The Conqueror (12 page)

‘But friendship may endure,’ Raoul answered.

They walked slowly down the gallery, side by side. ‘I wish …’ said Edgar, ‘I wish… .’ He sighed, and gave his head a slight shake. ‘We don’t know what roads we may have to tread before all is done,’ he said. ‘Come back soon from Flanders: I shall miss you.’

At the end of the week the Duke left Rouen, and entered Flanders by way of Ponthieu. His brother, the Count of Mortain; Robert of Eu; and Roger de Montgoméri accompanied him. He made all speed to Lille, where the Flemish Court then lay, and was accorded a gracious welcome by my lord Count, and his lady. The Wise Count accepted the pretext advanced for this visit without so much as a quiver of the eyelids. He ordered his people to escort the Duke to a noble set of apartments, and left nothing undone that was due to so great a prince as Normandy. He sat for an hour with William, and talked smoothly of many matters that might be supposed to interest his guest. But no word of espousals crossed his lips. William tapped an impatient foot, but curbed his tongue. They parted with ceremony, and as soon as the door had shut behind the Count William struck his hands together to summon his valet. It was not his custom to pay much heed to the clothes he wore, so that his retinue looked sideways at each other when it was heard presently that three tunics had been rejected, and the barber cuffed for having grazed the Ducal chin. At the dinner-hour William went down to the hall in state, attended by his own household, and preceded by various punctilious Flemings. He had chosen to wear a long tunic of crimson cloth embroidered with gold. Round his black head he had a plain gold circlet, and the mantle of his high degree hung from his shoulders to his heels, and was secured across his chest by a large fibula of precious stones. Gold straps bound the loose hose to his legs, and where the short sleeves of his tunic ended he wore massive gold bracelets over the sturdy flesh. This magnificent style suited him very well. The Countess Adela, a Frenchwoman, looked on him with approval, and murmured in her daughter Judith’s ear that Matilda would be a fool to pass over so splendid a prince.

The Court was gathered in idle groups in the hall, awaiting the noble guest’s appearance. When he came round the bend of the stair, Count Baldwin went forward to meet him, taking his lady and his sons Robert and Baldwin with him. As she held out her hand to the Duke the Countess observed with an inward smile how he shot a quick look round. He kissed her fingers, and asked leave to present the Counts of Mortain and Eu to her notice. The lively Countess made little of Mortain, an honest young man of few words, but she was pleased to allow the Count of Eu to lead her to the high table.

The Lady Judith came forward at her father’s bidding, and made her reverence to the Duke. She sent William an inviting glance out of her large eyes, but met with no more response than an unsmiling bow. She had a habit of chuckling deep in her white throat whenever anything amused her, and she chuckled now. ‘Lord Duke, I am happy to see you here again,’ she said demurely.

The Duke thanked her, and having touched her hand with his lips, gave it her back again, and turned to Count Baldwin, who was speaking to him.

Baldwin had beckoned to a lusty young man who was lolling against one of the chairs, and now made him known to the Duke. He was Tostig Godwineson, a man of William’s own age. He came up with a swagger, and looked the Duke over with bold unabashed eyes
.
He had a florid complexion that flushed easily, and features that were handsome in despite of their irregularity. He looked to be something of a fire-eater, which indeed he was, and it was evident that he held himself in no small esteem. Count Baldwin informed William that he was lately become the betrothed of the Lady Judith.

William’s eyes
kindled. ‘Ha!’ His hand shot out, and gripped Tostig’s. ‘I wish you joy in your spousing, and pray mine own may not prove more laggard.’

The Count stroked his beard at that, but said nothing. He led the Duke to an armed chair on his right hand, and looked down the hall to the curtained arch through which his other daughter had just come. The Duke’s eyes followed the direction of his glance; those who watched him saw him stiffen like a hound at the leash, and lean forward in his chair as though he would leap up from it.

The Lady Matilda came slowly up the length of the hall, bearing the wine-cup of ceremony between her hands. Her gown was of green coster, with long hanging sleeves, and a train that brushed behind her over the rushes on the floor. Under a veil of green, bound on her brow by a jewelled fermaille, her hair gleamed palely gold, and hung in two braids almost to her knees. Her eyes were downcast to the cup she bore; her lips were red in the cream of her face, still and folded.

She came up to the high table, and to the Duke’s side, and lifting the cup said in a voice that was like the ripple of a brook: ‘Be of health, lord Duke!’ She raised her eyes and looked fleetingly at him. It was as though a green flame stabbed him. As she bent the knee, and put her lips to the cup, he rose quickly to his feet. A tremor shook her; she took a step backward from him, but recovering in a moment, held out the cup with only the faintest blush in her cheek to betray her sudden alarm. Her vision seemed to be obscured by a blaze of crimson and gold, and a dark face that drew her eyes against her will.

William took the cup from her. ‘Lady, I drink to you,’ he said in a voice that rang deeply in her ears. He turned the cup with a deliberate movement that was watched by many, and set his lips to the place where hers had sipped.

He drained the cup in the middle of a profound silence. All eyes were upon him, all but my lord Count’s, who studied a salt-cellar on the table with an air of abstraction.

The Duke set down the cup, and held out his hand to the lady to lead her to the seat beside him. She laid her own in it, and as his powerful fingers closed over hers her eyelids fluttered. The silence broke. As though recalled to their manners those who had watched the little scene began to talk again, and looked towards the Duke no more than was seemly. For all the heed he paid to the others at his table he might have been sitting alone with Matilda in a desert. He was half-turned away from Count Baldwin, leaning his right arm along the carved wood of his chair, and trying to induce the Lady Matilda to talk to him.

She seemed strangely loth. She gave him yea or nay for the most part, and would by no means look at him.

Count Baldwin occupied himself between his dinner and Robert of Mortain, who sat opposite to him; Tostig leaned sprawling in his chair, and between courses fondled Judith’s white hand. He drank deeply, and as time went on grew flushed and noisy. His boisterous laugh sounded above the hum of chatter more and more frequently; he began to call healths, and slopped some of the wine from his cup over his tunic.

‘
Waes-hael
,’
he shouted, staggering to his feet. ‘
Drinkhael
,
William of Normandy!’

William turned his head. A slightly contemptuous look crossed his face when he saw how Tostig reeled, but he raised his cup in polite response, and drank the Saxon’s health. Turning back to Matilda he said: ‘So Tostig has set the spousing-ring upon your sister’s finger? Do you know why I have come again into Flanders?’

‘My lord, I have small understanding of the affairs of state,’ Matilda said in a cool meek voice.

If she thought to turn him by such an answer she mistook her man. He smiled. ‘I have come rather upon an affair of the heart, lady,’ he said.

She could not resist the temptation of replying: ‘I had not supposed, my lord, that the Fighting Duke had interest in such matters.’

‘Before God,’ William said, ‘I think I have interest now in nothing else.’

She bit her lip. Under cover of the table the Duke’s hand closed suddenly over both of hers, crushing them in his hold. Her pulses leaped under his fingers; an angry colour mounted to her cheeks. The Duke’s smile held a hint of satisfaction. ‘Ha, is there fire beneath your calm, my fair?’ he said in a quick low voice. ‘Tell me, are you all ice, or does the blood run hot in your veins?’

She pulled her hands away. ‘If I burn it is for no man,’ she replied, looking at him disdainfully. His ardent gaze beat hers down; she turned her face away.

‘By my head, you shall soon eat those words, lady!’

‘Lord Duke,’ she said, ‘you speak to one who has lain already in the marriage-bed.’

He cared nothing for that; she thought his laugh betrayed the base blood in him, and curled her lip at it. But he was to startle her yet. ‘Found you a man strong enough to break down your walls, O Guarded Heart?’

She looked up quickly, and her eyes seemed to search his face. With a shiver she folded her hands across her breast as though she made a barrier against him. ‘My walls stand firm, and shall stand so to the end, please God,’ she said.

‘Do you fling down your gauntlet at my feet, lady? Are you a rebel proclaimed? What have you heard of me, you who call me the Fighting Duke?’

‘I am no subject of yours, fair lord,’ she said. ‘If I am a walled citadel indeed, I lie beyond your borders.’

‘So, too, lay Domfront,’ William replied. ‘Domfront calls me master today.’ He paused; she found herself compelled to look at him. ‘As you shall do, Matilda,’ he said deliberately. ‘I pick up your gauntlet.’

Her cheek flamed, but she judged it best to hold her peace. He might see that he had gone too far by the way she turned from him to bestow her attention on her brother Robert seated a few paces below her. If he did see it had no power to abash him. She felt his glance possessively upon her, and was glad when the banquet came to an end. She went upstairs to the bower with the Countess and her sister, and they saw how her eyes brooded, and how she stroked the thick rope of her hair in the way she had when she was put about. The Countess hesitated on the brink of speech, but in the end went away to her own chamber with no word said. The maids of honour sat down to their stitchery, but when one of them would have given her embroidery to Matilda she put it aside with an impatient gesture, and withdrew to the window, and began to draw patterns with her finger upon the horn-panels, wrapped in her crowding thoughts.

It was not long before Judith came to join her. She slipped her arm round Matilda’s waist, saying with a comfortable laugh: ‘Fie, you are hot! What snug work made you at dinner, coney?’

‘Bastard manners,’ Matilda said. The words dropped slowly, under her breath.

‘Why, how nice you are become! It is a noble bastard, and will make you a handsome lover.’ Judith fondled her slender neck. ‘He looks at you as though he would devour you. A hound to pull down a white doe, Holy Sepulchre!’

Matilda stood still, suffering the caressing hand. ‘I am not for him.’

‘I think you will be glad of him ere many days,’ Judith prophesied.

‘I have had my fill of lovers.’

Judith chuckled and squeezed her. ‘You never had but one, child, and I misdoubt me he came not so near your heart.’ She paused. ‘For my part, I find Duke William hath more spice to him than ever had Gherbod. Nay, nay, he was cold, sweeting: there was no warming him; and you – Jesu, you are meat for a stronger stomach!’

Matilda did not answer, but stood looking at her sister, queerly intent.

‘If the Pope will grant a dispensation,’ remarked Judith insinuatingly, ‘our father would be glad of the marriage, as I think. William is a haut prince.’

‘I give him thanks.’ Matilda lifted her head. ‘I am a daughter of Flanders, born in lawful wedlock,’ she said proudly.

‘Eh, what is this?’ Judith tapped her cheek. ‘Normandy is no meagre prize.’

Matilda’s eyes were narrow under the white lids. ‘The Bastard reaches too high, by my soul!’ she said. ‘I have a King’s daughter for my dam, no tanner’s spawn!’

‘He is Duke of Normandy,’ Judith said. ‘What matter?’

‘What, is base blood to mingle with mine?’ Matilda said. Her hand clenched on the silk of her gown. ‘I say no, and no!’

Judith looked strangely at her. ‘God give you courage, sister, for I think I have surprised the secret you nurse.’

‘Saints! I have courage enough to withstand the Norman wolf!’

‘But to withstand your own desires, child?’ Judith harboured her in her arms. ‘O storm-tossed! O hungry heart! You shall find no comfort until William has his way and yours with you.’

If Judith had plumbed a secret, Matilda did not know, but she had fear for a bed-fellow that night, and for the many that succeeded it. William haunted her; she woke trembling from uneasy dreams, and thought she could feel his will engulfing her. Certain, he meant to have her. He showed it in a dozen ways, cat and mouse work, disturbing to a lady of spirit. She would, and she would not: God knew what the end would be. She sat up on her bed in the moonlight, hugging her knees, resting her chin on them, like the white witch he called her. Her hair was a cloud of spun gold, veiling her; her eyes remained fixed and blank, but behind them her brain wove and twisted its ploys. Guarded Heart! Citadel Remote! Her lips lifted in a slow considering smile. She turned the words over, liking them, doubting them. She would have been glad to have the Fighting Duke in thrall, but he was made of dangerous stuff, holding a stark demon in leash. She caught a glimpse of it now and then: enough to warn her she played a perilous game with one unused to the subtleties of such an affair. Base blood! burgher manners! She lifted her arm and observed a bruise like a shadow on the flesh. Her fingers touched it. Jesu, the man knew not his own strength! She shook her head at it, frowned in an assumption of anger, but ended by thinking no worse of him for his rough handling. If she kindled him to a blaze and was herself scorched she would not blame him for that. His fingers had crushed her soft flesh so that she had to stifle a cry of pain. She knew herself at his mercy, and could not be sure that he dealt in so gentle a virtue. Yet she could be calm before his brute strength; what fear she nursed she kept for the intangible power he held over her. It crept up to set her shivering in the fastness of her chamber, and stalked beside her even when he was furthest away. If she was already both wife and widow she had still borne a virgin heart until Normandy strode up her father’s audience-hall, and bent his hard stare upon her. She had seen the darkness of his eyes lit suddenly by an inward glow; he looked his fill; she felt herself stripped naked before him while anger fought exultation in her. Guarded Heart! Citadel Remote! Ah, Rood of Christ, if it were so indeed!