The Bastard's Crown Read online

  ‘At the same time I am displeased because Guillaume and Miles Peverel and Robert de Cuille took the law into their own hands. To teach them and the squire Tristan that this is unacceptable they will give me two years of military service.’ The duke looked at Viscount Peverel. ‘You will brief them as to their duties, lord Ranulph. Next case.’

  Ranulph took his son and the others into a small cell adjoining the hall. ‘I am sorry about this but Duke William has decided that it would be best if you left Normandy for a while until Bishop Odo has forgotten about this incident. It is probably even more important for you to be out of Rollo’s reach, Hugo.’ He took a deep breath. ‘He has arranged for you to serve the Bishop of London, William the Norman, as household knights. Tristan will go with Miles as his squire, naturally, and Hugo will return to his post as your squire, Guillaume.’

  ‘But what about Edmund?’

  ‘I don’t see why he should be banished so I have decided to take him into my own service. That will please his father enormously.’ He turned to Robert.

  ‘You don’t have a squire Sir Robert?’

  ‘No, I never felt the need for one at Cuille where I had servants to look after my armour and horses. I did think of making Hugo my squire but I don’t think he would have learned much so I was planning to send him to Leval when he was fourteen.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all in the past now.’ He paused. ‘I do have one concern though; Alice, my wife. What is to become of her? I can hardly take her to London. I don’t imagine that the bishop will have ladies in his palace.’

  ‘My wife would be delighted if Lady Alice would like to become one of her ladies whilst you are away.’ Viscount Peverel replied.

  ‘That is most kind of you my lord. I will be sorry to be parted from her again but I am very conscious of the honour you do us.’ He smiled. ‘Please forgive me, you were saying something about a squire.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I have a boy who was the son of one of my household knights and a serving girl. His father died some time ago and I took him on as a page. He is only thirteen but this would be a good opportunity to place him as a squire if you will take him; I realise that not every knight would accept one of his birth….’

  ‘Of course. I would be delighted to take him; especially after the kindness you have shown my family. What is his name?’

  ‘Roland. I have brought him with me to Caen so I’ll send him to you this afternoon.’

  When Robert started to say that tomorrow would be fine Ranulph cut across him.

  ‘Passage has been booked for you all on a ship leaving on the tide at 9 o’clock tonight. Good bye and good luck.’

  Chapter Three – England 1061 A.D.

  Oswin reined his horse in and looked at the city of London spread out below him. The old Roman town to the east showed little signs of life. The walls were now crumbling and much of the stone from which it had been constructed had been taken to build St. Peter’s Abbey at Westminster with its magnificent new church. There had been a Saxon monastery on the site for several hundred years but it had fallen into ruin. King Edward had started to rebuild it fifteen years ago and the church itself was now nearly finished. The other notable building nearby was the king’s palace of Westminster: Oswin’s destination. Between the old Roman town and Westminster lay the Saxon city of London. This was a sprawling mass of buildings, mostly of one or two stories, half hidden under the smoke which emerged from every house and hovel. At this distance it was difficult to make out the mass of narrow lanes between the buildings but the River Thames glistened in the late afternoon spring sunshine. He could just make out the borough of Southwark that lay the other side of the one bridge that spanned the river. Beyond that lay farms and woods.

  Oswin came from Burneham in Buckinghamshire and was the third son of a Saxon thane. His father had decided that Oswin should join the church but Oswin was violently against the idea. Eventually his father had given way and he had instead secured a place for his son with the king’s housecarls. As King Edward did not often stir out of London these days it did not promise to be very thrilling; mainly sentry duty and training. However, Edward was getting old and serving a new king might offer more in the way of excitement. At any rate it was better than becoming a monk, Oswin thought to himself.

  The streets of the capital were thronged with people. Oswin was used to the smells of the countryside but London positively stank. Everything was thrown into the street: the contents of overnight soil buckets, butchers’ offal, rotten vegetables, dead animals and every other form of waste. The major thoroughfares were paved but side streets weren’t so they became inches deep in mud if it rained and extremely dusty when it was dry.

  He was thankful that he was mounted on a rouncy, a departing gift from his father along with the donkey that he led loaded with his possessions. At least he didn’t have to plod through the stinking morass like those who were on foot. The donkey carried his spare clothing, such as it was, an old mail shirt, much mended, that had belonged to his grandfather, a helmet that was even older, a sword that had been a present on his eighteenth birthday a few months ago, a round shield made of lime for him by the manor’s joiner and an axe – the weapon of choice for professional Saxon warriors – that he had bought from an armourer in Ickenham. His cloak, woven from unwashed wool to preserve its water repellent qualities, was tied to his saddle.

  As he neared Westminster he entered a wider thoroughfare down which a cavalcade was making its way towards him. The man in front was obviously a senior clerk by his garb. Next to him rode a Norman knight holding a banner displaying a mitre above a gold cross on a red background. Several more clerks rode behind him with four more knights behind them then came several carts and finally five squires with several mounted sergeants bringing up the rear. Oswin pulled to one side of the road to let them pass. An old man was also watching and spat on the ground as the leading cleric passed.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Oswin asked him in English, the lingua franca of the Angles, Danes and Saxons who made up the great majority of the country.

  ‘William the Norman, so called bishop of London.’ The old man hawked and spat again. ‘You’d think that this king was a bloody Norman by the number of them he has given grand jobs to.’

  Oswin knew that Kind Edward had spent years in exile in Normandy when the Danes held the throne of England but he was an atheling, a Saxon prince descended from Cerdic, the first king of Wessex, and his most powerful adviser was Harold, earl of Wessex, so he couldn’t understand why the bishop of the capital city should be a foreigner. He was even more concerned to see that the bishop surrounded himself with Normans for protection.

  Having arrived at the palace of Westminster he was directed to a long timber-framed wattle and daub building which he was told was the stables. A stable boy ran out to take his horse and donkey and he followed the boy inside. Two housecarls were sitting at a collapsible table playing dice. He introduced himself as they looked him over critically.

  ‘You’ll need to find yourself a billet in the city’ the taller of the two told him. ‘Have you got any friends here?’

  Oswin shook his head. ‘No, none.’

  The other man shrugged. ‘You had best find a room in a tavern then. The Wyvern isn’t too bad and it’s quite close. Have you got any money?’

  ‘Some, not much though.’ Oswin had spent most of what his father had given him on the axe.

  ‘You’ll get paid, of course, but how much and when depends on the treasurer. He’s apt to forget us.’

  The other man snorted. ‘Most of Edward’s money goes on the wretched abbey.’

  ‘I suppose I had better report to the captain of the King’s Housecarls. Where will I find him?’

  ‘In the palace. Ask for Edgar Broken Axe.’ The two men went back to their gaming.

  ‘Is it alright if I leave my gear here?’ The stable boy had unloaded the donkey and stowed his gear by the door before dealing with his horse.

  ‘Yes, of course. That’s why we are here
on guard duty.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Thanks.’

  ‘Green as the mucus up my nose’ the taller one muttered to the other as he left.

  Edgar Broken Axe was talking to man dressed in a richly embroidered overtunic when Oswin eventually found him. They were arguing about the overdue pay for the housecarls, which Oswin didn’t think was a good sign. Eventually the other man threw his hands up and walked away.

  ‘Are you looking for me?’ It was evident from his tone that Edgar was not in the best of moods.

  ‘If you are Edgar Broken Axe, yes. I am Oswin come to join King Edward’s Housecarls.’ To his surprise the other man burst out laughing.

  ‘No one who knew me would dare call me Broken Axe to my face, boy. My name is Edgar of Winchester.’

  He was a tall man, even by Saxon standards. His long fair hair reached his shoulders and his moustache nearly did the same. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, the same age as Oswin’s father. He was dressed in a short sleeved tunic and coat of chainmail. His muscular arms were as big around as most men’s legs. He exuded power and authority.

  ‘I beg pardon, my lord.’

  ‘You weren’t to know and I’m not a lord. Edgar will do just fine.’ When the big man smiled his face was transformed. The rather brooding visage was replaced with one which was friendly and good humoured. ‘Now, have you got a billet.’

  ‘No, the two housecarls in the stables recommended the Wyvern.’

  ‘Oh, did they? Got really deep pockets have you?’

  ‘No, I’m nearly penniless until I get paid.’

  ‘Umph. That’s not likely to be any time soon’ Edgar muttered. ‘Right, in that case I’m afraid that you will have to find a space in the great hall for now. I’ll show you where it is and where to stow your gear safely. Where is it by the way?’

  ‘I left it in the stables.’

  Edgar sighed. ‘In that case I doubt if there is anything of it left. Esa and Cenric will have been through it with a fine toothcomb by now. Come on.’

  ~#~

  Hugo rode at the back of the column heading out of London for the bishop’s estate at Barnet. Since their arrival in England in the middle of December life had been fairly uneventful. Now he was seventeen he wanted to start enjoying life a little more and, to his mind, that meant getting drunk and losing his virginity as soon as possible. The problem was the Normans were thoroughly detested by the general population of London and it wasn’t safe for them to venture out alone or even in small groups.

  The bishop of London, a rather prissy man, had been Kind Edward’s confessor when his predecessor as bishop, a Saxon called Spearhafoc, had disappeared in 1051 taking the crown jewels with him. He had never been seen again. Edward distrusted other Saxons who had been suggested as successors to the notorious Spearhafoc and had therefore nominated his chaplain who had been with him since he had been an exile in Normandy, a man he trusted completely.

  The king had forced through William’s election but it had proved a most unpopular move and there had been an attempt on the bishop’s life. He had therefore gradually replaced his Anglo-Saxon guards with Normans. This had only widened the gulf between him and his congregation, of course. Now his household mesnie consisted of six knights, their squires and twenty sergeants, or mounted men-at-arms. It was his habit to travel to the large manor at Barnet, north of London, that Edward had granted to him as soon as the Easter period was over. At Barnet he felt safe and he could indulge his one passion – hawking.

  As Hugo rode away from the bishop’s palace he idly noted a young, fair-haired Saxon sitting on a rouncey and holding the reins of a donkey carrying armour and weapons. The youth looked to be a year or so older than he was and was looking at the cavalcade with curiosity rather than the usual hatred.

  Hugo was looking forward to getting out of the city, not least because Guillaume had obtained the bishop’s permission to visit one of manors that his Saxon mother had inherited at Bishop’s Hatfield and Hugo would be going with him. After King Edward came to the throne Maud’s father had returned from exile in Normandy and his manors in Wessex and this one in Hertfordshire were restored to him. When he died they were inherited by his only child – Maud, Guillaume’s mother.

  After an hour and a half they reached the village of Hampstead on top of the hills to the north of the city. Hampstead belonged to Westminster Abbey and there was a grange there where the bishop stopped for refreshment. His clerks and escort had to wait outside, which didn’t please them overmuch. Hugo sat in the shade of a tree eating an apple and mused about the similarities between this countryside and northern France, except that most of the land here was given over to pasture or cultivation; there were fewer woods and forests. Perhaps that wasn’t too surprising as the Anglo-Saxon landowners were basically farmers. In Normandy the nobility preferred to pass their time hunting and in more military pursuits, leaving the supervision of farming to their bailiffs and reeves.

  Even after climbing the escarpment to the north of London they still made slow progress thanks to the carts and it took them another three hours to reach Barnet. When they arrived Hugo was kept busy unloading his master’s possessions and looking after the horses. The original wooden hall house had been replaced by a long stone building with a hall on the first floor with a solar where the bishop lived. The storerooms and the kitchens were on the ground floor. The servants and lesser clergy had to bunk down in the hall but the old wooden hall had been divided by wooden partitions into cells for the senior clerks and the knights. Hugo managed to secure a straw paillasse for Guillaume to sleep on but he would have to make do with the hard floor.

  The two buildings were surrounded by a wooden palisade, as was normal in Normandy and Maine but it was a feature not often found in England. There was a platform behind the palisade on one side of the gate from which the approach to it could be observed. Two sentries manned the gate during the day and then kept watch from the platform at night. The squires took turns with the sergeants, standing watch for several hours at a time. The knights had it much easier as they just stood guard in the hall when the bishop held the manor court or heard petitions. True, they also had to take it in turns in charge of the watch and this meant checking the sentries occasionally. It was all very tedious as nothing ever happened.

  Hugo far preferred hunting to hawking which he regarded as something of a ladies’ sport. Nevertheless he had to admit there was a great deal of skill involved and the training of the birds required patience, not one of Hugo’s strong points. Despite himself he was impressed at how adept Bishop William was. Nevertheless he was glad when it was time to visit the manor owned by Guillaume’s mother.

  This was situated at Bishop’s Hatfield, some ten miles north of Barnet. As they would be taking a packhorse rather than a cart the journey would only take them three hours so they set out mid-morning. Although it was now late April the weather had turned colder in the last day or two and the dark clouds overhead threatened heavy rain. When it arrived it came down in torrents and they were both soon wet through, despite the oil impregnated cloaks that they wore. Both were glad to see the outskirts of the village emerge out of the gloom. They rode along the track that ran through the houses, the horses up to their hocks in mud. Not a soul could be seen but both of them thought that this was probably due to the weather. At last they stopped outside the hall house. Hugo shouted to announce their arrival but no stable boy emerged to take the horses and the door of the hall remained firmly closed.

  Guillaume dismounted and stormed up to the door, throwing it wide open. The hall house appeared to be deserted so he went through to check the solar. This was equally empty. Guillaume went back to the doorway. Hugo had disappeared but he could hear him in the nearby stable block looking after the horses. Where on earth were the bailiff and the servants? Then he noticed that the smithy was silent. Even in the rain he would have expected the blacksmith and his apprentices to be working; after all they were in the dry. The rest of the village was q
uiet, not a soul was to be seen. He had an uneasy feeling. Something was very wrong.

  ~#~

  Robert de Cuille did his afternoon rounds of the sentries and went back to his cell to get out of the rain as soon as he could. He felt sorry for his son travelling in these conditions. Roland was sitting on Robert’s truckle bed getting the rust off his helmet. The knight’s other gear lay around him on the floor either already cleaned or waiting its turn. He looked at the boy for a moment. He had a round face with a mop of black hair and, like many thirteen year-olds, he was in the middle of a growing spurt which made him somewhat gangly. Robert realised that he knew little about his squire, other than what Ranulph Peverel had told him. The boy got up as soon as he was aware of Robert standing in the doorway but the knight waved him back down and he went back to cleaning the helmet.

  ‘We’ve never really talked, Roland’ Robert began awkwardly, sitting down beside him. ‘I know your background, of course, but tell me something about yourself. What do you enjoy? What do you hate?’

  ‘Oh, um.’ The squire was taken off guard. He respected Sir Robert and admired Hugo but he was quite content to stay in the background. He was just grateful to have been given the opportunity to be a squire. Even if he didn’t become a knight he would almost certainly become a sergeant in due course. He thought for a moment.

  ‘Well, I like serving you, Sir Robert.’ He paused.

  The knight sighed. This was obviously a waste of time. They had only known each other for four months, and then only at a distance really, so the boy wasn’t going to unburden himself to a relative stranger.