As Alaric conversed with Eustace, Dreux worked his way through the crowd until he finally escaped the festivities in King’s Hall. Now, eager to see Clare, he hurried to his quarters. Torches lighted the path. On the courtyard walls, he saw sentries, alert and watching, a few servants ran between buildings. Beside the palace, he saw a glow coming from the abbey and heard the resonant chants of solemn prayers.
Since October, Clare of Wolenbroth had been his captive. His claim assured no other man would touch her lest they face his sword. Under his protection, but with no family to ransom her, she began a new life more servant than honored hostage.
In the weeks before London accepted William’s victory, Clare, along with cooks, baggage tenders, farriers, and others, moved with Dreux’s company from village to village, from one confiscated manor to another as the Normans encircled the town.
Between his sorties, Dreux looked for her among the other captives. He saw her struggle to carry heavy pails sloshing with chamberpot muck. He noticed her hands became red, rough, and cracked from washing clothes in icy water. He saw her remain calm when people tripped her on purpose or pushed her into a wall. Seemingly reconciled to her fate, her acceptance provoked others to taunt her. “Here, you, the English Princess, take this pig fat to the bridler.”
Once, Dreux had observed a prominent Mercian noble approach her. Recognition and elation filled her face as he spoke softly to her. She nodded and bowed her head. The man touched her shoulder. A few more words passed between them, and she left as the noble watched her, his own lips pressed together in apparent fury. After that encounter, Clare seemed even quieter than usual.
Dreux hoped to change her status tonight. He had ordered his servants to have Clare bathed, clothed in fine garments, and delivered to his quarters. From the moment he met her, he’d intended to bed her. But he eschewed the victor’s right to plunder, pillage, and rape allowed until the Witan capitulated. As king, William now forbade those acts and made clear his disapproval of fornication. Although Dreux risked censure by making Clare his mistress, he needed to establish her indisputable position until he obtained William’s permission to marry her.
He entered his quarters, warmed by a large brazier, and saw her wearing a soft woolen cotte, her hair brushed out and hanging loose down her back. She took his breath away.
Unable to speak, Dreux pulled off his mantle and crossed the room. He reached for her.
She put a hand on his chest and bowed her head. “My lord, please. There is no need to frighten me.”
He eased his hold and stepped back. Putting a finger on her chin, he raised her face. He kissed the tears welling in her eyes and pulled her gently against his chest with a deep sigh. The Normans had forced English subjugation with brutish force, and more violence would follow. Despite his twenty-four winters, he felt weary, and . . . old.
“Can you find peace with me, though you are no longer a noblewoman?”
“I would rather be enslaved and have my family alive than to be a noblewoman with them all dead. It gives me hope to think my sisters may still live. God willing, I may see them again someday.”
He took her tenderly. Neither expectation nor experience had prepared him for such a gift. In the burst of her first awakening, something profound and fragile happened to him. He opened his heart. Slowly, like wax poured into a mold, she filled all the crevices he had not known were empty.
The next morning, armed guards flanked Alaric and Dreux, and escorted them to the king’s council chamber. Dreux’s furrowed brow sharpened Alaric’s apprehension. Had Dreux’s liaison with Clare become known? Would it warrant such an abrupt summons? They entered a brightly lit chamber animated by angry shouts, whispered discussions, and wayward laughter among William’s inner circle of advisors—closed to all but the king’s intimates.
Alaric and Dreux waited, their heads bowed. From mumbled words, Alaric heard his name, paired with others: “Sympathizer . . . untrustworthy . . .” Fury stiffened his spine. The loudest voice belonged to Count Alain le Roux of Brittany, known to the English as Alan the Red. Alaric called him Rufus, a name which irked the count. The night before Hastings, Rufus had mocked Harold and his forces. Alaric, who had fought with Harold, challenged the count’s faulty assumptions and bad orders. Rufus told his men to ignore Alaric’s inferior counsel. The next day, Rufus lost nearly half of his troops, and most of the survivors had openly disobeyed him to follow Alaric’s tack. Since Hastings, Alaric had rarely seen the Breton, yet at each encounter, Rufus bristled and showered Alaric with loathing, especially after discovering they, like everyone close to William, were kinsmen. In recent weeks, le Roux’s hostility had greater consequences, for he had pushed his own brothers out of the king’s inner circle. Now, Rufus, William’s chief advisor, accompanied the king everywhere—even to the privy, and his disparaging comments—and accusations—went directly into the king’s ear.
“Quiet!” the king bellowed.
Alaric’s alarm grew at the simmering silence. He felt the king’s eyes bore into the top of his head, and his throat became dry. The fire crackled and snapped like breaking ice.
“Come forward, Knights!” William said.
As he and Dreux approached the advisors, Alaric felt them measuring him. Malet avoided his eyes. Several nobles circled behind him as if positioning themselves to lunge.
The king occupied the head of a long, narrow table, flanked by an English bishop and the king’s youngest brother, Robert de Mortain. Behind them hung a red tapestry woven with the golden lions of Normandie brought over by a confident William.
The king studied Dreux for a long moment before turning his fiery gaze on Alaric. “Speak Odo.”
The king’s brother stepped beside Alaric, introduced him and Dreux to the council, and said, “The king’s warriors have been given a much-needed rest until the Epiphany. The crown is William’s. The challenge will be to hold it. You have been summoned because you men will take command of the king’s forces.”
Alaric blinked. Command? Surely, he had not heard correctly.
“God’s breath!” le Roux cursed. “This is a mistake!”
“Leave it!” the king snapped.
Le Roux glared darkly at Alaric.
“We’re here,” Odo continued, “to decide how these troops will be deployed.”
Dreux bowed, “We are honored.”
“No honor is intended!” William’s blunt statement hung in the chamber. He tested the sharpness of his dagger’s blade with his thumb. After drawing blood, William continued. “I’ve trained you and know what you can do. You’re both young enough—and hungry enough—to tame the land.”
The king motioned them to approach the table. Dreux sat down. Alaric remained standing between Odo and the king’s seneschal, Guillaume fitz Osbern.
“Some of our compeers,” Odo said, “believe the king’s choice of senior commanders foolish. Neither one of you has much experience in taking and holding the land. But those of us who are older and more experienced in these matters, have competing responsibilities in Normandie.”
“Exactly,” Robert de Mortain said. “Splitting our command would risk the kingdom to protect the duchy.”
“This action,” le Roux said, “will jeopardize your victory, my lord! De Ville, yes, but . . . ?” he gestured toward Alaric.
To Alaric, the king said, “You and your men know the terrain and the people—”
“As does Malet,” le Roux injected.
“Malet knows the Witan, the treasury, how the kingdom is administered. He is needed at court. Besides, Malet would not know a Welshman if one kissed him. No offense, friend,” the king said to Malet.
“True enough,” Malet chuckled, stroking his upper lip. “I am a courtier, barely a soldier, and I know nothing of building timber forts as does Alaric.”
The king nodded his agreement and directed his words to Alaric. “You’ve fought with the English against the Welsh. You know how they think, the countryside, and where they might launch attacks.”
“—And that knowledge,” le Roux interrupted, “can be used against you!” He raised his hands to forestall interruption. “Today, you establish two powerful, private armies, and you give one of these legions to your kinsman. But he has questionable loyalties. He can turn his knowledge against you, and now he will have the military might to strengthen your enemies.”
William rose slowly. Robert de Mortain leaned away from his brother. “There are no private forces!” William drove his dagger into the table, just missing the hand of the bishop sitting beside him. The bishop shrieked and fainted. William wrenched his knife from the oak and ordered the guards to remove the overcome prelate.
Glaring at Alaric and Dreux, he said, “The men deployed under your command belong to me. Turn them against the king and . . . Need I discuss consequences?”
Alaric shook his head. The consequences would be worse than death.
“Do you stand with my decision?” William asked le Roux, fingering his dagger.
The Breton exhaled his surrender and sat down.
William grunted, reclaiming his seat. “Tell us about the western border.”
Alaric glanced at the suspicious faces watching him. Except for Malet, no one else in the room had much knowledge of the land beyond Wessex. He began by explaining what he had learned on his reconnaissance before the invasion. He told them about the villages along the southern coast, and where Normans might encounter English raiders. He estimated the numbers and proficiency of the remaining enemy forces, told them which villages might be harder to subdue, and which harbors and shipping lanes were still open. He answered succinctly every question asked about the western land bordered by Wales.
Aggressively, le Roux shoved a wooden bowl of sand to the center of the table, spewing the contents over its sides. Accepting the challenge, Alaric moved around the table as the others made room for him. He spread more sand over the boards and marked out a crude map. “Here the Welsh mountains, the River Severn, Herefordshire.” He marked the ancient hunting tracks and surmised the fleeing English would use the same. “The Welsh will begin raiding as soon as the weather permits, but inconsistently. Deadly raids will begin after the vernal equinox.”
After clearing the marks, he drew a jagged line representing The Spine, the mountain chain running north and south. He sketched in the Danelaw, the Roman roads converging at London, and a few less frequently traveled roads bandits preferred. In answer to the king’s questions, he explained the strategic importance of villages at major crossroads or rivers. Malet nodded his concurrence.
Alaric pointed out the sites needed for trade or resources such as the salt ponds, the woodlands, the farmlands, and navigable waterways. He told of the harsh and rugged conditions of the frontier land north of the Danelaw. He told them about York, an old Viking kingdom, the rich trading markets, annual raids, and that King Edward could not keep the Yorkshire or Northumbrian thegns loyal to him.
The discussion moved on to the regions where Alaric knew little. Malet took over and explained the Humber, the fens, the coastal areas frequently attacked by Danes and Norsemen, the traditional lines of allegiance, the reputed thegns, who had fallen at Stamford Bridge or Hastings, and about those yet to submit.
The Council discussed the advantages and disadvantages of keeping a standing force ready to move at a moment’s notice, where such a force could be located—and fed. Everyone dove into the discussion except Alaric, who listened to the others.
“Small groups of knights,” William said, “posted in well-placed castles would forestall the formation of a large enemy force.”
Alaric inwardly agreed.
“Mounted contingents,” William said, “could move into and get out of an area quickly.”
“Taxes and land disputes can be administered from the castles, too,” Malet supposed. “It would be easier to pay for the mercenaries if each castellan had the responsibility of feeding and paying for his own men. Local revenues instead of the king’s coffers. And supply lines to the frontier could remain open if garrisons were posted to defend the roads.”
“Excellent,” William agreed. “We will plant tower fortresses first along the borders as we did in Normandie,” William said, gesturing to Alaric.
“Here,” Alaric said, differentiating the size of the garrison and the area’s importance with coins. “Here,” three coins at the mouth of the River Severn, two at Hereford, single coins along the Welsh border. Alaric felt the group’s hostility toward him wane as Malet distributed coins likewise along the eastern coast—Dover, Thetford, York.
When the talking faltered, all turned to the king.
William studied the map as his seneschal reported the number of foot soldiers, knights, and archers remaining since Hastings, and the number of mercenaries among them. “I will keep one-third of these forces to secure the southlands.” The remaining two-thirds would be commanded by Alaric and Dreux. He assigned Bishop Odo to provision Dreux’s troops, send supplies and pay the mercenaries along the way, and fitz Osbern to likewise support Alaric.
Alaric dared not pull his eyes from the map. It was an astonishing number of men to command, to feed.
“You will march under your own banners as well as mine.” William said. Alaric barely breathed. William’s banners extended the king’s authority: territorial, judicial, and administrative to Alaric and Dreux—rights and responsibilities given to no one else.
“Obtain formal submission from local magnates,” William said. “Rout out any who give armed resistance.” He reiterated the new restrictions placed on his followers: unarmed villagers will not be harmed. No rape, no pillaging. The vanquished will not be sold into slavery. For now, those currently enslaved will be appropriated to build defenses alongside villagers put to hard labor. Earls, thegns, burgess, and magistrates who did not fight at Hastings will retain their positions and land, and the churches and monasteries will remain untouched.
William met Alaric’s eyes. “French-speaking men with lands and titles granted by King Edward will pay to keep their rights. Build fortresses and establish garrisons at your discretion, take hostages if needed, and arrange for villages to pay traditional geld.”
William’s gaze moved slowly over everyone in the room as if assessing them. He reached for two scrolls and displayed his royal seals to all. “Before these witnesses, here in this place, I bestow upon you tenancy-in-chiefdoms of the shires of Norfolk and Stafford respectively.” He gave one scroll to Dreux and the other to Alaric. “These charters grant you special rights and obligations and establish your predominance above the English thegn.”
In the ensuing silence, William turned to the members of the inner circle. “I will not distribute land to the rest of you until the borders are secure.”
Everyone nodded.
Alaric turned the scroll to see the elaborate royal seal. He and Dreux had received the first titles, the first provinces distributed in William’s kingdom, even before Rufus, the king’s pissoir partner.
“When you finish your mission,” the king said, returning to the map, “You may build castles on your lands. Lord Norfolk,” he said, using Dreux’s new title, “rebuild the fort at Thetford. Lord Stafford, put a castle beyond the Danelaw if you can to defend the frontier.”
Alaric nodded.
“You will command,” William continued, “both many soldiers and nobles of high rank in the duchy. I trust you will consult those more experienced in warfare when necessary. Choose your own captains, and leave as soon after Epiphany as you can. Secure the borders and meet Malet in York by the vernal equinox.”
William looked to Malet, who nodded confirmation.
“As vicomte of Yorkshire, Malet and his garrison will stabilize the northern frontier.”
“How far north?” Alaric asked.
William studied Alaric a moment. “What think you?” The others, including le Roux, turned to Alaric.
“The boundaries between Scotia and Englelond are . . . fluid,” he said.
William smiled. “We will begin with York.”