New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  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 – how 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 also 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. Sevenyear-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.

  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 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.