19
Valognes—September 1046
The urgent knocking on his bed-chamber door roused William from a deep sleep. He groaned, rolled from the bed and, pulling a tunic over his nakedness, staggered, half asleep, across the bare timbered floor. He unbolted the door. Beyond stood Will fitz Osbern, son of that loyal friend so cruelly murdered before William’s own eyes. He looked troubled, his hand hovering, William noticed, near his dagger. Beside him stood an elderly man whom the Duke did not know. A merchant of wealthy means, judging by his appearance.
“Sir,” fitz Osbern said, “this man comes with information. I think there is trouble brewing.”
William regarded the merchant a few long moments, taking in every feature, every line and wrinkle of his aged face. Clean-shaven, with whitened, short-cut hair, he was of about sixty years. “I do know you,” William said thoughtfully. “You are—were—my father’s wine merchant. I saw you once at Falaise, though I recall not your name.”
“I am Henri de Brene, my Lord Duke, and oui, until my son took over the business I supplied your father with the best wine available in all Normandy.”
“Rebellion, my Lord,” fitz Osbern interrupted with an uneasy look over his shoulder as if the shadows behind him hid sinister murderers. “It seems your enemies may have settled the feuding that has divided them these past years. Have united in a common cause.”
William grimaced. “Myself and Normandy being that common factor, I assume?” He invited the men to enter the chamber. A relative peace had reigned throughout Normandy since those early turbulent years of William’s childhood. With Henry of France set on asserting the rights of his sworn vassal, the boy’s rivals had been more inclined to fight among themselves for power, wealth and land, rather than combine against him. Yet it had been inevitable that the time would come when one man could build the strength to organise a revolt, the ultimate prize being Normandy itself. Every day, almost, William expected to hear that the new-emerging aristocracy of the duchy had stopped fighting among themselves to unite against the resident duke. That day seemed to have come.
He poured wine for himself and the two men. “So what has happened that required waking me less than two hours after I have retired to my bed?” he asked de Brene, cocking his head to one side.
De Brene glanced at fitz Osbern, to whom he had already briefly told his tale. He had no wish to be an alarmist, yet this young duke’s father had been a good man and de Brene owed him a personal debt of gratitude that, until now, he had been unable to discharge. He did not know if the boy William was a man of courage and honour as Duke Robert had been; the lad was untried, yet if what he had surmised was true, then this young duke would have no chance to prove whether he was indeed worthy of his father’s title. De Brene considered it his duty, in memory of the father, at least to give the lad fair opportunity.
“My Lord Duke, I once had occasion to thank your father for saving my life. He was a lad, then, no older than your own age of seventeen years. We were ambushed by brigands on the road to Rome. Several of our party were killed, guards and pilgrims alike. Your father ran through a murderer who was about to slit my throat. I vowed that one day I might find a way of thanking him in more than mere words. Alas, I was not able to do so.”
William leant forward, did not trouble to hide his scepticism. “They must have been a particularly optimistic group of robbers if they were so bold as to attack my father’s guards?” Pilgrims were often attacked, too many of the fools openly professed they carried wealth and possessions. It was becoming a materially rewarding business, pilgrim robbing. His father would not have ridden without adequate protection, however.
De Brene was nervous; his hands shook and beads of sweat pricked along his upper lip. “My Lord, if it is learnt that I have come here to warn you, then my life may well be forfeit. Those who attacked your father and our pilgrimage party were no ordinary ruffians. It is my belief they were professional men, paid to make an end of the Duke.” He attempted a wan smile. “As I have reason to believe other men are also anxious to be rid of you.”
“Go on.” William said, his voice low and encouraging. He guessed already what de Brene was about to say.
The merchant spoke quickly, as if to say his piece faster would make it less dangerous. His fear of reprisal was genuine. “Sir, I have been a widower for many years. In recent months I have formed a liaison with the wife of a former client—forgive me but I cannot mention names. Last night I lay with her—in a house I rent, some miles south of here.” He looked from fitz Osbern to the Duke. What if he had this wrong, what if he was being naught but a foolish old man? “Sir, there are men gathering to the east of the road that I followed home. Two hundred or so. Among them, I think I saw your enemy, Guy de Bourgogne—Guy of Burgundy.”
The Duke audibly caught his breath. Bourgogne. No wonder de Brene was afraid. Guy had a reputation as vivid as the Duke’s own for taking revenge on those who enraged him. “You are not certain?” William queried. “You may have been mistaken?”
The merchant chewed his lip. “I cannot swear that it was him, it was a glimpse only—but, even if it is not he, why are men with armour and weapons gathering secretively so near to where you presently reside?”
William stood. “Why indeed.”
He moved to the slit window on the southern side of the chamber, peered out into the blackness of the night beyond. Banks of cloud driven by a vigorous wind galloped over a half-full moon, the courtyard below and the outer defence wall shadow-lit by its patterned light. Guy de Bourgogne wanted to make himself duke. Was, to William’s certain knowledge, rallying men to his support. Men like Nigel de la Cotentin and Rannulf, vicomte de la Bessin, two of the most powerful magnates in the entire duchy. If they were to initiate rebellion, how many more lords from west and lower Normandy would be joining them? Ralph Tesson and Grimoald de Plessis? Since they had last attempted their bloody games of murder they had taken time to build up their strength.
Those men who would support Bourgogne in his claim were more experienced than William and, for all his determination, his personal authority over Normandy remained fragile. As Duke he was dependent upon the loyalty of those Norman lords who had favoured his father, but if outright rebellion reared its ugly head, for how long could a youth, untried in battle, keep their backing? If de Brene were right and Bourgogne was making a move against him, then he had no choice but to seek outside help from his overlord, the King of France.
William turned to face his friend and companion, fitz Osbern. “Did we not hear yesterday that there is rumour of an army collecting to the west near Lessay? Do we have confirmation?”
“No, my Lord, but if these things are true, then it seems your enemies are hoping to blockade you here in Valognes. If they should lay siege…” He had no need to continue; William knew the danger to his life were that to happen.
William slid a ring from his finger, held it out to de Brene. “I thank you for your information, it is comforting to know that there are some who are loyal to me.”
De Brene did not take the ring. “Monseigneur, I seek no reward. It is enough to know I have been of some small help to Duke Robert’s son.”
And a ring from the present duke would draw attention, initiate questions. William replaced it on his finger, held out his hand instead. Then, if it will suffice, I offer you my gratitude alone.” To fitz Osbern he said briskly, “We must assume that we have been timely warned of an attempt to overthrow me. See if you can ascertain any further information and send my uncle to me. Have horses saddled. Of a sudden, I feel no inclination to remain here.”
The ride from Valognes was a waking nightmare. It galled William that he had to flee like a thief in the night, to have to ride for aid, not stand and fight. The time would come, though, one day soon, when the men at arms of Normandy would serve him without murmur. When a single command would strike fear into any who dared oppose him. For
now, however, without alliance of a French army to put down insurrection, there would be no future for the Duke, for William the Bastard.
He had no alternative but to leave Valognes immediately and ride hard for France. Taking only a few loyal men—among them Will fitz Osbern and his maternal uncle, Walter—he galloped for the estuary of the Vire, risking crossing before the tide was at its safest low level.
Halfway across, his horse lost its footing, ducking them both under the ebb current. The escort of men shouted in alarm, but William kicked himself free of the stirrups and, clinging to his stallion’s mane, swam across the channel to the far bank, and immediately shrugged off the concerned enquiries of his followers. “If Guy de Bourgogne cannot make so easy an end to me, do you think I fear a mere soaking in an estuary?”
Mid-morning saw them at Ryes. The horses were spent, their coats lathered, mouths and flanks bloodied. Refreshed, re-clothed and revived, the Duke and his men demanded remounts and galloped onwards, heading for the safety of William’s birthplace of Falaise and from there to King Henry, who held court at Poissy.
All would whisper and mask smirks of derision when William eventually arrived, dishevelled and travel-grimed, but the Duke cared nothing for the arrogance of the French aristocracy. He had one concern only. To mobilise an army against those who dared oppose him.
20
Waltham Abbey
Looking down at the parchment spread wide between the hands of the master mason, Harold felt an immense surge of pride. The building of his collegiate abbey would soon commence—the first shipments of stone from Caen in Normandy were already being sorted down by the especially erected wharf. He liked the design that the French architect had finally decided upon. It would not be as grand as the King’s construction at Westminster, but for a rural abbey it would be more than sufficient.
“We begin by building around the old church, then—adding a north to south transept across the present square apse at the eastern end?”
The architect nodded, his face alight with enthusiasm. “The present chapel will remain in use for some while. When we have completed the transept and its tower, we will remove these old timber walls and rebuild in stone, non?” His light French accent and quick speech were like a bubbling mountain stream, in contrast to the deep tones of the Wessex-born master of masons, whose accent was more like a somnolent stretch of a wide, ageing river.
The mason let the parchment roll up on itself. “’Tis not the way we usually do it, but I suppose it might work.”
“It will work, believe me, monsieur! This will be a fine and glorious abbaye.” The Frenchman almost skipped a few paces in his excitement, his arms spreading wide. “Ici shall be the transept that we talk about. Imagine the beauty of it! Its length and its height! The windows shall be narrow, double-splayed, rounded en tête, rounded heads. There shall be a chancel arch and the arcades shall also bear round-headed arches. The piers along the aisle shall reach up to the vaulting of the roof—a leaded roof bearing the tower and above that, a golden cross! It shall be tout à fait magnifique, n’est-ce pas?”
Harold smiled warmly at his delight, although he had very little idea of exactly how his abbey would eventually look. The mason was looking thoughtful. “We will need sound-based trusses, then, if you’re planning on using lead.” He shook his head doubtfully. That’s a lot of weight-bearing you know.”
“Absolument, I agree, but if we…”
Harold left them to it; their technical phrases meant nothing to him. It was like listening to men prattling in an unknown language.
He stood, hands on hips, trying again to picture how, several years ahead, all this would look. Over there, the cloister court and the chapter house, the dorter, frater and kitchens. The outer wall would remain the same, but perhaps the gatehouse could be enlarged? Fish ponds created down near the river and a herb garden somewhere. He sensed rather than heard the rustle of movement behind him, lifted one arm so that Edyth could slip hers through, entwining them together.
“Our friend from France is so happy with his work, is he not? This will be a beautiful place, Harold. I am so glad that you are building it.” She smiled up at him, the shining light of her love dazzling in her eyes. For over four months had he been away, taking command of half the King’s fleet. The days had passed quickly for her, for their manor house was now finished and furnished, but the long summer nights alone without him had dragged so slowly.
He placed a light kiss on the veil that covered the crown of her head. “As I am also. Edward is building Westminster with the prime intention of making it his mausoleum. He plans a grand and ostentatious tomb near the high altar. I was wondering whether I ought to incorporate plans for my resting place.”
Edyth put her hand up to his mouth, her fingers pressing against his lips. “Please, do not talk of your death! I cannot bear to think of not having you with me!”
Harold laughed. “I’m not intending to make use of a tomb just yet, my lass! Although it occurred to me yesterday, as Edward insisted on taking us on a tour of his building work, that he had better pray for a long life. He is one and forty years old already and it could take anything up to thirty years to complete his abbey.”
The construction of the abbey at Westminster was barely further advanced than this smaller one at Waltham, for prolonged and incessant rain had put it behind schedule. The Westminster foundations were thick with mud and flooding had always been a problem along that marshy stretch of the Thames. The periodic rise and fall of the river helped somewhat, though, for the gravel and alluvial soil brought down with the current were steadily silting up the tiny tributaries that separated the scatter of small islands. The spread-finger estuary of the Tyburn river was no longer as wide and Thorney Island itself had more than doubled its length of river bank since the time when Cnut had first enlarged the crude little chapel of Saint Peter into a monastery for twelve monks.
Edward had in mind nearer sixty monks and a building superior to anything yet known. His abbey was to be the finest, tallest, grandest complex of buildings in all England. Looking at the ooze squelching around their feet yesterday afternoon, Harold and his father had harboured strong doubts of the practicality of the dream.
Those three days spent in London had been frustrating for Harold. He had wanted nothing more than to return to Waltham, but Edward had insisted that those earls who had deployed with the fleet accompany him to London from Kent: Godwine and Harold, Beorn and Leofric of Mercia. Siward had not come south for the summer muster, for Scotland was pressing too close against the northern borders—over-much of Cumbria had already been appropriated by Scottish hands.
The King saw the summer’s blockade as a great success, but then he had been safely ensconced in a dry and wind-proofed royal residence three miles west of Sandwich harbour. The rest of them had been alternately tossed, soaked or battered by the vagaries of the North Sea and its unpredictable weather. It had been a pointless exercise, the fleet sitting there at full strength supposedly safeguarding the coast against Magnus of Norway—who had, for certain knowledge, turned his attention away from England and was harassing Denmark instead.
Edward claimed that Magnus had changed his mind about England because of the fleet—what nonsense! All summer they had been pleading with him—Harold, his father, Beorn, even Leofric—to release their ships from the blockade and let them sail to aid the Danish King. Edward would have none of it, was determined to let Denmark look to her own protection—this despite an alliance made earlier in the year.
To join forces and be rid of Magnus made sense, but Edward maintained that to sting Norway in the tail might only serve to goad. In early July he had remarked, almost childishly, that Svein Estrithson was Godwine’s nephew-in-law and England could not afford to favour the family any further. As a slight it had been a calculated and intentional one. Godwine had tactfully swallowed it down; Harold and Beorn—bitter that he could not take
his men to help his elder brother—had returned to the fleet. Tostig had flounced away from court in a burst of resentment. Already his pride had been bruised by being overshadowed by Beorn and the Queen was making no effort to promote him. He saw himself as neglected and undervalued, was bored with the fruitless patrolling at sea and wanted some way to prove his worth—to his father and his king. Taking his portion of the family fortune, Tostig had bought passage on a merchant ship and sailed to Flanders in search of more obliging patronage and a potential bride from one of Count Baldwin’s numerous sisters or daughters. This, despite the fact that Baldwin’s coast was harbouring many of the pirates who were attempting to plunder English shipping; that Baldwin was possibly supporting Magnus; and that it was rumoured that their brother, Swegn, had fled to Bruges with his abbess.
Edward had railed about Tostig’s departure for days. The sea conditions had been atrocious, the remaining Godwines had elected to remain with the fleet. Bad weather was infinitely preferable to the King’s sour moods.
To add further insult, Tostig had almost immediately succeeded in his aim, for word had reached England last week that he had wed Judith, the Count’s second-youngest daughter. Of Swegn, Tostig had sent no word. It was still not known where he had secreted himself and Eadgifu. For himself, Harold did not particularly care. The further away Swegn was, the better.
“My sister has granted yet more land to the estate of Westminster,” Harold said, walking Edyth over to watch the Frenchman supervising the pegging out of lengths of thin rope, marking on the ground the dimensions of the transept. “I doubt my poor little Waltham will be able to compete—I shall have to find some relics or something to give the place more of an equal footing.”
I Am the Chosen King Page 17