‘Stay back!’
‘Why?’
‘We do not want the Bellemes to know you are here, do we? I know you wish to see William but a crazy dash across an enemy plain is not the way. He would be furious at the unnecessary risk.’
‘What then?’ Mathilda demanded.
‘You stay here. I will ride to William and ask him to come up to talk privately with me. You will get your surprise, I promise, but without inviting trouble.’
Mathilda smiled at him then stood on tiptoe to reach up and kiss his cheek, making him blush.
‘You are right, Roger,’ she said, ‘and I bow to your judgement.’
‘You do?’
He looked so surprised she felt ashamed. She had grown fond of La Barbe and come to look on him as a friendly uncle but out here he had a serious job to do and she had to respect that.
‘Of course I do – but Roger, hurry!’
Now he smiled back and, with a little bow, tweaked at the edges of his moustache and leaped into the saddle. After another endless look around, he moved out of the trees and Mathilda pressed her little body into a trunk to watch. Roger edged forward, glancing back to check she was not following and she gave him an encouraging wave before she realised something was happening up on the walls of the town. Men were appearing along the top, though the dropping sun behind meant she could not make out their faces. Neither, at first, could she see what they were doing. They appeared to be throwing something over the walls, banners perhaps, or flags, though they did not move in the breeze.
‘What are they?’ she asked.
Cecelia moved up to her side.
‘I think, my lady, that they are hides. I believe they make the walls smoother so siege ladders cannot grip.’
Mathilda looked to William’s camp.
‘But no one has a siege ladder.’
‘No.’
Cecelia’s face was grim. Mathilda looked back to the town and saw that now the men were bashing the hides with sticks and swords and even long-handled spoons. They were shouting too, their accent a rough, southern Norman but their words enunciated for all to hear: ‘Alençon will not be defeated by a tanner’s bastard.’ They repeated the last words, harsh and hard: ‘Tanner’s bastard, tanner’s bastard, tanner’s bastard.’ The jeer echoed off the wall and rippled over the moat, tangling in the trees where Mathilda and her ‘surprise’ huddled, horrified.
She looked again for William. He was rigid with anger, his face as pale as the heart of a flame and his hand clenched on his sword hilt. As she watched, he drew the long blade from the scabbard and ran a testing finger along the edge. Even from here she saw his blood run. He put the scored finger to his mouth and sucked slowly upon it. She shivered and pressed against the tree as Roger edged his horse back towards them, his eyes fixed on the field.
‘You must get back, my lady,’ he hissed, but Mathilda was not leaving, not now.
Odo, William’s half-brother, had stepped quietly up at William’s side the moment he’d heard the taunts about their mother, and now they called the other men to them. Mathilda saw William’s key guard crowd round – Fitz, bounding to his lord’s side; Fulk squaring his huge shoulders as if looking to hide the duke beneath their shadow; and Hugh de Grandmesnil already calling over the cavalry horses.
There was urgency in the sprung coils of their young bodies and Mathilda dug her hand deeper into the whorls of the bark. Roger was pleading with her to leave, Emeline and Cecelia too, but she shut her ears to them. She had wanted to know what manner of man she had married and now she would.
‘Hush,’ was all she said and silently they complied, moving to their own trees as if they might make themselves part of the watching wood.
Below them the camp was moving, arranging itself purposefully into tight squares. Mathilda thought fleetingly of William’s disparaging comments about the rabble of the court and understood his irritation. His soldiers moved with a precision that was almost beautiful and a purpose that seemed to hum through the warm ground and up into her body.
She saw the men on the walls of Alençon hesitate and their cries of derision waver but then one man shouted anew and, as if ashamed, they backed him. William put a foot in his stallion’s stirrup and flung himself effortlessly onto its back, guiding it to the front of the near-perfect lines of men formed along the path to the great gates guarding the bridge. From somewhere his troops had found a huge trunk which they now ran at the gates, led by Fulk, so tall and broad he could almost hook the tree under one arm. The sharp crack of wood on wood tore the air, cutting off the jeers for a moment, but the gates held.
The guards in the towers either side fired arrows and stones but William’s own archers retaliated with deadly accuracy, killing all resistance. Again William’s Normans rammed, again the gate resisted, and again, and again, but the men, urged on by Fulk’s roars, never gave up and at last the wood seemed to cry out and the gates caved in. A thousand soldiers were through them instantly, streaming onto the bridge towards Alençon as if the townsfolk’s bitter taunts were a siren’s call straight to their sword-arms.
‘My lady, please,’ Cecelia begged, ‘it is not safe here.’
‘Not for them,’ Mathilda agreed, indicating the town as men snatched back the hides and scrambled for a safety they were unlikely to find.
Roger nodded stony agreement but made no further suggestion to leave and Mathilda had a clear view when, some time later, her husband re-emerged from Alençon with a long line of men tied behind him on a rope, guarded by burly warriors.
‘Prisoners?’ she asked Roger but he gave no answer.
William led them slowly over the bridge and out into the centre of his camp where they dropped to their knees like living tafel pieces, casting dark, spiky shadows across the cold ground. They were but thirty paces from Mathilda, hidden in the trees, and she could clearly see their terrified faces. All men in their prime, they were followed by a gaggle of women, children and frailer men, held back like animals by a fence of soldiers so they could offer no comfort to their loved ones. It was orderly terror and Mathilda could not for a moment look away.
William dropped the end of the rope and the guards moved closer, though not one prisoner did anything more than whimper or throw bound hands pleadingly towards William.
‘You ask mercy now?’ he boomed, his voice cutting through the cacophony of pleas and tears from the townsfolk. ‘You plead with me for justice and fairness? Where was your justice when you threw those slurs into the air? Where was your fairness when you abused a ruler who has only tried to do what is best for you and for this, your duchy?’
‘My lord duke,’ one cried, ‘we were wrong. We were stupid. We were disloyal.’
‘And now you are changed?’ William leaped from his horse and stalked over to the man. ‘Now you are suddenly loyal? It does not work that way, not with me. Loyalty is steadfast. It chooses its allegiance and holds to it. It does not sway on the lightest of breezes.’
‘But you are the victor, Lord Duke, and we submit to that absolutely.’
William’s laugh rattled over the water and off the now-bare walls of the town.
‘Of course you do, you have no choice. That is not loyalty but weakness.’ He paced the line of captives. ‘You picked the wrong side,’ he told them fiercely. ‘Do you know why it was the wrong side? Because it was not my side. I wished only the best for you and you defied me and now you regret it, yes? Yes?!’
He seized the chin of the nearest man who quaked in his hold.
‘Yes, Lord Duke, we regret it. We were wrong. We did not know your strength.’
‘And now you do.’ William’s voice was as still as an icebound river.
‘Now we do, Lord Duke, and we swear to you.’
‘No!’ William paced the line again. ‘It is not enough. I am tired of rebellion, tired of every last carpenter and market-holder and, yes, tanner, thinking he is better than me. It. Must. Stop.’
He turned and put up a hand. Two men lif
ted a steel bucket from a nearby fire and moved carefully over with it. Thick, dark fumes rose into the chill air and William took a rough club from one of them and dipped it in, lifting it high so they all saw the tar, black and cloying as a moonless night as it oozed down the length of the club and slopped back into the mixture with a sickening suck. Mathilda caught the acrid smell on the air and cowered back, though she refused to loosen her hold on the tree.
‘Loyalty,’ William cried, approaching the first man again with the shining black club still in his hand, ‘is all I ask of my people – all. But I ask it to be given freely and to be cleaved to without doubt. You, men of Alençon, denied me your loyalty and then you tried to steal my honour. You are thieves, all of you, and must be punished as thieves.’
He nodded to the guards who flung the first man to the ground, one holding him spread-eagled whilst the other in four swift, brutal swipes of his sword, severed first his hands and then his feet from the helpless limbs. Blood ran out and was lapped up by the hard ground as William himself held the boiling tar to each stump, waiting patiently for the flesh to sizzle and seal before moving to the next, seemingly oblivious to the man’s screams of agony. Finally he stood back and flipped his victim over to stare into his pain-clouded eyes.
‘Like thieves,’ he repeated and moved on.
‘No more,’ Mathilda gasped. ‘Surely no more.’
But William did not stop, not once. He did not look down the line to the desperate men fighting their guards, squirming uselessly away from the cries of pain and the stench of their neighbours’ searing flesh. He did not look to the women, weeping and pleading for mercy, nor back to the ranks of his soldiery, stood in line with their heads down. He did not look anywhere but into the defeated eyes of his victims as they sprawled in the dust at his feet, cauterised at every extremity, until at last, thirty-two men later, it was done. With a curt nod William ordered his guards to step back and the people of Alençon ran to what was left of their men.
‘Will they live?’ Mathilda whispered.
‘Most of them,’ Roger said. ‘They will serve as a reminder of where their loyalty should lie. Where it will lie.’
‘Freely given?’
He looked at her.
‘Not freely enough, but what can he do? He spoke true, Mathilda – he only wants the best for them, yet ever they defy him.’
Mathilda put a shaking hand to her belly. The man who had sealed miserable life into those empty victims had also put this child inside her – and she had enjoyed it. The hand that had held the tar to their bleeding flesh had run tenderly over her naked skin and set her pulse racing at the power of her partner. And she had come here, like an innocent fool, to tell him of their babe as if this were a May Day celebration and not a war. Well, she was innocent no more and would not be a fool again.
‘We must go,’ she said, finally uncurling her fingers from the tree.
‘At last.’
Roger was all too eager to hustle her away. Emeline and Cecelia followed but did not speak and they moved slowly, carefully, as if some part of their own selves had been cut away with the townsmen’s hands. Their guards clutched their swords and looked anxiously about. One man even ruffled the grass behind them as they moved away, removing all trace of their presence. Mathilda’s eyes locked with Roger’s.
‘We were never here.’
‘Never, my lady.’
If only it were true. If only the imprint of this terrible day was as easily removed from their hearts as from the ground, but Mathilda knew William’s axe had cut too deep for that. She had wanted to know what manner of man William was and now she did and she must face the fact that she had chosen him. She had turned her back on the likes of Brihtric with their poetry and their flowers and their dancing and picked a man who could offer her a grand future. She must accept all that went with that but seeing it so starkly before her pierced her very soul and it was a long, dark road away from Alençon that bitter night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Falaise, October 1051
‘My sweetheart, my duchess.’ William clasped her shoulders before the excitedly gathered crowd outside Herleva’s lovely home at Falaise. ‘My Mora,’ he added, his voice low. ‘Oh, truly I am glad to see you.’
‘And I you,’ Mathilda replied, trying to sound natural though her heart was pounding at having him so close.
For nigh on a month she had waited here in Falaise whilst William secured Domfront’s capitulation – not hard once news of Alençon had reached the remaining rebels. She had been very well looked after by Herleva and Herluin who lived not in the stern ducal castle on the hill above Falaise, but in a simple timber-framed building set in soft meadowlands by the pretty river. Yet, torn by images of her new husband at Alençon, she had found little peace. And now William was stood here looking down at her so confusingly sweetly.
‘I have dreamed of you,’ he said. ‘I have dreamed of holding you, of lying with you.’ His arm slid to her waist and stopped. ‘Mathilda?’
There was no hiding it now; her precious ‘surprise’ was clear for all to see.
‘I am with child, William.’
‘You are?’ He spun to the crowd, lifting her hand as if she had just won a bout. ‘My wife carries Normandy’s next duke. God be praised! He favours us. Already, He favours us.’
The crowd cheered wildly.
‘When is it due?’ William asked, as if they were alone in the bedchamber and not standing in front of several hundred soldiers.
‘Next spring.’
‘The best time. I was born as the days grew shorter not longer. My first months were spent in the dark and cold but this little one will be luckier.’
‘I pray so.’
‘And you are well with it, Mathilda? You seem a little anxious.’
‘Only to keep it safe, my lord.’
‘William, please. Have you forgotten me already?’
Mathilda tried to smile a denial but it was true that she had forgotten this courtly William. He had been obliterated by another tarred one and yet here he was, openly attentive in front of the very men who had helped him cut the hands and feet off lowly townsfolk.
‘Is the war over?’
‘It is over, my sweet one. The Bellemes are subdued and the south is ours once more. We have brought many of them with us as honourable prisoners, including a noble girl who might, one day, make a good wife for this little prince.’
He patted her belly and Mathilda blinked. It made her head spin to think of the child inside her being one day ready to marry.
‘You have only just this moment found out of our baby’s existence, William, and already you plan his future?’
‘Why not?’
Mathilda looked more closely at her husband but he would not meet her eye.
‘You knew, William.’
‘Knew what?’
‘You knew of the babe. Someone told you. Who told you?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It does to me. I wanted to surprise you.’
He bent down and kissed her.
‘And I love you for it, truly, but I am not, my duchess, a good man for surprises. I prefer to know.’
‘So who told you? Was it Roger?’
‘La Barbe? No! No one so grand.’
That at least was a relief; she needed Roger to keep a bigger secret than the babe.
‘Then who?’
‘It matters not, Mathilda. I have people everywhere. I like to be kept informed.’
‘You have spies on me?’
She shivered. Had one of William’s spies been in their little party at Alençon? Did he know about that too? If he did, he showed no sign of it.
‘You make it sound so sinister. It is simply, Mathilda, that I prefer to hear about things as soon as possible. Truly, it matters not. I made this child with you and that is what counts. Come, do not be cross. I have had enough harshness at war and would like to shake it off in the company of my wife.’
A pictu
re of him, tar in hand, whipped across the front of Mathilda’s mind as if some devil had painted it there. She blinked and staggered and William caught her.
‘Mathilda, you are not well?’
‘I am perfectly well, William. It is just hard to, to stand for too long.’
‘Of course, of course, and here I am keeping you out in front of all these crowds. Come within. Let us find you a seat. Stand back for the duchess!’ The crowd fell away instantly and William personally led Mathilda across the yard, into the pretty wooden hall and up to her seat at the head of the room, now fitted with a footstool for her little legs. ‘Do you need anything? A cushion? A blanket? It is quite chill, is it not?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘A glass of warmed wine for my wife!’
Wife! The word jarred. She reminded herself that their marriage was not yet sanctioned by the Pope and could, were the church so inclined, be dissolved, but then swiftly dismissed the thought as weak. She could not wish such an outcome, for it would make her baby a bastard and she lived daily with the knowledge of what that could do to a child.
Mathilda took her drink from William, marvelling as he saw her served and personally tucked a soft cover over her legs like the best husband alive. And indeed he was the best husband, so what did the rest matter? War was a man’s affair. No doubt her father had inflicted cruelties on his enemies and come home to throw her and her siblings around the nursery. No doubt Lord Brihtric had slain many a Welshman in anger and she must quash the niggle in her heart that said he had not. War was a game to men, a tafel board of life. The blood did not stain their skin so maybe it did not stain their souls either. It was her weakness that had let it colour hers.
‘The sieges were lifted?’ she dared to ask William.
‘They were. You have heard tell of it?’
‘No.’
That much was true. No one had spoken of Alençon since the dark night they’d crept away.
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