And the Rest Is History(34)

Two bloody hours.



We heard them coming. Horns sounded above a clatter of hooves in the courtyard outside. Unseen men shouted orders.

‘They’re here,’ said North in my ear, presumably in case I wasn’t paying attention, and I stifled my usual urge to set fire to her.

‘OK, everyone,’ I said. ‘Heads up.’

And then it all went quiet.

‘They’ve gone in through another door,’ reported North. ‘Through to the count’s private quarters, I guess.’

‘Get yourselves in here if you can. We’re on the left as you come in, and near the front, so try for somewhere on the other side of the fire. Security to remain outside in case we need rescuing.’

‘Copy that.’

The link closed.

There was another long pause. Although not two hours long. Around us, people stood on tiptoe and craned their necks in anticipation. As, I admit, did I. We were going to see William, Duke of Normandy and Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex. The two great players of their age. Either would have been remarkable but for the two of them to share the same time period … and to be together … here … today … I realised with a shock that I hadn’t thought about Matthew for a couple of hours, realised why Leon had insisted I go on this assignment, and then shoved everything out of my head, because they were coming.

I think we could have been forgiven for not noticing the two doors either side of the tapestry; we could barely see the tapestry itself. The one on the left opened, however, and a man – a steward, I guessed from his dress – strode forwards onto the dais. Lifting his staff, he solemnly pounded the boards three times. For silence, presumably, although he’d had that from the moment he made his first appearance.

He made a ringing announcement, not one word of which I caught, but I think the gist was pretty obvious to everyone there. A stir of anticipation ran through the crowd. Well, our part of it, certainly. Bashford caught my eye and grinned. And then it was full attention on what was happening now.

The same door opened and we held our breath. What were we going to see? Who would be first through the door?

They did it beautifully.

As the lord in his own hall, Guy was first through the door. My first impression was that he looked like a fox. He was a thin-faced man of medium height in a russet red tunic. His cloak had been dyed to match and was trimmed with vair. Look it up.

Entering, he paused for one moment, gathering all eyes on himself, and then stepped to one side, allowing his overlord to make his entrance.

There are no images of William. Contemporary reports say he was dark, burly – he would be extremely fat, later in life – that he enjoyed excellent health, was a good fighter, and a tireless huntsman. They also said he was fierce and unforgiving, that he had no pretensions to intellect, and managed at the same time to be both pious and cruel. A not uncommon combination in any age.

With courtesy, but not a huge amount of deference, Guy attended William to his chair and took up his own position. Around us, everyone bowed. Even the women. At this time, there was very little difference between the bow and the curtsey. Women spread their skirts a little in what might be the ancestor of the formal female curtsey, which wouldn’t make its appearance until sometime in the 17th century, but otherwise, everyone bowed. Including us.

Their entourages followed on behind and arranged themselves behind the appropriate chairs. Count Guy’s men were dressed in similar though less colourful robes. Under their cloaks, William’s men wore their famous knee-length chainmail hauberks with the loose, elbow-length sleeves and carried their conical helmets with the noseguards. Whether they wore mail because they didn’t trust the Count Guy, or simply because they’d been riding, was not clear.

William himself wore a tunic of purple and gold, his lack of armour signifying he wasn’t here to fight. His mailed escort signified he would if he had to. Apart from a huge golden brooch securing his cloak, he wore no jewellery of any kind. He didn’t need to. He could have worn an old sack and still commanded the room.

He was invited to sit and wine was brought. The two men sat and sipped. Their escorts eyed each other. No one seemed to be armed although I wondered how many daggers were tucked into sleeves, or hidden in the folds of a thick cloak.

There was polite conversation. Both men smiled with their mouths. Count Guy politely offered a refill, which was as politely refused. You could have cut the air with a knife, and such was the tension that if they didn’t get a move on then someone probably would.

There was no doubt who was in command here. William, obviously considering he’d more than fulfilled polite convention, stirred impatiently in his chair, and at once Guy beckoned a man forwards and whispered in his ear. The man left immediately.

William and Guy sat quietly in their seats. No one was moving anywhere. One of the most fateful encounters in History was about to kick off. The silence was so complete I dared not even whisper to North. I just had to hope she and Clerk were here, somewhere, and recording their bloody socks off.

As we had done, Harold and the remaining survivors of the shipwreck had to make their way through the tradesman’s entrance. They’d been found dry clothes from somewhere, but Harold, as if to underline his position here, was significantly less magnificently dressed than his hosts. Or gaolers, if you like. He himself seemed more or less intact. One of his men had a bandage around his forehead and could walk only with assistance. Another seemed to have a broken arm. There were only eight of them altogether. There were no other survivors.