Читать книгу The Conqueror's Lady - Terri Brisbin, Terri Brisbin - Страница 7

Hastings, England

October 14, 1066

The Duke of Normandy surveyed the rolling fields before him and nodded to his commanders. Satisfaction, much like that of a well-fed cat, filled him as he realised that he would now be king of all he could see and more, much, much more. Anticipation surged through his veins and he smiled at the thought of seeing the faces of the Witan now, now that he’d defeated their anointed king and his forces. The clearing of several throats reminded him of the tasks still ahead. The battle for England, though advancing and in his control, was not a thing accomplished yet.

William turned and met the gazes of his commanders, who stood a short distance from him and his tent. These men and those who fought in their companies of foot soldiers, mounted knights and archers waited on his orders. And they waited for the rewards promised for a successful invasion. Already, the vultures of war were flocking to the battlefield, prepared to scavenge amongst the dead and dying.

‘It will take days to clear the fields, my lord,’ Father Obert, his clerk said.

‘They—’ William paused and nodded at the growing number of Norman, Breton, Poitevin, French and even Maine nobles approaching his tent ‘—do not seem to have the will to wait several days, Obert.’

William placed his goblet on the table and held out his hand for the parchment Obert had prepared for his review. A list of crucial English properties and fortifications along with the names of the men who would be the benefactors of his largesse. If he approved. Studying it, he recognised several names immediately, and others that were not the expected ones of his closest advisers or commanders.

‘Who recommends such rewards to the nameless warriors here?’ William suspected he knew, but before he gifted anyone with lands and titles he would understand the other motives in place.

‘As usual, sire, the Bishop oversees that which is vital to your concerns.’ Obert did not meet his gaze, but instead bowed his head.

Odo. Half brother and Bishop of Bayeux. He should have recognised the handiwork of the man in this.

‘Ah, he is ever-vigilant on my behalf.’ The words, true though tinged with a slight bit of mockery, drew a sharp snort from his clerk. Obert missed little in the intrigues that were court life, in Normandy and now here in England. It was part of his value. ‘These will anger some who have laboured long on my behalf, risking lives and fortunes, only to see the choicest morsels go to others,’ he observed.

William took note of three names and knew that even their fathers would object. Those objections, of course, would be couched in the politest terms to avoid mentioning the reason for their anger—they would want such lands to go to themselves or their legitimate offspring and not their bastards. His smile must have been a dangerous one for Obert backed away and waited without saying a word. Certainly not his usual response to such an open invitation to speak his mind.

‘You must have some counsel to offer, good brother,’ he said, encouraging, nay goading, him into saying the words he now held behind his teeth.

‘My lord, the taking of those particular lands is in no way a certainty. They are probably the most dangerous that need to be claimed in your name. Mayhap, some will not even survive. ‘Twould be a pity for some of your most loyal subjects to risk their heirs in such endeavours.’

William rose to his full height, nearly touching the top of his battlefield tent, and nodded. ‘An interesting perspective, Obert,’ he said, walking to the flap and lifting it higher, giving those outside the signal to approach. ‘And a persuasive argument that will satisfy, at least for the immediate time, some of those who would be most vocal.’

‘As you say, my lord.’ Obert stepped to his side and they waited for the most noble, the richest and the most powerful of his supporters to enter. ‘Why waste an heir on such a dangerous task when a perfectly good bastard will do?’

Another man would be dead on the ground for uttering such words to him. Indeed, many had lost much in doing such a thing in the past, but Obert spoke in understood irony as only one bastard could to another. Their own lives and positions had been based on such decisions. William caught sight of the bodies being piled all over the battlefield and nodded. His men were already calling this place Senlac, the blood lake. And there would be much more blood spilled before he controlled the length and breadth of England.

It did not matter to the ground beneath him if the blood soaking into it was noble or not. It did not matter to the clay if the man leaking his life held a title or even a name. It did not matter to the earth at his feet if his cause was right or wrong.

And it did not matter to him, William, Duke of Normandy, the Bastard, and now the Conqueror. Only success mattered now and, if those on Odo’s list had much to gain and little to lose, so be it. He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded to Obert, who began to read out the declarations.

In war, success mattered, blood did not.