The Conqueror (41 page)

He knew before he touched him that Edgar was dead. He had spent his last strength in warning his Norman friend against a danger threatened by one of his own countrymen.

For a long time Raoul sat quite still, holding the lifeless hand. In spite of the bloodstains that disfigured his face Edgar looked very peaceful, he thought.

A great sadness stole into his heart, yet he knew that if it were possible for him to conjure Edgar to life again he would not do it. Nothing remained on earth for Edgar since all that he had striven for had passed with Harold. Saxon England had died on Senlac field; the England of the future would be Norman, and there would be no place in it for such as Edgar.

This was where friendship had led: to bitterness, and bloodshed, and to death. Gently he laid Edgar’s hand down, and drew the folds of his own scarlet mantle round the body. He covered the face: it was not thus that he wanted to remember it, gashed and blood-dabbled.

A light was moving towards him; he stood up, and waited with folded arms for it to come closer. It was carried by a Saxon monk who was making his slow way across the field, tending the wounded, and shriving the dying. He seemed, from his black hood and white cassock, to be of the Benedictine Order. When he saw the strange knight standing motionless by the dead he paused, looking a little nervously up at him.

Raoul spoke to him in Latin. ‘Come forward, Father. I shall not hurt you, nor am I here for plunder.’

‘I see that you are not, my son,’ the monk said, drawing nearer. ‘But alas! there are many among your ranks who do not scruple to rob the dead.’

‘Many,’ Raoul agreed. He looked down at Edgar’s cloaked form; the monk, watching him curiously, thought that he had never seen so sad a face. ‘My father, do you know a vill called Marwell? It is by Winchester, I think.’

‘I know it well,’ the monk replied.

‘Could you carry a man’s body there for burial?’

‘Surely, my son.’ The monk sounded grave. Raoul lifted his eyes, and the holy man looked right into them. He came up quite close, holding his lantern so that he could see Raoul’s face. ‘Whose body must I carry to Marwell?’ he asked.

‘The body that lies at your feet, Father. It is Edgar, Thegn of Marwell.’ He watched the monk go down on his knees and draw the corner of the cloak away from Edgar’s face. ‘Cover it,’ he said. ‘But later wash away those stains.’ He saw that the monk was praying, and waited till he had risen to his feet again. ‘You will give the body into his sister’s charge,’ he said. ‘I do not want her to see those ugly wounds. Will you cleanse them?’

‘Rest assured, my son, that we shall do all that you would wish,’ the monk answered. His voice was kind; he wondered what lay behind the request, and what interest in a thegn this Norman knight could have.

Raoul took his purse from his belt and held it out. ‘There will be expenses upon the journey,’ he said, ‘and I should like to buy Masses for his soul. Will you take my purse?’

The monk hesitated. ‘I pray you, take it,’ Raoul said. He dropped the purse into the monk’s hand, and went down on his knee again beside Edgar’s body. He lifted the cloak for a moment and looked long. The wound and the blood faded; he saw Edgar sleeping, no more. ‘Farewell!’ he said softly. ‘There shall be no bitterness, no enmity, nor any grief when we two meet again. Farewell, my best of friends!’ He rose; two lay-brothers had come up, and were staring at him stupidly. He said: ‘Will these take charge of the body?’

‘They will carry it to a place of safety, my son, and it shall be taken thence to Marwell.’ The monk glanced at Raoul’s torn tunic, and at the mantle that covered Edgar. ‘But your cloak?’ he said doubtfully.

‘Keep it round him,’ Raoul answered. ‘I do not want it.’

He went slowly back towards the Norman tents. Lights burned there, and men were seated round fires kindled on the ground. He passed two of these groups on his way to his tent. The soldiers seemed tired, but cheerful, making light of their wounds and talking of the rewards they would snatch as soon as the Duke was crowned.

Raoul lifted the flap of the tiny tent he shared with Gilbert, and went in. Gilbert was lying on his pallet, not asleep, but frowning up at the tent-pole. When he saw Raoul he sat up. ‘So here you are,’ he said. ‘Where have you been all this while? Why, you have torn your tunic!’ His eyes grew suddenly suspicious. ‘Where is your mantle? What have you been about?’ he asked.

Raoul did not answer. He sat down on the edge of his own pallet and propped his head in his hands, staring down at the crushed grass beneath his feet.

‘I see,’ Gilbert said pitifully. ‘You have been looking for Edgar. And – you found him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Raoul, does he live?’

‘No. Not now.’

Gilbert brought his fist down with a crash on to the pallet. ‘Heart of God, I have had my fill of this accursed war!’ he said. ‘Lands in England? I want none! I have lands in Normandy which need me, and this I tell you, Raoul: when the Duke has done with fighting I will turn to them, and forget these sorrowful shores.’ He stopped, and peered across the small space that separated them. ‘What is that on your arm? Why, it is blood!’

Raoul glanced down at it. ‘Yes. A Saxon crept up behind me as I knelt beside Edgar. Edgar saw, and died warning me.’ A silence fell between them; Gilbert cleared his throat presently, and Raoul rose stifling a sigh. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Give me your mantle. I must go back to the Duke.’

Gilbert nodded to where it lay. ‘You gave yours – ?’

‘Yes,’ said Raoul unemotionally. ‘He was so cold.’ He fastened the heavy cloak round his shoulders, and went out.

At the entrance to the Duke’s tent FitzOsbern met him, and grasped him by the arm. ‘William has been asking for you, but I guessed where you had gone, and told him. Raoul, did you find Edgar?’

‘Yes. He is dead.’

‘Was he dead when you came to him? Tell me it all!’

‘No. He was wounded, but he lived still.’

FitzOsbern cried out: ‘Could you not have brought him in? There are surgeons here who might have saved his life!’

‘Oh William, don’t you see?’ Raoul said. ‘He did not want to live. I think he was too badly wounded, but even had he not been – no, it is better as it is. He spoke to me for a while before he died. He said he had seen you in the battle, and asked whether you had survived. When I told him, yes,
he said he was glad, for you were his friend.’

FitzOsbern shed tears at that. ‘I would I had seen him! But the Duke has been busy, and I could not leave him. Ah, poor Edgar! Did he believe I had forgotten him? Did he think my love had changed towards him that I came not?’

‘Oh no! Let me go now. Some other time I will tell you how he died; not tonight.’

‘But stay!’ FitzOsbern said. ‘He must be buried with honour. Do not tell me you have left his body for the wolves and the vultures to devour!’

‘No, I have not done that. I gave it into the care of a monk, who has promised to bear it to Marwell.’

FitzOsbern was disappointed. ‘You should have brought it here. The Duke would have granted an honourable grave, and we could have followed his coffin, mourning.’

‘But he was not a Norman,’ Raoul said. ‘Do you think that is what he would have chosen? I have done as I think he would desire.’ He disengaged himself from FitzOsbern’s hold, and passed into the Duke’s tent.

William looked up. ‘Well, my friend?’ he said. ‘You have been absent from my side longer than is your wont.’ He glanced keenly into Raoul’s face. ‘If Edgar of Marwell is dead I am sorry. But I do not think he would ever have lived at peace with me.’

‘No,’ Raoul said. He came further into the tent. ‘You are alone, beau sire.’

‘At last. I have had two monks from Waltham here, begging leave to search for Harold’s body, and offering me ten marks of gold if I would let them bear it hence. That I cannot do.’ He pushed a paper across the table. ‘Here is the first list of those slain. Do you want to see it? We do not know all yet. Engenufe de l’Aigle was one.’

‘Oh?’ Raoul ran his eye down the list.

The Lord of Cingueliz came in. He looked worn, and rather grim. He said: ‘They have found the body. It has been hacked with swords, which, for my part, I think a deed worthy of sharp punishment.’

‘Who did it?’ William demanded.

‘I know not. Two of Moulines’ knights, I believe.’

‘Discover them, and let me know their names. I will have their spurs chopped off for this unknightly deed. Do they want to make my name odious?’

Raoul was looking at the Lord of Cingueliz. He said: ‘Is all well with you, Tesson?’

Tesson did not meet his eyes.
‘It is well with me. But my son lies dead. It is no matter. I have others.’ He turned abruptly as the sound of footsteps came to his ears, and held back the flap of the tent.

Four knights carried Harold’s body in upon a rough bier, and set it down carefully in the middle of the tent. The Duke got up and moved forward. ‘Take off that covering.’

William Malet drew back the cloak from the body. It lay very straight and stiff, with the feet drawn together, the fearless eyes closed, and the hands crossed on the hilt of a sword.

For a minute or two the Duke stood still, looking down at the man who had fought him with such stubborn courage. His hand went to the ouch that fastened his mantle, and unclasped it. He took off the mantle and held it out to William Malet, still looking down at Harold. ‘Wrap him in my cloak,’ he commanded. ‘Perjured he was, but a great and a brave warrior.’ He paused and seemed to consider. ‘William Malet, since Saxon blood runs in your veins, to you I entrust this corse. You shall bury Harold with knightly honours by the coasts which he guarded so well. If any should wish to follow his bier they have my leave. Take him up, and bear him hence.’

The knights stooped, but before they could raise the bier someone else came into the tent and stood staring wildly round.

There was a surprised silence. The newcomer was a woman, tall and graceful, with a face ravaged by grief, but beautiful even in despair. A cloak covered her; her long golden hair was dishevelled, but she was obviously no common wench, for she wore precious stones round her white neck, and bracelets on her arms.

Behind her two monks, Osegod Cnoppe and Alric the Schoolmaster, stood in nervous support. She put her hair out of her eyes, peering from one to the other of the faces turned towards her. Her mouth hung a little open; she was quite distraught, and kept on wringing her hands together.

Then her gaze fell on the figure wrapped in royal purple on the bier, and she sprang towards it with a cry of anguish, and dropped on her knees, drawing the mantle away from the face.

It was terrible to see her stroking the dead cheeks, terrible to hear her voice whispering in ears that would never heed her again. The Normans stood in horrified wonder. It was William who broke the painful silence. ‘Who is this woman?’ he demanded.

At the sound of his voice she reared up her head and stared at him. She spoke in the Saxon tongue, and William Malet translated. ‘She says, which is Normandy? for she sees
none here habited like a prince.’

‘Tell her I am Normandy,’ said William, ‘and ask her who she is, whether wife or sister, and what she wants.’

She heard William Malet in
silence, but when he had done speaking she rose up and came towards the Duke and addressed him very passionately.

He looked across at Malet. Malet, who had listened with pity and surprise to the lady’s words, said: ‘Beau sire, she is none other than Editha, called the Swan-neck, who was Harold’s
mie.
She has sought for his body to bear it hence to Waltham for Christian burial, and begs this favour of you, that you will relinquish it into her care.’

‘Harold’s
mie
! Tell her that I myself will see Earl Harold honourably interred,’ William said.

But at this she cried out vehemently, like one who is mortally hurt, and tumbled to her knees again, stripping the jewels from her throat and arms and holding them out to him.

‘She offers gold, beau sire, a king’s ransom,’ Malet said, greatly moved.

‘Splendour of God, does she think I am a merchant to sell the body for gold?’ William said irritably. ‘Tell her she wastes her words, and bid her begone with her priests.’ He looked down at her, and added in a softer voice: ‘Is she afraid that I shall not bestow the corse with honour? Tell her that Harold shall be buried in purple, with his sword beside him, keeping watch for ever over these shores.’

When she heard this her eyes flashed, and she began to speak in a fierce shrill voice, twining and untwining her fingers.

‘Beau sire, she thinks you mock her.’

‘I do not. Take her hence.’ He turned away from her, and she was led out, hanging back and stretching her hands to the still figure on the bier, and calling her lover’s name over and over again.

But Harold lay dead, with closed eyes, and his hands crossed on his sword-hilt.

Six

The road that led to Marwell was very rough, and the who guided Raoul was afraid of the Normans all round him, so that his fear drove the wits out of his head. He came from Winchester, but he did not seem to know the way very well. It was further than Raoul had expected, and he was glad, since it was unlikely that pillaging soldiers could have penetrated so far.

He was impatient to reach Marwell; it was many weeks since Senlac field, but he had not been able to leave William sooner.

From Hastings the Duke had marched on Romney and Dover. Dover surrendered at once, but some of the foreign levies fired the houses, and there was wanton damage done. To the surprise of the citizens the Duke made good their loss in gold coin. Later he gave further signs of a just disposition, for he had marched on by Canterbury to a point below the reach of Greenhythe on the Thames, and encountered there the men of Kent drawn up in battle array under the leadership of one Agelsine, an Abbot, who demanded in their name the preservation of the ancient liberties of Kent. The Duke confirmed them in these, saying: ‘I am not come into England to destroy the laws and privileges of the land.’ The Kentish men, won by this answer, escorted him to Rochester, and proclaimed him their ruler. From Rochester he sent a detachment of his troops to begin the siege of London, which had declared for Edgar the child-Atheling. He himself marched westward to Winchester, but when he came to the town he heard that Queen Eadgytha, that rose born of thorns, lay within the walls, Winchester having been part of her dowry. With one of his sudden unexpected flashes of generosity the Duke promised, out of respect for the Queen, not to enter the town if the citizens would make their submission to him. This they did, and holding to his word he withdrew with all his force, and marched back to besiege London in person.

Raoul had left him at Barking. He was deep in negotiations with the city’s intermediary, one Ansgard, a crippled veteran. He let Raoul go, but he pulled a grimace, and said: ‘Henceforward I suppose I must share you, my Watcher.’ Then he had said: ‘All day long men demand their warisons of me, Raoul, but you are silent. What shall I give you?’

‘I want nothing,’ Raoul answered. ‘If you would be ruled by me, William, you would not give away lands in England to all who clamour for them.’

‘I am ruled by my word,’ William said. He regarded his favourite in silence for a moment. ‘No, you ask nothing; that has always been your way. And I would have given you an Earldom. Well, there is something I can bestow on you which you may be glad to have. Come to me again before you leave: I will give it you then.’

When Raoul saw him a few hours later he had a parchment scroll in his hand. He gave it to Raoul with a quizzical smile. ‘I am not King of England yet, nor have I bestowed grants on any other man. Keep that against the day when it shall be valid. And God speed this errand of yours, my friend.’

He had given Raoul the deed granting him the lands of Marwell, with the title of Baron.

Gilbert d’Aufay had ridden a little way with Raoul on his journey. He was troubled; he said a second time: ‘I want no lands in England. I could have sworn you would have said the same.’

‘No.’ Raoul shook his head slightly. ‘It is true I did not desire this conquest, but it is done, Gilbert, and we cannot hinder it. Oh, I know what you feel, but if all true men such as you refuse lands in this country it will be left to be the prey of Robert the Devil of Belesme, and Hugh the Wolf, and others of their kidney.’

‘This war has sickened me,’ Gilbert said obstinately. ‘England belongs to the Saxons, not to us. I am a Norman, and Normandy suffices me. I have seen a pack of ravening wolves gathered round William, slavering for prizes, and I tell you I will not become one of them.’

‘Look further,’ Raoul said. ‘We must live the future William carves for us. It lies in England. You say you are a Norman. I think in the end we shall be English. Not you nor I, perhaps, but our sons’ sons.’

‘Mine shall not, for they shall be bred in their own land.’

‘But mine shall be bred in England,’ Raoul said, ‘so that when I die I shall leave the lands I snatched to English-born heirs. Stay, Gilbert. There is work to be done in this stricken country.’

‘Stay to ravage England like any brigand? No, Raoul.’

‘To bring justice back, and order, which you have loved as much as I. William means this land to be the home of Normans hereafter. He told me once, long ago, that he would win a kingdom for his posterity that should be guarded by the sea, and no fickle border-holds. Well, he has done it, and like it or hate it as you will it makes no odds. Cling to Normandy: perhaps we shall all do that, since it is our country, and we care for it, but let us teach our sons to think England their home. For in the end it will be a struggle between England and Normandy. And I think England will win, and Normandy will die, like the half of that prodigy we saw at St Jaques.’ He paused. ‘Do you remember Galet’s words? I have thought of them very often.’

‘I remember, yes. But they were nonsense.’

‘I wonder? Both Normandy and England William means to hold, and maybe he will do it, being William. But after him … Well, we shall not live to see, I suppose. Go your ways, Gilbert.’

‘And you?’ Gilbert looked at him rather sadly. ‘Shall I see you again in Rouen?’

‘Why, surely!’ Raoul said. ‘The Duke means to return in the New Year if all is well, and I expect I shall journey with him, unless –’ He stopped, and reddened a little.

‘Unless you are wed, do you mean?’

‘Perhaps. I expect I shall still go with William. I am his man. If you see my father, Gilbert, bear my duty to him, and tell him – I don’t know. Tell him I have a barony in England. That will please him.’

Gilbert nodded. ‘I will tell him. It is Marwell, I suppose. I daresay Edgar would be glad to know you had his lands, and not a stranger. God speed you, Raoul. You choose the new way; I choose the old. We shall know one day, maybe, which of us chose aright. But I think I do not care very greatly. While Normandy lives I am hers. Fare you well!’

They clasped hands. Gilbert turned and rode back to the camp; Raoul watched him gallop out of sight, and gave the order to his escort to press on.

The way was difficult, and often the road was lost, so that it was not until the third day that Raoul rode into Marwell. He met with no resistance on his route, but black looks there were a-many, and he knew that if he had had fewer men with him he would have been attacked. The peasantry seemed cowed, but hatred gleamed in the meanest serf’s eyes. He thought: It will be many years before these people forget that we are invaders. A hard road lies ahead, William my seigneur.

South of Winchester green meadows and thick woods stretched for many leagues. Marwell lay in a hollow, sheltered by gently-rising hills, and watered by a stream that meandered through its fields. Round the house serfs’ huts were clustered; the house itself, which was built of wood, with a slate roof, and an outer stairway leading to the upper chambers, stood in a curtilage with a little chapel beside it and several out-buildings. A stockade enclosed it, but the gate stood open, and since no guard watched by it, it was plain that a Norman visitation was not expected. As Raoul rode into the curtilage the sacring-bell was ringing in the chapel. The place seemed deserted, but even as he swung himself down from the saddle heads peeped from the chapel door, and men ran out, snatching at whatever weapons they could reach.

Raoul stood still. He made no attempt to come at his sword, but spoke quickly over his shoulder. His own men rode forward; steel glittered, and the crowd of serfs fell back.

Raoul said in his halting Saxon: ‘I come in peace. But if you set upon my men there will be bloodshed.’ He walked on alone, unconcerned by the glare of a score of menacing eyes, and went into the chapel.

The priest was holding the Host between hands that shook. Raoul stopped, and took off his helmet, bending the knee and making the sign of the Cross.

Elfrida stood by the altar-steps with the serving women clustered about her. All were looking fearfully towards the strange knight; a stout dame threw her arms protectively round Elfrida.

Raoul spoke her name. She had been peering at him as though she doubted, but when she heard his voice the cloud seemed to lift from her brow, and she broke away from the women who shielded her, and stumbled forward, holding out her hands. ‘Oh, you have come to me!’ she said. ‘I have wanted you so, Raoul!’

The women were amazed to see her go towards the stranger with just that look on her face, but the stout dame seemed to understand the Norman tongue, and spoke a sharp reproof.

Raoul strode to meet Elfrida, but even as his hands clasped hers she shrank away from him. ‘Ah God, your scarlet mantle!’ she whispered. She covered her eyes with her hands. ‘Oh no! Oh no! not that!’

The priest said quaveringly in Latin: ‘I charge you, Norman, as you fear God, stand back from this hallowed ground!’

For all the heed Raoul paid to him he might have held his peace. Raoul said gently: ‘What is it, my little love? You cannot think I come to hurt you! Look up, my heart: I have come to you, as I swore I would.’

She backed away from him; her eyes were very wide, fixed on his hands. ‘You must not touch me. There is blood upon your hands.’ She pointed with a shaking finger. ‘Gules, gules!’ she whispered in a dreadful voice. ‘You cannot wash it away. I know. I have tried. O God of mercy!’

He grew rather pale; he spread his hands for her to see. ‘Look again,’ he said. ‘There is no blood upon my hands.’

‘Yea, but I have seen,’ she said. ‘Blood there is, blood that no tears may wash away. Oh, do not touch me!’

‘There is no blood,’ he repeated steadily. ‘My hands are clean. Not otherwise would I come to you.’

She seemed as though she dared not believe him. ‘Not Edgar’s blood? Not his, Raoul?’ She began to wring her hands together. ‘They brought him home to me with a red mantle covering him; and red wounds were on his breast, and a red scar upon his brow. And now I know that it was your mantle.’

He stood still, holding her eyes with his. ‘It was my mantle, but as God lives Edgar met not his death at my hands,’ he said.

The stout woman tried to come between them. ‘If you are one Raoul de Harcourt of whom I have heard my nephew speak, answer me now! Sent you his body to us, wrapped in a scarlet cloak?’

‘I sent it,’ Raoul replied.

‘But you did not slay him,’ Elfrida said. She was trembling. ‘No, Raoul, no! You did not slay Edgar!’

‘I have told you. I slew him not, but he died in my arms, and I sent his corse back to the home he loved, wrapping it in my mantle. I sought him amongst the slain when the battle was done, and found him, and he still lived. Elfrida, between us twain was no blood nor any hatred. I swear it on the Cross. We spoke of old days in Rouen, remembering old jests. I cannot talk of that. Yet he said as he lay dying that friendship had endured.’

The tears were running down her cheeks. ‘You did not slay him. No, you could not. But he lies between us, and you may not take me.’ She threw out her hands to check his advance. ‘See what lies between us!’ she said. ‘It is ended, Raoul, the dream we had.’

He looked down. A plain paving-stone marked Edgar’s grave. He stood still for a moment with bowed head, but presently he said: ‘You are wrong. He would not wish to lie between us. At the last he spoke your name, giving you into my care.’

She shook her head. ‘You are mine enemy,’ she said. ‘Normans have slain all that I held dear. It is ended.’

A harsher note crept into Raoul’s voice. He said: ‘Even though I had slain Edgar with mine own hands I would still take you. Through a path of swords I have come to you, because there was no other way.’ He stepped over the grave and caught her in his arms. ‘Have you forgot?’ he said. ‘Have you forgot how you promised to trust in me even though I came thus to fetch you?’

She did not struggle, yet neither did she yield. Dame Gytha said angrily: ‘Do you know where you stand, Chevalier? Is this fitting work for such a place? My niece is not for you.’

He held Elfrida closer, till the rings of his tunic dug into her cheek. ‘Can you say you are not mine? Oh, my heart, I would have died to spare you this bitter grief! Do you think that I wanted to take you as now I do? You know that I did not!’

‘There is death all round us,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Dare you speak of love?’

‘Yea, I dare.’ His hands gripped her arms ungently; he held her away from him and looked down at her. She had never seen his eyes so stern. ‘You are mine, Elfrida,’ he said. ‘I will not let you go.’

Dame Gytha pulled at his sleeve. ‘You shall let her go!’ she said. ‘Do you forget that she has lost father and brother both, Norman wolf? What has she to do with bridals now, poor broken heart? She dedicates herself to Holy Church, Chevalier, a surer haven than your arms!’

He released Elfrida; his face had grown dark. ‘With your own lips tell me that, Elfrida!’ he said. ‘Come, let me hear it! I will believe it from none other.’

She looked at her aunt, and at the silent priest. ‘I did say it,’ she faltered. ‘It is all so dark, and there is death – death! In a nunnery I may find peace again.’

‘And happiness?’ he said.

She gave a little bitter smile. ‘Never again. I have done with happiness, but peace I may find.’

‘Yea?’ He folded his arms across his chest. His glance swept over her; it held no kindness, no pity. He felt neither. She was his woman, and she was denying his right to take her. The gentle chivalry he had practised all his life was thrust under by some more primitive emotion. ‘Then break the vows you made to me!’ he said harshly. ‘Forswear your love, Elfrida! Come! if you love me not you can surely say it!’