The man in the red hat, who, it turned out, was master of the ship, hurried to greet the papal emissary. He knelt to receive a blessing, which was deftly delivered, then rose, saying, “My apologies, Your Grace, but if we are to take the tide, we must hurry. The horses must be secured and the ship made ready to cast off.”
“Now see here,” protested the sheriff, still unwilling to see the suspicious foreigners slip away so easily.
“Was there something?” inquired the ship’s master.
“No,” said the count. “Be about your business.” To the sheriff, he said, “Come, de Glanville, there is no more to be done here.”
When this was translated for His Eminence, Father Dominic gave his Norman hosts a blessing and, with a last promise to mention their care and attention to the pope, released them from their duty of guarding him and his entourage. He walked onto the ship and went below deck. A moment later, the two lay brothers appeared and helped the ship’s master lead the horses on deck and secure them for the voyage. When this was done, they helped the master cast off and, using stout poles, pushed the craft away from the dock and out into the river, where it drifted for a little while before finding the current. Then, as they entered the stream, Father Dominic, Lady Ghisella, and Will Scarlet came back onto the deck and waved farewell to the Normans, who, although they could not be sure, thought they heard the sound of laughter carried on the wind as the ship entered the centre of the channel and was carried along by the slowly building tide-flow, and away.
CHAPTER 40
Rouen
King William Rufus, wet and miserable in the driving rain, rode at the head of a company of his best and most loyal knights. The royal ranks were followed by sixty men-at-arms grimly slogging through the sticky mud. Water streamed down from a low sky of seamless grey from horizon to horizon, falling in steady rivulets from helmet, shield, and lance blade, puddling deep in the wheel-rutted road. The farms and villages flung out around the low, squat city of Rouen appeared just as cheerless and desolate as the king and his dreary entourage.
Curse his fool of a stiff-necked brother, he thought. It should be Duke Robert—not himself, the king of England—who was saddle sore and catching his death in the rain. Blast the imbecile and his infernal scheming! Why could Robert not accept his divinely appointed lot and be happy ruling the family’s ancestral lands? William told himself that if that had been his own particular fate, he would have embraced it and worked to make something of his portion and not be forever wasting his substance fomenting rebellion and inflaming the rapacious ambitions of France’s endless supply of muttering malcontents.
These thoughts put the already irritated king in a simmering rage. And when he contemplated the time and money wasted on keeping his idiot brother appeased and under control, his thin blue blood began to boil.
Thus, William arrived in the yard of the archbishop’s palace at Rouen already angry and spoiling for a fight. The palace, a solid square of cut stone three floors high and studded with wood-shuttered windows, occupied the top of a prominent hill a mile or so beyond the city wherein stood the cathedral. William’s cool and indifferent welcome by the current incumbent of the palace did little to mollify the king, or sweeten his disposition.
“Ah,William,” intoned Archbishop Bonne-me, “good of you to come.” Heavily robed and leaning on his bishop’s staff, the old man puffed, out of breath from his short walk across the vestibule. An honour guard of six knights and two earls entered with the king, the water from their cloaks dripping on the polished stone floor, which sent a bevy of clerical servants scampering for rags to mop up the mess.
“My pleasure,” grumbled William, shedding his sopping cloak and tossing it to a waiting servant. “Where is he? What’s it to be this time? Come, let’s get to it.”
The archbishop’s pale hand fluttered up like an agitated bird. “Oh, my lord king, this is to be a most serious conclave. I hope you understand the gravity of the moment.”
“I understand that my brother is as worthless,” quipped William, “as is anyone who sides with him. Beyond that, there is only the money it will take to buy him off.”
The archbishop stiffened and lowered his head in a bow. “This way, Your Majesty.”
The archbishop turned and started away with King William a step or two behind; the king’s men threw off their wet cloaks and assembled in a double rank behind him. And as servants rushed to pick up the sodden garments, the ageing archbishop led them down a lofty corridor to a large audience room where the king found assembled a few minor lords standing around the blazing hearth at one end of the room. They looked around guiltily as the king of England and his men entered. Duke Robert was not among them, nor anyone William recognised.
“Where is he?” demanded the king. “I have ridden hard for three days in the rain. I am not playing at games.”
“This is what I wanted to tell you, Majesty,” explained the archbishop. “Duke Robert is not here. Indeed, few of those summoned to attend have arrived. It’s the weather, you see . . . but we expect them at any moment.”
“Do we!” snapped the angry king. “Do we indeed, sir!”
“We do, Majesty,” the old cleric assured him. “I have ordered chambers to be prepared for you. If you would like to rest a little before the proceedings, I will have refreshment sent to you.”
William gave a last scowl around the near-empty room and allowed himself to be persuaded. “Very well,” he said. “Have wine brought to me in my chambers.” To one of his men, he said, “Leicester, fetch me dry clothes. I’ll change out of these blasted wet things.”
“Of course, Sire. At once,” replied the Earl of Leicester. With a nod and flick of his hand, he sent one of his men to carry out the errand. “Will there be anything else?”
“No,” said the king, feeling a great weariness settling upon him. He started after the archbishop, saying, “You and Warwick will attend me. The others are to see to the horses, then take food and rest for themselves.”
“At once, Sire.” The earl gave quick instructions to the rest of the king’s guard and sent them away. He and the Earl of Warwick accompanied the king to the apartment that had been prepared for him—a large room with a bed and a square oak table with four chairs. Archbishop Bonne-me pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the room, glancing around to assure himself that all was in order for his tetchy guest.
A fire burned in the small hearth, and on the table sat a jug of wine with four cups and, beside these, a platter with loaves of bread and soft cheese wrapped in grape leaves.
William walked to the table and poured wine into three of the cups. “Thank you, Archbishop,” he said, offering a cup to the nearest earl, “we are well satisfied with our arrangements. You may go.”
Bonne-me bowed his old white head and retreated, closing the door. “I leave you to your rest.”
“My brother is planning mischief,” observed the king, his nose in his cup as he gulped down a healthy draught. “I can feel it in my bones.”
“Do you know le Bellay?” asked the Earl of Leicester.
“I know my brother,” replied William.
“If there is to be bloodshed . . . ,” began young Lord Warwick.
The king cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. “It won’t come to that, I think,” William said, handing him a cup. “At least not yet.” He drank again and said, “I wish I knew what he and his sycophants were up to, though.”
“Those men down there,” said Leicester. “Who were they?”
“God knows,” answered the king. “Never seen the rascals before. You?”
“I might have met one or another. Difficult to say.” He replaced his cup on the board and said, “I think I might just go and see if I can find out.”
“Never mind,” said the king. Drawing out a chair, he dropped heavily into it, then shoved a second chair towards the earl. “Here. Sit. You must be as tired as I am. Sit. We’ll drink and rest.”
“With respect, Sire, I would rest ea
sier if I knew who those men are and what they’re doing here.”
The king shrugged. “Go then, but hurry back. And tell the chamberlain we need some meat to go with this bread and cheese.”
“Of course, my lord,” said the Earl of Leicester, moving quickly towards the door. He hoped to catch the archbishop for a private word before the old man disappeared into the cavern of his palace.
“And more wine!” called the king after him.
William leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Sire?” said the Earl of Warwick, setting aside his cup. He came to stand before the king. “If you would allow me,” he offered, indicating the monarch’s feet, “I think we might dry those boots a little.”
William nodded, and with a sigh raised his foot so that the young man might pull off the sodden shoe. He guzzled down another draught as the young nobleman attended to the other boot.
“There, now,” said Warwick, when he had finished. “Better, no?”
“Mmmm,” murmured William into the cup. “Much.”
The earl carried the wet boots to the hearth and put them on the warm stones to dry, then returned to the table and sat down. He and the king sipped their wine in silence for a time, feeling the tensions of the road begin to ease beneath application of the sweet, dark liquid.
“This is all my father’s fault,” mused William after a time. “If he had not promised my ninny of a brother the throne of England, all would be well. He roused Robert’s hopes and, fool that he is, the duke has set the value too high—thinks it worth more than it is.” He drained the cup and then filled it again. “Truth is,” he continued, “the blasted island costs more than you can ever get out of it.”
“It was ever thus,” Warwick suggested. “King Harold never had two pennies to rub together one day to the next, as my father used to say. And Aelfred was in debt from the day he took the crown till the day they took it off him in the grave.”
“This is supposed to cheer me, Warwick?” grumbled the king.
“I merely suggest that your condition is neither more nor less than that which all English rulers have endured. God knows, it is difficult enough even for an earl, much less a duke or a king.”
“Duke Robert does right well,” William pointed out. He took up a loaf of bread, broke it, and stuffed half into his mouth. He chewed heavily for a moment. “To be sure, most of what he has he got from me.”
“Cut him off, Sire,” suggested Warwick. “Or make him sign a settlement treaty in exchange for his promise never to raise rebellion again. Get him to put his name to it.”
“Robert would have nothing if it wasn’t for me propping him up,” growled William, the bread half-eaten in his mouth. “No more! No more, hear? This is the end.”
“With your permission, Sire, I’ll have a treaty drawn up at once,” the earl suggested, raising his cup. “We’ll get Robert to sign it and be done with him once and for all.”
“If he thinks I’ll buy him off again, he’s woefully mistaken,” said William. “If he demands another penny from me, I’ll march on him, curse the devil, I will! I swear it.”
“Well,” replied Warwick judiciously, trying to calm the agitated monarch, “perhaps he will listen to reason this time. Would you like me to arrange for a treaty?”
Lord Leicester returned with another jug of wine and, behind him, a servant bearing a platter of cold roast duck and chicken. “His Grace the archbishop says that he is retiring for the night. He wishes you a good night’s rest and sleep. He will conduct a Mass in the morning and break fast after.”
“And my brother? When is he expected?”
“The archbishop could not say, Sire. Tomorrow, I expect.”
“Well, then,” decided William, “we could do worse than make a night of it. Here, bring that platter! I’m famished.”
They ate and drank, talking long into the night. Both Lord Leicester and his brother, Warwick, remained with the king, sleeping in chairs beside the hearth while William snored in his feather bed. As dawn cracked the damp grey sky in the east, the chapel bell sounded, calling the faithful to Mass. William and his noblemen stirred at the sound, then went back to sleep, awaking again when they heard a clatter in the courtyard below. Warwick got up and walked to the narrow window, pushed open the wooden shutter and looked out. He could see seven men on horseback, or perhaps five men and two women. On closer inspection, at least two of them appeared to be priests. Although the day was still new, their mounts appeared fresh and fairly unsoiled by the mud on the rain-soaked roads. They had not travelled far, the earl surmised. He watched for a moment, scanning the group, but failed to recognise anyone—in any event, they were certainly not Duke Robert and his entourage. Turning from the window, he went to the king’s bed and gave a polite cough. When this failed to rouse His Majesty, he took hold of the royal shoulder and gave it a shake.
“Sire,” he said, “I think the vultures are gathering. We should be ready for them.”
William opened his eyes and tried to raise his head. The effort was too much and he lay back with a groan. “Who has come? Is my brother finally here?”
“I do not know, my lord. I did not see him,” replied Warwick. “A priest or two have arrived, but unless the duke travels in the company of priests now, he is not yet here.”
“Oh,” sighed William, struggling upright. “Why did you let me drink so much?”
“It is a fault of mine, Majesty,” the Earl of Warwick assured him. “I must try to do better. Then again, the archbishop’s wine is very good.”
“It is,” agreed William, swinging his short, stout legs off the bed. “Is there any left, do you think?”
Henry walked to the table and began examining the jugs and cups.
“Where is Leicester?” asked the king, stretching his back and yawning.
“He has gone to Mass,”Warwick reported. “I expect him to return soon. Shall I have someone fetch him for you?”
“No, no,” decided the king. “Let him be.” Heaving his bulk up onto unsteady legs, he tottered to the table and the cup which Lord Warwick now held out to him. The king took a sip, tasted it, then drained the cup. “Ah, that’s better.”
The young earl disappeared momentarily to summon a servant lurking in the corridor to prepare a basin of water for the king, and commanded another to bring the king’s chest to the room. Presently, the servant appeared with a basin of hot water, and while William washed, Warwick supervised the cleaning of the king’s boots. “Get all that muck off there and brush them well,” he ordered, so that His Majesty would not look like a common farmhand before the other noblemen. The chamberlain meanwhile appeared with the king’s chest and a message that some people had come and were seeking audience on a most urgent matter.
“What do they want?” asked William, raising the hem of his tunic and drawing it over his head. Warwick opened the chest and withdrew a clean, white tunic.
“They did not say, Your Majesty,” replied the chamberlain. “I was told only that it was of utmost importance that they speak to you at once, and before you speak to anyone else today.”
“Impertinent lot,” observed William, pulling the tunic over his head. The garment, though handsomely wrought, was made for a slightly smaller frame; the fine fabric stretched over his expansive gut. “Warwick,” he said, “go see who it is and find out what they want. I have not broken fast yet, and I’m not in a humour to brook any silliness.”
“To be sure, Sire,” replied the young earl.
William nodded, picked up a scrap of bread from the remains of last night’s supper, sniffed it, and took a bite. Seeing the servant still stood staring at him, he threw the rind of dried bread crust at him. “Bring me my food!” The servant ducked the missile and darted for the door. “And be quick about it,” William called after him. “Important people have come. We must not keep them waiting.”
CHAPTER 41
S ’truth, I’d never make a sailor. Even the smallest stretch o’ water seen from the deck of a s
hip brings me out in a sweat. If a wave should rock the boat, it’s me there hanging onto the rail and spilling my supper into the briny deep. Oh, and I had cause enough. Even the master of the ship said it was the worst storm in many a year o’ sailing. And he should know—he’s crossed that narrow sea more times than a rooster with a henhouse across the road. Our own small voyage might not have been so bad, and indeed I had allowed myself to imagine that the worst was over when we entered the wide estuary of the Thames and sallied slowly upriver to the White Tower of Lundein to pay our ruddy King William a visit.
Alas, the king was not in residence.
Gone to Rouen, they told us—gone to parley with his brother, not to return till Saint Matthew’s Day, maybe not till Christmas.
Never mind, said Bran, we’ve come this far, what’s a little further? “Master Ruprecht!” he called, and I can still hear those fateful words: “Cast off and make sail for France!”
As it had turned out, our man Ruprecht, the ship’s owner and master, was Flanders born and raised, and could speak both French and English into the bargain. His ship was a stout ploughhorse of a vessel, and he was kept right busy fetching and carrying Ffreinc noblemen and their knights back and forth to England from various ports on the coast of Normandie. Thus, he knew the coasts of both lands as well as any and far better than most. Seizing his ship had been easier than rolling off a stump. We lifted nary a finger, nor ruffled a hair—we simply bought his services.
This easy conquest was not without its moment of uncertainty, however. For as we came in sight of the docks at Hamtun that day and Bran gave Iwan, Siarles, and Jago the command to secure the ship, those three hastened down to the wharf. Cinnia and I arrived close behind and scrambled onto the dock hard on their heels. “Let me talk to them first,” offered Brother Jago, as they dismounted. “Do nothing until we see how things stand.”
“Hurry then,” Iwan said. “We do not have much time before the others get here.”
“What will you tell them?” asked Siarles, swinging down from the saddle. “Maybe it would be better to take them by surprise.”