I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  The captive regarded the man standing before him with a blank expression. That he was the Duke was obvious by his stance, dress and air of authority; that the Englishman understood no word of French as apparently obvious.

  William narrowed his eyes, glaring at the chained man—and then, with unexpected speed, lashed out with his fist, striking hard at the Englishman’s stomach, sending his breath woofing in pain from between bruised lips. “Do you think I am a fool, English turd? I know that you understand my language. You would not be here to spy on my movements if you did not.”

  William hunkered down. With one hand he gripped the man’s cheeks, squeezing the battered flesh. “Your oath-breaking lord wishes to know how many ships I have, n’est-ce pas? How many men I will be mustering—how soon I will be ready to sail for England and remove the whoreson from Edward’s throne? You wish to know? I will tell you! Tell you all, because I want you to return to England. I want that bastard liar to know that I am making ready, that I will be coming for him, and for England.”

  For a long while, William squatted there, his eyes boring into the Englishman, recounting his proposed number of ships and men. The man listened, stored the information in his memory, wondering, at the same time, how much of what William boasted was fact, and how much exaggeration. This he did know, however, that many ships were being built, that a vast fleet was being assembled. That William’s intent, however fanciful, however impossible, was becoming real.

  Stooping to pass below the low entrance to the bothy, William went back out into the sunlight, lifted his head and took a deep breath of salt air. The day was warm and pleasant, the wind fresh. “I shall inspect the moored vessels, I think,” he announced, beckoning fitz Osbern to walk with him in the direction of the river. “Ensure that worthless rag in there is taken to England on the next tide. I want him left somewhere where he can reach London with ease. Harold is to hear what I am doing as soon as may be. I want him to worry, to lose sleep at night, knowing that I am making ready.” Abruptly the Duke’s eyebrows creased into a frown of anger. “Have you heard news of that idiot husband of my wife’s sister?”

  Fitz Osbern nodded, bracing himself mentally for another torrent of vehement outrage. Earl Tostig of Northumbria, another accursed, double-dealing Englishman—but then, it seemed all the English were scum, not to be trusted.

  Word had come that he had reneged on his agreement with Baldwin of Flanders, his father-in-law—William’s father-in-law. Through the winter the exiled Englishman, with his handful of followers and his wife, had sheltered beneath Baldwin’s protective roof. They were brothers by law, William and Tostig, and William had sent sympathetic messages, promising to help Tostig in his plight, had endorsed Count Baldwin’s supply of almost fifty ships for Tostig to command.

  “Help me fight Harold,” William had said, “and I will restore Northumbria to you when England is mine.” Brothers by law, united by marriage.

  Huh! If a man could go against the brother of his blood, then why expect him to remain loyal to a brother by marriage? Tostig had readily taken his ships from Flanders and sailed, not for Normandy and the muster point at Dives, but direct for England.

  Tostig, as much a cheating toad-spawn as Harold. Tostig, whose own grubby hands were stretching for that same crown.

  “He plundered the Island of Wight, sailed eastwards, harrying the coast and there met with Danish allies.” Duke William spat into the sand, growled, “He has now amassed a fleet of sixty ships. Ships that he agreed to bring to my invasion fleet!” All these difficulties that were twining round his ankles like rampant tangling weeds. Ships, so slowly built; weaponry to be crafted; men to muster; horses to obtain. The majority of the aristocracy and elite yet to persuade into supporting him.

  Fitz Osbern had done all he could since the winter—riding in person from one estate to another, persuading, cajoling, threatening where necessary. Ah, there were more than one or two debts that had been called in these past months! And as many more reminders of misdemeanours that had conveniently been re-remembered.

  So, they thought their duke a fool, a dream-chaser, did they? These hearth-gazing, barrel-bellied Norman cowards! An invasion of England to claim a crown was an impossibility, was it? What did they know! Their Viking ancestors had almost overrun all England once, had claimed a good portion for their own—would have taken all of it, had their leaders possessed the military genius of their present duke. Did his barons and nobles not realise that they could not disagree with his decisions? That they had no choice in this undertaking—that it was not advisable to say no to William?

  He was going to England with an army, and he was going to claim his right, no matter how long it took, how much blood was shed. Or how many bastards shrugged and pretended to become suddenly deaf, ailing or poor of purse.

  “Mayhap Tostig will slay Harold of England? Have you considered that possibility, my Lord?” Fitz Osbern said, almost trotting to keep pace with his duke’s impatient stride.

  “I doubt it,” William retorted. “Tostig Godwinesson likes to boast that he can afford quality breeches, but has no potency in the balls concealed beneath.” Abruptly, William stopped, watching as the new-launched ship made her way around the estuary and into the shelter of the river. She handled well, a good craft.

  “Summon my barons to a third Council. Caen, early June. I think we must finalise the details of my conquest. They must all attend, excuses will not be accepted—my wife’s cathedral of la Trinité will be ready for consecration, we shall incorporate that into the occasion.” He stalked off to intercept one of the master shipwrights. “See to it, Will. I’ll leave the arrangements to you. Anyone not attending will be tried for treason.”

  Will fitz Osbern massaged his salt-rimed chin and cheeks with his hand. See to it! Had he not enough to see to? If this cursed obsession of William’s ever came to anything more than craftsmen hammering at planks of wood and strips of metal, then the credit should go to himself for the organisation of it all. Will shook his head. It would not, though. Those who did all the work and worrying were never recognised once the fighting was over. He snorted disdainfully. The credit? Huh, the ones who deserved the credit were normally the first to die.

  8

  Caen

  The service of dedication in mid-June of the convent abbey of la Trinité, Caen, was beautiful, moving enough to bring tears to Duchess Mathilda’s eyes. At least, she told herself that her tears were for joy at the completion of her abbey—a splendid contribution to the city her husband was creating here at Caen, a building to equal his own monastery of Saint-Etienne. Her abbey, though, she thought, was more beautiful, being built of lighter-coloured stone, with higher and wider windows and situated in a more elevated position. Saint-Etienne, she considered, was too masculine a place, sombre in both construction and atmosphere, a place for the warrior, the nobleman, the administrator. Her feminine abbey made you feel gay and light of spirit, made you want to lift your voice in the singing of hymns. Except, today, she did not feel any of these things.

  As another tear wound a path down her cheek she brushed it aside, tried, yet again, to restrain her attention from wandering towards the little girl sitting beside the Abbess. Cecily. Six years old, a cherub of a child with fair, curling hair and wide, summer-blue eyes. Dimple-cheeked…her dearest daughter, little Cecily.

  Mathilda studied the words of her Bible, open on her lap. It was an honour to give the child to the nunnery, to the service of God. An honour for herself and the girl. One day, Cecily would, perhaps, become Abbess of la Trinité—what more could a mother pledge to God as an offering of dedication and love? As a plea for His protection?

  She stole a furtive glance at William, sitting straight-backed and serious on the men’s side of the aisle. He would not notice if all their children were sent to live within abbeys. She sighed. But then, he had noticed nothing these last months, not if it were night or day, wet or warm.
Nothing concerned him save this damned obsession with England.

  They all said that the planning of this invasion was close to the ravings of a madman. They being the nobles—her own father one among them. None had said as much in public, of course, but private whispers had a habit of leaking out. Damn the fools! Perhaps, had they amicably trotted after him along this insane path William would have dropped the idea, but no, because they opposed him, he now had an even greater point to prove. To Harold of England and to those who doubted his integrity and ability, Jesu Christ, if he but knew that Mathilda agreed with those nobles…she filled her lungs, straightened her back, lifted her chin to listen with more attention to the intonation of the blessing. Humour him, agree, enthuse…hope he would change his mind. The surest way to drive William into a forthright gallop was to stamp your foot and say non.

  He could not force any one of them to join in a venture outside his own territory; support in this must come voluntarily or from mercenary payment. During February and March she had dared to hope that William might be forced to abandon his plan, to satisfy himself with piling every curse under God’s heaven on Harold and England. No one wanted to waste his life or livelihood on a project that did not have a bent spear against a leather shield’s chance of being successful.

  Why could he not be content with what they had already achieved? Normandy was, after all these years of wars and discontent, a settled, thriving duchy, expanding in her territory, wealth and importance. There was no one, at this moment, liable to or capable of declaring war within or on the edge of their borders. Philip of France was an untried boy, Conan of Brittany was recently dead, with many of his magnates declared for Normandy. Why must William seek bloodshed—court death—when there was no reason for it save to heal his hurt pride?

  Mathilda crossed herself and whispered a plea to the Mother Mary. Few men, outside of those dedicated loyalists who would follow him to hell and back if asked—or England, much the same thing to her mind—expected Duke William to succeed in this madness, few had initially thought he would raise the necessary fleet, let alone manage to sail across the sea to England in one piece. If he did, he would be cut down by the English fyrd. He must know all this himself, must doubt and query and worry—yet he said no word of it, showed nothing beyond this racing determination, despite all advice to the contrary, all sense, practicality, logistics and cost. It was indeed as if some devil-driven madness had taken hold of his senses.

  Muttering the familiar words of response to the Abbot Lanfranc, Mathilda’s mind again drifted. A madness engulfing her husband? No one had dared, ever, to swear allegiance to William and then, with outright taunting, scud the harvest gleanings into his face. That William had underestimated Harold—and that the Earl had almost certainly deliberately played him for a fool—consolidated this determination for revenge. No one embarrassed or threatened William without paying the penalty. Mathilda closed her Bible, held it close against her bosom. Only, what if it were William—and Normandy—who paid the price for this foolishness in the end?

  Guilty at her inattentiveness, she reopened her Bible and shuffled through the pages of minute script. For a while she concentrated hard on the Abbot, staring only at his thin, impassioned face, his articulate hands, his richly embroidered robes. Lanfranc had been of no help in dissuading William from this folly—had actively encouraged him. England, he had said, had fallen away from the Church of Rome. Too many of the prelates of the English Church were corrupt—Archbishop Stigand for one. It was Lanfranc who had persuaded William that the claiming of England was a crusade, had agreed that Harold was a perjurer and oath breaker. Lanfranc insisted Earl Harold—earl, they all called him earl, none would say king—had tricked the English nobles into crowning him—as he had tricked William. He had placed the crown on his head in indecent haste to ensure no one had time to object—the very afternoon of Edward’s burial!

  Lanfranc himself had travelled to Rome to seek papal blessing for this holy invasion. The Pope’s answer had echoed Mathilda’s private thoughts. Why would Rome support a small duchy against a wealthy, ancient, Christian kingdom? Why support a duke against an anointed king, chosen and crowned by the people of England? Rome, it seemed, while deploring England’s persistent arrogance and neglect of the laws and wishes of the Pope, and agreeing with Lanfranc’s personal dislike of Stigand, would not go as far as proclaiming war on a Christian sovereign state. But Pope Alexander II had not forbidden it though. He would think on it, he had said. Consider the matter. Or to look at it another way, William’s and Lanfranc’s way, he would wait and see who won before bestowing his blessing on the victory.

  Mathilda had been there, in the chamber with her husband and Will fitz Osbern, when Lanfranc had returned with that answer. Had listened, and doubted, her stomach churning with fear. No one else knew of Pope Alexander’s actual words. And if the words passed on to others were not strictly accurate, who was to know? When it was all over—one way or the other—who would care?

  At Council on the morrow, William intended to tell only the partial truth—that Rome did not object. That God was on their side.

  Closing her eyes, Mathilda murmured another prayer. If William were slain—by God’s grace, let him not come to harm! Already her body was shaking with the fear at the thought of his going to what was almost certain death. Fear of the burden of responsibility that he had placed on her shoulders while he was to be gone.

  Later in the week in a service at Saint-Etienne, their eldest, Robert, was to be formally designated as heir. If William did not come back she would rule Normandy as regent until he came of age. She would rule! Mathilda found the prospect exciting and challenging. All her listening and learning of politics and law would finally be of benefit…but that would mean William would have to die.

  Robert wanted that. For all she loved and treasured her son he upset her in that. She wished there had been some spark of love between father and boy. Robert was headstrong and eager, a fledgling bird stretching its wings at the very edge of the branch, making ready to fly. Agatha, too, had been delighted at the acrimony between Normandy and England for she had never wanted the betrothal. Foolish child, did she not realise her father would find her some other husband? If he came home in one piece from England.

  Lifting her Bible to her lips, she kissed the page that was open before her. “Sweet Lord,” she prayed silently, “send me some sign that this venture of my husband’s is just. That he will not come to harm!”

  There had been the star, of course, the tailed star that had burnt with such brightness for over a week in the evening heavens. It was an omen of good fortune, they said. But for whom? For Harold or William?

  Mathilda glanced across again at Cecily her daughter. The child was sitting with a rapt expression on her face, marvelling at the beauty of the sunlight filtering through the small panes of glass and dancing across the marble floor. She was happy. The serenity of the abbey had touched the child’s spirit and bound her to the perfection of life within a community of nuns. For an instant Mathilda envied the girl, as she knew Agatha did also. Wished she, too, could remain safe and protected here within the secure walls of la Trinité.

  ***

  The heat of the sweltering afternoon hit them as they left the abbey by the western door, their chatter and laughter as bright as the colours of their garments. All had come to Caen and this dedication service showing off their finest dress and most expensive jewels. William himself wore purple and his ducal crown; Mathilda, a summer green and her circlet of entwined gold and silver. She and William walked at the head of the procession winding down through the town back to the castle. The people of Caen lined the route, cheering and shouting, waving pennants and flags, calling blessings on their proud and brave duke and his serene, beautiful duchess.

  They had barely reached the lower slope of the hill when a man, grimed and dishevelled, sprang out from the crowd to drop to his knees at William’s feet.
The guards lunged forward and pulled him roughly aside, but the man cried out, begging for his duke to hear him.

  “My Lord! I am come from England! I must speak with you!”

  William’s head shot up as if he had been hit by a physical blow. He dropped Mathilda’s hand, thrust his guards aside and squatted before the man, hands gripping his shoulders. “Where in England? What is it you must tell me?”

  Duke William’s heart was thundering, his mouth had run dry. News of Harold? Had something happened?

  “I come from the estate of Steyning in Sussex. It is land held by the Norman abbey of Fécamp. I was steward there until several days since. I was a good and loyal steward, my Lord Duke, they had no right to treat us as they did, to turn us out with no food for our bellies, no cloak for our backs!”

  “Who, man? What is it!”

  “Harold’s men. The fyrd, his housecarls. Vicious, blood-crazed thugs, they are. They have occupied the estate of Steyning, for it is on the southern coast, overlooking the sea. Taken it for their king, they said!” The man spat to one side in disgust. “They were heavily armed, preparing for war. They beat us, then threw us out, every one of us who insisted on remaining loyal to you and our masters of Fécamp.”

  Abbot Remigius from Fécamp itself strode forward from the processional line, his face grim, his anger great. “I recognise this man, my Lord Duke, he is indeed who he says, A most trusted servant—how dare this oath-breaking tyrant steal land that is entrusted to my keeping!”

  William regained his feet and held out his hand to the man kneeling on the roadway, helping him up to his feet. “You have no need to fear, my good friend, you are now in the company of men who keep their word and their vows.” He turned to Abbot Remigius. “You will have that estate of Steyning returned to your abbey.” He stumbled over the unfamiliar English place name. “If God sees it fitting that I win the victory over Harold of England, then it will be so. You have my pledge.”