There was a murmur from the gathering, whose numbers were growing as more of the tavern’s drinkers were attracted by the prospect of a good story to be told and then to pass on in their turn. The man went on, ‘Then Arnulf says, and I swear on my blessed mother’s grave that I heard him with me own ears, “You and your sisters could always sell your bodies.” And his men all start laughing and jeering at the poor sister, so Arnulf goes, “Though I don’t think you’d get much of a price.”’
‘That bastard,’ said one of the onlookers to many a nod and grunt of agreement. ‘I thought his old man was a bad ’un, but he’s no better. Come to think of it, he may be worse.’
‘They’ve all got bad blood, the lot of ’em,’ said a grizzled, wiry old man. ‘I remember his grandad. Christ, he was a vicious, mean-spirited old sod.’
‘As I was saying,’ the storyteller called out, raising his voice to silence the interruptions. ‘Arnulf tells her and her sisters that they should be whores, so she says . . .’
‘ . . . “Oh please, blessed lord, won’t you give us a donation, for God will thank you for it?”’ said Arnulf of Bellême, speaking in a ridiculous, high-pitched impersonation of the nun’s voice as he helped himself to another great slab of the roast pork piled on to a platter on the high table at Alençon Castle. ‘And I replied, quick as a flash, “No, I won’t donate any money. But I’m happy to give you this.” And I slapped her right across her face and knocked her clean off her feet!’
His hangers-on and toadies all roared with laughter, as did Arnulf himself, who was mightily proud of the wit with which he was recounting this hilarious tale. Soon he would come to the climax, where he and his men took the squealing pig from the weeping nun, but before he did, he needed something to wet his throat. ‘Get me more wine! Now!’ he shouted.
His sister Mabel, who was standing by the table with her eyes modestly downcast and a silver wine strainer hanging from a chain about her throat, scurried towards him carrying a pitcher of strong dark red wine. She had been back in Alençon for a few weeks now, and Arnulf had been pleased to discover that the hardships she had endured on her travels, particularly after their father had died, leaving her alone, had broken her haughty spirit and made her a far more obedient, submissive creature.
As she poured the wine into Arnulf’s bejewelled goblet, he addressed the men around him. ‘I’ll show you how hard I hit that damn nun . . . this hard!’ And he slapped his hand violently against Mabel’s backside.
The blow caught her unawares. She almost lost her footing and she could not help but spill some of the wine over the table. But she did not cry out or protest. Instead she just murmured, ‘Thank you, my lord,’ and left the table.
Arnulf couldn’t decide how he felt about that. On the one hand, he was pleased to find her so thoroughly broken. On the other, it frustrated him to put so much effort into striking someone and receive so little response in return. He was pondering this question as he got into bed later that evening and closed his eyes. But he never had the chance to reach a conclusion, one way or the other, for it was not very long before the slow-working poison that Mabel had slipped into his wine before she poured it killed Arnulf of Bellême stone dead.
For her part, though Mabel went to bed in the meagre cot in the servants’ quarters that was all her brother had allowed her, she knew for certain that she would soon be living in far greater comfort. Arnulf was childless, and the only surviving male in the family was his and Mabel’s uncle Ivo, Talvas’s brother, who was Bishop of Sées. He would hold the title of Count of Bellême for as long as he lived, but since he was the one decent, honest member of the family and had kept his vows of celibacy, he had no children of his own.
Mabel, of course, could never hold the title herself. But soon after they had left Alençon, she had persuaded her father to take his revenge on Arnulf by drawing up a will, witnessed by an abbot and a bishop, no less, that left her all his land and chattels. As yet, she had kept the existence of the will secret, but when she revealed it, she would become a very wealthy woman. Since she was also, as she well knew, an exceedingly beautiful one, she would have her pick of prospective husbands. Their son would have an indisputable claim to the county of Bellême. And he would, for Mabel would make certain of this, love his mother very much indeed for giving it to him.
With this happy thought, she slipped into a deep sleep, filled with the most enchanting dreams.
9
The village of Valmery, Normandy
Father Louis, the priest of the church of Saint-Brise in Valmery, was a devout man. He conducted mass every day, even though he and his sacristan, Father Rodulph, a retired priest who now pottered about the church pretending to take care of its upkeep, were often the only communicants. Every day he would rise with the morning light, consume a modest breakfast of bread and watered ale, perform his ablutions and make his way to the church. He had passed a fitful night, what with the hubbub of men and horses, the hammering of the blacksmiths preparing horseshoes and repairing armour and weapons, and the visits from fearful villagers who knew that two great armies were massing at either end of the plain of Val-ès-Dunes, preparing for battle on the morrow, and dreaded what harm might befall any poor folk who happened to get in their way.
The King of France himself was said to be close by, and Duke William, with the rebel army led by Guy of Burgundy opposing them. Father Louis’ particular concern was that Valmery lay smack in the middle of the line of march that the king and the duke would have to take in order to close on the rebels. So their army would pass through the village at least once, at the beginning of the day – in good order, it was to be hoped. And should God cast his lot for the rebels rather than the duke, then both armies would come through Valmery again at the day’s close: the one in full retreat, the other in rampaging pursuit. And the Lord alone knew what would happen to the people, their possessions and their humble dwellings.
Father Louis was not in the best of spirits, then, when he went to the church on what he presumed would be the day of the battle. As he approached the church gate, however, Father Rodulph, who was not a small man, and less nimble than he might once have been, met him in a frantic flurry of movement, somewhere between a waddle and a skip, and blurted, ‘You’ll never believe who’s in the church! It’s the royal chaplain himself! And a choir! And other priest too, hordes of them!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Father Louis asked, unable to take in the magnitude of what the sacristan was saying, for though he could hear the words perfectly well, they seemed so far removed from anything that might happen in his small, somewhat ramshackle village church that he could not comprehend them.
And then, sure enough, as he came closer, there were horses, and grooms looking after them, and then the sound of singing – a glorious union of rich and tuneful voices – coming from inside the building. And as he walked in, a priest approached him and rather curtly asked, ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Louis. I’m the parish priest.’
‘Ah, excellent! Follow me, Father.’
Louis found himself being led in a daze past the normally empty choir stalls – filled now with monks practising a Magnificat and priests swinging silver censers that filled the church with the intense, heady aroma of incense – towards the altar. There stood a man in the richest vestments Louis had ever seen. His cope was covered in golden embroidery and studded with precious stones as crimson as blood and as blue as a summer sky.
The man who was leading Louis addressed this vision of magnificence. ‘This is Father Louis, Your Excellency.’
‘Good day to you, Father,’ His Excellency said. ‘I am Bishop Bertrand. I have the inestimable honour to be His Majesty King Henry’s personal chaplain. The king has requested a mass to be celebrated before he leads his army into battle. Yours is the nearest church to his encampment. I trust you will not object if the king worships here.’
‘N-n-no, of course not. I would be honoured, greatly honoured,’ Louis replied.
‘Very well then, it is settled. The king is accustomed to hearing me conduct the mass, and will take communion from me too. But since this is your church and we are mere visitors to it, perhaps you would like to say the prayers thanking God for his mercy and bounty, pleading for the souls of the dead and, of course, asking Our Lord to watch over the king and Duke William and to reward the justice of their cause with victory today.’
‘Yes, yes, absolutely. So you think it’s acceptable for me, to, ah, take sides, as it were? I mean, there will be men with immortal souls in need of God’s mercy fighting in the other army, too.’
‘Then let their chaplains pray for them,’ Bishop Bertrand said. ‘For your part, let me put it this way. King Henry is your monarch on earth. Duke William is your master in this duchy. And Our Lord God Almighty rules over us in this world and the next. If you can make them all happy with but a single prayer, don’t you think you should do that?’
Louis nodded dumbly, too overcome to say a word.
‘You look alarmed, Father,’ Bertrand said. ‘Don’t be. Just keep your prayer short, simple and heartfelt. And cheer yourself with this thought. Some of the mightiest men in all France will be under your roof this morning. They will soon be going out to fight, and some of them, sad to say, will die. Men facing the imminent possibility of death are, in my experience, keen to make their peace with God, and on the best possible terms. So rest assured you will probably make enough from this morning’s collection to rebuild your entire church.’ He cast a disparaging eye around the place before adding, ‘It’s about time you had a new one, wouldn’t you say?’
Father Louis said the prayers with admirable aplomb, and the heartfelt sincerity with which he called upon God to look kindly upon the cause for which His Majesty the king and His Grace the duke were fighting, and to preserve them and all those who nobly and loyally fought alongside them, won him great praise and even greater charitable donations.
The two men themselves, however, took very different approaches to their private prayers. The king prayed for victory, yes, but above all else he prayed that he should be spared death, or, even worse, mutilation, and vowed to carry out a slew of charitable activities if he should avoid that fate. Duke William was every bit as heartfelt in his prayers, for he was a truly devout Christian, but he did not ask for anything from his Maker. Instead he simply gave thanks to God for cementing the alliance between Normandy and France, and for inspiring so many of the men of his duchy, from the highest to the most humble, to come and fight in his cause. He thanked Him for bringing his enemies to this place on this day so that they could learn the error of their ways. Above all, he gave thanks for the victory that was to come.
For it simply did not occur to him that he could possibly lose.
10
Val-ès-Dunes
‘What’s he doing?’ Guy of Burgundy asked. He was standing with Nigel Falconhead on a low ridge, barely twice as high as a man, that rose just enough to afford a view over the heads of the massed ranks of mounted knights and foot soldiers, across the plain to King Henry and Duke William’s forces in the distance. But neither man was currently looking at the enemy. Their eyes were focused on a point about halfway down the plain to their left, where a large body of men had taken up station between the two armies. Ralph Taisson of Thury, the Badger, had brought his men to the battle.
‘He’s like a fat man at a banquet, eyeing up a calf on one spit and a sucking pig on the other and trying to decide which to sample first,’ Falconhead replied.
‘He made his decision months ago. He swore to it again not two days ago. He had better damn well stick to his word. I’ll make him pay for his treachery if he doesn’t.’
On the far side of the field, King Henry was having a similar conversation with William. ‘Who are those men?’ he asked.
William informed him of the Badger’s identity.
‘Does he have any reason to bear you a grudge?’
‘No, sire,’ William replied. ‘But nor do any of them. I’ve not given them cause to fight me. They just want what I’ve got.’
The king was about to reply, but then stopped himself and said, ‘Now what?’ half to himself as the Badger spurred his horse into a canter and rode away from his troops, accompanied by a knight bearing a white flag of truce. At first it was not clear where he was heading, but then he wheeled round in the direction of the French and Norman army and rode directly towards the point where Henry and William sat, side by side on their horses, with their standards fluttering around them.
The Badger rode right through the mass of French soldiers arrayed in front of their monarch, who parted to let him through. As he approached King Henry, he gave a short, curt nod of the head and said, ‘Your Majesty . . .’ then guided his horse right up to Bloodfang. He and William were now side by side, looking one another in the face, close enough to touch.
‘Good day to you, Your Grace,’ the Badger said.
‘And to you, Taisson. What brings you here to see me?’
‘I swore a solemn vow in the cathedral at Bayeux,’ said the Badger, removing one of his heavy leather gauntlets. ‘I swore to Guy of Burgundy that if ever I were to see you, I would strike you there and then. I don’t wish to perjure myself by breaking that oath.’
With that he slapped William across the face with his gauntlet. All around the soldiers bristled, tensing themselves to pounce on the man who had dared hit the duke. But William raised his hand to still them. ‘You kept your word. I can vouch for that,’ he said, rubbing a hand over his smarting cheek. ‘But you made another vow once, to me. You swore to be my loyal vassal, and your men with you. Will you be true to that oath too?’
The Badger said nothing, just gave a barely perceptible shrug of a shoulder, nodded again to the king, then wheeled round and rode away the way he had come.
‘By God, I’ve seen some shameless individuals in my time, but that Taisson beats them all!’ the king exclaimed, watching the Badger return to his troops. ‘He as good as made it clear that he will come down on whichever side he thinks is going to win.’
‘In that case, sire, we can be sure of his support,’ William replied.
The king looked at him and saw that there was not the faintest trace of apprehension on the young duke’s face. On the contrary, it bore a broad, almost exultant grin. It was the expression of a born warrior, for whom battle was not something to be feared, but to be relished. William exuded a confidence and certainty so absolute that anyone who saw him could not fail to have their spirits lifted and their courage stiffened.
‘We should advance at once, sire,’ he said. ‘Let’s go forward. We will not take a single backward step.’
He rode away, across the front of the army, until he came to his men massed on the right flank. There he stood up in the saddle, with Bloodfang pawing the earth beneath him, raised his sword in the air and shouted out the battle cry of Normandy: ‘God help!’
Along the French lines, all the various battalions called out the mottos of their ruling families as the great mass of men began moving forward. They were led by the mounted knights, who lowered their lances to face the enemy as they urged their horses into a walk, then a trot, and then, gathering momentum, broke into a canter and finally picked up enough speed to gallop, until the whole army was thundering across the plain of Val-ès-Dunes towards the rebel horde.
‘Here they come,’ said Falconhead, and his eyes shone as brightly as William’s, for he too was born to wage war. The cry of the Cotentin was ‘Saint-Saveur!’ and Falconhead gave it now and was answered by his men, then shouted the order they were longing to hear: ‘Charge!’
‘Holy Saviour! Holy Saviour!’ cried Rannulf de Bessin, hoping that if he could put enough volume and conviction into his voice, he could someh
ow persuade himself, as well as his men, that everything was going to be all right.
‘Saint-Amand!’ cheered Longtooth Haimo, urging his horse forward. Haimo lacked Falconhead’s instinctive, unthinking conviction. What he possessed instead was a burning urge to prove himself. He was rich, his estates were substantial and he had raised as large a contingent as any of the other plotters. But he knew that they did not take him seriously, and so today it was his intention to show the world that there was more to him than anyone suspected. His only slight concern was that he did not know how exactly he was going to achieve this, other than generally making a show of taking the fight to the enemy.
Then directly ahead of him, and approaching him at high speed across the bare earth that now trembled beneath the terrible beating of the horses’ hooves, Haimo saw the royal standard of France, and suddenly he knew exactly how he would make a name that would last for all time.
Longtooth Haimo was going to kill the King of France.
The two armies met in a juddering, percussive impact of flesh and bone and steel; of lances splintering on shields or piercing chain mail and plunging deep into the bodies beneath it; of rearing horses’ hooves breaking bones and cracking open skulls; of swords against swords; of men shouting and screaming and gasping for breath. William exulted in the carnage and his power to inflict it. Few men on the field were taller or stronger than him, and none had a mightier horse beneath him.
One of Rannulf’s men, a knight from Bayeux called Hardret, had sworn in public to kill William, just as Haimo had privately targeted King Henry. Now he rode to the head of the rebel army and aimed his horse at the duke, who was leading his men from the front, riding several lengths clear of them so that he could be seen by everyone on the battlefield. Hardret was not some vainglorious fantasist. He was a tough, experienced veteran who had, as he’d pointed out around the previous night’s campfire, been colouring his sword with other men’s blood when the Bastard was still in the cradle. He had every reason to believe that he was more than a match for a twenty-year-old duke in his first major battle.
The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2 Page 38