The second man rushed out, stumbling over the first one’s body, and suddenly William was transported back to the stable yard at the palace in Rouen. For it was just like watching Guy of Burgundy lose his balance in their training fight as the man threw out his arms, rendering both his shield and sword entirely useless and exposing his stomach. William didn’t think. He simply reacted, and the sword in his hand almost moved of its own accord as it swung sideways across the man’s belly and deep into his flesh. But this time his victim was not just winded, he was doubled over, screaming, as blood poured from under his clothes, and it was as much to silence him as anything that William pulled his sword free and then swung it again, bringing it down in a vertical arc on to the back of the wounded man’s neck, almost severing his head from his body with the force of the death blow.
I’ve just killed a man, he thought, but there was no time to think about that, because a third man had emerged from the tower, seen what had happened and promptly turned tail and run back the way he had come.
‘Get him!’ William shouted, and one of the poachers dashed past him, leaped over the dead bodies and darted up into the blackness of the stairwell. Seconds later, there was a muffled cry and then the crashing of a chain-mail-clad body falling back down the stairs, closely followed by the poacher, bearing a broad grin and a bloody blade.
William felt a surge of elation course through him. They had survived! But then he heard a voice mutter, ‘Shit!’ and Martin was saying, ‘Look . . . the keep.’ He looked across the castle yard, past the outbuildings and up the slope that led to the castle. The main door of the keep was open. Men were pouring out of it and running down the slope, heading towards the gate. There must have been forty or more, with Thurstan the Dane at their head, all of them shouting and screaming war cries.
And they were coming straight for the sixteen-year-old lad and the three country criminals huddled by the open gate.
‘We can still run,’ Martin shouted, trying to make himself heard over the noise of the oncoming enemy. ‘You stood your ground and you fought. No one can deny it.’
‘No!’ replied William. ‘I won’t run.’ But inside he knew he was being a fool. There was nothing to be gained by staying, no glory to be won by dying. Anyone with a shred of good sense would get out while they still had the chance. But still he could not make himself do it.
‘If you won’t go, we will,’ Martin said. ‘We’ve done our duty. Come on, lads . . .’
The poachers’ leader took one last look at Thurstan and his men, who were now barely twenty paces away, then turned to go . . . and gasped. ‘By God . . . they’re coming. They’re finally bloody coming!’
William turned his head to see what Martin was talking about, and now it was his turn to be amazed. For there, at the top of the path, no further away in one direction than Thurstan was in the other, was Herluin, running towards the gate with the men of Conteville and the Flanders contingent behind him. Beyond them was a huge soldier, bearing the largest war axe William had ever seen, with more men behind him. All the way down the path, right back to the lines, some in tens and twenties, others in twos and threes, or simply running by themselves, the Normans were coming to rescue their duke.
William took the first backward step he had made all evening, away from Thurstan’s men towards his own. He looked at them and shouted, ‘I am William of Normandy!’
They answered him with a roar, and suddenly they were all around him, like a wave surging around a rock, and William turned and ran with them, through the gate, into the castle yard and straight to the heart of the battle.
Thurstan the Dane had seen that his cause was hopeless and thrown down his sword. William accepted his surrender and that of his men, but on one condition: Thurstan had to get down on one knee and pledge his solemn allegiance, as a vassal, in front of both his and William’s forces, for the men of Normandy were William’s now, and his alone. Once that had been done, William marched up the steps into the keep and from there to the great hall, where he solemnly reclaimed his castle. Herluin found him there amidst the hubbub and said, ‘I’m sorry I left you. But I knew that de Gacé would let you down.’
‘Thank you,’ William said, embracing his stepfather, grateful beyond words to Herluin for what he had done, and a little ashamed for ever doubting his loyalty.
‘There’s someone here who wants to meet you,’ said Herluin, and William had a sensation he had not been used to over the past year or so: looking up into another man’s eyes. ‘This is John. He and I are old comrades.’
‘I was here during the siege, Your Grace,’ said John. ‘I was only a boy then, younger than you are now, so I couldn’t fight. But it was my honour and privilege to watch your father lead us through that siege – half starved we all were by the end of it, isn’t that so, Lord Herluin?’
‘Indeed it is,’ Herluin said.
‘And it’s my honour and privilege to fight alongside you now, Your Grace. You’re a proper chip off the old block, you are.’
William grinned. That was twice in one evening he’d been compared to his father, and it meant as much coming from this common soldier, whom he’d never met before, as it did from the man he’d known all his life. ‘Thank you very much, John,’ he said. ‘It’s my honour to have you beside me in battle.’
A huge smile spread across John’s face, and he leaned forward towards William. ‘I’ll tell you another thing,’ he said. ‘I was right here in this hall the night your mother, the Lady Herleva, came here for the very first time. Let God strike me down if I tell a lie, she was the most beautiful girl I ever saw, and—’
But he never finished his sentence, for another voice interrupted him. ‘Excuse me, Your Grace, but I came to pay you my compliments.’
It was Ralph de Gacé, and now a hush fell on the room, for every man in it knew that de Gacé had not come to the duke’s aid.
‘Did you now?’ said William. He stood there bloodied, his coat torn from the fight, and it was impossible not to see that he was taller than the man who was supposed to be his guardian; that his shoulders were broader and his face that of a duke, not a donkey. ‘Well, I’m afraid to say that, not for the first time, you arrived too late. I have just been paid a fine compliment by my comrade John, who helped me when you did not, and fought for me when you stood idle. I have thanked him from the bottom of my heart for what he said, for I respect him and value his opinion. You, on the other hand, I do not respect, and I have no interest in anything you may have to say. So, John, you were about to tell me about my mother.’
John opened his mouth to speak, but once again, he could not tell his story, for his voice was drowned in the sound of cheering and shouts of acclamation. For the first time in his life, William had tasted victory. And having sampled it once, he knew deep in his heart that he would crave that sweet fruit for ever.
16
Winchester, and the Viscounty of Narbonne
More than a year had passed since Emma’s triumphant vindication. Edward had been given no option but to reinstate her as dowager queen, and in a church, with God’s evident blessing, to boot. Her name now appeared on royal charters, first in line below the king’s, as it had done on Ethelred’s, Canute’s and Harthacnut’s charters too. Edward, meanwhile, had found another woman to trouble him, for he was betrothed to marry Edith, daughter of Earl Godwin of Wessex, and there came a point when their marriage could be delayed no longer.
It was a winter wedding, with the weather as cold as King Edward’s heart. For Godwin, however, this was a joyous occasion, the culmination of many long years of working, fighting and scheming for his own advancement and that of his children. His oldest sons, Sweyn and Harold, already had their earldoms, as Edward had promised. Now the last of the three payments due for his service in putting Edward on the throne would be made in full, and he was in high spirits as he and Gytha welcomed their guests to
the ceremony. This would be both a wedding and a coronation, as Edith would receive a golden crown as well as a ring. By the morrow’s end, Godwin’s daughter would be honoured as Queen of England.
No wonder then that he greeted Earl Leofric with a sly dig in the ribs and pulled him aside, while Godiva chatted to Gytha, to ask, ‘Is it true? Did that wife of yours really ride through Coventry stark naked? By Christ, man, why didn’t you tell me it was happening?’
‘Do we have to talk about it?’ Leofric muttered. ‘It was a private matter, and the sooner it’s forgotten the better.’
Godwin laughed. ‘Fat chance of that! I’m not sure how an old man like you did it, but you bagged the most beautiful woman in England. You can’t blame any red-blooded fellow for stirring at the thought of her bare legs astride a stallion.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Godwin, that’s my wife you’re talking about! And we’re in a church.’
‘Yes, but this is a wedding. It’s the joining of a man and a woman. What’s that about if not lust? Look, I won’t say another word, but first, just tell me . . . why did she do it?’
Leofric gave the sigh of a man resigning himself to a lifetime of telling the same story. ‘It all started with a tax that the people didn’t want to pay . . .’
‘My oath, Leofric, don’t even say that. Brings back memories of Worcester.’
‘It was nothing like that! I need money for this convent we’re building at Coventry, and I thought I’d institute a toll on horses passing through the town, because many more people are visiting just to see how the building work’s going. But the local people didn’t like it because they were frightened it would drive away trade, and Godiva, bless her – she’s a lovely, kind soul – took pity on them. She said Jesus would not approve of us, who have so much, taking money from others who have so little.’
‘By God, it’s a good thing she doesn’t rule England. The king would be penniless!’
‘Well, quite . . . she just doesn’t understand that some things have to be done, even if one doesn’t like it. She insisted we had to carry out an act of penance. I said I damn well wouldn’t do it, but she did: she rode through the town, which isn’t far because it’s a very small little place . . . but she wasn’t completely naked. She wore the sleeveless shift she normally wears beneath her dress, and although it’s not exactly modest – her arms were bare, and her lower legs, and her head – she absolutely was not naked!’
‘Maybe not,’ said Godwin. ‘But the story sounds better that way, you must admit.’
Before Leofric could reply, Gytha had appeared beside them. The two men were the most senior nobles in England, but Godwin’s wife was not a woman to bother with formalities. ‘You two are worse than a pair of old women,’ she said, taking Godwin’s arm. ‘Come . . . our daughter needs her parents to send her on her way.’
When he saw Edith in her wedding dress, Godwin had to discreetly wipe away a tear of paternal pride. His little girl had grown up to be a woman fit for any king, and if Edward were anything but a king, she’d be far too good for him.
When the time came for the ceremony itself, Edith carried herself with regal grace, and many a member of the congregation felt that Edward was more fortunate to be getting her than she was to be getting a crown, though she wore the jewelled gold diadem that was placed upon her brow as though she’d been born to it.
Even Edward could not help but notice his new bride’s effortless assumption of royalty, and the way she mixed the charm and happiness of a new bride with the superiority of a queen as she greeted the noblemen and women who crowded round after the ceremony to offer their congratulations. As they bowed and curtseyed and called her ‘Your Majesty’, a casual observer might have taken her for a young woman who had been greeted this way all her life, and it emboldened Edward to say, ‘Follow me, my dear,’ and, for the first time, enter into the crowd to seek out a particular person, rather than waiting for them to come to him. As they walked together, he said, ‘Remember, you are above all other women in England . . . all of them. And they must never forget it.’
‘Yes, sire,’ said Edith, who had already learned that her husband expected her to show him just as much deference as any other of his subjects would do. Then Edward found his intended target, and she understood why he had made a point of stressing her superiority to the rest of her sex.
‘This is my mother, Emma of Normandy,’ he said. ‘Mother, this is Queen Edith of England.’
For a fraction of a second, neither woman said anything, or moved a muscle. Then, with visible effort, for she was far from a young woman, Emma bent her knee and lowered her head as she said, ‘Your Majesty . . .’
‘Lady Emma,’ replied Edith with gracious condescension.
For a moment Edward felt something that might almost have been described as love for his wife. And for the very first time, he wondered why he had not married her much sooner, or why he had somehow not until now understood what his marriage meant for his mother. If there was a real queen in England, a wife to the king, then there was no need for a dowager queen any more, no need for Emma to sign charters, or maintain quarters in the palace. He could pack her off to the country to live on a distant estate, or send her back to that convent to spend the rest of her days in humble prayer, and she could not possibly have any cause to complain.
A great smile crossed his face, and Edith smiled too, because Edward had not seemed particularly pleased by anything she had done before then, and she had been worried that she might have been failing him in some way.
As another group of well-wishers came up to talk to them, Edward whispered in her ear, ‘Would you please take care of these people yourself? I need to have a word with your father.’
‘Of course, sire,’ Edith said, and put particular effort into being even more charming than usual, to the delight of everyone she met.
Edward found Godwin in the centre of a crowd of back-slapping noblemen, all simultaneously telling him how pleased they were for him and how beautiful his daughter looked while, Edward felt sure, being consumed with bitter envy for the earl’s good fortune. Well, that was about to change.
‘Might I have a word with my new father-in-law?’ he said, doing his best to sound convivial.
The nobles all laughed dutifully and vanished back into the crowd.
‘How can I be of service, Your Majesty?’ asked Godwin.
‘There is nothing you need do . . . or can do, come to that,’ Edward said. ‘I just came to inform you that I will not be sharing a bed with your daughter tonight, nor indeed at any point in the rest of our lives. She will remain my wife. She will be my queen. But I will never fornicate with her, and you will never have a royal grandson. That is all.’
Godwin stood speechless as Edward turned on his heel and walked away. The delight he had felt at his daughter’s marriage had vanished, along with all the hopes he had invested in the union between his house and Edward’s. A joyful celebration had become a bitter, meaningless, empty occasion.
Oh my little girl, my poor, poor girl, Godwin thought. And then: I will make you pay for this, Edward, you cold, loveless, impotent bastard. I will make you pay if it’s the very last thing I do.
In a stone-walled farmhouse whose roof of terracotta tiles was supported by sturdy oak beams, a woman was stirring a pot over an open fire. Within it was a mixture of garlic, onions, tomatoes and olives, which she planned to serve to her husband for his dinner, along with two grilled sardines bought fresh from the market in Narbonne that very day. She was smiling to herself as she cooked, partly because the act of preparing food for the man she loved was one that gave her great pleasure, and also because she had, quite by chance, entered into conversation with an elderly man who was waiting beside her at the fishmonger’s stall.
His name was Solomon ben Yahuda, and he was a member of the Jewish community that had flourished in Na
rbonne for many hundreds of years. When he discovered that she had grown up in Damascus – the discovery came as a surprise to him, for as he said, ‘I never met a golden-haired Syrian before!’ – he had been delighted, for he had family in the city and had travelled there himself as a boy. Because she had warmed to him and instinctively trusted him, she had told him that she had been apprenticed to Zaid al-Zuhairi, one of the greatest of all Damascene apothecaries (she did not, however, go so far as to confess that he had been the first man she had ever killed). Solomon’s interest had deepened still further, for he was, he said, a great student of the medicinal purposes to which herbs and flowers could be put. ‘It would be my great pleasure and honour to discuss the subject with you, if you were agreeable,’ he said.
‘I would be agreeable . . . with my husband’s permission,’ she replied.
‘Of course, of course, I quite understand. Please assure your husband that my intentions are entirely honourable. My only interest is scholarship. If I were thirty years younger, maybe not so much. But today . . .’
She laughed at the memory of the old man’s face as he had said that, for he had put on such a comic expression of regret for his lost youth that it had been impossible to take offence. Then she brought her mind back to the food. The vegetables were almost done. It was time to place the fish on the grill.
Before she could do that, however, there was a rapping on the heavy wooden door of the farmhouse. When she went to open it, she saw before her a young woman whose dewy, unlined skin suggested she was barely more than a girl, though she had an air about her that told of a maturity beyond her years. She was lean and sunburned, with fair hair that was almost white from exposure to the sun. She was wearing a gown that had once been very expensive but was now faded and criss-crossed with patches and darning, and her feet were dirty and rough-skinned from countless leagues of walking.
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