Spear Havoc 1066

by C. R. May

  Maybe Harold was content to leave ultimate rule to others if they were prepared in turn to guarantee his own earldom and those of his brothers, but was pressed by the Witan to take the crown as the only suitable English candidate in a time of crisis. Harold may well have worked loyally in support of King William, as his own father Godwin had done for several kings; it had been after all, the means by which the family had risen from obscurity to unimaginable wealth and power in little more than half a century.

  5

  ASSASSINS

  THE KEEP OF LE VAUDREUIL CASTLE

  WINTER 1040

  The log settled with a crack, sending a plume of sparks billowing. Osbern was awake in an instant, and he tensed in the dark as his ears strained to pick up the slightest sound. A faint light showed beneath the heavy oak door, and the comforting shadow cast by the guard who patrolled the passageway outside slid across it as the man continued his nocturnal watch.

  The seneschal slowly uncurled his fingers from the sword grip and lay back with a sigh. Five years had passed since the old duke had died on his return trip from Jerusalem, and the duchy was still in chaos. It sometimes appeared as if every baron and knight, within the borders of Normandy and without, were either in active revolt or scheming among themselves for the ultimate prize of winning the title Duke of the Normans for himself.

  The wind outside the keep whistled and howled around its sturdy battlements, and Osbern reached across to run a hand lightly across the dips and mounds of the woman at his side. She purred in her sleep, prompting a predatory smile: could he wait until morning? Reassured now that all was well his mind drifted back to the first time he had laid eyes upon her as he drew back the cover to drink in her beauty. Crossing the little River Charentonne in company with his closest men he had stumbled upon the woman bathing in the clear waters, and he recalled her efforts to cover the fullness of her breasts with handfuls of pondweed with a chuckle of delight. Luck had deserted her that day. Very few people knew that the local lord used the shallows there as a shortcut home, but learning that she had been newly widowed the seneschal had offered her a place in his household. It was one of the best decisions he had made he snorted, as he watched the down on the small of her back stiffen in the cool night air. She had certainly shed any feelings of bashfulness once he had taken her to his bed. Osbern’s hand moved to gently cup the smoothness of a buttock as her scent excited his senses, but an instant later his desire fled as a sound from the passageway caused him to freeze. There were two types of nobles in Normandy — those who could sniff out danger in their sleep or even in the throes of passion and the dead, and he listened hard as the girl shifted beside him. There it was again: a slight murmur. He recognised the sound for what it was, and slipping from the bed crept across to the archway which led to the small room adjoining his own. A quick glance back at the door confirmed his fears as he saw the unmistakable flurry of shadows which marked the death of his guard. Turning quickly, he called into the small bed chamber. ‘Duke William, arm yourself, we are under attack!’

  Despite his years, the duke was awake in an instant. Springing from his bed he took up his sword and fixed his guardian with a penetrating stare.

  ‘Numbers?’

  The seneschal shook his head and tried to encourage the boy with a grim smile. ‘Your loyal men will arrive before they can break in, but if they do we shall strike them down and make a heap of their bodies together. Remember our plan, lord. I shall defend this portal, and you fight like a Duke of Normandy should I fall.’

  William nodded, his eyes bright with excitement. Now a man of ten full years, he relished the opportunity to kill those who wished him harm.

  Osbern reached out to the bell which he kept beside the settle for just such emergencies, but to his surprise he found that he was clutching at air. Irritated by his clumsiness, he cast a look back at the main door as he heard the handle turn. It would do them little good. The door was as thick as his arm and made of good seasoned oak, while the hinges on which such a stout door was hung could suspend a horse. The locking bar would hold them, and soon the tolling of the bell would alert his men who would race to snuff out the danger.

  Osbern gasped in horror at the scene which greeted him: ‘No!’

  The beam had already been removed and stood propped against the wall of the chamber, the bell resting mutely at its side. The woman was already reaching out to turn the key in the lock as the shadows gathered on the far side.

  As the seneschal braced himself to receive the attack he knew in his heart that he had failed his lord, that the young duke would fall. It was the futile last action of a dead man.

  THE MIDNIGHT RIDE

  The guard paused as if hoping the man at his shoulder would disappear, before making a fist to tap on the boards of the door. He threw the slight figure a sidelong look, all of his fears revealed in the glance as the sound reverberated along the passageway. ‘This information had better be reliable,’ he growled. ‘Waking the duke after a long day in the saddle, and on the say-so of a jongleur!’ Walter shook his head as his knuckles came up to rap the boards a little louder. ‘If this is some kind of joke, you will need more than fine words and merry tunes to recover your bladder-on-a-stick from where I will be shoving it.’

  The guard paused, cocking an ear as close to the duke’s door as he dare. It was bad enough that he had drawn the first watch after a day hunt, the thought of his lord throwing the door open with his ear pressed against it would just about make the night complete. Walter glared at the harlequin as the time to make a decision arrived, before sliding his eyes across to look at the spearmen flanking the doorway. ‘Remain here with these boys,’ he said, ‘unless either myself or Duke William calls you into the chamber.’ Without waiting for a reply, the big Norman turned the handle and slipped into the room. A shadow detached itself from a corner, the accompanying growl rooting him to the spot as the wolfhound lowered his head and slunk across. Walter clicked his tongue, opening a hand to allow the dog to catch his scent as his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. The fire against the sidewall cast a crimson glow across the chamber, the guttering flames breathing life into the men and beasts adorning the wall hangings.

  The wolfhound reached him, and Walter purred the dog’s name as the damp nose came up to sniff. The noise at last woke the sole occupant from his slumber, and man and dog instinctively drew themselves upright as the duke’s legs swung clear of the bed and his hand closed about the handle of his sword. ‘Who is it?’

  The guard cleared his throat. ‘It is Walter de Lacey, lord. There is a man here who says he has uncovered a plot against your life.’

  Despite the intrusion, William snorted as he knuckled the sleep from his eyes. ‘That is hardly news Walter, could it not wait until morning?’

  ‘He says not, lord. He assures me that you are in great danger.’

  William nodded, tossing his sword on the bed as he reached for a gown. ‘Is this fellow known to us?’

  Walter’s heart sank, but he had come this far and there was no going back. ‘It’s the jongleur the men call Ivo, lord.’

  The Duke thought for a moment as he sought to place the name. Then he had it. ‘Taillefer you mean? The gleeman whose favourite recital is the Song of Roland?’

  Walter nodded. ‘That’s him, the one with the funny stick.’ He pulled a face. ‘He was very insistent, lord.’

  William nodded. ‘I will see him.’

  The duke turned aside, moving across to fill a cup from the side board as his bodyguard drew the door inward and motioned with his head. William savoured the feeling of the mead as it went down; the hunt had been a success: deer; fowl; even a boar had fallen to their lances and arrows. The night had been long and raucous despite their tiredness, as the men had feasted on the flesh of their quarry and drunk deep into the night.

  Taillifer hurried in, a little too fast for the dog whose raised hackles and low growl were enough to check his stride, but a moment later the man was on one knee
as he bent his head in supplication and the dog bared its fangs and circled. William ran his eyes over the figure before him as he drained the cup. Still in his performing clothes he looked travel-worn and dishevelled, and the distinctive smell of a horse run hard came from him. If it was a trick it was a well thought through one, and the duke felt the first feelings of alarm as he indicated that the man rise and speak.

  ‘My duke, my beloved lord,’ the man blurted. ‘Men are on their way to kill you. They are not far behind me, you must look to your defence.’

  Duke William sensed Walter begin to move, but he held up a hand to stay him. Nobody gave the duke of Normandy orders, save perhaps King Henry, his liege lord in far-off Paris, but this duke had not survived nigh on twenty years and several assassination attempts without developing a sense of impending danger. He was deep within the Cotentin, an area his spies had already warned him was becoming a hotbed of resistance to his rule under the prodding of Guy, the count of Burgundy. Maybe he had underestimated just how advanced their plans had become? William forced his voice to remain calm as his mind began to reckon the number of soldiers available to him, cursing the decision which had let his supporters and their valuable soldiery return to their castles following the feasting. ‘From whence have you come, Taillefer?’ he said. ‘Tell me all you know.’

  The minstrel was clearly distressed and he began to repeat his earlier plea, but his sense of duty reasserted itself before William could intervene, and the duke listened with growing alarm as the man recounted his tale. ‘I was the entertainer at Le Homme castle, my lord. A minstrel hears many things when wine loosens tongues, and I listened in as the following men pledged their forces and toasted your downfall.’ William shared a look of concern with Walter as Taillefer reeled off a list of the most important men in the area. ‘They are led by Count Guy of Brionne who aims to take the duchy for himself. The other conspirators present were: Nigel, count of Cotentin; Rannulf, count of Bessin; Haimo Dentatus and Grimoult du Plessis. I thought to rise early and warn you on the morrow, but all of a sudden du Plessis jumps up and declares that he will do the deed tonight. The hall was in uproar my duke as he and his men made ready to leave, so it was easy for a humble entertainer to slip away in the din.’ Taillifer fixed the duke with a look, and the fear reflected in his gaze convinced William that the man told the truth. ‘I urge you to wake the garrison lord, the horses were being saddled as I left, they cannot be far behind me.’

  William shot a look at Walter. ‘How many men do we have here?’

  ‘No more than a score, lord,’ he answered sadly. ‘The castle was too small to house more with the numbers of guests we were to entertain following the hunt.’

  William nodded as he slipped into his leggings. ‘That is too few to withstand a siege, we shall ride for home. Bring my boots and gather the men.’ His decision made, the duke moved with speed. Taking the stone steps two at a time, he was crossing the bailey to the stable block when he was approached by one of his guards. ‘The man on the walkway reports horsemen on the northern road, lord,’ the sentinel reported, ‘maybe a mile off and heading this way. Judging by the moonlight reflecting from mail and helm he puts their number at three score or more.’

  The duke stole a glance at the night sky. A gibbous moon shone brightly in a firmament awash with stars, and he sent a prayer of thanks to the Lord in Heaven that he had seen fit to aid him in his struggle.

  The guard was speaking again. ‘I have taken the liberty of ordering the horses saddled, lord. We await your orders.’ The heavy stomp of booted feet caused the duke to turn back. His soldiery were emerging from the doorway in various stages of undress as the sleep befuddled men pulled on mail and buckled sword belts. Walter was at their head, his lord’s riding boots in his hand, but the chill of cold stone on the soles of his feet was forgotten as the man stopped and cocked an ear. The courtyard grew still as men paused to listen, and expressions of alarm replaced heavy-eyed looks as the thud of hoofbeats carried to them on the still air. Walter’s eyes widened in dread. ‘Ride, lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘We will hold them off for as long as we can, and make our own way back.’

  It took only a moment of hesitation before the duke saw the wisdom in his friend’s words, and he nodded gravely as the mount was led across and he hauled himself into the saddle. ‘Disrupt their charge and make your escape,’ he called as he dragged the head of his horse towards the castle gate. He swept the compound with a final look as his heels went back to urge his mount on. ‘They will not be expecting to face opposition on the road and will quickly lose heart; strike like a thunderbolt and make for Falaise.’ He reiterated his order as the horse passed into the shadow cast by the barbican. They were among the best of his men and he would need them for the coming war. ‘Remember, no unnecessary heroics. Go in hard, scatter them and make your way south.’

  Walter’s voice was the last thing he heard as the horse passed through the archway, the familiar gruffness comforting to the young duke as the woodland which gird the fortress came into view. William pulled at the reins, pausing the horse as it came onto the moon washed castle approach. Like many such strong points Castle Valognes had been constructed at a strategic crossing point, the place where the main routes led away to east and west, north and south. The clatter of hoofbeats came clearly now from the North: safety lay to the South, but if that was obvious to him he had to assume that it would be just as plain to his enemies. He recalled a smaller pathway leading southwestwards, the meandering route little more than a country track a little way along the main route south, and he clicked his horse on as he realised that he had little option; he would have to take the chance that no riders had been sent on ahead to block any retreat.

  The first of his men were exiting the barbican, Walter de Lacey’s armour sword blade bright in the moonlight as he took the northern road, but William was already back in the shadows and increasing the pace. The duke urged the horse into a steady canter, mindful that he would need to set a steady gait if they were to ride through the night and reach the safety of Falaise. The roadway stretched away, iron grey in the gloom, and within half a mile William saw the gnarled oak, bent backed and twisted like an aged crone, which marked the entrance to the woodland path. Moments later he was within its welcome embrace, and although the darkness forced him to reduce his progress to a walk, the worries began to sluice away as he came to the realisation that he had evaded yet another attempt on his life. The path was narrow here, but he recalled from the hunt that it opened out within the mile and he forced his way through. Low hung branches plucked at the sleeve of his tunic, pulling him this way and that as he rode — a bough caught him a stinging blow in the gloom. His breeches had ridden up and thorns and brambles scored the young duke’s calves as the horse shouldered them aside, but high above the star studded sky was a belt of light pointing unerringly towards safety and he pressed on.

  Soon the worst of the obstacles were behind him, and with the drop in pace came the opportunity to take stock of his situation. The duke’s mind filtered the options available to him as the horse plodded on. He had hunted these lands only the previous day and many times before, he knew them well, and as the sickle moon came into view above to light the way he reached his decision. The castle of his loyal servant Hubert de Ryes lay not more than a dozen miles ahead. The track joined the road from Valognes to the town of Carentan which guarded the crossing point of the River Vire. Cross the river and the duke knew for certain that he was back in the lands loyal to his rule, but he may need help to get that far and Hubert was the father of three fine sons, each knighted by William’s own hand. It was the perfect destination, and with the moonlight painting the woodland with its steely light and the path widening the duke put back his heels and risked a gallop.

  He made good time, and as the night sky began to pale and the stars lost their lustre, William left the track and regained the main thoroughfare. The first smear of grey on the eastern horizon told of the nearness of the new day as he ca
ntered the final mile, and soon the crenelated battlement on the keep of Castle Ryes hove into view atop its sheer sided motte. The first flicker of dawn was lighting the sky as duke William rounded the final bend and came to the home of his friend, and soon he was guiding his horse across the drawbridge and through the barbican into the bailey. A small church stood to one side, and the rhythmic chants of Lauds floated across the courtyard as the duke eased his travel weary body down from the saddle and led the beast across to a water trough. As God fearing as any man in Normandy, Hubert de Ryes was almost certain to be at the service which marked the dawn of the new day, and William made the sign of the cross as he drew back the door and dropped silently onto a pew at the rear. Raising his eyes to scan the benches William was gratified to see that his guess had been correct, the four men of the de Lacey family filling the front row of the tiny space, and he relaxed for the first time since the minstrel Taillifer had caused him to be dragged from his slumber hours before as the words washed over him and he made his own peace with God. Very soon the service was over, and William made the sign of the cross as he regained his feet and slipped back outside. The horse was still there and the duke moved around it, running a practised palm along the fetlocks and shanks, checking the hooves for stones and debris as any good horseman should until a cry of surprise told him that de Ryes had exited the chapel. Duke William raised his eyes, smiling for the first time that day at the looks of astonishment which lit his friend’s features as they hurried across. ‘I have had a bit of a night,’ he quipped as they fussed around him. ‘But I am among friends now, and I wish to complete my journey with all haste.’