She rode into the Tour de Rouen, barely hearing the men’s sighs of relief as she leaped down and made for the hall. No William. She looked in the antechamber but he was not there either so she made for the curved stairs up to their chamber. The door was shut fast and Fitz was leaning wearily against the wall. Their eyes met and he nodded to the door. Mathilda strode forward and pushed on it but it was latched shut. She banged her hand hard on the wood.
‘I’ve told you, Fitz – leave me be.’
‘It’s not Fitz, it’s Mathilda, your wife. Let me in, William.’
‘Mathilda?!’
‘Yes, Mathilda. I can ride too, my love – and I can rule. Let me in.’
She heard the latch slide back and nipped quickly in before William could change his mind. Fitz did not even try to follow and she felt for the devoted steward, left outside like the faithful hound he had ever been.
‘Why shut Fitz out?’
‘I had to think. Fitz talks too much.’
‘Fitz loves you.’
‘It’s hardly the time for love, Mathilda.’
‘On the contrary, it is exactly the time for love – love and loyalty. That is what will get us through this.’
He looked at her, then up at the ceiling, staring at it as if memorising every swirl of the carved wood.
‘Through it how, Mathilda?’ he said eventually.
She moved closer.
‘How do you wish it?’
‘Right now, I wish to take my sword in my hand, ride my horse over the waves, and cut the crown from Harold’s treacherous head.’
Mathilda drew in a deep breath.
‘Then that is what you should do, only not right now. First we need information.’
He almost smiled, then sank suddenly down onto the edge of the bed.
‘But is it wise, Mathilda? If we have to invade to claim the crown we will risk everything and we could therefore lose everything.’
‘You never lose, William.’
Now he did smile, if thinly.
‘Your faith in me is touching, Wife, but I have forged my victories on sieges and ambushes, on wars of attrition and stealth. It could not be that way in England.’
Mathilda knelt before him, placing her hands on his knees.
‘You have forged your victories, William, on courage and belief and heart and you have all those still if you choose to use them.’
He placed his hands over hers and looked deep into her eyes and Mathilda felt the world close in around them – Flanders, Normandy, England, all sucked into the space between their faces.
‘Should I do it, my Mora? Should we do it – should we challenge for England?’
She tried to think, tried to conjure up lines of argument for and against but they didn’t fall into place, wouldn’t stay straight. All she could see was a golden glow – not a crown but a dream, a dream founded on a promise when they had been young and newly duke and duchess and starting on the path of their lives together. This moment of King Edward’s death had been on the horizon for them ever since, their two thrones waiting. How could they turn aside?
She met William’s gaze steadily.
‘We should do it,’ she said, clear and sure, ‘we should challenge for England.’
They faced the court together – William, Mathilda and Fitz. The faces that stared up at them were white with anticipation, the excitement as intense as the air before a lightning storm. No one had left Rouen, all were poised for William to speak. He cleared his throat.
‘Men of Normandy, we have been wronged.’ A murmur of agreement shot around the room – a good start. ‘We were promised England, promised her by King Edward, my cousin, in an official visit to Westminster in 1051. Many of you were with Mathilda and me at that time. You were a part of that promise as much as we were and you have been betrayed every bit as much as us by the breaking of it.’
Mathilda saw William’s lords look at each other indignantly. They felt the loss, that much was clear, but how keenly?
‘Harold of Wessex,’ William went on, his voice calm and clear, ‘has taken England from us. I have had word from Westminster telling me that Edward roused himself near death to charge Harold to “take care of England according to your oath”. That can only be his oath, lords, to me, William, Duke of Normandy, sworn in Bonneville on the holy saints of our great land and before you all.
‘Harold is an oathbreaker and a cheat. He has snatched the crown out of his own greed for power, despite having no royal blood and no right to rule. He has cowed the council with his military might and forced them to crown him – forced them, note, on the very day my blessed cousin Edward was commended to God’s care. Is this the action of a man confident of his place? No! This is the action of a guilty man, snatching a throne like a thief in the night, and it cannot go unpunished.’
The men roared approval but Mathilda heard only ‘thief’ and over the pulsing crowd saw William as tarman and blonde, smiling Harold with his great limbs severed and torn, hot tar pushing the lifeblood back into the charring stumps. She felt momentarily giddy but a glance at William steadied her. This was not revenge, but right. There was no room for foolish wavering.
‘England is ours!’ William cried. ‘I have dispatched messengers to demand it is given up to us in peace but I fear they may not succeed.’
Cries of derision told Mathilda that William’s men felt the same.
‘I therefore consider us in a state of war. I have ordered all our ports blockaded to Saxon ships to keep spies away – though of course our own sail freely.’
The men laughed, cheered again.
‘And I have dispatched clerics to Rome to put this case before the Pope. Harold swore on holy relics, this is therefore a holy war and I am confident the papacy will see the justice of our cause. We must, therefore, prepare to force that justice. Who is with me?!’
More roars, though cut through with an undertone of concern.
‘You mean, Lord Duke, to invade?’ someone called from deep within the crowd.
‘I do.’
Men looked at each other.
‘But how?’
‘By ship,’ William said simply. He beckoned Hugh forward. ‘My cavalry commander has studied warships in Italy and knows the perfect vessels to transport both men and horses. We will fight as cavalry, I assure you – we will fight as Normans.’
This was met by murmurs of approval but Mathilda could sense the concern growing too. This was not the usual call to arms. William’s men could not just pick up their shields and ride to the fray and, perhaps more vitally, neither could they ride away. Once they landed on Saxon shores it would be victory or death. Their greatest enemy right now was the Narrow Sea.
‘We don’t have ships,’ another voice called, though it was impossible to see whose. These fears were carefully anonymous but fierce all the same.
‘We can build ships. We have forests and we have craftsmen and we have Norman spirit.’
‘And money?’
The crowd of nobles stilled. This was what it came down to – their own lives, yes, but also their own purses and that was maybe the greater concern, for Normans had ever been careless of their lives.
‘We will need money,’ William conceded. ‘We will need investment. I want ships and men from every one of you.’ A rumble rippled round the crowd. ‘And,’ William pushed on, ‘the more you give, the greater the rewards on the other side.’ The rumble shifted, wobbled. ‘England is a great land, rich with resources and the systems to garner them. It has officials aplenty, I am told, but it seems to me that it lacks leaders – lords of fire and purpose who can take this ancient land forward into the future. We are those lords.
‘Normandy was only created one hundred and fifty years ago and look how far we have come. But lords, we are not just brave and strong and forward-looking, we are also fertile.’ He paused for the cheer. ‘Our wives are the prettiest in the world and the most fruitful and we are bursting at the seams. Our youngsters head to Italy a
nd look what greatness they are achieving there, so how much more glory is to be found in England – for you and for your sons? And but a short hop home to those lovely wives to make more.’
Mathilda watched closely. Men were assessing each other, nervous of what might go wrong in England but nervous too of missing out if it went right. William had been clever but they were not there yet. It needed one man to start the charge rolling and all would surely join. She nudged at Fitz.
‘Say what you will give, Fitz – say it now.’
Fitz looked from her to the men and back to her, then nodded. He pushed his wild hair out of his eyes and stood tall and proud before the gathered Normans.
‘As your loyal steward, I pledge sixty ships to the cause, Lord Duke, and I know my fellow men in the east will be behind me, for we are tough out there and know a wise adventure when we see it – do we not?’
He eyeballed several of his lesser neighbours who scrambled to agree, looking bewildered but increasingly certain as they promised ships from their forests.
‘We in the south are no fools either,’ Fulk weighed in quickly, puffing out his broad chest. ‘Have we not kept the border safe for years? Just because we are furthest from the Narrow Sea does not mean we fear her. As high commander, I also pledge sixty ships and my men will pledge more, will you not, and be there to lead them in person besides?’
The men of the south, stung at the implication of cowardice, fell over each other to offer ships, outbidding their fellows in an ostentatious display of loyalty. William glanced at Mathilda and she saw hope in his eyes. She looked in turn to Hugh who, ever William’s quietest lord, gulped visibly but set his shoulders back.
‘We may not be subject to border quarrels in central Normandy, but that does not make us weak. Indeed, I challenge any man to best us, Lord Duke. As cavalry captain, I pledge to bring you the finest horse ships – all we need – and my men will offer as befits their bravery.’
And so they did but still they looked nervously to each other and Mathilda sensed these were promises that might yet falter. And then, with a quiet cough, Roger de Beaumont laid his stick aside and stepped forward.
‘And I, Duke William, your chamberlain, promise sixty ships.’ He hesitated then added, ‘And myself to command them.’
‘Yourself?’ William burst out, for once too stunned to control himself. ‘But Roger, you’ve never ridden to war.’
Roger stroked his moustache, smoothing the ends as if their tidiness was a matter of the utmost importance, then said simply, ‘It has never mattered so much before.’ All eyes locked onto him and, with another small cough, he faced the crowds. ‘All our other fights have been small – rebellions and spiteful invasions, fought mainly to stay still. But this, this will move Normandy forward as nothing else ever could. This will put us on the European map forever. This will make our names and our sons’ names and it is the duty of every man here, I believe, to embrace that opportunity. That is why I will fight and I hope you will all be at my side.’
The meeting went wild. Mathilda stared at La Barbe, ever her companion behind the battle-lines, and saw him flush with a mix of embarrassment and pride and slide back behind William as others clamoured forward. Odo, in a flourish of a mace from his clerical robes, promised one hundred vessels and then the floodgates were open. Normandy, at last, was joined against a common enemy across the sea and every lord pressed forward to be a part of the new force.
Mathilda summoned a clerk to her side and had every last promise noted in full and signed. And when it was done, William called for wine to toast the mission and, perhaps, to fuzz the edges of the bemused-looking men who now found themselves part of an invasion force – part, indeed, of a navy, a new venture for any Norman this far north since their founder Rollo had sailed in and claimed the land they now called their own. But they had done it in Italy and they could do it here.
Mathilda looked around the room feeling, for the first time, not antipathy at these war-hungry subjects, but pride. These men would follow their duke to the ends of the earth if he commanded it and Mathilda felt strangely jealous and longed to be a part of this, their greatest mission. She would commission a flagship for William, she decided – a great vessel worthy of his command. And she would include a cabin for herself. If William was going to England, she was going with him. Let the boat building begin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Caen, April 1066
‘She’s in here. Are you prepared? She’s beautiful, you know. You’ll love her. She . . .’
‘Mathilda!’ Emeline put a hand on Mathilda’s arm. ‘Stop babbling and let us in, then we can see this wonder-ship for ourselves.’
Mathilda grimaced but nodded to the guards who stepped forward to open the huge doors. She took a last, nervous glance around, but could see no one; her plans were still safe.
She’d promised William after his terrible illness that there would be no more secrets but this was different. This was less a secret than a surprise and every time she saw the ship it thrilled her to imagine William’s face when she presented it to him.
Normandy had gone boat mad. The forests rang with the sound of trees being felled and the dockyards and beaches were lined with wooden skeletons slowly but surely being turned into Normandy’s first ever fleet. William had frugally bought an old boat off Count Baldwin for himself, saying it ‘would do’ but Mathilda had other plans. She had sourced a boatbuilder deep in the woods a little way up the River Orne and commissioned this ship. It was to be a gift for her husband, as he had gifted her a wedding dress fifteen years ago, and it was to be every bit as magnificent.
Mathilda could not stop herself jigging on the spot, much as little Constance might, as the doors of the great boatshed creaked open and her ship was revealed to her friends. The vessel truly was beautiful. Built in the classic style of a Viking warship, such as had first carried William’s ducal ancestor Rollo into Norman ports, she was as long as ten men laid end to end, with clinker-built sides growing elegantly up and out from the exposed hull like the curve of a woman’s hips. She was made of glowing new wood, painted around the gunwales in glorious colours and capped at either end by magnificent figures of Mathilda’s own choosing. Mathilda dragged Emeline and Cecelia forward.
‘Come and see how the oar-holes are trimmed with silver. And look at the detailing in the gunwale patterns and see the figurehead – it’s almost complete.’
Emeline squinted up through the shafts of light pouring in through the long run of windows either side of the boatshed.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a child,’ Mathilda explained impatiently, ‘pointing forward to England.’
‘Why a child?’
Mathilda looked up at it and smiled.
‘It is William,’ she said, ‘because he was born to this – not to a poor girl in an illegitimate bed but to this, to greatness. It is his trueborn destiny.’
‘You believe that?’
Mathilda looked squarely at Emeline.
‘I do.’
‘And you are not afraid?’
Mathilda turned her eyes back to the wooden child.
‘Of course I am afraid but I cannot let that stop me. I was afraid at Eu, was I not? And yet we have been on a wonderful journey since then.’
‘We have,’ Cecelia agreed, running a hand along the smooth, high side of Mathilda’s ship, ‘but we are happy. Why take such a risk now?’
‘Because, Cecelia, the journey is not over yet and this is where we have always been heading.’
‘England?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you will go with William?’
‘Yes. If I cannot rule Normandy as regent, why should I not go with him to be queen?’
‘Must we, then, go too?’
Mathilda looked at her two ladies, standing in the curved shadow of her warship and saw terror writ across their dear faces.
‘Of course not,’ she said, though her heart quailed at the thought of facing t
he Narrow Sea without them. ‘It is simply that I must go for William.’
Cecelia looked at Emeline, then they both looked at Mathilda.
‘Then we must go for you. We will not, though, fight?’
‘No! We will not fight, of course not. I intend to stay in this beautiful ship with my captain at guard so that when the victory is won I can stand at William’s side.’
‘And if it is not . . . ?’
But Mathilda put up a hand.
‘It will be. It must be. Now come and see the cabin. It is so neat and pretty. You will love it.’
She was babbling again, she knew. She must sound mad; maybe she was mad. Maybe they were all mad but if so it was a glorious madness. Normandy was filling up with boats so fast it was as if the forests were turning themselves out onto the shores. In addition to the new ships every fisherman and trader had been commissioned to sail when the time came and already they were taking nervous soldiers on short trips to get them used to the swell and turn of the waves.
And it wasn’t just ships. Men were arriving every day too, troops from little Phillipe’s France, and from Flanders, Maine, Brittany and Anjou, as well as mercenaries from all over who had heard of William’s ‘holy war’ and wanted a part of it. And with every eager hired-sword who flocked to William’s banner, the confidence of his own men swelled a little more.
News had come, though, of boats gathering in Norway – a Viking invasion fleet led by Harald Hardrada, the fearsome warrior who had stormed across the Rus and Byzantine lands as a youth winning honour and treasure everywhere he went before he’d taken a wife – or indeed two – and settled as King of Norway. Clearly he was settled no longer. Reports of a second enemy were daunting but were also proof that it was not just the Normans who thought Harold had no right to the Saxon throne.
‘Hardrada claims England was promised by Harthacnut to his nephew Magnus, King of Norway before him,’ William told his council when the reports arrived.
‘They are very free with their promises, these Saxon kings,’ Fitz said scornfully.
‘And very poor at keeping them,’ Fulk snarled.
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