King of the Wood

by Valerie Anand

  Rufus, staring at a tree root and willing himself not to be sick, swallowed and said: ‘I will put it right with de Warenne. I will request you to be released from your service. You need not ask anything.’

  Ralph stopped drawing patterns with his toe and rubbed the design out with it instead. He glanced up, shyly. Those dark eyes were like the eyes of a falcon. A shy, wild passanger, but he would come to the glove yet, and take meat from the falconer’s fist. ‘I think I should like to enter your service, sir.’

  The sun blazed out.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Substitute for a Duke

  November 1090-June 1091

  From the walls of the castle in the south-east corner of Rouen, the old Roman layout was still visible, the north-south and east-west roads chopping the city into four mathematical quarters, the four gates set with military precision in the centre of each wall.

  One could also see the congestion. The castle and the archbishop’s palace between them took up huge tracts of ground, forcing other buildings to spread beyond the walls into a broad fringe of thatched or slate-roofed dwellings. Even the monastery for which Curthose’s mother had paid, had had to be placed outside.

  The fringe of suburbs broke at the south-east corner, where the ducal towers overlooked a swamp. But as if in compensation, they spread rampantly on the far bank of the Seine, which guarded Rouen from the south.

  On this grey November day, there were mists on the swampland. They were parodied, in ghastly fashion, by the haze of smoke over the suburbs to the south and west. And on the bridge which carried the south road over the Seine, antlike figures swarmed, dragging a tree trunk mounted on wheels.

  The streets within the walls were also swarming, as rioting factions, Rufus’ adherents versus the duke’s, surged back and forth, fighting. Several houses were on fire. Those who did not care who ruled in Rouen, or Normandy, if only life could go on there in peace, huddled in cellars if they could find them. Some, astute enough to recognise the danger signs and prudent enough to act on them quickly, had fled in time.

  The conflict was hottest round the south and west gates, which were both under assault from outside. But the two sets of besiegers were not allies. Rufus’ standard waved above the mob of mailed figures attacking from the west, though Rufus himself remained in England and this army was led by Norman barons who wished to present him with Normandy. At the south gate, however, the ram whose onslaught was sending its vibrations into the very walls of the castle represented reinforcements for Duke Curthose.

  Conan the Burgher, who had started all the uproar by spearheading the demand that Rouen should declare Rufus its duke, was leading an obstinate resistance from within, holding off the attack from the south, unable to spare any men to help his friends to the west, and praying that the west gate would soon give way.

  Curthose’s forces were not yet in the fray. His men, in the castle bailey, were awaiting the order to sortie. The duke himself, up on the flat roof of one of the towers, had been intending to hasten down and give it. But his brother Count Henry, who had come to his aid accompanied by his own armed followers, had just demonstrated a new type of fraternal solidarity by knocking his elder brother unconscious.

  ‘It was the only way,’ he said across Curthose’s slumped body, to three of Curthose’s knights, who were regarding him and his own two companions with outrage and suspicion. ‘If he were to sortie now, he’d have as much chance as an icicle in a furnace. We’re outnumbered four to one down there, till Belleme gets in through that south gate.’ Under their feet, the tower shuddered again in answer to the crash of the ram. ‘Dear God, he wasn’t even wearing a bloody helmet! Wanted his own men to recognise him! The first enemy who recognised him would have swiped his head off. If he’d had his helmet on,’ Henry added thoughtfully, taking a moment to lick the knuckles of his right hand, ‘I couldn’t have hit him on the jaw like that.’

  One of the duke’s knights, still regarding Henry doubtfully, eyes hard and wary on either side of his steel nosepiece, said: ‘What do we do with him now? What happens next?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what won’t happen,’ said Henry. ‘I’m not, whatever you may think, taking a quick way to make myself duke. I’m merely taking a quick way to make sure my brother doesn’t kill himself instead of living to be duke. I propose to take command and save his duchy for him and hand it back on a plate. I suggest that you take your lord to a place of safety. He keeps a boat at the river postern. Get him over the river to our mother’s monastery. No harm can come to him there, from me or Conan.’

  One of the knights, as he bent to lift Curthose’s limp shoulders, said: ‘He wanted the pleasure of killing Conan himself.’

  ‘It’s beneath the Duke of Normandy to kill the likes of Conan personally. Leave that to me,’ said Henry evenly. ‘You can trust me to see to it.’

  Something unexpected, something chill, in Henry’s voice made all the five knights, his own and Curthose’s, look at him sharply. ‘He’s more than Rufus’ creature,’ Henry said. ‘He’s an outrage. He’s a merchant. It isn’t for him and his kind to decide who the Duke of Normandy is. No, I didn’t come here out of pure brotherly love, any more than I came here to grab my brother’s title. I came here to deal with Conan. And I will.’

  There were townships in his own leased province and burghers in his towns, and if one set of merchants got the idea that they could choose their masters for themselves, the next ex-overlord might well be himself. As would undoubtedly be the case if Rufus won the contest. He, for sure, would have Henry sprawling in the gutter the very next morning. On both counts, it had seemed to Henry desirable that he should support Duke Curthose. And if necessary, snatch the command of the battle from him. Below, the sounds of fighting had grown louder and the air was pungent with smoke. But there could be no question of a sortie until the army at the south gate was in. The noise dragged at him but he must resist. He had waited all day, leashing his brother’s impatience along with his own, until he was lightheaded with frustration. How much longer?

  But even as the thought shaped itself, the thudding of the ram at the south gate ceased and a further surge of noise arose from that quarter.

  ‘The gate’s gone or I’m the archangel Gabriel,’ said Henry, and ran for the battlements, hoisting himself on to a crenellation for a better view. The squabbling human ants, the miniature roofs and vein-like streets reeled sickeningly below and he grasped at a flagpole for support. But he had seen what he wanted. He jumped down. ‘Belleme’s in! That’s reinforcements for us in the town and the west gate’s still holding. Things have evened up.’ He jerked his head at Curthose’s knights, who had lifted then- lord but were standing irresolute. Curthose, with a red lump now rising on his jaw, was beginning to groan and stir. ‘Get him away across the river. Hurry! You’re doing nothing wrong. You’re saving your lord’s life. You -’ he turned to his own men ‘ – follow me.’ He left Curthose’s men, muttering, suspicious but perforce obedient, to see to their leader and clattered down the tower stairs with his two knights behind him. The men waiting in the courtyard cheered as he appeared. The duke’s brother was evidently as good as the duke to them, which was heartwarming. Henry made a trumpet of his hands and bawled: ‘Open the gate!’

  He meant to make the sortie an orderly business, with a strong drive to the south gate to meet Belleme’s relief force. But even as he sped down to the bailey, the situation had changed. The west gate had broken. Before the sortie was fifty yards from the castle, the enemy was bearing down on them from the west. Confusion closed in. Smoke blew everywhere, making eyes and throat smart, blurring vision. The streets were choked with conflict and strewn with the fallen. The injured tried to crawl to shelter, non-combatants scuttled. Henry fought warily, with the respect for his own person which Curthose would certainly not have shown, and with his helmet firmly clamped on to his head, which was as well, for his sword was bloodied instantly. Thereafter, the pace only grew hotter.

  He slipped
in the blood trail of a dying man and came near being killed himself. Someone hurled a stone from a rooftop; he dodged and by sheer chance came face to face with Belleme. In partnership they began to marshal then-joint forces. Shortly after that, it began to appear that despite the enemy incursion from the west, their own side was now numerically superior. Encouraged, they set about improving the odds still further.

  It is possible to become drunk on slaying. Henry and Belleme were both extremely intoxicated before that day was over.

  Belleme was older and had a big personal following, but the ducal house was the ducal house. When it was finished and the leaders had withdrawn to the castle hall to receive their captains’ reports and examine prisoners, it was Henry who seated himself on Curthose’s throne, and Henry to whom Conan the Burgher was brought.

  Henry was still in his blood-smeared armour. He had removed his helmet and sweat-soaked hair was stuck to his forehead. War-fever, something akin to the berserker madness which his Viking ancestors had cultivated to make them strong in battle, still raced through his veins. He had never fought on foot and hand to hand like that before, never before been in command like that. And he knew he had done far better than feckless Curthose would have done, for all his courage. He regretted that he had not managed to come hand to hand with Conan in the struggle but perhaps this was better. There were things he wished Conan to know before he died.

  The presumptuous Conan was in his thirties, sandy and too well fed but with an underlying toughness of mind. He had been marched to the hall through streets littered with bloodstained bundles; he had heard the castle gate slam shut behind him and here in front of him was Henry, enthroned and dangerous. But he kept his nerve, looked straight into Henry’s bright-brown, inimical eyes, and said: ‘Where is Duke Robert?’

  ‘Not here and if he were it would be beneath his dignity to deal with you himself,’ said Henry. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Conan, son of Pilatus and…’

  ‘I know your name. I said, who are you?’

  Conan said steadily: ‘A burgher of Rouen and like my fellow burghers here and elsewhere in this duchy of Normandy, I have for years been losing money because I must hire soldiers to protect my consignments from robbers. My – our – lawful complaints have been ignored by the duke and…’

  ‘I heard that Rufus bought you.’

  ‘He offered silver. But the promise that he would bring back law and order meant more,’ said Conan with dignity. ‘I refused the silver.’

  ‘Oh, did you now? Then your losses through robbery can’t have been so serious.’ There was laughter from those who were standing by. From outside came a shocking wave of noise. Belleme had turned his men loose to pillage. Belleme himself, lounging rather than sitting on one of Curthose’s divans, said to Henry: ‘I know what we ought to do with him,’ and offered three suggestions, each more appalling than the last. Conan stood still but the sweat sprang out on his skin and his face, at last, turned ashen.

  ‘No,’ said Henry, but not reassuringly, ‘I think not.’

  The most infuriating thing about Conan’s defence was that it contained much truth. Curthose had let Normandy fall into anarchy and this was the result. But it was not Conan’s business to depose him. Henry stood up. ‘Come with me. I’ve something to show you,’ he said.

  Conan obeyed, because a couple of men-at-arms pushed him. On Henry’s heels he climbed a long spiral staircase until they emerged on to the tower from which Henry had gazed out earlier. Henry walked to the battlements and leaned on them. Without turning to look at Conan, he beckoned.

  The men-at-arms pushed him to Henry’s side. ‘Look there,’ Henry said. ‘No, not into the city, not yet. Beyond. What do you see?’

  ‘Beyond Rouen?’ Conan was puzzled, taut with doubt. His tongue seemed reluctant to move in his mouth. ‘Beyond the Seine? Well, farmland. Then forest.’

  ‘Yes. Rich farms. Forests full of game,’ said Henry dreamily. ‘Rolling on for leagues till the blue distance swallows them.’ Conan winced away from him. The words were gentle and poetic but the tone would have been appropriate if Henry had been listing the denizens of a snakepit. ‘The Seine itself,’ said Henry, ‘is full of fish and it’s the highway for the ships that bring goods to Rouen from all the world. Now look down into the city. It’s strewn with dead men just now. Women too. Tragic, isn’t it?’ Conan shuddered again, recoiling from the unholy juxtaposition of the humane, the imaginative, with the murderous in Henry’s voice. ‘It looks quite different on an ordinary day,’ Henry observed. ‘Then it’s full of people going about their business, buying and selling, gossiping, working. A wedding party here, a man up a ladder mending a roof somewhere else. Bells ringing from the churches. This is the heart of Normandy. But it beats for no one but its lawful lord.’

  ‘My lord, you are gifted with words,’ said Conan, much as Rufus had once done. He tried to smile.

  ‘And now,’ said Henry, his hand on Conan’s elbow, ‘look straight down. No, don’t draw back. What do you see?’

  ‘The ... the courtyard.’

  ‘Yes, the courtyard.’ Over Conan’s head, Henry glanced towards the men-at-arms and they came nearer. ‘It’s paved with flagstones. Can you see the separate stones?’

  ‘N… not very well.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘We’re too high! No, in the name of our common Maker…!’

  Henry’s grip had shifted, forcing Conan’s arm up his back and thrusting his upper body half over the wall between two battlements. Conan’s muscles were soft compared to Henry’s sword-toughened arms. He was helpless. It was said afterwards that Henry let him draw back when he cried out. It was said that he waited until the last of Conan’s nerve and pride were gone, let him offer gold and land and lifelong service, let him plead for a priest, let him kneel clutching at Henry’s feet. Let him weep and claw the stone as Henry dragged him up again and once more thrust him between the battlements.

  It was said that he vomited as he hung there in the moment before he went. And it was said that if one went to Conan’s Leap at dusk (especially in November) one might still hear the shriek, less a man’s scream than the agonised wail of a hurt and terrified child, as Henry grasped him by belt and shoulder and, needing no help, heaved him over.

  Back in the hall, Henry was aglow, his body at ease with itself, satisfied as though he had spent the day in lovemaking. Rouen was subdued, her ruler restored. Normandy went where Rouen led. He could send for Curthose now and hand him his property, as a loyal brother and henchman should. From Curthose, surely, he could expect reward.

  Henry was still only twenty-two, young enough to be in some respects naive. He had underestimated the resentment inspired by a hearty punch on the jaw and the theft of kudos.

  Others also saw the matter differently.

  ‘It must have been a temptation,’ drawled Belleme, ‘to let your ducal brother get his brains knocked out today. I congratulate you on your sense of family.’

  ‘One can disagree with a brother without wishing to commit fratricide,’ said Henry shortly. ‘Conan was one thing. Curthose is another.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Belleme, blue and yellow eyes staring flatly. Robert of Belleme, as Henry was already quite aware, was an evil man. But he was not a fool. He was a gifted military engineer; castles designed by Belleme were usually impregnable and castles attacked by him were usually not. Now he said: ‘I wish I’d seen Conan go over the edge,’ and added perceptively: ‘If you ask me, you threw him over as a substitute for Curthose.’

  With Sybil’s departure, the Fallowdene household settled into a state of calm, preserved by tacit yet perfectly clearcut arrangements.

  When Richard was absent from home, Alice might sit in the lady of the manor’s place on the dais when the regular meetings were held to settle villagers’ disputes and decide which crops should be planted in which fields at the next sowing. But Wulfhild sat beside her and although Alice gave the decisions, Wulfhild told her what they o
ught to be.

  She might do half the weaving but it was understood that she would share her skills at weaving and stitchery with Gunnor or anyone else who sought instruction, and also that she should have nothing to do with making or mending the tapestries, which were the province of Wulfhild and Editha.

  The brewing of mead and elderberry wine was Wulfhild’s task alone and no one, least of all Alice, ever touched it. Nor did she ever intrude now on Editha’s breadmaking.

  She was, however, free to milk cows and work in the dairy. Wulfhild herself had decreed that she should, and those already engaged on these tasks were glad of help. The ageing widow who had hitherto looked after the dairy was called Crooked Elfrida because one shoulder was higher than the other. Elfrida was often tired and as long as Alice remembered her subordinate place, she was welcome, while young Bebbe, who had the job of milking, had always considered eight cows too many. In any case, Bebbe had formed a semi-alliance with Alice because, being pretty, she was interested in her appearance and Alice had many recipes for hair washes and skin lotions.

  The hall was crosshatched like a chequerboard with demarcation lines, ‘but I suppose it’s peaceful,’ Richard said philosophically when the cheese ran out because Crooked Elfrida and Alice had both been ill and no one would intrude on the tasks of either of them.

  He was keenly aware of his mother’s eyes continually watching his wife for shortcomings. But Alice was carefully polite and for the time being, undisturbed by constant reminders of Wulfhild’s superior fertility in the shape of Sybil, the quiet held.

  At the time when the bishops of Normandy were pleading for Rufus’ help, Gunnor, who also looked after most of the linen at Fallowdene, went whispering to Editha, Editha in turn spoke privily to Wulfhild, and for a while there were even smiles in Alice’s direction. Wulfhild issued orders that Alice was to have extra meat and must not carry the milk pails any more.