New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  Why could he not be content with what they had already achieved? Normandy was, after all these years of wars and discontent, a settled, thriving duchy, expanding in her territory, wealth and importance. There was no one, at this moment, liable to or capable of declaring war within or on the edge of their borders. Philip of France was an untried boy, Conan of Brittany was recently dead, with many of his magnates declared for Normandy. Why must William seek bloodshed – court death – when there was no reason for it save to heal his hurt pride?

  Mathilda crossed herself and whispered a plea to the Mother Mary. Few men, outside of those dedicated loyalists who would follow him to hell and back if asked – or England, much the same thing to her mind – expected Duke William to succeed in this madness, few had initially thought he would raise the necessary fleet, let alone manage to sail across the sea to England in one piece. If he did, he would be cut down by the English fyrd. He must know all this himself, must doubt and query and worry – yet he said no word of it, showed nothing beyond this racing determination, despite all advice to the contrary, all sense, practicality, logistics and cost. It was indeed as if some devil-driven madness had taken hold of his senses.

  Muttering the familiar words of response to the Abbot Lanfranc, Mathilda’s mind again drifted. A madness engulfing her husband? No one had dared, ever, to swear allegiance to William and then, with outright taunting, scud the harvest gleanings into his face. That William had underestimated Harold – and that the Earl had almost certainly deliberately played him for a fool – consolidated this determination for revenge. No one embarrassed or threatened William without paying the penalty. Mathilda closed her Bible, held it close against her bosom. Only, what if it were William – and Normandy – who paid the price for this foolishness in the end?

  Guilty at her inattentiveness, she reopened her Bible and shuffled through the pages of minute script. For a while she concentrated hard on the Abbot, staring only at his thin, impassioned face, his articulate hands, his richly embroidered robes. Lanfranc had been of no help in dissuading William from this folly – had actively encouraged him. England, he had said, had fallen away from the Church of Rome. Too many of the prelates of the English Church were corrupt – Archbishop Stigand for one. It was Lanfranc who had persuaded William that the claiming of England was a crusade, had agreed that Harold was a perjurer and oath breaker. Lanfranc insisted Earl Harold – earl, they all called him earl, none would say king – had tricked the English nobles into crowning him – as he had tricked William. He had placed the crown on his head in indecent haste to ensure no one had time to object – the very afternoon of Edward’s burial!

  Lanfranc himself had travelled to Rome to seek papal blessing for this holy invasion. The Pope’s answer had echoed Mathilda’s private thoughts. Why would Rome support a small duchy against a wealthy, ancient, Christian kingdom? Why support a duke against an anointed king, chosen and crowned by the people of England? Rome, it seemed, while deploring England’s persistent arrogance and neglect of the laws and wishes of the Pope, and agreeing with Lanfranc’s personal dislike of Stigand, would not go as far as proclaiming war on a Christian sovereign state. But Pope Alexander II had not forbidden it though. He would think on it, he had said. Consider the matter. Or to look at it another way, William’s and Lanfranc’s way, he would wait and see who won before bestowing his blessing on the victory.

  Mathilda had been there, in the chamber with her husband and Will fitz Osbern, when Lanfranc had returned with that answer. Had listened, and doubted, her stomach churning with fear. No one else knew of Pope Alexander’s actual words. And if the words passed on to others were not strictly accurate, who was to know? When it was all over – one way or the other – who would care?

  At Council on the morrow, William intended to tell only the partial truth – that Rome did not object. That God was on their side.

  Closing her eyes, Mathilda murmured another prayer. If William were slain – by God’s grace, let him not come to harm! Already her body was shaking with the fear at the thought of his going to what was almost certain death. Fear of the burden of responsibility that he had placed on her shoulders while he was to be gone.

  Later in the week in a service at Saint-Etienne, their eldest, Robert, was to be formally designated as heir. If William did not come back she would rule Normandy as regent until he came of age. She would rule! Mathilda found the prospect exciting and challenging. All her listening and learning of politics and law would finally be of benefit . . . but that would mean William would have to die.

  Robert wanted that. For all she loved and treasured her son he upset her in that. She wished there had been some spark of love between father and boy. Robert was headstrong and eager, a fledgling bird stretching its wings at the very edge of the branch, making ready to fly. Agatha, too, had been delighted at the acrimony between Normandy and England for she had never wanted the betrothal. Foolish child, did she not realise her father would find her some other husband? If he came home in one piece from England.

  Lifting her Bible to her lips, she kissed the page that was open before her. ‘Sweet Lord,’ she prayed silently, ‘send me some sign that this venture of my husband’s is just. That he will not come to harm!’

  There had been the star, of course, the tailed star that had burnt with such brightness for over a week in the evening heavens. It was an omen of good fortune, they said. But for whom? For Harold or William?

  Mathilda glanced across again at Cecily her daughter. The child was sitting with a rapt expression on her face, marvelling at the beauty of the sunlight filtering through the small panes of glass and dancing across the marble floor. She was happy. The serenity of the abbey had touched the child’s spirit and bound her to the perfection of life within a community of nuns. For an instant Mathilda envied the girl, as she knew Agatha did also. Wished she, too, could remain safe and protected here within the secure walls of la Trinité.

  The heat of the sweltering afternoon hit them as they left the abbey by the western door, their chatter and laughter as bright as the colours of their garments. All had come to Caen and this dedication service showing off their finest dress and most expensive jewels. William himself wore purple and his ducal crown; Mathilda, a summer green and her circlet of entwined gold and silver. She and William walked at the head of the procession winding down through the town back to the castle. The people of Caen lined the route, cheering and shouting, waving pennants and flags, calling blessings on their proud and brave duke and his serene, beautiful duchess.

  They had barely reached the lower slope of the hill when a man, grimed and dishevelled, sprang out from the crowd to drop to his knees at William’s feet. The guards lunged forward and pulled him roughly aside, but the man cried out, begging for his duke to hear him.

  ‘My Lord! I am come from England! I must speak with you!’

  William’s head shot up as if he had been hit by a physical blow. He dropped Mathilda’s hand, thrust his guards aside and squatted before the man, hands gripping his shoulders. ‘Where in England? What is it you must tell me?’

  Duke William’s heart was thundering, his mouth had run dry. News of Harold? Had something happened?

  ‘I come from the estate of Steyning in Sussex. It is land held by the Norman abbey of Fécamp. I was steward there until several days since. I was a good and loyal steward, my Lord Duke, they had no right to treat us as they did, to turn us out with no food for our bellies, no cloak for our backs!’

  ‘Who, man? What is it!’

  ‘Harold’s men. The fyrd, his housecarls. Vicious, blood-crazed thugs, they are. They have occupied the estate of Steyning, for it is on the southern coast, overlooking the sea. Taken it for their king, they said!’ The man spat to one side in disgust. ‘They were heavily armed, preparing for war. They beat us, then threw us out, every one of us who insisted on remaining loyal to you and our masters of Fécamp.’

  Abbot Remigius from Fécamp itself strode forward from the processional
line, his face grim, his anger great. ‘I recognise this man, my Lord Duke, he is indeed who he says. A most trusted servant – how dare this oath-breaking tyrant steal land that is entrusted to my keeping!’

  William regained his feet and held out his hand to the man kneeling on the roadway, helping him up to his feet. ‘You have no need to fear, my good friend, you are now in the company of men who keep their word and their vows.’ He turned to Abbot Remigius. ‘You will have that estate of Steyning returned to your abbey.’ He stumbled over the unfamiliar English place name. ‘If God sees it fitting that I win the victory over Harold of England, then it will be so. You have my pledge.’

  Mathilda briefly lifted her eyes to heaven and sent up a prayer of thanks. Was this the sign that she had sought, a message sent from God through His servant on earth? Fécamp Abbey, he was saying, would have its stolen land returned through the courage and strength of her beloved husband. She was satisfied, would not doubt William’s resolve again.

  9

  Isle of Wight On the last day of August, the rain stopped and the wind-squalled clouds parted into flowing mares’ tails, the sun valiantly attempting to warm the wet and dripping world below. All was new-washed and laid out to dry, gently steaming in the unexpected heat.

  The gales of the past few weeks had largely abated, but up here on the headland seemed as demon-strong as ever. With his cloak streaming out like a banner, the weight of its billowing straining at the brooch at his right shoulder, Harold walked to the top of the rise, his collar-length fair hair writhing into a knotted tangle the instant he stepped up by the cliff edge. This was the highest point of the island, where the wind buffeted straight in off the sea, seven hundred, almost sheer, feet below. Shielding his eyes, Harold could discern three ships ploughing through the wave crash of the tide, their earth-red sails tightly reefed, the oar thresh of the sea foam frothing to either side of their sleek keels. Headway was slow, for although the tide was carrying them, they were beating against the wind. Harold could almost feel his own muscles pull and strain with the rowers’. He had taken his turn at the oars as a young man, knew the pain of calloused palms and aching back, the pull of the grabbing current on the blade, the buck of the ship as she plunged against a heavy swell. In his mind, he heard the steersman’s call as he shouted the beat that kept the oar time: ‘Lift her! Lift her!’ He closed his eyes, smelt the sharp, saline tang of the sea, felt the rasp of the wind and the stinging kiss of spindrift on his lips and cheeks. The rise and dip of the waves . . .

  The August weather had seemed more fitting for autumn chill or winter misery. The harvest would be poor again this year: what had escaped the lashing rain had been flattened by the high winds. Trees were down; roof, barn and house place were wrecked as if a rampaging giant had trampled a swathe across the landscape. The sea had been no less disturbed, a-churn with spume, and sea trade had fallen slack; few except the most experienced – or foolhardy – had dared to risk setting sail to cross devil-whipped open seas. Land and sea folk alike had begun to wonder whether the summer would ever appear. But for Harold and the safety of England, the squalid weather had come as a blessing.

  In mid-June, Tostig’s invasion plans had been blown into disarray. He had attempted to make landfall on the northern shore of the Humber estuary; Eadwine and Morkere had seen him off, sending him running, yelping, with his tail tucked tight atween his legs. The westerly gales had finished the job, scattering his ships, snapping masts and oars as if they were dead twigs. Those mercenary sailors from the south coast, who had been offered the adventure of a fight for a handful of gold, deserted him with as much eagerness as they had joined.

  The threat from Normandy, too, was eased, for no grand fleet of ships could voyage in convoy across the Channel Sea and hope to remain together – but Harold was not complacent. Word had come with those few traders who braved the crossing that Duke William’s shipbuilding was almost completed and that the muster to arms, whatever the weather conditions, had been set for the second week in August. It was now the end of that month and, although the damp permeated through woollen cloak, reed roof thatch and strained temper alike, the winds were no longer gusting. All it needed was a shift from west to south and the Duke would be here.

  There was no doubt that he would be coming, for William had made an inescapable commitment to this thing: gold promised to the mercenaries of Flanders and Brittany; an escalating sea current of debt, bolstered by his own bravado. He was too far in, now; to turn tail would mean the loss of his own duchy. No man would follow William again if this attempt at England failed.

  From Harold’s perspective, this aggressive lust for warfare at all cost was a failing of William’s character. He was not a man to sheathe a drawn sword or swallow his pride; apology was not a word contained in his Norman vocabulary. Fight, not talk, was his way. An effective English king would aim, ultimately, to use as little force as possible, trusting peaceful solution over military might. The threat of the muster of the fyrd was often enough to entertain a settlement. In England, pitched battle was avoided unless of absolute defensive necessity.

  But oh aye, Harold knew William would come – what he did not know, could only guess at, was the when of it.

  One of those three ships was the Dolphin, Eadric the Steersman’s craft. She was the goddess of longships, the Cleopatra, Helen of Troy, of craft. Eadric was in command of the scyp fyrd, the sea warriors, for he was the most capable of Harold’s men. If William were to put to sea and attempt to run the coastal blockade, Eadric and his sea hounds could be relied upon to fight as only those who had not forgotten their Viking blood could fight.

  Did the Duke, Harold wondered, as he stood on the high headland watching those three craft, realise what awaited him on this northern side of the Narrow Sea? The Normans had become a land army, used to besieging stone-built fortresses or fighting in groundforce formation on foot or horseback. They relied on their machinery of war – the mangonels, ballistas, siege towers and crossbows – and on their heavy coats of mail to ward off a sword blow. Mail kept the body safe, but it also restricted movement where instant agility and speed were an advantage. At sea, for instance. The ships Duke William had requisitioned were merchantmen, deep-wallowing sailing craft without the oar space – or trained oarsmen – to manoeuvre them swiftly. When William came, unless he understood how to run the gauntlet of the waiting scyp fyrd, few of his followers would make landfall.

  Harold breathed in a lungful of sea air. The question in his mind: had William made plans to avoid the English blockade? Had he set aside his own self-importance and heeded the advice of those experienced in the ways of the sea?

  Beside the King, his brother Leofwine squatted on his haunches, also looking towards the three gallant ships. There were others out there, of course, beyond eye vision, oar-riding the waves or, where the waters were not so deep, at anchor. A shield wall of ships, each in view or hailing distance of the other, lined from here on the Island of Wight to the seven cliffs of Dover. And beyond them, the outrunners, the swiftest and lightest of craft that could be pulled by the oar into any wind, against any sea. It was towards these ships that Eadric was steering, to hear of latest news, of sighting and of feelings that itched below an experienced sailor’s skin.

  Waiting, all of them, English and Norman, waiting for the wind to back.

  Leofwine had unsheathed his sword and laid it across his knees, his fingertips resting, with the lightest of touches, against its bright, deadly gleam. ‘Raven’s Wing’, he called it, for the dark streaks of interlocking patterning within the blade, formed beneath the hammer in its making. Up near the pommel there was a shape that resembled the outstretched wing of the raven, the bird of the battlefield. A fitting pattern, and a fitting name for the weapon given him as a present by his eldest brother when he had become earl.

  ‘I am thinking’, he said into the wind, ‘that Eadric may have a good fight some day soon.’

  ‘I am thinking you may have the right of it. Soon n
ow, surely, the war horns will boom and the sea riders will set their oars to the ocean, their daggers loose at their belts.’

  ‘It may be a fight that we will regret not being a part of,’ Leofwine answered with a wistful sigh.

  Harold laughed. ‘You will have fighting enough, have no worry of that. Eadric and those men, for all their ability, will not stop every ship of Duke William’s. Some will land along our coast. We will have our fight against them then.’

  One of the few housecarls who had ridden with Harold to this high and lonely point saw riders approaching at a fast gallop. He called out in warning to his King. Alerted, Harold studied the four swift-coming horsemen. ‘It seems someone else is anxious to join the fight – or has brought us news of one, perhaps,’ he said. ‘Come, Leofwine, let us see who so urgently seeks me.’

  ‘God sail with you, Eadric,’ Leofwine murmured as he pushed himself upright and strode back down the hillside in the wake of his brother.

  Leofwine was as surprised as Harold to recognise one of the riders as their own brother Gyrth, and with him, their nephew Hakon.

  ‘Well met, Gyrth! Hakon! What brings you here?’ Harold greeted them as the young men reined in their sweating horses.

  ‘You bring me, my Lord – and our other brother!’ Gyrth held out his hand, Harold clasping it, palm to palm, in greeting. ‘I have been a-visiting our mother at Bosham Manor – she is well and sends her love,’ Gyrth explained. ‘I heard that you were here, keeping watch for our Norman friend. I thought I would see if you had heard tell of the latest news of Tostig. Our nephew decided to ride with me.’