From the solar window Mathilda stood watching, chuckling at the merriment below. Distracted by the noise, her husband crossed the chamber to stand behind her, watching with a disapproving frown. Finally he snorted. “Is that boy not too old for playing childish games?” he commented gruffly as Robert pulled off Harold’s boot and began tickling his foot. The Earl shrieked for mercy.
“Do you yield?” came Agatha’s sweet but triumphant answer. “Do you yield to Normandy?”
“I yield! I yield! Pax, ah, please, pax!”
“Your son is but a boy,” Mathilda chided. “Can he not enjoy the pleasures of childhood?” She tilted her head to look up into her husband’s displeased face. “Through games do children learn; and it is rare for them all to join in such boisterous play together.”
“Boisterous play I have no objection to, if they are learning the skills of a soldier along with it—but look at the boy, prancing about as if he were a girl! He is an embarrassment!”
Mathilda watched her eldest son prance around the perimeter of the grass as if he were a warhorse, saw him stop and scoop Cecily on to his shoulders. The girl yodelled with delight as he set off again at a high-stepping trot. “Nonsense, my dear, he is imagining himself to be a fine stallion, carrying the fair princess to meet her prince.”
William snorted again. “He is almost a man. Such inane fancies are for infants.”
“Yet the Earl plays the same,” Mathilda said quietly but with insistence.
“The Earl is an Englishman. The English are known to be childish fools—look at that girl! Is Agatha not too old for such immodesty!”
William Rufus had begged Harold to take his arms and swing him round, in which Harold—thankfully replacing his boot—had duly obliged. With the lad’s breathless turn finished, Harold had grasped Agatha’s arms and was whirling her around, his legs moving faster and faster as she spun with him.
“Husband, she is ten years old! Allow her the freedom of youthful frivolity while she may enjoy it.”
The Duke’s response was gruff. “She is of an age to be betrothed. I think it time I decided on a husband for her.” He strode back to the scatter of maps spread on his table, thoughts returning to more immediate matters. Conan de Bretagne was stirring up trouble again. He would need to be dealt with soon, before he outgrew the size of his boots.
Sighing at William’s lack of a sense of fun, Mathilda followed him, peering with mild interest at a route of march that William had marked on one of the maps. She pointed to the river crossing. “Is it wise to cross the river Couesnon so low down? The tide can be unmerciful at the estuary.”
“It is too far to travel inland,” William answered, secretly pleased at her shrewd judgement.
A companionable silence fell between husband and wife. Around them the murmur of servants, two dogs growling; everyday sounds. The laughter from outdoors floated through the window opening; Harold’s deep guffaw, the children’s high-pitched squealing.
“I agree we ought soon consider a husband for Agatha,” Mathilda said at length. “We must secure a useful alliance.”
William nodded, unrolling another map of a different area of Brittany, but this one held too many scribbled words rather than easily interpreted signs and symbols.
In an intimately caressing voice, Mathilda said into her husband’s ear, “An alliance with England could prove worthwhile when Edward dies, could it not? A kindred voice when the most suitable man must be considered for king?”
William allowed the map to roll up on itself, set it down and regarded his wife. “You have more political astuteness than I realised, woman. Such an alliance could serve me well.”
Placing her lips lightly on his cheek before turning away from him, Mathilda walked back to the window. She watched as Harold, as “it,” chased the children in an enthusiastic game of tag. When he caught hold of Agatha round the waist, Mathilda noted the girl’s gleeful laughter. A husband of suitable status must be the priority, but how much better it would be to find one, also, whom Agatha liked.
“I intend to visit my army on Conan come the start of August,” William said, joining her. “I wonder if our guest would enjoy a hunting trip with a more challenging quarry than a deer or a boar? The English, perhaps, could benefit from a Norman campaign.”
“And that would give you time to consider a profitable marriage, would it not? I would be saddened to lose my daughter to England, but Agatha seems to like the Earl. It could be a good match, do you not think?”
William brushed his finger against the tip of her nose. C’était vrai, it could.
23
Mont Saint-Michel
Rising from the sea, as if it were some mystical island, the silhouette of the Mount of Saint Michael, dark against the fading sunset, was a breath-taking wonder. Harold had never seen such a sight—not even in Rome! The salt marshes stretched away into the sky and the distant sea, the mudflats ran between empty water channels and a hundred continuously bobbing and weaving birds waded.
The island, a granite citadel soaring 260 feet above the estuary, supported the most incredible buildings perched, as if by wizardry, on and intertwined with natural rock. The Benedictine abbey of Mont Saint-Michel rose with its stone and timber towers, pinnacles and colonnades into the August-blue sky. How it all remained standing, so precariously perched, Harold could not begin to understand. He stood, the demonic wind rushing over the mudflats, where the flood tide was already starting to return, whipping at his hair and cloak; stood and stared, transfixed. The island was like a ship, full-sailed, gliding over the shimmering, ripple-cast sand, would surely seem even more so once the sea returned to surround its towering beauty.
The sun was sinking gracefully to the horizon, a red, glowing orb that glinted for one last incredible moment of bursting joy against the two golden crosses adorning the shingled roof of the church. If this was Divinity made real among the squalor of life, then God was indeed immense and wonderful.
“You like it?” Duke William asked, coming to stand beside the English Earl. “The building of the monastery is not yet complete—there have been tremendous difficulties encountered, for all the rules of known architecture are having to be adapted. Almost daily some quandary is uncovered and a new technique must be explored.” William looked with pride at the magnificent structure.
“My grandfather married my grandmother, Judith of Brittany, on the Mount, ’tis her kindred, Conan, the second of that name, we go to subdue. I will not allow ruffians such as he to terrorise my vassals. How dare he think he can lay siege to Dol and be allowed to get away with it? Hah, he will soon realise he has made a fatal mistake!”
“Is Dol far, once we cross this boundary river?” Harold turned his head slightly, looking away from the marvel that was Saint Michel, and studied the river.
The Couesnon was a wide stretch of slumbering water meandering through the wind-rustling marsh and barren salt flats. Riding with his Englishmen in the van, Harold had said little but listened well to the idle talk of the Normans—to the cheerful boasts of the brave-hearted and the misgivings of the doubtful. The river crossing had been the subject most discussed. Looking at its placid, shallow width, there appeared nothing sinister. A river estuary, safe to ford as long as the tide was low.
“Pas du tout,” William answered. “Dol is not far, but first, as you say, we must cross this river that makes the border between Normandy and Brittany.” He regarded Harold with half-closed shrewd eyes. What kind of man was this Earl Harold from England, apart from a flatterer of women and a charmer of children? What merit had he, William wondered, as a leader of men?
Instinctively, before this bold venture into Brittany had been suggested, Harold had realised that his worth was being assessed and did not much appreciate it. He had no need to prove himself to any man—duke, king, soldier or peasant—but William was playing some secretive game. He had his suspicions of w
hy, but was not yet certain. For now, he was content to let this conceited duke watch him, to play the amiable mild-mannered underling. For now.
Pulling at his moustache, Harold walked nearer the gently sloping river bank and studied the ground beneath his boots. Firm here and solid, the grass short and tough; he could taste salt on his lips. He stopped a few feet short of the running water, gazing at its sandy blue calm. It did not appear deep and, with the banks sloping on this and the far side, there would be no difficulty in taking the horses and pack mules across. Would the baggage carts churn the river bed? It appeared firm, able to take weight, but it was sand and mud, not gravel or rock. No, this river would be soft and yielding, the worst kind of crossing for heavy wagons.
Movement out in the bay caught Harold’s attention. He frowned, squinting into the gathering evening. What was it? A line of white, moving fast towards them.
“What is that, out on the flats?” he asked William, who stood with both thumbs tucked through his sword belt, his piercing eyes never leaving Harold.
“La mer. The sea, returning.”
Unconsciously, Harold found his hand gripping his sword pommel. This was indeed a strange, mystical place! Before his very eyes that faint line was becoming clearer, bolder. He could see that, aye, it was the foaming churn of breakers tumbling and swirling as the sea rushed in across that wide, flat bay. Moving so fast! Almost, Harold could fancy that those white-capped waves were the mythical horses of the sea, manes tossing, hooves drumming, galloping…galloping shoreward.
“The sea here at Mont Saint-Michel,” William explained, his eyes, too, going to watch the rapid approach of the flood tide, “runs faster than the legs of a man. Within the span of a single minute the sea will travel more than one half of a mile. On days when the wind carries their sound, you can hear the desperate cries of the souls of those drowned by tide. Those who live by the shore keep watch for the white foam and listen well to the chanson de la mer—the song of the sea.”
Harold watched, incredulous, as the bay flooded before his eyes. Soon the island of Saint Michel would, in very truth, became an island. Already, the water was beginning to encroach on either side, like two arms twining around. Within a few more minutes the river would be rising as the salt water overcame the fresh. The river water was clouding as the mud and sand and salt swirled and eddied.
“I am thinking,” Harold said slowly, “that to the unwary, this river Couesnon appears unimposing. At first sight there seems no reason why I could not ride my horse straight across. It looks as though the water would come no higher than his hocks—that a man might easily wade from this side to the other.”
William said nothing, merely raised one eyebrow. He had noted those words, the unwary, appears and at first sight. Was this English earl, then, more astute than William had given him credit for?
“I am thinking, however.” Harold continued, “that this river is not the benign waterway it pretends to be. The banks are soft, as is the bed. This is a land of marsh and sea; it is hard to judge where one ends and the other begins.” He took a breath, regarded the Duke with a long, calm gaze. “This river is deceptive. I would wager that if care is not taking in its crossing, men and horses could be lost either to the gallop of the flood or to unsuspected quicksands.”
Duke William allowed a wry smile to curve one side of his mouth. Ah, oui, this earl did, then, know his business. He nodded, slowly. “We will cross quickly and with care when the light is good, on the morrow. If you notice, I have brought with me more pack mules than baggage carts. Lumbering wheels are not good in this devious river. An animal, or a man, can feel the shift of sand beneath the feet. A wagon cannot.
“Come, let us return to camp, the day has been long. Soon we will arrive unannounced at Dol and send that whoreson Conan running.”
***
The infantry crossed first, wading with ease across the azure-blue river, and then half of the cavalry with scouts riding ahead of those first few who crossed over. Unlike Henry of France, William was not a leader to be caught with his army split and vulnerable on both sides of a dividing river.
With a cloudless sky and beaming sun beating on their backs there would be no difficulty in drying wet clothing. Harold crossed on his spirited grey stallion, then stood watching the gruelling task of bringing the wagons over. Mules were always so stubborn.
The entire army of several thousand men was crossing in disciplined formation, alert for enemy attack and, more uneasily, for the return of the sea. Soon the tide would be racing inwards again. No man would risk being in that river when la mer traître came to claim more bones to fill her deep grave.
A wagon was stuck, its wheels sinking in the softened sand bed. The mules were straining, with the assistance of an additional team, but the vehicle was as stubborn as the animals, was not going to move. Men pushed from behind, whipped the animals, hauled on ropes. Nothing, no movement, save for a precarious tilt to the high-piled, heavy cart. Other vehicles were having to skirt around it, which made their route that much longer, heightening the men’s anxiety. Then the last was over, to be followed at a canter by the rest of the mounted men, a further three, four hundred. Agitation stuttered through the ranks still waiting to cross, echoed by their brethren on the far side. More men splashed into the water to help push and to dig at the firm-stuck wheels.
Bored of the performance, Harold turned for a final look at Saint Michel. Soon they would be making way again. He would have liked to have crossed the causeway, to pray within the chapel of Notre-Dame-sous-Terre. To have taken a quiet moment in the tranquillity of God’s House to think of Edyth and the children back home in England.
All this—this openness—was beautiful, but it was also thought-provoking. The nothingness of the vaulted sky and the vast flat plain stirred the slumbering caverns of the soul and the mind. The Mont, rising so majestically, soared into the void like a shout of passion. Beyond the island the returning sea. And beyond the sea, England.
He would see this campaign through, for the sake of adventure and to gain valuable experience of the Duke’s army. Then, after William had done with Brittany—and with luck and God’s blessing gained an easy victory—he would try once again to raise the subject of the two boys and take ship for home. Normandy had its charms, but England held better. Norman women were fair, but not so handsome as Saxon lasses across that sea…the sea! God’s mercy, the tide was almost upon them and that wagon remained caught fast in the mud.
Several men noticed that imminent danger at almost the same moment, for they rushed forward to add their weight to the frantic pushing and pulling. The last of them were beginning to cross now, the footing made all the more difficult by the churned bed and the heavier suck of the shifting undercurrents. Suddenly and with no warning the wagon lurched forward and lumbered up the shallow bank, the mules sweating and shaking with effort. One brayed, the noise intermingling with the back-slapping and shouts of triumph from the men.
The sudden burst of noise startled those horses still in mid-crossing; a grey squealed and lashed out with a hind leg, catching a bay square on the knee. The animal lurched violently to the right, crashing into a chestnut, sending it staggering off balance, pitching its rider into the water. The chestnut, legs thrashing, plunged to its feet and fled riderless after the other bolting horses; a hind hoof had slammed against the rider’s head, leaving the man dazed and disorientated. Someone else nearby was crying out, the words indistinct, then a second hoof caught the unseated rider’s shoulder and, screaming with pain, the soldier went down in an open-mouthed hand-grasping flurry beneath the water.
It all happened so quickly. On the bank, most of the men were looking towards the freed wagon, congratulating those who had rescued it; few heard the cries from the river or saw what was happening. The bay horse, its leg obviously broken, was struggling to rise. Its rider, with a foot wedged in the stirrup, was being dragged and trampled, his gurgling
, water-choked voice calling desperately for help.
Harold had cheered along with the rest of them as the wagon had come free, but his attention had been more directed at the incoming tide and the level of the river—on those last horses to cross. He was one of the few to witness what had happened and he responded instinctively without thought for his own safety. He leapt down the bank and waded into the current, his arms pummelling his body forward. As he neared the terrified bay, he pulled out his dagger with one hand and with the other grasped the bridle. He brought the blade quick and deep through the animal’s throat and the river ran red, the stain flooding upstream with the inrush of the tide. Then Harold was hacking at the leather of the stirrup, severed it and the man floated free, his face ashen, the pain of his own broken bones shuddering through his body as his chattering teeth attempted to thank his rescuer. Harold reached out a hand, grabbed at the man’s shoulder and began towing him to where the second man floated, face down.
“Set your arms about my neck!” Harold urged the one with the broken leg. “I need my hands free!” The current was growing stronger, the swell and pull of mud and sucking sand around Harold’s legs and feet making it so difficult to wade, to push forward, but he was nearly there…he reached out, caught hold of the second man’s hair, dragged him nearer and managed to clamp his strong grip around the other’s wrist, started back to shore… Three other hands grasped hold of the two almost drowned unfortunates, took their weight from Harold’s aching shoulders, dragged them—and the gasping, spluttering earl—out from the water. Harold stumbled as his feet touched dry land; he sat, legs crumpled beneath him, air pumping into his lungs as he struggled to steady his breathing.
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