1066

by G. K. Holloway

  ‘I look forward to meeting her,’ Harold replied.

  ‘Now, go, children,’ ordered the Duke. ‘Harold, take a seat while I introduce you to some of the more esteemed members of my court. First meet my brother Odo, Bishop of Bayeux.’

  Harold was quite startled; at a glance he could see the man was in his in his mid-twenties.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Bishop Odo.’

  ‘The pleasure is mutual, Earl Harold. But tell me, what surprises you?’

  ‘Forgive me, but you seem so young for a bishop. In my country you would have to be thirty before you would even be considered.’

  Duke William leaned forward. ‘It’s the same here, Harold, but Odo is gifted.’

  The remark raised a laugh from all those within earshot, although Abbot Lanfranc, who was also there, tried hard not to look embarrassed.

  Harold was a little puzzled but the Duke simply slapped him on the shoulder and introduced him to this youngest brother, Robert, Count de Mortain. Count Robert was a handsome man with a quiet dignity about him. On first acquaintance, people thought him a little simple but Robert had hidden depths and above all William treasured his steadfast loyalty.

  The introductions continued. William laid special praise on his oldest friends, Sir William de Warenne and Osbern, Duke William’s steward. Also there were Sir Hugh de Grandmesnil, Sir Hugh de Montfort, Sir Robert de Bellemie, Sir Roger de Beaumont, Sir Roger de Montgomery, Sir Roger Mortimer and Sir William FitzOsbern.

  Harold’s eyes met de Warenne’s and he instantly felt himself in the presence of a formidable man. He was one of the oldest guests present at the court and he was unusual in many ways. He was taller than most and had long, straight grey hair, not kept in the Norman style at all but much more like the style of northern Europe. He would not have looked out of place at the English court but with his steel-grey hair and craggy face he looked hard and cold and he had a twist to his mouth, which gave him a cruel appearance.

  The introductions continued and it was with pleasure that Harold saw his old friend Sir William Malet was present. As his goblet was filled with wine, the first of twelve courses was served.

  Small talk began and continued for a while but as the wine flowed, the conversation wound this way and that and tongues loosened. Duke William, usually not one to give himself away, started to tell Harold about himself.

  ‘When I was young and still fighting for my inheritance, I met Matilda in Flanders. She had an eye for a fellow countryman of yours, King Edward’s ambassador to her brother’s court and thought she could do better than the upstart bastard son of a mere tanner’s daughter.’

  ‘William, that’s not at all true,’ said Matilda, in mock horror.

  ‘I couldn’t get near her at court, her brother made sure of that. On my return to Normandy I vowed that I would never give up until I had won her as my own.

  ‘When I was twenty-six, I again found myself at the court of Count Baldwin and still not allowed near her. So one evening, I lay in wait for her at dusk, then when she returned home from church vespers, I suddenly rode up out of the twilight, leapt off my horse, gave her a sound thrashing and threw her down into the gutter.’

  ‘William! Why are you telling Harold all this?’

  ‘A man needs to know who his friends are. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. I remounted my horse and galloped away, leaving her wailing at the side of the road.’ William laughed, full of glee: ‘It was only after this little adventure that she consented to be my wife.’

  William leaned forward to whisper in Harold’s ear, ‘She must have begged Baldwin to let me marry her. She just loves masterful men,’ he confided.

  ‘Don’t believe a word, Harold,’ Matilda chipped in. ‘He paid the dowry, that’s all. He tells everyone this tale but only because it makes him sound tough.’

  ‘It’s true. If you like, I’ll show you. If you look hard enough you can still see the bruises.’ Once again William laughed at his own joke.

  ‘So after you beat her, everything went smoothly?’

  ‘No, it didn’t, it got worse. No sooner had I got round her brother than the Pope came knocking on my door. Can you imagine it? The Pope! What’s it got to do with him who I marry? Still, we all have our crosses to bear; the Pope is mine.

  ‘Matilda and I are distant cousins. Very, very distant! I don’t know how long it took to persuade him to grant permission for the marriage but it took a long time. It was my good friend Abbot Lanfranc who persuaded him to give his blessing to our marriage.’

  The Abbot smiled and nodded graciously.

  ‘Penance didn’t come easily. We each had to build a great abbey and then we had to give alms and forever be friends of the Holy See. That’s why we built the abbeys at Caen, the Abbaye aux Hommes for me and the Abbaye aux Dames for her. We dedicated them to St. Stephen and to the Holy Trinity. But it was worth it; they are two of the most magnificent accomplishments in the world and what’s more, they will be monuments to Matilda and me for years to come. You must pay them a visit. You’ll be most impressed. Do you have any monuments, Harold?’

  ‘I have Waltham Abbey but I don’t really see it as a monument.’

  ‘Ah yes, Sir William has told me about it. A warrior like you should have a monument in recognition of your great victory against the Welsh.’

  ‘You’ve heard of that?’

  ‘Of course, who hasn’t? Tell me, Harold, how would you like to accompany me on a little expedition against the Celts into Brittany?’

  ‘Duke William, I would be delighted to accompany you, if you feel you need my help.’

  ‘Yes, Harold, I need your help in this undertaking,’ and the Duke, in obvious high spirits, burst out laughing once again. He appeared to have drunk quite a lot of wine, something that was unusual for him.

  ‘Harold, you are lucky. You have a beautiful wife and children. When you were young you had a mother and a father to care for you. You’ve always had someone to love you but for me life was different. My life was a struggle from the beginning. My life has been spent avoiding the blade of one weapon or another. Since the age of eight I’ve had assassins queuing up to kill me. But do not concern yourself: I fear no man at all. Do you know why?’

  ‘No, I don’t know why. Please tell me.’

  ‘Harold, it is impossible for any man to kill me on the battlefield. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I know of a Scotsman who thought the same thing.’

  ‘Yes, I know of that story. But this is different. I was told by a holy hermit and because there are no conditions or qualifications, I cannot be killed by any man.’

  ‘Then you’d better watch out for a woman.’

  ‘I cannot be killed by women, either,’ William said very firmly and with finality before bursting into laughter again. He was swaying now, his eyes unfocused. He leaned back in is seat for a moment, as if in contemplation. Then he leaned forward once more and confided, ‘When I was eight my father died and I was made duke-elect. Three of my guardians were killed in the havoc that followed. Do you know what it’s like to wake up from a bad dream as a child?’

  ‘Everyone does.’

  ‘Then remember your worst nightmare and what it felt like to wake up from it. Now imagine waking up to discover your nightmare has become real, your guardian is being murdered in his bed before your innocent eyes. You are woken by his screams. You feel his blood splattering all over you, shining like silver in the moonlight, the same moonlight that catches the blade and makes it flash like lightening as it comes down on your protector again and again. You think it’s a bad dream. You struggle to wake but nothing changes. The nightmare is real and there in the room with you is a murderer. I would have been next for the assassin’s sword but the killer was cut down by my devoted friend, FitzOsbern here. He hacked the assassin to pieces, his blood mingling with my guardian’s, into my clothes, on to my flesh.’

  William looked down at his arms as he spoke. It was as though after all those years
he could still see the blood. His head wobbled as he struggled to gather his thoughts. ‘I was thrown out of the window by my saviour who jumped after me and we ran like thieves into the night. For a long time I lived like an outlaw or a leper, hiding in forest huts and hovels, away from the eyes of man. But there were those who stood by me, risking their lives every day. I owe them my life. I never forget those who helped me, just as I always remember those who stand in my way.’

  ‘It sounds dreadful. I thank God I haven’t been sent the trials and tribulations you’ve suffered.’

  ‘Perhaps God, in his wisdom, decided I would rise to these trials better than you. It’s as the hermit said; no man can kill me, so I shall never die on the battlefield. Can you imagine what confidence that gives me? Can you imagine how I feel, mace in hand and a powerful horse beneath me, leading a charge against the enemy, knowing I’m invincible? You, Harold, like me, are a warrior but unlike me you could die on the battlefield. Believe me, I know these things. That is why I know no fear but I do know my destiny. Do you know yours?’

  ‘Only God… ’

  William, as was his habit, held up his hand to silence Harold. Rising uncertainly to his feet, he bade goodnight to his guests and made an ungainly exit.

  ‘You must excuse him, Harold,’ confided the Duchess, ‘William rarely drinks more than three cups of wine but I think tonight he enjoyed your company so much he forgot himself. He’s been so looking forward to your visit.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  ‘Yes. He has a little surprise for you. I can’t say any more and now I must bid you goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He watched the Duchess leave then turned to continue conversation with Malet and the others.

  The following days were spent gathering an army in preparation for the invasion of Brittany but there was still time for hunting. Harold was flattered to be asked if he would consent to be a godfather to Duke William’s daughter Agatha. Sir William Malet was to be the other. The ceremony had gone smoothly and to all appearances, the Duke and the Earl were growing quite friendly.

  The Duke explained his reasons for the expedition. ‘Conan must be dealt with. Since his father Alan’s death, Conan has ruled under the protection of his mother, Bertha. You see, he’s weak and immature, my friend. Over the years, there has been a series of fractious little wars between him and the rebels. All this fighting is making Normandy’s southern borders unstable and unsafe. Now Conan is fighting against some of his Breton opposition near Saint-James-de-Beuvron. Riwallon of Dol, do you know him? He’s a good man. Well, he has requested assistance, so I’ll be helping out a friend.’

  The expedition left Rouen with William’s gold and scarlet banner held proudly aloft, the Duke full of questions about Harold’s men. He couldn’t understand the concept of mounted infantry, such as the English housecarls were. He wanted to know all about how they fought. Harold had no objection to enlightening him.

  ‘They ride horses to battle but they don’t fight on them?’ asked William, perplexed.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘If they are not going to fight on horseback, like my chevaliers, why don’t they walk to battle, like my infantry?’

  ‘So they can get to battle quickly.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘How fast can your infantry travel?’

  ‘Well, with all their equipment to slow them down, a big force such as this will travel ten or twelve miles a day. How fast can your men go?’

  ‘Depending on the terrain we can easily travel fifty or sixty miles a day.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘You might think so but quite a few of my men have more than one horse. The housecarl rides on one horse and another carries his equipment. We always travel at the speed of the fastest, so at the end of the day the slow ones have to keep going until they catch up. In the meantime, the faster ones will have made camp. Our horses are different, too. We use fast, strong ponies that have a different action from yours.’

  ‘Action?’

  ‘Yes. Rather than trot with diagonally opposed legs, our ponies move both legs on one side of their body, then the two on the other. They don’t go very fast that way but they travel briskly, at a speed they can keep up for a long time. That’s how we travel fifty or even sixty miles a day.’

  ‘Very well, you get to the battlefield more quickly but you have less mobility once you’re there.’

  ‘But if you arrive before your enemy you can choose the battle site. With your chevaliers, you might have more mobility but cavalry is no match for infantry, as we discovered against the Welsh in Herefordshire. And mounted infantry is the ideal force, as the Welsh discovered last summer.’

  ‘Well, you fight your way and I’ll fight mine but a nobleman should always ride. Only peasants fight on foot and we must never be confused with them. You will see, my friend, I have with me my infantry, my cavalry and my archers and I know well enough how to use them and we will provide you with an opportunity to observe.’

  Harold was curious. The only time the English had used cavalry, it had been an absolute disaster, so he was keen to see why the Normans regarded it so highly. He would, he hoped, have an opportunity to see how the Norman infantry performed. He had with him his own unhappy men. Unhappy because William had not provided them with horses and so, like the Norman infantry, they had to walk. The complaints never stopped. Under his command, Harold also had thirty infantrymen on loan from Duke William. They were a quiet, stoical lot, did their jobs efficiently and quickly earned the respect of their English comrades, but they maintained a distance, a natural sort of reserve, which made it hard to really like them.

  As the army made its way through Normandy, it travelled through a succession of rich pastures and orchards. The apples were touched with the glowing colours of early autumn. Harold could not help but notice the splendour of the churches, which seemed to compete with the castles; both were built with the need to impress. The churches were built to reflect the splendour of the Lord God; the castle to reflect the splendour of the lord of the manor. To Harold, the buildings seemed to reflect the Norman drive to intimidate.

  ‘You admire our castles, Harold?’

  ‘We don’t have castles in England, Duke William.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘England’s a peaceful place. Our only threats come from overseas, which is why we have a navy.’

  ‘Forgive me, Harold, but your country didn’t seem such a peaceful place at the time of your exile or at your restoration.’

  ‘You might think so, but you might recall civil war was averted.’

  ‘A castle is still the only place for a lord of any substance to live. A castle lets his vassals know who is in control and is an excellent defence against anyone who might wish to attack.’

  ‘Like your neighbours?’

  ‘Exactly. You can trust no one in this day and age, Harold.’

  ‘That might be true here, but in England we have the law of the land to which everyone is subject. Disputes are settled in the courts.’

  ‘And does everyone settle disputes in court?’

  ‘Yes, everyone.’

  ‘Everyone! Even the King?’

  ‘Everyone. The law of England is not the will or the whim of the King; it is independent to itself. The law is sovereign and has been, ever since King Alfred’s time.’

  ‘And in England, no one is above the law?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Come, we must press on. Conan and I have agreed to do battle on the fifth of the month. If we get a move on and get there early we’ll launch a surprise attack.’

  They left Avranches, continuing westward at a pace Harold found exasperatingly slow. Finally they entered an expanse of sandy, flat land that was overlooked by Mont St. Michel, where the River Couesnon marked the frontier between Normandy and Brittany. It was a dangerous spot to negotiate. The river was only passable at low tide and even then, quicksand lay in wa
it with a slow death for anyone who strayed from the path. Single files of men made their way slowly across the river, each man following the footsteps of his comrade.

  How it happened no one knew but suddenly a cry went out; two of the Normans in Harold’s company had wandered from the path and were now screaming for help. They were out of reach of their friends, waist deep in quicksand and sinking fast. A small audience of onlookers stood watching them.

  Thinking quickly, Harold dropped down from his horse, pulled his shield off his back and ran along the line with it to the two men, Skalpi following at his heels.

  ‘Give me your shields,’ Harold demanded of three soldiers among the gathering.

  They obeyed their orders and handed over the shields. Taking them, Harold made stepping stones of them and lay flat on top of them reaching out to the two helpless men. Skalpi lay across the path with his arms wrapped around Harold’s legs, ready to pull him back if need be.

  ‘Grab my hands,’ Harold ordered the nearest.

  The man did as ordered and Harold pulled hard, wriggling backward as he did so. After pulling like this several times, the man had his chest on the end shield, which was beginning to sink into the slime. His comrade now hung on to his belt, while Harold pulled hard to get them both out. They struggled and strained as the shields started to sink. The men gathered on the path at last began to help, pulling on Harold’s legs. After a few minutes of tugging and straining, the men were safe on the soaking path. With this one act, Harold’s status was determined with every soldier in the Norman army.

  It took a full day to cross the Couesnon. The next day, William advanced to the relief of Riwallon, who was besieged in Dol. Conan’s response was to retreat and make his way to Dinan. Everything, crops, barns and villages, was burned behind him. Livestock was stolen.