by C. R. May
Hubert de Lacey looked at the duke in astonishment. Barefoot and dishevelled there could only be one explanation. ‘Trahison?’
William nodded. ‘I was attacked at Valognes by Grimoult du Plessis acting on behalf of Guy of Brionne.’ He shot them all a look, all the humour driven from his features as the men quailed beneath the savagery contained within it. ‘I have the names of the leading men and they will be dead or in exile before the end of summer.’
Hubert spoke again. ‘May I ask their names lord? It may help me to aid your escape if I know which lands are disloyal.’
Duke William reeled off the names supplied by Taillifer in his bed chamber the night before, and the four men shared a look as the scale of the revolt was laid bare. ‘You will need to cross the River Vire lord, and quickly,’ Hubert said. ‘The easiest way would be to carry on south and leave the Cotentin through the town which gives the region its name….’ His voice trailed away, and the palm of a hand beat a tattoo on his thigh as he thought. Finally Hubert shook his head. ‘If the revolt is as widespread as you say, the conspirators would have moved to block off that route of escape as a matter of urgency. After all,’ he said with a gleam in his eye. ‘Their heads depend on it.’
Henry de Ryes put in a suggestion of his own as the elders deliberated. ‘I could lead the duke to the ferry at the mouth of the river, father. There are no more bridges downstream, and if the town of Cotentin has fallen to traitorous knights, I expect that the roads and crossing points inland will be guarded.’
The de Ryes men looked to the duke for his reaction: they were not to be disappointed. ‘It is a good plan,’ William said. ‘We leave immediately.’
Henry rushed to arm, and Hubert indicated to his younger sons with a flick if his head. ‘Hugh, Ralph — go with your brother while I find something a little more appropriate for the duke to wear.’
By the time the horses were saddled the trio could be seen descending from the keep, and William spooned another mouthful of the porridge which the priest had served up as the villagers gawped from a respectful distance. It was plainer fare than that to which he was accustomed, but warming and hearty after the trials of the night before; it reminded the duke of being on campaign, and the thought cheered him further as he saw in it the sign that his counteroffensive against the traitors had already begun. Clad now in stout riding boots and Hubert’s best cloak William was beginning to feel less like a fugitive and more like the duke of Normandy, and he clasped the older man’s hand in thanks as he climbed back into the saddle. The de Ryes boys were mounting their steeds on the far side of the bailey, and William turned his face to their father as he hauled the horse’s head around to face the gatehouse. ‘You have my thanks Hubert, I am in your debt.’ He cast a look at his surroundings as the brothers walked the geldings across to join him. A bank, ditch and wooden palisade, the barbican and even the keep itself hewn from the woodland which surrounded them. Perfectly serviceable for a minor lord it had none of the grandeur of his betters, and William pledged to put that right. ‘I never forget a friend,’ he said earnestly. ‘As soon as I see off these renegades, we will see to replacing your wooden walls with the finest Pierre de Caen, magnificent Norman limestone.’
William was away before the lord of the manor had time to react to the statement, angling a horse now rejuvenated by a well earned rest and a bellyful of oats over to and through the shadow cast by the barbican on its stout oak posts. The drawbridge thundered beneath the hooves of the knights as the de Ryes brothers slid seamlessly into his wake, and William guided the horse northeastwards as he led the group towards the coast. Soon the River Vire was glimpsed through the trees on the righthand side, the surface shimmering as the sun rose higher, and within the hour they were approaching the place where it emptied into the sea. William reined in as the trees drew back to reveal a wide estuary dotted by sandbanks between rock strewn shorelines. He turned back as his companions came up. ‘Where do we cross?’
As the elder brother Henry spoke for them all. ‘There is a ferry at the tip of the headland, lord,’ he replied. ‘We can take the boat and the horses can swim alongside. It’s only a short distance, if we hold their reins they will be fine, I have done it many times.’
William nodded. ‘Lead on Henry. If it is as easy as you say we shall soon be back in Falaise, and we will see what the king of France has to say about cowardly attacks upon faithful liegemen.’ The duke reflected on the brothers as Henry led the group towards the coastal path. It was unusual to find three knights living at the family home and he wondered at it. That he had been negligent towards them was now obvious, all men of note craved land and a hall of their own, but he would ensure that each had ample opportunity to distinguish themselves in the upcoming war and they would reap the rewards of their loyalty.
As Henry de Ryes rounded the final bend the silvery waters of La Manche came into view, and William filled his lungs with the invigorating air. Offshore the fishing boats were returning to port after a hard night’s work harvesting the deep, the chaos of gulls which squawked overhead testament to the fish gutting onboard as the fishermen raced to become the first to deliver their catch to market. The boat which was to carry them across was clearly visible on the shoreline, and William shared a few words with Hugh and Ralph as their brother negotiated the fee. Within a few moments Henry was beckoning them down to the strand, and the trio dismounted as the ferryman and his helpers began to manhandle the rowboat into the shallows. Men came to unsaddle the horses and soon they were ready to board. ‘You sit amidships, lord,’ Henry smiled as the duke cocked a leg over the side. ‘It is the most comfortable and stable part of the boat.’ William was not about to argue. Their ancestors may have been Northmen, but the Norman aristocracy had long since lost their love of the sea along with their barbarous speech and adherence to the creed of Oðinn. Now they were as French their neighbours.
The duke took his place at the widest part of the boat as the saddles were distributed, and the younger de Ryes hauled themselves aboard and took their places in the stern. Willing hands heaved the small craft into deeper water and soon the ferryman was arching his back, oaring the craft upstream as he sought to bring them safely to the far bank. For a while the horses were able to tread the sandy bottom, the beasts creating waves of their own as they bobbed along, but as deeper water was gained and they sank to their withers the killers made their move.
Before William could react a blur of movement marked where a rope had been thrown over his shoulders from behind, and as the duke struggled to free himself he froze as the chill of a sharp blade at his throat told him that his struggles would be in vain. The rope was being tightened as Henry de Ryes left his place in the bow and crouched before him, and William fought down the urge to hawk in the traitor’s face as he resolved to die like a duke of Normans. ‘We will do you a final service, William,’ the knight said as the horrified ferryman leapt overboard and struck out for the shore. ‘Even the bastard son of a tanner’s daughter deserves better than a death by drowning.’ Henry clicked his fingers as if he had just recalled something of little importance. ‘Oh…’ he added with a look of glee. ‘I almost forgot. You would have done well to ride straight to Carentan. A pedlar arrived at the castle just as we rose for church, carrying the startling news that the duke had narrowly escaped an attempt on his life. He told us that Walter de Lacey and the rest of his merry band are holding the bridge in the town, as they anxiously await their lord’s arrival.’
The duke watched as Henry de Ryes raised his eyes, clearly exchanging a look of joy with his brothers in the rear of the boat. ‘It is an ignoble end, but you are the acknowledged son of old Duke Robert.’ A curt nod, and William gasped as he felt a hot gush at his throat and the dagger did its work. ‘So we have opened your throat before we tumble you over the side.’
Afterword
Of all the instances where duke William came close to assassination, perhaps the two examples I have chosen to recast above came nearest to s
uccess. William inherited the duchy on the death of his father in 1035 when he was seven or eight years old. Robert the Magnificent had died on the way home from pilgrimage to the Holy Land, but before he left he had sworn the nobles of Normandy to support William as heir. In addition the duke arranged for three powerful figures to support his son in the eventuality: Alan of Brittany was to act as guardian, William’s uncle Robert archbishop of Rouen brought the church onside all overseen by the power of the French king, Robert’s liege lord Henry I. This triumvirate appears to have kept the ambitions of the Norman aristocracy in check for the first few years of William’s rule, but with the death of the duke of Brittany in 1040 the storm broke.
Orderic Vitalis tells that the young duke was often hidden in the homes of peasants in order to survive capture or assassination, and a succession of guardians died in quick order. Gilbert of Brionne and Turchetil were murdered within months of each other and Osbern Seneschal, Osbern the Steward in English, was soon added to their number. It seems that the young William really was kept for safety within Osbern’s bedchamber in the castle at Le Vaudreuil, and that he witnessed his would-be assassins get close enough to cut his guardian’s throat before he was rescued by the timely arrival of loyal forces. William would later repay the debt he owed the family by rewarding the seneschal’s son, William FitzOsbern, with the earldom of Hereford following his loyal support both in Normandy and England during the conquest.
The early 1040s must have been a time of enormous danger for the young duke, but he was growing and maturing under the ongoing protection of the church and king of France. With every passing year he continued to forge close friendships with the young sons of his guardians and supporters, the nucleus of the army which would follow him to England in 1066. Matters came to a head in 1046/7 with the plot to replace William with his cousin, Count Guy of Brionne. Whether William travelled to the castle at Valognes to hunt as in our second tale or to face down the rebels is unclear, different chroniclers favour one or the other, but it does appear that the duke was warned by a minstrel that he was in imminent danger and forced to flee in his nightwear to save his life. The young duke made it by way of backwoods tracks to the castle of the minor noble Hubert de Ryes, where the count sent his three sons to escort William to safety in Falaise rather than murdering him as in our tale. You can still walk a small section of their journey today, from Asnelles to the River Gronde, along the pathway known as la sente au Bátard — the Bastard’s path. Back in lands loyal to him the duke raced on to meet with the king of France at the town of Poissy near Paris, where William reminded the king that an attack on a loyal underling must be seen as an attack upon the French king himself. Henry agreed, and in 1047 rode west at the head of an army in support. That their combined host was outnumbered 2 to 1 tells of the scale of the threat, but when the forces met in battle at Val-ès-Dunes the insurgents were put to flight with heavy loss.
Remarkably it was the first time that duke William had fought in a pitched battle, and he was not to do so again until the very first time he would lead a field army in battle as sole commander — facing an English shield wall on a Sussex ridge almost twenty years later.
6
SPEAR HAVOC
London - 10 October 1066
The king settled back, his gaze slipping from face to face as his closest companions exchanged grimly determined looks. ‘I shall run through the plan one last time to ensure there is no room for any doubt. If there are any questions, now would be a good time to ask.’ He sketched a weary smile. For a man well into his fourth decade the exertions of the last month had begun to take their toll. Harold took a sip of ale, his mind at last beginning to relax a little now that all had been decided.
This had been a day of comings and goings as men had continued to arrive in the city from all across the kingdom. The king like any good commander had sought out trusted men, tallying the numbers and encouraging them to share their thoughts. Harold glanced towards the window as he replaced the cup on the table before him; it was growing late and he felt as if he had been talking all day. ‘We organise the men into their divisions tonight and get as much rest as we are able. When the bells toll for the third hour we leave the city and begin our march to the coast, that will give us time to break our fast and include any latecomers in our plans.’ Harold’s eyes focused on his younger brothers at the far end of the table. Little more than a week had passed since their brother Tostig had fallen facing them in battle, and he valued their loyalty above all others. ‘Gyrth and Leofwine will add the men of their earldoms to those of London burh and accompany me first to Rochester and thence south through Andredes Weald to the coast. By my reckoning that will give us almost eight thousand spears, roughly the same number as our opponents, but we shall have the advantage of fighting on ground of our own choosing and I have just the place in mind.’
Harold’s gaze switched to take in the men seated at either side of the long table. Kinsmen now through his recent marriage to their sister Eadgyth, Harold allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation as he looked on the faces of the northern earls. With a family stake now in the success of his kingship, they had already displayed loyalty and fortitude in the fighting against Harald of Norway and his invading army in the recent fighting around York. With the kingdom now united under his rule, nothing but an act of God could carry the day for the Norman invaders. He smiled again. ‘Edwin and Morcar, it pleases me greatly to see you among us after all you have endured over the past month, but the numbers who followed you south are understandably reduced through losses and distance. It would be asking too much to expect them to fight again in the spear havoc of the frontline after so short a time, so I was gratified you thought it no slight to your honour when I asked that they be added to the levy men of the southern shires.’ The king’s features softened as he added a quip, and the men sat about him took heart to see their leader in such a fine mood. ‘Also, it would upset the southern folk if the Angles of the North kept all the glory for themselves.’ As the gentle laughter receded, Harold continued with his summary. ‘The fyrdmen of eastern Kent and those from Surrey will muster at the hamlet of Edenbridge on the old Roman way which marks the border between their lands. The remainder, those from Sussex, Hampshire, Wiltshire and Somerset near the coast at Lewes. Detach a strong force to sweep the coastal towns and villages for enemy foragers, invest the newly built castle at Pevensey where Norman keels first touched English land, and drive the invaders back to the new camp outside Hastings. The overnight stop at Edenbridge will cost a further day’s march before you reach us at the hoary apple tree,’ Harold said, ‘but that cannot be helped. Besides,’ he said with a look. ‘These are my own ancestral lands and I know them as well as any man alive. I myself witnessed the duke’s cautious nature not more than two summers ago, when he withdrew his army from before the town of Dol the moment his supplies came under threat. William has blundered again; hemmed in by the River Brede to the north and the treacherous tidal reaches of Pevensey Bay to the south he thought to have made his position unassailable, but they have only served to trap him with his back to the sea and only the single road out.’
Harold’s eyes moved on, settling on the slightest figure at the table. ‘Edgar,’ he said, pinning the young ætheling with a look. ‘You will remain here in London for two more days along with archbishop Stigant. Men are still coming in from all across the country, and I would have you bring them to Rochester and onwards to my army in the south. I have William penned in and I mean to keep him there. I witnessed just how deadly their mounted knights could be on open ground when I fought alongside them in Brittany, and it’s not a thing I wish to see repeated in my own land.’
Harold charged his cup, the men seated before him copying the gesture as the king drew the strands of the plan together and prepared a final toast to their success. ‘So myself, Leofwine and Gyrth will add the thegns and fyrdmen of London and the East to our housecarls and cut the only road out of the peninsula at dusk on the
thirteenth. By the following evening the northern earls will have joined me with their own housecarls and the bulk of the Wessex fyrd, and Edgar and the lord archbishop will arrive with the last of the men who had made it to London the day after that. Their arrival should enable us to give the men in the front line a well earned rest. The year is winding down quickly now, this late in autumn it will take William the best part of the morning to strike camp and advance the half dozen miles from his base in Hastings to the ridge I have it in mind to defend.’ Harold smiled his wolf smile. ‘By this time next week the air of France shall be filled with piteous laments, and we shall be raising our own voices in thanks to God for this year of stunning victories.’
The earl of Mercia urged his horse to the crest of the hillock and drew rein. To his surprise the town of Lewes was not so different to those in the North: hummocky hills, the slopes thickly wooded, with only the brilliant chalk of the summits and scars which peeked through here and there contrasting with the more muted shades of Pennine limestone to show that he was far from home. Below him the army was at last beginning to form up in their battles ready for the march, and he let his mind wander as flashes of colour showed where war flags unfurled in the light autumn airs.
The journey south had been a casual affair, and he acknowledged the king’s foresight. Although they would never admit to such, especially in front of southerners, the men of Northumbria and Mercia were all but spent after the hard fighting against Hardrada’s Norwegians the previous month and the frantic march south.
