The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2

by David Churchill

  Now that he was here in the cathedral, where his great-uncle’s body was lying, the bad thoughts that had been bothering William since he’d first woken up were more overwhelming than ever. He was desperately afraid that he’d done something very wicked, but as he walked up the centre of the nave, feeling all the eyes following his every step, he had no idea what to do about it. If the people around him found out, they’d kill him, he was sure of it.

  They were calling out to him from all sides, most exclaiming, ‘Your Grace!’ though a few ill-wishers hissed, ‘Bastard!’ But then he heard a woman’s voice, much gentler than the rest, saying, ‘Willie, my darling . . . over here!’ He turned his head and saw his mother, Herleva. Months had passed since he’d last been with her, but there she was, waving at him. His half-brothers Odo and Robert were standing next to her, and beyond them was his stepfather, Herluin of Conteville, giving him a broad, friendly smile. William longed to run over to them and wrap his arms around Mama’s waist and feel her pull him tight against her dress. He could tell her his secret and she wouldn’t be cross, he knew that for sure. Herluin would be very calm about the whole thing and say something sensible. Then the boys would beg him to play with them and everything would be all right.

  But William could not run to his mother like any other boy. He had to think about his duty to his duchy and his people. So he just gave Herleva and the rest of her family a little nod of the head, keeping his mouth tightly pursed without any hint of a smile, and walked on as grimly as a condemned prisoner marching to the gallows.

  A moment later, he found himself by the open coffin. Forcing himself to look down, he was struck by Great-Uncle Robert’s extraordinary stillness. When he and his friends played soldiers, they often fell to the ground pretending to be dead, but even when they tried their very best not to move or breathe, they couldn’t help being pink and warm and bursting with life. But his great-uncle’s body looked so like a statue, so completely sucked dry of life, that William could hardly believe this was the very same man he’d seen just a few days earlier, lying in bed and giving him lessons on all the people he could and could not trust. That man had been ill, but he breathed and spoke and smiled when William asked a good question. And . . . and . . .

  William burst into tears.

  Now it was Osbern’s turn to comfort him. He crouched down on his haunches, laid one hand on William’s shoulder and lifted the boy’s chin with the other. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘It’s all right. There’s nothing wrong with being sad when someone you loved and who loved you very much dies.’

  William gulped and screwed up his eyes, trying to staunch the tears. ‘I know . . .’ he sniffed. ‘But . . . but . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, William. Your great-uncle’s in heaven now. He’s surrounded by saints and angels and archangels. He’s standing by the throne of God Himself.’

  ‘But . . .’ William sniffed again and wiped his eyes. For a second he seemed to be recovering, but then he gave another convulsive sob and blurted out, ‘I think I killed him!’

  Now Osbern placed both hands on William’s upper arms, holding him tight. ‘Don’t say that, Your Grace,’ he said, deliberately using a more formal mode of address. ‘His Grace the archbishop died because his time had come and Our Lord took him to stand by His side.’

  ‘But I was the last person to see him, apart from the servant woman who came in to give him his medicine and she doesn’t count. Great-Uncle Robert died after I’d been with him. Maybe I said something that made him cross, or there was a demon in me that leapt on to the bed and killed him.’

  Osbern’s heart bled to think of the burden of guilt the poor boy had been carrying. ‘No, no . . . I promise you that didn’t happen,’ he reassured him. ‘Great-Uncle Robert was a very old man. Death came to him as it comes to us all. There’s no need to despair. We should be thankful he led such a long life and did so much good before he died.’

  He paused. A thought had struck him, the memory of another death ten years earlier and a conversation he’d had with Tancred, the chamberlain of the ducal palace, now dead himself these past four years. ‘You should have seen the slut the duke had with him that night,’ Tancred had said with a lascivious lick of the lips, although women were never his pleasure. ‘I’m not surprised his heart gave out. Even I might have been tempted.’

  The duke in question was Richard III, William’s uncle, and although it seemed certain he’d died of natural causes, no one could stop the gossips whispering of murder. Maybe there was some substance to their tittle-tattle after all. An empty flagon of wine and a pair of goblets had been found in the chamber, but no one had paid them any attention. It would have been far more unusual if Duke Richard had entertained a whore without the benefit of strong, sweet wine to heighten his ardour. Now, though, as William reported seeing a woman taking medicine to the archbishop shortly before he died, Osbern wondered whether both men might conceivably have been poisoned, and by the same killer.

  He heard a cough from behind him and twisted his head to see Alan of Brittany looking down at him with a quizzical look on his face. Alan gave a quick jerk of his head as if to say, ‘Get up.’

  Osbern held up a hand. ‘One moment.’ He turned back to William. ‘Your Grace, do you remember the woman you saw in your great-uncle’s bedchamber? Was she very beautiful?’

  William twisted his mouth from side to side and shrugged. ‘S’pose so.’

  ‘Don’t be shy, just try to imagine her. Did she have a pretty face?’

  William nodded.

  ‘And would you recognise her if you saw her again?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Very well then, let’s not say another word about this to anyone. You did not kill anyone. You’ve done nothing wrong. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good lad. Now, wipe your eyes and your nose and stand up straight. Your barons want to pay their respects to you. Better look like you deserve them, eh?’

  5

  Giroie was leading his family through the west door of the cathedral when he heard his name being called by a voice that, even as it greeted him with apparent good humour, seemed somehow to be sneering. He looked to his right and saw a familiar figure leaning against one of the huge stone pillars that supported the cathedral roof. He turned back to his oldest son, Arnold. ‘Get your brothers and the women somewhere to sit. I’ll find you.’ Then he walked across to the man who had attracted his attention.

  ‘Good day, Talvas,’ he said.

  Talvas of Bellême, master of the castle of Alençon and a great swathe of land in southern Normandy, gave a smile that, as was his custom, did not extend to his eyes. ‘And to you, Giroie. Brought your family with you, I see.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘You’re like a farmer bringing his prize pigs to market. They’re all for sale if you get the right price.’

  Giroie looked at Talvas. Even at his age, he’d have no trouble dismembering the arrogant little shit if they ever went at it, one sword against another. And yet, though Talvas was a poorly built specimen, with legs as skinny as a heron’s, there was an air of danger about him.

  ‘How’s my lad doing, then?’ Giroie asked.

  ‘William?’ Talvas replied. ‘He’s doing very well. He’s been busy expanding my territory into Maine – that’s why he’s not here, actually.’

  ‘Doing your fighting for you, eh? Just like I did for your father.’

  Talvas gave a polite laugh, but the chill in his eyes became even frostier. ‘Oh yes, he’s a great fighter, your lad. Of course, my brother Robert would still be alive if it hadn’t been for him. There is that to consider.’

  Even by the standards of the never-ending swirl of mayhem and criminality that surrounded the Norman aristocracy, the House of Bellême was more than usually delinquent. Three of Talvas’s older brothers had died violently, which explained why he, the survivor
, was currently in possession of the family stronghold at Alençon. The previous occupant, Robert, had gone to war with the Count of Maine, whose lands shared a border with Bellême. It was not a wise move. Robert was defeated, captured and thrown into a dungeon beneath the castle of Ballon. As a loyal soldier of the House of Bellême, William Fitzgiroie had set out to even the score with Maine and defeated the count. In the course of that action, a company of Bellême soldiers had captured one of the count’s followers, Walter Sors, and two of his five sons, whom they promptly hanged, against William Fitzgiroie’s orders. Unfortunately for Robert of Bellême, the three remaining Sors boys were at the castle where he was imprisoned when they heard that their father and brothers had been killed. They immediately picked up their battleaxes, went down to the dungeon and smashed Robert’s skull to pieces.

  ‘I know what really happened, as does every man in this cathedral. And it wasn’t William’s fault,’ Giroie said, stepping closer to Talvas to make his point and presence felt. ‘Don’t even pretend you give a damn about your brother. If he was still walking the earth, you wouldn’t be sitting in Alençon Castle lording it over Bellême.’

  Talvas shrugged. ‘That’s true, very true . . . There’s not much to be said for older brothers from a younger one’s point of view. The fewer the better, eh?’

  Giroie said nothing. Talvas looked around at the congregation, in which virtually every noble house of Normandy was well represented. ‘So, speaking of brothers . . . I’ve got your son William. Am I right in thinking that one of his brothers wears the colours of Brionne?’

  ‘Fulk.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course. Got any takers in mind for the rest? You should have a look at young Ralph de Gacé.’

  ‘Donkey-Head?’ exclaimed Giroie. He looked at Talvas. ‘Are you mocking me, boy?’

  Talvas was entirely unperturbed by the very obviously threatening tone of Giroie’s remark. ‘Not at all, not at all. Ralph arrived a few minutes ago and promptly started telling everyone that the archbishop’s will more or less ordered our beloved duke’s guardians to add him to their ranks. He may be the ugliest, most ridiculous-looking man in all Normandy, but dear old Donkey-Head’s going up in the world.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Never been more serious, Giroie. Besides, I’d never make a joke in your presence.’ He turned away and murmured under his breath, ‘You wouldn’t understand it.’

  Giroie was certain he’d heard Talvas right, but he couldn’t be starting a fight in a cathedral if he wanted his family to become respectable, and certainly not on a day like this. Instead, he bade a curt farewell and strode up the centre of the nave, wishing he’d had the chance to grab Talvas in both hands and smash his arrogant, conniving head against the nearest pillar until it burst open like a ripe peach against a stone wall.

  Just then, he saw a commotion up ahead. A tall, scrawny knight with a hairless scalp burned as dark as his leather boots by the sun was trying to make his way past a small group of much younger men who were blocking his path towards the altar and the young duke. Giroie could hear him calling out, ‘Let me pass! By all that’s holy, let . . . me . . . pass!’ He shook his head in wonder. The last time he’d heard that voice had been on a beach more than twenty years ago, shouting obscene insults at fleeing English soldiers as they desperately waded out to the ships that had brought them to Normandy and were about to take them straight back home again. In those days that head still had some hair on it, but the gangly physique and high, grating speech, more like a querulous preacher than a grizzled soldier, were unmistakably the same.

  As Giroie drew closer, he could not so much smell as feel the stench of stale wine rising from the knight, overpowering the lingering scent of incense that hung in the cathedral air. He stepped in front of the youngsters. ‘You can go now,’ he said to them. ‘I’ll take care of this.’

  One of the group opened his mouth to speak, then caught Giroie’s eye and knew that he was outmatched. ‘Very well, sir. But you must not let him pass.’

  Giroie looked at him for a second, giving not the slightest hint that he had heard, let alone acknowledged that ill-judged command, then turned back to the old soldier.

  ‘By God, Tosny, you stink like a dockside tavern. What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be off in Aragon, killing Moors?’

  ‘I was. Then I heard my wife had died. Fever. So I came back.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I left her to run the estate, thought she’d be safe . . .’ Tosny gave a long, drink-drenched sigh. ‘Now she’s dead, and look at me. All these years at war and I’m still fit as a fiddle.’

  Tosny looked like a man on the point of drunkard’s tears. Giroie had no intention of indulging him. ‘Right,’ he said, briskly, ‘what are you doing trying to barge your way through a cathedral?’

  ‘Want to see this boy who calls himself the duke. Come on, Giroie.’ Tosny leaned forward conspiratorially, almost asphyxiating Giroie with the booze on his breath. ‘You’re a man who speaks his mind . . . always used to be, anyway. What do you make of the brat?’

  Giroie shrugged. ‘What is there to make? People call him the Bastard because he’s illegitimate. I say, so what? So were most of the dukes before him. But there are plenty who don’t think he’s got any right to the title.’

  ‘So why hasn’t someone killed him already? Tell me that.’ Tosny suddenly sounded much more sober.

  ‘They’d have to get past Brittany, Brionne and Herfastsson first. Also, Duke Robert did one clever thing before he left on that pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He took William off to Paris to see King Henry and had him sworn in as the king’s vassal, and if that’s the case . . .’

  ‘The king has a duty to protect him.’ Tosny nodded thoughtfully as he finished Giroie’s sentence. ‘You’re right, that was a shrewd move. But if a man could get those guardians out of the way and control William himself, he’d as good as rule Normandy anyway, wouldn’t he? Still, what do I care? I refuse to pledge allegiance to the brat either way. I came here to tell him that face to face.’

  Now Giroie understood why people had been trying to stop him. ‘For God’s sake, Tosny, don’t be so stupid. You can’t just go up to a duke and spit in his face, no matter how old he is.’

  ‘I’ve earned the right. I’ve fought for Normandy and I’ve fought for Christ Almighty, and now I’m going to say my piece. Let me pass.’

  Roger de Tosny had spent his entire life sobering up in a hurry. There had been countless times when he’d been called straight from the bottle to the battlefield. Now he squared his shoulders, held his head high and marched towards the knot of fellow knights and nobles clustered around Duke William. He endured their blatantly insincere protestations of loyalty and devotion to the boy for as long as he could bear, then barged his way through them all until he stood opposite the child who was supposed to be his lord and master. To his surprise, Tosny liked the look of the lad. He did not flinch at the sight of a large armed man forcing his way into his presence, but stood tall, stayed calm and looked him right in the eye.

  ‘I do not know you, sir,’ William said, in a strong, clear voice, without a tremor of alarm. ‘But I would be glad to hear your name.’

  ‘Roger de Tosny, that’s my name. I’ve been away these past twelve years, keeping the heathen at bay in the lands of Aragon and Castille.’

  ‘Then you have been doing good work, Sir Roger. Can I count on you as my vassal?’

  Tosny said nothing. A silence fell around him, and with it came a feeling of discomfort and unease.

  Osbern Herfastsson was the first to speak. ‘Your duke asked you a question, Tosny. You would do well to answer it.’

  ‘I’ll give him an answer, Herfastsson. But it’s not the one that you or he wants to hear. I won’t lie to him like these flatterers and arse-lickers, all professing to serve him now
when you and I both know they’d betray him tomorrow if they thought they’d profit by it.’

  ‘What does he mean?’ William asked Osbern.

  ‘Nothing. He means nothing. Don’t listen to him, Your Grace.’

  ‘What I mean,’ Tosny said, ‘is that I will do you the favour of honesty. As long as I live, I will never lift a sword against you. You can count on that. But I won’t serve you either. You look like you’ve got good strong blood in you, but you’re just a boy and you don’t stand a chance. If, by God’s grace, you live long enough to become a man, then maybe I’ll give my pledge to you. But until then, I’ll keep my counsel. Good day to you, Duke . . . and to you, Herfastsson.’

  And with that, Roger of Tosny turned on his heel and stalked away towards the cathedral door.

  ‘Pay him no heed,’ Osbern said to William as Tosny made his way back down the aisle. ‘He’s just an old soldier who’s spent so long in the Spanish sun that his head’s been fried.’

  ‘What did he mean about flatterers and arse-lickers?’ William asked.

  ‘Nothing. Just more stuff and nonsense.’

  William said nothing, but as he watched the burly old soldier make his way out of the church, he wanted very much to chase after him and fire one question after another at him. He knew that Osbern had been infuriated by Tosny’s insolence, but he himself had taken the man’s words very differently.

  I’m sure Tosny meant it when he said he’d be honest with me, he thought. He told me he wouldn’t serve me. No one else did that, though I bet they were thinking it. And if he’s telling the truth about that, then he’s probably telling the truth about never rebelling against me too.

  He thought about another one of the archbishop’s deathbed warnings: ‘Your enemies will often pretend to be your best friends.’

  Men like Tosny won’t hurt me. It’s the ones who are smiling at me now but plotting against me when they think I’m not looking that I have to worry about.