The Conqueror (4 page)

Raoul glanced over his shoulder, as though he expected to see someone standing there. He dropped down on to his knee on the stair, and brought his lips close to the fool’s ear. ‘Speak! What is it you fear?’ he whispered.

Galet smiled, and rocked himself sideways. ‘Not you, brother.’ He put out his hand and touched Raoul’s knee with his bauble. ‘Take my bauble, fool. “I will not be afraid of shadows,” quoth the goat when he saw a wolf lurking in the thicket.’

Raoul grasped at his shoulder, and shook him. ‘Speak out, fool! What danger threatens?’

The fool rolled his eyes, and lolled out his tongue. ‘Nay, do not shake poor Galet’s wits out of him. Go and sleep, brother: what danger should threaten such a lusty calf as you?’

‘None. But you know something. Who means ill towards the Duke?’

The fool gave a mocking laugh under his breath. ‘There was once a peacock, brother, lived in a noble lord’s park, and when men exclaimed continually at the beauty of his plumage he grew vain, and fancied himself greater than the lord who fed him, and imagined, in his folly, that he could drive out the noble lord and rule over the park in his stead.’

Raoul nodded rather impatiently. ‘Stale talk, fool. All Normandy knows that the Burgundian grows large in his own mind. No more?’

Galet threw him a sidelong look. ‘Plots, plots, brother: dark deeds,’ he said.

Raoul glanced up the stairway. ‘Can you speak no word of warning, you who sit at his feet?’

The fool showed his big teeth in a mirthless grin. ‘Did you ever warn a heron to beware the hawk, brother?’

‘The heron needs no warning,’ Raoul said, frowning.

‘Yea, yea, my little William is a sage heron,’ crooned Galet, and began to play with his fingers like a half-wit. ‘Yet he bears a hooked beak. Can a heron do so, Cousin Raoul?’

‘I am sick of your riddles,’ Raoul said. He stood up, chilled by the night air striking through his shirt. ‘Watch on. Four eyes may see further than two.’ He went creeping back to his pallet, and began to dress himself. The rings of his mail tunic clinked as he pulled it over his head, and the man beside him stirred and muttered in his sleep. He buckled on his sword, and wound the bindings up his legs over the loose hose. When he picked his way to the stairs again he was fully clothed even to the helmet on his head.

‘What a brave knight is this!’ chuckled Galet. He made room for Raoul to pass him. ‘William my brother, you are well-served.’ He watched Raoul go up the stairs. ‘Sleep sound, William,’ he muttered. ‘He has a keen nose, your new watchdog.’

When the dawn-light stole into the castle it showed sleeping forms on the floor, harsh faces softened in slumber, and swords lying beside straw pallets. Upon the stairs the jester was curled up with his head pillowed on his arm, dozing uneasily. Outside a shut door that opened on to the gallery above a young knight stood with his hands folded on his naked sword. He stood very still, but when some slight noise reached him from below he turned his head to listen more intently, and his fingers closed tighter on the sword-hilt.

The light grew warmer, and with the rising of the sun new sounds broke the stillness. Scullions began to move about in the kitchen, and from outside came the stir of the waking town.

With a sigh, and a stretching of weary limbs, Raoul left his post. Down in the hall the men still slept, but Galet was awake, and patted him between the shoulders. ‘Good dog Raoul!’ he chuckled. ‘Will he throw a bone to his two hounds, our master William?’

Raoul yawned, and rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘Fool, in the clear daylight I ask myself, am I also a fool?’ he said, and passed on out of the hall into the sunlight.

On this second day’s ride they struck westwards along the coast until the rivers that separated the Bessin from the Côtentin were forded. The way led northward after that over wild country, and through many straggling forests. Adulterine fortalices looked down from every hill, each one a potential menace to the peace of Normandy. Unfriendly this land seemed, unlike Raoul’s own province of the Evrecin.

Valognes itself lay on the edge of a forest, and the dwelling set aside for the Duke’s use was scarcely more than a hunting-lodge, easy of access, and with no fortifications. Besides the hall it possessed one or two solars built in the thickness of the wall upstairs, and round the main building, in a rude court, were a cluster of ramshackle wooden houses. In one of these were quartered the few men-at-arms; another accommodated the Duke’s scullions, cooks, valets, and huntsmen; and there was a third, somewhat larger, which was used as a stable for the destriers. Horses belonging to the less fortunate were haltered under a thatched roof supported on posts. Here Raoul had to see Verceray bestowed. As at Bayeux, the knights made what shift they could in the hall of the main building for sleeping-room, but Raoul, whose suspicions had not been lulled by what he had seen of the country and the people of the Côtentin, snatched what rest he could by day, and every
evening when the torches were quenched, and the household slept, he took up his post outside the Duke’s door, and remained there throughout the night. He felt an odd pleasure in these vigils. This was service, and even though the Duke neither knew of his devotion, nor ever noticed him above his fellows, he was content, and felt through the long, still hours a queer bond tightening between him and the young man who slept, secure because of his watch, behind the shut door.

The Duke hunted the beasts of the forest and the warren, and flew his hawks at the brook and at the heron, and conducted all the business that had brought him into the Côtentin with the firmness and dispatch that was as yet strange to his nobles. His grip on affairs seemed to be masterly; little escaped him, and he left little to chance. Yet if he saw so much, Raoul wondered, how could he be blind to the signs of hostility all round him? No one could misread these signs: the barons of the district held aloof; of his own attendants men whispered in corners, and when he went abroad he was accompanied by fewer knights than those who crowded round the handsome Guy of Burgundy.

One might have thought that this smiling prince was the ruler of Normandy. His train of satellites was numerous; he swaggered it royally in velvet and jewels, and used towards William an affectionate manner that was not untinged by the patronage of an elder cousin. The knights hung round him, and because he laughed gaily, and scattered largesse with a lavish hand, the common people always raised a cheer for him when he passed.

Raoul hated him. When he saw him charming William’s knights away from him, when he heard him impudently usurping ducal privileges or acknowledging homage that was due to William, he raged inwardly, and wondered with a kind of sick disgust why the Duke bore with him, and never seemed to notice his graceful insolence. It was almost as though the stronger character dominated the weaker, but no man looking at the two faces could think William the weakling of the pair.

Here, at Valognes, Raoul’s dislike for the Burgundian grew, and into it crept distrust. It was no secret that Guy had pretensions to the throne of Normandy, but until now Raoul had not imagined that these were anything more than the grumblings of a dissatisfied young man. So many seigneurs had objected to their base-born Duke, and there had been so many who asserted greater claims to his coronet that it was nothing extraordinary to hear murmurings amongst Guy’s court that it was he and not William who should be the ruler of Normandy.

But now Raoul’s suspicions were stirred, and he began to watch Guy. There were secrets abroad; he had seen a note slipped into the Burgundian’s hand by one who seemed only to pass him on the stair, and once he had run against a stranger in the dark passage upstairs. The man had come out of Guy’s room like one who did not wish to be observed, and in the torchlight Raoul had seen dust of hard travel on his clothes. Later he had met him at supper, when it appeared that the stranger was come to Valognes on quite innocent business. But why, Raoul asked himself, had he been closeted with Guy of Burgundy; and why did he look confused when he had stumbled on Raoul in the passage?

There befell an incident in the forest which kindled all his suspicions to a flame. In company with Guy, De Bohun, Grimbauld du Plessis, and some few knights and huntsmen, the Duke had gone out after bear. Raoul was in his train, staying as close to him as he dared, for the thought darted across his mind, when he saw of what doubtful men the party was composed, that if treachery were meditated this gloomy forest would be no such bad place for the execution of a dark deed. All the morning they had followed the hounds on a hot trail, under the shade of giant trees, and through dense thickets, further and further into the lost heart of the forest. The hounds had led them to their quarry, a big surly brown bear, and while they bayed and worried him the huntsmen stayed on the edge of the clearing, only the Duke, by his own desire, ready to run in to deliver the spear-thrust that would end the combat.

The hounds were all around the bear, slashing at his flanks and heavy quarters, bewildering him, and rousing him from sulkiness to a massive rage. He fought them with his teeth, and his great paws. One of the bitches went over and over with a broken back; a rache, running in unwarily, crawled away dragging his hind-quarters and leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

William was eagerly watching his moment. Raoul had hardly ever seen him in so animated a mood. His eyes sparkled, and he urged on the hounds continually, shouting out hunting cries, and chafing for an opportunity to run in and engage with the infuriated beast himself.

When the opportunity came he advanced quickly, grasping his spear, and struck with all his might where the neck joined the shoulder. It was an admirable thrust, but the bear had swung suddenly away, lunging at one of the hounds with a murderous rake of his forearm, and the spear was deflected slightly, and struck the shoulder. As the head went home there was heard the snap of a breaking shaft. A sort of sigh went up from the group of watching men. The Duke let a great oath, and sprang back, casting the broken shaft away from him. A fallen tree-branch lay across the ground, and caught his heel. He fell heavily, and the bear, shaking himself momentarily clear of the pack, came at him in a lumbering rush.

In that dreadful moment, and even as he raced across the clearing to cut the bear off from William, Raoul realized that not one of the men behind him had made a movement to go to the Duke’s rescue.

He ran desperately. A hound, darting in, had closed his fangs on the bear’s shoulder, but though he checked he could not turn the brute. The instant’s respite allowed Raoul to fling himself between the beast and the man. William had leaped to his feet, and was tearing the fleshing-knife from his belt, but it was Raoul who struck the final blow, a true thrust, deep and sure.

‘Back, beau sire! back!’ he shouted.

The bear seemed to lurch forward, and fell with a crash, and a gush of blood at nostrils and mouth.

Others came hurrying up. Had they really hesitated, or had he only imagined that they held back? Mechanically wiping his spear, Raoul watched Guy of Burgundy clasp William affectionately, and heard him say: ‘Cousin, cousin, why would you not let another man take that risk? Christ’s wounds! if the brute had reached you!’

Raoul felt an insane desire to laugh. He moved away from the group round the Duke, shaken by the shock of having seen his master helpless before a horrible death, and out of breath from his own headlong rush to the rescue. He wiped the sweat from his face with an unsteady hand, angry with himself for being so easily discomposed. Then he saw William put the Burgundian aside, very much as a man might push away a troublesome puppy, and walk with his quick, yet deliberate step towards him.

He was beside Raoul before Raoul could move a step to meet him. ‘My thanks to you, Raoul de Harcourt,’ he said. He held out his hand in a gesture of friendliness, and while his gaze scrutinized Raoul’s face, his stern lips curled upward in a smile.

Words choked in Raoul’s throat. He had dreamed often of what he would say if ever the Duke noticed him above his fellows, but now that the moment had come, he found that he could not say anything at all. He looked quickly up at William; then, letting fall his spear, he dropped on his knee, and kissed the Duke’s hand.

William glanced over his shoulder, as though to be assured that no one was within earshot. He looked down again at Raoul’s bent head. ‘You are the knight who guards my sleep,’ he said.

‘Yes, beau sire,’ Raoul muttered, wondering how he knew. He rose to his feet, and spoke the thought that was foremost in his mind. ‘Seigneur, your spear – should not have snapped.’

William gave a short laugh. ‘A fault in the shaft,’ he said.

Raoul whispered urgently: ‘Beau sire, I pray you have a care to yourself!’

His eyes encountered the Duke’s keen look, and for a moment the glance held. Then the Duke gave a brief nod, and walked back to join the group that watched the skinning of the bear.

Three

After the bear-hunt Raoul began to feel an added hostility in the air, hostility now directed towards himself. Men looked scowlingly at the marplot; he had the dubious satisfaction of knowing that the plotters – if plotters they indeed were, and he had not allowed his imagination to deceive him – considered him a danger to the safe carriage of their plans. He went abroad thereafter with ears on the prick, and his dagger loose in its sheath. When an arrow sang past his head one day at a hunting of deer he thought only that someone’s aim was badly at fault, but when he tripped at the head of the stairway in the dark, and only by the veriest chance saved himself from falling headlong down, he began to realize that some man or other had good reason for wishing him out of the way. A log of wood had been laid on the second step, and it rolled over when he trod on it. That it had been meant for him he was reasonably sure, and he guessed from it that his ill-wishers were aware of his nightly vigil. He was always the first man to descend the stairway in the morning, and if he had not paused upon the top step, warned by an intuition of danger, he must certainly have pitched down the stair, and broken, if not his neck, at least a leg or an arm.

He was not surprised therefore when Galet whispered a warning to him one evening before the supper-hour. Galet sat cross-legged on the floor, juggling with some sheep’s bones, and as Raoul passed him he said softly without raising his head or moving his lips: ‘Do not drink tonight, cousin!’

Raoul heard, but gave no sign. He contrived at supper to empty the contents of his drinking-horn on to the rushes under the table at a moment when all eyes were turned towards the jester, who was performing contortionist feats with his ungainly limbs. Afterwards he pretended to drink from the empty horn, and watching under down-dropped eyelids he thought that he detected satisfaction in the face of Grimbauld du Plessis. A pulse began to beat unpleasantly hard in his throat; he had a feeling of apprehension that was almost a sickness, and the palms of his hands felt damp and cold. He shivered, and blamed the chill draught that swept through the hall. The candles guttered in the sudden gusts of wind, and threw odd shadows. Men’s faces appeared sinister in the uncertain light; all at once Galet’s caperings became macabre, and his shrill voice eldritch. Raoul wished that he would stop, for calamity seemed to brood over the sombre house. He set his teeth, and forced himself to join in the talk at his table, disgusted to find that he was so little the cool intrepid man he would wish to be.

The Duke went up to his chamber after supper with Guy’s arm thrown round his shoulders. Guy’s light laugh sent a shudder through Raoul; he stared after them, his fingers tightening unconsciously round the narrow end of his drinking-horn. Thus, surely, traitors laughed.

His right-hand neighbour was yawning. His eyes looked heavy with sleep; he complained in a thick voice of the hard day’s hunting, and lolled over the table like a drunken man. Looking round Raoul saw others similarly mazed. His throat felt parched suddenly. Grimbauld du Plessis was watching him across the room. Raoul got up with a lurch and a stagger, and went with unsteady steps to the stair.

Grimbauld stood in his path, smiling at him. ‘Watch well, you Friend of the Friendless,’ he mocked.

Someone sniggered. Raoul blinked owlishly, and put up a hand to rub his eyes
.
‘Yes,’ he said stupidly. ‘Watch – watch well. I will – watch well, Grimbauld – du Plessis.’

Grimbauld laughed, and stepped aside to let him pass. Raoul went stumbling up the stairs with his hands on the rope.

At the top, and out of sight, he gave a quick look to right and left of him. No one was in the gallery, but he could hear voices in William’s chamber, and knew that Guy of Burgundy was still with the Duke. He went to the edge of the gallery and peeped down through one of the vaulted arches at the hall below. Men were gathering into small groups. Some were dicing, some talking in low voices, and others drowsing with their heads on the table. The servers were still busy clearing away the trestles, and spreading pallets; and presently the Duke’s valet came up the stairs and went into William’s chamber. From the ambry leading into the hall came a muffled clatter of patins in the wash-tub; outside in the court the men-at-arms were still moving about. Raoul wondered whether their mead had been drugged, or whether they, too, were in the pay of the conspirators. There was no sign of Galet; he must have slipped away when the Duke went upstairs.

Guy came out of the Duke’s chamber, calling over his shoulder: ‘Sweet dreams, dear cousin.’

‘Judas!’ Raoul thought, hating him.

Guy shut the door, and paused for a moment, looking about him. Raoul saw him go to the edge of the gallery, and lean over. He made a sign to someone below, and went away to his own chamber at the opposite corner of the building.

Raoul listened to his retreating steps. Should he go to the Duke, and warn him? Warn him of what? He bit his lip, feeling himself a fool. What could he say? That he thought the wine had been drugged? That he misliked the look of Grimbauld? It was of no use to carry such vague suspicions to a young man who only gave a laugh, and seemed to look right through one. He drew his cloak closer about him, and leaned rather disconsolately against the wall. When the household slept he might be able to find Galet, and hear what he had discovered. Then, if treachery stalked abroad indeed, perhaps between them they could contrive to smuggle the Duke away.

A stir below drew him to the side of the gallery again. Humphrey de Bohun was going out, wenching, Raoul guessed. There was nothing unusual in that, for many of the Duke’s men preferred a night spent snugly in the arms of some loose bordel-woman to one on a hard pallet in the castle. Several of the knights went out with Humphrey, and the noise in the hall died down. The valet came out of the Duke’s chamber, and quenched all but a single torch at the other end of the gallery. He went clattering down the stairs, and across the hall to the kitchens.

Men had tumbled on to their pallets without troubling to remove their tunics or their chausses. Only Grimbauld and some half a dozen others still sat at a table that had been pushed up against the wall. They were talking in whispers, all but Grimbauld and one Godfrey of Bayeux, who seemed absorbed in a game of chess. A sleepy scullion came out of the kitchen to put out the candles. Grimbauld and Godfrey played on in the light of a horn-lantern.

There were still faint sounds of movement in the castle, but soon these ended, and nothing broke the stillness except the stertorous breathing of the sleepers, and once, coming from the world outside the castle, the long, far-off howl of a wolf.

There was a click of ivory as Grimbauld gathered the chessmen together. He stood up, and said something to one of the men beside him, and picking up the lantern went towards the foot of the stairs.

Raoul’s heart began to race. He drew back quickly to the Duke’s door, and sat down on the floor, holding his sword across his knees, and letting his head fall forward on his chest as though he slept. A glimmer of light shone on the bend of the stair; Grimbauld came into sight, holding up the lantern.

If he means to slay me now, Raoul thought, I can at least make a fight for it, and shout to warn the Duke. God and His saints aid me!

But Grimbauld, although he bent over him, closely scrutinizing his face, made no movement to touch him. After a moment or two he seemed satisfied that Raoul indeed slept, and went away again as stealthily as he had come.

A light sweat had broken out on Raoul’s forehead. He lifted his head, frowning into the darkness. If Grimbauld meant to slay the Duke, why had he not stepped over the apparently drugged man at the door, and gone in to do the foul deed at once? There were six men to answer to his call; he surely ran no risk. But the scullions and the men-at-arms were within hail: Raoul had forgotten them. They could not all have been drugged, and if an alarm was given some at least would run in to the Duke’s rescue.

He got to his feet suddenly. Why had Humphrey de Bohun gone out with his knights? And what connection with all this dark business had had that dust-stained stranger whom he had seen coming out of Guy’s chamber before the day of the bear-hunt? Guy must be implicated in this, and Guy would not move unless he had a strong following at his back. Some foul treachery was afoot, more serious than he had guessed. He tiptoed to the side of the gallery again, and strained his ears to hear what was being said below. The low voices were hushed; he could distinguish no words, but as he watched he saw the men draw their cloaks round them, and follow Grimbauld to the door.

Raoul licked his lips; his hand clenched unconsciously on his sword. Grimbauld was unbarring the door. As it opened a cold air spread over the hall. The cloaked men went out one by one, and the door was softly shut behind the last of them.

The single torch was still burning at the end of the gallery. Raoul pulled it from its socket, and went down the stairs, holding it high above his head. He bent over a sleeping form in the hall, and tried to shake honest Drogo de Saint-Maure awake. Drogo only groaned, and fell back on to his pallet.

The torch flared in the still darkness; the smoke from it rose in a thin spiral to the rafters. Raoul thrust it into a niche in the wall, and went silent as a ghost to the door. As his hand grasped the heavy latch he heard a sound behind him, and turned sharply to see Galet slink into the hall from the kitchen.

Galet was breathing hard, and his face shone with sweat in the torchlight. He flung out his hand to check Raoul. ‘Nay, nay, brother!’ he said in a shrill whisper. ‘You can do nothing there. They are gone to open the gates. There is a great company assembled not a league from the town, and at the appointed hour they will be here to seize our heron.’ He caught his breath on a laugh, and flitted to the stairs. ‘Come! and remember that a peacock may screech alarm. Oh, William my brother, now is the time!’

Raoul drew his sword with a hiss of the steel against the scabbard. ‘Do you warn the Duke,’ he said. ‘I must saddle two horses. If I am seen – why, maybe I can lead them astray while the Duke breaks through.’

‘The Duke has a new fool,’ Galet said, jeering at him. ‘Alack, what will become of me? The horses are tethered beyond the walls, brother fool.’

Raoul stared at him. ‘By the Bread, I think I am indeed the fool. You have been at work while I stayed wondering.’

‘Yea, yea, you are a child, cousin Raoul.’ The jester slipped up the stairs.

Raoul snatched the torch from the wall, and followed hard on his heels. No sound came from the room at the far end of the gallery where Guy slept. Raoul’s lips curled back in something like a snarl as he looked towards that shadowed doorway. ‘Judas will lie close until his cut-throats have finished their work,’ he whispered. ‘If not – why, by the Face, I shall not be amort!’ He lifted his sword, and the light shimmered on the blue steel and threw the runes on it into relief.

‘Nay, does the jackal kill the lion’s prey?’ Galet lifted the latch of the Duke’s door and went in.

The torchlight showed William sleeping on a bed of skins, with his cheek on his hand. Raoul closed the door softly behind him, and held the torch up so that the glare of it fell on William’s face. William’s eyes opened, blinking at the sudden light. They rested on Galet and grew wide awake in an instant. He raised himself on his elbow, frowning a question.

Galet struck him on the shoulder with his bauble. ‘Up, up, William, you are a dead man else!’ he mouthed. ‘Soul of a virgin, wherefore do you sleep? Your enemies are arming all around you. Little brother, if they find you here you will never leave the Côtentin alive!’

William sat up, thrusting him aside; he looked straightly across at Raoul. Light sparkled in his eyes; of alarm there was not a trace.

Raoul said urgently: ‘Beau sire, the fool speaks the truth. They who mean your death are gone to open the gates, and your men lie drugged below-stairs. Seigneur, rise! There is no time to lose.’

William threw back the rug that covered him, and stood up in his shirt and short breeches. He began to pull on his long hose. ‘So!’ he said, with a certain harsh exultant note in his voice.

A queer lump rose in Raoul’s throat. This was a man to die for, even as he had dreamed in those far-off days at Harcourt. He caught up the Duke’s sword-belt and buckled it round his waist.

‘Haste, haste, brother, and follow the fool,’ Galet said, opening the door. ‘The horses stand ready.’

William swung his mantle over his shoulders. ‘I am well served,’ he said gaily. ‘Lead on, fool.’

‘Yea, you are well served, my son, who have a fool and a child to guard you.’ Galet stole to the stairs and went down them with William and Raoul close behind him. As they rounded the last bend the torch showed the sleepers lying like dead men on the floor of the hall. Raoul heard William give a laugh under his breath.

The moon had risen, and a pale light crept in at the windows; Raoul thrust the torch into the dying fire, and left it there. Over the sleepers they picked their way to the door into the kitchens. William trod boldly, and once his foot spurned an inert form as he passed. The drugged man moaned in his sleep, and again Raoul heard the Duke laugh.

There was no one in the kitchen. Across one of the windows the wicker-lattice had been torn away. Galet pointed silently towards it.

William nodded, and stepped forward, but Raoul was before him. ‘Beau sire, I will go first,’ he said, and climbed on to the bench beneath the window, and swung his leg over the sill.