1066

by G. K. Holloway

  The Duke led his men in pursuit; though it was a slow chase for Harold and his housecarls, eventually they came upon Dinan. Conan was hiding in the castle.

  Convinced of their invulnerability, some of the townsfolk waved hides over the city wall to remind the Duke of his humble origins. Some of the defenders shouted out obscenities at the Duke, chants of ‘Bastard’ and ‘Herleve the Harlot’ rang out. As Herleve was the name of William’s mother, the insults were obviously directed at him personally. But in proper military fashion, the Duke organised his men efficiently and soon the town was surrounded.

  Duke William and Harold, with four chevaliers on either side, rode up to within hailing distance of the east gate of the town. When one of the local dignitaries presented himself, William prepared to give him an ultimatum. ‘You can see how many men we have here and it’s obvious your town will fall... ’ The Duke stopped in mid-flow, looking perplexed. ‘Where’s your leader? Where’s the mighty Conan? Hiding in the castle, no doubt, like the coward he is. Take a message to him. Tell him I’m willing to spare the lives of the townspeople, on condition that he surrenders this minute or meets me in single combat. If my request is not complied with the town shall pay a heavy forfeit.’

  But Count Conan would not indulge William in single combat and if the Duke wanted to see his men die in a futile attempt to take the town then that would be on his conscience.

  ‘So be it,’ answered the Duke.

  As he led his small band back to the line a roar went up from those gathered on the wall, once again hides were waved and the chanting resumed and this time a man who Harold took for the local idiot displayed his backside to the Normans from the top of the wall before breaking wind at them. Heaven only knew what it was he had been eating but you could hear the rasping sound of his farts fifty yards away.

  Acting on the Duke’s instructions, the Normans delivered a well co-ordinated attack on the town’s gates. On a signal from Duke William, blazing fire baskets were fired from catapults. Chevaliers raced on horseback with burning torches and threw them over the walls, as flaming arrows rained down on the thatched roofs of the town’s little houses. Flames spread through the timber buildings and in the chaos created by the fire, the town’s defences crumbled. Using battering rams the infantry smashed down the gates and entered, the horse soldiers following hard behind.

  ‘Come, Harold, come and see how these Bretons fight.’ It was the Duke, waving his mace aloft with the biggest smile on his face Harold had yet seen.

  Following behind William were his brothers: Odo, who was also waving a mace and Robert with his sword held high. Like wolves bearing down on their quarry, they were in their element. Harold, experiencing the novelty of riding into battle for the first time, raced with the chevaliers into the tumult that was Dinan. In the mayhem the screams of men, women, children and animals, the crash of falling buildings and the roar of the flames greeted their ears. Rising smoke climbed heavenward, blotting out the castle but they fought their way through a weak and demoralised defence to their goal, the castle gates. A steward appeared holding out a spear, on the end of which hung the keys to the gates. William snatched them from him. ‘Where’s Conan?’ he demanded.

  ‘Gone to Rennes I’m afraid, my Lord.’

  ‘The coward! The coward!’ the Duke yelled, going on to rant about the wretchedness of Count Conan in particular and Bretons in general.

  As his soldiers looted the town, William sent some of his men to find the people who had taunted him from the walls earlier in the day. An hour and a half later in the main square, while buildings were still burning, fifteen bound men were marched before the Duke; the prisoners were surrounded by a crowd of locals who had been rounded up and forced to watch by the Norman soldiers. The Duke made a short speech: ‘You see fit to insult me and my family. For that you will pay the price. But remember, I am a merciful and tolerant man. I shall spare you your lives.’

  The captives remained silent. A few feet in front of them a fire burned beneath a cauldron of molten tar. The Duke nodded to a soldier who produced his sword as he stepped forward. On the nod, another two soldiers walked over to one of the captives and yet another approached the cauldron, into which he dipped a large piece of wood, stirring it and lifting it out when it had a nice layer of tar on its end. He kept turning round to eye the prisoners as he did so.

  While two soldiers held up the captive’s feet, another methodically lopped them off with his sword and the fourth soldier sealed the wound with tar. They did this with the casual air of well-practised experts. They repeated the procedure with their captives’ hands, oblivious to their screams.

  Those who did not lose consciousness were made to crawl on their elbows and knees back toward their homes, or what remained of them.

  ‘Go on, run along,’ encouraged William, swiping their backsides with the flat of his sword. Then kicking a dismembered foot, he added, ‘Now you know what it means to be defeated,’ before laughing raucously.

  ‘Ah, what are you going to do to him?’ said William, looking towards the idiot who had thought, just a few hours ago, what fun it would be to fart at a duke. The soldiers held him as they had done all the rest.

  ‘We were going to lop off his hands and feet, my Lord,’ replied the soldier with the sword.

  ‘No. No. No. We have something special reserved for him.’

  ‘May I ask what it is, my Lord?’ answered their leader, a sergeant.

  ‘Look closely at the fire beneath the cauldron. What do you see?’

  The soldier studied the area carefully.

  ‘I see a poker heating in the fire, my Lord.’

  ‘That’s correct. Now perhaps you can think of some suitable use for it.’

  ‘That I can, my Lord,’ answered the sergeant.

  With a set expression fixed on his face, the soldier slipped his sword back into its scabbard, stepped forward, picked up the poker and instructed his men to bend the idiot over a horse trough. The men did as they were told, presenting their captive’s buttocks to the sky. The piercing scream as the soldier rammed home the red-hot poker was deafening, silencing everything for a mile around. As the soldier withdrew the iron a small cloud of vapour rose from the man’s seared wound, ‘Now that’s what I call a fart,’ exclaimed the Duke, once again laughing at his joke.

  Whether the idiot died instantly or passed out and died later, none of the Normans ever knew or cared but for the time being he lay prostrate over the horse trough for the entire town to see.

  ‘If anyone touches him, I’ll have them flogged,’ announced Duke William at the top of his voice. ‘He’ll make fine food for the ravens. Harold, tonight we’ll camp outside the town while my men complete the liberation.’

  ‘Very well, Duke William,’ answered Harold, suppressing the anger he felt. This was too much like Hereford for his liking.

  So the Duke, the Earl and their men made their way out of the town, back to the baggage train. Confident of victory, people had already lit the campfires and food was being cooked. William and Harold sat at a table with the Duke’s half brothers, William Malet and some of the other chevaliers, to enjoy some wine.

  The next day Duke William returned home to Normandy. Although the expedition had been an inconclusive affair, the Duke was a happy man. Firstly, his barons had fought foreigners on their soil rather than each other at home; this was a victory in itself. They had looted Dinan and so were all a little wealthier than when they had started out. Secondly, he and Harold had spent a great deal of time observing one another, attempting to gauge relative strengths and weaknesses. William had discovered Harold’s great personal courage and the formidable obstacle he was to his ambitions for the English throne.

  Harold had learned a great deal about William’s military skills and methods of warfare, including his use of cavalry and the employment of castles as strongholds but it was his pitiless strength and unbending will that he had grown to respect most of all. William might be an uncultured illiterate
but he had succeeded in a society soured by murderous conspiracy, duplicity and ruthless ambition. He was a force to reckon with.

  The army made its way slowly back to Normandy. William promised to escort Harold to Bonneville-sur-Torques, where he would present him with his brother and nephew before he departed for England. Harold was in high spirits at the thought of meeting his kinsmen. The gradually diminishing column made its way through the country where castles were scattered across the landscape intimidating people for miles around. Churches and great cathedrals helped drive home the message: God Almighty appoints your landlord. You shall not defy him.

  As promised, William took Harold to Bonneville via Caen to give him the opportunity of admiring his two great abbeys there, dedicated to himself and his wife. They were as pompous and overblown as Harold had expected.

  The party that arrived in Caen was small now, with only Sir William Malet and the Duke’s half brothers, Bishop Odo and Count Robert, as companions, all the leading Norman magnates having departed for their estates. They would rejoin Duke William later at Lillebonne.

  At Caen, the monks’ hospitality was as lavish as anywhere in Normandy. After being shown to their room, the Duke and his guest made their way to the abbey’s great hall. Odo, as a bishop, was made especially welcome and had a room to himself. Sir William had to share with Count Robert. Those men who formed the escort had to find lodgings in town.

  Sitting down with the monks on the benches, they ate and drank sixteen courses over four hours. Harold was amazed to discover this was not unusual, as was evidenced by the waistlines of many of the clerics. No one else seemed to pay any attention to this, except for Robert de Mortain, who, unsettled by the conspicuous consumption all around him, exercised restraint.

  After the meal, William and Harold retired to their chambers. Bloated from the excess of food they talked a while.

  ‘Harold, a week from now you will return to England. Thoughts of home must play on your mind. I wonder, what are your prospects?’

  ‘My prospects?’

  ‘Yes. Your prospects. You probably expected to spend your life as second- in-command, just as your father did. Now you find yourself ruling the country on behalf of a cantankerous old man and soon, most probably, on behalf of the little boy, Edgar.’

  ‘That would be presuming too much.’

  Harold waited for William’s response but the Duke seemed lost in his thoughts. Suddenly William turned and smiled benevolently at his guest. ‘Did I tell you about my mother’s dream?’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ replied Harold, perplexed.

  ‘Then I should. Before I was born, my mother had a dream. She saw a tree grow from her womb. It was so tall, it cast a shade over all Normandy and towered up high into the sky, shadowing England and then France.’

  Harold did not like the sound of this. ‘What do you think it means?’ he enquired.

  ‘The French King calls himself my overlord but one day I shall meet him, crown to crown. The day will dawn when the Duke of Normandy no longer has to bow before the King of France. The day will come when he will bow before no man.

  ‘Ruling the country on behalf of an old man or a little boy is a waste of your gifts. I have more to offer than that. I am a man of your own age and our experiences are similar, except as a ruler, I have been proved brilliant. I would make a delightful change from Edward and a more understanding colleague than Edgar. England and Normandy, in a friendly union, would be a very powerful state. Of course, I would be the nominal ruler and you the de facto ruler of England, with more independence than you would have under either Edward or Edgar. I would stay here in Normandy most of the time. You would have free rein. What do you say?’

  Harold said nothing; he was agog.

  ‘You look surprised. Didn’t Edward tell you he has appointed me his heir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Of course we need to bond the agreement. I thought to prove your sincerity, you could marry Agatha.’

  ‘Agatha?’

  ‘Yes. She’s young now, I’ll admit but she’ll be nice and ripe when the time comes. Or if you think she’s too young for you, she could marry one of your boys; I’m quite flexible, you know. And your sister, what’s her name, Aelfgifu, she can marry one of my boys. What’s the matter Harold, you haven’t said a word?’

  In Harold’s mind a picture formed of Wulfnoth and Haakon languishing in a Norman dungeon and the sudden death of Count Walter while visiting William. His instincts told him fate might have a similar future in store for him. All that seemed to matter was for him to get out of the country with all expediency, whatever the cost.

  ‘You must forgive me, Duke William, all this comes as something of a shock.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s news to me that Edward had promised you the Crown.’

  ‘Robert warned me that might be the case.’

  ‘Robert?’

  ‘De Jumieges.’

  ‘De Jumieges! What’s he got to do with this?’

  ‘It was he who brought the message from my cousin.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What do you mean, “ah”?’

  ‘You do know that King Edward is not at liberty to promise the throne to anyone?’

  ‘That’s why I want your support. You have more power and influence than anyone else in England. You can get me the Crown. And if my eldest son marries one of your daughters, our grandson will be King. What do you think of that?’

  ‘Having a grandson as king is an attractive prospect, I’ll admit… ’

  ‘There you are, then. And when I’m King I shall do everything you ask of me which can reasonably be granted, I promise you. What do you say?’

  ‘Duke William, as you know, I’m King Edward’s man, his foremost earl and Subregulus. I have no right to commend myself to you or make bargains or contracts with anyone concerning the succession. I simply don’t have the authority; that rests with the King and the Witan.

  ‘But you could support me at this Witan thing couldn’t you?’

  ‘I could.’

  ‘If you did, you would be supporting Edward in his wish to see me as his heir. And if you supported my claim, your brothers would follow your lead?’

  ‘They might.’

  ‘And if you and your brothers all supported me, then that would be enough to carry the Witan and I would be king.’

  ‘Yes, you would.’

  ‘There. You see, it’s simple. Thank you, Harold, I knew I could rely on your support. We will discuss the details later. Have some more wine.’

  William poured Harold and himself some wine before proposing a toast.

  ‘To our future, Harold,’ he said, ‘to our future together.’

  Their goblets crashed together and they drank.

  ‘Sleep well, Harold. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Goodnight, Duke William.’

  After getting into bed, the Duke fell into a deep sleep. He was sleeping like a lamb as Harold turned this way and that in his bed. Awake, he racked his brains for a solution to his problem. Asleep, he would have visions of Duke William in the top of a huge tree, laughing at him, all of his family, all of his men and everyone in England.

  A sound from outside woke him from a nightmare. He rose from his bed, went over to the window and pulled the drape aside. In the half-light of dawn he could just make out a naked Odo, chasing after a young wench, pulling her clothes off as they ran. Pursuing her across a meadow as she giggled and laughed, finally the bishop grabbed her, threw her over his shoulder, retraced his steps and put her down on his fallen robes then wrapped them both up in them and rutted her like a great boar.

  With the sounds of the bishop’s indiscretion carrying on the dawn air, Harold went back to bed. William was breathing deeply, sound asleep.

  Several days later, the Duke’s party arrived in the small town of Lillebonne. Duke William broke the weary silence. ‘At last, Harold, your journey is almost over.’

  H
arold felt relief wash over him.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ the Duke continued, ‘you will leave for home. Tonight, we shall feast. In the morning before you depart, there’ll be a short ceremony; nothing elaborate, just a formality really. Simply a short swearing of allegiance,’ he looked up, his eyes meeting Harold’s, ‘for all my chevaliers. After which you will be reunited with your family.’

  ‘Are they here now?’

  ‘I don’t think so but in any event they’ll be here tomorrow. Your ship and its crew are waiting at the harbour to take you home. By this time tomorrow, you will be sitting by your hearth at home with all your loved ones, in your beloved Bosham.’

  The day, Harold’s last in Normandy, started unremarkably. Just after dawn, everyone awakened and made their way to breakfast. Harold still had no sign of his brother or nephew.

  ‘Good morning, Harold. Did you have a good night?’ William greeted Harold at breakfast.

  ‘Thank you, I did.’

  ‘Mushrooms for breakfast, if you like, Harold. I thought you might appreciate them.’

  ‘Thank you, Duke William. I see you’re sticking to lampreys.’

  ‘Love them, Harold; I just can’t say no.’

  Harold was served from the pot which was taken down the table and left to stand. When he had finished, the Duke asked him if he would care for more.

  ‘Yes, I think I will.’

  William called for the mushrooms to be sent up to Harold and requested more lampreys for himself. The two chatted over breakfast and when they had finished eating the Duke said, ‘I’ll see you in the church in two hours?’

  ‘Very well, may I enquire when I will see my brother and nephew?’

  ‘You’ll see them in just a few hours, I guarantee you.’

  Harold, like the other guests, made his way to his room to prepare for the ceremony. Just under two hours later, Sir William Malet knocked on Harold’s door.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Hello, Harold, time to go. Are you all right? You don’t look at all well.’

  ‘I feel a little strange. Nothing serious, though.’

  ‘Good. Duke William is waiting for you.’