CHAPTER XXIV

 

The Year 1120

Rouen – Mid-November

 

Berold the butcher held the fine vellum in his shaking hands. The message bore the seal of King Henry.

“Open it!” Berold’s father exclaimed.

The young butcher ran his fingers over the seal, which depicted the king on horseback clad in chain mail, holding a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. Below his image were the words, “Henry by the grace of God, Duke of the Normandy.”

The old man held his meat cleaver in his hand. He looked anxiously over his son’s shoulder. “Are you going to stare at it or open it?”

“What do you think it could be?” Berold’s mother wiped her hands on her apron. “You have not gotten yourself in trouble with the king have you?”

Berold shook his head. “I do not know why the king would write to me, Maman.”

“Perhaps the king has sent payment for the money his son and the prince’s noble friends owe me,” said Berold’s father. “Naught but a bunch of thieves, that lot,” he grumbled.

Carefully, the young butcher of Rouen slipped his forefinger under the wax in an effort to open the letter while still preserving the seal. When he read the message inside, he gasped.

“What!” his father cried. “Tell me or I shall split you in twain with my meat cleaver!”

Berold and his mother laughed, knowing Papa was joking.

Berold said, “It is a Royal Commission. I have been summoned to serve as butcher to the king’s household.”

Berold’s parents cheered. His father pounded him on the back with his meaty hand.

“Well, well, what a proud day this is!”

Berold grinned happily, revealing charming dimples. His smoky blue eyes shone with excitement.

“I cannot believe it,” he said. “This is such an honor. Look at this, Papa. Are you sure they want me and not you?”

The butcher took the letter in his hand and studied it carefully. He shook his head. “They want you, son. It says right here ‘Berold the butcher.’ That is your name, son, not mine. Fortune has found you.”

His mother pointed at the letter, for she could not read. “What else does it say? Tell us.”

“I have been assigned to the train of Prince William, the new Duke of Normandy,” the young man said, “and ordered to report to the harbor at Barfleur on the morning of the Feast of Saint Catherine, November 25. I am to sail with the prince himself to England.”

Berold’s father beamed with pride. “I am so proud of you, son. Ever since you were apprenticed at the age of seven you showed promise. I always said you would make something of yourself one day.”

Maman wiped tears from her eyes with the edge of her apron. “Do you remember, Papa, how adorable our little Berold was that first day? He still had his baby curls.” She ran her fingers through her son’s pale hair.

“Maman, please,” he complained. “I am not a baby anymore.”

Papa nodded. “Indeed, son, you are the butcher to the king now! I always said you would make a fine butcher. Right through your training as a journeyman I said that, and now you have become the master of your craft. Imagine, Maman, our boy, butcher to the king. I shall add a crown to the sign outside our shop door, or would a lion be better?”

Maman blubbered into her apron. Berold grinned as he wrapped her in his arms.