The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2

by David Churchill

  Osbern could see that William was trying as hard as he could not to cry, visibly determined not to give Guy that satisfaction.

  ‘Now?’ Turkill asked.

  ‘Wait,’ Osbern replied.

  It was then that William launched himself head first at Guy, as fast and true as a flaming arrow, tackling him around the waist and knocking him backwards on to the bare dirt floor of the yard.

  Guy was left lying on his back, with William on top of him, raining down punches, so that he had to cross his arms above his face to stop himself being pummelled.

  ‘Don’t call me that!’ William shouted.

  ‘Bastard, bastard!’ Guy replied in a singsong voice, laughing now because William simply wasn’t strong enough to break down his defences and hurt him.

  ‘Now,’ said Osbern, ‘I’ve seen enough. I have a meeting of the council to attend.’

  As the steward strode away, Turkill made for the middle of the yard. ‘Right, boys, that’s enough,’ he called out as he walked towards them. ‘Get up, dust ourselves down, shake hands and then be friends again. I don’t want any hard feelings.’

  The two boys did as they were told, but their handshake was grudging, with sulky looks and muttered curses.

  ‘Moody little beggars, aren’t you?’ Turkill said. ‘But you can forget about that now, because we’ve got work to do. Guy, don’t you dare let anyone under your guard like that again. If that had been a real sword, he’d have gutted you like a fish.’

  ‘Ha!’ said William.

  ‘Don’t you look so pleased with yourself, Your Grace,’ Turkill said. ‘If Guy had been using a real sword, he’d have chopped your arms clean off before you laid a finger on him.’

  ‘Now who’s laughing?’ sneered Guy.

  ‘Enough! Both of you! Pick up your swords and pay attention. It’s time we got back to work.’

  ‘I hear there was a bit of a scrap between Duke William and my ward in the stable yard this morning,’ said Gilbert of Brionne as he and Osbern chatted over goblets of wine that evening. The formal business of the ducal council had been dealt with, and now its members were ranged around the table, some standing, others leaning back in their chairs as they chatted to one another.

  ‘Yes,’ said Osbern thoughtfully. ‘I think we should keep an eye on those two. I don’t want it getting serious.’

  Gilbert had been brought up in the same military tradition as every other male member of the House of Normandy, and could wield a sword as well as anyone, but he was a kindly, gentle soul at heart. ‘Oh, I’m sure we’ve no need to worry,’ he said. ‘You know what boys are like. One minute they’re at each other’s throats, the next they’re the best of friends again.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Osbern took another sip of his drink. This was probably not the time to tell Brionne what he really thought of his ward. In any case, Brionne was already changing the subject. ‘I must apologise to you all,’ he said, so that everyone present could hear him, ‘but I won’t be able to attend our next meeting.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Ralph de Gacé, who had poured himself a drink and joined their conversation. ‘Don’t say you’ll be enjoying yourself while we’re trying to keep the duchy in one piece!’

  Brionne laughed politely. ‘Well, I won’t be out hunting or feasting, if that’s what you mean, but I think it might be pleasurable in another way.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘An old soldier of mine, Herluin of Le Bec, has set up a small monastery in a village called Bec Hellouin. It’s no distance at all from Brionne, an hour’s ride, if that. Naturally I said I’d be his patron, so I helped to fund the buildings and put up a small church.’

  ‘How very generous,’ said Ralph, ‘and, if you don’t mind me saying so, how characteristic of your good nature.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re being far too kind,’ said Brionne, clearly delighted by the compliment. ‘The church is really nothing special, but Herluin is a remarkable fellow, almost saintly in his way, and he’s doing good work helping the poor and the sick. The local folk think he’s a real saint, and I can see why. I’m sure Our Lord and Saviour must be looking down on him with great favour. Anyway, the church is being dedicated next week, and of course it’s my duty to be there for the ceremony, but also my great pleasure. I’m sure it will be a most enjoyable occasion.’

  Ralph, who had been listening attentively, asked, ‘What day exactly is this dedication? I should like to send a gift of some kind, a cross or a psalter perhaps. It certainly sounds like a deserving cause.’

  Osbern looked on in surprise tinged with something close to respect. He’d looked on de Gacé with intense suspicion when he’d first joined the council, and initially everything he’d seen of him had suggested that he was as ugly on the inside as he looked on the outside. But since Alan of Brittany’s death, he had offered only sensible and just advice, and here he was showing interest in Brionne’s obscure rural monastery and offering to donate to its church.

  Perhaps Osbern had been unfair. Could it be that now that de Gacé had finally been allowed to join the innermost circles from which he had always been excluded, he had mellowed a little and acquired a degree of polish or even, dare one say, charm?

  Stranger things have happened, Osbern said to himself as they walked towards the great hall for dinner. Though not many.

  During dinner, Ralph de Gacé had a message sent to one of his men, who was gorging himself – for he was twice the size of any ordinary man, with an appetite to match – at one of the long tables set aside for the council members’ servants and men-at-arms. Three hours later, as the rest of the palace was settling down to sleep, Ralph met the man in a deserted cloister. ‘Now listen very carefully,’ he began. ‘I have a job for you. And it must be carried out exactly as I tell you . . .’

  6

  The road to Bec Hellouin

  Odo the Fat’s nickname did scant justice to his corpulence. He sat astride his horse like a huge sack of turnips perched on a cottage roof. The gown he wore beneath his coat of chain mail would have served as a decent-sized tent for any soldier on campaign, and yet it bulged from the rolls of flesh that pressed against it. With such a weight to bear, it was no surprise that Odo’s horse was of much greater than average size. Its massive shoulders and haunches were more akin to those of an ox and, perhaps disgruntled by the great weight it had to bear, it looked out at the world with an air of sullen resentment that was a fit match for the malice in Odo’s own eyes.

  Other, happier folk might have had a smile on their face, for this was the balmiest of spring mornings. The sun was hinting at a lovely day to come. The grass was fresh with dew, and there were still a few wisps of mist drifting through the trees that lined the riverbanks. In the forest through which Odo was now riding, the tracks were dry beneath his horse’s hooves and the air was filled with the scents of wild herbs. Somewhere in the distance, a pigeon cooed. At once Odo threw away the uneaten remnants of the pastry with which he had been staving off the hunger pangs that were apt to afflict him between breakfast and lunch, and turned to the younger, much thinner man next to him. His mouth was still full, but he stopped chewing so as to hear the bird more clearly.

  ‘He’s on his way, two men with him,’ he said. ‘You know what you have to do?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Remember what the man said. They all die. No survivors, no witnesses.’

  Robert Fitzgiroie nodded, then wheeled his horse away from Odo. Up ahead, the path curved and was lost behind the trees that grew on either side. There were another two mounted men-at-arms and six foot soldiers standing cold and wet in the drizzle that had been falling all morning. Half of them marched off in Fitzgiroie’s wake.

  Odo watched until they were swallowed up by the woods. Then he turned in his saddle and gestured at the trees on the inside of the bend. ‘We’ll wait over t
here,’ he said to the other soldier on horseback, in a voice that was barely louder than a whisper. ‘You other men, take up your positions beside the path. Walk softly. Don’t say a word. Don’t let them know we’re here. If anyone makes a sound and I can’t kill Brionne, I’ll kill them instead.’

  The men took Odo’s words just as seriously as he’d intended. They knew that for all his gross corpulence, he remained a deadly fighter, nimble as a dancer and strong as a bear. Many an adversary had thrust at his body with sword or lance, thinking it far too big a target to miss, only to find themselves hitting nothing and realising, a heartbeat later, that the only blood to be shed would be theirs. So his threats were heeded, and as the men moved into position, the only sounds to be heard were the exhalation of the horses and the gentle pattering of the raindrops on the trees.

  Gilbert, Count of Eu and Brionne, great-grandson of the first Duke William of Normandy and cousin of the second, was enjoying the easy journey from his castle to the village of Bec Hellouin, and happily anticipating the dedication ceremony for the new church. Even walking, a horse could comfortably cover the ground in under an hour. So there was no need to hurry, and Gilbert was engaged in a leisurely conversation with two lesser noblemen who were his friends and allies: Wakelin of Pont-Echanfroi and Fulk Fitzgiroie, whose younger brother Robert was, at this precise moment, leading his men through the forest in the opposite direction, barely a stone’s throw away.

  ‘So, I hear Duke William and Guy of Burgundy have been fighting again,’ Wakelin said to Brionne.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,’ the count replied. ‘You know what boys are like. They’re family, known each other all their lives. One minute they’re at each other’s throats, the next they’re the best of friends.’

  ‘Mind you, I’d be curious to know who’d come out on top if they ever did have a proper scrap,’ Wakelin went on. ‘Burgundy’s the older by what, eighteen months or so?’

  ‘A little less.’

  ‘Either way, I think William’s still his match.’

  ‘He’s got the hotter temper, too,’ said Fulk. ‘I never saw a lad who was readier for a fight, anywhere, any time. You only have to look at that mop of ginger hair blazing away on his head, and you know what kind of a character he’s going to be.’

  ‘Now, now,’ Brionne chided him, though his tone was light-hearted. ‘That’s our duke you’re talking about . . . Look, they’re both my cousins and they’ve both been entrusted to my care. So I’m not going to show either of them any favour, even if I do have to remind Guy from time to time who it is he’s trying to hit. I don’t mind a couple of lads having a scrap; in fact it’s good for them. But I’m not standing for anything more serious than that.’

  ‘Ha!’ Fulk exclaimed. ‘Maybe you should tell Guy that if he harms a hair on William’s head, you’ll have him executed for treason.’

  ‘Don’t, please. I spend my whole life trying to stop my relations from conspiring against their duke.’

  ‘That’s what you get when the duchy’s ruled by a bastard whose dad isn’t around to look after him.’

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Brionne. ‘I think you’d be well advised to change your tone, or—’

  ‘Listen!’ hissed Wakelin, cutting the count short. ‘I think I heard something. A horse . . . very close by.’

  The three men stopped and looked around them. For a moment total silence fell upon the forest path. Then there was a single rasping shout of ‘Now!’ from up ahead, and a gigantic figure mounted on a monstrous horse smashed through the screen of trees and came charging towards them. For a second it seemed to Brionne as if this solitary giant were their only enemy, but then more men ran at the three riders from either side of the track, shouting incoherently as they came. And then there was another cry from behind them and the trap snapped shut.

  Robert Fitzgiroie urged his charger into a canter and then a gallop. He had miscalculated slightly and come out on to the path further behind the count and his two companions than he had planned. So now he had ground to make up if he was to do his fair share of the fighting and earn the reward that would be his if he dealt the fatal blow to Brionne.

  He could see Odo using his sword like a bludgeon, trying to smash his way through Brionne’s desperate defence by sheer power, his blade hammering down again and again against the other man’s sword. The two men who’d been riding with the count were twisting their mounts this way and that as they tried to avoid the foot soldiers’ weapons. Fitzgiroie rode past them with barely a glance, his attention entirely focused on the struggle between Odo and Brionne. But then he heard a shout of ‘Robert! Thank God!’

  Fitzgiroie brought his horse to a skidding halt at the sound of Fulk’s voice. Of course he knew that his elder brother was part of Brionne’s household: the Fitzgiroie children, brothers and sisters alike, were scattered across half the major families in Normandy as loyal soldiers or wives. But he and Fulk had not spoken in years. There’d been no reason to think he’d be with the count today. ‘Odo, you bastard!’ he shouted. ‘My brother! You didn’t tell me!’

  ‘Kill . . . him . . .’ gasped Odo, heaving for breath as he kept up his unrelenting assault. ‘Or . . . by God . . . I’ll kill you.’

  Robert turned his horse. He caught Fulk’s eye. They both knew the rules drummed into them by their father from their earliest days: ‘You will serve our family best by serving other, more powerful families first. Your loyalty is therefore to the house you serve. If that should mean that one day you have to fight your own flesh and blood, so be it. May the stronger man win. That way the family will grow stronger.’

  Robert had his master. Fulk had his. Now they would fight to see whose would prevail.

  Robert turned his horse until he faced his brother directly. Then he rode straight at him.

  Odo could feel Brionne’s parries weakening with every swing of his blade, but his own strength was ebbing too. At the start of a fight, his sheer bulk provided him with crushing force, but with every passing second, it became more of a weakness, weighing him down and exhausting him. Brionne was close to his fiftieth year. The very fact that he had survived this long proved that his courtly demeanour hid the mind and courage of a true warrior. If he could just hang on long enough, he might yet carry the day. There was a glint in Brionne’s eyes and renewed vigour in his defence. He dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and barged against Odo’s much bigger mount, changing the momentum of the fight so that it was he who was on the offensive and Odo who was forced to defend.

  Odo suddenly felt afraid. He was a bully. So long as his targets were outnumbered and helpless, he felt nothing but pleasure at the thought of seeing them suffer. Once they were fighting back, he was a great deal less enthusiastic. Brionne was striking first to one side then the other, forcing Odo to twist and dodge, using up his energy. Odo’s breathing had become ever more laboured. The air was rasping in his throat and he was wheezing like a blacksmith’s bellows. His heart was pounding so hard he feared his ribs could not withstand the battering. The sweat was pouring down his face, into his eyes, drenching his back and his armpits. His lungs were burning and his sword felt so heavy it might as well have been forged from lead rather than steel.

  He could not hold out much longer. Brionne stabbed directly at him, and Odo was only able to deflect rather than block the blow, which pierced the chain mail on the side of his chest, just below his left arm, and cut a clean slice through his fat-backed skin. He howled with pain and alarm, but his voice was drowned by the high-pitched whinny of Brionne’s horse.

  One of the foot soldiers, seeing how the struggle between the two mounted men had swung from his master to his enemy, had stepped aside from the attack on Wakelin and Fulk and swung his sword, two-handed, at one of the horse’s hind legs. It carved a terrible wound through the lean flesh and gristly tendons just above the animal’s hock, smashing so hard into th
e bone beneath that the blade became stuck. The wounded leg gave way, ripping the sword from the soldier’s grasp, and the horse fell to the ground in agony.

  Brionne dropped with his mount and crashed to earth with a blow that broke his own leg, sent his sword flying from his hand and trapped him beneath the agonised, writhing beast.

  A vicious smile rippled across Odo’s flabby cheeks. Still gasping for air, he steadied his own horse, then dismounted and, taking care not to be struck by a stray hoof, made his way around to where Brionne lay, wounded and defenceless – just the way that Odo liked his enemies.

  The fat man’s first instinct was to take his time, savour his task and dismember Brionne piece by piece, taking care to keep him alive as long as possible. But time was pressing. The struggle between the Fitzgiroie brothers was still unresolved, and though both Wakelin and his horse were bleeding from multiple wounds, they were still fighting on in a flurry of sword strokes and flailing hooves.

  The job had to be done quickly.

  Odo stepped up to Brionne and placed a single huge foot on his chest, then leaned forward, putting all his weight on that foot and driving the breath from Brionne’s lungs. He grasped the hilt of his sword in both hands, with the blade pointing straight down, and looked Brionne in the eye for a moment. Neither man said a word. Then Odo raised his arms up high, paused for a moment to gather his breath and check his aim, and drove the sword down, stabbing Brionne just at the point where his neck joined his torso, severing his windpipe and gullet and striking so deep that his head was all but cut off.

  The job was done. Now all that remained was the tidying-up.

  ‘Help me up,’ Odo wheezed at the foot soldier as he walked back to his horse. He remounted with a graceless, laboured series of movements, assisted by several desperate heaves on the soldier’s part, then turned his attention to Wakelin and Fulk Fitzgiroie.

  In trying to evade the knot of foot soldiers who had gathered around him, Wakelin had inadvertently turned his horse so that he had his back to the rest of the battle. Odo grinned once again. He had a tactic that had served him well on many similar occasions, and now he put it to use again by simply charging at Wakelin’s undefended left flank, barging into him and knocking him right out of his saddle.