And then William had a stroke of good fortune. Roger Montgomery, the son and namesake of the Roger Montgomery who had been exiled to Paris, and brother of the William Montgomery who had murdered Osbern Herfastsson, came to him hoping to rebuild the friendship that had once existed between his family and the House of Normandy. He brought with him a token of his good faith: to wit, a piece of information.
‘Your Grace, my family’s greatest disgrace is that my brother William murdered Osbern, your steward. I think I know who persuaded him to do it. Trust me, he didn’t have the brains or the courage to plan and execute a crime like that by himself.’
‘What will it help me to know that?’ William asked. ‘Osbern will still be dead.’
‘You’ve been Duke of Normandy, in title, for ten years. But for all that, you haven’t been the undisputed ruler of this duchy for a single day.’
William’s face and body tensed. Those words were too close to the truth. ‘Be very careful what you say, Montgomery,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t be wise to provoke me.’
‘I came here to help you become that ruler, and to tell you that I will be your loyal vassal. That’s why you should hear what I have to say.’
‘Very well then, go ahead.’
‘Shortly after my father’s exile, Ralph de Gacé went to Jumièges to supervise the restoration of the land that my father had taken from the abbey. Do you remember that?’
‘Yes. He went there under my authority.’
‘Exactly. But did you also know that on his way, he stopped in Saint-Germain-de-Montgomery and went to our manor house?’
‘Go on . . .’
‘Only one of us was in: William. When the rest of us came back, he was looking pleased with himself, but also nervous. When we asked what had got into him, he wouldn’t say. We pressed him, hard. Finally he admitted that Ralph de Gacé had come to see him. He wouldn’t say why. A while later he left home, not telling anyone where he was going. That was when he killed Osbern. Days later, William himself was dead, killed by Osbern’s estate manager Barnon of Glos. I had a word with Barnon soon afterwards. I said I’d spare his life if he’d tell me how he’d known where to find William. You know who told him? Donkey-Head, that’s who.’
‘Can you prove it?’ William asked.
‘Barnon’s dead now, so no. But you must have heard the same stories I have about how it was one of de Gacé’s men, Odo the Fat, who led the attack on Gilbert of Brionne. You know they say he did for Alan of Brittany and Thorold too. I’d believe it. I mean, one minute Ralph is the lowliest member of the council, only there because of his father’s will, and the next everyone between him and you is dead and he’s the most powerful man in the duchy. So what are we supposed to believe – that it’s all just a matter of luck?’
William didn’t believe in that kind of luck any more than Montgomery did. So he put the accusations to de Gacé, who of course denied them, claiming as William had anticipated that there was no proof.
‘I don’t need proof,’ William replied. ‘Montgomery’s testimony is enough reason for me to throw you into a dungeon. And bad things can happen in dungeons. People get ill. They die. If I were to go down to your cell one night and kill you because I was convinced in my heart that you ordered the death of a man who was like a father to me, do you think anyone would care?’
‘What’s the alternative?’ de Gacé asked.
‘You retire from your post on the council, resign your command of the militia and go back to your estates to lead a quiet, peaceful, healthy life with your family.’
De Gacé was his father’s son. He understood how the game was played. He’d had a great run of luck and profited very handsomely from it. Now the dice that had long rolled in his favour had gone against him. The key thing was to stay in the game. That way, should the dice change once again, he would be there to profit. For now, though, there was nothing for it but to swallow his pride and do as William asked. It was, after all, better than the alternative.
Talou, however, was less easily placated. He was a decade older than William and the legitimate son of Duke Richard II. For all that Guy of Burgundy might tell his followers that he had a claim to the dukedom of Normandy, Talou’s was very much stronger. It had eaten him up to see his half-brothers Richard and Robert become duke, and then, far worse, for his own claim to be ignored even when they both failed to produce a fully grown legitimate son to succeed them. For years he had played nursemaid to a bastard boy, and now that boy was becoming a man and showing him precious little respect. Talou saw no purpose in joining the present rebellion, for if it succeeded and Guy became duke, he would be no better off than he was now. Neither, however, was he prepared to give William any active aid. Instead he retreated to his vast estates, and sulked and plotted and waited for his moment to come.
William was all too aware of his uncle’s burning resentment, but that was a problem for another time. For now he had the semblance of an army with which to fulfil his side of the agreement with Henry of France. And two days after Easter, he rode out of Rouen at its head, on his way to a rendezvous with the king.
Some men come by their nickname, be it Donkey-Head, Badger, Longtooth or Bastard, by means of cruel observation, wry humour or outright mockery. But none of those reasons explained why Nigel, Viscount of the Cotentin, was known as Falconhead. For this name was a badge of respect. His father, whose name he shared, had been a mighty warrior, famed for defeating an English invasion of Normandy in the time of King Ethelred, and later for defeating a Breton army who had attacked the town of Avranches. The present Nigel followed in the family tradition, and it was his prowess in battle that had earned him comparison with a falcon: his speed, his ferocity, his sharp eye and even sharper claws. Now he stood at the head of several thousand men from the Cotentin peninsula who had marched south and then east, past Bayeux towards Caen. He had led his men across one of the bridges over the River Orne and on to a plain known as Val-ès-Dunes that stretched for three or four leagues, uninterrupted by hills, woods or even the characteristic landscape of small fields separated by hedges, wooded copses and sunken lanes that the Normans called bocage. This was just open country over which men could march and ride without anything to get in their way.
‘Hell of a place for a battle,’ Nigel said to Guy of Burgundy. The two men had joined forces on the eastern bank of the Orne between the villages of Fontenay and Allemagne and were looking out across the plain, which was lit up by the afternoon sun. In the far distance, Nigel could just see the glint of sunlight on lances and helmets and the dots and dashes of colour that represented banners and shields. ‘The king’s men?’ he asked.
‘Henry’s advance party,’ Guy replied. ‘His main force has set up camp between Mézidon and Argences.’
‘How many men?’
‘Some of my spies are saying he’s brought ten thousand, but I seriously doubt it. You know how people exaggerate.’
‘And the Bastard?’
‘Not as many, I doubt he’s got half the number of men with him as Henry has. He’s camped on the banks of the Muance, beyond the king’s right flank.’
Nigel knew the land hereabouts well. The Orne flowed north through Caen towards the sea and marked the western boundary of the plain of Val-ès-Dunes. Its eastern boundary was set by three streams: the Laizon, on which the village of Mézidon stood; the Muance, beside which were Valmeray and Argences; and the Semillon. The three streams ran parallel to one another, all flowing to the north, before they joined, like the three spikes of a trident, to flow into the River Dives.
‘How about us? Has everyone kept their word?’
‘Longtooth Haimo’s sent word that he’s only a league away with a large force. Grimauld de Plessis has already arrived. He did well: more than a thousand men. Rannulf de Bessin’s brought about as many as that too.’
‘I wouldn’t count on eith
er of them,’ said Falconhead, hawking up a thick gob of phlegm and spitting it contemptuously on to the ground. ‘If Grimauld could fight as well as he brags, he’d be a much better warrior than he actually is. As for Rannulf, I don’t trust him.’
Guy bridled. He took the comment as a personal insult. He had picked Rannulf as a co-conspirator. To belittle him was a slight on his judgement. ‘You’d better have a damn good reason for insulting a man when he’s not here to defend himself.’
Falconhead shrugged indifferently. ‘If you’re asking have I seen him break his word or run from a fight, no. But would I want him watching my back? Also no. Look, I hope I’m wrong. I’d love to be standing here tomorrow, with victory secured and everyone saying what a hero Rannulf was. But that’s not what my gut tells me.’
Guy said nothing. A tense silence fell on two men whose unity was vital to their cause. At last Falconhead broke it. ‘Ach! It’s probably just nerves. I’m always edgy, the night before. Don’t listen to me . . . Anyway, where’s the bloody Badger? Now he can fight. I’ll be happy to have him on my side when we stick it to the French.’
‘He’s not here yet,’ Guy said.
‘Why not?’ Falconhead asked, sensing the presence of words unsaid.
‘I don’t know. He was having a hard time with some of his senior men, I can tell you that much. They were getting the shits about betraying their vows of loyalty to the Bastard.’
‘Bit late to get a sudden attack of conscience now.’
‘That’s what I told the Badger. I marched him into Bayeux Cathedral and made him swear on the holy relics that he wouldn’t hold back from striking William whenever or wherever he might find him.’
‘So if he happens to be in the battle and he sees William, he’ll attack him?’
‘Yes.’
‘What if he’s not in the battle?’
Guy was silent for a moment; then, trying to persuade himself as much as Falconhead, he said, ‘But he will be. Christ, he’s been with us from the very start. He’s got a hundred and sixty fully armoured and mounted knights, and hundreds of foot soldiers and bowmen. He wouldn’t bring them all the way here if he wasn’t going to use them, would he?’
‘No, he wouldn’t. The Badger will use his men all right. But on whose side, eh? That’s what I want to know.’
8
Bruges and Alençon
In the year that Matilda of Flanders was born, her grandfather Baldwin married for a second time, very late in life. His new wife was Eleanor, the daughter of Duke Richard II of Normandy, who two years later bore him a daughter, Judith. Thus it was that Matilda was two years older than her aunt, and so was less a niece to her than a surrogate big sister, even though, just to confuse matters still further, she was considerably smaller than Judith, whose Norman blood could be seen in her unusual height and auburn hair. Matilda, who was petite by any standards, was now sixteen and Judith fourteen. Their interests were entirely normal for girls of their age, which explained why they had sneaked out of their bedchamber and were now huddled behind the balustrade of the gallery that overlooked the great hall at the Count of Flanders’ palace in Bruges, observing the festive dinner that was taking place there.
‘I’m going to miss him so much,’ Matilda sighed plaintively, gazing down at the high table.
Judith did not have to be told who Matilda was talking about. She had spent weeks listening to her niece going on and on and on about Brihtric Mau, the tall, fair-haired, broad-shouldered ambassador sent by King Edward of England to negotiate a trade deal that would encourage the sale of English wool to Flemish weavers.
‘Oh, have you seen his wrists and forearms?’ Matilda would swoon. ‘They’re so strong and muscly. I bet he has a really powerful grip. And his hair, the way it falls to his shoulders, it’s like a lion’s mane. And his eyes are so clear and blue, it’s like looking into beautiful pools of icy water. But he’s not cold like ice. He’s lovely and funny and warm and kind.’
Judith only put up with Matilda’s endless hours of wittering because she had a personal interest of her own in Mau and his visit to Bruges. The girls had befriended an English boy of their own age, Peter of Tewkesbury, who served as Brihtric’s attendant. He had told them that Mau had a second, unofficial purpose, undertaken as a personal favour to Godwin, Earl of Wessex. This was to secure the betrothal of Lady Judith to Godwin’s son Tostig, the Earl of Northumberland. Peter had kept the girls informed about the progress of the betrothal negotiations, which were, to Judith’s relief, still very much at an early stage, and had done his best to satisfy Matilda’s insatiable curiosity about his master.
‘He’s very rich,’ he told them. ‘He has estates right across the West Country, all the way from Gloucestershire to Cornwall, and his land covers almost four hundred hides.’
By asking a selection of monks, priests and members of the count’s court who were known to have connections with England, the girls had established that the distance from Gloucestershire to the furthest tip of Cornwall was roughly the same as from Bruges to Paris: a very long way indeed, in other words. What was more, a hide was apparently a Saxon measure for the amount of land needed to support a family, so Brihtric had enough land for four hundred families, all of whom would have to pay him rent and tithes on their crops. He was, they concluded, a very rich man, and thus eligible. Unless, of course, he was already married.
‘He can’t be!’ Matilda had wailed. ‘I couldn’t bear it!’
‘No, Brihtric’s not married,’ Peter had smirked when they’d asked him, ‘though there are plenty of mothers who’ve thrown their daughters at him. There’s not a family in England that wouldn’t want a marriage to my master and his money. He knows it, too, and between you and me, he doesn’t mind taking advantage of it either. There are plenty of maidens, not nice ones like you two, obviously, who will give a man a taste of what they’d have to offer him if they were his wife, if you get my meaning.’
They didn’t, not at first, but then Peter put it a bit more bluntly, explaining that there were women willing to give up their virginity ahead of marriage if it would help them win a man’s hand.
‘But why should he marry them if he’s had that already?’ Matilda asked.
‘Good question, my lady, why indeed? But, see, not every young damsel’s as clever as you. They don’t understand that. They think that if they give themselves to my master, he’ll like them so much he’ll want to keep them.’
‘I don’t think he sounds very nice,’ said Judith. ‘I’m sorry, Matilda, but I don’t.’
‘I don’t blame him,’ said Matilda, defending her man to the bitter end. ‘If they’re stupid enough to throw themselves at him, what’s he supposed to do?’
‘I bet you wouldn’t say that if you were already married to him.’
‘Well no, of course not, but that would be different, wouldn’t it? He’d have made a solemn vow to be faithful to me. If he broke that, I’d . . . I’d kill him, is what I would do.’
‘I think you’d have a hard time killing Brihtric, Lady Matilda,’ Peter had said. ‘He’s a mighty warrior.’
That had only added to Matilda’s adoration of this English god. But for all her fevered fantasising, she had only been able to exchange a few words with him, spread over a handful of meetings. And now he was about to go back home. Her father had held a farewell banquet in his honour, but she had not been allowed to attend. Even her mother had stepped down from the high table when the night was still young so that the men could get on with their drinking and carousing.
‘What are you going to do when he’s gone?’ Judith asked Matilda, as they both looked down at Brihtric.
‘I don’t know,’ said Matilda. But then she clenched her jaw in an expression of absolute determination that Judith had known all her life, the one she called ‘Matilda’s getting-my-own-way look’, and said, ‘But I’m
going to marry Brihtric Mau. I don’t know how. But I absolutely will.’
Judith had no answer to that, except to say, ‘Look, I hate to drag you away from Brihtric, but we should be getting back to our rooms. Your mother will be coming to say goodnight to you soon, and you’d better be in bed when she gets there.’
Matilda cast a last, lingering look at Brihtric, then scampered back to her room, just in time to be snuggled under the covers by the time her mother came in. Adela sat down on the edge of her bed. ‘You like Brihtric, don’t you?’
‘No,’ said Matilda indignantly. ‘Why do you think that?’
Adela smiled. ‘Because I know you, my darling, and even if I didn’t, the way you look at him with big cow eyes and practically expire if he ever says a word in your direction makes it perfectly obvious.’
Matilda was horrified. ‘Oh my God, does Papa know?’
‘Of course not!’ laughed Adela. ‘Fathers are the last people ever to notice anything like that. And it’s probably just as well, because heaven knows what he’d do to Brihtric.’
‘But it’s not his fault! He hasn’t done anything!’
‘Calm down, my darling, it’s all right. Your father doesn’t know. Brihtric doesn’t know – at least I hope he doesn’t.’
I bet he does, thought Matilda miserably. I bet Peter’s told him everything!
‘Anyway,’ Adela went on, ‘this just goes to show it’s time we found you a husband, one your father does approve of. And I think I know just the one.’
In a tavern in Alençon, a man with a tankard in his hand was holding forth to a circle of listeners. ‘So there’s this nun, right, walking to market with this pig. And my lord Arnulf . . .’ he looked around to check he was among friends and then spat, hard, on to the filthy wooden floor, ‘he comes up to her with five or six of his bully boys and he says, “Give me that pig.” So she says, “Please, I beg you, my lord. I can’t give it to you, for me and my sisters have been fattening it up and it’s all we’ve got to sell.”’
The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2 Page 37