Rouen, as I have mentioned, is more assailed with smells than anywhere I have lived, but spilt blood in quantity is the smell you can least get used to. It clings like the spirits of the unhappy dead. Thank heaven my home here, strewn with herbs and odorous with spices and Alice herself, was a haven of fragrance.
To lift my head beyond my happy daily horizon, I followed the activities and exploits, which I gleaned, here and there and in The Barge, of the Duke and his friends and enemies. Amaury was still making trouble, apparently. No surprises there. News reached us too, confirming Eliphas’s earlier forecast, of Prince William the Atheling’s wedding which was to be at the end of the month.
‘Poor old William,’ I said to Alice. ‘He’s going to find it difficult being married to another Matilda, while the one he really likes is his half-sister!’
Alice looked as though she were sucking a sloe. I had told her about my discovery in the barn at Mortagne (enjoining her to secrecy), and I had been mildly surprised at her reaction. Incest was not a rarity, though scarcely something you would want to make public, but I have noticed that some women who are the most joyful in their lovemaking are in other respects the most prudish.
People in Rouen, anyway, knew nothing of such princely goings-on and approved of the match because a royal wedding was bound to mean some kind of celebration in the town. It was rumoured that the new drink of beer rather than ale, made with hops for better keeping, might even run from the city fountains.
‘And a fat lot of good that will do for my trade,’ said the landlord of The Barge, as I sat with Haimo later, discussing the day’s trade.
I am glad to say that little Haimo was a changed man. With all the financial worry removed, he was making a profit at last, but he drank his hoppy beer thoughtfully; it was plain there was something on his mind.
‘What’s the matter, Haimo? Things going too well?’ I asked.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I was thinking about how I could reward you.’
‘You pay me well enough,’ I said.
‘Yes, but … what will happen when you go? It has been worrying me.’
‘I am not going anywhere,’ I told him. ‘I have a good job, Alice is happy. She and Berthe have built up quite a trade with their herbs and spices, and their pharmacopoeia.’
It was true. Alice and Berthe got on very well together, and I had been able to teach Alice something of my medical knowledge derived from Brother Paul. People had started to come to them for cures for their ailments, and so their business had also grown, although there had been mutterings from the local doctors.
‘I want to offer you a share of my business,’ said Haimo. ‘Would a quarter share be of interest?’
I was at a loss. I didn’t want to offend or even disappoint the man, but I had never seen myself as a butcher. I had rather hoped to become a nobleman although I knew that was a hard climb like the cliffs of Falaise.
‘I am much honoured,’ I told him, ‘but I had no great plans to spend my life in Rouen – which I would have to do if I accepted your kind offer.’
‘Not kind,’ he said. ‘Mere prudence on my part.’
‘Your prudent offer,’ I said, laughing. ‘But I should speak to my wife about her wishes for she is a strong woman.’
I called Alice ‘my wife’ to avoid confusion. We were strangers in town, and nobody would be any the wiser. I had spoken to Alice previously about being called Mistress in Rouen and she said she was easy. Maybe one day, she said, but I sensed she would have liked to have been married, after all, and I felt bad about it.
‘Speak to your wife, of course,’ said Haimo. ‘There are worse places to spend your life than Rouen.’
I did talk to Alice that evening, and she was on the whole keen on the idea. She enjoyed working with Berthe and dispensing their pharmacopeia. It was the education she had always felt she lacked. So I came back to Haimo next day and said I was still uncertain, which I was; I had never intended myself, as I say, for a life of butchery. You may think the accountant is able to keep his hands clean, but there were always the little crises in the yard and in the shop when someone was ill or there was a panic or someone forgot that an important customer was coming, and who should step into the breach but the accountant? I sniffed the smell and I heard the lowing of frightened beasts and I thought of my father the Comte de Perche and how low a butcher would seem to him – and then I thought of my mother who would have said what a fine profession is the butcher’s, just as good as a vintner if not better, and they are always round, jolly and fat – except of course Haimo. And then I thought of Juliana and what she would think – but I put that thought out of my mind because her life had moved on and so had mine.
At that point Haimo increased the offer to half his business, and I accepted. There is no point in being an underling.
So the weeks rolled on like the Rouen river, though to a less foreseeable conclusion. Alice wanted to show me where William the Conqueror had died, so one day we took cheese and sausage and bread and a flask of wine, and walked up a hill to the west of the city to the church of St Gervase. We ate our food close by, looking down on the great bulk of the town and the winding web of the river, trying to spot Berthe’s house. Here, at the church and its buildings, William had spent his last months in terrible pain from his stomach (‘I hope this sausage is all right,’ I said) giving away money for the good of his soul to churches and abbeys he had founded or burnt.
‘Wouldn’t it have been better not to have burnt the churches and saved the money?’ Alice suggested.
‘Better for his stomach. He wouldn’t have had the pain of guilt and regret. But not so good for the Church.’
Just at the moment a great bell boomed its answer from the Cathedral of St Mary, announcing the service of Nones. We looked at each other and laughed, it was so prompt on its cue.
‘That same bell was what woke the Conqueror just before he died,’ she told me. ‘My mother heard all about it in Barfleur because the English use it as their port for home. He had a painful death, but it was worse after he died. His children deserted him. His eldest son Robert had just struck a deal with the King of France. Rufus had gone to England. Henry was over in London and Winchester making sure of the cash his father had left him; and no one was here to take charge. The richer men dashed off to look after their property and the poorer ones looted the royal lodgings. They had a chaotic service in Rouen but apparently he had to be buried in Caen. Then they could not find anyone to pay for taking him by sea to Caen, so there was another delay. Finally, a nobody knight called Herlouin, a friend of my grandfather’s, said he would pay for it himself. So the great man was taken by slow boat to Caen. By that time the corpse was beginning to go off. They had another service in Caen and, when they came to bury him in the Cathedral, he had swelled so much they couldn’t fit him in the sandstone tomb. They pushed and pulled and finally the Conqueror burst.’
‘That’s one way of clearing a church,’ I said. ‘I’m glad we finished that sausage. What a way to go.’
‘Sic transit gloria mundi.’
‘Ah, you speak Latin?’
‘The little girls used to teach me,’ she said. ‘So pass the glories of the world. They said it was one of your favourite lines.’
LVIII
Prince William and Matilda of Anjou were finally married, as forecast, and the fountains in Rouen still coursed obstinately with water. People who didn’t depend on the fountains for refreshment raised their cups and wished the couple long life and more legitimate children than the Duke had managed, and all the time Alice’s story of the great Conqueror’s death and funeral rang in my ears. If he had known he would end like that, would he have changed his life in any way? How fragile was the present, how uncertain the future.
It was particularly the wagoners, driving from all over the dukedom and beyond, who carried news to Rouen. Soldiers tended to be more taciturn and brusque, bargees coarser, travellers more secretive though sometimes sensational. There were st
ill the strolling players and musicians, but wagoners led a lonely, ruminative life, jolting along, passing through and coming back again, bearing goods and freight, inwards and outwards, and carrying news like pollen in their coats. They heard it all, and to them it was all snippets but to me every snippet fitted into the picture of the Duke and what he was, and what he was trying to do – and, yes, what his daughter Juliana might be trying to do, for I had no reason to believe that she had given up, and imagined that her dearest wish was still to destroy him.
We heard at The Barge that the Duke had won a great battle with the French under King Louis at Brémule, only just failing to capture the King himself. The townsfolk were very excited, hoping (in vain as it turned out) for the fountains to run with beer. They lived in a state of suspended optimism for this phenomenon, though it had never occurred and no one could ever see how it might be achieved.
Only a few weeks after that, there was more news from the wagoners. Amaury de Montfort had inveigled the French king, who was feeling humiliated as well he might, to join him in attacking Breteuil, now held by the Duke’s man Ralph de Gael. Once more, they had been beaten back by Henry’s trusted general from England, Ralph the Red.
LIX
All through the early autumn of that Year of Our Lord 1119, Alice and I and Berthe made ourselves snug in the low-beamed house with its gaps stuffed with wattle to keep out the draughts, and Juliana kept popping into my head like a sudden scent half-caught as someone passes in the street. Juliana – what was she doing, how was she feeling, did she still think of me? What would she make of me now, knee deep in blood as I tried to help a struggling slaughterer, clutching a cleaver for him over a half dead heifer?
Juliana, I thought, my first love whom I have betrayed. ‘Come again, sweet love, to me,’ I warbled when no one could hear, high in my counting-house. It’s hard to put out thoughts that come into your head. And here, and in the shambles, thinking of her, I was betraying Alice too whom I loved beyond reason and who had the gift of knowing what I was thinking. She had the gift of quietness, of only saying what needed to be said. No wonder Juliana had liked her. I felt the luckiest of men at times, and at others, the most accursed.
Our eyrie at the top of the house, which had been hot enough to cook bread in during the heat of summer, became cool then cold under the roof, but it was the tribute we paid for the privacy the top floor gave us. Privacy! Now there’s a thing you don’t get in a castle. The only time you get to be by yourself is in bed – and sometimes not even then when you find yourself bundled up with a snorting, hairy knight on important visitor days.
Harvest-time came and went. Michaelmas spelt the beginning of the slaughtering season for pigs, the carcass that most of all resembles the human body. There was salting and smoking to be done, and curing too. The whole town was pig for a fortnight. And then we moved on to the season of game and, of course, venison. And all at once it was All Souls Night, with players in the town making the dead walk, and All Saints when the Archangel Michael trounces the forces of darkness and clears up the drunks. I had looked to see Eliphas in town at this time, but he failed to show up. Some prince or baron was no doubt commanding him. Some silly comte … or comtesse … and there she was again: Juliana, my lost love, cause of so much happiness, and the reverse, whom I can never quite shake off.
Late autumn was windy and wet with floods, terrible gales and the river over its banks. Floods everywhere; never seen such weather; the world must be coming to an end, said the locals. It’s all because of your sins, said the churchmen. Meanwhile, the Pope came to Rheims for a Council, and King Louis complained about Duke Henry. Our Archbishop of Rouen represented Henry’s case, but was booed and drowned out by supporters of Louis. The Duke then went to see the Pope himself when he moved to Gisors, and a fair old bollocking the Pope gave him, all about kicking out his brother the Duke Robert, and not paying homage to King Louis – not that Henry couldn’t take a bollocking and give back when he chose. Henry said his brother Robert had ruled over chaos and he, Henry, was all for homage to be paid to the French king – but he wanted it done by his son William. And so it went on. We heard all about it from the landlord who’d been told it by a wagoner from Rheims who knew one of the pages. He reckoned Henry might finally be getting what he wanted: peace in Normandy with him on top, and his son William confirmed as his successor. That last bit was what Henry coveted most of all, having himself attained the royal seat by some unorthodox and even (some said) unlawful routes.
This history, you see, is not just about Bertold and Juliana, or Bertold and Alice. Well, it is of course about both Juliana and Alice, but it is also very much about Duke Henry because he is, in a way – as Eliphas would say – a leading player. If he wins, Normandy wins. That is what a good king or duke does for his people – and Henry was good in that way. If he loses, it is his tragedy and ours. As a family man, he has two little tragedies already. As a king, he is still Beauclerc.
Two things made me give special attention to the wagoners’ next report. One was that that shit Amaury de Montfort had finally made peace with the Duke. Henry had given him, in the end, the county of Évreux minus the castle. Amaury had accepted with his usual bad grace. The news made me grind my teeth. Why is it that the undeserving so often triumph in this world? It leaves virtue without a leg to stand on.
The other special nugget of news was that Eustace of Breteuil and his wife Juliana, the Duke’s daughter, had approached the Duke – unbidden and unheralded, barefoot – as penitents. The Duke was apparently amazed at their outrageous behaviour, but Eustace grovelled suitably as only a truculent drunkard can. Juliana as a penitent, however, did not ring true to me. I could not believe she would do that in sackcloth weeds and a state of undress. Apart from anything else, she had always been someone who delighted in her clothes.
Anyway, apparently her half-brother Richard had put in a good word for her, and the Duke forgave them, so good relations were re-established. Juliana was told to go back to the castle of Pacy, while Eustace was ordered to accompany the Duke on his rounds. Henry intended to visit Rouen before moving on to Caen and this indeed he did, riding with his entourage, through the city gates a week later.
Alice and I decided to keep indoors during the duration of the Duke’s visit to the town, for if Eustace saw me he would certainly point me out to his liege, and then there would be knocking on the door, and the men in hard helmets would take us away. However, I could not refrain from creeping out one day with my hood over my face, and peeking at the ducal party as they rode past. The Duke looked like iron, hard as a helmet, while Eustace slouched in his saddle: the man seemed to have shrivelled; he was all used up. It reminded me of a knitted toy I had had as a child which slowly lost its stuffing. The Duke must have given him a hard time, as he could. Perhaps the man had even stopped drinking.
Soon the ducal party moved on. Henry could never stay long, there was always something doing.
LX
Christmas approached, and the butcher and I were busier than ever. Soldiers were coming past in companies heading for England, wanting food, and their quartermasters not wanting to pay. We had the odd set-to with the rank and file, I can tell you, and the arrogance of some of the knights – less well-born than me, drawling at me to feed the men or else – took my breath away. But I bit my tongue and said nothing, fixing my thoughts on the profit, as Haimo advised.
At last it was Christmas itself. How different from our Christmas last year with all the regalia of a great castle! This Christmas in Rouen was rather more private, more sotto voce as Brother Paul used to say, but we loved it for that, only I could not help thinking of the little girls and indeed of Juliana.
On Christmas morning, I gave Alice a new cloak trimmed with fur and some new shoes from the best shoemaker in Rouen. Alice and Berthe and I attended Mass at the Cathedral with Haimo (he was a widower and lived alone). Then we had a feast at Berthe’s: goose and pork pies and venison patties and cakes and marchpane and ginger
puddings and pressed cinnamon wafers, washed down with flagons of the best Burgundy Haimo could find. Haimo was invited to dinners given by some of the burgesses in their halls, since he was an important trader in the city, and we went with him. I had anticipated a quiet time over the twelve days of Christmas, but Alice and I hardly had a day to ourselves.
At one of these civic parties, a Twelfth Night Feast, in the Fishmongers Hall, Alice and I had a slight contretemps with an over-inquisitive priest, some canon of the Cathedral who proceeded to ask us when and where we had been married, and whether we had any document to show for it. Grossly impolite and impertinent at someone else’s party, but there it was, priests are like that and think they can do anything. He hit on the idea of asking Alice first, and then me, which church we were married in, when we were separated from one another. And of course, being unprepared – which we should not have been – we gave different answers.
Luckily the priest became inebriated and we were able to escape, but I reckoned he had us marked down. There could have been trouble, ecclesiastical courts, and all sorts. Alice and I would have our story right next time. The priests are everywhere, snouts in the trough, eyes in the back of their heads, and hands in your pockets (if you’re lucky).
You didn’t have to be a priest to notice that Haimo and Berthe were getting on well; indeed the little butcher actually appeared to be putting on weight, while Berthe seemed to be losing it.
At last, Christmas was over and the slaughtering started again, a burst of activity before Lent. January had been milder than usual, and windy, but February turned bitterly cold. The river half froze over again at the part where a lagoon forms against the southern shore, and a boy looking for his dog was drowned when he tried to walk on it. There were celebrations on Shrove Tuesday and then most of the men at Haimo’s were laid off for the duration. The whole quarter of the town by the river inhaled an extra Lenten whiff of fish. I took the books home to Berthe’s kitchen where I could work on them in the warmth. I finished them one dark day in February and took them back to Haimo in his room at the butchery. He loved it there even when nothing was happening.
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