It is a sunny day with no trace of a cloud in the sky. The weather has warmed up to -1 Celsius. Despite the beautiful conditions, I am under a cloud, like Jo Brfsplk, from the Lil’ Abner comic series by Al Capp. Why am I depressed with my head under a cloud when there are no clouds in the sky? I have learned, albeit slowly, that there is rarely a good response to that question.
Yet, I still try to find reasons, especially when it obviously can’t be an issue of the weather, ruling out S.A.D., Seasonal Affective Disorder. I have gone out for walks almost everyday for the past eleven months. I am in good physical health, so that isn’t a concern. At a loss, I am left with the only thought that maybe I am suffering Covid19 fatigue. Especially as the world around me seems to be devolving into a climate of anger and hate.
That would be a convenient response, and perhaps even a valid supposition. However, I have been suffering from depression since my first memories in my childhood. The story of that is told in my series of autobiographical books, so I don’t want to go there. So, that leaves me with one more idea – I am missing being out of doors, in nature, while wearing nothing. That is where and how I have found release from depression in the past. Because it is winter, with snow and ice outside, I have only this indoor opportunity to be bare in sunlight. It isn’t the same, though it is better than a gloomy winter darkness.
So, I find relief in listening to music and in the stories I write. Here is the follow up to the prologue shared in my last post. For those interested, the story of this second book is set in the eleventh century. William conquered England and the First Crusade, the Crusade of the Princes were the historical markers. The first draft of the complete story that concludes in the twentieth century was written a few years ago. That version was mostly pure history, a fractured genealogy. This time around, the real people come to life with the help of mythical characters. Today, I want to share the first chapter of the story. I won’t be sharing more of the story, as I want to leave you with just a taste of what is to come, with the hopes that perhaps you would buy the book when it finds its way into the world of print and ebooks.
~
Chapter One
Guillaume had studied the arts of war with diligence and had earned his spurs as a full knight by the age of sixteen. He didn’t have any siblings, a concern that had plagued his father, Raoul, Sieur de Longpré. Raoul had arranged a marriage for his son with the eldest of the Fontaine girls, Marie who was just six months younger. The fact that they were second cousins was irrelevant. Marie’s father, Gilles de Fontaine was Raoul’s best friend. Both men had seen the two youngsters grow up playing together. For Raoul, this was important. Though he remained in a loveless marriage, he had spent most of his life in the saddle, as far from his home estate as possible. Only Guillaume’s presence served to have him return periodically to guide his son’t development. Guillaume had married Marie on her sixteenth birthday.
Two years earlier, Raoul had taken his fourteen-year-old son for a three-day hunting trip into the northern forests. Raoul had received a message from Guillaume’s uncle Laurent, the brother of the woman who had given birth to Guillaume. The boy had been delivered to Raoul when he was only a year old. The message instructed Raoul to take Guillaume to the countryside north of the village of Long. Raoul dared not disobey. Guillaume had never been told that he wasn’t the son of Raoul’s wife. Some stories were best left buried in the past as far as Raoul was concerned.
The two of them were met on the old road two hours north of Long by two riders. Guillaume was shocked to see two almost naked riders who were covered in tattoos outlined in blue paint.
“Raoul, I am pleased that you have brought your son to meet with us,“ Laurent spoke. “ Aimée and I have been waiting a long time for this moment.”
Raoul held his breath. ‘Was Laurent going to tell Guillaume the truth that Aimée was his birth mother?’ But he worried for nothing.
“Have you told young Guillaume about the contract that exists between your family and the old people?”
“Yes, Laurent. Guillaume knows that he has the blood of ancient Belgae, as well as that of Franks and Danes. He knows his heritage and his future role as protector of our people.”
Guillaume was at a loss of words as he followed these two strangers deep into the forest. He was surprised when they emerged into a large meadow within which a number of dwellings were built. In the middle of the meadow was a circle of tall stones, taller than a man, capped with long stones. Within the circle of stones was something that he immediately knew was an altar.
Raoul had taught him about the gods and goddesses of the Belgae. Those lessons had taught him that many of the people in the estate were descendants of the Belgae. Though they couldn’t practice the rites of the past, they kept them alive in their hearts. He had also taught Guillaume that the de Longpré family protected these descendants from the clutches of the Christian Church who only knew the Belgae who believed in the old religion, as heretics.
Guillaume had returned from a training exercise with other noble young men only days before that wedding. That had been six years ago. Marie had wasted no time in giving birth to a boy, followed by two girls since their marriage. The boy had been named Pierre after Marie’s older brother who was Guillaume’s best friend. With the guarantee of an heir with Pierre’s birth, Raoul was able to breathe easier. So, when the call came from the Duke of Normandy for the Duke’s planned invasion of England, Raoul began to gather his knights and foot soldiers.
Though the link between the Duke and Raoul’s family were weakened by time, the family honour demanded that the Longpré clan respond. Raoul was unsure if the Duke was a second or third cousin. Still, family was family.
“Guillaume, you will lead our men. You’re ready.”
“But, Papa? Why aren’t you leading? You are riding with us.”
Their small force included the Lords of Long, Longuet, Fontaine, Bailleul, L’Étoile, and Pont Remy.
“You are ready for this, Guillaume. The Duke has asked this of our family, and you are the future of the family’s honour now that you have an heir. I will ride beside you, giving my counsel. But it will be you who will make the final decisions as our leader.”
“But, Papa!”
“You have to learn and practice leadership, son. This is a good time, especially since our contribution is, in truth, a minor one in the larger group of armies being gathered under the Duke’s banner, where the major decisions will be made by the Duke and his generals.”
~
Less than two months later, in mid-October, Guillaume found himself positioned on the Duke’s left flank at Hastings. His father and his trusted friends surveyed the scene below them. The mass of footmen, archers and pikemen were hidden by the trees from the battle happening below. The Duke’s main army of Normans were engaged with the forces of King Harold. The Bretons were hidden from view on the Duke’s left flank, waiting like the Picardy and Flanders armies on the right side.
Not too many steps behind Guillaume and the mounted knights, Lugh stood with a pike in his hand. Guillaume would never have recognised him. A threadbare cloak covered his tattoos, while a hood placed his facial features in a perpetual shadow. Lugh was present to ensure that young Guillaume remained safe. In war, there were no guarantees.
All had been instructed to wait for the signal to attack. It had been stressed upon them that to join the battle too early would only have King Harold’s forces return to the safety of their fortress. William wanted a victory, a clear victory preferably with Harald’s head on a spike. Only then would William be able to proclaim himself the new King of England.
Harald’s army had been drawn into the battle and had appeared to be driving William’s army back. Seeing a chance for victory, Harold advanced further into the valley, placing his army further from the safety of the fortress. William’s men began a retreat with the appearance of disorder. Just as it appeared that a rout was imminent, the signal was given. Guillaume and every other minor noble led their combined forces from both wings, closing in on Harold’s men, now trapped in a pincer movement. It was late in the day, with dusk approaching, when the battle was quickly decided. An unknown archer had felled King Harold.
William’s army continued to fight the English forces for a number of weeks in various locations as the English army retreated. It took until Christmas of that year, 1066, for the English crown to be placed on William’s head.
Guillaume returned home with most of his original group of knights. Missing was his father and the Lords of Fontaine and Longuet. Though they had won all the engagements within which they had found themselves, Guillaume had a heavy heart. He had lost his best friend as well as his father. He knew that Marie would be heart broken to hear of the death of her brother.
Unsurprisingly, his mother took the news of the death of her husband very well. It had been no secret that they didn’t have much to do with each other. His father’s mistress fell apart with the news. Marie tried her best to comfort her husband though she grieved the loss of her brother. She had young children who needed her to stay strong. Guillaume drew upon his wife’s love and strength and took care of the needed arrangements, especially those arrangements that had to do with the Church.
Then, there was the important matters of who would take responsibility for the tiny seigneury of Longuet. The natural choice was that the Lord of Long, Sir Gilbert, would take on that role. But that was a choice that was fraught with problems. He was a bitter and childless man, a middle-aged man who was cruel to his vassals in Long.
Pierre’s younger brother Hugues would be the new Lord of Fontaine, though he was barely fifteen years of age. Guillaume knew that Hugues would need his support and help to succeed as the new Lord.
~
The years passed with the need to continually take to the field with his small army. Once again, the Flemish were attempting to expand their territory to include the Somme River valley. Sir Gilbert was loathe to add his forces to the defense of the river valley. Gilbert had reasoned that it would be to his benefit if Guillaume de Longpré and Hugues de Fontaine fell in battle. With them out of the way, the Church would confirm Gilbert as the Seigneur of four estates – Long, Longuet, as well as Fontaine and Longpré.
In 1083, with a reduced fighting force with the men of both Long and Longuet not made available for the defence of their lands, Guillaume sent a message to the Duke of Normandy, now King of England, asking for his assistance. Guillaume got more than he asked for as a compliment of armed knights accompanied by an important prelate of the Church arrived.
“Sir Guillaume,” the prelate, Monseigneur Godot said as he extended his ring finger for Guillaume to kiss. “The King commanded me to render you assistance in this matter of the raiding Flemish.”
“Monseigneur Godot, your aid is greatly appreciated. The men accompanying you are sorely needed in dealing with the Flemish incursions.”
“Ah, but it is more that the Flemsih who must be dealt with, Sir Guillaume. There is the more troubling matter that needs to be resolved.”
“Pray tell, Father?”
“The Bishops of both Amiens and Abbéville had communicated their concerns about the Flemish attacks. The Church needs a climate of peace in order to prosper. With a lack of, shall we say, good leadership, people are drifting away from the Church. In particular, the parishes of Long and Longuet are dwindling. The priests are reporting that there is a troubling rise in heathen worship in their parishes.”
“I have heard much the same,” admitted Guillaume, unsure where this conversation was going.
“The priests in both Fontaine and Longpré don’t appear to be suffering in attendance in their respective churches.”
Guillaume made no comment. He looked at the Monseigneur with narrowed eyes. Something was afoot and he was unsure where this conversation was going.
“I have just spent two days with the Bishops of Abbéville and Amiens, searching for solutions. We have arrived at a solution that would benefit both you and the Church. Shall we talk about this solution following the evening meal? I know that you have duties to attend to with the arrival of William’s men.”
Guillaume listened to the Monseigneur’s instructions. Guillaume was to lead his usual compliment of knights and infantry to patrol the southern shore to the west to Caubert. William’s men would be charged with a different task that needed Guillaume to be in the company of most of the knights of the Somme River valley between Abbéville and Hangest. Guillaume was to move deliberately along the southern trail of the Somme. His return would be along the northern shore from Epange to l’Etoile. Only half of William’s men would be accompanying Guillaume and his patrol. No mention was made of what the remaining men would be doing.
“Why wouldn’t all of them be riding with us, Father?”
“They have a holy task to complete for the Church, one that is best that you don’t know.”
Guillaume knew better than to challenge or question a high-ranking Churchman. Accepting the Monsieur’s blessing, he led his men on the patrol as proposed. In truth, the route had been used many times in hopes of intercepting Flemish forces with occasional success. The only action seen was when they encountered a band of highwaymen near Eaucourt. The brigands were routed and put to the sword.
By the time they approached Longuet, the men were in good humour. It would only be the matter of another two hours before Guillaume would bring this campaign to an end. On the outskirts of the village, they say smoke. Guillaume called to his men, “Alert! It looks like we have arrived to late. Quick, spread out to see if there are survivors.”
The village hadn’t suffered too much damage. The fires were mostly of the older outbuildings. The streets were empty, suggesting that most had made it into the safety of the forest. Guillaume had a quarter of his men stay at Longuet to serve as a protective force while he took the rest of his men and rode hard to reach Long.
“They just left almost an hour ago,” wailed an older woman who sat beside the burnt remnants of her thatch house. “They killed the master.”
“Which way did they go?”
“They rode to the north, down the old trail towards Ailly.”
Guillaume hesitated. He knew that he could spend the better part of a day trying to catch up to the Flemish raiders. Success would be doubtful though. They had too much of a head start and they would likely reach Flemish territory before he could punish them in battle. Choosing a wiser course of action, he had six of his men mount a patrol along the escape road. Then, he went to his great-uncle’s house.
“He’s dead!” wailed his great-Aunt. “The brigands gutted him like a pig!”
“Auntie,” Guillaume said trying to soothe her. “Are you hurt? What about the others in the manor?”
“He was the only one, Guillaume. Several of the servants were beaten, but that is all. It was if all they wanted was to murder my husband, God rest his soul.”
Guillaume raced through the manor and was struck by how little damage had been done. It was as if the destruction was an afterthought, not the typical behaviour of Flemish brigands or invading troops. Leaving the manor house, he noted the still smouldering buildings. As in Longuet, the buildings were inconsequential, older outbuildings or homes that were less sound, such as the widow’s whom he had spoken with upon the entry into the village.
“I don’t like the looks of this, Hugues,” Guillaume spoke following the assessment of damage. “There was little destruction. And other than a few men suffering wounds, only my uncle died. I know that he wouldn’t have died trying to defend his people, for he wasn’t one to fight. Where are his knights? Why was the village left unguarded?”
“You are right, Guillaume,” the younger knight admitted, “There is something very suspicious about all of this.”
Loathe to leave the village without protection, Guillaume had his remaining men divided into two groups, one which would stay as a protective force under, and the second to go with him to his own village. He was worried that the brigands might have turned south to attack Longpré.
Guillaume crossed the river on a narrow wooden bridge that led to a perpetually muddy track that reached the old Roman road on the south side of the river. There, he made quick ride to his home estate. As he entered the edge of the village, he was relieved to see that no damage was evident. The brigands hadn’t made it to the village, now the most prosperous village between Abbéville and Picquigny, closer to Amiens.
As he approached his home situated on a small rise behind the village church, he noticed that the Monseigneur’s carriage was parked behind the church just outside of the stable. He also saw the gates that lead to his comfortable home, were open. There was no indication that any enemy had been anywhere in the vicinity. He rode at a more relaxed pace into the manor grounds, past the guardhouse and the neighbouring quarters for the youths who were training to become knights.
Marie was standing at the top of the steps wearing a smile. Though they had been married twenty-three years, she was still in love with him. Guillaume handed of his horse to his youngest son, a youth of thirteen years, named Raoul. Guillaume had three sons and four daughters. There had been three miscarriages over the years.
“You’ve returned, safe and well,” she called out as she rushed down the path towards her husband.
“Not so well,” Guillaume hastened to say. “My uncle, Georges de Long is dead.