by Tim Severin
Thus, when I reached the duke's palace at Rouen, I pretended I was on my way to its chapel, but then swerved aside and found my way to the anteroom where his secretaries were hard at work. Standing there in my black habit, I said that I wished to meet the duke privately on a matter of importance.
'And what is the subject that you wish to discuss?' asked a junior secretary cautiously. From his expression I judged that, but for my priestly dress, I would have been turned away on the spot.
'For many years I have been compiling a history of the deeds of great men,' I answered, allowing a sanctimonious tone to creep into my voice, 'and Duke William's fame is such that I have already included much about him. Now, if the Duke would be so gracious, I would like to record how he came to inherit the throne of England, despite the false claims of his liegeman Harold Godwinsson. Then posterity can judge the matter correctly.'
'Who should I say is presenting this request?' said the secretary, making a note.
'My name,' I said, uhblushingly, 'is Rudolfus Glaber. I come from Burgundy.'
It took three days for my request to filter through the levels of bureaucracy which surrounded the duke. I spent the interval observing the preparations for the forthcoming campaign. Not since my days in Constantinople had I seen such a well-managed military machine. A space had been cleared in front of the city wall where, in the mornings, a company of bowmen practised their archery. Their task would be to pin down the enemy formations under a rain of arrows until the mounted knights could deliver their charge. In the afternoons the same practice ground was used for infantry drill.
A little to the north of the city was a grassy field where I watched the manoeuvres of a large conroy, a cavalry unit contributed to the duke's army by the Count of Mortagne. The Convoy numbered about a dozen knights accompanied by an equal number of squires or assistants. All wore chain mail, but only six of the knights were mounted on the heavy destriers. The others rode horses of a more normal size, and so they were practising how best to coordinate their attack. The lighter cavalry cantered their horses up to a line of straw targets and threw their lances, using them as javelins. Then they wheeled away, leaving their comrades on the heavy horses to advance at a ponderous trot so that their riders could run the targets through with their thicker, weightier lances or slash them to shreds with long swords. When this part of the exercise was over, the light cavalry dismounted, laid aside their metal swords and were given practice weapons with wooden blades. The conroy then divided in two and fought a mock battle, cutting and hacking at one another under the gaze of their leaders, who from time to time shouted out an order. At that moment one side or the other would turn and pretend to flee, drawing opponents forward. Then, at another shouted command, the fugitives would halt their pretended flight and the heavy cavalry, who were still on horseback and waited in reserve, lumbered forward to deliver the counter-blow.
While this was going on, I quietly sauntered forward to take a closer look at one of the battle swords that had been laid aside. It was heavier and longer than the weapons I had seen when in the emperor's Life Guard in Constantinople, and it had a groove down the length of the long straight blade. There was also an inscription worked in bronze lettering. I read IN NOMINI DOMINI.
"Very appropriate, don't you think, father?' said a voice, and I looked up to meet the gaze of a heavily muscled man wearing a leather apron. No doubt he was the armourer for the conroy.
'Yes,' I agreed. 'In the Lord's name. It seems to be a fine blade.'
'Made in the Rhine countries, like most of our swords,' continued the armourer. 'Quality depends on which smithy makes them. The Germans turn them out by the dozen. If the blade snaps, it's not worth repairing. You only have to prise off the handle grips and fit a new blade.'
I remembered the consignment of sword blades taken aboard the cog before she wrecked. 'Can't be easy finding a replacement blade.'
'Not this time,' said the armourer. 'I've served the count for the best part of twenty years, making mail and repairing weapons on his campaigns, and I've never seen anything like the amount of spare gear that is being provided — not just sword blades, but helmets, lance heads, arrow shafts, the lot. Cartloads and cartloads of it. I'm beginning to wonder how it will all fit on the transports - if the transports are ready in time, that is. There's a rumour that some of us will be sent to Dives to help the shipwrights.'
'Dives? Where's that?' I asked.
'West along. The gear that's coming in to Rouen is being shipped downriver. The boats themselves are being built all up and down the coast. Dives is where the fleet is assembling. From there it will strike at England.'
It occurred to me that Harold Godwinsson must know what was going on, and that the English could put a stop to the invasion by raiding across the sea and destroying the Norman fleet while it was still at anchor. William's transports would make easy targets. By contrast, Harald's Norwegian ships, now gathering at Trondheim, were too far distant to be intercepted.
I was just, about to ask the armourer if Duke William was taking any precautions against an English raid when a pageboy arrived with an urgent summons to the ducal palace. My request for a meeting with the duke had been granted, and I was to go there at once.
I followed the lad through the streets and along a series of corridors into the heart of the palace, where Duke William had his audience chamber. My suspicions should have been aroused by the swiftness of my reception. The pageboy handed me over to a knight who acted as the doorkeeper, and within moments I was ushered into the council chamber itself, the doorkeeper at my heels. I found myself in a large, rather dark room, poorly lit by narrow window slits in the thick stone walls. Seated on a carved wooden chair in the centre of the room was a burly man of about my own height but running to fat, with a close-cropped head and a bad-tempered look on his face. I guessed him to be in his mid-forties. I knew he must be Duke William of Normandy, but to me he looked more like a truculent farm bailiff accustomed to bullying his peasants. He was eyeing me with dislike.
Five other men were in the room. Three of them were obviously high-ranking nobles. They were dressed, like the duke, in belted costumes of expensive fabric, tight hose, and laced leather shoes. They had the bearing and manner of fighting men, yet they were strangely dandified because they wore their hair close-shaved from halfway down their heads in pudding-bowl style, a foppish fashion which, I later learned, had been copied from the southern lands of Auvergne and Aquitaine. They too were regarding me with hostility. The other two occupants of the room were churchmen. In stark contrast to my plain black and white costume, they wore long white robes with embroidered silk borders at the neck and sleeves, and the crosses suspended on their chests were studded with semi-precious stones. The crosses looked more like jewellery than symbols of their faith.
'I hear you want to write about me,' stated the duke. His voice was harsh and guttural, in keeping with his coarse appearance.
'Yes, my lord. With your permission. I am a chronicler and I have already completed five books of history, and— with God's grace - I am embarking on a sixth. My name is Rudolfus Glaber, and I have travelled here from my monastery in Burgundy.'
'I think not,' said a voice behind me.
I turned. Stepping out of the shadows was a man wearing the same plain black and white costume as myself. My glance dropped to his left hand, which lacked three fingers. It was Regimus, the almoner of the monastery of the Holy Trinity at Fecamp. In the same instant the doorkeeper, standing directly behind me, clasped his arms around me, pinioning my arms to my sides.
'Brother Maurus never mentioned that you came from Burgundy, and you do not speak with a Burgundian accent,' said the almoner. 'The brother in charge of our laundry also reported that a gown and habit were missing from his inventory, but not until I heard about a mysterious black-clad monk here in Rouen did I deduce that you must be the same man. I had not expected you to be so bold as to claim you were Rudolf Glaber himself.'
"Who are you
, old man?' interrupted William, his voice even harsher than before. 'A spy for Harold? I did not know he employed dotards.'
'Not a spy for Harold, my lord,' I wheezed. I could scarcely breathe. The doorkeeper was gripping me so hard that I thought he would break my ribs. 'I am sent by Harald, Harald of Norway.'
'Let him speak,' ordered William.
The painful grip eased. I took several deep breaths.
'My lord, my name is Thorgils, and I am the envoy of King Harald of Norway.'
'If you are his ambassador, why did you not come openly rather than creeping about in disguise.'
I thought quickly. It would be disastrous to confess that Harald had asked me to evaluate William's invasion plans before offering an alliance. That was true espionage.
'The message I bring is so confidential that my lord instructed me to deliver it privately. I adopted this disguise for that purpose.'
'You soil the cloth you wear,' sneered one of the exquisitely dressed priests.
The duke silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand. I could see that William demanded, and received, instant obedience from his entourage. He seemed more than ever like a bullying bailiff.
'What is this message that you bring from Norway?'
I had recovered my confidence enough to glance at William's attendants, then say, 'It is for your ears only.'
William was beginning to get angry. A small vein on the right side of his forehead had started to throb.
'State your message before I have you hanged as a spy or put to torture to learn the truth.'
'My lord Harald of Norway suggests an alliance,' I began quickly. 'He is assembling a fleet to invade the north of England, and knows that you are planning to land forces in the south of the country. You both fight the same enemy, so he proposes that the two armies coordinate their attack. Harold Godwinsson will be obliged to fight on two fronts, and will be crushed.'
'And what then?' There was disdain in William's voice.
'After Godwinsson has been defeated, England is to be divided. The south ruled by Normandy, the north by Norway.'
The duke narrowed his eyes. 'And where will the dividing line be drawn?'
'That I do not know, my lord. But the division would be based on mutual agreement, once Godwinsson has been disposed of.'
William gave a grunt of dismissal. 'I'll think about it,' he said, 'but first I need to know the timing. When does Harald plan to land his forces.'
'His advisers are pressing him to invade England no later than September.'
'Take him away,' said William to the doorkeeper, who was still standing behind me. 'Make sure he is kept in safe custody.'
I passed that night in a cell in the ducal prison, sleeping on damp straw, and in the morning I was encouraged when the same pageboy who had brought me to the palace reappeared to tell the guard to release me. Once again, I was led to the duke's audience chamber, where I found William and the same advisers already gathered. The duke came straight to the point.
'You may inform your lord that I agree to his proposal. My army will land on the south coast of England in the first or second week of September. The precise date will depend on the weather. My transport barges need calm conditions and a favourable wind to make the crossing. According to my information, Harold
Godwinsson has called out the English levies, and is presently holding his forces on the south coast, so it is likely that he will dispute our landing. Therefore it is important that King Harald keeps to his programme and opens a second front no later than mid-September.'
'I understand, my lord.'
'One more detail. You are to remain here with me. It may be necessary to communicate with your king as the campaign gets under way. You will act as our intermediary.'
'As you wish, my lord. I will prepare a despatch for King Harald confirming the details. If you can provide a vessel, I will send the message to Norway.'
That same day, feeling quietly satisfied that my mission had been accomplished so easily, I wrote out a summary of what had happened. To prevent William's secretaries tampering with my report, I hid my meanings in phrases that only those who knew the ways of skaldic verse would understand. Harald became 'the feeder of eagle of sea of carrion vulture' and the Norman invasion fleet was 'the gull's wake horses'. And when I came to write about William himself, I buried my meaning even deeper, because I was not complimentary about his character. He became the 'horse of wife of Yggr' because Harold would know that Yggr's wife was a giantess, and that she rode a wolf. Finally, to make doubly sure that the letter was treated as genuine, I folded the parchment, using the same system of secret folds which, in Constantinople, would prove that the despatch was authentic and which was known to Harald, and gave the letter to a mounted courier, who took it to the Norman coast. From there a ship would carry the despatch to Trondheim.
For the next five weeks my status at William's court was ambiguous. I was neither a prisoner nor a free man. I was treated as if I was a minor retainer in the service of William, yet everywhere I was accompanied by an armed guard. All around me the preparations for the invasion continued apace, and in early
August, when William moved with his retinue to Dives to begin the embarkation of his troops, I went with him.
The scene at Dives was the culmination of the months of preparation. The port lay at the mouth of a small river, and by the time I arrived almost the entire invasion fleet had mustered in the roadstead. I counted at least six hundred vessels, many of them simple barges specially designed to carry troops. Lines of tents had been erected on the beach, and the army engineers had built cookhouses, latrines and stables. Squads of shipwrights were putting the finishing touches to the transports, and there was a constant coming and going of messengers and despatch riders as the infantry and conroys mustered for their embarkation. I had wondered how the destriers, the heavy horses, would be loaded, and now I saw the method. The cavalry transports were brought up on to the gently sloping beaches at high tide, and anchored. The ebbing tide left the flat-bottomed barges stranded, and the carpenters then placed low ramps up which the horses were led — sometimes with difficulty — and then stabled in the barges with their feed and water. There the massive animals seemed content to stand and eat as the incoming tide refloated the vessels and they were warped out into the roadstead.
On the eleventh day of September the duke did have his 'devil's luck', because, just at the time he had promised his invasion, the wind turned into the south-west as a gentle breeze, and held. At dusk William summoned me to his command tent, and, in the presence of his commanders, gestured towards the northern horizon.
'Now you can tell your master,' he said, 'that William of Normandy keeps his word. Tomorrow we complete our loading and sail for England. You will be staying behind to make your final report.'
The following morning I watched the entire fleet raise anchor and, taking advantage of the flood tide, set out to sea. As I trudged back up the beach to where my guardian man-at-arms stood waiting, I felt I had served my liege lord well, and for the last time. When the opportunity came I would be king's man for Harald no longer, and I would return to Sweden and seek out my twins. I was feeling old.
The man-at-arms was content to dawdle. It was pleasant on the coast, and he was in no hurry to return to his barracks at Rouen, so we spent the next few days at Dives. The place, now that the fleet had sailed, had a slightly desolate atmosphere. The beach where the barges had loaded still showed signs of the departure, and there were traces where the tents had stood, piles of horse droppings, grooves left by the carts that had brought the stores, and charred marks where cooking fires had burned. There was an air of finality. The roadstead was empty. Time was suspended while we waited to hear what was happening with the invasion.
The weather continued fair, with bright sunshine and a light south-west breeze, and to pass the time I arranged with a local fisherman to go out on his boat each morning when he checked his nets. There, ten days after I had watched t
he Norman fleet depart, we were bobbing gently on the sea when I identified a familiar profile. A small vessel was beating down towards us. Hard on the wind, she was making slow progress, but there was no mistaking her origin. She was a small trading ship, Danish- or Norwegian-built. As she tacked her way into the roadstead at Dives, I was sure that she had come to collect me, and that Harald must have received my letter.
I asked the fisherman to row me across so that we intercepted the vessel before she made her landfall. Standing up in the fishing boat, I called out a greeting, glad to speak Norse once again. I was still wearing my stolen monkish gown, so the vessel's skipper must have thought it odd that a Christian priest spoke his language, but he spilled the wind from his sail and the vessel turned up into the wind so I could scramble aboard. The first person whom I saw on deck was Skule Konfrostre, the same young hothead who had boasted that the Norwegians would smash the English huscarls. I was perturbed to see that he was very agitated.
'Is everything all right with Harald's campaign?' I asked, alarmed by his manner. 'Has he landed safely on the English coast?'
'Yes, yes, our fleet crossed from Norway in late August and safely reached the coast of Scotland. When I left him, Harald was advancing down the coast. He sent me to find out what was happening with the attack that Duke William promised. He has heard nothing further.'
'You need not worry about that,' I said complacently. 'I watched Duke William's fleet sail for England ten days ago. By now they should be well ashore and advancing inland. Godwinsson is caught in a trap.'
Skule looked at me as if I had lost my wits.
'How is it, then, that only yesterday, as we passed southward along the coast, we saw the Norman fleet lying quietly at anchor some distance up the coast. The skipper knows the place. He says it is a port called St Valery, in the lands of the Duke of Ponthieu. They have not even crossed to England yet.'
