantalising menu for dinner.

  Being of the sea folk and having from the age of ten spent many a long month in a foreign port, Eadric had a basic knowledge of many languages: Danish, Flemish, a little Spanish and Arabic, and French. He was retelling, again, the story of Guy de Ponthieu’s gross discomfort on coming face to face with Duke William and the consequent release of the English captives. His animated account had the kitchen in paroxysms of laughter.

  “A mule, I tell you! De Ponthieu actually went to meet your noble duke riding a wag-eared mule, so desperate was he to show he had no intention of inciting war!” He set his fingers to the side of his head, imitating the beast’s ears, and let out a remarkably convincing ass’s bray. One of the cooks, rolling out pastry at the table, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, spreading white flour over her cheeks. She could not remember a time when she had laughed so long. Mais non, the English were not the ragbag, dour-faced imbeciles that she had always assumed them to be.

  Eadric was shaking his head. “I tell you, how we kept our faces straight as he, so very humbly, handed us into the Duke’s care, I do not know. That man must have been pissing his breeches with fear at the fury on your William’s face.” He swigged a mouthful of cider. “And my Lord Harold—h
ow he maintained his countenance I will never discover! He rides past the soddin’ comte, his hawk—a gift from our King Edward to Duke William—perched on his wrist. He looks at Guy, smiles with that laconic twist of his mouth and says in perfect French, “Merci beaucoup. The hospitality offered by Ponthieu was most interesting. I would recommend airing the bed linen a little, however. The accommodation was somewhat damp.’” Eadric slapped his thigh with mirth. “The comte did not appreciate the jest, I think! His expression was sour as shit!”

  Relaxing in grander surroundings than the kitchens, Harold, too, was relating the astonishing series of events of the past few days, although somewhat more sedately than his steersman, Eadric. The Duke listened gravely, for his anger at comte Guy remained acute, but Mathilda was laughing outright with the Englishman, enjoying his uninhibited portrayal of an amusing account at his own expense.

  “I admit I would have been more concerned had de Ponthieu not been intent on making so much money out of me, but once it was clear that greed was his prime motive, all I and my men needed to worry about was the damned inconvenience of having to piss in a puddle. We discovered it is no easy matter to manage the laces of breeches with your wrists manacled! You ladies, madam, would have a definite advantage in such an indelicate situation!”

  Mathilda clapped her hands and roared her delight. Harold’s risqué storytelling was like a breath of spring air to her lively imagination—all too often her husband’s court was preoccupied with such tediously serious matters.

  “You would, of course, have had to endure the unpleasantness for some long while, had your man not brought word of your plight to me,” William interrupted. He was not prone to extravagant mirth; there was so little in his past to have brought alive the frivolous side of his nature. “Did that fact not worry you, sir?”

  Harold offered the Duke a slight and gracious bow. “I am most assuredly grateful for your prompt and gallant rescue. Had you not received word, our wait would have depended on how long it took for a ransom demand to be taken to England and fetched back to Ponthieu.”

  “And on whether my dear kinsman, Edward, would have been agreeable to paying it.” The sarcasm in William’s rejoinder was blatant. Harold chose to ignore it, uncertain whether the Duke had intended the insult. The King would not have been under any financial obligation, for Harold’s own wealth would easily have paid the ransom. In the holding of land and entitlement, he was possibly wealthier than Edward, for the King squandered much of his income on books and trifles, and his Westminster abbey had drained much of his personal treasury.

  The experience of imprisonment had been inconvenient and rough, but Harold was a soldier and a huntsman, used, when on campaign or tracking a beast, to sleeping huddled in his cloak on the ground, and making do with poor food and brackish water. He was not a leader who expected his men to endure something that he could not. It was this that brought him respect, loyalty and devotion from his men.

  Unwittingly, too, Guy de Ponthieu had been of service to Harold, for through him William had welcomed the English into his court with arms open. Perhaps the Duke would have been as welcoming of any English envoy, but this hospitality ran deeper, for he needed to make amends. William had to prove to England that Normandy was no uncivilised backwater and that he, the Duke, had full, unequivocal control. Ponthieu had come close to revealing the opposite.

  ***

  For several weeks Harold and his men made use of the welcome offered them. Earl and Duke found they had much in common: a love of hunting, an interest in the new technologies of warfare and the intricacies of justice, law and politics, although with the latter their opinions differed greatly, giving rise to much eloquent and occasionally heated discussion.

  Harold talked freely of the traditionally established English law and social structure, William listening intently to what he privately considered quaint and old-fashioned ideas. Laws and decisions ought to come from the holder of highest authority, not be decided by a rabble group of nobles, each out for his own gain. If he were king of England, the Witan would lose power, for he would take over the Council’s authority. The organised system of tax collection appealed, however. England was well versed in the efficient raising of funds—all those years of paying Danegeld, the bribery of gold to keep the Viking raiders at bay, had seen to that. The organisation of the fyrd, the fighting men, was intriguing also. William learnt much of the Englishman’s fighting ability from Earl Harold’s proud descriptions of prowess on the battlefield.

  Aware the Duke’s interest might have an ulterior motive, Harold took care to talk only of what was common knowledge, of general ability and tactics, not of numbers or specific skills. His intention was to acquire William’s trust. Anyone who knew of England could recount the number of days the fyrd would serve, the method of fighting, their style of weapons and armour. Anyone, from peasant to bishop, knew the extent and methods of taxation, the seats of power, the scatter of population. Which towns favoured the wealthier merchantmen, which harbours were safe in poor weather, which were rock-bound or pirate-patrolled. Oh, Harold talked freely to William, happy to have his wineglass refilled, the dishes of tempting pastries and fruits set at his side. It was easy to talk of those common things, for then the listener did not become aware of that which was not said.

  His one disappointment: his brother and nephew were not at the Duke’s court but residing as house-guests with noble families in the far south of Normandy. Harold had spoken of his hope to be reunited with his kindred on the very first day, couched within the tact of half-truth. “My mother, Countess Gytha,” he had told the Duke, “is growing more elderly. It would delight an old lady’s heart to see the face of her child and the son of her first-born, now dead, son.” He had smiled at William, setting a simpleton’s trusting expression on his face. “After all,” he had added, “we as sons owe much to the love of our dearest mothers.”

  Ah, Harold had listened and read well of Normandy and her duke. A hard man, a man of cunning, a leader of renown, courage and stealth. But a man who respected his wife and honoured his mother.

  William had answered Harold’s hope of returning to England with the two boys with a nondescript shrug and aimless wave of his hand. “Of course, of course,” he had replied amiably. “We shall talk of such matters soon, all in good time.”

  Harold had half smiled to himself. So Edward’s ability to procrastinate on issues of import was not unique. A trait of a Norman, perhaps? Had Queen Emma had it? Harold had not known the great lady well enough, but from the little he remembered, aye, she too could dither and defer effectively as it suited her purpose.

  Time, however, appeared to be yet another thing that was controlled and manipulated by the Duke. There was invariably opportunity for hunting and debate of his choosing, but always he became busy when Harold should mention, even in the obliquest of references, Wulfnoth and Hakon the hostages. Despite the gnawing frustration that began to build as the days passed, Harold admired William’s vigorous hold on discipline throughout the province. Here was no soft-bellied vacillator, intent on glorifying himself simply by building churches.

  Rapidly gathering impressions those first weeks, Harold partially liked the Duke—although there was something that he was uncertain of. There was as much that Duke William was not allowing Harold to discover of Normandy, as he himself was concealing from the Duke. But that was the excitement of the hunt: the careful stalking, the patient waiting.

  William, short-cropped russet hair framing a full-fleshed face, was tall—the same height as Harold—and possessed abundant energy. His reputation was that of ruthlessness—but was that not a good thing in a commander? Peace could not be maintained by simpering words and pathetic hesitation—Edward would fail as king on the morrow were it not for the strength of his earls.

  The Duke, Harold observed, ate and drank with moderation; his language was never foul or uncouth and he was faithful to his wife. But he al
so had a complex and enigmatic character. There was no looking direct into William’s eyes. His duchess, Mathilda, was as different from her husband as day is from night. Harold found that he liked her. A woman of small stature but enormous heart, Mathilda was gracious and charming, a delight to engage in conversation, so unlike her sister Judith, who was shy and meek, reluctant to express any opinion that was not first endorsed by Tostig. How different this younger sister! No hesitation to express her view, a woman with a zest for life, excitement and passion. No wonder the Duke worshipped her. What man of sense would not welcome such a delightful creature into his bed?

  Through those first few weeks as guest at court, Harold often found himself involved in conversation with the Duchess, in particular discussing the domestic issues of family life: the worries and treatments of childhood illness, the smile of a daughter, the hopes for a son. Mathilda was devoted to her children and, unable to express pride in them to William, who took little interest, she found immense satisfaction in sharing these eager conversations with a family-loving man. While Harold doubted William could ever enter into an unconditional friendship with any mortal soul, within a matter of days, such a friendship had become established between Duchess and Earl.

  Playing with the children came naturally to Harold—an occupation that was anathema to William.

  A favoured game was knights and dragons, played out on the grassed tilting yard. Harold had been elected as the dragon. Seven-year-old William Rufus, now growing into a robust, cherry-cheeked lad, used his flat wooden sword on the dragon’s backside unmercifully while Richard and Cecily, four, caught hold of Harold’s cloak and legs, and held him firm. Robert, eleven and unwilling to join fully in the game, yet reluctant to remain aloof from the fun, shouted orders and encouragement to his “men.” Agatha, as the princess imprisoned in the castle—in this instance sitting happily atop the gate—fluttered her veil from her hand and called woefully for her gallant heroes to rescue her. Rapidly, the mild game collapsed into a free-for-all rough and tumble as the children toppled Harold over. Agatha leapt from her “prison” to join in with the immense hilarity of tickling the English Earl’s ribs while Will sat heavily on his chest. Even Robert entered the mêlée, his laughter mingling with the delight of his siblings.