As for the other children, it was not to be supposed that issue born of so stormy a union could live at peace for long at a time. The ducal nurseries echoed to the sound of quarrelling: Robert fought Richard; Adeliza defied her governesses with an intrepidity that braved even the rod; the little nun Cecilia betrayed an arrogance hardly in keeping with her saintly calling; while even three-year-old William demonstrated to the world that he had a temper to match his fiery head.
Watching his son from afar the Duke said impatiently: ‘Eh, Raoul, shall I have no worthier successor than Curthose? Bones of God, I had more judgment when I was no older than he is now than he will have when he reaches my present years!’
‘Patience, beau sire: you were bred in a harsher school,’ Raoul answered.
The Duke saw Robert go off with his arm flung round the shoulders of Montgoméri’s son, and said contemptuously: ‘He is too easy; he must always make himself beloved. When have I cared for such things as that? I tell you Robert has heart for my head.’
Raoul was silent for a moment, but presently he said: ‘Seigneur, you are a stark prince, but is it so ill to have a warmer heart than yours?’
‘My friend, I stand supreme to-day because my heart has never ruled my head,’ the Duke said. ‘If Robert learns not that lesson in time, all that I hold now he will lose when I am with my fathers.’
As time went on the Duke could see little in Robert to make him unsay those words. Throughout the winter life at the palace was often disturbed by my lord Robert’s pranks and his father’s speedy vengeance. Lord Robert cared nothing for his governor’s beatings, but complained between laughter and scowls that Duke William’s hand was too heavy.
The spring came, and Robert was kept busy with the knightly exercises he loved. Peace reigned for a while between him and his father, nor were there any troubles in the Duchy to break a monotony unusual in Normandy. Gilbert d’Aufay said with a yawn: ‘Heigh-ho! I could wish another Count of Arques would arise to give us work to do.’
‘Watch Brittany,’ Edgar advised him. ‘I have heard some chance talk.’
‘Edgar, you always hear these things!’ said Gilbert. ‘Who told you? Was it Raoul? Is Conan of Brittany denying us fealty?’
‘That I do not know,’ Edgar said carefully. ‘It was not Raoul. FitzOsbern let fall something that made me wonder, that is all.’
‘Well, God send we have something soon to liven us,’ Gilbert said, with yet another yawn.
His prayer was answered sooner than he could have expected, and in a way no man had foreseen. The Count sat at dinner one day in late spring when a sudden stir arose outside the great doors, and angry voices were heard expostulating. The Duke sat at the high table on the dais, facing down the hall to the entrance. The meal was over, and the company was in merry mood, with the wine and the dulcets still on the tables.
When the disturbance rose in the base-court the Duke looked frowningly towards the door, and FitzOsbern went hurrying off to inquire into the meaning of so unseemly a noise. He was no more than half-way down the hall when there was a scuffle at the entrance, and a voice was heard to cry desperately in broken Norman: ‘Audience! I crave audience of the Duke of Normandy!’ A moment later a protesting usher was thrust so rudely backwards that he fell sprawling on the rushes, and a tattered mud-stained stranger forced his way into the hall, dragging in his wake two men who had snatched at his mantle to detain him. He wore a short tunic, rent in several places, and splashed with mud; his helm was lost, and his long blond ringlets were tossed into disorder and damp with the sweat on his brow. He stopped midway up the hall, staring about him at the surprised faces all turned towards him. His gaze swept them by and found the Duke, seated still and watchful in the middle of the high table. He flung out his hands, dropping on to his knee. ‘Aid, aid, lord Duke!’ he cried. ‘Give me a hearing, and justice!’
Edgar started round on his stool, breaking off his talk with William Malet in mid-air, and seemed to peer at the stranger in doubt and incredulity.
The Duke lifted his finger, and the men who still held the stranger let him go. ‘No man asks justice of me in vain,’ he said. ‘Speak! What is your need?’
A stool rasped on the stone floor; Edgar sprang to his feet.
‘Alfric! God’s soul, do I dream?’ With a bound he was off the dais and at the stranger’s side, clasping him in his arms. Some quick Saxon speech passed between them; their hands were fast-locked. In obedience to a signal from the Duke one of the stewards filled a cup with mead and carried it to the stranger.
‘How came you here?’ Edgar demanded. ‘I hardly knew you, so many years it is! Eh, my friend, my friend!’ He pressed Alfric’s arm and raised him, unable to find words. ‘Here, they have brought you wine! Drink! you are nigh spent!’
Alfric took the cup in a shaking hand, and drained it. ‘Harold!’ he jerked out. ‘In desperate plight! Speak to the Duke for me, Edgar! Will he hear me?’
Edgar grasped his wrist. ‘Where lies Earl Harold? Not dead, man, not dead?’
‘Nay, not dead, but in dire peril. Will Normandy aid? I cannot well talk in this tongue: be my spokesman!’
The Court sat in expectant silence, watching the two Saxons; the Duke turned his head and crooked a finger toward William Malet, who had Saxon blood in his veins. William went to him, and said softly: ‘He is saying that Earl Harold lies in desperate plight.’ He looked towards young Hakon. ‘Do you know who he may be, Hakon?’
Hakon shook his head. ‘Nay, but Edgar knows him. He craves aid of Normandy. He says will the Duke see justice done?’
‘Be very sure.’ William leaned forward in his chair. ‘Bring the stranger before me, Thegn of Marwell. Why does a Saxon call on me for aid?’
‘Seigneur, it is for Earl Harold!’ Edgar said. Raoul had never seen him in such agitation of spirit. He turned back to Alfric, and asked him something. Alfric began to tell his story, speaking in a weary, disjointed manner, and prompted by many sharp questions. The Duke leaned back in his chair, and waited.
At last Alfric’s voice ceased. Edgar swung round to face the Duke. ‘Lord, Earl Harold lies prisoned in Ponthieu, in peril of his life … Where is the place, Alfric? … At Beaurain, lord, held by Count Guy. I cannot make out: Alfric is not sure, but he says it is some law they have in Ponthieu regarding shipwrecks. Alfric says they were upon a voyage for their pleasure, but meeting contrary winds were driven on the rocks off the coast of Ponthieu, their ship foundering, and themselves struggling to land. But there some fishermen seized them – Alfric says a man shipwrecked is legal prey in Ponthieu. I don’t understand that. He says a man washed ashore may be prisoned and tortured for promise of enormous ransom.’ He stopped, and looked inquiringly at the Duke.
‘That is the custom in Ponthieu,’ William answered. ‘Go on. How came Count Guy to seize the person of Harold Godwineson?’
Edgar turned again to Alfric, translating the question. ‘Seigneur, he says that some among the fishermen discovering who Harold was set off to advise the Count, betraying our Earl for gold!’ His hands clenched. ‘The Count came in person to seize Harold, and those with him, loading them with chains … Who was with Harold, Alfric?’
The answer drove the colour from his cheeks. He passed his tongue between his lips, and put up a hand to his tunic, as though he would loosen it about his neck. He swallowed twice before he would trust himself to speak again, and then his voice was a little unsteady. ‘Lord, there were with Earl Harold some thegns known to me, and his sister, Dame Gundred, and – and Elfrida, mine own sister, seigneur, waiting upon Gundred! Alfric only escaped, and has come here hot-foot to implore your aid.’ Suddenly he bent his stiff knees, and knelt. ‘As I do, lord Duke. You are Ponthieu’s suzerain: give aid for Harold and those with him!’
The Duke’s eyes lifted; in them was an expression hard to read, but Raoul saw them gleam. ‘Be at ease,
’ he said. ‘Aid you shall have, and that speedily.’ He summoned up his High Steward. ‘Let the Saxon Alfric be housed according to his honour and mine. FitzOsbern, attend me to my chamber. We will send envoys to Ponthieu this day.’ He came down from the dais, and paused for a moment before the two Saxons. Alfric, seeing Edgar upon his knees, knelt also. The Duke said briskly: ‘Up, man! We shall ride to meet Earl Harold tomorrow.’
Catching at his meaning Alfric kissed the Duke’s hand. Edgar rose up from his knees, and stood with folded arms, ashamed of his own show of emotion. The Duke smiled rather curiously at Alfric’s broken words of gratitude, and went out, attended by FitzOsbern.
Edgar bent quickly, and raised Alfric, and pushed him on to a stool at one of the tables.
‘He will indeed rescue Earl Harold?’ Alfric asked anxiously.
‘Oh yes!’ Edgar replied. ‘His word is given. Yet I wonder …’ He stopped, and sat down beside Alfric. ‘Tell me, tell me, how does my sister? my father? If you but knew how I am hungry for tidings out of England!’
Perceiving how weary Alfric looked, and how much in need of food and wine, Raoul came down from the dais, and laid his hand lightly on Edgar’s shoulder. ‘Let your friend eat, Edgar. Ho, there! Bring meat and wine for the Duke’s guest!’
Edgar took his hand and Alfric’s, and brought them together. ‘Raoul, this is my near neighbour, Alfric Edricson. Alfric, this is Raoul de Harcourt, my good friend.’ He looked up, and his grasp on Raoul’s wrist tightened. ‘The Duke will rescue Harold from Ponthieu,’ he said, as though the words were forced out of him. ‘But tell me – assure me – Harold is not a second time betrayed?’
Raoul met his look gravely. ‘What ill thought is this?’
‘Nothing.’ Edgar brushed the back of his hand across his brow. ‘There is misgiving in my heart. In the Duke’s eyes me-thought I saw – triumph. No: heed naught. I speak like a fool.’
Scarlet and yellow flashed before them; the bells on the jester’s cap tinkled. Galet stood cuddling his bauble. ‘Nay, it was well spoken,’ he said with a queer chuckle. He slipped past Edgar, who was frowning at him in suspicion, and tweaked the hem of Raoul’s tunic. His lips moved; the words he spoke reached Raoul’s ears alone. ‘When the lion snatched the fox’s prey from his very maw, was that a rescue, think you?’
Raoul turned on him with an angry exclamation, and a hand raised to strike, but the fool dodged away, and went scuttling from the hall, laughing as he ran. His laughter echoed oddly round the rafters; it sounded elfin, like the laughter of a mocking sprite.
Two
Far into the night, long after the couvre-feu bell had been rung, the two Saxons talked together in the tower-chamber that was Edgar’s. Edgar’s page brought wine and cakes and spread them on the table, while Alfric sat looking about him in wondering silence at tapestry hangings, costly furs, and silver candle-sconces. When the page had withdrawn he took one of the wine-cups in his hand, and began to trace with his finger the design raised upon it. He said: ‘You are nobly housed, I see.’
‘Well enough,’ Edgar said, too used by now to silver and gold and rich hangings to think them worth remark. ‘Tell me of England! Were you with the Earl in Wales?’
Alfric began at once to talk about the Welsh campaign. Edgar sat with his chin in his hands, but very soon a puzzled frown appeared between his brows, and he interrupted Alfric with questions that made him stare.
‘Stay, who is this Edric you speak of?’ Edgar demanded. ‘And Morkere? Is that one of the sons of Ethelwulf who lives by Pevensey?’
‘Ethelwulf!’ Alfric exclaimed. ‘No indeed! Why, Morkere is Earl Alfgar’s son! Surely you must know that!’
Edgar reddened, and said humbly: ‘You forget that I have been an exile for thirteen years. So Alfgar has a son of age? I hardly realized – But go on: does Alfgar live at peace with our Earl? I remember him to be so prudent a man he would never stand –’
‘Alfgar has been dead these two years,’ Alfric told him. ‘He left two sons of age, Edwine and Morkere. But neither has his wisdom. Morkere must needs be quarrelling already with Earl Tostig – you know that he has Northumbria, I suppose?’
‘Of course,’ said Edgar. ‘His dame is sister to the Duchess Matilda, so that I have heard tidings often enough of him – more than I liked. Does he agree with Harold, or is it between them as it was ever?’
‘The same. He does so ill in his earldom Harold would be glad to get him outlawed, and to that end is working. Tostig is our foe. He hates the Earl, and when the King dies –’
‘Oh, the King, the King! I would he might live till all of us lie buried!’ Edgar said quickly.
‘I never thought you had so much love for the Saint,’ said Alfric, staring at him. ‘In England, all of us who are Harold’s men are but waiting for Edward’s death to proclaim Harold King.’ He leaned forward across the table that separated them. ‘Edgar, you must know: what passed between Duke William and the Confessor when you were given as a hostage?’
Edgar said reluctantly: ‘I do not know. That is – I have no certainty. There was an old tale spread that the King meant to name Duke William his heir. They believe it here. But when Edward sent for the Atheling out of Hungary I thought there must lie the end of all scheming, for the Atheling was Edmund Ironside’s true son, and the only heir to England.’
‘Yea, but he died. He was no man for the Saxons. Why, he was as foreign to us as the Saint himself! But of course men wavered to him for the sake of the blood. God be praised, he died, and as for the son, the little Atheling Edgar, he is a child and may be passed over. As I see it, Harold is safe. He is all-powerful, Edgar: you do not know. I suppose he must suspect this Norman Duke, but England stands behind him. He has been at work for years to render himself secure. If he can be rid of Tostig the thing is done. Gyrth and Leofwine are leal men both, and hold all the south country.’ He broke off. ‘Why do you look like that? Are you not Harold’s man?’
Edgar rose up quickly. ‘What, must you ask me that?’
Alfric poured more wine into his cup. ‘I cry your pardon. You are so much changed I could not but wonder.’
Edgar looked at him in a startled way. ‘Changed? How am I changed?’
‘Well …’ Alfric drank off his wine, and sat turning the cup in his hand. ‘To say sooth – you have become so like a Norman,’ he said bluntly.
Edgar stood still as a stone. ‘A Norman? A – Norman? I?’
‘You have lived here so many years I suppose it must have happened,’ Alfric said excusingly.
Edgar flung out his hands. ‘Holy Face, look on my beard, on my short tunic at which they laugh here! Can you say I seem to you a Norman?’
Alfric regarded him from under puckered brows for a moment. ‘It is not in your looks, nor in your Saxon habit,’ he said slowly. ‘But when you speak, using Norman oaths; when you greet your friends here; clap your hands to summon pages habited in royal colours; and think gold cups and spiced meats no matter for remark, then do I see the Norman in you.’
Edgar came to the table and laid his hand on Alfric’s, grip-ping it hard. ‘You are wrong. Body and soul I am Saxon – tout diz, tout diz!’
Alfric smiled a little. ‘Yea? And what words were those – Saxon?’ Then as Edgar looked bewildered, he said: ‘You do not know when you speak the Norman tongue, so used you are become.’
Flushing, Edgar answered in a constrained voice: ‘If my tongue slipped that signifies naught. The words mean – always.’
Alfric laughed. ‘Loose me, then. Must my bones be crushed because you are Saxon still?’
Edgar let him go, but Alfric’s words seemed to rankle. ‘When you see Wlnoth Godwineson you will not think that it is I who have grown like a Norman,’ he said.
‘I saw Hakon below there. Where was Wlnoth?’
‘Not here. The Duke has giv
en him an establishment at Roumare. He abides there with his Norman meinie, and his leman. It is a lieslode, I think.’ He caught himself up on the word, and corrected it. ‘An estate for life, I would say.’
‘For life! Well, no harm. Harold wants no more of his brothers in England. Let Normandy hold Wlnoth; he is of small account.’ Alfric got up, and stretched himself. ‘I do not like these Normans. A black-avised race, much given to display. Who was that loud-speaking man who went out with the Duke, and came back later swaggering as though he were alderfirst in the land? He who poked a finger in your ribs, making jest of some matter passing my knowledge?’
‘Why, the Seneschal, FitzOsbern,’ Edgar replied. ‘Did I not make you known to him?’
‘Nay, and I had no wish to clasp hands with him,’ said Alfric, yawning. ‘He is the very spit of some of the Saint’s Norman favourites. He wore red to make one blink, jewels to dazzle, and strutted like any peacock.’
Edgar opened his mouth to retort, and shut it again, compressing his lips. Not noticing his friend’s ominous silence Alfric said: ‘I hate a man to wear silks like a courtesan.’
‘You judge too hastily,’ Edgar said. ‘FitzOsbern hath a noble soul.’ He saw Alfric smile sceptically, and added: ‘He is my friend.’
‘I cry pardon then. It seems you have many friends here in Rouen.’
‘And that none of them have the good fortune to please you,’ said Edgar.
Alfric looked sharply up at him, and found that his eyes had a stony expression in them. ‘I did not mean to offend you. Maybe you have grown used to a strange people and do not see the faults I see.’
‘I know their faults,’ Edgar replied. ‘When I first came among them I felt as you do. But I have had great kindness from them which I shall not easily forget.’ He glanced at the candles on the table. ‘The candles burn low; it must be late. If we are to ride to Eu to-morrow we had best get to bed.’ He picked up one of the heavy candlesticks and slipped a hand in Alfric’s arm. ‘I’ll light you to your chamber,’ he said, trying to banish the constraint from his voice. ‘It will seem like our boyhood’s days when we ride side by side to-morrow. Do you remember how we took bows and shot a hart of ten upon Edric Digera’s land, and were soundly trounced for it?’
The Conqueror Page 24
