The Conqueror (17 page)

The Duke nodded. ‘I think you have chosen wisely,’ he said. ‘Normandy will not hold us both.’

The Count gathered his mantle about him. ‘You are merciful,’ he said, ‘but I do not give you thanks.’ He went out with a heavy tread, and the sound of his footsteps died gradually away down the stone corridor.

Five

News of all these happenings reached Flanders in due course, but for some time after the grim work at Lille no word was spoken at Count Baldwin’s Court of the violent Duke of Normandy. Matilda saw her sister put into the marriage-bed, and later waved farewell to her when she set forth for England with her lord. ‘God’s grace, I would not wed such an one as that!’ she murmured, with her eyes on Tostig’s florid countenance.

The Countess Adela said tartly: ‘Rest you, you will end your days a widow still, my girl.’

Matilda folded her hands. ‘Madame, I shall be content to have it so.’

‘Do not take that tone with me, daughter,’ the Countess answered. ‘I am very well aware of your mind.’

Matilda slid away from her, saying nothing, keeping her glance lowered. She guarded silence these days: poets hymned her frozen mystery; a quantity of bad verse extolled her witch’s eyes. She listened to such effusions with just that faint smile on her lips that drove men wild to possess her. A minstrel of France spilled passionate songs at her feet, and turned pale for hopeless love of her; she let him kiss her hand, but she could not have said whether he had blue eyes or brown. She pitied the poor wretch, but while he sang to her she thought of her fierce lover William, and wondered, and turned in her mind this way and that. The poet went sadly away; after some days the Lady Matilda missed him, but when she was told that he had gone to the Court of Boulogne she said only: ‘Oh!’ without surprise or regret.

A wandering chapman brought her the first news out of Normandy. Twice a year he made his journey from Rennes, through France and Normandy, over the border into Ponthieu, on to Boulogne, and then slowly north to Flanders. His long baggage-train of sumpters entered Brussels later in the year than was usual; he had fine cloths, and cunningly wrought jewels in golden settings; fancies from the East; trinkets out of Spain; enamel of Limoges, but he would not show his merchandise to the eager ladies of the town till the great ones at the Palace had picked them over. He spread embroideries before the Countess and her daughter; the bower-maidens cried out in admiration, but Matilda lifted a fold of the stiff cloth, and let it fall again. ‘Bah, I can do better with mine own needle!’ she said.

The Countess chose some of his wares, and bade him seek out her Chamberlain for payment. She went away, and the chapman showed Matilda mirrors of silver with enamelled backs, cases of filigree to hold a lady’s comb; two-pronged forks to use at meat; jars of precious perfume out of Araby. She turned them over with her white fingers while he told her what had taken this noble lady’s fancy, or provoked that one’s envy.

‘What do the ladies buy in Normandy?’ she asked.

He was voluble; his talk led him into snippets of scandal, slyly told; and from there to larger issues was no great step. ‘Normandy is unquiet, lady, and the roads not safe yet for an honest merchant. I lost two sumpters in Hiesmes, and had one of my rogues done to death by the robbers. But the Duke will amend all yet.’ He twitched a carpet from his pack and spread it out. ‘Lady, this I kept for you to see. Two I had when I set out from Rennes, but one the Duke’s grace purchased. He would have taken the other, I believe, but I withheld it.’ He began to point out the worth of the carpet, but she interrupted him with a question: did Duke William set much store by such things?

Ah, but he was a very noble prince; he required always the best, and would pay for it without demur, unlike some others one might name, if discretion permitted. The Count of Boulogne now – ! the sentence was ended by a shrug and a grimace. It was not thus with Duke William, harder to please, but no haggler over the just price. This year, alack, he had had poor fortune with him, for he was busy with his affairs. ‘They loom great, lady, I promise you.’

Out tumbled the tale of Busac’s revolt. She drank it in with parted lips; her bosom stirred with the leap of her heart. ‘He conquered?’ she said faintly.

‘Be sure, lady. He is too swift for his enemies. A great prince, a wise and terrible lord. Gracious lady, deign to look upon these turquoises, fine stones each one, fit for a queen to wear.’

She made some purchases, dismissed him then and sat on into the dusk, her brain busy with his news. From the sound of it Duke William had put her from his mind while he grappled larger problems. She could fancy him in one of his storms of energy, intent only upon the affair of the moment, deliberately setting other matters aside. She cupped her chin in her hands. Would he remember her when his sterner work was done? The doubt teased her; she could find no answer to it, and stirred uncomfortably. He must remember it, remember even though he never saw her face again.

The months passed. Word came from Judith in bleak Northumbria, but no word came from Normandy. Under her outward calm Matilda was in a fret of impatience. She had hugged the conviction that William would assail her barriers again, and planned her defence and his undoing. He held off still: was it to make her yearn for him, or did he no longer desire her?

The chapman came again; she panted for his news, and had cold comfort. The Duke had been in a jovial mood when the chapman saw him; he had bought jewels made for a woman’s adornment. The chapman cocked a knowing eyebrow: bridals in the air, one might suppose. Closely questioned, he could tell little. It was thought in Normandy that the Duke meant to take a wife; some names were hazarded, but who could tell which fair lady would be the fortunate one?

Matilda showed a white hungry face. Her maidens found her in an unblinking stare, with her eyes wide as a cat’s, and they were afraid, for when she looked just so she was most dangerous. But she paid no heed to them, and very soon recovered her calm. There was nothing to tell them of the turmoil raging in her breast. While she might still fancy William yearning for her she could rest content; talk of his marriage was like a whip-lash flicking the instinct of possession in her. She curled her fingers like claws: if she had him here now! if she could but come at the fair unknown! She was very sure she hated them both, and in a hidden fever waited with ears on the prick for fresh tidings out of Normandy.

The year passed. If the Duke kept silence to punish her, he was succeeding in his aim. Uncertainty kept her wakeful at nights; she was sharp with her maidens, impatient with those elegant courtiers who sang her praises. There was one, a noble Fleming, who laid his heart at her feet; she smiled upon him, and he fell on his knees to kiss the hem of her gown, calling her Frozen Princess. Exalted, Unattainable! She looked at him and saw instead William’s hawk-eyes, and thereafter was done with the poor man. Eh, this was no way of love, to grovel at a woman’s feet, lost in a poet’s ecstasy! A man should fight for what he desired; seize and not supplicate; hold fast, not stand in awed worship. The luckless suitor was dismissed; it is doubtful whether she thought of him again once he had left her presence.

The next news that came out of Normandy had nothing to do with marriage, but with warfare and conquest. Count Baldwin, hearing of the doings at Arques, of the French King’s discomfiture, of Count Guy-Geoffrey’s flight from Moulins before ever the Duke arrived there to recover his property, stroked his beard a long while, and said slowly: ‘Here is a man, the only one I have known, who can rule his destiny. My daughter, you did very ill for yourself when you spurned William of Normandy.’

She made him no answer, but listened attentively to all the talk of the Duke’s achievement that was running round the Court. It was asserted by those who knew something of Normandy that the Count of Arques had been William’s most dangerous enemy for some years back. Men demonstrated to one another what must have happened if the Duke had not reached Arques before King Henry, or if he had failed to send the Count’s band flying back to their stronghold. Count Baldwin, hearing all these speculations, said dryly: ‘Messires, there are two men in Christendom today who deal not in that uncertain word
if
. One is Duke William; the other is myself.’

Rebuked, his courtiers fell silent. Count Baldwin looked pensively out upon a vista of placid fields. ‘We shall hear more of Normandy,’ he remarked. He brought his gaze away from the window, and benevolently surveyed his Court. ‘Yea, much more,’ he said. ‘Val-es-dunes, Meulan, Alençon, Domfront and Arques: he will be growing puffed-up, I fear me. Here are no defeats, nay, not one.’ He shook his head sadly.

His son, Robert the Frisian, said with a significant smile: ‘Do you think that King Henry will be content with this encounter, lord?’

‘I doubt it, I doubt it,’ Count Baldwin sighed.

‘I shall own myself surprised if we do not soon see France sweep into Normandy to take a bloody vengeance.’

‘You are a man of foresight, my son,’ said the Count humbly.

From what they could hear in Flanders thereafter it seemed that the blow that had cleaved William of Arques from his allies had gone a fair way to settle the unrest in Normandy. Desultory news of politic measures – the strict enforcement of the Truce of God, the banishment of some malcontents, and the elevation of tried men – drifted to Brussels through various channels, and showed one anxious lady how detached from her Duke William had become. She saw him striding on to great deeds, leaving her behind him, swept always forward on the tide of his own energy. At once she stretched her hands to delay him, to have him catch her up and bear her with him into his tremendous future. She shook with her overpowering impulse to call him back to her; the Guarded Heart was quivering and defenceless, for Duke William had made her afraid at last, as one is afraid of the unknown.

Matters were coming to a fine pass with her. She strained her ears to catch the last rumour of his marriage. His silence conquered her; she had now little hope. Schooling herself to meet the expected tidings of his betrothal with decent composure, she was shaken like a leaf to learn of the arrival in Brussels of a Norman embassage.

She was sent for to her father’s presence, and went with a deliberate step, and a face that told nothing of her inward tumult.

Count Baldwin said bluntly: ‘Look you, my daughter, Messire Raoul de Harcourt is here once more, with various haut seigneurs at his side, and proposals to put before me. I am advised he comes upon the business of two years back, which is a matter to astonish one, holy saints!’ He eyed his daughter with uneasy severity. ‘I hold by my word, Mald,’ he said. ‘I will put no force upon you to thrust you to a second marriage, but as you value your skin and my honour let no discourteous words pass your lips this day!’

‘What must I say?’ she asked faintly.

‘Nay, you should know your own heart,’ he pointed out.

‘Before God, I do not,’ she answered.

Count Baldwin studied her awhile in silence. ‘You have had two years to learn it, my girl,’ he said dryly.

Her fingers picked at the braid of her hair. ‘Give me an hour yet, my lord,’ she said.

‘My child,’ said the Count frankly, ‘you may have till the envoys come before me, and you shall then give them and me your answer, for, by the living God, I am not to be your mouthpiece a second time!’

She withdrew, but had not long to wait before she was sent for to Count Baldwin’s audience-chamber.

Walking with a pounding heart but slow measured steps up the length of the hall, she was aware of strange faces turned towards her, watching her close. Her fingers gripped together in the folds of her silk
bliaut
;
she sent a secret look up under her white lids and saw Raoul de Harcourt regarding her with an anxious frown. A knowledge of power swept over her; her lips trembled into a smile. This it was to be desired. She passed on to her place beside her father’s throne, and sat down.

Count Baldwin addressed her without waste of words. As though the offer had never before been made and rudely rejected, he informed her that Duke William had sent to make proposals for her hand. She scarcely heard him; her mind was busy with its desperate problem. Snatches of what the Count was saying intruded into her thoughts. He spoke of a dispensation: she caught a glimpse of parchment scrolls; he mentioned a form of penance: she understood she must build a monastery if she would wed Duke William, and looked at her father in an unseeing way that made him wonder what was in her mind.

His voice ceased. Matilda sat straight on her stool, holding her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The silence was so profound it seemed to hang over the hall like a doom. The Lady Matilda knew that they were waiting, all these people, for her answer, and she could think of nothing to say.

She passed the tip of her tongue between her lips. Staring down at her hands, she was fascinated by the faint tracing of blue veins just visible beneath the skin. A burgher’s son, a tanner’s by-blow! She saw that the silk of her gown was crumpled where her fingers had clenched it, and smoothed it absently. Yea, but if she denied herself a second time would she ever behold his face again? She could not be sure that she wanted to behold it; if she closed her eyes she could still see the heavy frown he had bent on her at their last stern meeting. A stark lover, a dread bridegroom! There was a fleck of white on one of her smooth nails; she considered it, absorbed in it. Guarded Heart! Citadel Remote! Colour crept up under her skin; she thought she could feel a two-year-old bruise throb on her arm. Let him go? She feared him, hated him; she was not for him.

Count Baldwin spoke. ‘My daughter, we await your answer.’

She heard her own voice uttering amazing words. ‘Beau sire, it pleases me well,’ faltered the Lady Matilda.