Wakelin was agile. He fell on his feet, with his sword still in his hand. But, having set out on a peaceful ride without any real expectation of combat, he had no shield to protect him. The six foot soldiers surrounded him like dogs around a wild boar. As individuals, none would have stood a chance against their prey, but together they had more than enough power to prevail.
Odo turned towards the Fitzgiroies. He could see two things at once: first, that Robert was a better swordsman than his more peaceable elder brother, and second that he was showing a distressing squeamishness about applying his superiority to the full and bringing the struggle to its natural, fatal conclusion. Odo sighed. Why did he have to do everything?
He wheeled his horse until he was behind Fulk, then, while the other man was fully occupied fending off his brother, dug his spurs in, raced forward and swung his sword so that the length of the blade cut right across Fulk’s back. It was enough of a blow to kill him, but not straight away. Fulk was shouting out in pain, crying for his mother, who was Robert’s mother too, pleading for the mercy of a swift death. One last blow was required.
‘Do it,’ said Odo.
‘I can’t,’ Fitzgiroie protested.
‘For God’s sake,’ Fulk pleaded.
‘You heard him,’ said Odo.
Now that their other two targets were dead, the foot soldiers, seeing no further need to take part in the battle themselves, had gathered in a semicircle, like spectators at a mystery play.
‘Go on, kill ’im!’ one of them shouted, to raucous cheers from his comrades.
There was a mocking sneer in Odo’s voice as he asked Fitzgiroie, ‘Are you really that much of a coward?’
Fitzgiroie looked around at the men, at Odo and finally at his brother. He took a couple of deep breaths, muttered, ‘Forgive me, brother, and may God forgive me too,’ and drove his sword deep into Fulk’s chest, passing between two ribs and piercing his heart.
The ambush was over. Brionne and his two companions were dead.
‘Well done, men,’ said Odo to the foot soldiers. ‘We’ve carried out our orders and you all did your jobs to the full.’ He pointed to the man who had crippled Brionne’s horse and added, ‘You . . . Rest assured, what you did won’t be forgotten.’
The man grinned as his pals slapped him on the back and informed him that he’d be buying the drinks that night.
‘Get hold of your brother’s mount, and Wakelin’s,’ Odo told Fitzgiroie. ‘We’ll take those, and I’ll have first pick.’ He looked across to Brionne’s horse, which was still struggling to right itself, though its strength was fading.
‘Do any of you men know anything about butchery?’ he asked.
‘I do,’ one of them volunteered. ‘My uncle was a slaughterman. He taught me how to cut up a pig. A horse can’t be that different.’
‘Fair enough. Carve some decent joints off that nag and we’ll all eat well tonight.’
7
Rouen
Two days later, Odo brought news of the murders to Ralph de Gacé. ‘Well done,’ Ralph said. ‘You have done me a great service. Was Fitzgiroie much help to you?’
‘Not a lot. I had to see to Brionne myself. Then I sent Wakelin flying from his horse and let the foot soldiers finish him off. After that I turned my attention to Fulk Fitzgiroie and crippled him. His brother killed him in the end, but I had to make him do it.’
‘So you don’t think he’s much of a soldier?’
‘No.’
‘I see . . . Still, he may have other uses.’ Ralph took the purse from his belt and held it out. ‘This is for you. Decide for yourself what share to give your men. But be sure to give them something of your own free will, or they may take it from you by force.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Very well, off you go.’
A short while later, Ralph addressed William and his fellow members of the council. ‘I have terrible news to report,’ he told them, making sure to arrange his features into a suitably shocked and horrified expression. ‘Count Gilbert has been murdered.’
There were exclamations of grief and surprise, and then Osbern said, ‘Do you have any idea what happened or who is responsible?’
‘He was riding from Brionne to Bec Hellouin with Wakelin and Fulk Fitzgiroie. It seems Fitzgiroie was the real target. Gilbert’s death was just bad luck.’
‘But who’d want to kill Fitzgiroie? He’s never struck me as a man with deadly enemies.’
‘Evidently they exist, and in his own family too. Fitzgiroie’s killer was his brother Robert. I am ashamed to say that this man has been in my service for the past few years. I admit I had no idea he was capable of such a crime.’
‘I’m sure that no one here blames you for what he has done,’ said Osbern, to general murmurs of agreement.
‘That’s very good of you, Herfastsson, but I can’t help feeling responsible. Rest assured, I have given strict orders that he’s to be hunted down and brought to justice. He has committed an unforgivable act of fratricide. He must be made to pay for it.’
Osbern nodded. ‘I agree. And I commend you for the way you’ve dealt with this tragic event. You’ve done well.’
Ralph gave a modest, suitably sombre nod of the head. ‘It is, as always, my pleasure, as well as my duty, to be of service.’
Only when the meeting was over and Ralph had left the chamber could he relax, and then the mask of sorrow disappeared, to be replaced by a toothy grin of unrestrained, even gleeful delight.
William had liked Gilbert of Brionne very much, and was devastated by the loss of yet another of the men he’d counted on for love and guidance. But to his amazement, Guy of Burgundy, who had owed so much to Gilbert, wasn’t at all saddened by his murder. He wasn’t even angry that Gilbert had only died because he’d been caught up in a fight between two of Giroie’s sons. Instead, when he met William after the funeral, he was smirking, puffed up, almost crowing with pride.
‘He left me everything, did you know that? Good old Cousin Gilbert, he had no sons of his own to inherit his property, so he gave it all to me. Brionne Castle is mine now, and so’s Vernon Castle. After all, Gilbert held two titles, so of course he had two castles, and two great estates. And now the land, the villages and manor houses, the peasants, the soldiers, the pretty young women just waiting to catch their lord and master’s eye . . . they’re all mine. What do you make of that?’
‘I don’t know,’ William said. ‘You’re very lucky, I suppose. But Gilbert was a really good man. Aren’t you sorry he’s gone? I am.’
‘Sorry? What, sorry to be rich? Sorry to have two castles filled with soldiers? You don’t have any of that.’
‘Yes I do. I’m the duke. Of course I have castles and soldiers and stuff.’
‘But they belong to Normandy, not you, not personally.’ Guy smiled. ‘I think I’m more powerful than you. And I’m a descendant of old Duke Richard, a legitimate descendant. Not like you . . . William the Bastard.’
‘Don’t call me that!’ said William, and the two of them started fighting again. This time, though, it didn’t feel like a game. It felt like Guy really meant it, almost as if they were fighting for their lives, like real soldiers in battle.
It took Osbern to separate them, but as the steward glared from one boy to the other, William suddenly noticed that Guy was almost looking him in the eye. And then he heard Guy say, ‘That’s the last time you lay a hand on me, Osbern Herfastsson. I’m not a child any more. I’m not spending another day in Brother Thorold’s schoolroom. I’m going to my castle – MY castle – and no one is going to tell me what to do. Not you . . . not him,’ he pointed at William, ‘no one!’
‘Arrogant, jumped-up brat . . .’ Osbern muttered as Guy stalked away. He turned to William, as if to say something, but then stopped himself: why trouble the boy now with th
ings he could do nothing about? There would be time enough to tell him all he needed to know. But Osbern thought the words, nonetheless: watch young Burgundy, William. Watch him like a hawk. For one day trouble will come your way. And when it does, that haughty pup will have something to do with it.
8
Winchester, Thorney Island and London, England
‘But that ship was meant for us!’ shouted Gytha. ‘We planned it – you and me. My God, the months I spent supervising the craftsmen. And the trouble and expense we went to. A golden dragon’s head at the bow, and a scale golden tail at the stern. Actual jewels for the beast’s eyes. And now you’ve given it to the king . . . and his bloody mother!’
‘What else could I do?’ Godwin pleaded, following in his wife’s furious footsteps while she stormed around their house in Winchester as if she were one of her Viking ancestors, bent on ransacking the place. ‘That damn woman wanted revenge for Alfred. If she could have had me executed or banished, believe me, she would have done. Of course, once I’d sworn on oath that I was acting on Harold’s orders, which I was, she couldn’t get me for murder. But I’d still had a hand in Alfred’s death, I couldn’t deny that. So I had to pay restitution and—’
‘And you gave them that ship, and eighty men, with all their armour. You didn’t even ask me first!’
‘There wasn’t time, and—’
‘And nothing! You seem to forget, Godwin, that my money helped pay for that boat, just as much as yours.’
‘What else was I supposed to do – hand over half our estates?’
‘I don’t know. But if you’d come to me and talked about it, maybe we could have thought of something together, the way we usually do.’
‘You’re probably right, dearest.’ For the first time, Gytha looked mollified. So much so that Godwin felt emboldened to point out that he shouldn’t have to shoulder all the blame for their loss. ‘Of course, my dear, some might say that you bear some responsibility for what’s happened. After all, it was you that said I should make myself indispensable to Queen Emma. Do you remember? It was Christmas Day, and you said—’
‘Get out!’ Gytha drew her substantial frame up to its full height and, looking more terrifying than any warrior Godwin had ever confronted in battle, yelled again, ‘Get out!’
Two weeks later, Godwin’s troubles with women still weren’t over. He was standing in the graveyard of St Peter’s Abbey on Thorney Island, a few miles upstream of London, where the Tyburn river flowed into the Thames. The island was a delightful spot. Fishermen cast their nets by the riverbank for the salmon that thronged the local waters, while farmers worked the green fields. The last white sprays of hawthorn blossom could still be seen along hedgerows where the wild roses were blooming and a myriad wild flowers glowed in yellow, red, pink and blue.
Godwin, however, was in no mood to appreciate the glories of nature. He had come to the graveyard, under protest, to witness an exhumation. For this was where Harold Harefoot’s body had been brought for its burial, and now it was going to be dug up, by order of the man who had replaced Harold as king.
Harthacnut had insisted that Godwin should witness the occasion. ‘Look upon the body of the man you once obeyed, and repent of what he made you do,’ he had said, though Godwin knew the words really came from Emma. She had never left Harthacnut’s side during the hearing into Alfred’s death, whispering in his ear from the first moment of the proceedings to the last. She was here at the exhumation, too, although her presence was entirely voluntary.
‘Hurry up! Get him out of there!’ The queen did not so much give the order as shriek it. There was something about the way she paced back and forth beside the open grave, muttering to herself, that alarmed the diggers. They feared she was possessed by demons that might at any moment be loosed upon them, or that her next words would be an evil spell that might drive them mad, cover them in boils or strike them down with a deadly fever.
And so they dug until they hit the wooden lid of King Harold’s coffin. Then they worked even harder to clear the earth around the casket so that ropes could be passed under it. More men hauled away until the coffin was lifted clear of the grave and then swung across on to the grass verge. The diggers all crossed themselves, and one or two muttered prayers, for the exhumation of a king’s body was a wicked act in many men’s eyes, and none wanted to be damned for it. Even Queen Emma stopped her pacing and stood silent as the lid was prised open and the body revealed.
Harold had been embalmed, and so his body and face, though blackened, were reasonably intact, and the smell of decay and putrefaction, though pronounced, was not overpowering. Certainly it was not enough to deter Emma, who walked across to the coffin and peered inside.
‘Murderer,’ she spat, then turned to Godwin and said, ‘Come over here. See what’s become of your master.’
‘I serve the king . . . whoever he may be,’ said Godwin as he walked across and gave the body a cursory glance. He had seen plenty of corpses in his time, many in a much worse state than this. If Emma had hoped to shock him, she had failed.
There was one last interested party who wished to see the body. His name was Thrond, he was built like an ox that stood on two legs rather than four, and he carried a long-handled axe, for his profession was executioner.
As he looked inside the coffin, the sunshine glistening on his shaven scalp, he said nothing, nor was there any sort of expression on his bearded face to indicate what, if anything, he was thinking. The workers stayed well clear of him, and though the queen commanded, ‘Well then, load it on to the cart,’ none dared approach until the giant had finished his examination, grunted wordlessly and stepped away.
Only then was the coffin lifted on to an ox cart. Emma stepped into the royal carriage, and a troop of mounted soldiers, fully armed and armoured in chain-mail coats and steel helmets, formed up into a column and led the carriage, followed by the cart, away from the abbey and along the track that led towards London.
A wooden platform with an executioner’s block upon it had been erected on the open ground in front of St Paul’s Cathedral, and a great crowd had gathered – most coming from the city itself, others crossing London Bridge from the settlement at Southwark on the Thames’ southern bank. As yet, however, the identity of the man who would meet his end had not been announced, and rumours swept to and fro among the people like a changing breeze across a cornfield. Some said it was a notorious murderer, others that it was a rebellious nobleman, or a Welsh prince captured in battle. The gossip only heightened the people’s anticipation, and the roaring trade in mead, ale and wine done by the city’s taverns – for it was a warm day, and men were thirsty – only fuelled expectations still further.
At last came news of an armed column approaching from the west and passing through one of the gates in the massive Roman walls. Queen Emma herself was said to be riding in a carriage, surrounded by the king’s troops and accompanied by Godwin of Wessex. The people knew and loved Emma of Normandy and rejoiced at her presence, but their mood soured when they learned that her son, King Harthacnut, had joined the procession at the city gate.
Just days had passed since word had gone out that Harthacnut was demanding the huge sum of twenty-one thousand pounds in silver from the people of England as payment for his army. Older folk, remembering the Danegeld – the tribute paid to Viking invaders to make them go away – muttered that there was no difference between this Dane and his forebears.
Now trumpets were blaring in the distance, followed by the clopping of hooves and jangling of chain mail as the leading soldiers cleared a path through the crowd for the column behind them. The riders, the carriage and the cart made their way towards the platform, and the spectators nudged one another and asked, ‘Which one’s the king?’ for he had not yet made a public appearance in the city, and the soldiers were forming a solid wall of steel around the members of the royal party.
A lone voice cried, ‘Come out, Queen Emma! Show us your face!’ but the mood had turned sombre and the crowd was strangely quiet as a coffin was lifted from the ox cart and carried up the steps to the top of the platform by four men. They were clearly straining under the weight of it, which meant that there must be a body inside. But how could that be? And where was the condemned man whom they’d all come to see die?
There was a ripple of applause as a huge man wielding a battleaxe stepped up on to the platform, following the coffin, and stood beside the block. One or two particularly well-informed onlookers whispered to those standing next to them, ‘That’s Thrond. He’s the king’s executioner, come with him all the way from Denmark.’
Then the soldiers cleared and a tall, strongly built man followed the executioner up the steps. The sun, which had been behind a bank of white clouds, suddenly came out, and its rays struck the gold diadem that encircled the man’s red hair. This was the king, but he received none of the massed cheering that would have greeted his father, Canute, just a few shouts of encouragement and rather more of abuse, but mostly silence. If anything, there were more cheers for Godwin.
Next, two soldiers marched to the coffin and took their places next to it, one on either side. The king gave an order, and they reached down into the coffin and pulled out a body, clad in tattered rags and black with rot, holding it upright for all the world to see. A few women in the crowd screamed in horror. Another, right at the front and thus just a few paces away from the body, fainted at the sight of it.
The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2 Page 17