Conquering Passion

by Anna Markland

  “It will take many months to complete our fleet to invade England. I’ve left Normandie ungoverned while overseeing the preparations. Too many have taken advantage. I can’t be worried about trouble at home while I’m preparing to fight the accursed Harold the Oath-Breaker.”

  A hint of murmured agreement stole round the room.

  “I must have a capable commander in charge of finishing my fleet, someone I can trust implicitly.”

  He turned to Ram, seated beside him. “Rambaud de Montbryce, you are that man. You’ll oversee the completion of our great fleet and the gathering of men, weapons, horses and provisions. Your decisions will be my decisions. You and your family have never failed me. You’ve supported me against the rebellious barons who would take Normandie for themselves, including my own uncles.”

  “You served brilliantly in our successful campaign to extend our influence into Le Maine, a few short years ago. Your skills as a negotiator helped bring Harold Godwinson into our grasp when he was shipwrecked on the lands of Guy of Ponthieu—without our paying a ransom for him.”

  He slapped Ram on the back and the laughter and cheering echoed in the room. “Too bad we let him go then—we wouldn’t be in this predicament now.”

  More cheers, laughter and agreement.

  Ram rose and bowed deeply, his hand over his heart. He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I will build a fleet of ships so mighty and gather an army so great, it will strike terror into the hearts of all Englishmen. The honour you do me, my betrothed and my family is humbly accepted.” He turned to Mabelle and held out his hand. She rose and bowed to the Duke.

  “You’re fortunate, Rambaud de Montbryce, to have such a beautiful and capable woman to support you in your formidable task. Mes seigneurs et mesdames, a toast to Mabelle de Valtesse.”

  The toast echoed around the room. “Mabelle de Valtesse.”

  Custom dictated she reply. “Majesté,” she began, swallowing hard.

  William was pleased and flattered by the exalted name she used to address him.

  “Your majesty, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the honour you have bestowed on my betrothed. I know he will serve you, our beloved Duchess Matilda, and Normandie well.”

  She raised her goblet, took a sip, licked her lips and looked into the Duke’s deep blue eyes, and then, nervously, at Ram.

  The Duke of the Normans inclined his head in acknowledgement, relieved his ducal robe concealed his arousal.

  ***

  For most of the next five months Ram was away, supervising the building of the ships. Whenever he could, he rode home to Montbryce and kept his family apprised of their progress and his challenges and frustrations. He came to the surprising realization it was a desire to see Mabelle and share these matters with her that drew him home. She was often present when the Montbryce men discussed the preparations, and he came to see, as his father had indicated, that she was intelligent and pragmatic. Her insights were often impossible to ignore.

  “We’re felling the trees from the forests around the coastal town of Dives-sur-Mer. Shipwrights shape the wood into vessels, armour and weapons. The building will be more or less completed at the mouth of the Dives and then the fleet will move to Saint-Valery-sur-Somme.”

  “I suppose that will shorten the crossing?” Mabelle remarked.

  When the move to Saint-Valery was undertaken, it was hampered by foul weather and several men drowned. Ram was angry and upset, worried the same might happen when the day came for the invasion. It was Mabelle who reassured him.“You won’t be forced to launch the invasion during bad weather,” she soothed.

  During one of his visits, they were discussing the comet which appeared and remained visible for fifteen days. “William has taken it as a good omen. His astrologers declared this portends the transfer of a kingdom. I’m to start gathering horses.”

  “You’re taking horses?” Mabelle asked with surprise.

  “Oui. William and I have discussed it with the commanders and we believe it’s essential we take them.”

  “You’re right. How can you win without your horses? Normandie’s strength is in her elite mounted troops.”

  Ram’s heart swelled with pride that she recognised the importance of his life’s calling.

  On another occasion, Comte Bernard, Ram and his brothers were seated around the table in the Map Room, discussing the landing in England. Ram explained, “We’re concerned about our arrival on the coast. We’ll need a fortification of some sort, but that will mean time lost gathering materials, building and the like.”

  They pondered the problem for a while. Mabelle sat off to one side, saying nothing until she suddenly suggested, “Why not make a fortification here in Normandie and take it with you in pieces?”

  Comte Bernard glanced at Ram, who was nodding, scratching his chin.

  “What an intriguing idea, Mabelle,” Hugh exclaimed with a smile.

  By early September, Ram came close to the breaking point. He paced back and forth in the Map Room. “I have seven thousand men and six hundred and ninety-six ships ready to move, yet we’ve had to sit and wait for an interminable five and thirty days for the wind to shift from north to south, to fill our square sails. The wait is driving me out of my wits.”

  He strode over to Mabelle’s chair and went down on one knee before her, taking her hands in his. “Thanks be to the saints I have you to listen to my interminable ramblings, Mabelle. William is becoming maniacal about his crusade and maintaining morale is difficult.”

  Mabelle raised her hand and stroked his hair. He wanted to rest his head in her lap. He felt better sharing his frustrations with her. It was an odd feeling. He’d never confided in a woman before. “Horses and men have to be fed, and I’ve forbidden pillaging. William doesn’t want the ordinary people of Normandie trembling at the sight of his soldiers. It might have been easier if they were all Normans.”

  She stopped stroking his hair, and he instantly missed the soothing gesture. “You have men who aren’t Normans?”

  He took her hand, kissed her fingertips and put it to his forehead. “My head aches.”

  She massaged his temples with her fingertips. He let out a sigh and slumped to sit at her feet. “That feels good. Oui. Many of them are mercenaries, allies and volunteers from Bretagne and Flandres. A few have come from other parts of France and some from as far away as the Norman colonies in Italy. I’ve maintained strict discipline but it’s not an easy task when old hatreds and feuds reassert their ugly heads.”

  I could sit here all day, letting her massage my head.

  Mabelle’s next words brought him back to reality. “Does King Harold know you’re coming?”

  He didn’t want to tell her spies had informed them Harold had assembled a large force on the south coast of England to repel any attack.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Harold Godwinson, King of the English, sat in stunned disbelief in his headquarters on the south coast of England, where he had gathered his forces to await William’s arrival. He re-read the message that had sent chills down his spine. The Viking king, Harald Hardråda, his Norwegian rival, had landed unexpectedly on the north east coast of England near York with a huge force of more than fifteen thousand men, intent on claiming the English throne.

  “What’s worse, Gyrth,” he told his brother, “Our wretched half-brother, Tostig, has apparently joined with Hardråda, incensed I drove him out of his earldom of Northumbria, after he rebelled against me. What did he expect?”

  Harold crushed the parchment in his hands. “What’s your advice? Do we stay here and wait for William, or make haste to York?”

  “We must oppose Hardråda,” his brother decided without hesitation. “The threat from him is real. William is still waiting in Normandie for the wind to change.”

  Harold had been of the same mind. “You’re right. We have no choice.”

  The forced march north was gruelling. The strategic northern town of York had surrendered to Harald Hardråda
on the twenty-fourth day of September. In an effort to avoid battle, Harold arranged a meeting with Tostig and reluctantly offered him a third of his kingdom.

  Tostig thought on the offer for a while and then asked, “What will you offer the King of Norway?”

  Harold had no intention of giving the Norwegian anything. “Six feet of ground, or as much more as he needs. He’s taller than most men,” he retorted sarcastically.

  No agreement was reached and the battle was joined the next day at dawn at Stamford Bridge. The opposing forces fought hard until noonday. The Norwegians were forced to retreat under the weight of superior English numbers. It was an unusually hot day and many of the Norsemen had taken off their heavy byrnies. They were driven across the river Ouse, where they made a fresh stand. A lone Norwegian giant took up a post on the bridge over the river and hewed down more than two score Saxons with a battle-axe. This stayed the advance of the English army for many hours.

  Watching the massacre from his command post, Harold asked his commanders with exasperation, “Who is that formidable warrior?”

  “No one knows, Sire,” replied one of them, with equal irritation. “But we cannot advance with him there. I have a plan to send a boat beneath the bridge, and skewer him with a spear from below.”

  Harold looked at him sceptically, then shrugged, “Sometimes the simple plan is the best.”

  To the king’s surprise, this ploy was successful, and the Norwegians were overrun. Harald Hardråda was killed by an arrow through the throat.

  After the battle, Harold went to examine the Norwegian king’s body. He poked at it with his foot. “Hardråda has spent his life fighting in such faraway places as Asia and Africa, yet he falls on the banks of the River Ouse here in Yorkshire,” he commented wryly. “He’s a tall man and goodly to look upon, but his luck has left him.”

  Gyrth gloated. “We’ve thrashed the Norwegians. Of their three hundred ships, only four and twenty are returning with their wounded, and Tostig, the traitor, is dead.”

  Harold scratched his head and adjusted his gold circlet. “We’ve defeated one rival, Gyrth, but now we’re hundreds of miles from the south coast where William might arrive any time. Our army is tired, bloodied and aching to return home.”

  ***

  A few days later, the winds of change blew across the Narrow Sea between Normandie and England. William and his army of seven thousand, the Montbryce brothers among them, boarded their longboats, after loading the horses, armour, weapons, provisions and wine.

  “An army can’t be victorious if it runs out of food,” Ram had told Mabelle, “And we’ll be a long way from the fertile fields of Normandie.”

  The deafening sounds of drums, trumpets and pipes filled the air as they set sail.

  “If Harold is waiting on the coast, he’ll surely know we’re coming now,” Ram jested to his Duke.

  William smiled. “According to reports delivered to me yesterday, he’s in the North. The Norwegian, Hardråda, has attacked unexpectedly. My plan is to sail through the night and land on the morrow, as day breaks. Ram, you and I will be aboard the Mora. Is the muster roll complete? Do you have it?”

  “Oui, Your Grace, it’s complete and in the good hands of the clerks who assisted me to compile it. Every man fighting for you is listed.”

  When all was in readiness, William ordered the signal to be given by use of a lantern on the mast. “Matilda gave me this ship, Ram. See the figurehead? It’s a young boy with a bow and arrow pointing towards England.”

  As the sun set, Ram held his breath, his heart beating erratically as he watched the hundreds of ships he had helped build set sail on this momentous undertaking. All seemed to be going well, but as darkness fell, the flagship became separated from the main fleet. Ram could tell his friend didn’t want to appear perturbed as he calmly issued commands. “Cast out the anchor. We’ll break our fast while we wait for them to catch up. Bring some spiced wine also.”

  Servants scurried to do his bidding, and soon Ram and his Duke were savouring the wine. “You know, Ram, when I visited Edward the Confessor in England all those years ago, he promised me the throne as a lawful gift. I sometimes wonder why he sent Harold to us as an Ambassador. Did the wily old Confessor think it humorous to have two rivals size each other up?”

  He cupped his goblet in both hands and inhaled the aroma. “I regret I’ll have to kill Harold. I like the fellow. He’s tall and handsome, has remarkable physical strength, courage and eloquence. He’s known for his ready jests and acts of valour. But what’s the use of those gifts without honour? It infuriates me he swore an oath of loyalty to me at Bonneville, two years ago, over the relic of a saint’s bones. Harold claims he wasn’t aware the bones were there, and in any case had crossed his fingers when he took the oath. You were there, mon ami.”

  The wine was beginning to ward off the chill of the sea air creeping into Ram’s blood. “I was indeed, your Grace.” He knew what came next.

  “When he came to Normandie, I greeted him with splendid hospitality after his difficult journey. He was shipwrecked, as you know, and we rescued him from Guy de Ponthieu. He assisted us with our campaign against the Bretons, saving two of our commanders who’d fallen into quicksand. I knighted him for that.”

  William took a long draught of the wine and bit into a pastry. “He swore an oath, of his own free will, that he would represent me at Edward’s court and would do everything in his power to ensure the throne came to me, after Edward’s death. He promised to garrison my troops in the castle at Dover, and anywhere else I might choose—at his expense, I might add.”

  “I can testify to that, as a truthful and honourable man who was present.” Ram had heard the story many, many times over the course of the past six sennights, and his attention was more on the play of the moonlight on the rippling water. Did Mabelle watch the same moon?

  William suddenly threw his empty goblet down angrily, and it rolled back and forth with the swell. “Then comes the unwelcome report, that this insensate Englishman has not waited for public choice, has broken his oath, and has seized the throne of the best of kings on the very day of his funeral. But, unfortunately for Harold,” William laughed, “The Pope doesn’t approve of oath-breakers and has given my crusade his blessing.”

  Watching the rolling goblet made Ram’s stomach clench and he felt the familiar bile of mal de mer rise in his throat. He wondered if William would be as free and easy with his confidences and friendship if he did become King. Only six years separated them in age but William had been the Duke since he was a boy.

  “I’m not naive, Ram. I recognize the real reason most of the Normans have supported my crusade—the promise of titles and lands in England, for anyone who would help me get my throne.”

  He jumped to his feet and braced his legs against the movement of the ship. “I’m offering them the investment opportunity of a lifetime. If we can take England away from Harold, we’ll divide up the kingdom. The Pope has legitimized our violence as necessary, in a just cause, to depose an oath-breaking upstart.”

  He raised his hand and pointed. “He’s even given me this fine consecrated Papal banner.”

  Both men became lost in their thoughts as the longboat bobbed in the waves. Ram wasn’t a good sailor and, if he had to be in a boat, would prefer it wasn’t anchored. He didn’t wish to retch in front of William. The Duke was probably envisaging thrones and crowns and coronations. Ram thought of Mabelle, and his father’s magnificent castle, his home. He wondered if and when he would ever see them again.

  As dawn broke, they heard the cry from the prow, “We’ve sighted the fleet.”

  “Signal to regroup, and continue on to the coast.” William sat, legs wide, hands on his knees, his back rigid, as the longship resumed its journey.

  At Pevensey they heaved the longboats up on the shore, but when William stepped off his boat, he slipped and fell into the mud. Trying to avoid the accident being perceived as a bad omen, Ram quipped, “His Grace alrea
dy has the earth of England in his hands.”

  William smiled his thanks at his quick-thinking friend, and raised his fist full of the muck. Everyone cheered, obviously relieved this awkward moment had passed.

  “This is a good omen, Ram. We’ve had a safe crossing, and Harold has no one here to oppose us. Our spies were correct. He didn’t expect us to come so late in the year.”

  Knights and nervous horses poured out of the boats.

  “They are relieved to be back on dry land,” William commented.

  “As am I,” Ram agreed.

  When all were ashore, William summoned his commanders to his tent. “Eude,” he indicated his half brother. “Eude will send out men immediately to raid the surrounding countryside for supplies. We’ll move a few miles inland to the east, to Hastings, and erect the temporary wooden stockade we brought with us in pieces. An excellent idea of yours, Montbryce.”

  Ram swelled with pride, squaring his shoulders and jutting out his chin as he inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  Merci, Mabelle.

  William paced as he went over his plans for what Ram felt must have been the hundredth time. “Then we await Harold’s inevitable arrival. We could advance on London, but it would be better to lure Harold to the coast. We have a sheltered harbour here. It’s a good defensive position, and Sussex is Harold’s territory. He’ll ride to defend his people from our harassment. We must continue to forage from his lands, though we brought enough provisions with us. The English fleet will regroup to cut off our escape by sea. We must attack people and property in the vicinity, incensing Harold and drawing him here quickly.”

  ***

  “This castle feels empty without my boys,” Comte Bernard said sadly, as he and Mabelle supped. “They’ve gone off to fight before. I should be used to this by now.”

  Mabelle understood his concern for their safety. His life revolved around his sons—they were the hope of his family’s future. He seemed to have aged considerably in the few days since the departure of the fleet.