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Among the contenders, Harald Hardrada of Norway and Duke William of Normandy, both very powerful men who would need someone equally as powerful to stand up to them - which is why Harold was chosen. He alone had a chance of beating them aside. He did, of course, win the battle against Hardrada at Stamford Bridge in September 1066, but lost the fight against William at Hastings in the October. Two men, equal in strength, the victor, William, to win by sheer luck. Had it rained, had dusk been another half hour, had Harold been able to defend his realm for just that little bit longer... but such is the way of things...
The following is an extract (abbreviated and pre-editing) from my novel Harold the King (UK title) / I Am The Chosen King (US Title)
We skip forward a few days, to Rouen in Normandy:
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Rouen 1066
The
messenger refused to hand the letter sent from England to the Duke personally.
Instead, he sought fitz Osbern.
“But this
is for Duke William. Why have you brought it to me, man?” Fitz Osbern was irritated.
Naught had gone right this day - before leaving his bed he had quarrelled with
his wife, then he had discovered his favourite hound had been in a fight during
the night, sustaining a torn ear and tooth-gouged neck. Added to that,
indigestion was burning in his chest and now this fool was standing there
hopping from foot to foot, proffering a parchment that was meant for the Duke.
As if he did not have enough of his own correspondence to see to this day!
At least
the messenger was honest in his reply. “Sir, I bring it to you because it
contains bad news. I have no intention of being on the receiving end of his
temper.”
William
fitz Osbern sat at his table, maps and letters spread before him, a quill pen
leaning from the inkwell, shavings from other trimmed quills brushed into a
neat pile. He had stared at the scrolled parchment in his hand. It was from the Bishop of London. He sighed. There was so much to do and so little
time in which to accomplish it. Norman administration would be easier were the
Duke able to attend to the reading of charters and letters himself, and if the
whole system were not so complicated. The recording of taxable land in England,
for example, was much more organised, with everything meticulously written down
and recorded in one set book within each shire.
“If it is
about King Edward’s health, then we are already aware that he is failing. The
Duke is expecting to hear he is dead.” Will handed the scroll back to the
messenger. “You have my assurance that he will not bark at you for that.” Mint
leaves would be good for his bubbling stomach. Perhaps he ought to send a
servant to fetch some?
The
messenger took a step backwards, emphatically refusing to take the document. “’Tis
not the bark that concerns me, my Lord, ’tis the sharp-toothed bite!”
Fitz Osbern
suppressed a belch. “For the sake of God, man, you have been paid to deliver a
message to Duke William. Do so.” Fitz Osbern tossed the scroll at the man, who
made no attempt to catch it.
“Nay, ’tis
not my place to disagree with you, but I were commissioned to fetch this to
Normandy as soon as might be possible. That, I have done. No one said anything
about taking it direct to the Duke himself.”
Exasperated,
Will heaved himself from his stool and fumbled for the scroll which lay among
the floor rushes. “I assume this great reluctance of yours is connected with
the knowing of what is contained in this scroll?”
“Oui.”
“Which
is…?” Fitz Osbern’s fingers clasped the letter.
The
messenger, a bearded, middle-aged man who, Fitz Osbern discerned, was in
desperate need of a bath, scratched his nose. Ought he tell? “Which is
that, aye, the King of England is dead, and that Earl Harold of Wessex is
crowned and anointed in his place.”
Fitz
Osbern’s grip tightened rigid around the parchment. Slowly, very slowly, he
straightened. “Repeat that.”
The
messenger did so.
Fitz
Osbern, mouth open, breath stopped, walked back to his stool, feeling as if he
were ploughing through knee-deep mud. He could imagine the words written on the
scroll burning through. Someone would have to read them aloud to William. His
indigestion paled into insignificance as a different kind of sickness rose into
his throat. He nodded, once, very slowly at the messenger. “You may go. See my
steward for payment.”
Relieved,
the man fled.
*
Duke
William sat very still. Only the slow, systematic rubbing of his thumb passing
backwards and forwards across the back of his hand and the tight clench of his
jaw indicated his fury.
“Read it
again,” he snapped.
Fitz Osbern
reluctantly complied. Duke William’s lips parted slightly, his nostrils flared.
The thumb stopped moving.
The chamber
was not crowded, but all within exchanged furtive glances of apprehension. Both
servant and knight alike knew to beware of their duke when a rage threatened.
Duchess
Mathilda, seated beside her husband, flicked a glance from the pale-faced Will
fitz Osbern to her husband and moved to rest her hand on William’s arm. With
irritation, he jerked away. The abrupt movement broke the stillness. He lurched
to his feet. The Duke was a tall man - in anger, his stature seemingly
heightened.
His words
however, were low: “I knighted him. Harold Godwinsson swore homage as my vassal.”
“Oui, my Lord.” Fitz Osbern allowed the
scroll to roll up on itself.
“He swore
to speak for me to convince the English of my claim.”
Again, fitz
Osbern answered simply, “Oui.”
William
clenched his fists, the nails digging into the palms. “He swore. He took an
oath before me.” The words were becoming slurred, spoken through that rigid
jaw. He turned his head with a jerk, gazed at fitz Osbern. “He made no effort
on my behalf? No attempt to speak for me?”
“It seems
not, my Lord. Bishop William of London has always proved to be reliable and accurate
in his information.”
Mathilda
rose and put her hand over her husband’s fist, persuading the fingers to relax.
Was surprised to find his hand was shaking.
She too
could not believe that what was written in that letter was the truth. Harold, when he had been here in Normandy, had seemed such a pleasant man, so benign - so honourable. She felt a blush
tingle her face as she remembered him close to her, his laugh, those startling,
vivacious blue eyes…. Ashamed at that flurried erotic memory, Mathilda stifled
the lurch that had knotted her stomach and peered up at her husband. “My Lord,
you are a greater man than ever Harold will be - and is it not as well that we
have discovered his true nature before committing our daughter in marriage and further into his
care?”
Had William
heard? He made no sign that he had. His anger was swamping him, penetrating his
senses, thundering in his brain. He had been betrayed before. Other men had
sworn allegiance and reneged upon their oath. And other men had paid the price
of their duplicity.
“So. This
is how England repays my kindness?” Resentment spewed from William’s mouth. “I
could have left him to rot in Ponthieu when he was captured, could have taken him for ransom for
myself, but no! I welcomed him as a guest, I treated him as if he were one of
my allies, offered him my confidence and my friendship - God’s breath…” William
marched ten paces, turned and glared at the silent group of men and women. “I
offered him the honour of becoming my son by marriage!” He lunged forward,
scattering goblets, jugs and food bowls from a table, tipped the table itself.
Struck out at a servant, clawed at a tapestry and ripped it from the wall. A
few of the women screamed, men drew back, several dogs in the Hall began to
bark.
Knowing no
one else would attempt to calm him, Mathilda intervened, her hands grasping his
flailing arms. She was so small against him, her head barely reached his chest.
She gripped tighter, shaking him. There were more than a few in that Hall who
secretly admired the woman’s bravery. “It is done. The thing is finished.
Forget him, forget England.”
William
stared down at his wife, his expression a vice of hatred.
“Forget
him? Forget England?” he said ominously. “On the day I wed you, I promised you
would not think of me as an illiterate barbarian, I promised I would prove to
you my worth and my strength, that I would give you a crown.”
Interrupting
him, Mathilda declared, “There is no need to prove anything to me, I have all I
could wish for. A husband who is loyal to me, who has given me handsome sons
and beautiful daughters.”
Her words
did not penetrate his mind.
“I vowed
that I would make you my queen. And queen, Madam, you will be.”
William pulled
away from her, swung towards fitz Osbern. “So, this English whoreson wishes to
challenge my claim to England, does he? Then let it be so. We shall see who is more
determined, I will not be made to look the fool. I want England and I shall
have it.”
Spring at Battle Abbey, Sussex photo: Alison King |
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Further reading and excerpts:
5th January 1066
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I love this book! I won it here on your blog. It's such a good account of the many events that lead up to the Battle of Hastings.
ReplyDeleteThank you Meredith - makes giveaways and such most worthwhile!
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