I Am the Chosen King (26 page)

Alençon

The domination of the rudimentary Angevin empire had expanded east and south, at the expense of the comtes de Blois. A mere three years before Duke William’s resounding victory at Val-ès-Dunes, King Henry had been forced to cede Anjou recognition over Touraine. By holding Tours, Geoffrey de Martel, comte d’Anjou, held a key route into the Loire valley and could blockade the road from Paris to Orleans. With his southern borders strongly contained, it was hardly surprising that a forceful, unprincipled man such as Geoffrey would soon begin to look northwards, and once secured in the region initially controlled by the family de Bellême itself, six roads were linked, crossed by the old Roman Way that passed through Alençon on its way to Falaise. With the approval of Henry of France, William moved his army to contest possession of the two main fortresses: Domfront and Alençon.

Fierce fighting at Domfront had not resolved the contentious issue and the long winter’s blockade took its toll from both sides of the dispute. Geoffrey Martel himself had retired from Maine, but his captains and troops held firm in his name, despite the heavy falls of snow on the hills and Normandy’s siege works of ditches and wooden towers. Men perished from lack of warmth and food, but William was determined to stand firm until the fortress fell into his hands. For three long years he had besieged Guy de Brionne in the same way. He was prepared to do it all over again at Domfront, if he had to.

At Easter, Mathilda was to come from her home in Flanders to join her husband at Eu, on the Normandy border. She had been outraged that William had left the day after their wedding to return to his blockade—not believing his excuse that for the present, Normandy was unsafe. He was obviously more interested in warfare than in his bride.

In fact, William had not lied. The scent of rebellion was in the air and Domfront was proving obstinate—he had too much on his mind to worry about settling his bride into her new home.

With Easter approaching, and no solution at Domfront materialising, he elected to alter tactics by withdrawing half his men to attack Alençon without warning. Mathilda was his duchess and he wanted her with him. What better way to prove to her that she had married a man of substance? The fortresses were going to fall before the spring snow-melt clogged the roads with mud and before she entered Normandy. He would give them to her as a wedding gift.

Under the cover of darkness, William moved up his engines of war, the mangonels that could reduce walls of stone to rubble, and the ballistas that fired javelins and spears with deadly accuracy at human targets, or brands of fire that set light to the thatch of buildings.

William sat on his horse, a handsome beast that was as black as a midwinter’s night, silent, tight-lipped, watching the proceedings. The dry-ditch moat had been filled with cut timber and dead bracken—and the broken bodies of those who had already fallen from the battlements of Alençon. Dawn had come several hours ago, pink light that heralded a day of frosted pale-blue, cloud-patched sky. The fortress had panicked, their cries of alarm had risen with the strengthening light—but even William had to concede that the defenders were holding firm with spirit and fortitude.

The man next to him, William, comte d’Arques, pointed his sword arm at a group of men ranged along the eastern side of the battlements. The stonework was crumbling in places where the siege engines had made their shattering marks; a trail of black smoke was spiralling into the sky behind the walls. “What are those men doing up there?” he asked, squinting into low sunlight. Then he snorted. “They’re dancing! Look, they’re capering about, waving their arms and leaping. What fools.” Losing interest, he lifted a wineskin from his saddle and tipped the spout to his mouth. Wine dribbled as another of the group, Will fitz Osbern, also pointed with a sharp gasp of incredulity.

“They are not dancing, my lord, but taunting us! Look, their fists are raised.”

“What are they hanging from the walls?”

Will narrowed his eyes, shielding them with his hand to his forehead.

The Duke had already seen. His lips pressed tighter and the knuckles of his hands gripped white around his reins.

They were hanging out hides. Cow, deer, pigskin. An array of animal skins taken from the tanner’s within the walls. The noise of siege engine fire temporarily abated as a spirited wind sailed from the battlements of Alençon castle carrying the abusive calls of those mocking men with savage clarity: “Bastard by-blow of a tanner’s whore!”

“Come get your hides, if you can, you bastard! Come get your inheritance!”

Men looked to their duke, their hands hesitant on the levers that would unleash the next onslaught of missiles. Will fitz Osbern licked his lips nervously, the comte d’Arques chewed at a split nail, suddenly preoccupied. They all understood the significance. A gross, appalling insult to their duke’s honour. Many a man privately referred to William as the Bastard, few said it aloud.

The Duke had loved and honoured his mother, Lady Herleve, had wept openly at her death and had buried her with all honour in the new-founded abbey of Grestain. On the significant days, her birthing, name day, death day, he offered prayers for the soul of the gentle girl who had been seduced by a duke.

Ralph Tesson cleared his throat nervously. “They do it to goad you, my Lord. They hope to lure you into some act of folly. Ignore it.”

Duke William ran his hand slowly along the crest of his stallion’s neck, enjoying the warm feel of his coat. The winter growth would be shed soon, the summer sheen emerging from beneath. He wondered if his favourite mare had foaled yet, though it was a few weeks too early. He had put her to Sable, was hoping for a colt. Fillies were often born earlier than expected, colts late. Perhaps, then, he would be patient a few more weeks.

He pressed his spur against the black’s side, putting him into a trot, heading for the next rise of land. “Will,” he said to fitz Osbern, “see to it that all know of my command. I will offer handsome reward to the men who bring me those turds from the battlements. Alive, mark you. I want them alive.”

***

Alençon fell to William of Normandy within the month. Two days later he withdrew his army back to the siege at Domfront, where he made certain those snivelling behind the crumbling walls heard of the revenge that he had taken at Alençon. What was left standing there had been torched; those who had resisted him, killed without mercy. Unless Domfront surrendered, the besieged could expect the same fate. No one there dared taunt William, though. Not after what had happened at Alençon.

William, comte d’Arques, who had fought beside his duke at Val-ès-Dunes, was as sickened as the men and women of Domfront. Two days before the fortress finally surrendered, he withdrew his men and his support and rode back into his own lands.

Mathilda, waiting for her husband at Eu, received a letter William had dictated boasting of victory. She read it twice: the first time with innocent interest, the second because she could not believe the words written there.

“Is this true?” she asked of the courier who had brought it. “Is the Duke exaggerating either to impress or frighten me?”

The man nodded glumly. It was true, all of it. He knew because all at Alençon had been forced to watch. And three of those who had gleefully accepted William’s reward of gold had, sickened, taken their own lives out of remorse.

Mathilda covered her mouth, fled to the privacy of her bedchamber, where she vomited profusely into the piss bowl. What manner of a man had she married? What kind of man was William?

The Duke had studied each captured man in turn, with a calm, impassive expression as they were dragged to kneel before him. They had protested with wild cries that they were not the men who had hurled those insults, knew nothing of hides. The Duke had ignored their pleas. At his command all five were staked to the ground, their hands removed at the wrists and then they were skinned, while life was still in them; their hides hung from the walls of Alençon.

Porlock

They ran the flat-keeled ships on to the shingle, the first few men dropping instantly over the side to splash through the foaming waves, their axes and weapons at the ready, minds, eyes and ears alert, though no one had come running down across the marsh from the rising swathe of green hills to meet—or oppose—them.

Harold jumped over the bulwark and landed with a grunt of satisfaction on the shore. England. Home. After eleven months of exile as guest to King Diarmait in Dublin, it was good to be home, to reclaim what was his. He turned to grin at his brother, Leofwine, pointed with his sword to the moorland rising high on three sides of the three-mile stretch of bay. The reed beds of the Porlock marshes were silent, save for the cry of wading birds and the singing of the wind as it trailed, restless, over the emptiness.

“They are watching for us up there. On a day as clear as this, they would have seen our sails from far out. We’ll give them something worth waiting for, shall we?”

The mix of Irish and Viking mercenaries that Harold had employed were already grouping into a tactical wedged formation, sharp-honed blades bristling from the outer ranks like the spines of a defensive hedgehog. Harold intended to approach the village and outlying farms peacefully, try to persuade them to support him, but he doubted he would be successful. Six months ago one of Edward’s minor kinsmen, Odda of Deerhurst, had been made earl of this small coastal portion of Somerset that abutted the Devon border. He was not likely to give it up without a struggle.

Harold’s lighthearted pleasure as he watched the high moorland reflecting the late summer colours of purple heather and golden gorse coalesced into something more serious as he looked across the sweep of the bay. With his father raiding along the eastern coast, from Kent down to Pevensey, this would be their only chance at reinstatement by force. They had their friends, but they needed to convince their opponents that it was futile to shut England’s door to Godwine and his sons.

Nodding to his men, Harold ordered them to move out, up across the shingle. Primarily, they sought provisions—fresh food and water, arms and equipment. There was to be no taking of women against their will and no killing—unless for self-defence. Only if they were attacked would they retaliate. They were expecting a fight, for Porlock had never respected the Godwines. Swegn had been their earl for too many years to endear the family to the scattered population of this windswept Somerset coast.

Harold was gambling on the fact that Swegn had openly confessed his misdemeanours and was probably by now on the return journey from his pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Whether he could persuade wronged Englishmen that his eldest brother would be returning a repentant and chastened man remained to be seen. It would be difficult, for Harold barely believed it himself, although, according to his father’s letter, Swegn had been sorely ill as he undertook the journey. How strange that men were all too eager to repent their sins when they realised they were not immortal. Aware that the thought was brutally cynical, Harold nonetheless mistrusted Swegn’s motives.

Meeting only minor resistance that first day of landing, they made camp at the edge of the moors, where their lookouts could keep a sharp eye on the beached ships down in the bay below and for the approach of King’s men, from whatever direction they chose to come. And they would come, Harold knew that. Odda himself was occupied in joint command of the fleet with Earl Ralf at Sandwich, attempting to head off Godwine, but thegns of repute had been left here in the West, with orders to repel any attempted landing. The information was reliable and up to date, for there were men sympathetic to Godwine’s cause, willing to send messages.

Leofwine was nervous. At almost seventeen, he had not fought in anything more serious than a boy’s wrestling contest. This would be the real thing; if they were intercepted, they would be facing death at the hands of experienced warriors. Harold, finishing his stew and setting his empty bowl on the grass, ruffled his brother’s hair. “We have some good men with us,” he said reassuringly. “Most of them have made fighting their lives.”

Darkness settled. The men, almost five hundred of them, were arrayed around the scatter of campfires, some finishing their meal, others checking war gear, talking, exchanging laughter and tales of bravado. Many were already rolled into their cloaks and asleep, mindful that the morrow would be long and exhausting, save for the unfortunate who would not see the reds and golds of another setting sun. Leofwine was stroking his whetstone along the blade of his dagger, although it was already honed to deadly sharpness.

He held his counsel a long moment, then, in a rush, asked his brother, “Do you not feel fear? Are you not nervous of what we may face on the morrow?”

Setting his hand to his brother’s arm, Harold laughed lightly. “Of course I am scared, lad! Most of us are. The man who goes into battle with no fear of death is the man who is likely to fall first. Contempt and confidence breed carelessness, my brother. The desire to stay alive and in one piece makes for quick thinking and fast feet.” He tightened his fingers, nodded at Leofwine’s blade. “Use that as you have been taught, keep your wits about you and you will be fine.”

A rustle of movement beyond the light of the fires made Harold pause, his head going up, alert. Others had heard, hands going to sword, dagger or axe. A man materialised from the darkness, ducking low, his breathing heavy. A sigh rolled through those watching.

Throwing himself down before Harold’s fire, the scout’s head dipped in an unspoken acknowledgement. “Movement to the north. Maybe six hundred or so men.”

“How far?”

“Six, seven miles. They will be in position come dawn.” The scout indicated the direction with a pointing finger. “I reckon they will draw their ranks up on that rise behind us.”

“Not so.” Harold grinned. “We will occupy it first. I think we should be waiting for them. Come, Leofwine.” He elbowed his brother with a gentle nudge. “Forget about sleep, we are moving ground.”

With the ease of the warrior kind, the men stirred without fuss or noise, pulled on boots, fastened cloaks and began kicking out the hearth fires and collecting equipment together. By dawn they were holding the high ground waiting for the local militia to attack.

It seemed odd to be here, watching the first flutter of purple ease into a paler pink along the eastern horizon, knowing that the gentle peace of the moors would soon be shattered as the light flooded into the sky, and the enemy saw them, waiting, up here on the ridge. Harold had fought skirmishes and repelled sea raiders along his coast of East Anglia but, despite his bravado, he had not seen full battle either. And never had he stood as Englishman against Englishman, The first few birds were carolling their morning greeting. The rush and swish of the incoming tide, running up to meet the shore, was whispered on the wind. From somewhere distant, carried on the melting mist of the morning, a cow lowed and a dog barked. The fresh dawn smell was of the sea and heather.

A shout of alarm hurtled upwards to the sky from below, where the ridge mellowed into a scrub- and tree-dotted valley. The approaching men had seen the line of armed warriors, the glint of the first dapple of sun striking their swords and axe heads.

Stomach-churning fear catapulted through Harold as the first rush came into the attack, breath hot and panting as they ran up the slope, eyes wide with frenzied anger, weapons ready to strike. The purple heather and the gold gorse became trampled and spoilt, contaminated by blood, the dead and the dying. The lazy quiet of the calm August morning shrilled with the screams of men, the clash of weapons, the grunt and thrust of vicious fighting. Within an hour of the sun riding into the dawn-flushed sky it was over. Above forty warriors died, thirty of them Odda’s men, only ten the hired Viking mercenaries from Dublin. The eight English thegns and their militia were no match for the sons of the sea-wolf and the black raven. Those English who could, trailed back down the hill to their homesteads and farms, their duty done. Harold let them go, for he was not his elder brother who would have had a point to prove. These were simple men of the fyrd, farmers and land-folk, obeying orders. They had come, fought, lost and gone. This stretch of coast would not now oppose Harold or Leofwine Godwinesson.

For that day and the next they rested, tending wounds, mending chain-mail and leather tunic, cleaning and resharpening blunted and dented weapons. Harold had sustained no injury; Leofwine merely a scratch across his cheek where he had tumbled over his own feet and caught his face against the snarl of a gorse bush. The men teased him mercilessly, Harold himself thumping his brother between the shoulder blades and saying casually, “You face several hundred fighting men and are wounded by a bush? Just as well the thing was rooted to the ground, I dread to think how it would have hurt you were it mobile!”

They returned to the ships, heaving the great, flat keels with their high, dragon-headed prows back across the shingle into the spindrift of foam that surged at their feet. Porlock was Harold’s. As the heat of August began to soften into September’s mellow heralding of autumn, much of Wessex, and all the men of Dover—grateful for Godwine’s stand against Eustace de Boulogne—rallied without need of incentive. Verbal propaganda that promoted Godwine as the innocent victim, combined with the buying of alliance and the making of promises, increased aid threefold. From Pevensey to Sandwich, Godwine’s influence spread, the rebellion expanding as each successive town offered support. Men who remembered Æthelred listened when Godwine or his sons declared that Edward was too much like his father. Englishmen, especially those of Kent, were growing uneasy at the insidious authority that Robert of Jumièges, a Norman, was spreading from Canterbury.

As Godwine’s fleet swung towards the estuary of the Thames, a few ships diverted to burn Edward’s manor of Milton to the ground. As in all his raiding, Godwine commanded there was to be no unnecessary killing. He did not want to shed blood in order to achieve the reinstatement of his earldom, but to show that he was prepared to fight if he had to—and there was no doubting that Godwine would win. Those who would go against him had not the experience of command, nor the sheer guts to outface such an opponent. Earls Odda and Ralf, honest and sensible men, had tried to blockade Godwine’s incoming ships at Sandwich. But what could two inexperienced men of the land achieve against those who knew the sea as well as a lover understood the whims and fancies of a wife or mistress?