Chapter 1
Konan’s Gloves
Duchy of Breizh
September, in the Year of Our Lord 1066
Konan’s Gloves
Duchy of Breizh
September, in the Year of Our Lord 1066
The men, lying on the ground and hidden behind the trees, had left their horses in a small clearing. There were only four of them, a small group clad in chainmail, their hair dirty and swords within reach. Before their eyes, the boats ran aground on the sand while the soldiers struggled to push them back into the sea where the ships waited.
“How many do you think there are?” asked the only one without chainmail, wearing only light leather armor.
“About a hundred, maybe two hundred,” replied a soldier. “Maybe more.”
“One would be enough,” the man in leather answered. “Duke Konan ordered that no Breton enlist in William’s army. This is the end of the House Phentierve. Let’s go; we’ll catch up with my brother in Normandy.”
Jafrez, the illegitimate brother of Duke Konan of Breizh, raised his eyes to the morning sky. With some luck, the boats and ships would sink; a storm was coming.
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Konan II of Breizh had ordered the banners to be raised to ride against Normandy when William set sail for England. They would devastate the fields, lay waste to the fortresses, and, if God granted them victory, even take Normandy itself. Now, impatient, Konan paced through the fortress of Rennes.
The high wall sheltered inside men and beasts crowded together. The banner of the house of Rennes flew over the towers. It had rained all afternoon; the ground was a muddy mess where dung and mud mixed under the soldiers’ boots. Konan adjusted his cloak and rubbed his hands, covered by ermine leather gloves with red silk trim, to protect himself from the cold wind. Above him, storm clouds swirled, and the rain seemed to grow heavier by the moment.
He thought of William’s letter, in which he demanded they not attack his lands because he had the papal banner to invade England. Such were the Normans: always arrogant, always demanding. Some of that Norman blood also ran in his veins, thanks to his late grandmother Hedwige of Normandy.
That blood gave him the right to rule Normandy.
He left the courtyard and entered the tower. The smell of smoke and warmth was comforting. He found Kont Morvan of Léon, his marshal, in the great hall, devouring a huge leg of lamb.
Grease dripped down onto his thick mustache, the tips of which had sunk into the bowl, smeared with sauce.
Also there was Kont Hoel of Gernvr, tearing apart a chicken and drinking beer. The kingdom’s chancellor, quick to laugh and sharp-witted with words, seemed at that moment just another pig being led to the slaughter.
Konan sat at the table and gestured for the konts to remain seated. He took a piece of bread, broke it, and dipped it in the sauce, but soon felt disgusted by his vassals and instead of eating, grabbed a cup of wine. He held it firmly so it wouldn’t slip between the silk of his gloves.
“We leave now,” he said, throwing the cup to the ground and standing up. “So finish choking on it while on horseback.”
The men hurried to follow him back to the courtyard while the servants cleaned the table.
Konan crossed the courtyard with long strides. If they weren’t council members, he would have whipped those pigs. But his sister was married to the chancellor, his most powerful vassal. How many times had he had to smile and pat their backs? He vaulted onto his horse in a single movement.
He saw his mother, Berthe of Blois, who was holding the Alan., Konan’s illegitimate child.
The boy had slap marks on his face but did not cry. He had a somewhat wild nature, and Berthe was determined to correct him with blows, resolved to make him a knight.
“How many do you think there are?” asked the only one without chainmail, wearing only light leather armor.
“About a hundred, maybe two hundred,” replied a soldier. “Maybe more.”
“One would be enough,” the man in leather answered. “Duke Konan ordered that no Breton enlist in William’s army. This is the end of the House Phentierve. Let’s go; we’ll catch up with my brother in Normandy.”
Jafrez, the illegitimate brother of Duke Konan of Breizh, raised his eyes to the morning sky. With some luck, the boats and ships would sink; a storm was coming.
..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Konan II of Breizh had ordered the banners to be raised to ride against Normandy when William set sail for England. They would devastate the fields, lay waste to the fortresses, and, if God granted them victory, even take Normandy itself. Now, impatient, Konan paced through the fortress of Rennes.
The high wall sheltered inside men and beasts crowded together. The banner of the house of Rennes flew over the towers. It had rained all afternoon; the ground was a muddy mess where dung and mud mixed under the soldiers’ boots. Konan adjusted his cloak and rubbed his hands, covered by ermine leather gloves with red silk trim, to protect himself from the cold wind. Above him, storm clouds swirled, and the rain seemed to grow heavier by the moment.
He thought of William’s letter, in which he demanded they not attack his lands because he had the papal banner to invade England. Such were the Normans: always arrogant, always demanding. Some of that Norman blood also ran in his veins, thanks to his late grandmother Hedwige of Normandy.
That blood gave him the right to rule Normandy.
He left the courtyard and entered the tower. The smell of smoke and warmth was comforting. He found Kont Morvan of Léon, his marshal, in the great hall, devouring a huge leg of lamb.
Grease dripped down onto his thick mustache, the tips of which had sunk into the bowl, smeared with sauce.
Also there was Kont Hoel of Gernvr, tearing apart a chicken and drinking beer. The kingdom’s chancellor, quick to laugh and sharp-witted with words, seemed at that moment just another pig being led to the slaughter.
Konan sat at the table and gestured for the konts to remain seated. He took a piece of bread, broke it, and dipped it in the sauce, but soon felt disgusted by his vassals and instead of eating, grabbed a cup of wine. He held it firmly so it wouldn’t slip between the silk of his gloves.
“We leave now,” he said, throwing the cup to the ground and standing up. “So finish choking on it while on horseback.”
The men hurried to follow him back to the courtyard while the servants cleaned the table.
Konan crossed the courtyard with long strides. If they weren’t council members, he would have whipped those pigs. But his sister was married to the chancellor, his most powerful vassal. How many times had he had to smile and pat their backs? He vaulted onto his horse in a single movement.
He saw his mother, Berthe of Blois, who was holding the Alan., Konan’s illegitimate child.
The boy had slap marks on his face but did not cry. He had a somewhat wild nature, and Berthe was determined to correct him with blows, resolved to make him a knight.
—You leave without receiving your mother’s blessing —said Berthe, her dress dirty at the edges from the mud, her white hair loose over her shoulders, and her hands wrinkled.
The mounted men were already on their horses. Infantrymen, archers, and peasants with clubs jostled for places on the supply wagons. There were also some prostitutes. Bishop Kado, the duke’s chaplain, had tried the previous morning to make them repent, causing disturbances among the soldiers. Now he walked a few steps behind Berthe, ready to try again.
Amid that tumult, the mud, and the threatening storm, it seemed they would never leave Brittany.
“Holy God, let me leave already,” thought Konan as he dismounted and approached his mother. The bishop hesitated between contesting the honor of blessing the duke or converting the prostitutes.
Konan knelt before his mother. She placed her hands on his head and whispered in his ear:
—Your uncle Thibault has sent me a message. He will not march with you against William.
The mounted men were already on their horses. Infantrymen, archers, and peasants with clubs jostled for places on the supply wagons. There were also some prostitutes. Bishop Kado, the duke’s chaplain, had tried the previous morning to make them repent, causing disturbances among the soldiers. Now he walked a few steps behind Berthe, ready to try again.
Amid that tumult, the mud, and the threatening storm, it seemed they would never leave Brittany.
“Holy God, let me leave already,” thought Konan as he dismounted and approached his mother. The bishop hesitated between contesting the honor of blessing the duke or converting the prostitutes.
Konan knelt before his mother. She placed her hands on his head and whispered in his ear:
—Your uncle Thibault has sent me a message. He will not march with you against William.
—I already knew that —Konan replied in a whisper—. I could expect little from my uncle.
—He says the same. And to change your mind, he warns you that William wants to kill you.
—I’ll be glad to cross swords with William.
—A murderer. Or poison. But he’s already on his way. Take care —his mother kissed his forehead.
Konan stood up. He had had to flee much of his life since his father’s death, from the Normans, from his uncle Eudoarzh of Phentierve, who refused to relinquish the regency when Konan turned sixteen. It didn’t surprise him that William wanted him dead; he needed him dead to devour Brittany. But knowing the assassin was already on his way...
He looked at the gathered men. He had to ride out.
—Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! —shouted a young girl running barefoot, her eyes teary.
The soldiers began drawing swords and raising shields, looking around. Konan’s hand went to his sword. Was William so foolish as to try stabbing him in front of his entire army? The girl slipped in the mud. Two soldiers approached with swords raised. In the confusion, they believed her a madwoman trying to assassinate the duke.
—No one touch her! —Konan shouted, stepping forward quickly—. No one touch her!
The girl’s cries didn’t stop, and in the courtyard, a couple of men who had come too close were held back. Berthe grabbed her grandson, who seemed ready to run at the girl with a log he had taken from a cart.
—What’s this? —Konan said, looking at the girl.
—Murderers, murderers, murderers!
Konan grabbed her by the dress, lifting her with a jerk and slapping her twice.
—Where?
—Cursed Konan’s hands!
—He says the same. And to change your mind, he warns you that William wants to kill you.
—I’ll be glad to cross swords with William.
—A murderer. Or poison. But he’s already on his way. Take care —his mother kissed his forehead.
Konan stood up. He had had to flee much of his life since his father’s death, from the Normans, from his uncle Eudoarzh of Phentierve, who refused to relinquish the regency when Konan turned sixteen. It didn’t surprise him that William wanted him dead; he needed him dead to devour Brittany. But knowing the assassin was already on his way...
He looked at the gathered men. He had to ride out.
—Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! —shouted a young girl running barefoot, her eyes teary.
The soldiers began drawing swords and raising shields, looking around. Konan’s hand went to his sword. Was William so foolish as to try stabbing him in front of his entire army? The girl slipped in the mud. Two soldiers approached with swords raised. In the confusion, they believed her a madwoman trying to assassinate the duke.
—No one touch her! —Konan shouted, stepping forward quickly—. No one touch her!
The girl’s cries didn’t stop, and in the courtyard, a couple of men who had come too close were held back. Berthe grabbed her grandson, who seemed ready to run at the girl with a log he had taken from a cart.
—What’s this? —Konan said, looking at the girl.
—Murderers, murderers, murderers!
Konan grabbed her by the dress, lifting her with a jerk and slapping her twice.
—Where?
—Cursed Konan’s hands!
The girl’s eyes were glassy and deep. Konan felt a supernatural dread and a cold shiver run through his body. For a moment, it seemed he saw only her, standing amid the crowd. Her full lips parted, and the duke released her, feeling his hands heavy as if he had touched something sacred. He didn’t even have the strength to cross himself.
The rain began to pour harder, and thunder rumbled, as if the sky had been holding back.
Suddenly, the girl stopped screaming. Her voice, now calm and clear, seemed to whisper into his ear:
—The child is not yet born, but already some fear the sleeping king will return to claim his throne. Cursed be the hands of Konan. Blessed be the seed of Konan.
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The rain began to pour harder, and thunder rumbled, as if the sky had been holding back.
Suddenly, the girl stopped screaming. Her voice, now calm and clear, seemed to whisper into his ear:
—The child is not yet born, but already some fear the sleeping king will return to claim his throne. Cursed be the hands of Konan. Blessed be the seed of Konan.
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Jafrez mab Alan had ridden as fast as he could back to Rennes, but his horse collapsed halfway there. Without wasting time, he took the saddle of one of the soldiers who had accompanied him on the espionage mission at the beach. He arrived in the early hours of the morning, soaked by the rain and trembling from the cold wind. At the gates, the soldiers were restless, and after making him remove his leather armor, they searched him thoroughly:
—We’re sorry, my lord, but you must leave your sword here —said the man in charge of the guard.
—I could do that if I buried it in your face —Jafrez replied, trying to push the soldier aside. The guard stood firm, not moving.
—No armed men can enter, my lord.
—I am the duke’s brother, scum. Get out of my way, or I’ll have you killed!
—Better leave the sword.
Jafrez directed his gaze to Konan... not the duke, but Uncle Konan the Old. A seventy-four-year-old bastard, yet still armed with chainmail, armor, a helmet, and a sword that had claimed enough lives in Breizh and Wales.
—This is an insult —said Jafrez.
—Today they tried to assassinate your brother, my nephew. You are not the one who’s had the worst day. Leave the sword.
Jafrez felt unsettled. If the assassin had failed, Konan would already be dead. He didn’t distrust his uncle, but he knew the man was ambitious. Age hadn’t diminished his will, and every prostitute in Brittany knew he was still capable of fathering children.
—In Normandy? —asked Jafrez, setting down the sword.
—Inside the walls. Come, follow me.
They crossed the courtyard. The army had not yet departed. Men crowded in makeshift tents to shelter from the storm. A tense silence reigned, and glances were grim and accusatory. They passed through the fortress corridors, full of soldiers carrying torches, and more than once they were stopped to be searched.
In front of his brother’s room, hunting dogs barked and panted. They were searched again before being allowed inside. His uncle’s sword also had to be left outside.
Inside, tallow candles gave off smoke. Konan, Duke of Brittany, sat at the table, staring at a wine jug. His shoulders were slumped, legs stretched out. Counts Hoel and Korvan were also there, along with Iocilin, Count of Gwend. The man was pale and clutched tightly a chest resting on his knees.
—Jafrez.
—Brother.
—You wanted more responsibility, right?
—I want to serve you. I did not waste the opportunity… I… rode as you asked me to…
—Serve me a glass of wine.
—My lord?
—Serve your duke a glass of wine —the duke insisted, looking at him.
Jafrez felt humiliated by the task, reserved for servants, but he obeyed.
—Drink the wine —Konan said.
Jafrez drank it in one long gulp, thirsty after the ride.
—Today they tried to kill me… with poison.
A knot formed in Jafrez’s throat when he saw the counselors’ empty glasses. He looked at the bottom of his own cup.
—You poisoned me! You poisoned me for no reason!
—Shut up! —ordered Konan, standing up— If you had refused to drink, I would have had you slaughtered right here. The poison was not in the cup.
Count Iocilin opened the chest. Jafrez observed inside: a pair of silk and ermine gloves rested there.
—The poison was in the gloves —explained Count Morvan— Or rather, poisons. Apparently, they used a mixture of plants and impregnated them into the leather. If the duke had touched his lips…
—The servants ate the leftovers of the food we left —interjected Konan, pouring himself another glass, which he drank in one gulp— The stable boy was chasing a maid, half in love. He took a piece of bread left on the table and swallowed it.
—The result was horrible: swollen eyes, bloodshot, a purple face… —said Iocilin.
—He shit and pissed himself, just like our dear Iocilin when he arrived with the gold for the army and we had to force him to drink from the cup because he refused —said Konan the Old, sitting down and smiling at the count.
—I… I just thought the wine was poisoned. It made the most sense.
—We thank you for that —said Duke Konan—. That’s what gave us the idea to test the wine. If anyone knew about the conspiracy, they’d suspect the wine.
—But wouldn’t the conspirator know about the gloves? —Count Iocilin ventured to ask.
—William is a schemer. He would seek allies but only use someone he trusts absolutely. The accomplices would help the assassin enter the fortress but wouldn’t know how the blow would come. That’s what I would do —said Duke Konan.
—Have you caught the servant yet? —Jafrez looked dazed at the counselors.
—We got nothing useful. We killed fifteen in the rack, but no one confesses —Konan answered—. Now we just need to test Count Eudoarzh. Did he really go to wait out Christmas on his lands?
That was why Jafrez had been away from Rennes: following Brittany’s master spy, the man who had clung to the regency until the last moment; heir to Brittany if Konan died.
—Yes, he’s waiting out Christmas on his lands. Gathering grain and relatives in the fortress… also soldiers… soldiers for William.
—Soldiers for William… —repeated Duke Konan, drinking another glass.
—Against your orders not to support William in England… —Konan the Old said.
—Most of the council is here, except my master spy, who disobeyed my orders when William tried to kill me. Anyone who talks about the gloves is dead. Let that be clear.
Silence was broken only by the sound of the chest closing and Iocilin’s nervous finger tapping.
—We have no proof. If you move against him, you’ll be seen as a tyrant —warned Count Hoel. They tried to kill you but it could have been the House of Anjou; they are no friends.
—My sister wouldn’t inherit if I died… would you like to see your brother-in-law’s killer come after your children and your wife?
—No, my lord. But I am your chancellor as well as kin. If you arrest him without proof, you’ll be just a tyrant.
Jafrez looked at his brother and the contained fury. If it exploded now, it would be best for everyone; but if he held it back…
Konan paced the room and looked out the window.
—The assassin tried to poison me with wine —that’s what we’ll tell everyone—. But neither William, the Bastard of Normandy, nor Count Eudoarzh will be forgiven for this. One way or another, they will pay for trying to kill me like a dog.
A chill ran through Jafrez. His brother had decided to hold back his rage. He poured himself another glass but spilled some from nervousness. He wanted to clean it but saw he still wore his riding gloves. He took them off and threw them on the table.
Konan smiled looking at his brother. Outside, the storm raged on, and he could hear the crash that tore the trees apart. He had ordered not to torture the girl. No one had heard but him what she said. He felt dizzy, very dizzy and heavy. Every Breton child knew who the sleeping king was. He looked at his bare hands; the girl had known: cursed were the hands of Konan. He looked at the chest where the poisoned gloves were kept. There was only one throne for the Bretons. A throne now fought over by Norse, Normans and Saxons.
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