“Impossible, My Lord. All Normans left England when the going was good before the coronation.”

“It worked when we sent Father Francis, Rupert and young Trivett.”

“But the English are alert. They’d pick out Rupert or Trivett in a minute.”

The council sat back in deep thought. They stretched their legs under the table and clasped their hands on the nape of their neck. No one spoke. Duke William paced. Time passed.

“What about Fekamp?” Robert de Mortain inquired.

“What?”

“What about the Fekamp Abbey near Hastings. They are an enclave of Norman monks.”

Roger de Montgomery caught on. “We could send Father Francis as a mendicant monk accompanied by Trivett as an acolyte. Dress them in mendicant sack cloth and have Trivett keep his mouth shut and his eyes open.”

“That seems to make sense. It will work if you can keep Trivett out of English skirts.”

All had a chuckle and sent off messengers to summon their two spies.

Across the channel, Harold’s army was coming together. By May first following the Tostig invasion and incursions on the south coast, the first vestiges of Saxon army landed on the Isle of Wight to the delight of the locals. The island folk wanted no more foreign invasions. The more western army would be in place as soon as the spring planting was finished. The sentinels and signalmen were already alert and in operation.

There was no great rush as the spring was cool and blessed, as far as invasion was concerned, with a stiff north wind. Once the wind had blown Tostig north, it, in its vagaries, consistently blew England to France. Small garrisons were encamped Dover to Bournemouth. By June first the English army had settled in for the long wait. It was always thus, “Hurry up and wait!”

At first, all were vigilant as the threat to the south and west raised battle banners. The wind blew out of the north. The volunteer army settled in. Camps behind the beaches became elaborate. There seemed no sense in suffering. It was bad enough being away from home. Rough stone fireplaces, more permanent shelters, straw ticks were put together, scavenged, or brought from home. Women came: some were wives, some were not. Some wives were happy other women were there: some were not! And the wind blew from the north.

Father Francis took Will in hand. Will was glad of it as he escaped the armory and Sir Richard’s grousing The name of the game was “Adventure” and Will was a ready player. There was a difficulty as the wind blew from the north. How could they reach Abbey de Fekamp? Will was outfitted with a sack cloth shift which was much to his displeasure.

“Father, how can you wear these things? They’d tear the hide off a horse!”

“Will, we have no choice in the church.”

When they were prepared and transportation by sea to the north impossible, they took a young priest with them by horseback. Due north from Rouen they rode to the channel port of Dieppe. Local fishermen could not be hired.

“Etes-vous fou!! Too much wind! Wait a week and we’ll consider it”

Patience was not Duke William’s long suit.

“How far north would we have to ride to use a north wind?”

“Have you ever been to Denmark, Will?”

“That far?”

“I would think so.”

On they rode along the continental coast to Abbeville, keeping a watchful eye on the sea. The wind never changed; it just blew with various degrees of intensity. They covered the fifty miles to Calais and set about the task of obtaining passage. The local sailors were no more helpful or inclined than the captains of Dieppe. Consistently, they met with a startled eyebrow response, followed by a vigorous shake of the head. Captains tapped their temples behind the traveller’s back—crazy mendicants. They were on the verge of resignation when a young monk at the abbey suggested he had an answer.

“Father Francis, my brother may be able to help you depending on what you wish to transport.”

“Brother, just myself and my acolyte.”

“What of your horses and gear?”

“Father Beauchamp will take charge of our belongings and return them to Rouen. What makes you think your brother can be successful?”

“Father, our family has lived by the sea longer than anyone can remember. We know some tricks of the sea that gives us an advantage in the fisheries, and a fisherman never gives away the best fishing holes.”

“We will chance it, Brother.”

“You won’t be disappointed, Father. I’ll take you to him tomorrow.”

Will and Father Francis slept more soundly that night. After matins, that Will had to attend for appearances, the young monk led them to a secluded docking area where his apparent twin toiled over net mending. The fid that held the twine fairly flew and knotted and went on. The most adept knitter could not have mended faster. A young maiden, undoubtedly a sister assisted nearby. The fisherman dropped his gear, stood, smiled and hugged his brother.

“God be with you, My Brother and Sister.”

“And you, Brother.”

“Simon, the good Father Francis and his acolyte would reach the English coast. No Captain will chance the crossing. Will you?”

“I do nothing for nothing and not much for money, Brother.” He surveyed the mendicants before him and wrote them off as beggars.

Father Francis threw back his cowl and extracted a jingling purse. “Not all is as it seems, Simon. We just present ourselves in this guise for appearance sake.” He proffered his hand.

Simon responded and shook Francis’s hand. “Very well, Father Anonymous and his Son!”

“Simon!”

“No, no, Brother.” Francis laugher, “a very good joke. I can see us getting along well.”
Simon responded with a chuckle at his own humor. Francis noted Will was not part of this by-play. “Pupil, leave that girl and come here.” Will, not used to “pupil” did not respond. “Will! You pay attention? Leave that girl and attend to me.” Under the cover of the homophone “will” he got the message. ‘This may not be easy,’ thought Francis.

“We must visit the Abbey de Fecamp near Folkestone, Simon. Can you get us there?”

“Yes.”

“How can you manage when so many captains have refused?”

“Father, I expect even in the church you have secrets, some that you wouldn’t even share with your pupil. It is thus on the sea. I know the Channel. It is the accumulated knowledge of many generation of my family. It is a vicious piece of water capable of squeezing out your very life. It pays to know your enemy and your friend. The Channel is both.”

“When can we sail?”

“We can leave, Father, as the sun falls in the west. The weather is clear and cold and the wind should fall as the sun falls. It will not be a tranquil crossing but we will make it.”

“Combien?”

“Two gold pieces.”

“Agreed.”

“Damn, I should have asked for three. I didn’t think it was that important.” They smiled and shook hands again. Francis caught Will by the hood as he was about to make off.

“Simon, don’t bring your sister.”

“No chance of that, Father.”

The two Normans ate an evening meal at the abbey with Simon’s brother the Brother, packed off their gear and horses with the young priest and followed the trail to Simon’s anchorage. The boat was a mere cockle shell with a triangular sail.

“We’re not sailing in that?”

“It appears we are. My Son.”

“Did you see the waves on the sea, Father?”

“My Son, shut up or go home.”

This trip was looking less and less appetizing to Will—sack cloth[not even a change of clothes], puny little boat, monkish food, remaining mute, and no girls. What a job! Lucky old Thomas! Simon greeted them and stowed their bindles in the vessel. Some device was amidship. An axle of sorts extended across the gunwales and was secured in place. On each end of the axle was a wide-bladed paddle? At present they were held out of the water by a pole. Simon placed his passengers after a few instructions reminding them that he was the captain once they cast off. Respond and respond quickly. His sister cast off lines and Will quickly coiled them before him. Simon sculled with the steering oar out of the haven. “Drop those paddles.” And Francis removed the pole and stored it under the thwarts. “Raise the sail.” And Will pulled on the line until the tiny sail snapped in the wind. He secured it around the bollard as Simon had directed. The little vessel leapt at service and nearly tumbled the standing Will. He regained his composure and hung on. If the wind had fallen it wasn’t noticeable to the landsmen.

Will noted they were not actually sailing with the wind. They were sailing obliquely. How could that be? It had to be the use of the paddle arrangement. They acted like a keel and prevented the drift with the wind. Without the paddles they would have fallen off the edge of the earth somewhere at world’s end in the Atlantic.

‘How did he know where we were going?’ At least these marine questions quelled his stomach ills in the quartering wind.

“How do you know we’ll hit England?”

This was not a Simon secret. “While sunlight remains, I know the west. At dark I watch the stars and they direct me. See the bright star on our right,” and he pointed north. Will nodded. “That is the pole star. It is a god star constant in the northern sky. All other stars circle it and make obeisance.”

Will, always the scholar, decided he still had much to learn.

In short order they were in sight of the white cliffs and soon fell into the lee of the English coast. Will in his intrigue with navigation had conquered his queasy stomach. By the light of the rising moon, Simon searched the coast for a suitable landing and then darted toward the shore. The sail boards struck the rocky shoal and Simon yelled. “Prepare to jump.” They grabbed their bindle bags and grasped the gunwale. Simon swung the boat broadside to the beach. “Jump!”

Both sack-clothed men leapt over the side. Both hit the sandy bottom engulfed by the frigid June water. “Jesus Christ!” Was it a prayer or an expletive? They came to the surface and found their feet. They felt they could wade ashore. They turned simultaneously to see their conveyance scudding over the waves back to the French coast. Just then the bottom gave way and Will floundered into the hole Francis had missed. He spluttered to the surface and thanked his Father for teaching him to swim. They reached the safety of the beach suffering from hypothermia. Will found his tongue so thick he could hardly speak. Father Francis searched his bindle for his flint. High on the beach they gathered some flotsam and larger material dried in the June sun and soon had a warming fire burning in a removed rocky coast. They did their best to hide it, but too die from hypothermia was of more immediate importance to them than discovery. The fire got them through the frigid night and by the rising sun, they clambered up a path in

the cliffs behind the beach. Luck was with them. They could see the spire of an abbey in the distance. Simon had landed them as close to Fecamp as was possible. They set off at a brisk pace in their drying clothing. With body heat and the warming sun they soon stopped the shivering that had plagued them all night. The blue discoloration left their lips and fire returned to their cheeks. They were hungry nonetheless. Will started to envision a Trivett vineyard breakfast and his mouth watered. Then he remembered the meals of the abbey at Calais. Oh well, something to fill the void in his innards would do. On the summit of a hill they came upon Leofwine’s signal corp. They were eating and for a prayer, offered the two mendicants some breakfast. Will remembered to be mute and Father Francis got them a belly full of English pork and eggs.

It only took a few questions to extract the Leofwine signal plan. The soldiers explained the system on the coast and bragged how well it had worked on the trial run.

“How do you stay alert?”

“There are many of us doing the most important job in all of England. Besides, Earl Leofwine warned us individually about dereliction of duty. If we were still alive, he’d nail us upside down on an oak tree by our testicles. We decided to be awake and proficient.”

‘Dover to Bournemouth! What a system!’ thought Will and the information was filed for the Duke.

Father Francis thanked the soldiers profusely and prayed with them offering them a place in God’s kingdom.

‘What a hypocrite!’ thought Will. ‘They’ll have their place as soon as our army crosses the Channel.’

Will bowed many times and the pseudo-mendicants more joyously placed sandals in the path to the abbey. “This abbey is Norman in origin, Will, but do not let your guard down. You have taken a vow of silence. There is certain to be one anyway who is an English sympathizer.”

“Certainment, Father. I’ll look and listen, but not speak. Some associate dumb with intelligence I think. Already I sense they believe my brain limited.”

“And here I thought it was!”

“T H A N K Y O U, Father Anonymous.” They both had a laugh before they approached the buildings.

Three days! Three whole days at the abbey! One more day and Will would have broken. No talking, bad food, and prayers. Every time he turned around he was back on his knees. He hoped God appreciated his prayers because he was certainly paying for them. He didn’t have that much to tell the Creator. It was easy for Father Francis. He was confined with the abbot gleaning information. Will bet that Francis wasn’t on his knees all the time. Finally, on the third day, Father Francis was satisfied the abbey pump had run dry and packing some of the abbey food the two spies set off along the coastal trail much to the delight of Will.

Within two miles of the abbey in a sheltered isolated valley north of the beaches they encountered a camp of armed men. They both made a rough count and judging for error estimated the unit at one hundred. They bypassed the camp since they had supplies and the soldiers neglected to check ‘poor as church mice’ monks. Will noted at least two professional house carls who must have been the commanders of the force. The “monks” plodded on. With two more miles on their sandals, they observed another signal hill with wood , firepot, banner pole and signalmen.

“Father?”

“Put your hood up, Will, so that any observers will not notice your speech.” Dutifully Will obeyed.

“Father, do you suppose the whole south shore is prepared this way?”

“I’m beginning to think so. The abbot had little hard information.”

“You mean you left me on my knees for three days for nothing!”

Francis laughed, “I’m certain Will, for you it was time well spent.” Grumbling and expletives escaped the young man’s cowl.

In the fine weather of late spring Kent they enjoyed their hike.

“Halt, who goes there!”

It startled both “Sack Cloths”. Will was angry at himself. What sort of soldier could be surprised by an English volunteer?

Francis, nonplussed, answered. “God be with you young man. You startled me. You are exceptionally alert and a credit to your force.” That pleased the sentry and he actually smiled behind his levelled lance. “I am Father Francis, a mendicant monk late from Abbey de Fecamp and this is my pupil Will, sworn to silence.”

“You’ll have to come with me Father. Sergeant wants to see all travellers, monks included.”

Will made a move, but was restrained by the answer of Francis. “Of course, young soldier. Get behind me, Will!” Will obeyed but he could have murdered the young man. That would have ruined their expedition and then two more armed men showed themselves. It was a close call.

Their capturer indicated a path and in five minutes they came to another secluded camp. A bearded house carl with a raven-crested shirt ducked out of a canvas shelter. “What have you here, Rolf?”

“Sergeant, these two monks were barging along the coastal path not looking where they were going. So, I captured them.”

“God bless you, Sergeant,” and he crossed himself, “ my pupil is a tyro sworn to silence. The abbot has burdened me with his education. He has many sins for which to atone. He has led a desperate life. Without a forgiving God and a forgiving abbot, this maladroit would be ensconced in a deep pit on bread and water. But for his father’s exemplary tithes, I would be quit of him. Pray for the good sergeant you sinful creature.” Will dropped to his knees and mouthed words from under his cowl.

“Father, you have an accent I abhor!”

“Ah Sergeant, you are sharp to notice my Spanish background. I also speak French and some Germanic dialects. Of course, at the abbey we often converse in Latin. Et tu?”

“I don’t speak anything but good old English—none of that foreign muck for me. You sound more like one of those frogs from across the Channel.”

“Yes Sergeant, as you know the Abbey Fecamp is a Norman retreat. My ear, so accustom to language, has likely picked up their nuances. I am from Toledo and escaped just ahead of the Moorish invasion.”

“How do I know you are a priest and not a Norman spy?”

“Name a prayer or a ceremony Sergeant, with which you are familiar and I will recite it for you verbatim, first in English and then in Latin.

So that was what Father Francis was doing for three days.

The sergeant selected a prayer and a ceremony and Francis satisfied him as to his robes.

“Very well, Father. You had best stay for our mess, but keep out of our camps.”

“I assure you, Sergeant, we would have passed you by without notice if that diligent youngster had not arrested us.”

Father Francis blessed the camp and recited a short grace before the men settled in to eat. Will made mental notes—one hundred men, house carl leaders, alert, suspicious, well supplied, lancers and axeman. After accepting a sparse meal Francis blessed the camp and begged to leave. The sergeant was glad to be rid of them.

On the path away from any declivity that may hide a sentry, Will inquired, “What will we do now, Father? Become shadows of our former self?”

“I think not, Will. I seldom question openness—a tragic flaw in these troubled times.”

“True, Father, true.”

So they continued along the south coast. Every two to four miles they observed a signal hill. Every two to four miles in some nook and cranny were encamped soldiers, and early in their service, on high alert. Father Francis and Will did some elementary mathematics. With fifty signal stations and as many units of soldiers, Harold must have had five thousand men spread out along the south coast. Any contact with the camp underlings seemed to confirm their suspicions. Five thousand men spread out over one hundred and fifty miles of coast would not repel a Norman army. What was going on? After fifty miles from their landing they turned inland and twenty miles from the beaches trudged back to the east.

“Rien! Nothing! I don’t believe it!”

The farmers were going about their work. Their wives were tending the house. The children were playing in the yard. For a man to brag of an army of twenty-five thousand, the English king was sadly lacking in numbers. A determined Norman force would roll up these encampments. The reserves were certainly not behind the men at the front. Were the signals only for these small encampments? Francis decided they couldn’t solve the mystery and made for Fecamp Abbey. It should be easier to get sea transportation home; the wind still blew out of the north north west.

“Well?”

“My Lord William, it is just as Sir William described, signal men and small encampments every two to four miles.”

“That’s no defense of the south coast. You should have located the main force.”

“Pardonnez-moi, Lord William.”

“Everyone says he has massive numbers of men. Where are they? It he wanted an army to face our seven thousand, where would he keep them? Tricky batard!”

“I did hear, My Lord, that he had called for the ships of the Cinque Ports.”

“What?”

“The five towns provide ships to the king in exchange for some freedoms.”

With a flash of insight de Mortain responded, “ Aha, his main force is held in reserve along the coast with ship transportation at the ready.”

“Very good. Brother. Now we have the Raven’s plan. When we land, the signal fires will run each way summoning the minor encampments. They will delay our advance. Then the main force would embark and follow us in from the sea. Caught between the hammer and the anvil! We must prepare for that contingency.”