It was a bustling city with new buildings being erected everywhere. The markets were busy and the people seemed affluent. Normandy was thriving. Duke William was on his way home from the cathedral at Jumieges, after giving thanks for victory over the Province of Maine. His invasion earlier in the year had been successful and he now held sway over the whole of northern France above the Loire. Not only that: the King of France, Philip II, was still a minor and the Duke’s only other serious rival, Geoffrey of Anjou, had recently died, leaving little threat from the south.
After finding lodgings in the city and bidding farewell to their retinue from Melfi, they prepared to watch the Duke on his triumphant return.
The streets were bursting with people and hundreds of sentries were deployed to keep clear the processional route. The Bishop of Rouen, flanked by the entire hierarchy of the Norman Church, and the newly appointed Bishop of Le Mans, the capital of the conquered Province of Maine, waited at the great door of the cathedral to anoint the conquering hero. Fanning out from the bishops, on both sides, were the abbots from Normandy’s monasteries, the sheriffs from its provinces and the great and the good of the city of Rouen.
At the centre of the group, and a pace or two ahead, was a woman who, at first glance, could easily have been mistaken for a child. At not much more than four and a half feet tall, she was dwarfed by everyone around her. Matilda, Duchess of Normandy, daughter of Baldwin V, Count of Flanders — William’s most important ally and guardian of the young King Philip of France — was a direct descendent of Alfred the Great of England and had a personality which belied her diminutive stature. It was known throughout Normandy that her marriage to Duke William was happy and that she was quite capable of standing up for herself, even in the presence of her formidable husband. Her tiny frame did not prevent her from enjoying robust health, producing three sons, five daughters and being now heavily pregnant with a ninth child.
Hereward and Torfida found the mood of excitement in the city infectious. As the horns sounded in front of the cathedral to signal the Duke’s entry into the square, they cheered along with everyone else. The Duke’s archers and crossbowmen came first, followed by a column of infantry, all marching four abreast in excellent order. The bowmen wore leather jerkins with brown woollen leggings, small leather skullcaps and, in addition to their bows, carried seaxs. Wearing mail hauberks and distinctive pointed helmets with long nose-guards, several columns of infantry and cavalry came next, carrying both sword and spear and holding the famous Norman conical shield. Then came the Duke, in the midst of at least a hundred colourfully dressed knights, many of them lords in their own right. With their huge destriers strutting beneath them, most carried a small pennon on their lance to affirm their chevalier status, but some carried much bigger and more elaborately designed gonfalons, which asserted their nobility as barons. The crowd could recognize where each knight came from by the local colours of his pennon or gonfalon; those from towns close to Rouen, such as Fecamp and Yvetot, were greeted by particularly fervent cheers.
The Duke finally came into Hereward’s view. His ducal coronet covered a mane of thick red hair and his ruddy complexion was framed by a neatly trimmed beard, slightly darker than the hair on his head. He wore an unexceptional woollen cloak over his mail coat and had the same armour and weapons as his knights. However, resting on the pommel of his saddle was the legendary ‘Baculus’, his formidable wooden war club. A weapon of war dating back generations to the Normans’ Viking ancestors, all previous Dukes of Normandy had carried it as an icon of authority and virility.
Sitting upright on his mount, William did not smile at his subjects, only giving a perfunctory nod to a particularly loud greeting, or to a face that seemed familiar. The crowd was impressed by his physical presence; he was clearly someone born to rule and rule firmly.
William was not his father’s legitimate son. The old Duke, Robert I, had fallen for a beauty called Herleve, the daughter of a humble tanner from Falaise. No one had been surprised that he had bedded her, but his long-term affection for her and the acceptance of their son, William, as his heir, had caused outrage.
Following the death of his father, Duke Robert, on the way home from a holy pilgrimage to Jerusalem, William became the Duke of Normandy in July 1035, at the tender age of eight. He was placed in the care of disciplinarian tutors and even harsher martial instructors, watched over day and night by knights loyal to his father, and he was denied any female or maternal presence in his life. His mother died when he was still a teenager, leaving William with few memories of a woman who had shown him little affection. Most boys would have wilted under the pressure, or snapped, but William was strong of body and resolute of mind. He increasingly developed into the role of powerful warrior and leader that had been ordained for him. He became uncompromising, like his tutors, and durable, like his instructors.
His life had been a long and bitter struggle against internal intrigue and external threats. As he struggled to forge Normandy into the most powerful presence in Europe, he was aided by his two half-brothers: Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, one of his most loyal and trusted confidants, and Robert, Count of Mortain, another close ally.
When the Duke reached the Bishop of Rouen for his anointing, he surveyed the most powerful subjects in his realm with the air of a man totally at ease with his position as their lord and master.
The Norman warrior tradition was potent and remorseless, and he was its apotheosis.
Duke William went hunting immediately after his anointment as Lord of Maine, and it took Hereward and his male companions almost two weeks to gain an audience with him.
The Duke read Hereward’s parchment of recommendation with a stony face. It was going to be a difficult audience.
‘This is an outstanding recommendation, Hereward of Bourne. I know of Guiscard; he is a man not renowned for his excessive generosity, so his testament bears much weight. I see you refused to be dubbed knight, but carry the Order of the Cotentin.’
‘I choose to carry my name by birth, your Grace. I like to live a modest life.’
‘So do I. I like that in a man. Modesty and discipline are vital to a long life as a warrior. Would you expect to serve me as a knight?’
‘I would, your Grace.’
‘But without the title?’
‘Yes, your Grace.’
‘You answer directly; I like that. And what of these men?’
While the Duke looked them up and down, Hereward introduced Einar, Martin and Alphonso, outlining in detail their various martial talents. Hereward was impressed to see that William was looking at their weapons, checking their appearance, assessing the condition of their clothes and armour and even checking the trim of their hair and beards. The Duke understood soldiers well, and knew how to tell the difference between good and bad.
‘They would be my men-at-arms. I would pay them out of my allowance from you, my Lord Duke.’
William of Normandy smiled for the first time. ‘You amuse me, Englishman. I don’t usually pay my knights; their service comes to me as a tithe through the obligation owed from the grant of their lands and titles.’
‘But they are your kinsmen, your Grace. I would serve you as a mercenary.’
‘Mercenaries usually serve as infantry or levies, not as knights.’
‘But I am an exceptional soldier.’
‘Perhaps you are; you certainly don’t lack confidence.’
The Duke rose from his ornately carved chair and stood directly in front of Hereward. He carried his Baculus with him, resting it in the bend of his right arm, and Hereward realized immediately that the Duke was left- handed.
‘There aren’t many men who can look me in the eye, Hereward of Bourne. I like my warriors to be big men; it puts the fear of God into the enemy. Do you see this? It has been carried by my family for many generations. Our Viking ancestors carried it on their conquests across the northern seas and it is spoken of in their sagas. It never leaves my side and is now the ducal mace of Normandy. My son will carry it, as will his son and grandson. By then, it will be the mace of England, the mace of a king.’
‘Your Grace?’
‘Yes, Hereward of Bourne, very soon, your England will be mine.’
‘You intend to invade?’
William paused a moment to caress the Baculus, as if it were a holy relic. ‘No need, although it would be a thrilling campaign. No, I am promised it. King Edward is half Norman, he was brought up here. We are cousins: his mother, Emma, was my great-aunt, sister of Duke Richard II. Edward has no children and my blood gives me
