The steeds of the mounted knights behind him snorted and pranced. The spears and shields of the infantry clattered. The archers moved as one, longbows over their shoulders, newly fletched arrows rattling in their quivers. He knew it was an awesome sight and that his leonine features only added to the fear and respect his army inspired.
He left the bulk of his troops to pitch camp in the freshly scythed meadows, knights under canvas, men-at-arms out in the open. In the bailey he and a small retinue were greeted by all the men of the Montbryce family down on one knee, and the women of the castle in deep curtseys, their wimpled heads bowed.
“Not bad for the bastard son of a duke and a tanner’s daughter,” he chuckled as he dismounted. “And Ram’s betrothed. What a beauty! Why hasn’t he married her yet?”
He’d been gladdened by the news of their betrothal. It would bring a great deal of strategic land in both Normandie and Le Maine under Montbryce control.
“Non, rise, Comte Bernard de Montbryce. Your family has served me, and Normandie, well. You need not bend the knee to me. Let’s enter and enjoy your hospitality and discuss how we’ll teach Harold a lesson he won’t soon forget.”
“Welcome, Your Grace,” Comte Bernard replied, rising stiffly with the help of his youngest son. “You do us great honor. Ram will show you to the chambers we’ve prepared for you. I trust they’ll meet with your approval.”
Later, when his trunks had been taken to his chambers and his servants had bathed and dressed him, William descended the stone steps in the company of his senior knights to the Great Hall. A feast was served that he suspected was more sumptuous than any other meal eaten there before.
The immaculately groomed servers were resplendent in their green tabards with the Montbryce crest. The mutton meatballs were excellent and the roast chicken glazed with eggs delectable. So many multicolored boars’ heads made an appearance, the iron pans in which they reposed held aloft by brawny lads, William wondered if there could be any boar left in the Montbryce forests. La Cuisinière’s signature dish of rainbow trout was the pièce de resistance, and everyone sighed as the succulent juices of the golden baked apple flesh of the pommes d’orées dripped from their mouths.
The renowned Montbryce apple brandy was a favorite of William’s and he savored it as he watched Ram and Mabelle. Leaning over to his trusted commander, he jested, “Ram, mon ami, I’m heartily pleased for you that your upcoming nuptials have been welcomed, a far cry from the torment my own marriage to my tiny wife Matilda caused.”
“Merci, Your Grace,” Ram responded, though not with the enthusiasm William had expected. He wondered if there was a problem he wasn't aware of, but the urge to repeat the tale of his own marriage carried more weight.
He had regaled Ram many times with the story but appreciated his friend would humor him as he retold it. “With a princess of Flandres as my wife, I would have the Flemish as my allies. She at first refused me, saying she would rather become a nun than marry a bastard. Hah!”
He took a sip of apple brandy before continuing. “However, once I went swiftly to her side, I rapidly convinced her to change her mind.” He winked knowingly. “Pope Leo was enraged by the marriage and excommunicated us both, as well as the whole of Normandie, when I refused to annul it.”
Ram smiled. “I recall it took the persuasive powers of our staunch friend and ally, Lanfranc, to convince a new Pope that returning Matilda to her father would be seen as a gross insult, and Nicolas relented.”
William chuckled. “Oui, but it cost me a pretty penny because the Pope insisted I build a monastery and a nunnery as my penance, which I built in Caen, not to mention the hospitals I had to construct. That reminds me, I’ll have to repay Lanfranc in some way once I get rid of the scheming Harold in England. Perhaps Archbishop of Canterbury might suit our friend?”
William enjoyed the feasting and suspected he would eat no such fare in England. He so relished the food, he sent his compliments to the kitchen, particularly regarding the trout dish.
Watching Ram and Mabelle, he saw the fire in their eyes when they looked at each other. Did they recognize the alchemy between them? He regretted the coming war would mean separation for them but was gladdened his friend Ram had found his perfect mate, even if he didn’t know it yet. He leaned over to ask the question that had bothered him all evening. “Why haven’t you married her, Ram? I thought the nuptials were—”
His question was interrupted by the voice of Comte Bernard. “Your Grace, on behalf of our family, my eldest son will propose the toast.”
Ram stood, goblet in hand. “Your Grace,” he began, “you have done us a great honor by visiting our humble castle. You are the pride of Normandie and we salute you. We wish God’s blessings on your voyage to fight the Saxons in England, where you will take your rightful place as the king. Every Montbryce knight will do what he can to further your cause.”
He turned to the assembly and raised his goblet. “Fellow knights of Montbryce, rise and join me in a toast to our beloved Duc de Normandie, soon to be William the Conqueror.”
“Duke William the Conqueror.” The toast echoed around the cavernous room, followed by a resounding cheer and loud banging of tankards and goblets on tables.
He stood to reply. “Thank you, Ram. It’s only because of families such as yours that Normandie is a great power. With your family’s help we drove out Henry, King of France when he dared to invade our borders.”
With a wave of his hand, William indicated Comte Bernard. “Your father distinguished himself at the great victory which decimated our enemies at Mortemer, and though you were a mere lad at the battle of Varaville, you helped us soundly defeat the Angevin dogs. We will similarly punish these puny sons of Danes, who have usurped the throne promised to me by my cousin. Our legacy wherever we conquer will last forever. You have pledged many knights and your brothers to our campaign and they will cover themselves with honor and glory.”
Applause and cheering broke out.
“However—” William raised his hand, and the cheering stopped, as he’d known it would. He paused to make sure his words had the desired effect. “However, there is one Montbryce for whom I have a special honor and responsibility.”
A hush fell over the large hall. William loved theatrics and knew how desperately Ram wanted to accompany him on his campaign. He was aware of the pride his courageous and capable friend took in being his counsellor.
“It will take many months to build our fleet to invade England. I’ve left Normandie ungoverned while overseeing the preparations. Too many have taken advantage. I can’t be worried about trouble at home while I’m preparing to fight the accursed Harold the Oath-Breaker.”
A hint of murmured agreement stole round the room.
“I must have a capable commander in charge of finishing my fleet, someone I can trust implicitly.”
He turned to Ram, seated beside him. “Rambaud de Montbryce, you are that man. You’ll oversee the completion of our great fleet and the gathering of men, weapons, horses and provisions. Your decisions will be my decisions. You and your family have never failed me. You’ve supported me against the rebellious barons who would take Normandie for themselves, including my own uncles.
“You served brilliantly in our successful campaign to extend our influence into Le Maine, a few short years ago. Your skills as a negotiator helped bring Harold Godwinson into our grasp when he was shipwrecked on the lands of Guy of Ponthieu—without our paying a ransom for him.”
He slapped Ram on the back and the laughter and cheering echoed in the room. “Too bad we let him go then—we would not be in this predicament now.”
More cheers, laughter and agreement.
Ram rose and bowed deeply, his hand over his heart. He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I will build a fleet of ships so mighty and gather an army so great, it will strike terror into the hearts of the English. The honor you do me, my betrothed and my family is humbly accepted.” He turned to Mabelle and held out his
hand. She rose and bowed.
“You’re fortunate, Rambaud de Montbryce, to have such a beautiful and capable woman to support you in your formidable task. Mes seigneurs et mesdames, a toast to Mabelle de Valtesse.”
The toast echoed around the room. “Mabelle de Valtesse.”
Custom dictated she reply. “Majesté,” she began, swallowing hard.
William was pleased and flattered by the exalted name she used to address him.
“Your Majesty, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the honor you have bestowed on my betrothed. I know he will serve you, our beloved Duchess Matilda, and Normandie well.”
She raised her goblet, took a sip, licked her lips and looked into his eyes, and then, nervously, at Ram.
The Duke of the Normans inclined his head in acknowledgement, relieved his ducal robe concealed his arousal.
Building The Fleet
For most of the next four months, Ram was away, supervising the building of the ships. He rode home whenever he could and kept his family apprised of his progress, challenges and frustrations. The surprising realization gradually dawned on him that it was a desire to see Mabelle and share these matters with her that drew him home. She was often present when the Montbryce men discussed the preparations, and he came to see, as his father had indicated, that she was intelligent and pragmatic. Her insights were often impossible to ignore.
“We’re felling the trees from the forests around the coastal town of Dives-sur-Mer. Shipwrights shape the wood into vessels, armor and weapons. The building will be more or less completed at the mouth of the Dives and then the fleet will move to Saint-Valery-sur-Somme.”
“I suppose that will make for a shorter crossing,” Mabelle remarked.
When the move to Saint-Valery was undertaken, it was hampered by foul weather and several men drowned. Ram was angry and upset, worried the same might happen when the day came for the invasion. It was Mabelle who reassured him. “You won’t be forced to launch the invasion during bad weather,” she soothed.
During one of his visits, they were discussing the comet which appeared and remained visible for fifteen days. “William has taken it as a good omen. His astrologers declared this portends the transfer of a kingdom. I’m to start gathering horses.”
“You’re taking horses?” she asked with surprise.
“Oui. William and I have discussed it with the commanders and we believe it’s essential we take them.”
“You’re right. How can you win without your horses? Normandie’s strength is in her elite mounted troops.”
Ram’s heart swelled with pride that she recognised the importance of his life’s calling.
On another occasion, the men were seated around the table in the Map Room, discussing the landing in England. “We’re concerned about our arrival on the coast,” Ram explained. “We’ll need a fortification of some sort, but that will mean time lost gathering materials, building and the like.”
They pondered the problem for a while. Mabelle sat off to one side, saying nothing until she suddenly suggested, “Why not build a fortification here in Normandie and take it with you in pieces?”
Ram scratched his chin. It was brilliant.
“What an intriguing idea,” Hugh exclaimed with a smile.
By early September, Ram was close to the breaking point. He paced back and forth in the Map Room. “I have seven thousand men and six hundred and ninety-six ships ready to move, yet we’ve had to sit and wait for an interminable five and thirty days for the wind to shift from north to south, to fill our square sails. The wait is driving me out of my wits.”
He strode over to Mabelle’s chair and went down on one knee before her, taking her hands in his. “Thanks be to the saints I have you to listen to my interminable ramblings. William is becoming maniacal about his crusade and maintaining morale is difficult.”
Mabelle stroked his hair. He wanted to rest his head in her lap. He felt better sharing his frustrations with her. It was an odd feeling. He had never confided in a woman before. “Horses and men have to be fed, and I’ve forbidden pillaging. William doesn’t want the ordinary people of Normandie trembling at the sight of his soldiers. It might have been easier if they were all Normans.”
She stopped stroking his hair, and he instantly missed the soothing gesture. “You have men who aren’t Normans?”
He took her hand, kissed her fingertips and put it to his forehead. “My head aches.”
She massaged his temples with her fingertips. He let out a sigh and slumped to sit at her feet. “That feels good. Oui. Many of them are mercenaries, allies and volunteers from Bretagne and Flandres. A few have come from other parts of France and some from as far away as the Norman colonies in Italy. I’ve maintained strict discipline but it’s not an easy task when old hatreds and feuds reassert their ugly heads.”
I could sit here all day, letting her massage my head.
Mabelle’s next words brought him back to reality. “Does King Harold know you’re coming?”
He didn’t want to tell her spies had informed them Harold had assembled a large force on the south coast of England to repel any attack.
Despite a conviction it was foolish to trust Ram, Mabelle looked forward to his visits and to discussing preparations for the invasion with him. She suspected he too was surprised at the way they fell into an easy give-and-take of ideas. She’d never had such a relationship with a man and didn’t know what to make of her growing need to bask in the glow of his approval.
Ram was confident in his decisions, a leader of men, and yet he seemed to increasingly value and even seek her opinions.
While she shared his fervor for the invasion of England, she began to dread the day it would come to pass. Then he’d be gone and life wouldn’t be the same without him. In the event of a successful campaign, it was unlikely he would return for many a year, if he survived.
If he fell in battle…
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or bereft that nothing would ever come of their betrothal.
Stamford Bridge
Harold Godwinson, King of the English, sat in stunned disbelief in his headquarters on the south coast of England, where he had gathered his forces to await William’s arrival. He swallowed hard, handing the message that had sent chills down his spine to his frowning brother. “King Harald Hardråda has landed unexpectedly on the north east coast near York with a force of more than fifteen thousand men. He’s come for the throne.”
Gyrth scanned the parchment. “What’s worse, if this is true, our wretched half-brother has apparently joined with Hardråda.”
“Tostig is evidently incensed I drove him out of his earldom of Northumbria after he rebelled against me,” Harold replied, taking back the parchment. “What did he expect?” He crushed the missive in his fist, aware the trap carefully laid for William was now in serious jeopardy. “What’s your advice? Do we stay here and wait for the Norman, or make haste to York?”
“We must oppose your Norwegian rival,” his brother replied without hesitation. “The threat from him is real. William is still waiting in Normandie for the wind to change.”
Harold had been of the same mind. “You’re right. We have no choice.”
The forced march north was grueling. The strategic northern town of York had surrendered to Hardråda on the twenty-fourth day of September. In an effort to avoid battle, Harold arranged a meeting with Tostig, but no agreement was reached and the battle was joined the next day at dawn at Stamford Bridge. The opposing forces fought hard until noonday. The Norwegians were forced to retreat under the weight of superior English numbers. They were driven across the Ouse, where they made a fresh stand. A lone Norwegian giant took up a post on the bridge over the river and hewed down more than two score Saxons with a battle-axe. This stayed the advance of the English army for many hours.
Watching the massacre from his command post, Harold asked his commanders with exasperation, “Who is that formidable warrior?”
“No
one knows, Sire,” replied one of them, with equal irritation. “But we cannot advance with him there. I have a plan to send a boat beneath the bridge, and skewer him with a spear from below.”
Harold looked at him sceptically, then shrugged, “Sometimes the simple plan is the best.”
To the king’s surprise, this ploy was successful, and the Norwegians were overrun. Harald Hardråda was killed by an arrow through the throat.
Gyrth gloated. “We’ve thrashed the Norwegians. Of their three hundred ships, only four and twenty are returning with their wounded, and Tostig, the traitor, is dead.”
Harold scratched his head and adjusted his gold coronet. “We’ve defeated one rival, but now we’re hundreds of miles from the south coast where William might arrive any time. Our army is tired, bloodied and aching to return home.”
The Invasion Begins
As she watched the elderly comte bid adieu to his three sons, Mabelle’s heart bled for the man whose faith in her had changed everything. He seemed to have aged considerably in the few months since their first meeting.
She was aware he had spoken to each of them individually in his solar the previous evening, but now the moment of final farewell had come. The winds had finally changed.
Every servant braved the chill of the bailey to bid their seigneurs farewell. Giselle was crying and she wasn’t the only one. Fernand Bonhomme stood rigid, his mouth a tight line. The distraught wives and children of knights stood shoulder to shoulder with the families of common soldiers, all united by pride and dread.
His face pinched and pale, Bernard de Montbryce shook the hand of his youngest son. “Go with God, Hugh. I pray you’ll soon return safe and sound after a glorious victory.”
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 8