Flame of Normandy

FLAME OF NORMANDY

(PREQUEL TO THE COMET)

BY

MIRIAM NEWMAN

DCL Publications, LLC

www.thedarkcastlelords.net

© 2021 Miriam Newman

All rights reserved

First Edition March 2021

DCL Publications

1033 Plymouth Dr.

Grafton, OH 44044

ISBN 978-1-7362178-2-5

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information and storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Lynn Hubbard

Photo: Can Stock Photo © Fotolit

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Chapter One

Normandy, 1047

It is a catastrophe.

On a rise above the Orne River, Henri Broussard watched bodies floating down like pieces of a puzzle. He did not have to see the finished work to recognize what a complete picture of defeat it represented.

Burgundy will not survive this, Jules St. Clare lamented.

"Au contraire, Broussard told his friend. He is William’s cousin and will survive. We are the ones at risk."

St. Clare nodded. With Broussard, he had just watched as the combined forces of King Henry I and William the Bastard of Normandy decimated their superior forces. Led by Guie of Burgundy, he and Broussard had assumed their masses of cavalry would eradicate those of Henry and William, leaving only the foot soldiers to massacre. The Duchy of Normandy itself was at stake. It was insupportable to let the title of Duke be taken by a bastard son of Robert of Normandy. His mother had been a mere tanner’s daughter—a commoner. William’s cousin Guie, who was legitimate, had the claim of blood that decent men supported.

By all that was holy, it should have worked—but it hadn’t. Many of their forces had only recently been Christianized. Others still ran to battle praying to Thor, while one of their main opponents, Hugo du Flaumier, looked like an incarnation of Rollo, yet fought for Our Lord. It was an indication of how badly the duchy was fractured. Broussard thought now he had underestimated the severity of the rift. In this case, it was clear to him that it had impaired their ability to function as a cohesive unit. His men had stood up well enough to the initial skirmishes, but as those took their toll and death looked them in the face, many defected, bolstering the forces of the King and his vassal, William, while depleting his own.

Now his were floating downriver while more lay in a tattered remnant across meadows leading to the Orne. He and St. Clare had survived by their wits alone and it had been a near thing, at that.

What is your intention? St. Clare inquired.

To return to my home with those who can make the journey, Broussard replied. I do not believe they will pursue us across the river. Too many drowned. They will not chance it when they know we are beaten. Guie will sue for peace.

And you?

Broussard laughed. Oh, I will sue, assuredly. They will come to some terms. I may be left with lands and I still have resources. In particular, I have a very beautiful daughter.

St. Clare knew the girl in question. Yes, she was a beauty, but beautiful enough for her flaws to be overlooked? It probably depended on where Henri intended to pledge her.

Have you a prospect in mind?

du Flaumier.

St. Clare looked at his overlord as though he had lost his wits.

He is William’s man through and through, Broussard said, and he is nearly on my doorstep. Guie has family connections that may induce William to treat him with some leniency. I have none. If I intend to stop du Flaumier taking the whole thing, it would be wise to acquire some for myself. And this would benefit you. If I go, you go.

St. Clare was on his other doorstep. If du Flaumier went through Broussard, he was the next target. That would be a hard duty, was all he dared to say.

Catherine is a hard woman, Broussard replied.

* * * *

The object of their conversation was at that moment cantering her horse along the bank of the Orne, much further north. She had seen no bodies and there were no messages from her father, who was away pursuing one of his seemingly endless battles. The day was fair, her horse was mettlesome and she had her hands full to keep him from charging the riverbank. The strong choppy rhythm of the horse combined with the scent of crushed bracken and churned-up mud to feed her senses and she didn’t really want to stop, but the murky water was getting awfully close.

"Mon Dieu!" she finally exclaimed, getting him stopped before he could make the leap. He was so close she could see her reflection and his forefeet sunk in muck inches from the river. She had been unhorsed in water before and been none the worse for it, but of course it was never a pleasant experience and Maman was unhappy when she came back dripping river water on the floors. This one should go to the cavalry, I think.

Broussard’s head groom only grinned. He did not go to battle with her father, but he did ride with Catherine, since he was one of the few riders who could keep up with her and was a man of impeccable character besides. There was not the least indication he would ever behave improperly and since she was being groomed for an advantageous marriage, such considerations counted. All Leon wanted was to keep her in one piece. He was fond of the little termagant.

Or perhaps to the hunt, he suggested. A few miles of hard hunting should blunt his edge. And he obviously has no fear of water.

Obviously. Catherine bent to slap the bay gelding’s neck. He had been cut to make a riding horse of him, but it was hard to tell. He still seemed half stallion, curveting and snapping at her companion’s quieter gelding. I will tame him, never fear.

Leon smiled at her again. No, that I do not fear. Just have a care for your neck.

No one would miss it.

She had no sooner said it than the horse planted himself and bugled for all the world like a stallion scenting mares. His ears were pointed at the rise above the Orne, swiveling south.

What is it? she asked softly, as though she would speak with the horse, and Leon would not have been surprised. She was like a little wild mare herself: tiny but tough as cured leather, with a cloud of flowing blonde hair like a gossamer web and a robust, infectious laugh. It would be hard to lose her—she was the spirit of the place, in his opinion. But she was eighteen years old and had been lucky to stay with them that long, since many girls left their homes as soon as they matured. Her temperament had not appealed to many, but that would not matter if the match was right.

Unbidden, Catherine’s gelding started up the incline, ears shot straight forward, accelerating from a walk to a trot without instruction. But she wanted to see whatever he sensed and let him go on, with Leon close behind.

Oh, no, she said, topping the ridge. Down the road towards their manor house she could see a line of riders—her father’s—making for the manor at a speed far reduced from that at which they had left. It was the speed of the wounded, something she had seen before, if not often. More generally, her father was successful, but this time the line looked bedraggled. She and the groom both knew it and set their horses to a hard gallop towards the column.

Broussard led and Catherine rode straight to him, calling, What news?

He shook his head as she pulled even with him. Ill. We left many men down the river.

It was a tacit admission of defeat. "Mais, non," she said stoutly, but he did not reassure her.

We have wounded, he said. You would be more useful if you would ride ahead to warn them.

Of course. She wheeled her horse as he looked after her thoughtfully. Du Flaumier’s reputation was not good, but Broussard was responsible for many other people, such as the broken men limping or riding with difficulty behind him, assisted by those who were still sound. He would be lucky to be assessed only crippling fines for joining the rebellion against William. Better to lose a daughter than the land. His wife would not take it well, but her dowry was long since spent. If du Flaumier would agree to it, that was the only course. Most men thought with their stones where Catherine was concerned, until they experienced her temper. He would have to hope for a quick wedding, before his enemy got to know her.

She and Leon roused the place. Servants were bustling around, moving furniture from the Great Hall to use it as a ward. It had been a number of years since they had had to set up what was essentially a field hospital, but they knew how to do it. Catherine was there, busy supervising, pulling a farrier’s apron on over her fine clothes. She had been blood-spattered before; her clothes were expensive and her father was heavily in debt.

She caught a glimpse of her mother peeking through the chamber doors, but it was all Lady Clothilde would do. Her gentle lady mother would comfort the wounded, read them Bible verses, write letters for them, feed them soup, and she was well loved. Catherine would staunch their bleeding, mop up vomit, stitch their wounds and change their bandages without flinching and she was feared. She was more her father’s daughter, energetic and determined, although without his casual brutality.

"Maman, she called, can you see to the water?" Heating water would not be too great a challenge and it was always needed. The maids were literally running, knowing Catherine would have their hides if they didn’t come promptly with everything else needed. It was going to be a busy night.

Surveying the men being brought in, she quickly spotted Lucien de Briard, a knight not much older than herself. He had had to be lifted in a chair-carry by two men who lowered him onto one of the benches, still sitting. Probably a knee, Catherine thought at once. They were not stretching out his leg, but, blessedly, she saw no blood.

What is your injury? she asked. She knew him well, but that was not why she treated him first. He would be a good source of information.

The knee, he said. He was sweating profusely. Took a shield sideways.

Someone had smashed his leg, trying to unhorse him. Catherine clucked, slitting his braes carefully. His boot had already been removed, for which she was thankful, because her exploration of a hairy, unprepossessing leg immediately found a dislocated knee. It must have been agonizing, pulling off that boot, and though she was not unnerved by a man screaming in pain, they never forgot that she had heard them.

This is out of place, she said. "I will have to