[Norman Conquest 01] Wolves in Armour Page 2

  “You have your own tent?” asked Hugh.

  “Yes, a five-man tent,” replied Robert.

  Hugh nodded his acknowledgment that either Alan and Robert, or more likely their fathers, knew something about campaigning and said, “There’s an open space over there where you can set up your tent. Horse-lines are down there. You’re responsible to look after your own horses. The main meal is at mid-day, of course. There’s also food provided at about dusk. Don’t rely on getting any food in the town. There’s a baker, pie-sellers and so on- but with 6,000 hungry men in camp the food in the town is poor quality, expensive and scarce. You get a pound of meat, half a pound of cheese and some fruit and vegetables a day. Err… if you’re religious, there’s no fish on Fridays, sorry. Horses get fresh-cut grass and hay twice a day. If you want them to have oats, you have to arrange that yourself. Again, it’s expensive- you can spend your whole wage just feeding your horse.”

  While Gillard took the horses down to the horse-lines, rubbed them down and fed and watered them, the others set up the tent, squeezed into a vacant spot of grass, and moved the knight’s equipment inside before the men-at-arms went to report at the infantry compound. Alan took three palliasses to the hay store and filled the mattresses, carrying all three back at once, draped over his head and back.

  * * * *

  After dark Alan sat around a camp-fire with Hugh, Robert and another dozen or so men, some sitting close to the flames and others leaning back against saddles and other equipment in the semi-darkness further from the fire. The meat, a nondescript grey in colour, full of gristle and starting to turn slimy, had been boiled with vegetables. Alan was eating from a wooden bowl, having already drunk the liquid. Having given up trying to cut the meat with his knife he was gnawing patiently at the hunk of meat with his side teeth. A slice of rancid cheese lay on the grass next to him.

  Alan, Hugh and Robert were the only knights in the troop, the others being common soldiers. While the talk at table at home had rarely been refined, the talk about the fire was sufficiently gross as to make Alan uncomfortable. He really wasn’t interested in hearing, thrust by thrust, of one man’s conquest of a local village slut.

  “You going to eat that, boy?” demanded a man who was slouched several paces away, his voice thick with a Flemish accent. Having obtained Alan’s attention, he indicated towards the cheese with a knife which he has been using to clean his fingernails. Alan gave him a flat stare before picking up the cheese and tossing it to him. “What’s the matter, boy? Not up to your usual standards at high table? Well, queer boy, you’re going to have to get used to worse than that before the campaign is over.”

  Alan sighed, put the tough meat back in the bowl and placed it on the ground next to where he was sitting. He realised he had to do something, otherwise his life was going to be made a misery for the next few months. “Maybe so,” he replied, wiping his hands on a cloth. “But I don’t have to get used to putting up with shit-for-brains like you not showing proper respect for their betters. Since you’re calling me a queer, I suspect that’s just wishful thinking on your part- not that anybody would want to have sex with a stinking deformed monkey like you.”

  “Proper respect! Deformed monkey! We’ll see about that, you ponce!” snarled the Fleming in reply, starting to his feet as the others around the fire first guffawed and then fell silent in anticipation.

  “No swords!” shouted Hugh, seeing Alan’s hand moving towards the sheathed sword that lay next to him. “Fists or knives!”

  “Then knives it is!” said Monkey-Man in a low and dangerous tone as he circled around Alan waving his knife in the air as the latter rose to his feet and drew his own knife from a sheath in his right boot. “I’m going to cut you, boy. Cut you so bad your boyfriends will run in fright when they see you!”

  Alan thought that the whole situation was ridiculous, but recognised its seriousness. He was surprised that Hugh was prepared to allow things to proceed, but knew he had to respond to the challenge and was confident despite his lack of years.

  His background was an unusual in that, because he was intelligent and was a third son of a relatively poor family and with no prospects of inheritance, he’d been sent at the age of twelve to study at the Benedictine abbey at Rouen. A precocious lad, he was always in trouble, and at the age of sixteen was embarrassingly caught naked in the bed of a novice nun. That incident had caused the abbot to lose patience and expelled him. To allow Alan the opportunity to catch up for missed training time his father had called in a favour owed to him by the famous swordsman Angelo, and Alan had spent two years of intensive weapons-training at Angelo’s salle d’armes in Paris. Amongst the skills taught was ‘rough and dirty’ knife fighting. He remembered Angelo’s comments and instructions as if it were yesterday. ‘There’s no such thing as an experienced knife-fighter- everybody gets killed or badly cut after a few bouts’. ‘Fight to win- fight dirty’. ‘Keep it simple. Keep it short.’

  “What’s your name, Monkey-Man?” asked Alan, goading his opponent. “I want to know who it is I’m going to kill.”

  “Lonner the Quick,” came the reply, the Fleming disappointed to see confidence and contempt in Alan’s eyes rather than the fear he’d expected. He himself licked his dry lips quickly as he struggled to adapt to the change of roles.

  The two men circled each other in the firelight, with a crowd of now of nearly fifty men, faces expectant in the flickering light, making a circle around them that was some eight paces wide. Alan was content to let Lonner make the first move, watching Lonner’s knife-hand and his feet. Lonner had a right lead, waving the knife back and forwards about six inches and had dropped his eyes to look at Alan’s knife. He made several feints and then tried a slash towards Alan’s arm. Alan stepped sideways to avoid the slash and circled left. With a sharp upward movement of his head he caught Lonner’s eye and stepped in and sideways to give his opponent a hard sideways kick to the left knee. The steel toecap of Alan’s boot smashed Lonner’s kneecap as he also savagely cut Lonner’s left upper arm with his knife. Lonner dropped with a squeal like a stuck pig, knee smashed and blood spurting from the deep wound in the arm.

  Alan glanced about the crowd. “I guess that Lonner is no longer ‘the Quick’. Anybody else want to chance their arm?” he demanded. There were no takers and Alan walked back to sit by the fire, trying to still the trembling in his hands as he wiped his knife blade clean before putting it away in the sheath in his boot. Several men carried Lonner off towards the abbey infirmary.

  “What the hell was that about?” Alan demanded of Hugh. “You could’ve stopped that anytime and made them give me the respect of my position. Instead I’ve had to cripple, and possibly kill, one of your men.”

  Hugh de Berniers shrugged. “Respect has to be earned in a war-band. You have that now. I wanted to see what kind of man you are- now I know. You’re a killer who thinks quickly and fights dirty, which is just what I need. You’ll be second in command of the troop.”

  * * * *

  Several days later they were still sitting and waiting for the wind. Each was eating a bowl of unsweetened oat porridge for breakfast when Robert asked Hugh, “Do you think we’ll ever get on the ships and sail to England?”

  Hugh scratched a stubbled chin; it had been some time since he had troubled to shave. “We sailed from Dives near Caen on the 12th September with a southerly wind; it had blown from the north for weeks. Then there was a storm from the west and we got scattered as we were moving here to St Valery sur Somme. The duke made a deal with Count Guy to let us sail from here as it’s a more direct journey to England- just sail due north. We lost some ships in the storm. For the last week the wind has been back in the north- which was lucky for you or you’d have missed the passage.”

  “But what about the portends? The fire in the sky after Easter?” asked Robert.

  Hugh snorted with amusement. “Who knows about such things? Certainly not me- and I think not either kings nor popes. They make of the
m what they will. Duke William claims the fire in the sky means he’ll be successful. I doubt not that Harold claims it means William will be crushed. It was six months ago. Omens are easily read in hindsight after the battle has been decided.”

  “But Duke William has the right to be king!” said another man. “Harold promised him that. He swore on holy relics and is now forsworn. Duke William has a claim by blood relationship to be king and was appointed by King Edward as his successor. God is on our side and will strengthen our arms!”

  “If that’s the duke’s greatest claim to kingdom of England, then he’ll have to rely on the same argument as Sveyn Forkbeard in 1013, when he became king of the Danish part of England in the north. Swords!” interjected Alan. “Sveyn’s son Cnut followed him as king in the north when Sveyn died in 1014 and in a deal with Edmund Ironsides he also became king of Wessex, Saxon England, in the south - the deal was whoever lived longest would be king of all England. That probably seemed like a good bet to Edmund as he was a young man. But he was dead within a year or so and Cnut expanded his kingdom. His son, Harald Harefoot followed him, and then his brother Harthacnut.

  “Edward returned and assumed power in the south, but who you recognised as king would probably depend on whether you were Anglo-Saxon or Danish, no matter where you lived. Harthacnut then died without legitimate heirs. The whole thing regarding ‘rights’ is a mess. William has no right to the throne, just as a bastard he had little enough claim to be duke if his father hadn’t named him his successor over the claims of his legitimate brothers, and made his vassals swear to support him before he set out on pilgrimage and then died.

  “William’s claim of blood comes from being a distant relative of Cnut and being a cousin to old King Edward. The only one who may be able to claim a right to be king is Edgar the Aetheling, the boy who has the blood of King Alfred in his veins. He’s thirteen.

  “Duchess Matilda, Duke William’s wife, is also distantly of the blood of Alfred, but Duke William isn’t claiming the throne in her stead. Harold has no royal blood at all. He was just the brother-in-law of Edward, but the English chose him as their king and he sits on the throne- which makes the argument of right and wrong largely irrelevant. The Norman nobles aren’t supporting William to be king out of any fine principles. They’re doing it for the land and wealth that being successful will give them- just like us lowly soldiers. To win the crown William has to beat the English army in the field and kill Harold. It’s our swords and our blood that will give him the right to be king.”

  Robert added, “Recently Harold Godwinson’s brother Tostig, who’s been in Flanders with his wife’s family after he fled England when he was deposed as earl by the Northumbrians and his brother didn’t support him, has been flitting backwards and forwards. Latest rumour is that he’s been to see Harald Hardrada of Norway to see if he can get him to invade and claim the throne of England, so Tostig can get his earldom back. God only knows what Hardrada will end up doing! It’ll probably depend on whether he’s bored with constantly beating Swein, the king of Denmark.”

  “To win the crown for William and riches for ourselves, first we have to get to England,” said Hugh wryly. “With the problems we’ve been having with that, it makes you wonder if God is on our side. We’ve been waiting for the right wind for weeks. It’s autumn and there are always gales and storms in autumn. It’s the equinox tomorrow. No prudent sailor takes to the sea after that, other than for short journeys. The duke has moved heaven and earth, spent all his gold and made God knows what promises to put this army here and those ships out in the river. In another two weeks it’ll all fall apart and everybody will go home.”

  The next day William and his great lords arrived, chief amongst them the duke’s former guardians Robert Count of Eu and Hugh de Montford, together with Hugh de Montgomerie, Geoffrey de Mandeville, William de Warenne and William’s half brothers Robert of Mortain, Odo of Bayeux and the duke’s seneschal William fitzOsbern. The following morning the duke had Mass said for the assembled host, using the services of the many bishops and priests that would be accompanying the expedition- many of them present in the army in a martial role.

  After Mass was completed Duke William mounted a small dais and shouted out an address, the words of which could not be made out by most of those present. After several minutes firstly his ducal banner of a gold leopard on a red background was unfurled, whipping in the strong breeze; the host gave a roar of approval. Then with great solemnity another banner, large and white, was borne to the dais. When unfurled by the standard-bearer, a flag with two large crossed keys in gold on a white background was revealed- the insignia of Pope Alexander. There was another roar of approval, but this somewhat muted as the watching soldiers didn’t understand the import of what they had seen. Next the monks from the abbey emerged carrying the gold-covered reliquary boxes in which the bones of St Valery resided and these were paraded in pomp around the assembled host, the soldiers kneeling piously and chanting religious songs.

  Later that evening a herald, one of several dispatched by Duke William to repeat the words of his speech that distance and wind had made inaudible to most of the army, explained Duke William’s claim to the throne. This was that he was related to a number of past English monarchs from Alfred the Great to Cnut and latterly King Edward; That both in England and on the continent kingship should pass to those of royal blood, of which Harold had none; The story of Harold’s swearing on holy relics to support Duke William’s claim to succeed King Edward was repeated, as was the claim that he therefore was a forsworn oath-breaker to be reviled by all.

  All of this was old news and not particularly impressive to the humble rank-and-file of the army, who saw it as standard propaganda. What was new information, and which explained the white standard, was that Pope Alexander II had recognised William’s claim to the throne of England and had given his blessing to the invasion, presenting William with a consecrated banner of St Peter and a papal ring.

  All those who opposed the Duke William’s army did so at risk of excommunication and eternal damnation.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PEVENSEY SEPTEMBER 1066

  Finally the prayers of the duke and his followers were answered. After what had seemed an interminable wait, the wind, which had blown consistently from the north for four weeks, finally changed to the south on the morning of Wednesday the 27th September.

  The Norman army hurriedly embarked into the armada of waiting ships on what had become an unusually hot day. There were hundreds of ships, only the largest able to carry as many as fifty men and most as few as twenty- even less for those where the horses had been led snorting and afraid up small gangplanks onto the vessels.

  Hugh de Berniers’ small squadron of cavalry was split between three of the smaller ships with six armed men, a few retainers and six horses each. Odin, Alan’s huge destrier, had proven to be one of the more fractious animals. A narrow wooden boardwalk had been build across the mud that separated the small open ship from the firm land of the riverbank and the war-horse had been reluctant enough to walk along that. To get him up the gangplank and into the padded stall that lay athwart-ships, with the animal being disturbed by the bustle and shouting all about and the loud neighing and the thump of kicks striking wood from those horses already loaded, required Alan to cover the head of the horse with a cloth while he pulled on the reins from the front and six men put their shoulders behind the horse’s rump and pushed, dodging out of the way as the horse lashed out with its rear hooves.

  Everywhere were men and horses milling about in confusion on land. Ships were in equal disarray on the water, many crashing into each other as their inexperienced crews tried to manoeuvre them to or from the riverbank.

  They departed on the mid-afternoon tide, the shallow mouth of the River Somme requiring the ships to have the assistance of the outgoing tide to navigate the many sandbanks and shoals. Even at high tide the ships carefully skirted exposed mudflats, where tiny brown and white sandpipe
rs darted about and the larger black and white oystercatchers wandered slowly, using their large red beaks to dig for worms and crustaceans. White herons stalked carefully in the shallows, occasionally stabbing their beaks to catch small fish. Overhead seagulls wheeled and screamed loud protest at this invasion of their usually quiet estuary home. Alan stood with his elbows on the ship's rail, cheerfully exchanging comments with Robert and Hugh.

  William had ordered the fleet to assemble around his flagship Mora in the bay beyond the river mouth, which would show a stern light on the overnight voyage. With so many ships there was no question of keeping any formation other than the ships moving en mass behind William’s large flagship. With the call for 600 ships had come a need for over 2,000 experienced sailors- which again Normandy didn’t have and which, unlike ships, couldn’t be obtained in a few weeks.

  The fleet, the soldiers and sailors having attended a special Mass to beseech God’s mercy in their endeavour to sail such a large fleet late in the season, commended their souls to the Lord and set sail, heading north.

  The boat on which Alan and Robert were travelling was ‘captained’, if that was the correct word, by a Fleming, with the assistance of two youths whom the Fleming had to instruct which ropes to pull. As darkness fell they couldn’t see the stern light of the Mora, so the captain, muttering all the time about the lateness of the season and the risk of storms, simply headed due north looking for the high white cliffs of Beachy Head, intending to then make a turn to the east to land at the instructed disembarkation point of Bulverhythe harbour, a large harbour just to the west of the smaller harbour of Hastings proper.