Chapter 3
Ramnulf II’s Story: the lily and the black eagle
Of course it was never going to be an option that I would lead my own levies into battle. My warrior Bishop, Aubry of Charroux, a man of the cloth who was, nonetheless extremely fond of donning armour and a mace and laying about himself in the melee, saw to that. I had not long been back in Saintonge and was in frantic parley with Liop and Geoffrey of Thouars when Aubry and his entourage came thundering into the main yard. Leaping off his steed with an agility that a man half his age would have envied he came striding over to me, the scales of his armour clinking ominously, his face set in determined mien. It was a stifling hot day even for June but the demeanour of the soldier prelate had me sweating even more than usual, dressed for war as we all had been in these trying times.
‘My Lord word has it that you mean to command one of the battles when we march against the traitors-this is folly sir!’
The hairs on my neck bristled in a heady mix of barely disguised shame and pent up fury. I had been back home for several weeks but throughout I had known that this confrontation was looming. Ever my father had impressed upon me his disdain for my singular lack of martial prowess-had even on a few occasions drawn his Grace, the Bishop, into his taunting. The result was that I had never been one for soldierly pursuits and though I had let it be known to the new commander of my army, the Catalan Band’s chief, Condottiere Guifré that I wished to lead the left flank (his deputy, Père Ramon commanded the right), it seemed that Bishop Aubry had other ideas.
Count Geoffrey stepped into the path of the hot-headed priest, ‘methinks you forget yourself your Grace-‘
I interposed myself between my friend and my Chaplain, ‘’tis ok Geoffrey, his Grace has the right of it-he is a far better battle commander than ever I could be-he shall command the left…’
‘But my lord!’ Liop spoke up ‘you should be leading your own levies-set an example to all…’
But I was defeated-in this matter at least-and if truth be told, marching around in scale armour was not well suited to me-better to plot and plan with Geoffrey more secretive dealings. I had ceded the affair to my Bishop and retired, red-faced with shame.
Afterwards Geoffrey sought me out in my private quarters, ‘that was ill done-his Grace the Bishop likes you not my Lord-mayhap he will get his just deserts on the field of battle.’
I had looked sadly out onto the courtyard where my nemesis was even now in earnest parley with the mercenary leader. ‘Mayhap my friend, mayhap…well it is down to the martial men now-I will, meantime, busy myself with learning more about the things that really matter-the cultures of my demesne-isn’t that worth just as much?’ I had clapped Thouars on the back in a poor attempt at joviality-if it was meant to deceive it had no such effect but in books, at least, I had not many equals.
I am the ultimate bookworm!
Throughout June and July our levies continued to assemble until at last, on a searing Saint Bartholomew’s day, almost two thousand four hundred men marched out from the city gates, their commander’s intent in running down the faithless Wulgrin of Perigord and annihilate his army. I kept my thoughts to myself as I waved down from the city walls-if there was disquiet at my supporting role none had seemingly voiced it neither on the council nor amongst the common man if Geoffrey and his spies were to be believed. Mayhap they all reckoned on my true place more so than myself-no matter: I swallowed my pride and wrapped it round in a cloak of humility-something not many highborn lords would have been capable of.
So I had buried myself in the books and tomes that wove an intricate tale of the different cultures of Aquitaine and Poitiers, of Occitan and Frank and Catalan. At the same time some childish urge had me ordering my Master of the Horse to train me up in the new ways of mounted combat; the charge and counter charge, how to couch my lance and run down foot soldiery. Never a natural learner of such matters I had nonetheless increased my skill within a few weeks such that I could, at least begin to hold my head just a little bit higher when my peers discussed the ways of war.
A few weeks later I was trying to talk to my surly youngest brother in my solar, patiently going through with him the reasons that our sibling might have seen fit to throw in his lot with rebels and not so subtly warning him that he had better not think about a similar course when there was a hubbub without. I had no doubt that it was the news that I had waited so long for. The messenger had barely entered before I snatched the vellum scroll from his hands, tore open the wax that bore Bishop Aubry of Charroux’s seal, eyes frantically scanning the elaborate Latin words:
My Lord Duke, I bring tidings of a great battle fought before the walls of Niort, home of our esteemed Lord Marshall. That was where we ran to ground the perfidious traitor Wulgrin-his army numbering less than half of ours had nonetheless led us a merry chase north then westwards. It was the superior knowledge of the environs that enabled us to snare our wily quarry…
Get to the point man I had thought exasperated as I read on.
…he was brought to brook not more than a league from Niort itself. Our scouts brought us word that their centre was led by a fellow prelate, Clotaire of Bassac-foolish man to throw his lot in with such brigands! Their left a nobody whose name escapes me and Wulgrin himself their right. It was no match my Lord-we had the numbers on them in all respects and after a devastating charge by our foot under cover of a hail of arrow fire we unleashed our horsemen-we had fully five hundred Frankish knights to their paltry sum. Their left was the first to collapse and after that all was rout.
That left flank looks dodgy...
Your Grace we have taken a tally of our losses and their own: they have fled the field with barely two hundred remaining whilst we lost that same number. It has been a crushing victory my Lord. With your good leave I have pensioned off the Catalans-they were right pleased with the days work. Now there is the more irksome task of flushing out the remainder from their towns and fastnesses-it may take some time-certes your brother and Wulgrin remain at large but rest assured we will hunt them down.
God be praised for this triumph for his grace and mercy has shone on us!
I am at your pleasure my lord
His Grace Bishop Aubry of Charroux
I had been holding my breath and at conclusion of the news that I had so long awaited let out an explosive sigh. Turning to address my brother I was suddenly in command again, ‘Eblés fetch forth my Secretary-I must pen a missive to my Lord of Charroux immediately!’ Without a word the lad did as he was bidden and before long I was dictating a reply:
My Lord Bishop-greetings! I am right glad to receive the tidings that you bring. This victory will school all those who are minded to rebel against their lord that such actions will bring with them a harvest only of tears and dust.
You have free rein to command my levies in any such way that you deem most fit but your main goal is to run down the Traitors and bring them in chains before me.
Ramnulf Dux
I may have been a military ingénue but even I knew that it would take many more months of pursuit and siege to bring the remainder of the rebels to heel. The main thing was that their main battle was destroyed-Aubry could continue with the dirty work-I had a wife and a King to attend to…
I returned to Paris in October 869, my Spouse more than unusually excited to see me again-her frustrations at being so many months without her Lord unleashed on my exhausted manhood during a night of excoriating passion. As we lay spent afterwards I gave voice to what I believed troubled her. ‘My love you continue to fret about our un-conceived child do you not?’
She turned her big Basque eyes to mine, their lustre wet with tears, her Latin faltering as it always did when she was overtaken by her humours, ‘I cannot compass why I have not conceived my love-have consulted all the holy men and all manner of less than savoury characters: crones and quacks. They all say I must be patient.’ She was sobbing now as I gathered her into my breast,
‘You must not worry yourself
amour all things will come to pass in their own time.’ I held her close until she quieted and eventually slept, thoughts meantime on the coming meet with my King that had been delayed for almost a year by my brother’s rebellion.
In the event I had been summonsed along with my Duchess and we had been received at Melun in some pomp, The King and his Queen seemingly bent on making us feel most welcome. The Queen was already well acquainted with my wife, of course, had apparently taken her under her wing in the lonely months of my absence. She was a charming woman, this Ermentrude of Orléans-though frail and looking every inch her forty six years. Those were peaceful months during the winter of 869/870, spent in the Capitol researching new ways to generate income for our Kingdom, conversing with the old King and sitting in Council. That was really where I was in my element-my nature drawn to whisper and plot like a moth to a flame. I was able to use my new found favour with the King to subtly persuade him to instruct his son, the Stammerer, not to make any attempts on my lands. The King assured me that he had his hands too full trying to quell a rebellion launched by my uncle, Count Gerard of Limousin to even think on it but he would, nonetheless, send a messenger warning him off any such action. A king he may be but only at the pleasure of his father who had bequeathed him Aquitaine in the first place. For my part, I was well contented with the influence I was able to wield.
The beautiful palace at Melun
Oath taking and gift giving the Frankish way
Such was my indifference when, just after Saint Martin’s day in mid November, I was ordered to vote in a new law that Louis of Aquitaine had instituted that would provide him with a little more authority over his lords and us a little less opportunity to do whatsoever we pleased. Embroiled as I was in the affairs of West Francia I was not in the slightest bit interested and sent an emissary to my liege with an abstention in this vote-it concerned me not..or so I thought.
As 870 turned into 871 I was being kept closely apprised of the continuing efforts of Aubry to stamp out the rebellion. I tended to my good lady who was mourning the death of her friend and mentor, the Queen, who had died in her sleep as the spring months turned warmer. The King for his part took the loss heavy. Theirs was not a love match such as ours was but she had been a solid rock for him during the many trials and test of his reign. The king, who was of an age, suddenly seemed weighed down by his years and it saddened me.
At around this time the Council came to learn, through the Mayor of Compiegne, that the accord that had been struck between the three Carolingian brothers, Lothair of Lotharingia, Ludwig of East Francia (sometimes known as Louis the German) and our Charles, had begun to break down. Mayhap the Germans sensed an opportunity for, though his Council was behind him, Charles’s reign had been beset by internecine plotting and factions from the start and there were many of his supposedly loyal vassals lining up their powers behind the King of East Francia. Lotharingia itself was something of an anomaly, created from the eastern part of our kingdom and the western part of the German Francia-a ‘kingdom’ born purely to appease the third of the surviving siblings-such was the heady mix of Frankish politics in the late ninth century….
That summer-an unusually wet one as I recall-I heard word from Geoffrey that my fugitive brother Gauzbert’s portly wife, Berta, had conceived a plot to murder my son. Snorting with derision as I read the letter out to Ximena, I was nevertheless gratified at the concern that she showed for my offspring even though not hers-a remarkable woman-who even now, by this act of selflessness, was demonstrating to me just how strong her love for me was. On my wife's urgings, rather than ignoring this seemingly trifling threat, I despatched a messenger to Saintes to inform Berta that I was fully aware of her bumbling plotting and that she should cease and desist on pain of severe censure-or worse...
Not more than a few weeks after that at last the longed for message arrived that I had been awaiting for fully two years: the capture and final surrender of my brother and his accomplice Wulgrin. I once more bade Ximena a fond goodbye and this time reassured her that I would be gone only a matter of weeks-I could not stay away long, in any case, as the King was ailing.
I arrived back in Saintes on a sodden June afternoon to be greeted by Geoffrey and Bishop Aubry. After kissing the Bishop’s ring and embracing Geoffrey I asked to be shown to my quarters. The prisoners could wait. Standing expectantly outside my rooms, however, were my Steward, Alphonse and the Jew, Solomon. Barely disguising my irritation, for I was dog-tired, I snapped, ‘Gods blood can I not have a night’s rest at least gentlemen? What brings you here so urgently that you cannot wait until the morrow?’
It was the heavily bearded Jew who spoke, smiling broadly as he did and in no way downcast by my stormy demeanour and combative tone, ‘my Lord Duke I wanted to greet you on arrival to say how grateful all in our community are with your continued protections and also at the speed with which you repaid that loan…’
My features softened-all my dealings with this man had only led to a grudging liking for the fellow-I could not lie-though it damn me to everlasting hell-if such a place existed. ‘Of course Solomon-you know that I am a man who sets not too much store in some of the less-ah-reasonable strictures of the church-you seem a genuine man and you gave me that loan at a very fair rate-I would not have been able to quell my brother’s rebellion without it.’
Solomon bowed low whilst Alphonse beamed behind him-he had been doing a good job managing my affairs-I will need to reward him, I was thinking.
‘
A sheynem dank my Lord-thank you so much.’ The bear-like old man intoned and was duly escorted from my presence.
The next day I gave orders for Wulgrin of Perigord and Angoulême to be cast into the Oubliette-a place from which he was not to emerge alive. Moreover his County of Perigord was to be forfeit to me-he could keep his other title: I did not expect to see him enjoy it at liberty in this lifetime. My brother, for his wayward ways and hostility, was imprisoned, but in reasonable conditions. For my part I could not see him despite the accusing glare of my youngest brother-the wound of his betrayal was too raw, frankly.
I also took the opportunity, whilst I was back home, to summons my son, Ramnulf, to an audience. I was looking for some signs that he could succeed me and though the eleven year old was a pleasant enough character, seemingly pleased to see the father who had hardly acknowledged him, I did not see enough fire in the boy to convince me that he could inherit my domains. As for his lowborn Guardian, Aubry-the man was a simpleton! The sooner I relieved him of the wardship of my son the better and I had just the man in mind.
There was only the matter of convening my Council and disposing of my affairs. It seemed my estates were in rude health despite the war, my finances reasonably healthy and there were no plots or factions encompassing further revolts. I assigned Geoffrey to chair the meeting, as I took up station at one end of the great oaken table. The doors were flung wide open, for the day had dawned bright and warm- a welcome contrast to the endless damp that the summer had thus far inflicted on us.
‘My Lords, on behalf of our Lord Duke I would like to welcome our new Chancellor, Mayor Valeran of Bergerac. Well met sir!’
Pretty crap at diplomacy but who else have I got? Damn Gauzbert!
To this polite applause for which I smiled-the Mayor was no diplomat like my brother but it seemed that he was the best that could be found in our lands. The morning wore on towards Sext and the midday break but before we adjourned I called the meeting to silence and addressed my principle adherents: ‘My friends, I met with my son, yesterday and have decided forthwith that the boy’s continuing education is best served with my Lord of Thouars-this to be effective immediately.’
There were smiles all round at this for though he was our Master of Secrets, he was also, conversely quite popular.
‘I will set forth back to Paris on the morrow my lords-my wife frets when I spend too long away...’ I ignored the ribald jests, ‘moreover the kingdom ails as does the king himself-we must be prepared for great change and upheaval.’
There were grim looks and nods-all would do their duty if it came to it. The next day I departed for the capitol only to find on my return the place in a febrile state. Ximena, who sometimes I reckoned was better at intrigue than Thouars himself, informed me grimly that Duke Konrad of Champagne had declared openly that he was supporting Ludwig’s claim to our throne.
‘The insolence of the man!’ I spluttered. Is this not the same Duke who our King has well rewarded with lands and titles over the years-ingrate!’
‘Indeed my love-it is grim news indeed. I fear the news has tipped our liege over the edge-he has taken to his bed-sees no one.’
It was indeed grim. The ship of state was now in the hands of the Council since the King had absented himself of all affairs. That winter of 871, an embassage was dispatched hotfoot to King Louis of Aquitaine-he was the only one with the martial prowess and the men to withstand the inevitable storm from our east-besides the Kingdom was his to inherit on his father’s death-an end that was looking more and more likely by the week. Would the lion of Aquitaine remain quiescent whilst our Kingdom was stalked by the Black eagle of East Francia?
As winter turned to spring and the warmer months were presaged by the blossom and the larks we received, in May 872, dread news from the south: the King’s son, Louis, the Stammerer-our erstwhile saviour, had been killed besieging my uncle at his fortified holdings in Limousin. In an uncanny echo of the fate that befell my own father he had been struck by an arrow whilst unarmoured and touring the battlefield. He left a nine-year-old boy, also called Louis, as his successor in Aquitaine and by right our own Kingdom. If ever there was a red rag to a bull, as my lady wife oft said, this was it-it was a wonder that the avaricious Ludwig hadn't declared war there and then.
Nothing good can come of a boy king-can it?
‘Mayhap he has too much respect for his dying brother.’ Ximena had said sombrely. Whatever the case the ailing King slipped into a coma in July of that year and passed from the world a few weeks later. I was genuinely saddened; ours had not been a long acquaintance but it had been one of mutual respect and loyal service.
The following weeks were frantic ones of arranging the king’s funeral and preparing to welcome the new boy king, Louis II, to the capitol. Arrangements needed to be made with his Regent and Guardian, Humbert de Jouillat, a jumped up arriviste, who had nevertheless managed to inveigle his way into the boy’s affections first as his spymaster and then as his guardian. I had been dispatched, on behalf of the Council, to treat with this man and get the measure of the Aquitanians-mayhap the fact that I was its Duke would stand me in good stead on this most delicate of assignments. On arrival at the ancient capitol of Bellac in La Marche I had been afforded what was, at best a polite welcome with none of the usual Occitan warmth. The reason for this froideur became clear on meeting Louis’s Regent on the following day.
‘If you have come to lay down terms, my Lord of Poitou,’ the man had sniffed ‘you had better save your breath and return northwards-I am now the power in West Francia.’ I noted with rising anger that he had not even acknowledged my title of Duke of Aquitaine but bit my tongue-this man would require all my cunning to best-and best him I would, however long it took I silently vowed.
‘No terms My Lord Jouillat,’ I replied smoothly affording him an epithet that he neither merited nor possessed, ‘we would merely speak with the King and let him understand his Grandsire’s dying wishes.’
The new ‘Regent’ eyed me suspiciously for what seemed like an eternity. If there was something outlandish about a Duke, twice over, waiting on a commoner to have an audience with a boy king, not a whit of it passed my expressionless features. Eventually he assented to a short meeting with the King-with him present of course.
When I was ushered into King Louis II’s presence and had bowed low and knelt in fealty to the lad I appraised him with kindly eyes. ‘Your Grandfather, the old king, left the wish that you rule from Paris Sire.’
The boy looked to his mentor, Humbert, for guidance. From that man there came an almost imperceptible nod. ‘Very well My Lord Duke.’ He squeaked in a boyish, frail voice.
‘Thank you Your Grace. Moreover he desires that you work with his existing Council for the weal of the kingdom-there are myriad threats without.’
At this there was no nod, only a scowl from de Jouillat. This produced a much more equivocal answer from the monarch. ‘We will see about that My Lord.’
‘Finally a personal request My Liege…’
‘Please proceed,’ was the uncertain response.
‘As Duke of Aquitaine I would like to personally proffer the hand of friendship and support to your highness. My men and lands are yours, sire, whenever you should have need of them.’
This last clearly threw the lad as, initially, he smiled at so unequivocal a demonstration of support. But then he looked to the still scowling Regent for affirmation and when he found none he immediately cooled. No matter, I thought, the seed has been planted.
And so in the autumn of 872 we buried and crowned a king. Both ceremonies, held within a week of each other, were full of pomp and pageantry, the citizens of Paris and its environs turning out in great numbers to especially welcome their handsome new boy-king. Within days of the coronation, which was ominously not attended by either of his Great Uncles, the King’s of Lotharingia or East Francia. His Uncle, Louis II of Italy and nominally the Holy Roman Emperor, the son of Ludwig and nephew of Lothaire
did deign to attend causing much head scratching and puzzlement amongst all.
I was soon confirmed in my position on the Council-all the others, however, lost their seats to their Aquitanian counterparts. It was gratifying in one sense-frustrating in another as now I had to deal almost daily with the poltroon that was The Regent-as insufferable a man as I had ever met-and without the lordly blood to back up his arrogance.
Later that September I received encouraging news from the South: Duke Antso of Gascogne, that Lord who had ever been a thorn in my side and whose counties of Bordeaux and Agen I myself coveted, died. He was succeeded by his son Gartzia who was instantly made Cupbearer of West Francia by the Regent-I swear to spite me. I would nock Gartzia’s name down for future reckonings…
Meantime the royal armies continued to try and suppress my uncle of Limousin’s revolt whilst also dealing with that of the Count of Troyes and Frisia in Flanders. That was no matter to me whatsoever, however, when word reached the court, in February 873, that old King Saloman of Brittany had finally given over his spirit to the Lord at the ripe old age of sixty-three, I immediately sat up and took notice. He was succeeded by his son Riwallon but there was not a one of us on the Council who didn’t think it a continuing affront that Brittany not only got to call itself ‘independent’ but also that they continued to harbour pagan Norsemen in their midst. I, most of all, vowed that this state of affairs would be ‘rectified’ just as soon as I had the strength of manpower-my father’s death at their hands was still to be avenged.
My enemies seem to be falling like flies-praise be!
Then joyous tidings from closer to home: I remember the day as clear as daylight: the 22nd February, Saint Elwin’s day when I returned, exhausted from a long session of the Council. I was greeted by my good lady, her eyes shining with a fervent passion and with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.
‘What is it my love?’ I asked laughing with her for her mood was infectious. ‘Mayhap you want a good swiving wench!’ I said turning her around and making ready to give her pert little behind a smack.
‘Careful my Lord-I am more fragile now than I have been…’
I swung her back around, looking into her eyes and grasping the meaning, ‘you mean?’
She threw back her head and uttered a joyous paean to the heavens ‘I am with child Ramnulf! We have done it you and I at last!’
And it was truly an amazing thing for, even though there are many dangers of childbirth and indeed even the carrying of babes thereof, she came to her full term and was delivered of a healthy baby boy in September of that year. We named him Henri after my grandfather-I wept with joy at her bedside.
They say fatherhood changes a man. I know that it changes some-others could not care less. I, however, doted on my little son-he was truly the apple of his father’s eye. I was much distracted during these first few months of parenthood and thus it was with some trepidation that I was summonsed to Court in April 874. Was I about to be relieved of my duties for neglecting my offices? It was with red faced shame that I arrived at the Council Chambers but on entering I immediately sensed that whatever reason I had been asked to come was not one that could be laid at my door. All faces were grim-there was dread news in the offing-not a one of them would meet my gaze. I had never been close to any of the Aquitanian Lords that had taken over the Council but this was downright unsettling.
‘What is it my Lords? Why such grim visages? You all look like you have been cuckolded of your wives! Come speak! Where is the King-the Regent?
My laugh froze on my lips as I saw the King enter with a particularly sour faced Humbert de Jouillat-he had been weeping.
‘Sit my Lords’ the Regent demanded. We shuffled to our places as he cleared his throat and after a stumbling start gave us the tidings that I was now craving: ‘My-ahem-my Lords as of last night West Francia, as was in the reign of King Charles the Bald, has been ceded by our King Louis to his Great Uncle, Ludwig of East Francia. We will revert to Aquitaine as will your demesnes My Lord Duke’ this direct to me.
Pandemonium. As chaos reigned all around and as the outraged Lords of the Council shouted and then started, in fury, for the Regent himself I kept my eyes firmly on the boy-his look of utter despair at this spineless capitulation was one of a child forced to do something against his will. Our eyes locked for a moment as Guards were called and fighting broke out and in that moment there was a shared understanding that this wrong would be righted come what may, however long it took…
