December 1066, Westminster
For a knight in the king’s elite service,” Dreux said to Alaric, “you look sullen. Are you abstaining from women and drink?” he teased.
“Not likely,” Alaric said, lifting his drink and saluting the noblewomen smiling at him from across King’s Hall.
The previous day, on Christmas, William, duke of Normandie, had been crowned. This morning, Alaric, Dreux, and twenty others were knighted, initiated into the king’s royal order. All received enfeoffments, small land grants, to support their knight’s service, and new swords inscribed, in nomine domini. Alaric now shared the bottom rung of the new Norman aristocracy with hundreds of others, clinging with slippery grips, clutching with toes, and clawing over each other for the next. He had not hoped for so much when he’d first joined William’s venture. But now, despite the coronation festivities, it all seemed rather . . . empty.
“Is Blackwolf drunk?” Richard de Rupierre, asked, stumbling into Dreux.
“Sober enough to crush your skull,” Alaric said by way of greeting.
“Ha!” Richard drained his cup and grabbed a jug from a passing servant. “I pray William feeds you to the hounds one day,” he snarled.
Burly and blunt, with pale brown hair, Richard reminded Alaric of an ox. Thor’s hammer, easily mistaken for a cross, marked the back of his sword hand. He was a year older than Alaric, a third son of an undistinguished family seeking his fortune in William’s kingdom. They’d met in Rouen, where they parried insults instead of swords. At Hastings, Richard’s unbridled ferocity had won Alaric’s respect. With Dreux, Richard served the king’s brother, Bishop Odo.
“Drink up,” Richard said, filling everyone’s cup. “We’ve won the kingdom.”
“Total victory!” Dreux concurred.
Alaric looked into his cup and gave it a swirl. He knew better. Just a week ago, when he’d approached the River Fleet to enter London, he smelled the heads staked along Lud’s Gate and on the hill. The townspeople, he heard, had tried to keep William out, and London’s soldiers had fought so fiercely the river ran red. Alaric had battled with the English. He knew their tenacity. They were not defeated.
Still, looking at the crowd, he understood why others thought so. Most of the English nobility had fallen at Hastings. Harold’s four brothers, the only men trained and capable of mounting resistance, were all dead. Harold’s sons had fled. Nobles who had survived the battle had scattered to the woodlands. Perhaps they hoped to organize a rebellion among the freemen of substance.
“Jesu,” Richard said, “those longhaired, bearded English look like dim-witted oafs, overdressed and uncultured.”
Alaric rotated his left shoulder, injured at Hastings, and measured the earls and thegns who had not fought against William. Easily distinguished from shorn and shaved Normans, they wore their traditional garments of interwoven fine wool and gold, and about their necks hung thick, silver chains with pendants of carved wild-ox horns decorated with gems. The most prominent, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria embodied the highest-ranking nobles around whom disaffected English would gather.
“Each gave William their oaths and hostages,” Alaric said.
Richard snickered. “For their lives. He’ll let them keep their titles and lands as long as they remain his honored guests.”
Biding their time, Alaric thought, watching them circulate King’s Hall, ignoring each other as if afraid to be seen together, and moving like stiff-legged mules, always accompanied by William’s men as if leashed.
Alaric’s attention shifted to Guillaume d’Évreux, cutting through the crowd toward him. His richly embroidered attire reminded Alaric that Guillaume would inherit his father’s title and all the land and wealth. If Alaric’s father had been legitimate, Alaric would be the heir to Évreux. Both knew it. As boys, they’d exchanged blows over it.
“Please accept my lauds, Cousin,” Guillaume said upon his arrival.
Alaric wondered if having deigned to cross the room and acknowledge him accounted for Guillaume’s embarrassed look. He smiled, burying the animosity between them. “Thank you, Guillaume.”
“I hope you understand your position, Alaric. May I speak to you as your cousin and hopefully your friend?”
“Go on.”
“Your reputation since Hastings has grown.” Guillaume looked across the room, his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked on the balls of his feet. “Even though they are small estates, William has been quick to reward you, and . . . more generously than anyone else.”
Guillaume paused. “Without sounding covetous, I and others who paid for William’s venture have yet to receive any estates.”
Richard snorted and Dreux nodded. Alaric knew that Guillaume had given William eighty new and fully outfitted ships for the crossing. A fortune. Until Guillaume mentioned it, Alaric had not realized the king had so generously acknowledged him.
“Be careful. Enemies abound,” Guillaume said cautiously.
“I appreciate the advice,” Alaric said, seeing his cousin’s shoulders relax.
“I am sorry about your family. Come to Évreux when you can.” Guillaume clasped Alaric’s arm and walked away.
“He is right,” Malet said, who had joined Alaric and his companions. “About enemies. They are everywhere. In this very hall. As fortunes change, so do loyalties.”
Alaric looked around the hall. At one end, William wore his bejeweled crown and a lavish scarlet tunic trimmed in gold braid. He appeared wholly absorbed in discussion with the men of his inner circle, his own brothers, his prelates, his best and most loyal men, including the Breton, Count Alain le Roux—a man whose acrimony Alaric had won. Throughout, he saw William’s followers, noblemen who had come from Flanders, from Sicily, Picardy, and beyond, all adorned in their finest attire, all waiting like gulls for the king to toss them a morsel.
Laughter drew Alaric’s attention to Count Eustace de Boulogne, the man who had challenged his loyalty on the beach at Pevensey. At Hastings, an axeman had knocked Eustace from his horse with a near-deadly blow. Now, apparently recovered from his injury, the count glided among the noble personages with a skill few possessed, gregarious and affable, with a smile, a quick laugh. His bald head reflected torchlight, and unlike Normans, who preferred clean-shaven faces, he wore a conspicuous mustache.
“Ah, the kingmaker,” Malet said, the word ladened with fury.
“Who, Eustace?” Dreux asked.
“Yes, as his minions call him. They claim he gave William the crown. But have no doubt that he would have claimed the throne for his son had he sired a boy on King Edward’s sister.”
“Thank God,” Richard said. “I’ve loathed the coward since Hastings, when he told William to concede.”
Alaric recalled the long day of exhausting, bitter combat, the late afternoon, the desolate feeling as Eustace quit the field and took his men with him. Yet, when the battle shifted, Eustace returned with great pomp. And chopped Harold to bits.
Watching the count, Alaric flexed his shoulder again. He would not have fought for him had he sought the crown. As if hearing his thought, Eustace met his gaze and began shouldering through the crowd towards him.
“God’s teeth!” Malet said. “I’ve no stomach for him.”
“Nor have I,” Richard said, leaving with Malet.
“You?” Alaric asked Dreux.
“I’ve a woman to woo.” Dreux slapped him on the back and departed.
Alaric watched Eustace approach, wondering if the man’s infectious laughter and robust frivolity disguised a keen, appraising mind. Anyone might have thought him a mere jongleur, were it not for his clothing, dazzling in gold and jewels, and the apparent influence he wielded as others gravitated to him, like sinners seeking dispensation.
Lifting his drinking bowl, Alaric offered a casual salute to Eustace’s man, Brian Dubec, a fellow warrior in liege to a lord, but received no acknowledgement even when they presented themselves before him.
“Greetings, Alaric of Ewyas, son of Simeon. You proved yourself a fine soldier at Hastings,” Eustace said smoothly.
“My lord,” Alaric said. “Others fought as well.”
“Modesty does you no justice. You are a bloodthirsty killer, and my most hardened soldiers are terrified of you. Isn’t that so, Brian?” Dubec did not answer.
Alaric disliked Eustace’s dubious compliment given at the expense of his captain.
“I’m impressed,” Eustace said, “that the king gave you the task of burying Harold.”
“I merely assisted Malet,” said Alaric. Together they had carefully, reverently, scraped Harold’s body from the battlefield. Even in death, Harold was an anointed king, chosen and blessed by God to rule. Alaric studied Eustace, thinking that only a desperate, depraved man would profane a king’s sacred body. There was killing, and there was maiming. There was war, and there was murder.
“Harold’s corpse had been mutilated—beyond mere battle wounds.”
“Harold deserved his doom,” Eustace replied.
“Some say he was a king.”
“He was a commoner with no royal blood. Call him usurper, earl, villein—debt canceled.”
“Debt?”
“His villagers at Dover insulted me.”
Alaric frowned.
“Yes,” Eustace said. “As I recall, your father served under Osbern the Pentecost near Wales.”
“Yes,” Alaric answered, unsure what that had to do with Dover.
“Osbern. A good and loyal friend,” Eustace said. “Do you remember when he left Ewyas?”
“Vaguely. I was a boy,” Alaric said.
At Eustace’s gesture, his man stepped away, and they sat on a nearby bench.
“Years ago,” Eustace said, “I visited my brother-in-marriage, King Edward. As I journeyed home, I stopped in Dover for the night. The villagers attacked my retinue and me. After defending ourselves, we informed the king of our ill-treatment. Since Dover belonged to Earl Godwin, the king ordered him to punish the villagers for abusing his sister’s husband. Godwin, urged by his son Harold, refused, saying he would not punish villagers for defending themselves against raiding foreigners!”
The count swept his bejeweled hand over his smooth head and continued. “Edward floundered with indecision. Osbern, however, loudly charged Godwin and his sons with treason for disobeying Edward’s order. With support from my French-speaking comrades in Edward’s court, the king agreed. He exiled the entire Godwin family, including the queen, and seized all their land and possessions.”
Eustace sipped his drink. “Normans controlled all the riches of Wessex. New taxes, new laws. We seized Godwin’s wealth—”
“Godwin came back in less than a year,” Alaric said.
“Yes. Edward marched to battle, and found himself surrounded. His men would not fight the Godwins. He reinstated the family and outlawed French-speaking foreigners. Across the land Harold hunted and murdered my allies for bounty.”
Now, Alaric understood why riders had come to Ewyas, urging them to flee, and why Harold had not given Osbern five grace days.
“Norman heads,” Alaric said, “men, women, and children were spiked at town gates throughout the kingdom.”
“Not all. Harold spared you and your family. He dubbed your father, Simeon . . . the Brave, and sent him to Hereford where he served my stepson. It must have galled him.”
“Galled who? My father? Or your stepson, Ralf the Timid?” It annoyed Alaric that this count knew so much about his family.
“No matter now,” Eustace said, erasing the past with a cheerful smile. “I gave William ships, gold, and arms. William’s reward will cancel Harold’s injury to me completely.” He glanced around the hall and chuckled. “But, I must say that after fifteen years, revenge tastes like fine wine.”
“That’s a long time to hold ill feelings,” Alaric said.
Eustace turned to Alaric, all traces of the fool gone. “I never forget. Never.” His gaze cut deeply into Alaric. “Until I receive full reparations.” He laughed suddenly.
“Is revenge the reason you joined William’s venture?”
“My dear boy!” Eustace shook his head. “The only reason I came on the maiden voyage was to best Harold. But like any honest man, I joined for the returns, my boy, the riches.” He waved his arm as if sweeping from north to south. “While the rest of Christendom suffers from frequent famines, this land is lush. Ripe for the picking.”
“That is one way to look at it,” Alaric said.
“How do you see it?” Eustace stroked a thumb along his mustache.
“I think William will strengthen and unify the kingdom.”
“Do you believe in fairies as well?”
The mockery startled Alaric. “You doubt William can protect his kingdom?”
Eustace laughed. “William can protect Englelond from everything but the Normans, and Normans will destroy her. This land is William’s safeguard. It will distract young, highly trained killers—like you—who might otherwise get bored, restless, and take it upon themselves to disrupt William’s duchy or join his rival, the king of Francia. It is safer to send all these second and third sons over here and isolate them on this island. Let them plunder, rape, and murder, far from Rouen, I say.”
“The king has forbidden rape,” Alaric said.
“William will never stop his followers from exercising a victor’s rights.”
Alaric remained silent. He disliked Eustace more each moment.
“After raping the kingdom,” Eustace continued, “Normans will wring her dry. Revenues will feed and enrich we who paid for the invasion.” Turning to Alaric, he said, “You disapprove. Do you cling to some exalted purpose? Like honor or glory, praised in ancient tales?” Eustace grunted. “Actually,” he leaned toward Alaric conspiratorially, “I, too, would sacrifice my daughter for a favorable wind.”
Alaric, confused by the reference, said, “I am only a warrior in service to the king.”
“Truly? When you subdue the English, as I am sure you will, what reward would you seek?”
“No more that what the king has given me. The honor of serving him and enough revenue to support my knight’s service.”
“A fool like your father, I see.” Eustace shook his head. “I suppose you think your father an honorable man.”
Alaric checked his sudden urge to grab the man’s throat for mocking his father. His violence would discredit Simeon and destroy William’s trust. Was that Eustace’s intention? He took a breath to calm his fury. “Simeon honored his vows.”
“Do you?”
Alaric did not know how to answer that question.
“Surely you see the opportunities here. You have usurped all of William’s closest supporters by gaining the king’s confidence, yet you pretend to have no ambitions! Life, Alaric son of Simeon, is about influence, domination, and power.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” Eustace said, his piercing gaze on Alaric. “I take great pleasure in mastering men and events, in bending men to my will. I can control a man’s existence, his sleeping hours, his dawns and dusks, his generations to come, and his eternal life. I assure you there are fewer joys than influencing others to achieve my aims. That is why those wanting crowns seek me out.”
“Isn’t such power given by God?” Alaric asked.
“God doesn’t give power,” Eustace said. “It exists for men to seize as William has.”
Is this true? Alaric wondered. William had sent his envoys to Rome as soon as he’d learned of Harold’s coronation. Had he received the papal banner because he had swifter couriers than had Harold?
“Would you, son of Simeon, run from such potency—or grasp it?” Eustace asked. “Mastery over people and events is seductive, and like fine nectar, it sharpens the mind and makes you want more. I wonder what you would do to experience such pleasure.”
“Such mastery demands deliberation and care, not pleasure,” Alaric said.
Eustace smiled. “You do not yet understand.” He rose and nodded to a group of nobles across the room who were motioning him to join them. “Perhaps, one day, I shall give you a demonstration.” With Dubec following behind, Eustace walked toward the men who opened their circle to greet him.
Alaric watched the count address his admirers. The group exploded in laughter, and several nobles slapped him on the back. Alaric glanced down at his empty bowl and remembered when he and his father faced Harold, raising his sword for the death blow. The hostility between the Normans and the English had blossomed with the Dover incident. Harold would never have relinquished the throne to a Norman, especially after the degradation brought about by Eustace de Boulogne and his Norman puppets like Osbern the Pentecost.
How many lives had Eustace changed in Dover? His actions made armed conflict between Harold and William inevitable. Did he care? No. Eustace passed through life like a trouveur, singing his songs while behind him the earth trembled, buildings collapsed, dust and smoke rose, fire and death ranged, and still he walked on, waving a hand, skipping to his merry tune.
Alaric relaxed his jaw, realizing how tense he’d become talking with Eustace. He gazed at the sculpted wooden columns, the animals painted on plastered walls, and shuddered. God help me avoid further notice from Count Eustace de Boulogne.