‘This isn’t good enough,’ he told his wife, having finished his examination. ‘Hawisa’s clearly the one who’s going to catch a man’s eye and get his cock swelling, but we can’t have her spawning brats while her three big sisters are still sitting around waiting for a proposal.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Gisela replied, though she knew perfectly well that her baby girl, as she still thought of her, was the pick of the crop. ‘They’re all lovely in their own way and I’m sure that any man, no matter how highly born, would be happy to have any of them as his bride.’
Giroie gave a sceptical grunt, then turned away from his womenfolk and picked up a wooden tankard of ale. He drained it in one, and after a single mighty belch gave the order to move out.
3
The abbot began to read the archbishop’s will. William thought he had a voice like a cross old woman: high-pitched, fussy and disapproving – as though all the men in the room were just boys, and he was about to tell them off. He sounded like a preacher giving a sermon, or William’s teacher, Brother Thorold, becoming impatient when William or one of his classmates couldn’t translate a passage of Latin.
‘“I declare this to be my will in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, thanking the Good Lord for the many blessings He has bestowed upon me and vowing to serve Him in the hereafter as I have done in this life on earth”,’ the abbot declaimed.
‘“To the Cathedral of Our Lady of Rouen, my spiritual home and sanctuary, I leave the decorated psalter known as the Benedictional of Athelgar that I received as a gift from my beloved sister Emma. I ask that prayers from it be said on the anniversary of my death, in commemoration of my soul.
‘“To my first cousin and most loyal friend Osbern Herfastsson I leave a gift of gold coins to the value of one thousand pounds as a token of my appreciation of all he has done to assist me and support the cause of the House of Normandy.”’
William was pleased about that. He loved Osbern and was happy to think that he would have lots of gold. But Talou and Mauger looked furious. Why are they so angry to see Osbern doing well? William wondered.
‘“To my beloved eldest son Richard, who becomes by right the Count of Évreux, I leave all the estates and properties that by custom belong to that title, along with the castle of Évreux and all its furniture, tapestries, goblets and serving vessels of wood, pewter and assorted precious metals, and all the bed linen, fur rugs and clothing contained in its wardrobes. I commend him to continue the many excellent charitable deeds and benefactions for which his life to this date has been noted.
‘“To my younger son William I leave my estates at Lieuvin and Baiocasino and all their rents, vassals and contents likewise, in the hope that he will live well and conduct himself properly as a loyal vassal of the Duke of Normandy, whomsoever may be the holder of that title.”’
The abbot paused. He was frowning as he looked at the paper in his hand. Maybe he can’t read the writing, William thought. Or maybe he can, but he doesn’t like what it says. The moment the abbot started speaking again, William knew by the sound of his voice and the words themselves that the second possibility was the right one.
‘“To my natural son Ralph I bestow the castle of Gacé at which he has been raised, along with the further estates of Bavent, Noyon-sur-Andelle, Gravençon and Écouché. I myself was born illegitimate. My parents Richard and Gunnor married when I was a young man, so that I might be ordained as archbishop, a post that can only be held by one of legitimate birth. Likewise, many of those who have ruled Normandy as her duke were the offspring of concubines rather than wives. It cannot therefore be said that there is anything inferior or unworthy about the status of bastard, and it is in this light that I beseech those who now assist our duke in his God-given duty as ruler of Normandy to take my son Ralph under their wing and train him well, so that he may one day serve his ducal masters as I have served mine. Of all my sons I believe he is the one most blessed by God with the particular qualities that have allowed me to advise and guide those whom I have served.”’
William looked around at half a dozen incredulous faces and one brazen, triumphant one. ‘Now who’s the donkey?’ cried Ralph, pumping his fist in celebration.
William was frowning, deep in thought. He was sure that the archbishop had included Ralph on the list of people to beware of. The old man had said Ralph was bitter, and had blamed himself for not being a more attentive father. I think he’s trying to make up for that, William concluded. If he makes Ralph feel better then he won’t be nasty to me. So should I still worry about him?
He considered the matter for a moment, as an angry conversation broke out between Ralph and Talou.
‘Do we really need another bastard at court?’ Talou asked, and William felt himself blushing with hot, burning shame as a sudden silence descended on the room and everyone looked at him, their eyes like daggers piercing his skin. He said nothing, but he was raging inside as he gazed steadily at Talou, who blinked and turned away, unable to look him in the eye. William felt a measure of victory at out-staring his uncle, who was twice his age and far bigger and stronger than him, but at the back of his mind, something was nagging at him, a question he’d not yet managed to answer. He tried to remember what he’d been thinking: something about Ralph . . .
Before he could retrieve the lost memory, the abbot cleared his throat very loudly, so that everyone turned their attention back to him. ‘If I may continue,’ he said. ‘His Grace goes on to say, “It is not, of course, in my power to name my successor as archbishop. It is, however, in the gift of the duke and his advisers to do so. I therefore beseech Duke William and his guardians to consider the claim of my nephew Mauger. Just as it is right that the line of ducal succession has passed through the sons and grandson of my brother Duke Richard II’s first marriage, so the archbishopric should be bestowed upon a son of the second. Mauger is still very young, but so was I when I received my consecration. I trust that he will be blessed with as long a time in which to serve God and Normandy as I have been.”’
Unlike Ralph, Mauger managed to contain his enthusiasm, which manifested itself solely as a broad smile and a series of quick little pecks of the head.
Do I really have to make him the next archbishop? William asked himself, examining his eighteen-year-old uncle. He doesn’t look old enough to be an ordinary priest. And why was Great-Uncle Robert so kind to Mauger as well as Ralph? He’s meant to be dangerous to me, but if I’m the Duke of Normandy and he’s the Archbishop of Rouen, I’ll see him all the time and . . . oh!
Something had just occurred to William. If Mauger and Ralph are close to me, then I’ll be able to see what they’re doing. Or my guardians will see it, anyway. So they won’t be able to do anything bad in secret.
The abbot looked as cross about Mauger as he had been about Ralph. But it wasn’t his place to complain. He began reading once again.
‘“I beseech His Grace Duke William to show favour to his uncle the Count of Talou and grant him the right to build a castle of his own on the hill at Arques, which lies within his lands, close to the fishing village of Dieppe. The hill commands a wide area of countryside, and there is a fine hunting forest between it and the sea to provide both game and sport. A good stout castle there will help secure the north-east corner of our duchy against incursions by forces from Boulogne, Flanders or France.
‘“I feel sure that you, Talou, will have no hesitation in thanking your duke for his generosity and favour by devoting all your energies to his service and being a loyal and true support to him in the arduous task, bestowed on him by God, of ruling Normandy and his peoples. And be in no doubt at any time that any acts of dissension, rebellion or treachery on your part will fully entitle your duke to strip you of your property, seize your castle and, if it pleases him, even go so far as to destroy it.
‘“Finally, I commend all those assembled to hear this will
, and all the people of Normandy, across the duchy, to be loyal and faithful servants of my great-nephew Duke William. He holds his title by the grace of God, and any rebellion against that title is, likewise, a most sinful and unpardonable assault upon the sanctity of our Holy Father and will therefore constitute a sin whose punishment will surely be an eternity in the fires of Hell.”
‘So concludes the reading of His Grace’s will,’ said the abbot, rolling the parchment back up again. ‘I trust that no one has any objections to any of its stipulations.’ He looked around and met with no obvious dissent, though William had the strong impression that a lot of the grown-ups around him were much crosser than they were letting on.
‘Very well,’ the abbot concluded. ‘Our business is finished. Let us hasten to the cathedral for the funeral.’
As everyone stood, exchanging brief words of conversation, and prepared to be on their way, William stood alone, chewing his bottom lip. Now that the will had been read, other thoughts were crowding back into his head: the same thoughts that had made him so unwilling to get out of bed.
The abbot must have noticed something, because he walked across and looked down at him kindly. ‘Is anything troubling you, Your Grace?’ he asked.
William uttered a muffled ‘No,’ and gave a single, decisive shake of the head.
He glanced up at the abbot. He doesn’t believe me, he thought. What will I say if he asks me any more questions?
But the abbot didn’t pursue the matter. ‘Well, if you do think of anything, you can always come and talk to me. Nothing you say will be passed on to anyone else, except, of course, He who hears and knows everything. And He is very forgiving, you know, to one who is truly penitent.’
William started. He knows that I’ve committed a terrible sin! And God knows too! His eyes widened in alarm, and then he gathered his composure, remembering that a duke of Normandy could never show anyone if he was worried or frightened or didn’t know what to do. He had to stay in control at all times.
‘Thank you, Brother Abbot,’ he said. ‘That is very kind.’
‘You’re welcome . . . God bless you, my son.’
William nodded his thanks, and then, wanting to get as far away from the abbot as possible, ran off in search of Osbern.
4
All night and day the mourners had stood in line to pay their respects to the dead archbishop as he lay in his open coffin before the altar of Rouen cathedral, his features set in an expression of wry amusement that suggested he regarded his passing as just one more event to be confronted, managed and bent to his own ends. An entire generation had been born, lived their lives and died in the forty-eight years that Robert, Archbishop of Rouen and Count of Évreux, had spent on his episcopal throne. Four dukes of Normandy had ruled and departed in that time: his father, brother and two nephews. Only Duke William, his great-nephew, had outlived him. The archbishop’s permanence as both the spiritual leader of the duchy and the worldly adviser to its dukes had led the Normans to believe that he was all but immortal. Even now, as they bent their knees to kiss the heavy, bejewelled gold ring on the fourth finger of his right hand, there were those who could not quite believe that their protector had departed this world for the next.
The woman who had assassinated the archbishop just a few days earlier was now close enough to study the results of her handiwork. She looked down on him through the fabric of a veil woven in Damascus from thread finer than any the haughtiest noblewoman in Normandy could even imagine, let alone afford. When she was born, on a longboat journeying down the Dnieper river in the lands of the Viking Rus, her parents had christened her Finna Bjornsdottir. More recently, however, she had gone by the name of Jarl the Viper. It was a matter of commercial necessity in a profession that had brought her great wealth. Customers hiring a killer expected him to be a man, even if Jarl’s chosen method – poisoning, using potions concocted from ingredients she had in many cases grown herself – was, to her mind, a very feminine means of administering death.
In the archbishop’s case, she had gone to his bedchamber and given him a warm, soothing drink scented with honey, berries and spice. Her victim was a very sick man, whose end was imminent no matter what. But she’d feared that before he died he might want to give a final confession, including the admission that he had ordered the death of his nephew, Duke Richard III. Jarl had carried out that particular assignment and wished to avoid the slightest possibility that she might be caught and punished. She had thus added to her sweet brew a fatal dose of an opiate tincture derived from a particular form of poppy, grown from seeds that had come with her from the ancient city of Damascus, where she had first been taught her deadly art.
She was pleased to see that the archbishop looked at peace, and that something close to a smile was frozen on his grave-cold lips. She bore him no ill will and had chosen the poppy as her weapon because it induced a contented, even blissful state before the body finally succumbed. It was therefore almost certain that she had provided him with a gentler journey to St Peter’s gates than his ailments would have done if left to their own devices. She felt no guilt whatever as she took her turn beside the coffin, bent her head, lifted her veil a fraction, lightly kissed the blood-red ruby that was mounted on the golden ring and murmured, ‘Farewell, Your Grace, rest in peace.’
As she rose gracefully to her feet, the calm of the cathedral was shattered by a blare of trumpets that cut through the incense-laden air like an axe through an unprotected skull. She turned her head to see a boy and four men striding directly towards her through the nave of the cathedral. She recognised them all, for it had long been her business to know such things, if only to make sure that should any of them become her target, she would get the right man.
To the right of the group was Count Alan of Brittany, the archbishop’s nephew. He was a short but powerfully built man whose swept-back mane was beginning to show the first traces of grey, just as his swarthy face was softening somewhat around the jowls. His eyes, however, were still jet black. Even at a distance Jarl could detect their mischievous glint of confidence, bordering on arrogance, and for all her cool detachment, she was still woman enough to be intrigued, if only for an instant.
The man beside Alan was taller, older and far more weather-beaten. This was Osbern Herfastsson. Jarl wondered how many of the people here today, who were all familiar with Osbern’s steadfast, unflinching loyalty to the archbishop and to the two dukes he had served as steward, understood how astutely he had used his proximity to power to further his own ambitions. There were few men in Normandy who could rival the extent of Osbern’s estates.
Apart from him, perhaps, thought Jarl, looking at the third member of the group, Gilbert, count of both Eu and Brionne. Like Alan, Gilbert had known the archbishop as ‘Uncle’. His father, Godfrey, had been the illegitimate son of Duke Richard I, born to one of the duke’s many concubines but raised as if his blood were true.
These three men were the effective rulers of Normandy now that the archbishop, who had long been the greatest power in the land, was gone. They were dressed in gowns of the finest Flanders cloth and their scabbards and sword hilts were chased with silver and gold. The final member of the quartet, however, was entirely unarmed and wore nothing more than the rough woollen habit of a monk. Brother Thorold served as tutor in the ducal palace. He, like the others, had been named as a guardian of William the Bastard, seventh Duke of Normandy, who walked ahead of them past the congregation packed into the pews on either side of him.
Jarl took a good long look at the lad on whose young shoulders the future of his dynasty and duchy alike now rested. He had a sturdy body and a proud, combative bearing that belied his age. There was a determined set to his jaw and a fierce expression in his eyes, as if he were daring the men around him to take him on and see how far it would get them. Some children might scuff their feet as they slouched into a church. Others would break into a playfu
l run. But this one strode like a man, with his back straight, his shoulders squared and his head up. Jarl smiled at the sight of this stripling warrior, even as soldiers from the Norman militia, whose shields bore the two golden leopards that were the duchy’s symbol, began to herd her and the other mourners away from the coffin and away down one of the aisles that ran either side of the nave.
There were shouts of protest from those who had been standing in line for hours but had yet to see the archbishop’s body. The soldiers paid them no attention and formed a line abreast, creating a human barrier that pushed its way between the coffin and the waiting mourners. As she was caught in the press of people being herded to one side, Jarl darted one final appraising glance at the duke and thought of the last times she had seen him: first in the archbishop’s chamber, and then, very soon afterwards, playing with his friends in the garden outside.
William had been hit by one of the other boys’ wooden toy swords and had fallen to the ground, rolling around groaning and making his friends shriek with laughter as he pretended to die. Jarl had been deeply affected by the contrast between this child’s-play imitation of death and the reality she knew only too intimately.
Now, as she watched William walk through the cathedral, she felt certain that all too many of the men thronging its pews believed that they, not he, should be master of Normandy, no matter what it took. She knew she would probably be called upon to poison William one day, but she realised, to her profound surprise – for she had never before been squeamish – that she could not bring herself to kill so young and undeserving a victim. An instant later she understood that the only way she could avoid being asked to do the job was to retire from her calling, immediately and absolutely. Someone else might end this boy’s life, but she would not be the one to do it.
The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2 Page 3