The Bastard's Crown Page 5

  He cautiously retraced his steps and came round a corner beyond which lay a fork in the track. However it had also brought him back within sight of the others. A quick glance showed him that Lord Geoffrey was using the flat of his sword to make his way to the front of the milling horsemen. He was a somewhat rotund man who was red in the face, either due to anger or exertion - or possibly both. He forced his way past the men carrying the injured squire and started down the track towards Robert before realising that the latter was pointing a crossbow straight at him. The most powerful man in Maine checked his horse, unsure what to do for a moment, then his rage overcame his fear and he charged straight at Robert raising his sword above his head. Robert suddenly turned his horse and raced off down the side track leading his pursuer ever deeper into the wood. Several times the track split and by the time that Robert turned his horse to face de Mayenne again his entourage had lost contact with their leader.

  Robert aimed the crossbow quickly and pulled the trigger. De Mayenne flew over his courser’s head as the quarrel took it squarely in the head and it sank to its knees. He crashed to the ground only yards from Robert, who leaped off his horse, grabbed sword, scabbard and dagger from the unconscious man, and was back on his horse riding away round the bend just as the first of Lord Geoffrey’s men came into sight.

  Breathing a sigh of relief now that he was better armed he rode away searching for a proper way through the woods. Eventually he came in sight of a much wider track heading, he thought, towards the north. He stopped and used the dagger to cut away the tell-tale blazon of de Ballon from the saddlecloth and then rode on again. The road emerged from the woods and started to run through open fields. He felt more exposed but there was no other way of reaching his wife’s family who lived just north of Alencon. The problem was that, in order to reach their castle, he had to get to Alencon undetected and then ride though a town garrisoned by de Mayenne’s men. He had no doubt that, instead of just being an absconding novice, he was now a wanted man with a price on his head. He needed to find somewhere where he could lie low for some time whilst the hue and cry died down.

  ~#~

  Gilbert was far from a conceited child by nature but he couldn’t help but feel some pride at the progress he had made in the two years he had served the constable of Caen. The latter’s role involved both the defence of the castle and managing all the domestic staff. To assist him he had a captain of the garrison and a steward. He also had a personal staff which consisted of a scrivener and his clerks, his squire and six pages. The latter acted as messengers and personal servants. They were all the sons of nobles and knights and would normally become squires when they reached fourteen. The scrivener and the clerks had been educated in a monastery and were mainly younger sons of knights whose fathers could not afford their military training. Gilbert felt very out of place at first, especially as his skills at reading and writing and knowledge of Latin proved somewhat rudimentary.

  Nonetheless he was bright and learned quickly. The scrivener soon became aware of his latent talent and encouraged him. Of course, this soon became obvious to his fellow junior clerks and they ostracised him, partly because he was different to them but also they were envious of his talent. By ignoring him they believed that this would also teach him a lesson. It didn’t, or at least not the lesson they intended, which was to know his place. Gilbert withdrew into himself and spent all his time trying to educate himself. Within six months he had caught up with his fellow junior clerks and had passed some of them. This annoyed them even more and they began to play tricks on him. A favourite was to hide something of his in the hope that he would go frantic looking for it. This was so obvious that Gilbert saw through it straight away and ignored the item’s loss; either doing without it or acquiring a replacement, if that was necessary. They could never work out where the replacements came from but Gilbert and Hugo had been expert filchers when they were young boys and never got caught. They didn’t do it of necessity then but because of the thrill it gave them. And Gilbert had always been the cleverer of the two and the more cunning.

  After a year, when Gilbert was fourteen and a half, the scrivener brought him to the constable’s attention. The steward had recently lost the assistant who kept the domestic account ledgers. The man had died suddenly and replacing him became a matter of urgency. Normally the post would have gone to the senior clerk on the scrivener’s staff but figures was not his strong suit; it would be difficult to say what was. More importantly the scrivener was aware of the bad feeling between Gilbert and the rest of his clerks and he had a soft spot for the boy. Moving Gilbert to the steward’s staff would not be a popular decision but it would solve the problem.

  The steward was dubious about Gilbert at first, despite the scrivener’s recommendation, but he soon became impressed by the boy’s ability and came to rely on him more and more as time went by. He was approaching fifty and found he tired easily. For his part Gilbert seemed to welcome more and more responsibility. By the time he was sixteen there was little that the steward did that Gilbert could not do as well, if not better.

  Gilbert saw Hugo around the castle from time to time and the two remained firm friends but they had little time to themselves. However, there came a night when the steward allowed Gilbert a rare evening off at the same time as Guillaume Peverel had gone to visit his family and didn’t need Hugo for a day or two. The two youths decided to spend the evening in Caen and sought out a tavern that was neither too expensive nor too squalid. After a few mugs of coarse wine Hugo suggested that they move onto a brothel.

  ‘I have never been to one and I am not that keen on catching the pox just now,’ Gilbert objected.

  ‘Come on. You’ll enjoy it. I’m not suggesting the ones that hang around the cathedral square. There is a house I know where the girls are all clean.’ Hugo, like Gilbert, had never sampled the delights of a brothel but he had heard the knights and men-at-arms discussing the various merits and otherwise of various establishments enough times. After another mug of wine Gilbert allowed himself to be persuaded and the two totted up how much they had between them. Hugo was certain that it would be enough and they set out, staggering slightly when the chilly night air hit them.

  Gilbert was the more sober of the two and twice he felt that they were being followed. When he told Hugo, the squire stopped and peered back down the street, squinting in concentration as he was finding it difficult to focus.

  ‘Nonsense Gilbert, nothing there. Come on, before the best ones are taken.’ Gilbert allowed himself to be steered towards the brothel again. He was beginning to get cold feet and, truth to tell, so was Hugo, but neither was going to admit that to the other.

  They started down an alley that led to the street where the brothel lay when suddenly they heard running feet behind them. They turned and Hugo’s hand went for his dagger. By the time he had found it and drew it their assailants had reached them and a cudgel came down breaking Hugo’s forearm. He screamed and the dagger dropped from his fingers. A second later the cudgel hit Gilbert’s head whilst he was wrestling with a second attacker. He felt excruciating pain and then, briefly, the sensation of falling into an abyss before he lost consciousness.

  ~#~

  Duke William almost breezed into the council chamber in Rouen. He was in a rare good humour. By nature he was serious and always dominated any gathering by the force of his personality. He was a tall man with a powerful physique who not given to smiling nor allowing anyone to get familiar enough to penetrate the wall he had built around himself. No doubt this was due to his horrendous childhood when he had nearly been assassinated several times and had witnessed the killing of those closest to him by rivals for the regency. Today was different though; if not actually smiling he was evidently in a good humour.

  ‘My lords. I have some excellent news.’ He glanced around the table at his council made up of the counts, viscounts, bishops and senior barons who helped him rule Normandy. He frowned briefly. ‘Well, perhaps excellent is not the a
ppropriate word.’ He paused. ‘At any event a thorn has been removed from my side. Geoffrey Martel is dead and the Angevins are bickering over his successor as count of Anjou.’

  If he expected a rapturous welcome to the news he was disappointed. Everyone was working out what this meant, particularly for themselves. Ranulph Peverel spoke into the silence. ‘Good news indeed, my lord. But if Maine is your target we still have Geoffrey de Mayenne to contend with.’

  ‘The saints preserve us, Peverel. I always thought that that you were brighter than most.’ Ranulph was beginning to regret breaking the silence first, however unbearable it was becoming. ‘Without the support of Anjou de Mayenne and the rest of his pack of Mainard traitors won’t be able to withstand us for long.’

  ‘You plan to invade Maine, my lord duke?’ asked one of the other lords. ‘On what pretext?’

  ‘Why to support the claim of Herbert Basso as the true count of Maine, of course.’

  ‘Won’t that leave Normandy exposed to invasion by the king of France or by Brittany though?’ his half-brother, Odo of Bayeux, queried.

  ‘The king of France is dying and his heir is an eight year old boy’ replied William scornfully. ‘I doubt that we shall have much to fear from that quarter, especially once the old king is dead. As for Brittany, it may take a little while but I have plans that should ensure no interference from there.’ He paused, the frown back on his face. ‘We also need to see what transpires in Anjou. The dispute over Martel’s successor may need a little help.’

  ‘Pardon me, my lord duke, but I don’t understand why you want to put Count Herbert back in charge of Maine when he couldn’t hold it last time.’

  The duke started to feel exasperated but realised that his council was not privy to what he knew. He nearly smiled for the second time that day. ‘I should have told you before. He has agreed to betroth his daughter Margaret to my son Robert.’ He paused for effect ‘and to name them as his successors should he die before he can marry again and produce a son.’

  ~#~

  Robert paused on the hill overlooking the approach to the town of Alencon. He had spent over a year at the small manor of a knight he knew to be loyal to Herbert Basso. The knight had lost part of his right arm in battle a few years previously and so Robert had repaid the knight’s hospitality by helping him to run his manor and training his two young sons to use sword, shield and lance. However, as time went on he worried less and less about being caught and longed more and more to be reunited with his wife. Eventually he felt that enough time had passed for his exploits to be forgotten and he took his leave.

  The south gate of Alencon was open and there was a continuous procession of carts, packhorses and donkeys carrying goods into the town for the weekly market. The guards on the gate didn’t seem to take much interest in the traffic and he wondered if he could slip into the town unchallenged. If he tried to by-pass it to the east he would have to ride exposed across cultivated fields and he would stand out like a harlot in a monastery. The border with Normandy ran close to the west of the town and a tower had been built to watch over this area. His father-in-law’s lands ran the other side of the border but he couldn’t see any way of reaching them without going through the town. He could see dust clouds on the north side which indicated that Norman farmers and merchants were also coming to Alencon for the market so that gate must be open too.

  He thought about making a wider detour to avoid the area completely but the border further to the west would be patrolled and the woods the other side of the cultivated area looked to be fairly impenetrable.

  In the end he decided to risk riding through the town. He tried to be as nonchalant as he could as he approached the gates. The guards’ attention was taken up by a farmer who had brought his young daughters with him for the market. The farmer was getting more and more irate as the guards flirted with the girls and they flirted back. As the farmer finally managed to urge his horse and cart through the gates the guards were more intent on calling out ribald comments to the giggling girls than they were in the horseman behind him so Robert rode through with without being challenged.

  That changed the other side of the gate. Brother Anselm, the sub-prior at Solesmes, was riding towards him on a donkey. His first reaction was to wonder why a monk from an abbey south west of Le Mans should be in Alencon. Later he found out that, as luck would have it, he was now employed by the constable of the castle. Behind Anselm rode a knight and his squire. Anselm’s piggy little eyes lit up at the sight of him and he called a warning to the guards at the gate not to let Robert escape. Robert thought of trying to ride Anselm down and taking refuge in the narrow streets of the town but then he saw the knight had drawn his sword and the squire had lowered the lance with its fluttering banner and was aiming it at his heart.

  ~#~

  Hugo woke with a throbbing pain in his head and an even worse one in his right arm. Gradually he became aware of his surroundings. He lay on a straw filled paillasse on a narrow wooden platform in the corner of a smoke filled room. It was dimly lit by an opening in one wall covered by a badly made shutter through which some light penetrated the gloom. The room was tiny and, apart from the bed on which he lay, there was little to see apart from a table made of a tree trunk cut in half supported by legs made out of branches which still had the bark on and a bench similarly made. His broken arm was bound to two lengths of wood by a filthy strip of cloth. At least it felt as if someone who knew what they were doing had set it.

  The door opened letting more light flood into the room before it was blocked by a stooped figure who shuffled in carrying more firewood. She dropped the wood beside the central hearth and turned to close the door again. Hugo couldn’t make her out very clearly but she appeared to be an old woman. When she came and loomed over him he saw that her face was so wrinkled that she must be even older than he had at first thought. She smiled revealing her toothless blackened gums.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake at last. Good, good.’ The crone moved away and came back with a wooden ladle full of water which she dribbled into Hugo’s mouth.

  ‘Where am I? What am I doing here? What happened?.’ Then Hugo remembered the attack in the alley. ‘Gilbert. Where’s Gilbert? Is he alright?’

  ‘Don’t know about no Gilbert,’ she muttered. ‘Sir Tormod said you were to be kept quiet so you could mend. He wants you back ploughing as soon as possible.’

  ‘Ploughing?’ Hugo was perplexed. ‘I’m no ploughboy. I’m Sir Guillaume Peverel’s squire.’

  ‘Now didn’t I say he had a fanciful mind?’ Another figure entered the room leaving the door open behind him, which the old crone hastened to close but not before Hugo had glimpsed the badly disfigured face of the speaker. He might not have recognised him now but he realised with a sinking heart that the sneering voice belonged to Rollo.

  He crossed the small room in two strides and stood leering down at Hugo in satisfaction.

  ‘I want no nonsense from you, Sigmund, you may have escaped once but you don’t have any friends at this manor and you will be back at the plough from dawn until dusk just as soon as that arm mends. After all, I’m not a cruel man.’ Rollo turned to grin at the crone, for whose benefit this was presumably said.

  ‘Make sure that he stays here. If he escapes again I’ll have your head as well as his.’ The old woman bobbed her head.

  ‘Don’t you worry, sir, I’ll get the blacksmith to put a fetter round his leg and chain it to that ring. She pointed to where a smoked haunch of ham hung from the rafters.

  ‘I’m surprised you can afford a ham, woman.’

  ‘It was payment for getting rid of an unwanted foetus, sir.’ She cracked a toothless grin.

  ‘Hmm.’ With that Rollo stalked out of the hovel leaving Hugo despairing about what the future held for him. He had seen how hard the bondsmen had worked at Cuille. They were scarcely more than slaves and, whether they worked for the lord of the manor or for a free villager, their lives were barely worth living. They were bound l
egally, economically, and socially to the manor and could not leave it without permission; the penalty for doing so was often death. They formed the lowest social class of feudal society and the contrast between their lives and that of the minor aristocracy, like Hugo, couldn’t have been starker. Even Gilbert, as the son of the blacksmith – a free villager and a skilled artisan – was far above a bondsman in the order of things.

  The blacksmith’s apprentice came and manacled Hugo’s left leg none too gently. After he left the youth lay there sunk in despondency.

  ~#~

  Hugo’s father was also manacled. He lay in a dank dungeon in the bowels of the castle at Alencon in clothes that were now filthy. The cell stank from the slop pail in the corner, which was rarely emptied, and he was sure that the smell had permeated his shirt, tunic and braies by now. He was covered in lice and other bugs and had lost count of the days he had been there. Brother Anselm, now the scrivener to the constable of Alencon, had come to see him that morning to tell him with some glee that the following day he was to be tried for treason, attempting to kill Geoffrey de Mayenne and horse theft. All these offences carried the death penalty he had been told. Were he still the lord of a manor he could have expected to receive nothing worse than a fine for the horse theft and might even have got away with killing Lord Geoffrey’s horse but he was an attainted traitor in the eyes of those who now ruled in Maine.

  That night his meagre meal of stale bread and a cup of water was brought to him as usual by the jailor’s assistant. The jailor stood by the door to make sure he didn’t try to escape; though how he thought he could do that with his legs chained together was beyond him.

  The next day he was doused in water to get the worst of the muck off him and he stumbled along, hampered by his chains and weak from lack of food and exercise, shoved in the back by the two guards every time to tried to rest. The remains of the water dripped of him with every step and when he arrived at the great hall he wondered what sort of a sorry spectacle he presented.