Out of the Dawn Light

THREE

Romain de la Flèche’s well-dressed appearance, level gaze and ready smile gave the impression that he was an amiable young man with plenty of money and not a great deal to concern him beyond the cut of his cloak and keeping a shine on his boots. The impression, however, was, like much about Romain, carefully calculated. He maintained it because it was in his own best interests to disguise his true personality and the pressing concern that drove him, relentlessly now, and held him so tightly in its grasp.

As the days lengthened and it seemed that at long last spring was turning to summer, he watched in impotent rage and growing fear as the situation he most dreaded — and whose coming to pass he had at first only entertained in the most anxious of sleepless nights — unfolded before him. There was nothing he could do. His protests, had he dared to express them, would at best have been ignored and at worst earned him a hard cuff round the ear. He was eighteen now. It was not fair that he was still treated like a wayward child.

There was a way in which he might escape the potentially fateful consequences of what was inevitably going to happen. By pure chance he had learned something amazing. It was so amazing that, when as so often happened it slipped quietly into his mind, he found himself wondering if he was investing far too much hope on what must surely be no more than an old tale whispered in the dark. He forced himself to ignore his misgivings. There was, when all said and done, nothing else. .

He had been so excited when he first heard about the amazing thing. To begin with, it had stirred his blood simply for its own sake and it was only later, when he realized that the bright future he had envisioned for himself was going to be blasted apart, that it had occurred to him how he might use his discovery to his own advantage.

He needed help, for if this thing in truth had substance and was not just a wonderful myth, he had to track it down. Disguising the growing urgency of his need with his usual charming smile and the mild, slightly puzzled manner which, as he well knew, made people believe he was slow-witted if not actually simple, he had asked some very careful questions. And, eventually, he found out where he must go and to whom he must speak.

He had made the journey — of some fifty miles across East Anglia, over farm land, scrubland and, on occasion, through the wild, desolate and dangerous parts of the region — the previous September. He had been at pains not to be observed, travelling under cover of darkness. For one thing, he had not sought permission for his pilgrimage. He could not have done, for when the inevitable questions as to the purpose of his journey had been asked he would have had no creditable answer other than the truthful one, and that was secret. For another thing, the Conqueror had just died and the whole country was uneasy. It was really no time to go off on a clandestine mission but, with the king’s death, time was running out and he no longer had a choice.

As he trudged through the darkness, thankful that at least the weather appeared to be on his side, he tried to take his mind off his many anxieties by speculating on what sort of a king the Conqueror’s son would be.

Normandy had gone to the eldest brother, Robert, and the second, Richard, was dead, killed while hunting in the New Forest. Henry, the fourth son, had, or so they said, been left a huge sum of money. With some difficulty, Romain turned his mind from the thrilling, tantalizing prospect of what he could have done with a huge sum of money. Life was so unfair. .

England had been left to William, the third son.

So, William was to be king and not Robert. Well, it was what Romain had been led to expect. He moved in circles where such matters were a frequent topic of conversation and he was well aware that the Conqueror’s relationship with his plump and lazy eldest son had been tempestuous. The king had used a variety of nicknames for the boy, his favourites being Short-Boots and Fat-Legs, and this disparaging attitude had, as Robert frequently complained, robbed him of the respect that he felt was his due. His resentment of his powerful parent broke out into open rebellion. On one occasion bitter fighting ensued, in the course of which Robert personally inflicted a wound on the great Conqueror’s hand. Father and son were later reconciled but it seemed unlikely that, given his ruthless nature, the king either forgot or forgave. William the Conqueror had died from an injury sustained as he fought the French in the Vexin, that troubled and perpetually strife-torn area between Normandy and neighbouring France to the south-east. On his deathbed he dictated the necessary letter that nominated his namesake as his heir and, together with the royal seal, dispatched it to England.

The dying king had probably hoped that his carefully thought-out solution — Normandy to the first-born, England to the younger brother — would be appreciated as fair and therefore accepted meekly by all concerned. He ought to have known better. Apart from the main protagonists, every other Norman lord with a plot to call his own seemed to have a loud and forceful opinion. Particularly vociferous were that multitude of men whose fathers had fought with the Conqueror in 1066 and been awarded manors in the newly acquired kingdom as their reward. Since to a man they already possessed estates in Normandy, they now must decide whether to put their wealth and strength at the disposal of Duke Robert, their Norman overlord, or King William, their English one.

That the two sons of the Conqueror would sooner or later come to blows did not seem to be in any doubt at all.

Romain’s musings on the perils that the brand-new reign would bring were brought to a halt; it was dawn, he had just rounded a bend in the track and a small settlement rose up out of the mists ahead of him. If he had remembered the directions correctly, it must be Aelf Fen.

He crept into a stand of willows, made himself a comfortable nest in the dry grass and, wrapping his cloak around him, settled down to sleep.

He was woken much later by the sound of laughter and excited chatter. Of all things, the village appeared to be celebrating a wedding. At first dismayed, he quickly realized that there could be no better cover for a stranger on a secret mission. Everyone would be too busy enjoying themselves to pay him much mind and if relatives from the bride’s or the groom’s family did not know who he was — which of course they wouldn’t — they would simply assume that he was connected with the other side.

He spruced himself up, buffed up his boots and rubbed the mud from the hem of his cloak. He ran a nervous hand over his hair and then, waiting while a gaggle of laughing girls hurried past his hiding place, slipped out behind them and followed them into the village.

Then it was just a matter of listening carefully until he heard the name of the person he had come to find. People smiled at him. A skinny girl with copper-coloured hair brought him something to eat. The cheese was tasteless and rather acid, the sweet cake bland and dry. They were poor people here, he thought. The girl insisted on talking to him and, impatient to get away from her and set about running down his quarry, he barely listened, instead beaming at her and nodding, occasionally throwing in an ‘Is that so?’ and a ‘How very interesting!’ But then she began telling him about her fellow villagers and, disguising his sudden interest behind his wide, vacant smile, he gave her his full attention. Quite soon she identified the person he had come to find and, after that, it was easy.

April came and Easter was celebrated. Romain had at long last persuaded his reluctant accomplice to join him in the awesome task ahead, although he was well aware that he would have to work hard to prevent the younger man from changing his mind. But events in the wider world had already begun on their inevitable progress to the disaster he saw ahead. Now his fellow conspirator would surely have to admit that Romain’s grim predictions had been accurate.

The rebellion broke out just after Easter. It was rumoured that the great lords who celebrated the feast with the king had put the final details to their plotting and planning while they were under his very roof. The king’s half-brother Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, was the instigator; loyal adviser to Duke Robert of Normandy, he had hurried across the Channel on William’s accession hoping to win the same influential position in England that he enjoyed with Duke Robert in Normandy. But William had already appointed his chief adviser. The ambitious and devious Odo, however, was ever power-hungry. He was once more Earl of Kent, the honour having been awarded and later withdrawn by the Conqueror and reinstated by the new king, but it seemed that was not enough. If his status in England were to improve, it was going to have to be at Duke Robert’s side, where his position was already assured. So the way ahead was clear: Odo would help Duke Robert add England to the sum of his possessions and he, as Robert’s most trusted man, would thereby gain his reward.

Odo first appealed to the lords who held lands in both England and Normandy. Romain knew all about them. Hidden and forgotten in his corner of the great hall, he had listened avidly as Odo’s representative set out on his master’s behalf the situation that the lords now faced. If they supported King William and he lost, then Duke Robert would seize their Normandy estates. If King William defeated Duke Robert, their English lands would be forfeit. In summary, the man concluded after what seemed to Romain hours of talk, it amounted to a simple question: would you prefer to lose your Normandy estates or your English ones?

Another question rose urgently in Romain’s mind, which was: who is going to win?

The men whose lengthy conversation he was listening to so carefully did not discuss that. Was this because Duke Robert’s victory was certain? If so, Romain thought, then the assumption that Robert would easily overcome William was surely wishful thinking. The lords might well mutter that Robert was a preferable monarch to the fiery and obstinate William, but that must be because he was known to be easy-going and pliable. What important lord with his eyes set on advancement would not prefer a sociable, jovial, approachable and malleable king?

Persevering with his espionage, Romain managed to follow the progress of the rebellion. He had always had the sense that he knew very well what was going to happen; that he had foreseen the catastrophe that would overtake him and his kin. Experiencing the painfully diverse emotions of pride at having been right and terror at what he saw happening, he had just one tiny sliver of hope. His plan, his careful, deeply secret plan. .

The rebellion raged on. Across the southern half of England the fighting flared up as, in Duke Robert’s name, Odo’s rebels attacked the estates of the king and those loyal to him. Bristol. Bath. Hereford. Shropshire. Leicester. The names of towns and counties of which Romain knew little or nothing cropped up in the anxious discussions that he overheard. Pevensey. Rochester, Odo’s own stronghold. And then, all at once terrifyingly close, Norwich.

From his castle in the city, the great lord Roger Bigod and his followers had set out to loot and burn right across East Anglia, concentrating their might on the royal lands. Once destroyed, these lands could produce nothing to help the king’s cause and, with the battle won, they would quietly pass into the rebels’ hands. The moment of truth was upon them and Romain could do nothing but watch helplessly as the rebel lords of the region gathered up their forces, locked up their estates and marched off to join Lord Roger.

Romain made quite sure that he did not go with them.

The rebellion did not go on for long; by midsummer it was all over. It had become clear that the focus of the fighting would be Kent, and King William led his army against Tonbridge Castle. He sent out an appeal to Englishmen, making rash and exciting promises to entice them into supporting him, and the force thus amassed won the day. The king then marched on Rochester where, rumour said, the garrison had been greatly strengthened by the arrival of a contingent of soldiers sent over by Duke Robert from Normandy. The rumours were wrong; the Englishmen guarding the coast had bravely faced up to the would-be invaders and the majority had been captured or drowned.

Nevertheless, Rochester held out. Desperate for news, the anxiety almost more than he could bear, Romain waited. Could he have been wrong? Would Odo prevail after all, ushering in a new monarch and a different order? Please, please let it happen! Romain prayed as hard as he knew how for a last-minute victory.

It did not come. As the June weather grew hotter, besieged and overcrowded Rochester succumbed to the heat, the rubbish, the dead and the swarms of eager flies. Clean water and wholesome food became mere memories and, inevitably, sickness spread. It was said that a man could not cram a morsel of meat into his hungry mouth unless someone else was on hand to swat the flies away.

Rochester surrendered. The rebellion had failed.

Without waiting to hear more, Romain swung into action.