January 1067, Westminster
Royal priorities prevented Alaric from seeing the king for several days. By then, he’d absorbed the brutal knowledge of Eustace’s iniquity and said nothing about the matter to William. Resolved to take action after his mission to York, he intended to use the intervening months to formulate an adequate reprisal. Meanwhile, Alaric worked hard and long until exhaustion let him sleep without envisioning his family’s charred corpses, without being consumed in powerless rage.
On Twelfth Night, before the festivities, William summoned him again. When he arrived, everyone, the pages and scribes, the clerics, nobles, and guards, left. Only Guillaume fitz Osbern, and Count Eustace de Boulogne remained. Seeing Eustace, Alaric, curled his fingers over the mark of chainmail he’d branded onto his palm, recalling the armor fused to his father’s or brother’s charred corpse.
“Come forward,” the king said, distractedly as he pressed his seal on a document and handed it to Eustace. Turning his attention to Alaric, he said, “We have arranged a marriage for you.”
“A marriage?”
“Yes,” the king replied, leaning back into his throne-like chair. “Count Eustace informed me you have no wife. He has given you his niece, a Norman countess.”
“I will not take her!”
Fitz Osbern grunted. King William’s cheek throbbed. Eustace stroked his mustache thoughtfully, and Alaric regretted, too late, the words he had blurted out.
The king leaned forward slowly, tilting his head, like an eagle sighting his prey. His eyes fixed on Alaric. “Have you forgotten the oath you swore to me, Knight?” he asked in a low voice.
Alaric cringed. Eleven days ago, Alaric had sworn his fealty to William. “My life belongs to you, my king.” Alaric bowed and kept his eyes on the king’s boots.
“The king expects nothing less than your life!”
The words fell like a whip across Alaric’s head. His relationship with William changed when Alaric received command over the western forces. William still slept on the floor with his men and livestock, wrestled with his knights, and joined in an occasional brawl. Those among his inner circle called him by his first name or argued openly with him, often raising their voices. But the easy jests, the familiar smiles and friendly intimacies William had once bestowed on Alaric were gone. Now, as one of the king’s commanders, their encounters became more formal and exacting. The change unsettled him.
“Well, Black Wolf?” the king roared.
“I wish to serve you, in all things, my lord,” Alaric said, his eyes lowered.
“By God’s breath, serve me you shall!” William leaped from his chair and paced the room. He spun on Alaric. “For a blade’s width, you have received greater rewards than anyone else. Even my brothers have yet to receive land.”
The king’s voice pierced his ears. Startled, Alaric recalled the instant his sword had deflected a mortal blow aimed at William’s head, a moment so brief, so chaotic as to be nearly forgotten amid the fierce battle. Alaric’s anger flared. Did William begrudge owing his life to a lowly horseman, a minor kinsman?
“Look at me, Cousin!”
Alaric’s head snapped up. William the Bastard, king of Englelond, studied him with a serrated intensity that ripped through his flesh and stole his breath away. As if from inside a dark, icy tunnel, his heart throbbed in terror. He withstood the king’s long, speculative, angry gaze, knowing the king could order his death in a moment.
William resumed pacing. “Your knowledge of this land will expedite my triumph. You command an unprecedented number of soldiers, men of high birth—many ranking higher than you in Normandie—and ruthless mercenaries. I can only give such a force to someone I trust.”
William threw himself into his chair and sat back stiffly. “My supporters question why I transferred such military might to you. No titles, no riches will be granted to my followers until we have control of the land. We will not know what we have to distribute until you and Dreux complete your surveys. The situation feeds impatience and breeds insurrection.”
“Your peers,” Fitz Osbern injected, “and you know them well, counsel the king that you will conspire with Harold’s cubs. They argue that you, born and raised among the English, have no loyalty to your race. As mercenaries, you and your brother fought beside Harold. Harold retained you to command the garrison at one of his outposts. He made your brother a thegn, gave him titles, and his niece in marriage. Even after Harold usurped King William’s throne, your father and brother served him. They say,” his voice softened, “that, like your father who stood against Eustace’s men at Eashing, you will stand against the king.”
Alaric’s gaze snapped to Eustace’s unflinching eyes. Had his father and brother raised arms against Eustace? Had Eustace defamed them with a deliberate lie? Alaric could barely keep his hands from gripping Eustace’s throat, even when he realized that the king knew Eustace had murdered his family!
“These doubts,” Fitz Osbern said, drawing Alaric’s attention from Eustace, “must be banished immediately.”
“The events at Eashing,” King William stated tersely, “were unfortunate. But now, all eyes are turned on you and Eustace—waiting. I will not tolerate private wars among my men. I must have unity to hold my kingdom, to fight our enemies, not each other.”
William adjusted his cloak and said, “Eustace offers you a blood price—his niece in marriage. In exchange, you will relinquish all your rights to obtain further restitution or to punish Eustace in any way. This is not a request. Less than two weeks after my coronation, no one from within my forces or among my allies shall disobey me—least of all you, Alaric, my own blood kin. Marry the woman or face our maker.”
Alaric blanched. He stood on the brink of destruction. Choose a virtuous man, his father had said. Only now he realized the cost of his decision. His king demanded that Alaric sacrifice his family’s honor for his life. Dead, he could bring no honor or justice to his family. Outwardly, Alaric’s acceptance of the blood price would demonstrate his absolute obedience to William—and inwardly corrode his loyalty.
“Sire,” Alaric said, “pray forgive my brazen words. I wish to serve my king.”
“So be it.” The king snapped, gesturing to Eustace.
Eustace handed Alaric the parchment. “These are the betrothal offers.”
Alaric took the parchments from Eustace and handed the documents to fitz Osbern, who read aloud the Norman land and wealth transferring to Alaric upon the marriage. Astonished, Alaric stared at William. The fertile land of the Aumale valley alone would make him a rich and powerful lord!
“You hold land in Staffordshire,” William said, “and now you will hold land in Normandie. When I return to Rouen in the spring, you will remain here as one of my agents. My followers and your detractors would find it difficult to challenge your sympathies when your wealth is rooted in Norman land.”
“Your proxy will seal the document properly,” Eustace said. “You need only mark your consent.” He handed Alaric the inked quill with a triumphant, mocking grin as if daring him to sign. He marked the parchment quickly, angrily.
“Welcome to my family, Alaric. You shall be like a son to me.” Eustace handed Alaric a bowl of wine and sipped his own. “I give you a great gift. My niece will keep her title which outranks yours and she has her own wealth. Although she has been betrothed three times before, I promise you a virgin—a spinster virgin. I would not call her comely. Her mother was disposed to be thick. Most of her family died covered with pustules, a pestilence that killed most of her siblings when she was a child.”
Eustace’s description sparked Alaric’s memory of Goda, pointing at the smoldering church where his family had died. At that moment, the crone’s hideous features—a pox-marred face, bulbous nose, blackened teeth, and scabby tufted scalp—fused into Alaric’s mind as the image of his future wife.
“While you secure the realm for King William,” Eustace said, “my niece will tend to your wealth and property and seek my counsel on all things. She will rule your household with a discipline tempered like the finest Damascene sword. She will bring you revenue, perhaps bear you sons, and be your sacred companion for all of eternity.”
If Alaric had not felt like jabbing his fingers into Eustace’s eyes, he might have laughed—or wept. He understood now what Eustace meant when he had talked about the power to bend men’s lives. Eternity. For all of his waking and sleeping hours, long after his death, Eustace’s niece would be his wife, an iron band imprisoning his soul.
“The countess de Fontenay,” William said, “has many of the same attributes as her esteemed uncle.”
A warning? Alaric wondered.
Eustace smiled with a slight nod as if accepting a compliment.
“In time,” Fitz Osbern said, “you may find her useful. Like Eustace, she is adept at influencing those around her, is cunningly astute in court craft, military stratagems, and the Church. She is likely to be . . . mannish would you not say, Eustace?”
“Despite her flaws, she will suit you.” Eustace said, his eyes taunting Alaric.
“Thank you, Sire,” Alaric said, bowing to William and controlling his voice. “I am, with sword and heart, your loyal vassal.”
The king nodded and gestured Fitz Osburn to show Alaric out.
“Come,” Fitz Osbern laughed, giving Alaric a friendly slap on his back. “We have not ruined you.”
Beyond the royal chamber, Fitz Osbern sobered and pulled Alaric aside. “William warns you: a Countess with a character like Eustace would be a formidable woman. Never underestimate either.”
Alaric searched Fitz Osbern’s eyes.
“No law or custom,” Fitz Osbern continued, “prevents a man from using his wife for a just cause. What happens between a man and his wife is no concern to the king, Alaric.”
Alaric nodded. The king gave him a pawn with which to avenge his family’s death. He will use her land and wealth to destroy Eustace. And when it pleased him, he might even strangle her with his bare hands.
I’ll race you to York,” Dreux challenged as they mounted their horses the morning after Epiphany.
Alaric scratched his chin with the edge of his stiff leather mitt. He squinted at the thin streak of golden light along the horizon where the sun would rise and hide in a layer of thick, black, storm clouds. The fiery horizon marked a rare January dawn, usually overcast with no hint of sunlight. An occasional snowflake swirled in the air. Alaric grinned at Dreux and shook his head, telling his friend he had no chance of getting there first. “Wagers?” he asked.
Dreux laughed. “The usual.”
As youths in training, when they hated each other, they had wagered their horses. Each had hoped to cripple the other with a poorly trained, or absent, mount. Somehow, it was not long before another wager, and the lost horse was returned. Over the years, it had become a jest between them.
“Agreed,” Alaric said.
March 1067, York
Both reached York before the vernal Equinox. Light snow covered the ground, and the wind, like shards of ice, spiked through their thin cloaks. Their combined forces had nearly surrounded York by the time Guillaume Malet joined them with his own soldiers.
Alaric and Dreux began a ritual repeated in all the villages they had seized on their way. Helmeted and armored, accompanied by deep-bellowing horns, they rode to the gates with a hundred horsemen. A couple dozen bowmen and foot soldiers ran alongside. The archers and foot took their places, the mounted soldiers moved into a line formation, five deep behind Alaric and Dreux.
Waiting for the townspeople to respond, Alaric recalled what he knew of York: once an ancient kingdom, the second largest town after London, with about eight thousand fiercely independent people stemming from Roman and Viking blood. The town, dark, brooding, gave sanctuary to rebels and inspired unrest. They had to be careful here. Looking at the walls, Alaric wondered what they would find inside the gate, especially since he saw only townspeople, no soldiers, on the ramparts.
One side of the broad, double gate opened, and the bishop, along with a crowd of townspeople, met them.
In French, Dreux began, “We come in peace to obtain your vows of loyalty to King William of Englelond.”
The faces before them were pale, drawn, and blank.
Alaric spoke in Saxon, first to the bishop and then to the people. “We cuman to getan yer oaths fur Geeyome Kyng of Anglicus.”
“Geeyome, thaet stincan bastardus,” sneered a townsman.
Despite the barely understandable dialect, Alaric grasped the sentiment.
Murmurs rumbled among the crowd. In Saxon, another called out, “William seized Wessex only. He has no claim over York!” The crowd exploded in agreement.
“William is king,” Alaric said in Saxon, “from Wessex to Northumbria.”
Another yelled, “These foreigners butchered Harold, chosen by the Witan, by English laws, by English lords.” The murmurs increased to shouts. Several people raised their fists, a stone whizzed by Dreux’s head. He did not flinch.
“William is your rightful king,” Alaric said, “chosen by King Edward, and anointed by the Church, by Archbishop Ealdred of York, who continues to serve his king.” His loud voice and Saxon words silenced the crowd. “We come in peace,” he said to the bishop, Ealdred’s underling, “but we will quash any and all treason against our king.”
“Whores of Satan!” someone else shouted as a rock hit Alaric’s shield. Dreux calmly motioned the soldiers forward as he slowly drew his own sword.
Alaric looked down at the bishop, a middle-aged, sallow man who watched him suspiciously. Alaric pointed his arm toward the billowing black smoke drifting its wispy tendrils toward York. He’d given his men instructions to fire only the storehouse knowing the thatching, thicker than he was tall, would smoke as if an entire village burned. “Do you wish the same fate? In an instant, all of York would blaze.”
Hostile silence greeted them. Another rock flew through the air, followed by a scream, which shattered the quiet. A watchful bowman had shot the man who had thrown the rock. A woman wailed over his crumpled body, and immediately the crowd erupted in angry shouts and threats. As one, the mob moved forward, throbbing.
At Dreux’s signal, the archers ran forward and knelt in a row. Foot soldiers, carrying lighted torches, followed and lit the archers’ oil-soaked missiles: loaded, nocked, and aimed high to sail over the walls and onto thatched roofs. They waited for Dreux’s command.
The bishop stepped forward. Turning his back to the soldiers, he raised his arms to the townspeople. “William is king by grant of God. He carried papal banners, and Archbishop Ealdred anointed him with holy oil.” He glanced at Alaric and back at the crowd. “Our English magnates through the Witenagemot, too, have chosen William,” he said in a softer voice as his shoulders drooped. “All, including Prince Edgar and Earls Edwin, Morcar, and Waltheof have sworn fealty to William. Go to your homes, I beg you.”
The crowd hesitated. Alaric watched as one man reached for a stone, another curled his lip and hunched forward. Dark and hostile eyes pierced the soldiers. Someone spat, another cursed. One woman held her man back, another urged hers forward. First, one retreated back inside the gates, then another and another, until only a handful of townspeople were left to face the soldiers, their lack of strength exposed and witnessed by all. In a few moments, both gates were thrown open.
The bishop turned again to Alaric, who nodded slowly. “Thank you, Lord Bishop. You saved many lives today.”
“The day has just begun,” the bishop said bitterly.
Within a week, York was tamed. As unsettled as the people, the weather fluctuated between rain, ice, snow, sunny days, followed by more of the same, and the wind, still icy cold, blew constantly. Scouts found no rebels or Scots within a day’s ride from the town, nor spotted any longships patrolling the waterways.
Restless and eager to leave York, Alaric and Dreux rode out alone to patrol the area.
“Concluding your betrothal will be difficult,” Dreux said, as they rode abreast through the Vale. “I dread both the discussions and being your proxy. I hope the king will reward my efforts by granting me permission to marry Clare of Wolenbroth.”
“I envy you,” Alaric said, “to marry a thegn’s daughter, a woman of your own choice. I had hoped for an English heiress myself.” He reined his horse around a marshy pond. “Get me fat cows, dense woods, and rich farms. Wear your armor. I’ve been told to use caution when dealing with anyone related to Eustace, and be forewarned: my betrothed is said to be old and pox-scarred.”
They rode down into narrow gorges, up over high plains and through desolate land. Finally, the trail led them to a frozen waterfall, where they paused and looked at the jagged rock face covered with ice.
“Before sailing to meet your betrothed, I will stop in London to see Clare,” Dreux said. “I hope she is with child, but I fear she is not safe there.”
“Send her to Hereford,” Alaric said as they began to walk their horses toward an ice-covered bridge at the edge of a gorge. “After the builders start my castle, I’ll go to Hereford to arrange a mass for my family and pick up Johan, wounded at Hastings. She can travel with us to Tutbury, and I’ll keep her safe until you meet us there in May.”