For a moment it looked as though that response would be an outburst of rage. Godwin let his right hand hover over the pommel of his sword, just in case Harthacnut should go as far as violence. But the Dane controlled his temper and very calmly said, ‘It’s a foolish man who insults his future king.’
‘It is an even more foolish man who chooses a king without testing his mettle first. If Earl Leofric and I are to go back and tell the English nobility that you should be their king, then I for one need to know that I am not saddling them with another Harold Harefoot. From that, all else follows. If the people see that their lords have welcomed you, they will accept you far more readily than if you have laid waste to their farms and razed their towns to the ground. That is one reason why you should not take England by conquest. The other is purely practical: why shed a drop of blood, or pay a single soldier’s wage, or risk defeat if you do not have to?’
‘There is no risk. You would not defeat me,’ Harthacnut said.
Godwin shrugged. ‘Possibly not, but can you be certain? Far better to win everything without fighting a single battle.’
‘And what do you expect in return?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Really? Nothing at all?’
‘We simply want English customs to be respected and things to stay as they are,’ said Leofric. ‘Let us keep what we already have: our titles, our estates and the proper influence on the governance of the realm that has always been afforded to men of senior rank.’
Harthacnut shot a look at his mother. Godwin could see that he was desperate to ask her advice but clearly feared to do so in front of men who had already called him a mummy’s boy. It was time to throw him a bone. ‘What do you think, Emma?’ Godwin asked. ‘Is our offer a fair one?’
He knew that Emma would happily see him dead, that she would dance on his grave, that it would claw at her guts every time she saw him sitting on the king’s council, or feasting at his high table. But he also knew what her reply would be.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is fair.’
For as Godwin well knew, Emma of Normandy had lived too long and suffered too much to let anything come between her and a return to power. Having twice been a king’s consort, she would now be the king mother. She would place her signature on Harthacnut’s decrees, just as she had done on Ethelred’s and Canute’s. She would take back the estates and gold and jewellery that Harold and Elgiva had seized when they ruled the land. She would endow monasteries and convents, and bask in the prestige that her acts of philanthropy would bestow upon her.
Now that the principal issue had been settled, conversation became more relaxed as they discussed the practical details of Harthacnut’s arrival in England. This, it transpired, would take longer than Godwin or Leofric had imagined.
‘I won’t conquer England, but neither will I arrive unprotected,’ Harthacnut insisted. ‘My fleet will bring me to England, my men will accompany me on the march to London, and the people of England will pay the cost of maintaining my army in peacetime, or face the ruination that they would cause in war.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Leofric asked. ‘You will lose much goodwill if your very first act is to levy a tax.’
‘Better than losing my life, as my half-brother did.’
‘But sire . . .’
Godwin could see that Leofric was about to embark on his version of a debate, which was to repeat the same point again and again until his opponent agreed with him, if only to shut him up. He motioned to Emma to walk with him a little further into the garden. She followed him, but Godwin was painfully aware of the simmering tension within her. She might have accepted his presence as a necessary element in making Harthacnut king of England, but she was clearly a long way from forgiving him. Still, there were matters that had to be discussed.
‘Your boy seems a strapping lad. Does he have a bride yet?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Emma replied grudgingly.
‘Don’t you think it’s time that he did?’
‘Once he is settled in England, yes.’
‘We’ll need an heir. Harold only cared about hunting and drinking. If he ever did take a woman to bed, he wasn’t able to impregnate her. We don’t want that happening again.’
‘Give the boy time, Godwin. His father died before he could find him a suitable match. I was cut off for him from the time he was a small boy, so I couldn’t help. Now that he has England, he’ll be as good a match as any in Christendom. There’ll be no shortage of kings and princes offering up their daughters. We’ll find a girl to be his brood mare, don’t you worry.’
‘Make sure you do. I wouldn’t want to see you driven out of England again, for want of a boy to wear the crown.’
‘Wouldn’t you now?’ Emma looked Godwin up and down as if measuring him for his shroud. ‘You’re full of yourself, aren’t you, Godwin? You think you can keep playing your little game and moving the pieces on the board, but it never occurs to you that you’re just a piece in the game, too. And remember this: the knight and the castle are both strong. But neither is as mighty as the queen.’
5
Rouen
William’s education, such as it was, had taken place at the ducal palace with two other boys connected to the House of Normandy. One was his closest friend William Fitzosbern, or ‘Fitz’ as William called him, the son of Osbern Herfastsson. The other was Guy of Burgundy, the younger son of Reginald, Count of Burgundy. His mother Alice had been the daughter of Duke Richard II, and had died when Guy was still a very small boy. His father, perhaps in consideration of his wife’s heritage, or simply as a means of placing a piece of his own in the great game being played to gain control of the duchy, sent Guy to Normandy as the ward of his cousin, Gilbert of Brionne.
In any group of three children, one is likely to be the outsider, and so it was here, for Guy had never been as close to either of the two Williams as they were to each other. Still, there were some things on which they were all agreed. None of them, for example, had any enthusiasm for the Latin grammar that Brother Thorold tried to ram down their throats. But all three were equally happy when they could hurtle out of their classroom, through the palace’s halls, along its corridors and cloisters and out into the stable yard, where they were given their lessons with the swords and bows that any Norman nobleman was obliged to master if he wished to shine as a huntsman or a warrior. So while Brother Thorold’s greatest problem was keeping his pupils awake, their master-at-arms, Turkill, a leathery old veteran of the Norman militia, whose broken nose and scarred face testified to his presence on many a battlefield, was more concerned about calming them down.
Today they were working with swords. It was Turkill’s habit to give them a decent period of supervised instruction and practice, followed by a series of fights in which they tried out what he had taught them on each other. True, the blades were made of wood rather than tempered steel, but that didn’t stop the boys setting about one another with ferocious, bloodthirsty zeal.
The first bout was between William and Fitz. They had been fighting one another since they were barely more than toddlers, competing with that special intensity that boys reserve for their brothers and best friends. There was nothing to choose between the two of them, for each always knew exactly what the other was about to do.
‘Concentrate, Fitz, come on!’ Turkill shouted. ‘You’ve got to pay attention all the time. How many times have I told you? It only takes a second to die! And William, vary your attack! You’re too predictable.’
The old soldier was leaning on a hitching rail on one side of the yard. Next to him stood Osbern. The ducal council was in session, but he had taken a break to come and watch his son in action.
‘You’ve got a good lad there, Osbern,’ Turkill said. ‘He’ll go far, mark my words.’
‘God willing.’
‘Any ne
ws from the council?’
‘Just the usual . . . Barons building castles without permission from the duchy, trying to take other men’s land, going on raids, stealing property, raping women. Half the duchy’s going up in flames if you believe what people are saying. Bishops complaining their estates are being wrecked. Farmers saying they won’t be able to get their crops in if it’s not safe to go outside.’
Turkill spat on the ground in front of him. ‘This is what you get when there isn’t a duke – I mean a strong, fully grown man – to keep everyone in order. I reckon this boy’s got it in him. But will he get the chance, eh?’
‘He will if I’ve got anything to do with it.’
Turkill turned his attention back to the boys. ‘Right, that’s enough! Now, Guy, were you paying attention to your pals’ scrap?’
Guy was leaning against a wall several paces away. ‘Of course,’ he said, with a casual, almost dismissive shrug.
‘Then please be good enough to tell me who you think won, and why. And stand up straight while you’re doing it.’
William and Fitz both tensed as they waited to hear the verdict.
‘Well, it was a close contest,’ Guy said. ‘Mostly because neither of them fought with any real style.’
‘Hey! That’s not true!’ William protested.
‘There’s no need for that tone, Guy,’ Turkill warned him. ‘Just stick to the facts and tell me what you saw.’
‘Very well, then, I saw William doing what he always does, which is just swinging his sword like a battleaxe, hoping he’d hit something but not really caring what it was. Fitzosbern isn’t as strong as William but he did try to be a bit more clever, even if he wasn’t always paying attention. So I give it to Fitzosbern.’
Again William complained. ‘That’s not fair! I hit Fitz much more often than he hit me.’
‘No you didn’t!’ Fitz exclaimed.
‘Enough!’ Turkill shouted. ‘Right, William, if you don’t like Guy’s decision, now’s your chance to do something about it. You and him are up next.’
He glanced at Osbern. ‘You staying for this?’
‘Yes. I think the council has an interest in knowing how well our duke is progressing.’
‘In other words, you’ve an excuse for staying out here a bit longer. Let’s see if the boy makes it worth your while.’
William was still only twelve. Though he was well built and strong for his age, he was a shade smaller than Guy, who was already fourteen and had started to grow into his adult shape. He had a naturally athletic build, with broad shoulders that tapered to a lean waist and long legs. He was quick and light on his feet, and even though the longsword could never be described as a weapon that demanded subtlety or guile – for that one required a light-bladed scimitar such as the Moors wielded – still Guy was able to dart forward, launch a flurry of blows at William and then spring back, so that William’s counter-thrusts hit nothing but thin air.
As ever, the two boys kept up a running, bantering commentary, though the atmosphere was becoming less light-hearted with every blow that Guy struck, and every taunt that he aimed at William.
‘That Burgundian dances as prettily as a girl,’ said Turkill, as Guy planted another pair of stinging blows on William’s arms while escaping untouched himself.
Osbern looked distinctly unimpressed. ‘You can’t prance around like that on the battlefield. My money’s on the duke . . . I never saw a lad who was readier for a fight.’
‘Aye, he’ll be right in the thick of it, every time. His men’ll love him for that.’
Osbern grimaced. ‘If he doesn’t get himself killed first.’
‘Well, no need to worry about that just yet.’
William hadn’t been able to lay a single blow on Guy. The older boy moved so quickly that he could get inside William’s defences and hit him before William could react at all. So far, Guy had only been striking him on his shoulders, arms and hands, but for all that it was made of wood, the sword was still hard enough to hurt, particularly when Guy hit him with the side of the blade. Three or four times William had wanted to cry out in pain, but each time he’d managed to stop himself. He wasn’t going to give Guy that satisfaction, not when he already had that smug, superior look on his face, as if there was something special about being able to beat a smaller, younger boy.
There was more to it than that, though. As William grew older, he had come to understand that beneath Guy’s friendship lay a streak of bitter resentment. William might be the Duke of Normandy, the son of the previous duke, directly descended from Rollo, the Viking raider who had founded the Norman dynasty, yet he was illegitimate, and as far as Guy was concerned, that made him unworthy to rule Normandy.
Only recently, Guy had raised the issue in the course of a scripture lesson, asking Brother Thorold, ‘God wants men and women to marry before they have children, isn’t that right?’
Thorold had of course understood at once what lay behind the apparently innocent question, and had seen from the red flush of anger and embarrassment colouring William’s face that he knew what his classmate was up to as well. But as a man of the cloth, he had no option but to answer, ‘Ideally, Guy, yes, He does. But He loves all of us equally, for we are all made in His image, no matter what our parentage.’
‘Yes, but only the children of married parents are truly legitimate in the eyes of the Church,’ Guy had persisted.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Doesn’t that mean that a son isn’t really his father’s heir if his father and mother weren’t married?’
‘That’s quite enough, Guy,’ Thorold had snapped. ‘Even if what you say is true, it is wrong to say things that are spiteful or malicious – wrong in God’s eyes – and you would do well to remember that. You should also bear in mind that your grandfather, Duke Richard the Fearless, was not married to the late, beloved Lady Gunnor when your mother Alice was born. Nor were Richard the Fearless’s parents married, for that matter. It is not something to celebrate, but one cannot ignore the fact that for generations, the dukes of Normandy have been the sons of concubines. Your argument, followed to its logical conclusion, robs you and every other living member of the House of Normandy of any claim to the duchy. Is that the point you were trying to make?’
‘No,’ Guy admitted. But even if he had lost the argument in class, still he clung to his conviction that by being the son of married parents, he was better than William, who was not. And the more he tried to rub it in, the more William felt the sting of being a bastard, felt his anger building inside him and grew ever more determined to face down and defeat anyone who threw that indignity in his face. So now, on the practice ground, he took Guy’s blows without wincing or flinching, he controlled the rage that was building inside him, keeping it well hidden, and steadily he realised that he was getting his eye in. He could see Guy coming and anticipate what he was going to do.
As Guy attacked him again, William was about to parry his thrust but then stopped himself. No, he’d take another hit – it was only one more bruise, and that would soon heal – and let Guy believe that he was still incapable of serious resistance. And this time, when the sword smacked against his shoulder, William did wince and give a little cry of ‘Ow!’ – not too loudly, for the last thing he wanted was for Turkill to step in and stop the fight, but just enough to convince Guy that he was suffering.
Guy grinned. ‘Do you want your mummy, cry-baby?’ he taunted.
Then he attacked again, taking two quick, skipping steps towards William, up on his toes, with all his weight and momentum moving forwards. But this time, when Guy swung his sword, William wasn’t there. Almost without Guy realising what was happening, William had stepped just enough to his left to evade the charge, so that Guy’s sword flayed at thin air, and the lack of the usual solid contact caused him to lose his balance and stumble slightly
.
That in turn made him reach out to steady himself, and in so doing he left his lower chest and belly exposed.
William put every bit of strength he had into his arms and shoulders as he brought his sword backhanded, edge-on, underneath Guy’s flailing arms and straight into his stomach. The blow hit Guy just below the diaphragm, punching him harder than any fist had ever done, doubling him up and leaving him winded and gasping for air. He dropped his sword and hugged himself, moaning softly from the pain of the blow.
‘Got you!’ William exulted.
A couple of men-at-arms looking down from the castle walls cheered the blow, and Guy glanced up and shot them a murderous look.
‘Right, lads . . .’ said Turkill, pushing himself off the rail.
He was about to make his way into the centre of the yard, to talk to the two boys about what had just happened, for neither of them could afford to be caught the way Guy had just been, but Osbern put out a hand to stop him.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I want to see what happens next.’
William was standing, sword still in hand, watching to see what Guy would do.
Guy straightened up, obviously still hurt, and staggered towards him. Somehow he managed to summon up something approaching a smile and even a chuckle as he said, ‘Well done, Will . . . Your Grace . . . you really got me there. God above, I can barely walk . . .’
William relaxed and dropped his guard, grinning at his triumph.
Guy reached out with his right arm and laid it on William’s shoulder, as if for support. Because he was still not standing straight, his head was level with William’s, almost touching, and no one could hear what he said as he whispered, ‘Have some of this, you little bastard.’
His swung his knee hard into William’s crotch, catching him completely unawares. Now it was the duke who was doubled up in pain and Guy who was smirking.
The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2 Page 15