The Conqueror (34 page)

FitzOsbern stared. ‘Why, do you doubt we shall have victory?’ he demanded. ‘Is there in Christendom a greater warrior than Normandy?’

‘All thanks, William!’ said the Duke, with a laugh over his shoulder. ‘Is there, Raoul?’

‘None,’ Raoul said. ‘And when this work is ended there shall be none more blood-stained.’

‘I know, I know,’ the Duke said. ‘But we have talked this over many times, Raoul. You cannot turn me now.’

He looked at FitzOsbern. ‘I will send envoys into England,’ he said. ‘No cartel – yet.’

‘To what purpose?’ objected FitzOsbern. ‘What more do you look for, beau sire? He has broken a sacred oath, and spurned the Lady Adela, your daughter. What more, a’ God’s name?’

The Duke paid no heed to him. ‘I have need of Lanfranc,’ he said. ‘William, let one be ready to bear a packet to Bec within the hour.’ He found that he was still holding his gloves, and laid them down on the table. His first rage had burned itself out; he had a problem to grapple now and was not the man to waste time in fruitless anger. ‘When did my messenger say that Edward died?’

‘Upon the fifth day of January,’ FitzOsbern replied, ‘the Abbey wherein they laid him having been dedicated at Childermas.’

‘Two weeks since.’ The Duke drummed his fingers lightly on the table. ‘Time enough. If Tostig had spies in London he will have learned the tidings by now, and we shall see him in Rouen ere many days.’

Raoul raised his head. ‘Why?’ he asked bluntly.

A smile glimmered in the Duke’s eyes
.
‘To ask aid of me, my friend, or counsel. That last I will surely give him. I think – yea, I think I may count on Harold to deal with Tostig.’

‘Tostig could not be so great a fool!’ Raoul exclaimed.

‘I will wager my new destrier against your big bay he is,’ William said.

‘The destrier Giffard brought you from Spain?’ demanded Raoul. ‘And what will old Walter say to that?’

‘Nothing. I shall not lose,’ William said, twinkling.

‘Tostig must be mad if he comes to you for aid. Done, seigneur: the Spanish horse to my bay.’

But he lost his bay horse. The Duke’s envoys had barely left Normandy for England with his first careful letters to Harold when Earl Tostig arrived in Rouen upon a foaming steed and attended by such thegns as had fled Northumbria in his train. He was in a stuttering rage, too bull-headed to guard silence, ready to blurt out all his fury and his ambitions into the ear of the one man he had need to beware.

Not one of those about the Duke let fall a single word that might have enlightened Tostig. He knew nothing of the envoys sent to England, nothing of the Duke’s own ambitions. Out came his tale, and, swiftly following it, a request for aid from Normandy to cast Harold down.

The Duke dealt with him easily enough, but to Raoul he said: ‘How Godwine, who, by all accounts, was a man of some parts, could have bred so big a fool, is a matter passing my comprehension. Aid of Normandy? Rood of Grace, I am the one man he should at all costs leave outside his confidence!’

The Duchess, who was watching her sons at play in the gardens, turned away from the lancet-window to ask whether Tostig thought to get himself crowned King.

‘Like a-many others,’ said the Duke.

‘And asks aid of you?’ Matilda gave an angry little laugh. ‘Oh, brave! Normandy to be used to serve Tostig’s ends! What will you do?’

‘Use Tostig to serve mine own ends,’ replied the Duke grimly. ‘I have given him words which he thinks of great worth. He sails for Norway, as soon as he has taken leave of your sister, to interest Harold Hardrada in his cause.’ He put out his square hand and took Matilda’s chin in it. Pushing up her head he smiled at her, saying: ‘Here is strategy to please that subtle mind of yours, my Mald. Tostig may go with my blessing to attack Harold. So is he got out of the way, for I am very sure he will not outlive that venture. He will do no more than prepare the road for me.’ He glanced up, and saw Raoul looking at him. ‘My Watcher, I know what you would say. This is such craft as you mislike, but it will bring me to my goal.’

Raoul did not say anything. He was looking at the Duchess, wondering how she could approve a strategy that seemed likely to make her sister a widow. He remembered how she and Judith had been wont to go linked arm-in-arm in the old days at Lille, the russet and the gold heads close together, green eyes telling secrets to blue ones.

My lord Robert’s voice was heard suddenly, calling to Red William below the window; Raoul saw Matilda turn her head, listening, smiling, and he knew all at once that she was not thinking of Judith. Judith and girlhood’s days were far outside her busy mind, forgotten in the misty past. Matilda wanted a crown, perhaps for William, perhaps for herself, but above all for her fair son. Raoul guessed that already she considered it to be his right; probably if her own father were to reach a hand towards the prize she would be as ruthless an enemy to him as she was to Tostig.

She spoke, drawing away from the Duke, fixing her intent eyes on Raoul’s face. ‘Are you against us, Raoul?’

He shook his head. She did not seem satisfied; she was even a little troubled. He said: ‘No, lady; I am your man.’ He could not explain to her the qualms that shook him, nor beg her to see how the glory of a crown was already obsessing the Duke. She would scarcely understand; like William she had always a certain goal ahead; less even than he would she, being female, care what means went to its attainment.

He thought all at once: If only I could be as they are, seeing one end alone worth striving for, not torturing my soul with thinking of what might have been, nor finding that my happiness tastes bitter on my lips after all because the price I had to pay for it was too heavy, and tore my heart in twain! but he knew that he would never be as they were; he must always see the smaller joys and griefs life held, and count them dearer than a distant, splendid goal. There is not one jot of greatness in me, he thought. They were certainly right who called me dreamer. And I wonder to what end, my dreams? None, I suppose. While I am groping in the murk, William will have cleaved a way through, trampling under his feet the obstacles that set me wavering. But I am afraid for him now. O William my master, do not lose all that I have loved in you for the sake of this accursed crown!

As though in answer to his thought the Duke said suddenly: ‘Trust in me yet, Raoul. You may mislike my dealing, but the end I see you also desire.’

‘I desired peace in Normandy,’ Raoul said, meeting his gaze. ‘Only that – once.’

‘And safety for all Normans, and a noble heritage,’ the Duke insisted.

Raoul smiled faintly. ‘Why, yes, seigneur, that too. But it came out of your head, not mine. I never looked so far until you pointed the way. Even now I think you see a star shining beyond my sight. My vision is filled with the darkness that lies between.’

The Duchess opened her eyes
at him. ‘Raoul, you talk as a poet did who once made rhymes for me,’ she said. She added slyly: ‘Tell me, is this Elfrida’s work? Are you turned poet indeed?’

‘No madame,’ Raoul answered lightly. ‘I am only one unfortunate who is shaken by doubts. Like Galet I must say, “Pity the poor fool!’’

Two

Upon the return of the envoys from England events began to move swiftly. Harold replied to the Duke’s letters very much as William had expected. He admitted that he had sworn an oath at Bayeux, but contended that this having been wrung from him by force, it could not be thought binding. England’s crown, he said, was not his to dispose of at will, but belonged to the people, and by them only could be bestowed. As for the Lady Adela, Earl Harold informed the Duke that he might not marry without his Council’s advice, and they had begged him to wed an English lady.

The Duke read this answer thoughtfully, and gave it presently into Lanfranc’s care. It was destined for Rome, and to that end had been extracted from Harold.

Lanfranc studied the letter for a while in silence. At last he said: ‘This could not be better. He admits the oath.’ He put the paper away in a casket, and locked it with a golden key that hung from a chain about his neck. Smoothing his cassock with one thin hand he seemed to meditate within himself. He raised his eyes after some time, and said slowly: ‘I am of the opinion, my son, that you cannot do better than appoint Gilbert, the Archbishop of Lisieux, to be your envoy to Rome.’

‘I had a mind to send you, Father, as once before.’

‘N-no.’ Lanfranc put his finger-tips together very exactly. ‘It is possible, my son, that I am too well known. Let Gilbert go, under my guidance. The Cardinals will not cry: “’Ware Gilbert! he is too subtle a man for us.”’

The Duke laughed. ‘Instruct him then; I am ruled by you in this.’

Upon which the Prior took his leave, and rising up went out with his stately gait, and the casket tucked safely under his arm.

The Duke next called a council of those nearest to him, but what was said at it no one knew. There were present his half-brothers, Robert and Odo; his sister’s spouse, the Viscount of Avranches, and his cousins of Eu and Evreux. Outside his kin were his Seneschal, his Standard, and the Lords of Beaumont, Longueville, Montfort, Warenne, Montgoméri, and Grantmesnil. These gentlemen being of one mind with the Duke it was agreed that a second and general council should be called at Lillebonne, which was a vast new palace some leagues from Rouen, especially designed for such a purpose.

The masons had only just finished work on this palace, so that it reared up stark and white against the blue sky. A huge vaulted hall formed its centre, and leading from it a range of doorways gave on to various chambers. Above, small coupled-windows divided by pillars and arches let in the light. The walls were hung with tapestries worked in bright new threads, murrey, and vert, and azure; rushes were strewn over the stone floor, with rosemary and sweet-gale dropped among them to give a pleasing scent. But the prevailing aroma was of mortar, and in spite of the fires that roared away up the vent-pipes the place still felt dank and chill. Time would weather it, thought Raoul, blinking at the glaring white structure. Certainly, he supposed, the mouldings were very fine.

A throne of state was set up on a dais at one end of the hall, with a canopy of rich cloth stitched in a design of quatre-foil over its head. Before it stood a footstool on legs. The Duchess had embroidered gold lions on the cover with her own hands, so that whenever the Duke placed his foot upon it he had the emblem of Normandy under his heel.

There were chairs on the dais for the Duke’s chief councillors, and on the floor of the hall benches were provided for the less exalted persons.

Lillebonne teemed with the vassals who flocked to this meeting-place in answer to the Duke’s summons. Gilbert d’Aufay, who, with Raoul, was in attendance on William, said testily that he could find no place wherein to be alone. Gilbert had left his lady heavy with child, and cherished hopes that after six daughters she might be about to present him with a son. He sent off messengers every day to learn how she did, for just before he left her she had had the ill-fortune to catch sight of a hedgehog in the curtilage, and it was well known that nothing could more easily provoke a miscarriage. Further to add to his annoyance he was compelled to sleep in the hall at nights with a hundred others.

Raoul, having taken in the situation at a glance, announced firmly, but with a hidden twinkle, that he proposed, since the Duchess had stayed behind at Rouen, to take up his old sleeping-place on a pallet at the foot of the Duke’s bed.

‘Holy Face, do you expect to see me murdered?’ said William, surprised.

‘No,’ said Raoul frankly, ‘but I expect to be very damnably housed elsewhere, seigneur.’

Upon the day appointed for the Council the barons and vavassours assembled in the hall at an early hour, jostling one another for the best places, and wondering loud and long what could be the Duke’s need. Those who knew tried to explain to those who did not, and by the time the Duke entered the hall by a door behind the throne there was so much noise of discussion that it was difficult for any man to make himself heard above the general hubbub.

An usher preceded the Duke. He had a stentorian voice which he used to some purpose. All talk ceased abruptly; the vassals waited in respectful silence for the Duke to address them.

He was escorted by his Council, and by all the chief prelates of the Duchy. At sight of the Bishops’ robes those in the body of the hall realized that the affair was to be one of great moment. There was a sound of subdued rustling; necks were craned; short gentlemen stood on tiptoe to peer over the shoulders of their taller friends.

The Duke wore a mail tunic, and a helmet of ceremony on his head, with his coronet round it. This attire was significant; Gilbert de Harcourt, who had come in Hubert’s name to the gathering, grunted under his breath: ‘Ho! Is it war?’

The Duke mounted the steps of the throne, and looked round the hall as though he counted heads. When those who had accompanied him had taken up their places on the dais, he began his speech to the barons.

They heard him in profound silence. His voice was strong, and the echoes caught the ends of his words, and carried them faintly through the vaulting. There was no longer any fidgeting in the hall; it was evident he had taken the vassals by surprise; evident too that most of them listened to him in alarm and disapproval.

Standing to the right of the throne, Raoul could see nearly everyone in the hall. He held his drawn sword before him, with the point resting on the floor, and both his hands clasped on the hilt. Once he stole a look at Gilbert d’Aufay, standing in the same attitude on the left of the throne, but Gilbert would not respond to the amusement in his eyes. Gilbert was not enjoying himself.

The Duke’s appeal ended; he sat down, gripping the arms of his throne. For an interminable minute no one spoke or moved. Then someone whispered in his neighbour’s ear. More whispering followed; it became a subdued chatter, which grew steadily louder.

The Duke rose to his feet again, and was regarded with suspicion. He said: ‘Messires, I will withdraw, that you may be free to confer amongst yourselves.’ He made a sign to his brothers, and went out, followed by them.

No sooner had the door closed behind him than babel broke loose. A score of men tried to demonstrate to the assembly how impossible the Duke’s demands were; several of the younger seigneurs, snuffing battle like war-horses, attempted to shout down the general disapproval; and the company naturally separated into groups varying from five to a hundred men round the several spokesmen.

FitzOsbern was the first man to leave the dais. He stepped down from it, and elbowed his way through the press, taking this man by the arm, clapping that one on the shoulder.

De Montfort got up. He winked at Raoul, saying: ‘Soul of a virgin, how they mislike it! What now?’

‘I am going to hear what is being said,’ Raoul replied. He sheathed his sword, and slipped his hand in De Montfort’s arm. ‘Come, Hugh, we are not like to be so much diverted in another twenty years.’

Together they stepped down from the dais, and began to make their way from one to another of the groups.

‘Raoul! Stay a minute! Has the Duke gone moon-mad?’ The Sieur d’Estouteville caught at Raoul’s mantle. Henry de Ferrières elbowed him aside. ‘Raoul, what does this mean? Journeying outremer to fight a strange people in their own land! Folly!’

‘Why, we should all founder at sea!’ Geoffrey de Bernay took up the tale indignantly. ‘Remember what befell Harold off Ponthieu! Crowns! Kingdoms! Holy God, who ever heard so wild a scheme?’

‘Unhand me, unhand me, it is not my scheme!’ Raoul protested. He was swept from De Montfort’s side, and pushed his way through a knot of men to a group gathered round FitzOsbern.

FitzOsbern was liked by all, and could always command a hearing. Raoul grinned unseen as he listened to his convincing address. He had a voice that carried; one by one the barons drew towards him. He met condemnation with jests; he talked his hearers into better humour, and having induced them to see that the affair was not so redeless as they had first imagined, he bade them remember their duty, and meet the Duke in calm discussion. Somebody shouted to him to know what he thought of the Duke’s demands; his answer was somewhat evasive, but pleasing. The barons began to think they could do no better than appoint him to be their spokesman.

Raoul slipped away through the crowd to the room where the Duke was waiting. He went in and found that William was standing by the fire, holding his hand up to shield his face from the blaze. Mortain leaned against a chair-back, picking his teeth, and Bishop Odo, always more impatient than these two, was seated at the table, tapping his fingers on it in scarcely curbed restlessness.

The Duke glanced up as Raoul came in and gave a faint rueful smile. Raoul said solemnly: ‘I thank you for this day, beau sire. I have not been so much entertained since I can remember.’

‘What are they saying?’ demanded Odo, darting a look at him out of his quick dark eyes. ‘They need a lesson in courtesy, by God!’

‘Why, they are saying that the Duke’s many victories have made him reckless, my lord,’ Raoul replied.

‘Fools!’ said the Duke calmly, without raising his head.

‘A fine gathering of nithings!’ Odo snapped. ‘There has been peace in Normandy too long. Men have grown fat paunches and sluggish livers, and have learnt to love ease more than glory. Bah, I would school them!’

Mortain stopped picking his teeth to ask in his stolid way: ‘Are they going to give the Duke nay for an answer, Raoul?’

Raoul laughed. ‘Well, they seemed like to choose FitzOsbern to be their mouthpiece when I left them, so God knows what answer you will get. Nay is in their hearts. They say you cannot command their service outremer, beau sire. I think a-many are afraid to venture on the seas.’

The Duke turned his head. ‘Is Néel of Côtentin there?’

‘Not yet. But Tesson is, and will have none of your scheme.’

William’s teeth gleamed. ‘I can twist Tesson which way I choose,’ he said.

Someone scratched on the door; Raoul opened it, and found Gilbert d’Aufay upon the threshold. Gilbert said, looking rather troubled: ‘Will the Duke be pleased to come back? All are agreed to let FitzOsbern put their objections before him as doucely as may be.’

In the hall order had been restored. The Duke sat down on his throne again; his brothers stood beside him, and Raoul stayed by a pillar in the background.

‘Well, messires? Have you considered your answer?’ said the Duke.

FitzOsbern rose from his chair. ‘Yea, seigneur, we have considered, and it falls to my lot to speak for all who are here to-day.’

A murmur of assent sounded; all the noble gentlemen looked gratefully at their spokesman, and waited to hear how he would soften a blunt refusal.

‘Then speak, FitzOsbern,’ said the Duke. ‘I am listening.’

The Seneschal gave his mantle a hitch on one shoulder, and bowed. ‘Seigneur, we have heard your proposals, and honour you for that high courage which makes you look upon this emprise as a thing easily to be accomplished.’

His followers nodded indulgently. They had no fault to find with this way of beginning; it would be just as well to put the Duke in a good humour before the unpalatable meat of the matter was reached.

‘You desire a crown and a kingdom, beau sire; we know you to be worthy of them. You ask us, your loyal vassals, to lend aid on that venture. Seigneur, it must be known to you that by the laws of fealty our service overseas you cannot command.’

He paused, but the Duke said nothing. The vassals nodded again: FitzOsbern was managing the affair very creditably.

FitzOsbern went on: ‘You ask us to follow you to a strange land, peopled by bitter foes – a thing no Duke of Normandy has done before. We are unused to sea-faring, maybe we like it ill, maybe we have lands needing our care here in Normandy, wives who would weep to see us go forth to battle. But this we have in our hearts, my liege: you have ruled over us long fruitful years, leading us to victory upon victory. That thing which you have sworn to do never have you failed in. Seigneur, every leal man’s trust in you; every leal man’s hands lie between your palms, and this is a leal man’s answer to you: We will follow whithersoever you lead, be it to England or to Araby, and he whose duty owes you twenty men-at-arms will give in love for you twice that number.’ He stopped. The vassals were staring at him as though fascinated. Raoul saw one man open his mouth, shut it again, and swallow hard. The Seneschal took advantage of the appalled silence to say heroically: ‘Sixty ships will I myself furnish for the emprise! Seigneur, we are your men to command!’