The Conqueror

by Georgette Heyer

  Mortain grunted. ‘Silly work to take such risks for one spearman.’

  Raoul, riding on the other side of William, interrupted to ask curiously: ‘The feats you performed at Meulan, then – deeds that made men call you hero: were those done from policy?’

  The Duke laughed. ‘That was in my rash grass-time. Yea, policy for the most part.’

  He spoke no more than the truth when he said that the troops he had given Harold were now with him. If they had been discontented before at being placed under a foreign leader, they now forgot that grievance and swore he was a man to follow. Such good feeling was there in the division, that when the army crossed the border into Brittany, and marched on Dol, the Duke had no hesitation in deputing Earl Harold to relieve the town.

  He watched that skirmish from his camp upon a neighbouring hill-side, and made several observations. He said: ‘A leader of men, as I thought, and keeps a cool head while the fight is on.’ Scrutinizing Harold’s tactics, he nodded, and said: ‘Yea, thus did I before I learned a surer way.’ Later he watched Harold swing his right flank into action, and smiled. ‘He is unused to the ordering of a body of horse, and I think my archers irk him a little. Sacred Face, that axe is a weapon to beware!’

  The Saxons had gone into battle with their axes slung at the saddle. The Earl wielded a bi-pennis with both hands, to the astonishment of the Normans, and Raoul saw Edgar’s old boast made good. At one blow Harold severed a horse’s head from its neck.

  The skirmish did not last long, for Count Conan was inexperienced in war and overweighted by force of numbers. He drew off in retreat after a taste of Harold’s quality, and fled to his capital at Rennes.

  That night in camp Edgar sat in Raoul’s tent, polishing his axe with loving care. It was plain he had enjoyed the fight, and would be glad of another.

  ‘Well, you will have that,’ Raoul said lazily. ‘We shall follow Conan, you may be sure. I wish you would let a squire clean that axe.’

  ‘I had rather do it myself,’ Edgar replied. He held it up, twisting it so that it caught the light. ‘Is it not a man’s weapon? Eh, old friend, I am glad to feel you in my grip again!’

  Raoul lay on his pallet with his hands linked behind his head. He regarded Edgar with a grin. ‘If I wanted to slay an ox I might be glad of it,’ he said provocatively.

  ‘An ox!’ Edgar said indignantly. He stroked the thick handle. ‘Do you hear that, O Drinker of Men’s Blood?’

  Raoul pulled a grimace. ‘Silence, barbarian! If you are going to talk to that hideous weapon, get you gone! I do not like blood, nor warfare either.’

  ‘Raoul, you should not talk in that way,’ Edgar told him. ‘If any heard you who did not know you –’

  ‘They would no doubt think that I meant it?’ Raoul put in.

  ‘Yea, how should they not?’

  ‘I do mean it,’ said Raoul sweetly, and shut his eyes for sleep.

  Edgar was seriously disturbed by such an admission, and did his best to make Raoul see the folly of his squeamishness. It did not seem to him that his words impressed Raoul, for after twenty minutes the grey eyes opened sleepily, and Raoul said with a yawn: ‘Holà, are you still there, Edgar?’

  Whereupon Edgar rose up with dignity and stalked back to his own quarters.

  However, his faith in Raoul was restored soon enough, for the Duke marched on Dinan and took the town by fire and assault, and Edgar, himself plugging into the thick of the fighting, found that Raoul was always in the forefront of the battle, apparently unmoved by the carnage. They fought side by side through the breach in the walls. Raoul slipped on the loose stones and fell; Edgar’s axe whirled above him; he roared: ‘Out, out!’ in the Saxon tongue, and a Breton fell across Raoul and splashed his hauberk red with blood. Raoul heaved the still writhing body aside and scrambled up.

  ‘Hurt?’ Edgar shouted above the noise all round them.

  Raoul shook his head. Not until the fight was over, and the Norman troops lay in the town did the incident occur to either again. They lost each other in the battle and met again hours later in the market-place. Raoul was in charge of a body of men-at-arms who had been set to work to quench the fire in the town; it was dusk when Edgar came upon him, and he was standing in the glow of a blazing house, grimed and sweat-stained but unhurt.

  Edgar waited until Raoul had shouted an order to one of his men, and then laid a hand on his arm. ‘I have been searching high and low for you,’ he said. He added with a characteristic lack of emotion: ‘I begun to think you must have been slain.’

  ‘Néel could have told you where I was,’ said Raoul. ‘Ho, there! stand from under that wall!’

  A little boy in a scorched tunic ran barefoot across the cobbles shrieking for his mother. Raoul caught him and tossed him into Edgar’s arms. ‘Hold this babe!’ he commanded, ‘or he will run on his death. That house is doomed.’

  Edgar tucked the terrified child under one arm, inquiring mildly what he was to do with the brat. But Raoul had moved away to direct the saving of a house which the flames were barely licking on the further side of the market-place, and he did not hear the question. Edgar stayed where he was and endeavoured to stay the child’s wailing. To his relief the shrill cries brought a woman up hot-foot. She tore the boy out of Edgar’s hold, and clasping him to her breast spat forth a torrent of words. As she spoke the Breton tongue Edgar did not understand what she said, but the ferocity in her face and voice left him in no doubt of her meaning. He tried to explain that he had not harmed the child, but she understood him as little as he understood her, and took a menacing step towards him with her fingers curled as though she would claw out his eyes. He retired in haste behind a heap of charred litter, and she darted away with a final malediction just as Raoul returned to join him.

  Raoul was shaken with laughter. ‘O dauntless hero! O brave Saxon! Come forth, the foe is in retreat.’

  Edgar came out from behind the debris with a shamefaced grin. ‘Well, what could I do? The woman was a very she-devil. A murrain light on you, shaveling: it was your fault for thrusting the brat into my arms.’

  Raoul began to wipe the sweat and the dirt from his face and neck. His chuckles died away; he watched his men running up with, full buckets of water. ‘Hell’s work, this. And you like it!’ He brought his gaze back to Edgar, and said suddenly: ‘I think you saved my life, back there on the walls.’

  ‘When?’ said Edgar, wrinkling his brow.

  ‘When I stumbled, want-wit.’

  ‘Oh, then!’ Edgar considered the matter. ‘Yes, I suppose I did,’ he admitted. His eye brightened. ‘It was a rare stroke, straight down at the join of the neck to the shoulder. I have not lost all my skill in these years of my exile.’

  ‘Well, my thanks to you,’ Raoul said. ‘Praise the saints, this day’s work will end the war! Conan surrendered the town in person.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edgar. He sounded slightly regretful. ‘I’m for my supper,’ he announced. ‘Do you come with me?’

  ‘When I have seen the last spark quenched. Where is the Duke?’

  ‘Up at the Castle with the Earl and de Gournay. Conan is putting as good a face to the matter as may be, and sups at the Duke’s table this night, so FitzOsbern told me. If I were William I would put him in shackles.’ He began to walk away, but paused when he had taken no more than three paces, and said over his shoulder: ‘The Duke knights Earl Harold.’ He did not wait to hear Raoul’s answer, but walked on with long strides across the market-place.

  Raoul looked after him. ‘And you wish that Earl Harold had refused it,’ he said softly, and turned back to his work.

  The ceremony of knighthood took place the next morning. The Earl stood unarmed before William, who girded a sword that hung from a jewelled belt about his loins, placed a helmet on his head, and a lance in his hold, and laid his hand on Harold’s right
arm, speaking the accustomed words.

  Conan having been forced to renew his allegiance to Normandy the Duke set his face towards Rouen again, and withdrew across the border into Avranches. He and Earl Harold rode side by side, apparently the best of friends, sharing one tent and one table, and passing long hours together in close converse.

  At St Jaques upon the border they rested for a day and a night, and as was usual when the Duke was known to be in the neighbourhood, the people from all around came flocking to his camp, some with grievances to lay before him, some desiring to see him from curiosity, and many in the hope of largesse from the rich lords who accompanied him. Most of the beggars were cripples or lepers, and the tinkle of the lepers’ bells was heard all day round the outskirts of the camp. Such persons were rarely permitted to approach William, but at St Jaques FitzOsbern came hurrying up when the Duke sat at meat with Earl Harold outside his tent, and exclaimed unceremoniously: ‘Beau sire, I would you might set eyes on the spectacle I have this moment seen! Never have I known so strange a prodigy!’

  ‘What prodigy is this, William?’ the Duke asked indulgently, too well-used to FitzOsbern’s enthusiasms to be easily stirred by them.

  ‘It is a woman with every part twofold to the navel,’ FitzOsbern told him. ‘Seigneur, you smile, but as I live she hath two corses, two heads, two necks, and four arms. And these being joined at the navel the two parts are supported on a single pair of legs and feet. Raoul, you were on the outposts an hour ago: did you not see it?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Raoul with a look of distaste. ‘It is a great wonder, but very horrible.’

  The Duke turned his head to look up at the favourite, standing behind his chair. ‘Is it in truth a wonder, my Watcher, or is this one of William’s tales?’

  Raoul smiled. ‘Nay, it is wonderful enough, but it would turn your stomach to look upon it.’

  ‘My stomach is not easily turned,’ William replied. ‘How do you say, Earl Harold? Shall we see this prodigy?’

  ‘I would give much to see it,’ said the Earl. ‘A woman with two heads! Can both mouths speak? Can one speak and the other be silent?’

  Galet the fool sat curled up by the Duke’s chair; William pushed him with his foot. ‘Up, Galet! Go bring this prodigy before me.’

  FitzOsbern was answering the Earl’s question. ‘Nay, but they could once. The creature’s father, a villein from nearby, told me one half was wont to eat while the other spoke, or to sleep while the other lay awake. But a year ago one half died, leaving the other alive, which is a thing I deem more marvellous than all.’

  ‘One half dead and the other half still living! Can such a thing be?’ said Harold incredulously. ‘I have a great desire to see this strange awesome woman.’

  Raoul said in his quiet way: ‘I pray you may not turn sick at the sight and the stench of it, my lord.’

  Harold looked up at him inquiringly. Raoul said only: ‘You will see: it is no pleasant sight to my mind.’

  The Duke laid down a capon-bone which he had been chewing. ‘Lend no ear to Raoul, Earl Harold. Some call him the Watcher, but others know him as the Squeamish, and the Friend of the Friendless. Do I say truly, Raoul?’

  ‘So I believe. But I did not know that had come to your ears, beau sire.’

  The Duke smiled. ‘Yet you know me as well as any,’ he remarked cryptically. He saw the fool approaching, and beckoned to him. ‘Well, do you bring me the Seneschal’s prodigy, friend?’

  ‘Yea brother, she comes.’ Galet pointed to where a queer veiled figure was walking towards them with slow, dragging steps, led by a serf who had hold of one of her hands. The Duke pushed his platter aside, and leaned his arms on the table. ‘Come, my man, bring me your daughter that I may see with mine own eyes how God has fashioned her,’ he said pleasantly.

  From out her muffling draperies the woman spoke in a thin toneless voice. ‘Lord, the devil made me, not God in his mercy.’

  The Duke frowned. ‘What blasphemous words are these on your lips, wench?’ He made a sign. ‘Come closer, and strip off these coverings. You have shown yourself to my men-at-arms for gain: now show yourself to me.’

  She came up close to the table; a nauseating aroma of decay hung round her, the reek of putrefying flesh. Earl Harold raised his napkin to his nose suddenly, and held it there.

  ‘Now you shall see whether I spoke truth or not, seigneur!’ FitzOsbern said.

  The woman’s father, after much louting to the Duke, began to unwind the coarse falding that wrapped the misshapen form about. He stood back when it was done, saying proudly: ‘Thus was she at birth, gracious lord.’

  ‘And the only joyful part of her was her belly, which cried: “Praise God, here have I two mouths to feed my hunger!”’ said Galet. He poked his bauble at Earl Harold. ‘What, cousin, are you sick?’

  Harold got up quickly, fumbling at his belt for the purse that hung there. He had changed colour when he saw the woman stand naked before him, and the sight of the dead half of her hanging from her side and weighing her down, made his gorge rise. The flesh was crumbling with decay; the shrivelled arms hung down to the ground, and swayed with every movement the woman made; the head jolted and nodded, and the flesh looked worm-eaten, rotting away from the bones.

  The Earl flung his napkin aside as though impatient with himself for needing it, and went close up to the figure, laying his hand on the sad living head. ‘God pity you, poor soul, as I do,’ he said gently. He put his purse into her hand, closing her slack fingers over it, and strode off without a backward glance.

  The Duke watched him go. ‘It turned him sick, yet he could touch it, mastering his loathing,’ he murmured. His eyes met Raoul’s for a brief moment. ‘Yea, he hath greatness.’ He turned back to FitzOsbern. ‘See to it the wench has a purse from me, William.’ He looked the woman over critically. ‘My girl, I think your Purgatory is served here on earth. Go your ways.’ He saw the couple draw off, and said briskly: ‘Bah! a vile stench! Give me that rose, William. What fond wretch threw it to you?’

  FitzOsbern laughed, and pulled out the flower from the fibula that held his mantle together, and gave it to the Duke.

  William sat holding it close to his nose. ‘You were right, Raoul: a horrible sight,’ he said.

  Galet, who had been silent for some time, drawing figures in the dust, lifted his head and fixed his eyes on William. They glowed with an unearthly light; sweat stood on his brow; he said in a voice unlike his own: ‘Brother, you have seen a riddle you have not the wit to read.’

  ‘Read it for me then, fool,’ the Duke said, still breathing the clean scent of the rose.

  ‘You have seen England and Normandy, brother, two countries, yet joined under one ruler; both hale once upon a day, but one now dead, rotted and stinking, hanging on the other, which still by its wealth and vigour supports it.’

  ‘Folly!’ said FitzOsbern scornfully.

  The Duke did not raise his eyes from the rose he held. ‘Go on, friend Galet. Which of these two by your reading is Normandy?’

  The fool pointed a bony finger, and they saw that it was shaking. ‘Do you not know, Brother William? Eh, but you know full well, you of the hawk’s eyes! Normandy is that carrion flesh that saps the life-blood from England. For England shall take out of Normandy all that she can give, and leave her languishing to die, as you have seen today – yea, and as your sons’ sons shall see in the years to come, to their bitter cost!’

  FitzOsbern stood staring with dropped jaw; Raoul was watching the Duke, who had glanced quickly at the jester under his brows.

  There was a moment’s silence. The Duke’s hard gaze left Galet’s face. ‘So be it,’ he said deliberately, and bent his head to sniff at the rose again.

  Six

  They rode northward to St Lo, upon the Vire, in the wild Côtentin country. Here messengers met
them from Rouen, with letters for the Duke. He read them quickly and only dwelled long upon one, which brought him tidings out of England. He handed the sheet presently to Earl Harold, saying: ‘These concern you, I think.’ While the Earl read the letter he went on slitting open his various despatches, and never once raised his eyes to see how the Earl received the news contained in the brief account he held.

  But Harold’s face betrayed nothing. He read unhurriedly, his eyes thoughtful. The letter told of the King’s failing health: he hunted less often than of yore; spent much time in prayer and meditation, and was fretful with the masons at work upon the Abbey that was slowly building to the glory of St Peter on the Isle of Thorney, outside London. This was to be his last resting-place, and he had taken a notion into his head that the masons would not have reached the end of their labours before his body was ready for its sepulchre.

  The despatch went on to tell of trouble in the north, where Tostig ruled. Earl Harold folded it carefully, and gave it back to William. The Duke had taken quill and ink, and was writing an answer to Rouen. His pen moved boldly, with thick downward strokes characteristic of the man.

  Not lifting his gaze from the cotton-paper under his hand, he said: ‘I find I have little patience to waste on such turbulent men as that brother of yours, my friend.’

  ‘I have none,’ the Earl replied rather grimly.

  William went on writing for a while in silence. He came to the end of the sheet and sprinkled fine sand over it and shook this off presently on to the floor. He laid the sheet aside and dipped his quill into the ink-horn again. ‘I think,’ he said, with a deliberation the Earl found maddening, ‘I think that it is time you set sail for England, Earl Harold.’