The Conqueror (26 page)

Raoul laughed. ‘What, when you emptied a pitcher of water over the noble guest to sober him? Yes, I remember. Why?’

‘No reason,’ Edgar said after a slight pause. ‘And as for the pitcher of water, that is one of Gilbert’s lies. It was knocked over by ill chance, and if the Frisian was drenched it was more his fault than mine. And so he owned, upon the next day.’

‘Have it as you will,’ said Raoul sleepily. ‘I wish you would go to bed. First you tell me you have taken Alfric to his chamber; then you ask me if I ride with you to-morrow; and now you must needs know whether I remember a jest over ten years old. Was it for this that you woke me?’

‘Nay, but I did not wish to sleep,’ Edgar said, ‘so –’

‘So I must not either. All thanks, Saxon.’

Edgar got up. ‘Alfric hopes Duke William may be prevailed upon to release me,’ he said inconsequently. ‘Do you think …?’

‘No,’ said Raoul, ‘because I shall beg him to hold you fast.’ He raised himself on his elbow again. ‘Edgar, you cannot leave us yet! Has Alfric thrust us all from your heart? – FitzOsbern, Gilbert, Néel, myself?’

Edgar did not answer for a moment. His eyes looked straight into Raoul’s; he said at last in a low voice: ‘I think it is you alone whom I have for friends now. You need not have asked that.’

All that he could not say lay behind the words; a friend would understand, he thought, and probe no deeper.

There was a short silence; then Raoul said lightly: ‘And if you keep me awake any longer you will have one friend the less, Edgar als Barbe. That in your teeth!’

The shadow seemed to retreat; the friend had not misunderstood. Edgar chuckled, and went out, oddly comforted, with a retort flung over his shoulder. But Raoul lay awake for some time after he had gone, frowning at the shaft of moonlight that lay across the foot of his bed. ‘O William my seigneur,’ he said softly, ‘I wish you had not taken Edgar, for I think you have spoiled his life.’

In the morning the night’s misgivings seemed absurd. Edgar rose with a feeling that he had been unjust to Alfric. In a day or two, he thought, their old relationship would return; meanwhile his sister and his Earl lay hardly more than a day’s ride distant from him, so that there was room for nothing in his breast but a strange, leaping excitement such as he had not known since his boyhood’s days. He began to be in a fidgeting mood as soon as he learned that the Duke would not set forward upon the journey until after the dinner-hour, and could hardly be brought to realize that no good purpose could be served by hastening to Eu any sooner.

‘Even as it is you will arrive in advance of the Earl,’ FitzOsbern assured him. ‘Consider, Edgar! If our envoys reached Count Guy this morn, as I think likely, the Count must send to Beaurain to release Harold, and I shall own myself surprised if you see him before tomorrow noontide.’

Edgar detained him. ‘Stay, William! What if Count Guy will not release Harold?’

FitzOsbern burst out laughing. ‘Why then, we shall carry our arms into Ponthieu! Rest you, he is not so great a fool.’

‘What message sent the Duke?’ Edgar asked anxiously.

‘A brief one,’ FitzOsbern replied. ‘He bade Guy render up your Earl
sur peine de cors et d
’
avoir.
’

Edgar was frowning. ‘A brief one … Arms into Ponthieu. Why should he care so much what befalls Harold?’ He drew back from FitzOsbern. ‘There is something I do not see, some danger threatening. William, as you love me, does the Duke mean any harm towards Earl Harold?’

‘None in the world,’ FitzOsbern answered promptly. ‘Now do not be in a fret for nothing, Edgar. No harm comes to Harold of which I know aught, and I am Seneschal here, and not quite ignorant, I believe.’

Just before the dinner-hour Wlnoth Godwineson rode in with several gentlemen of his household. From a window in the gallery Alfric saw him enter the base-court, and called to Edgar: ‘Here is a fine creature ridden in! Did ever you see such a pretty youth? Who is it? How can you admire these Normans?’

Edgar looked over his shoulder. In the court Wlnoth had dismounted, and was shaking imaginary dust from his long cloak of vermeil. ‘That is no Norman,’ said Edgar with grim satisfaction. ‘That is none other than Wlnoth Godwineson, my friend. Best come down and give him greeting.’

‘Wlnoth! that popinjay!’ Alfric gasped. He followed Edgar down to the hall, unable to find words to express his disgust.

Wlnoth entered by the great doors as they rounded the last bend of the stairs. Alfric saw that the cloak of vermeil was lined vert, and clasped on one shoulder by an ouch of emeralds set in gold. He wore a close-girt tunic of sendal reaching almost to his ankles, and purfled with a design of cinquefoil, vert on white. His boots were made of soft cheveril; a scent of musk hung about him; and he wore a great many rings and bracelets. He greeted Edgar with a white hand uplifted. ‘I am come hotfoot,’ he said in the Norman tongue. ‘So Harold lies shackled on these coasts!
Sire fires gart!
’

‘Has Alfric Edricson a place in your memory, Wlnoth?’ Edgar asked unemotionally, and pushed Alfric forward.

Wlnoth gave his hand to Alfric, and said a few graceful words. He spoke Saxon like a foreigner, and it was plain that he had little interest in his countrymen. He soon made an excuse to leave them, and passed on up the stairs to the gallery, negligently playing with the light whip he carried and humming a snatch of song under his breath.

He and Hakon were both of the party that set out for Eu that afternoon. Hakon rode alongside Edgar and Alfric, but Wlnoth cantered ahead with his Norman friends. To Edgar’s annoyance they rested the night at Arques, but in spite of this they reached Eu next day in good time.

Count Robert, warned of their arrival, was awaiting them with news of Ponthieu’s approach.

‘We will ride to meet him,’ said the Duke. ‘Does he bring all his captives with him, as I bade?’

‘So I understand,’ Count Robert answered. ‘A squire came in an hour back with a message from Guy promising obedience. He escorts the Earl in person. I am told they ride very friendly together, their tercelets upon their wrists, as at a day’s hawking.’

This was found to be true. Less than an hour’s ride out of Eu the Ponthevin party was sighted, led by two men who rode side by side, apparently on terms of complete amity. The cavalcades drew nearer; beside Raoul Edgar was leaning forward in his saddle to look more closely. Raoul heard him say: ‘He is the same: not changed, not changed one jot!’

The Duke’s small meinie was halted on the road, all but himself dismounted. Count Guy and his companion spurred their horses on in advance of their escort, and rode up in a cloud of dust. Through it Raoul saw Earl Harold, a giant of a man sitting his horse as though he were part of it. His mantle streamed out behind him, blue as his fearless eyes; his fair hair was tossed by the wind; he wore a crisp golden beard, neatly trimmed; but what drew men’s notice towards him was the muscular strength of him, and the quick smile that never seemed to be far from his lips.

He reined in his horse before the Duke, and bowed low over its wither. ‘Hail, Normandy!’ he said. His voice was clear and pleasant; he spoke Norman with only a faint accent.

The Duke was sitting easily, a hand on his hip. His straight gaze seemed to absorb Harold. He pricked forward until his horse almost brushed the Saxon’s. ‘Greeting to you, Harold Godwineson,’ he said. His hand left his hip; he stretched it out to Harold.

Harold took it in a firm clasp. For a space the grip held. Those watching saw the ribbed muscles on each powerful arm, the gold bracelets both men wore glinting in the sunlight. Blue eyes looked full into grey. Gilbert d’Aufay whispered suddenly in Raoul’s ear: ‘Thus two great ones meet at last. How fair he is! how dark our Duke!’

‘Harold’s thanks to Normandy for his aid,’ the Saxon said. He turned to the Count of Ponthieu, who stood a little apart, and said with the flash of a smile: ‘Count Guy makes me full amends for what has passed. I would recommend him to your kindness, lord Duke.’

‘Your Earl is generous, Edgar,’ Gilbert murmured. ‘I would rather have recommended him to the Duke’s justice.’

‘That is not Earl Harold’s way,’ Edgar said proudly.

William was looking at Count Guy. The Count rode up close. ‘Seigneur, I have obeyed,’ he said, with a certain dignity.

William smiled a little. ‘Ask what ransom you will of me, Count: it shall be paid,’ he replied.

Guy flushed in quick surprise, and stammered a few words of gratitude.

‘And that,’ whispered Gilbert triumphantly, ‘is Duke William’s way, my Saxon.’

‘Ride to Eu with us, Count: we will make terms, you and I,’ William said. ‘Earl Harold, I have here three men of yours you will be glad to meet again.’ He crooked a finger towards the Saxons in his train, and Harold swung himself down from the saddle.

‘Wlnoth!’ he cried, and strode forward a pace, opening his arms to the brother so many years his junior. He caught the elegant Wlnoth by the shoulders, and held him away from him, looking into his face with eyes alight with laughter. ‘Out, you are grown from a babe to a man!’ he said. ‘What, Hakon? My little nephew, you are become a very maypole, dwarfing me, I swear!’ He embraced them, and saw Edgar upon his knee beyond them. Wlnoth and Hakon were put aside; Harold went to Edgar and pulled him to his feet. There came that warm look into his eyes,
that unsuspected gentle note into his voice that made men love him. ‘Now here is one who has changed little,’ he said. ‘Edgar, my friend, God be thanked I find you still the same!’

‘And you, lord,’ Edgar said, the words choking in his throat.

Harold did not let go his hands. ‘I have your sister in my train. I have been an ill friend to you to lead her into danger. But she has taken no hurt, and is a brave maid, worthy of you.’ He released one of Edgar’s hands, and clasped Alfric’s. ‘My thanks, Alfric: you have done well by me.’

The Count of Ponthieu’s escort had come up; strange knights were all amongst the Normans. Harold led Duke William to a litter slung between horses, and presented Dame Gundred to him.

‘What think you?’ Gilbert inquired of Raoul.

‘Of the Earl? I see why Edgar loves him so well.’

‘So do I,’ nodded Gilbert. ‘Someone told me he is older than William. I should not have thought that. Where is Edgar? Oh, gone to meet his sister, I suppose!’

But in a few moments Edgar was at Raoul’s side again, an eager hand on his arm. ‘Raoul, I want you to come to my sister. She is a woman grown, and I left her a little maid! I had not realized – But come! I have told her of you, and she is wishful to know you, my friend.’

Raoul beckoned to his squire to take his horse’s bridle. ‘With all my heart,’ he said, and followed Edgar towards the second litter.

‘Elfrida, I bring you Raoul de Harcourt,’ Edgar said. He held back the curtains of the litter, and looked proudly at Raoul.

‘Lady –’ Raoul began easily, and broke off, staring. The words of welcome died on his lips; manners went by the wind: Raoul de Harcourt was looking into the sweetest face he had ever seen.

‘Elfrida speaks your tongue as well as I do,’ Edgar said, supposing a lack of Saxon to be the reason for Raoul’s stricken silence.

A pair of big eyes smiled trustfully into Raoul’s; he thought he had never seen eyes so blue. A hand came out of the covering rugs; a shy soft voice said: ‘My brother’s friend commands my friendship too, messire.’

Raoul held out his hand to take hers. Edgar was surprised to see his lean brown fingers so unsteady. They closed reverently over Elfrida’s. ‘Lady, you are right welcome,’ Raoul stammered like a tongue-tied boy.

Three

In Rouen Matilda received both the Saxon ladies with courtesy, but eyed Gundred, a haughty managing dame, a little askance. She was quick to sum up her own sex, and almost immediately assumed towards Gundred a gracious condescension that was designed to show that proud lady the gulf that lay between Earl Harold’s sister and Normandy’s Duchess.

Not to be outdone Gundred at once made play with the name of her sister Eadgytha, the Queen. Matilda raised her delicate brows, and said softly: ‘Alas, poor soul, that she has brought her lord no heirs!’

Gundred was pardonably annoyed. ‘Maybe that might rather be the King’s fault, madame,’ she said bluntly.

Holding her own last-born, a babe still in its swaddling-bands, upon her knee, Matilda smiled. The smile might have betokened polite interest, or it might have betokened a mild scepticism. Gundred thought it best to turn the conversation into safer channels.

Towards Elfrida the Duchess used none of this edged politeness. Elfrida had gone plump down upon her knees as soon as she set eyes upon my lord William, that red-headed four-year-old, and held out her warm arms to him. There was no surer road to Matilda’s heart; she could even forgive Elfrida for having long golden braids that made her own locks fade to flaxen. ‘You have a kindness for children, damsel?’ she said.

‘Oh indeed and indeed, madame!’ Elfrida answered, looking shyly up at her.

‘I see that we shall do very well together,’ Matilda promised.

Being a lady of discernment it did not take her many days to see how matters shaped between Elfrida and Raoul de Harcourt. The Duchess had more than once laid deep schemes for Raoul’s espousals, but he had evaded these so often that for some years she had ceased to look about her for a bride worthy of him. Her quick eye now observed certain tell-tale signs to pass between him and the Saxon maid, and she did not know whether to be pleased or sorry. She contrived to find out from Dame Gundred what the girl’s dowry would be: it was respectable, but to Matilda’s provident mind not great enough to warrant her marriage to a Duke’s favourite. She mentioned the matter to the Duke; he opened his eyes at it; he had noticed nothing. When assured that the Watcher was beginning at last to look beyond his lord he laughed, and seemed to think he would derive amusement from observing Raoul in a damsel’s toils. The question of dowry left him unmoved. Matilda said: ‘Her marriage is in Earl Harold’s gift. Would he see her wedded to a Norman?’

‘Her marriage will be in my gift before all is done,’ he replied. ‘If Raoul is hot for her I promise you I will dower her nobly, my thrifty Maid.’

When next he saw Elfrida he gave her more than his usual cursory glance. She found a direct stare bent upon her, and looked gravely back at him in a way that pleased him. He remarked to his Duchess that the damsel had a brave eye, and made a point of accosting her when opportunity served. When he chose he could be quite unalarming; Elfrida, who had hitherto thought him an awesome prince, found him unexpectedly jovial, and afterwards confided to her brother that she thought no two people could be kinder than the Duke and Duchess of Normandy.

Edgar was surprised, and a little perturbed. He hoped secretly that Elfrida would wed Raoul, because he loved them both, and had soon seen how Raoul regarded his sister, but when she showed a tendency to admire Duke William he was shocked, for to his mind no one who owned Earl Harold allegiance could cherish affection for William.

As for Earl Harold, he was moving through the Norman Court with the ease that was natural to him. He was fond of hawking and of hunting at force, and since he had a gay humour and a wonderful mastery over horse and hound, the barons at once liked him. He had a proud look; it was plain that he was accustomed to command; but he was never above his company, so that he made friends wherever he went. All through his life he was first a man whom men liked, but he had also a name for being a great lover. It was said that he had many lemans; Alfric had spoken the name of one lady so beautiful that she was called the Swan-neck as being Harold’s mie. No doubt she was languishing in England now, awaiting the return of her splendid lover, while he rested in Rouen inflaming by no more than a chance look, a sudden smile, the hearts of many susceptible Norman ladies. He drew women as though they were moths and he the bright light round which they fluttered. There were a score of hearts in Rouen he might have plucked had he chosen, but he held off, steering an easy course through all this heady adulation, and gave only one lady cause to think she had him in thrall. And this was no less a personage than the Duchess herself.

Watching his liege-lady, Raoul began to wonder, and to know misgiving. She was sparing no pains to attract the Earl; she might be older, but she still had the mysterious lure that had caught and held Duke William. Now she turned her witch’s eyes upon Harold, weaving new spells. Raoul saw it, and his brow wrinkled in a puzzled frown. He knew her too well to suppose she had room in her heart for any but her lord, and her fine sons. He watched closer; there was no love in her eyes, but they were dangerous as he had not seen them since she planned Duke William’s downfall.

One evening before the supper hour he stood in the gallery looking down at the hall where the Court was gathered into little groups. Earl Harold was beside the Duchess’s chair, and it seemed as though some light traffic was passing between them. Raoul stood still, frowning and wondering. He heard a step behind him, and turned his head as the Duke came up.

William stood beside him, and looked down at the hall. He spoke without taking his eyes
from the group about Matilda’s chair. ‘What think you, Raoul? What manner of man is Harold?’

‘One who does not show his whole mind to the world,’ said Raoul instantly. ‘A man of high courage, and large desires.’

‘I think I have his measure,’ William said. ‘He is more subtle than he would wish to appear; a leader certainly, a ruler – perhaps. He has not yet met his match.’ He watched Matilda smile up into the Earl’s face; he was of a disposition that brooked no rival; what he owned no other man might touch; but he seemed unperturbed at the sight of his dame’s behaviour.

Raoul saw satisfaction in his eyes,
and all his wondering was done. ‘When does the Earl set sail for England, beau sire?’ he asked. There was a hint of severity in his voice.

William’s lips curled. ‘Do you think I am very likely to let Harold slip through my fingers?’ he said. ‘I have him at last; save at a price I shall not let him go.’

‘He threw himself on your mercy!’ Raoul said hotly. ‘Trusting to your chivalry!’

‘My friend, one who nurses such ambitions as Harold carries in his breast dare place his trust in no man,’ said William.

Raoul looked at him in a startled way, and with a gradually darkening brow. ‘Beau sire, when you sent to deliver Harold from Ponthieu Edgar begged me to assure him the Earl was not a second time betrayed. Now by God’s light you give me cause to wonder whether he had not reason when he asked that question!’ He saw a smile flicker across the Duke’s mouth, and his hand descended on William’s wrist and gripped it almost unconsciously. ‘William, my seigneur, I have been your man these many years, following you blindfold, knowing that your way never led to dishonour yet. But now I see you changing, made ruthless by your too large ambition, forgetful of all but a crown. Dread lord, if you mean harm to Harold who trusted in your knighthood, take my sword and break it across your knee, for you are no more a master for me, or for any man bound by his vows of chivalry.’

The Duke turned his head and regarded Raoul with a faint gleam of amusement. He said: ‘O Watcher, you are my man to the day of your death or mine. Not Harold, nor even the fair Elfrida can wean you from me.’

Raoul jumped at that, but answered steadily: ‘You only can drive me off from you.’

‘I shall not do it.’ He flicked Raoul’s hand with one finger. ‘Loose this grip. Is every passer-by to see me thus rudely used? I will be as careful of Harold’s ease as of mine own, but he shall not leave Normandy.’ He took Raoul’s arm in a friendly hold, and walked slowly along the gallery with him. ‘Have faith in me yet. I will put no constraint upon him; he shall dwell in my palace as my most honoured guest – yet, and be entertained by my Duchess, as you have seen.’

‘If you constrain him not,’ Raoul said practically, ‘he may ride to the coast as soon as he lists.’

‘He is too wise. I have placed trusted men about him to serve his needs; he cannot escape their vigilance. He knows that though I beg him to stay with us a while yet I have it in my power to enforce that – request. Do you think him a fool? I am sure he is not. He will not risk putting his suspicions to the test: none but a madman would provoke the Wolf in his lair. And so I hold Harold upon a chain forged of his own suspicions.’

Raoul could not forbear a grin. ‘William, am I to be cozened by such smooth words as these? Do you think I do not know you? If Harold were to throw all upon the chance of flight you would have him seized before a man could cry Haro!’

‘I might do so,’ the Duke said calmly. ‘But it would suit my purpose very ill to put an open restraint upon the Saxon. There will not be the need.’

They had reached the door leading into the Duke’s solar, and passed into the room. It was small, and rather stuffy, with a slit window set in the deep stone wall. Tapestries hung all round it, depicting the lives of certain saints; there was a table in the middle of the floor, and a couple of chairs stood beside it. The Duke sat down in one of these, and leaned his arms upon the table.

‘William, it is unworthy,’ Raoul said. ‘He came, thinking no ill, and is betrayed.’

‘He came with his eyes open, knowing me for his foe, trusting in nothing but the certainty that I would deliver him from a more pressing danger.’

‘If he knows you to be his foe how should he place himself in your power? You might, for all he guesses, slip poison into his wine, or arrange some seeming accident at the chase.’

‘My thanks to you, Raoul. Yet I think I have not earned the name for ridding myself of mine enemies by such means as that. Consider again: were Harold to die in Normandy all Christendom would point at me, his murderer. Would Holy Church support my claim to England then? Would any man? Nay, Harold must know himself safe from poison or chance arrows. But he cannot escape me, and that also he knows.’

‘To what end? Will you hold him for ever? That way, too, you must have every honest man against you.’

‘Nay, I shall not hold him for ever,’ the Duke answered. ‘He shall bind himself by oath to uphold my claim to England. That oath sworn I will speed him on his way hence.’

Raoul wandered to the window and stood there, leaning his shoulders against the cold stone. Across the room his eyes frowned into William’s. ‘He will not do it.’

‘He will do it.’

‘Torture would not wring that oath from such an one as he.’

‘Not torture, nor fear of death. But the King is stricken in years, and might die – who knows? – to-day, to-morrow, a year hence. If Harold were to be absent from England when Edward is coffined, think you there are no others ready to snatch at opportunity, and a crown? There is that wasting boar Tostig; there are those who desire to set up the child Atheling; there are Edwine and Morkere, the sons of Alfric, of Leofric’s blood. Let Harold but get news that the King is in failing health and he dare not tarry longer outremer. He will take the oath without any threat of mine to urge him.’

‘And be forsworn, saying that you forced it from him. How are you served?’

‘Very well. If he breaks his covenant he will stand forth for all the world to see and scorn: a perjured man. The Church will stand for me then, and I will not move unless I receive the Holy Father’s sanction. Let him declare for me and I may leave Normandy assured that no man will break my borders while I am away.’

Raoul said nothing. Turning his head he stood gazing out of the window at the sky and the chasing clouds. He saw a tomorrow that made him afraid. Glory it might hold; for Normandy perhaps a future splendid beyond his dreams; but before these could be attained dark crafty policy must go before and a sea of blood be crossed.

Two clouds drifting past the narrow window merged gradually into one and sailed on towards the setting sun. He watched them with unseeing eyes, while his hand, lying on the deep embrasure, slowly closed and tightened. Beyond the tortuous policy, beyond sorrow and bitter strife a crown lay waiting for the strongest hand to seize it. The Duke would dare that high emprise, and no Norman looking to Normandy’s future could deny his wisdom. Long ago William had seen the perils that would always beset Normandy, hedged as she was by jealous neighbours, and guarded by fickle border-holds; he had seen a goal ahead, a kingdom for his ancestor’s dukedom, and had determined to win for his posterity that glorious heritage. Dubious statecraft might be needful to his end; bloodshed, and death, and the misery of a whole nation; perhaps years of unending strife, but these would not daunt him.

But Raoul was not made of this stern stuff. More to him than ultimate achievement was present suffering, the severing of friendship, and the unscrupulous scheming that, while it might raise William the ruler high above other rulers, must make William the man lose chivalry in ambition.

He swung around suddenly. ‘I cannot like it!’ he said. ‘All that you would urge I too can see, yea, and desire for Normandy’s sake and your fame. But I have a friend out of England whom I have loved for long years. Must I turn my sword-point to his breast? I have seen warfare; I have seen how invaders laid waste this Duchy; I have seen men tortured, and women raped, and babes spitted upon gisarmes; I have seen whole towns given to the flames, and heard the wail of a people sore oppressed. Can you win England without bloodshed? If you will reach a throne it must be across the Saxon dead. Thus Edgar said once, and he spoke only the truth.’