LXVIII

The Duke arrived with his entourage on the twenty-fourth of November. It had been a dry week and we saw the dust rising from the hill long before the procession appeared, as the party marched down between the banks to the flat meadows that lay between the slope and the town. Then we saw the guard itself, and at the same time the sun came out; there must have been five hundred people at least, and they made a brave sight with their banners, and the glint of steel as lances and swords shimmered in the light.

Trumpets sounded, and an answering call came from an advance party already in Barfleur. The soldiers finally marched into town and formed up on the square overlooking the jetty, staring out at the vessels that would take them to England. Another ship would appear on the flood tide today and moor on the jetty beside the White Ship. This was the Pelican from Honfleur – we knew that the Duke had chosen her because the Mayor of Honfleur had let it be known that he was upset: he did not understand why the Duke preferred to sail for England from Barfleur; it was something of a slur on the loyalty and efficiency of Honfleur as a port. If the Duke had to do such a thing, it at least rewarded Honfleur’s dedication and service if he sailed in a Honfleur vessel.

The reason for the Duke’s choice of Barfleur was really quite simple. Barfleur was the nearest port to Southampton and saved an extra thirty minutes of sailing, and nobody wanted to spend longer at sea than they had to. However, the Duke never liked to cause unnecessary antagonism (though he did not mind in the least when it was necessary), and so he had instructed the mayor of Honfleur to send his best ship to take him home for Christmas.

And so he made his entry into Barfleur with his soldiers and his courtiers and his hangers-on, with the clanking of metal and hoofing of steeds, with trumpets and hoarse commands and quartermasters scuttling about, the whole host smelling of dust, mud, horses, sweat and steel. He had with him trusted older friends – William de Tancarville, Comte Theobald of Blois, Othuer FitzCount, William Bigod, and Gisulf, his scribe – as well as two of his best captains, Gilbert of Exmes and Ralph the Red of Pont-Erchenfray, and his own Chaplain, Bishop Roger of Coutances. There were also some hundred elite archers, dark men redolent of yew and leather, from Wales (where they still castrate forfeited prisoners), and beefy, red-faced foot-soldiers from England.

If anyone was going to drown the next day, it would not be this lot, so I felt I could look them in the eye. They seemed like hard men and pretty good, average ruffians. It was going to be a noisy night.

The men fell out and were allotted sleeping quarters in the great hall of the town, and in certain barns set aside for the purpose. There was feasting because they were going home and Christmas was coming, and of course there was drinking too. Everyone was in a good mood because the Duke himself was smiling; it had been a successful season and much had been accomplished.

The harbour was by now full of vessels bobbing and creaking at the quayside, riggings twittering in the southerly wind. The Pelican, a fine capacious vessel, rode easily at her moorings and was already being loaded with some of the Duke’s baggage and impedimenta, but the pride of all the fair vessels was the White Ship which floated like a swan and was the centre of general attention. I saw FitzStephen standing in a corner thinking he was unobserved, gloating over her like a father seeing his daughter dressed as a bride.

This same day, I received a package from my lad at Haimo’s in Rouen setting out the sum owing by Prince William and his men for meat, and by Ralph the Red who was ever extravagant (in battle as in bed, it was said). This would give me legitimacy in the eyes of anyone, even the Duke himself, to come aboard whichever ship I chose. It was while I was walking by the jetty looking at the bustle of lading and the men coming and going, that I was prodded sharply in the back by someone coming at me from my unguarded quarter. I whirled round because you can never trust a place where soldiers are waiting. They are a raw and brutal breed and would as soon knife as look at you. But it was the Duke himself, large as life and twice as impressive. A couple of very large soldiers stood at a discreet distance behind him.

He stood there, a man in the full flush of his maturity: four square; barbu as the French say; black and ruddy with too much campaigning in sun and rain; dangerous, with eyes that never stopped roving. No wonder he had had more children out of wedlock than any other King of England. He could spot a pretty girl a mile off and a traitor too, some said. To say I was disconcerted is to say too little.

‘Ha,’ he said. ‘I thought it was you. I never forget a face. And I don’t like yours. Latiner, isn’t it? Last time I saw you, you were taking up arms against me.’

‘I was defending your daughter, sire.’

‘You were encouraging her in her insurrection.’

‘Hardly that, sire. You had just as good as killed her children.’

That brought him up short. I could see he was weighing up whether to have me arrested or just taken away and killed, but the truth of what I had said struck home. He rubbed his brow, looking suddenly more human.

‘It was a terrible thing,’ he muttered. ‘That fool of a Eustace. Who would have thought he would do a thing like that?’

‘I was their tutor. They did not deserve a fate like that. It was brave of them to die.’

‘It is done now, Latiner. We must move on. I pardon you for fighting against me, but what are you doing here? Hardly teaching Latin to the shipbuilders. Come on, man. The Duke must know everything.’

His big, black beard with its red, whiskery ends wagged as he admonished me. His eyes flickered over me like a lizard’s tongue.

‘I am working for Haimo, butcher of Rouen. He is owed money, sire, by one of your generals and by the Prince. He has asked me to collect it from the paymaster.’

‘He arrives tomorrow, and sails with the Prince. You had better beard him then.’

A secretary appeared and asked for the Duke’s signature – a confirmation charter for the Abbey of Cerisy had to be signed and sent off.

‘I must go,’ the Duke said to me. ‘Get your money tomorrow. Don’t let them fob you off. And thank you for looking after my grand-daughters, though I’m not sure I should thank you for looking after their mother…’

I could hardly believe I had heard the last sentence. He appeared to be in an extraordinarily genial mood. He turned to go, then paused.

‘If you ever feel like coming to England,’ he said, ‘come and see me sometime. I am sure we could find you a manor or something.’

For an absurd moment, I was grateful and rather tempted I could see myself with an English manor. I had heard that Sussex was very pleasant. Alice could come over. And then I thought: all this is going to change. And if the story gets out, and they catch me, I won’t just be hanged.