The Conqueror

by Georgette Heyer

  A hush had fallen on his troop. He spoke at last, molten words that crashed into the silence and made it shudder. ‘By the splendour of God, I will deal with those knaves as with a tree whose branches are lopped by the pollarding knife!’ He swung his destrier round on its haunches; stratagem went by the wind; his rage consumed the men. Assault! assault! The gate-tower was to be stormed and taken, burned to ashes, and the men in it dragged out to face his vengeance. Words of counsel were humbly spoken; he tossed them aside. By God’s death he swore to raze the tower to the ground or never more to lead his barons into battle.

  The greater part of his men were with him; only some older heads feared defeat, and murmured of strategy. He swept these aside; he drew his sword flashing in the sunlight, and thundered: ‘Who follows me? Speak!’

  A full-throated roar answered him; he smiled, and Raoul saw his teeth gritted close.

  Of that desperate skirmish on the bridge Raoul retained afterwards but the haziest memory. Missiles hailed about the besiegers; there was a sortie and some hard hand-to-hand fighting, when shield was locked to shield in the tight wedge, and men fell with despairing cries into the river below. From the tower they hurled javelins and rocks; Raoul had his helmet crushed in from a stone that hurtled upon him, and fell, half-stunned, still grasping his wet sword. Feet trampled over him; he struggled up with a great effort, warding off his own comrades, reaching his feet at last, bruised and shaken, but whole, swayed by the press about him.

  They were up to the tower almost before he was aware, in a storm of missiles. Men came over the bridge with a battering-ram slung between them, a ram hastily made of a felled tree. Many hands bore it; there came the dull thud of its impact with the great door which closed the way under the arch of the tower into the town. For long the door held; those who drove the ram were dripping with sweat, and breathing in laboured gasps. Ever and again one of them fell from a javelin hurled from above; his place was taken at once, and the ram driven home again. The wood cracked at last, and split: the men of Normandy were in, under the arch, and battering down the smaller door that led into one side of the tower. It fell before the fury of their assault; they burst through the opening, and hacked their way up the twisting stair, up and up, over their own dead, till they drove the defenders from the stairhead, back into the guardroom above.

  In all thirty men were dragged out, prisoners for the Duke’s vengeance. He set fire to the tower, and the terrified inhabitants of the town fled to their homes, and those on the Castle-wall beheld the flames and the black smoke mounting higher and higher.

  The Duke’s baggage-train had reached Alençon by now, and men were busy setting up his tent, and preparing an encampment. The Duke stood at the bridge-head, terrible still in wrath, and watched the approach of his prisoners. Behind him his captains were gathered in angry support. His hands were blood-stained, gripping his red sword. He glanced down at it, and handed it to Raoul with a quick, impatient movement. Raoul wiped it carefully, and stood holding it, waiting to see what the Duke meant to do.

  All that remained of the garrison were driven at the spear-point to face the Duke’s wrath. FitzOsbern exclaimed: ‘Deal hardly, beau sire! Sacred Face, shall men who dare such insults be allowed to live?’

  ‘They shall live,’ William said, ‘in a sort.’ Raoul paused in his task of wiping the blood-stained sword, and looked up sharply, frowning. ‘As a tree whose branches are lopped,’ William repeated with deadly emphasis. ‘They shall go footless and handless, living tokens of my vengeance for all men to see, and fear, by Death!’

  A murmur of assent sounded from the barons; one of the prisoners gave a shriek of horror, and fell grovelling in the mud before the Duke. Raoul touched William’s arm. ‘Beau sire, you cannot do that!’ he said in a low voice. ‘Another man might, but not – not you! Not hands and feet both; you cannot maim them thus hideously!’

  ‘You shall see,’ William replied.

  ‘Rarely said, beau sire!’ FitzOsbern declared. ‘In this way men shall know you, and dread your anger.’

  Raoul’s fingers twisted round the heavy sword-hilt. He looked at the prisoners and saw some with defiant faces turned to the Duke, some kneeling at his feet, some silent, some blubbering for mercy. He turned again towards William. ‘Your justice …’ he said. ‘Your mercy … What of these?’

  ‘Tush, you fool!’ growled Gilbert in his ear.

  ‘Grant us only death! Ah, dread lord, give us death!’ wailed one of the prisoners, stretching his hands to William.

  Raoul struck Gilbert’s hand from his shoulder. ‘Give them justice!’ he said. ‘This cruelty is not for such an one as you, seigneur!’

  ‘God’s Son, the Watcher turns pigeon-hearted at the thought of a little blood-letting!’ someone exclaimed scornfully.

  Raoul swung round. ‘I will let yours with a high heart, I promise you, Ralph de Toeni!’

  ‘Hold your peace, Raoul!’ the Duke said angrily. ‘What I have sworn to do I will do, by the living God! Not you nor any man can turn me.’ He made a sign to the men who guarded the prisoners. There was a cry of despair, a broken prayer for mercy. A block of wood was dragged forward, and a bucket full of pitch. A writhing man was flung down by the block, and his wrists wrenched over it. The axe swung aloft, and descended with a sickening thud. A high scream of anguish rose throbbing on the air, and behind Raoul Gilbert gave a grunt of satisfaction.

  Raoul broke through the knot of onlookers behind the Duke, unable to bear the sight of the mutilation. A man stood in his way, trying to peep over the shoulders of his betters at the gruesome work on hand. Raoul struck him aside with a force that sent him sprawling, and thrust his way on through the crowd to the Duke’s tent.

  He found that he was still grasping William’s sword. He looked at it for a moment with a white set face, and suddenly flung it from him so that it fell with a clatter in a corner of the tent. A second tortured scream from outside made his gorge rise until he thought he must be sick. He sank down on to a stool, and buried his face in his hands.

  The screams and groans rang through and through his head; before his shut eyes gibbered the forms of maimed men, and the gloating faces of those who watched the execution.

  After a long time the hideous sounds ceased. There was a murmur of voices, and the tread of footsteps all round the tent.

  Galet crept in, and to Raoul’s knee. ‘Brother, brother!’ he whispered, and touched Raoul’s sleeve.

  Raoul looked up: ‘Fool, have you seen?’

  ‘Yea, it is a red vengeance,’ the fool answered. ‘But will you break your heart for a parcel of Angevin swine?’

  ‘Do you think I care for them?’ Raoul said bitterly. ‘If I break my heart it is for William’s shame.’ He fumbled at his sword-hilt and drew the blade from its sheath. His finger traced the runes graven upon it, ‘Le bon temps viendra! Ah, heart of Christ!’

  Troubled, the fool said: ‘Yea, but what shall this signify?’

  Raoul looked at him. ‘O fool, when shall this day’s work be forgotten? It is in my mind that down the years when men speak of William our Duke they will remember this vengeance and call him Tyrant. I tell you, there is a stain upon his shield now no deed of justice, no feat of arms can ever wipe away.’

  ‘He is a stark man in his anger, brother, but you have seen him merciful,’ Galet said, uncomprehending.

  ‘I have seen the devil let loose,’ Raoul said with a short laugh.

  ‘Yea, he hath a devil like all of his house, but he keeps it throttled six days out of the seven.’

  Raoul rose, and sheathed his sword again. ‘But the seventh is the day that shall live in men’s memories,’ he said, and went out, leaving the fool to scratch his puzzled head.

  He did not come near the Duke until some hours had passed. Appalled at what they had seen, the Castle garrison sent to offer terms of surrender. They
were granted freedom, and safety of life and limb. The last blood had been shed at Alençon, and without a blow the Castle capitulated. There was no plundering, no rape of women. The Duke’s passion was throttled again, and once more men saw his justice.

  A squire came to Raoul at dusk with a message from William, commanding his attendance. He went slowly to the big tent, and entered to find the Duke alone, seated by the table. A lamp hung from the roof of the tent, and lit the small space. William pointed to where his sword still lay. ‘Pick up my sword,’ he said, with a straight look under his brows.

  Raoul gave it to him without a word. The Duke held it across his knee, and said: ‘I ride back to Domfront tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘Do you know young Roger de Bigod – a youngling with a face of wood?’ he asked unexpectedly.

  Raoul blinked, and answered: ‘If he is a vassal of the Count of Mortain I know him, lord.’

  ‘In his folly he spills news of a plot. The Warling Count is busy planning my ruin, and my good Uncle of Arques’ – he smiled unpleasantly – ‘withdrew from the siege of Domfront a short hour after myself.’

  ‘God’s death!’ Raoul said, startled. ‘Arques? What will you do, seigneur?’

  ‘A guard set about him at Arques should keep my uncle in check. I am sending to Mortain to bring the Warling Count before me. Him I will banish, for while I live the peace of Normandy shall never, by God’s grace, be disturbed again by such revolts as we crushed at Val-es-dunes.’ He paused, and looked at Raoul, unsmiling. ‘Shall I send you to Mortain, or do you ride with me back to Domfront?’ he asked.

  Raoul returned his look gravely. ‘Why must you ask me that, my liege?’

  ‘If I am too stark a lord for you, leave me!’ the Duke said. ‘Think well: I shall not change for any plea of yours.’

  ‘I am your man,’ Raoul answered. ‘Now and always, as I swore that night when we fled from Valognes. I ride with you to Domfront.’

  There was no more said. On the following day they rode back to Domfront, leaving a garrison at Alençon. The news of the happenings there was before them. Terrified, despairing of Martel’s return, Domfront surrendered, got easy terms, and thought herself fortunate. Although it stood in the county of Maine the donjon was garrisoned by Normans. The Duke marched on to Ambrières, built a stronghold there, and retired again into Normandy. He had thrust his Frontier out a little way into Maine, and that was all Anjou got by his rashness.

  Away in France King Henry heard the news, and turned a very sickly colour. His hand played with his beard, and those near him saw that he plucked three hairs from it, all unaware.

  Part II

  (1051–1053)

  THE ROUGH WOOING

  ‘He must be a man of great courage and high daring who could venture to come and beat me in my own father’s palace.’

  Saying of Matilda of Flanders

  One

  As the long ship heaved on the waves one of the hostages gave a whimper, and curled his body closer, with his knees drawn up. Raoul was standing by the bulwarks, looking out over the sea. A pale moonlight turned the water coldly silver, shimmering under a night-blue sky; now and again flecks of foam glistened as though a star had dropped into the sea. From the masthead lanterns hung as beacons to show the other vessels where the Duke’s ship rode. A small cabin built in the stern had a leathern curtain across the opening, and where this fell away from the door-post a crack of yellow light shone. Amidships an awning sheltered the hostages. A lantern was secured to one of the supports; its glow illumined the faces of the three who crouched there on fur skins. Overhead a fitful wind bellied the sails, and from time to time the canvas slapped in the breeze, and the ropes creaked and whined.

  Again the youngest of the hostages whimpered, and buried his face in the mantle of the man who held him. Raoul looked over his shoulder with a faint smile. The boy was so young and so unhappy. As he looked, the man holding the child raised his head, and his eyes, which were of a cold northern blue, encountered Raoul’s. After a moment of grave regard he lowered them again to the fair head upon his knee.

  Raoul hesitated for a while, but presently picked his way over the men who lay sleeping in their cloaks, and came into the light of the lantern under the awning. The blue-eyed man looked up at him, but his expression did not change.

  Raoul, who had been charged with the comfort of the hostages, tried in a few halting Saxon words to speak to him. The hostage interrupted with a slight smile, and said in Norman: ‘I can speak your tongue. My mother was a Norman out of Caux. What is it that you want of me?’

  ‘I am glad,’ Raoul said. ‘I have wished to be able to speak to you, but you see how ill I am learned in your Saxon tongue.’ He looked down at the youngest hostage. ‘The boy is sick, isn’t he? Shall I bring some wine for him? Would he drink it?’

  ‘It would be kind,’ Edgar replied, with an aloof courtesy that was rather chilling. He bent over the boy, and spoke to him in Saxon. The child – Hakon, son of Swegn, grandson of Godwine – only moaned, and lifted a pallid woebegone face.

  ‘My lord has not before been upon the sea,’ Edgar said in stiff explanation of Hakon’s tears.

  The third hostage, Godwine’s youngest-born, Wlnoth, a boy hardly older than Hakon, woke from an uneasy sleep, and sat up, rubbing his eyes. Edgar said something to him; he looked curiously at Raoul, and smiled with a semi-royal graciousness.

  When Raoul came back with the wine Hakon seemed to be exhausted from yet another spasm of sickness. When the drinking-horn was put to his lips he sipped a little between sobs, and raised a pair of tear-drowned eyes to Raoul’s face. Raoul smiled at him, but he drew further back into Edgar’s hold, as though he were shy, or perhaps hostile. But he seemed better after the wine, and inclined to sleep. Edgar drew the furs more closely round him, and said curtly: ‘My thanks, Norman.’

  ‘My name is Raoul de Harcourt,’ Raoul said, determined to persevere in his friendly advances. He glanced down at Hakon. ‘The boy is over-young to leave his home. He will be happier in a day or two.’

  Edgar made no reply to this. His silence was rather a natural taciturnity than a studied rudeness, but there seemed to be no luring him from it. After a moment Raoul rose up from his knee. ‘Maybe he will sleep now. Call on me for your needs.’

  Edgar slightly inclined his head. As Raoul moved away Wlnoth said: ‘Who is he, Edgar? What did he say?’

  ‘He is the man we marked to ride beside Duke William,’ Edgar replied. ‘He says that he is called Raoul de Harcourt.’

  ‘I liked him,’ said Wlnoth decidedly. ‘He spoke kindly to Hakon. Hakon is a little fool to cry because he is sick.’

  ‘He cries because he does not want to go to Normandy,’ Edgar said rather grimly.

  ‘He is a nithing.’ Wlnoth gave a small sniff. ‘I am very well pleased to go. Duke William has promised me a noble destrier and honourable entertainment. I shall ride in the lists, and shoot deer in the forest of Quévilly, and Duke William will dub me a knight.’ Then, as Edgar made no response, he said tauntingly: ‘I think you like it as ill as Hakon does. Perhaps you would rather have been outlawed with my brother?’

  Edgar looked out across the silvered water as though he would pierce the darkness that shrouded the receding coast of England, but he still said nothing. With a hunch of his shoulders Wlnoth turned away from him, and disposed himself to sleep again.

  Edgar stayed awake, nursing Hakon’s head on his knee. Wlnoth’s last words had bitten near the bone of the matter. He would far rather be in Ireland now with Earl Harold, than handed over like so much lumber to Duke William of Normandy. When King Edward had told him with his benign smile that he was to go to Normandy he had known all at once that he hated the silly King. He would have been at Harold’s side then only that his father had forbidden it. He thought, now, bitterly, that a short exile with the Earl would have bee
n preferable to his father than this far longer exile which might last for God knew how many dreary years.

  The Duke had journeyed to England a few weeks ago, and his arrival had followed hard upon a commotion set up by yet another foreigner. This was no Norman, but Count Eustace of Boulogne, who had created a disturbance at Dover. He had also come to visit King Edward, and upon his departure some men of his had fallen foul of the inhabitants of Dover. This had resulted in a skirmish, and some blood-letting; Count Eustace had journeyed secretly back to London with a complaint for the King’s ear.

  A scowl darkened Edgar’s brow as he thought of this. King Edward’s subjects, and especially those of Earl Godwine’s south country, had hoped that he would send the obnoxious Count away with a flea in his ear. Edgar supposed that they should have known their ruler better than to expect him to take sides against the foreigners he loved so dearly. But it still made him clench his hand when he considered how King Edward had promised Eustace redress.

  It had made others clench their hands too, notably that strong man Godwine, and his sons, Harold the Earl of Wessex, and Tostig, his noisy third-born.

  Now of all men King Edward most hated Earl Godwine. It was Godwine who, when Harold the Harefoot, base-born son of great Cnut, sat the throne, had cozened and then slain Edward’s brother Alfred, upon his ill-starred expedition to England. When Edward at last ascended the throne he found Godwine all-powerful, and had thought himself bound to overlook that dark deed. When Godwine broached the matter to him he had even felt himself obliged to marry the Earl’s daughter Eadgytha, which had been an arrangement not at all to his taste. The marriage had gone forward, but the lady got little good by it. It was asserted that she had never entered the King’s chaste bed, and not all her learning nor her piety could at all console her for the barrenness that was no fault of hers.