The Conqueror

by Georgette Heyer

  The Duke turned his head. ‘Is Néel of Côtentin there?’

  ‘Not yet. But Tesson is, and will have none of your scheme.’

  William’s teeth gleamed. ‘I can twist Tesson which way I choose,’ he said.

  Someone scratched on the door; Raoul opened it, and found Gilbert d’Aufay upon the threshold. Gilbert said, looking rather troubled: ‘Will the Duke be pleased to come back? All are agreed to let FitzOsbern put their objections before him as doucely as may be.’

  In the hall order had been restored. The Duke sat down on his throne again; his brothers stood beside him, and Raoul stayed by a pillar in the background.

  ‘Well, messires? Have you considered your answer?’ said the Duke.

  FitzOsbern rose from his chair. ‘Yea, seigneur, we have considered, and it falls to my lot to speak for all who are here to-day.’

  A murmur of assent sounded; all the noble gentlemen looked gratefully at their spokesman, and waited to hear how he would soften a blunt refusal.

  ‘Then speak, FitzOsbern,’ said the Duke. ‘I am listening.’

  The Seneschal gave his mantle a hitch on one shoulder, and bowed. ‘Seigneur, we have heard your proposals, and honour you for that high courage which makes you look upon this emprise as a thing easily to be accomplished.’

  His followers nodded indulgently. They had no fault to find with this way of beginning; it would be just as well to put the Duke in a good humour before the unpalatable meat of the matter was reached.

  ‘You desire a crown and a kingdom, beau sire; we know you to be worthy of them. You ask us, your loyal vassals, to lend aid on that venture. Seigneur, it must be known to you that by the laws of fealty our service overseas you cannot command.’

  He paused, but the Duke said nothing. The vassals nodded again: FitzOsbern was managing the affair very creditably.

  FitzOsbern went on: ‘You ask us to follow you to a strange land, peopled by bitter foes – a thing no Duke of Normandy has done before. We are unused to sea-faring, maybe we like it ill, maybe we have lands needing our care here in Normandy, wives who would weep to see us go forth to battle. But this we have in our hearts, my liege: you have ruled over us long fruitful years, leading us to victory upon victory. That thing which you have sworn to do never have you failed in. Seigneur, every leal man’s trust in you; every leal man’s hands lie between your palms, and this is a leal man’s answer to you: We will follow whithersoever you lead, be it to England or to Araby, and he whose duty owes you twenty men-at-arms will give in love for you twice that number.’ He stopped. The vassals were staring at him as though fascinated. Raoul saw one man open his mouth, shut it again, and swallow hard. The Seneschal took advantage of the appalled silence to say heroically: ‘Sixty ships will I myself furnish for the emprise! Seigneur, we are your men to command!’

  This was too much. The outraged vassals found their tongues at last; decorum was cast to the winds; a roar of ‘No!’ went up from scores of angry voices. Henry, Lord of Saint-Hilaire de Ferrières, thrust forward to the very steps of the dais, and glared up at the Seneschal, saying: ‘False! false! These are your words, not ours! We do not journey overseas!’

  A muscle quivered at the corner of the Duke’s mouth; he turned his head to survey the speaker. At the back of the room Richard de Bienfaite sprang upon one of the benches, and called: ‘Shame! shame on you, Henry de Ferrières! All true men cry Yea to what FitzOsbern has said.’

  ‘Not so!’ Fulk Du-Pin tried to pull him down. ‘This is no matter touching our fealty!’

  ‘What, are we afraid?’ cried young Hugh d’Avranches. He leaped up beside Richard de Bienfaite on the bench, and waved his sword over his head. ‘Let the young men answer!’

  The Duke took no notice of this; he was looking at Raoul Tesson, who all the time had said no word, but stood aloof from his peers by one of the pillars at the side of the hall. There was a mulish look on his face, he met the Duke’s eyes squarely enough, but his own held uncompromising disapproval.

  Robert of Picot de Say had followed De Bienfaite’s example and hoisted his bulk up on to a bench. ‘Nay, nay!’ he rumbled, ‘let us not forget the respect we owe the Duke’s grace! This is unseemly. Yet I must say in all duty and humility –’

  His voice was drowned. The vassals had no patience to waste on his tedious periods. Ives de Vassy elbowed his way to the forefront, and said loudly: ‘Where our duty calls us be sure we will go, but no duty calls us outremer. What! are our borders to be left open to the French while we go junketing forth upon such an errand?’

  Odo took a sudden step forward to the edge of the dais. His eyes flashed; his fingers worked nervously in the folds of his robe. ‘O Norman dogs!’ he said bitterly. ‘Must a man of peace show you the way?’

  The Duke moved. He spoke, but what he said no one heard but the Bishop. Odo gave his shoulders an angry shrug, and sat down plump in a carved chair behind him.

  The Duke rose. It was some little while before the clamour abated, for it was considered necessary by those in front that they should order those behind to be silent for the Duke’s grace, and three men thought it incumbent upon them to pull Richard de Bienfaite down from his bench.

  The Duke waited in unmoved calm for the lull. When it came, and everyone was anxiously watching him, he looked directly at the Lord of Turie-en-Cingueliz, and said on a note of command: ‘Tesson!’

  The Lord of Cingueliz started, and moved forward with a darkening brow. A passage was made for him; he advanced to the foot of the dais, and looked frowningly up at the Duke.

  A faint smile hovered on William’s mouth; he said blandly: ‘Give me your escort, Raoul Tesson.’

  ‘Beau sire –’

  ‘Your escort, Tesson.’

  The Lord of Cingueliz stumped up the steps of the dais, and sulkily followed the Duke from the hall. Those left behind looked at one another in surprise, and reflected that it was beyond the power of man to tell what the Duke would do next.

  In the room leading from the hall, Tesson took up a defensive position by the door, and eyed the Duke sideways.

  William unclasped the fibula that held his mantle together, swung the heavy fur-lined cloak from his shoulders, and held it out. The Lord of Cingueliz came forward, and took it. ‘Well, my friend?’ said the Duke.

  Tesson put the mantle down over a chair-back. ‘Beau sire, you shall not cozen me into giving you yea,’ he said bluntly. ‘You are a young man still, but I have left a young man’s rashness behind me.’

  ‘Will you stand against me, Tesson, denying me aid?’ inquired the Duke.

  ‘In plain words, seigneur, yes. If you go upon this chase you go alone.’

  ‘So?’ the Duke said softly. ‘Yet I remember one who rode up to me on the plain of Val-es-Dunes, and struck me on the cheek with his glove, saying: ‘Henceforward, seigneur, I will do you no other wrong.’’

  Tesson flushed, but shook his head. ‘Nor will I. If I refuse you now it is for your good, my lord, ill though you may like it. Young hotheads may follow you if they choose –’

  ‘Am I a hothead, Raoul?’

  The Lord of Cingueliz glowered. ‘No, seigneur, I have not thought so. But you have been victorious too often, which makes you reckless now. I who am arm-gaunt and grey-headed tell you I will bear no part in this madness. This I would not say out yonder in that rabble, look you, but now you have asked me, and that is mine answer.’

  ‘The years slip by, Tesson.’ The Duke moved towards the fire. ‘I had forgot that you have grown too old to venture forth with me.’

  Tesson began to bristle. ‘Old? That in your teeth, my good lord! Who says that I am old? I can still bear my part – yea, and something more than my part – in any joust or skirmish. You call me old? What, are my limbs wasted? Do you think my muscles are turned to fat, my strength all sapped, my blood thin as
water? Sacred Mother of God!’

  ‘Not I, Tesson.’

  There was a peculiar meaning in the Duke’s voice. A red light shone in Tesson’s eye; he said with a splutter: ‘Bowels of God! Let me hear the name of the rash fool who said that of me! I warrant you I will show him how much my strength has left me! Old? Ha, God!’

  The Duke turned, and laid his hands on Tesson’s shoulders. ‘Nay, my friend, no man doubts your hardiment. Yet I think you have grown older in heart, and maybe love ease more than of yore. None shall cry scorn on you for that: your fighting days are spent. Forget I called on you for aid. If I carry my arms into England maybe you will join those whom I leave behind to rule the Duchy.’

  The Lord of Cingueliz’s chest swelled. ‘Seigneur,’ he said, fixing the Duke with a smouldering eye, ‘what is it you demand of me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said the Duke.

  The Lord of Cingueliz swallowed something in his throat. ‘Twenty ships I will give, and all the men of Turie! Is it enough?’

  ‘Yea, it is enough. Who shall lead your vassals?’

  ‘Who shall lead them?’ repeated Tesson, staring. ‘Who shall – Blood of the Saints, I shall lead them! Tell that to my mockers!’

  ‘Be sure I will,’ said the Duke with the ghost of a laugh. He heard the click of the door-latch, and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Néel!’ he exclaimed, and swung round holding out his hand. ‘Chef de Faucon, I had begun to despair of you!’

  There was mud on the Viscount of Côtentin’s boots, and he still held his whip and gloves. Years might have powdered his brown hair with white, but he held himself easily erect, and there was no spare flesh upon his tall person. He came briskly across the room, and clasped the Duke’s hand. ‘Pardon, beau sire. I came as I could, and from far. Your messenger found me from home. Now, what is your need of me? FitzOsbern has told me some but bade me seek you out straightway for the whole.’

  The Lord of Cingueliz, having cooled somewhat, grumbled: ‘A madman’s errand, no less. Get you hence, before you are cozened as I have been.’ He shook his head gloomily. ‘Oh, I know you, seigneur! Cunning you are, seeking to bend all men to your will. But by God, William my lord, you know full well you cannot venture without the men of Turie!’

  The Duke laughed. He was still holding Saint-Sauveur’s hand in his grip. ‘Néel, I am bound for England to wrest from Harold Godwineson that kingdom that was promised me. I need you: will you go with me?’

  ‘Yea, with all my heart,’ Néel answered. ‘Let us have it on parchment. Ships do you need? Well, I can furnish you with some few. Send for your scrivener, beau sire, and bid him write down my name. Do you come too, Tesson?’

  ‘Ho, do you think I hang back where you press forward, Chef de Faucon?’ said Tesson, swaggering a little. ‘How many men can you muster? I will engage to beat your number.’

  Preserving a grave demeanour the Duke struck a gong that stood upon the table, and summoned his clerk. The names of Saint-Sauveur and Tesson were duly inscribed under their seals; they went out, and the Duke sent for the Lords of Moyon, Trégoz, and Magneville, severally.

  One by one the chief among the barons were closeted with him. The roll of names grew imposing; to refuse the Duke began to savour of disloyalty; willy-nilly the barons set their seals to promises wrung from them, and those who had been won over became anxious that those who still stood out should be forced to share their obligations. The Council of Lillebonne ended at last in a triumph for the Duke. The vassals passed from unwilling consent to a certain degree of enthusiasm. It became a point of honour for a man not to be outdone by his neighbours in promises; preparations for the building of the fleet were discussed; Gilbert, the Archbishop of Lisieux, departed for Rome, well-primed; and the Duke, at an ecclesiastical Council held at Bonneville a few weeks later, raised Lanfranc to be Abbot of that monastery of St Etienne which had been built at Caen as part of his marriage-penance.

  Three

  A conclave of Cardinals heard Gilbert in Rome. The discussion lasted for many days, but it was plain from the start that the question of perjury weighed the scales heavily against Harold Godwineson. The peculiar sanctity of the relics was considered, and Harold’s letter debated upon at length. But Raoul, when he heard of all these dealings, said acidly: ‘William is a very good son to Holy Church, and Normans build monasteries when Saxons give feasts. Did that sway the Pope’s judgment, I wonder?’

  ‘Raoul!’ exclaimed Gilbert d’Aufay, shocked.

  Raoul jerked up an impatient shoulder. ‘Well, I am sick of this business. It is all bribery and cunning, and the noise of the shipyards drums in my ears day and night.’

  ‘What folly!’ said Gilbert, smiling. ‘You cannot hear anything here in Rouen.’

  ‘I think I can,’ said Raoul. ‘In my head, in my brain! Oh, let be! I am caught up in this coil, and must go on to the end.’

  The Archbishop came back to Normandy at last, and a Papal Legate accompanied him in great pomp. The Duke received this exalted Churchman with a deference that was not assumed. A blessing was bestowed upon him; a consecrated banner given into his strong hands. Its folds, sewn with gems, and rich with gold thread, hung heavily from the shaft; Ralph de Toeni took it from the Duke, and stood holding it stiffly erect while the Legate produced out of a casket a ring containing a hair of Saint Peter himself. Kneeling the Duke held out his hand. The ring slipped over the knuckle; the Legate pronounced the blessing.

  It was learned that the Duke had engaged himself to hold England as a fief of Rome, paying annual tribute, if he should succeed in his conquest. ‘Is there anyone in this world who is above bribes?’ said Raoul de Harcourt.

  Hardly had the Legate departed on his journey back to Rome than a strange phenomenon was seen in the sky. A comet visible for many nights rose in the west upon the eighteenth day of April and slowly travelled southward to the wonder and admiration of all who saw it. ‘It is an omen,’ men said, but whether for good or ill was a point argued upon by every seer and wise man in Normandy.

  There arrived in Normandy exiles from England, those Norman favourites of King Edward whom Harold had banished. They brought tidings that the light in the sky was looked upon by the Saxons as a sign from God. It had made many uneasy, for certain men versed in such matters had declared that God was angry at Harold’s usurpation of a throne that belonged in right to Edgar the Atheling.

  In Normandy the popular reading of the phenomenon was that it was William’s star, travelling to success. Certain Churchmen held by this opinion; others who mistrusted the English expedition stated that it was far otherwise, and that the Duke should regard it as a warning to proceed no further. The Duke himself supported those who considered the sign to be propitious, but remarked to FitzOsbern that if the comet foretold victory in England it was travelling across the sky in the wrong direction.

  He had little time to spend upon such celestial problems. His ships were building in the yards; the blows of the woodmen’s axes resounded through the forests; the felled trees were borne to the coast on wains dragged by straining oxen. There the shipwrights and the carpenters fell to work on them, while armourers were busy forging swords and lance-heads, and leather-workers stitched tunics for archers to wear.

  The Duke sent letters into France, putting his claims before the wise Regent, and making certain proposals. Count Baldwin read these thoughtfully, and presently showed them to his lady. ‘Your daughter is like to wear a Queen’s crown, wife,’ was all he said.

  The Countesss exclaimed at it, and eagerly read the Duke’s despatch. She said: ‘He reaches high, the tanner’s grandson! What of Tostig and my other daughter? Now, by my soul, Mald was ever a sly secret little cat! No word of this passed her lips when Judith lately sojourned in Rouen!’

  Count Baldwin took the letters back into his own keeping, and locked them away. ‘I tell you frankly, madame, if I must
support one of my sons-in-law, that one will not be Tostig,’ he said dryly. ‘But this is no matter for France to dabble her fingers in. Content you, son William: France shall not break your borders while you are from home, but other aid you do not get of her.’ He put up a hand to his beard and absently smoothed it. ‘And yet I know not.’ His gaze dwelt blandly upon his wife’s face. He said slowly: ‘If any should desire to follow Normandy for the chance of plunder in England I believe I shall not say them nay. France is too much troubled by such hungry gentlemen: let them seek advancement otherwhere.’

  It appeared that many desired to try their fortunes in England. Duke William sent letters into every country, offering lands, money, titles to any man who would join him. Aghast, Raoul saw these perilous documents dispatched. He tried to remonstrate: the Duke would not listen. England he must have, by any means.

  His offers brought the scum of Europe to his standard. Needy adventurers came from Burgundy and Lotharingia and the Piedmont hills, making up in swagger for the clouts on their worn hose. Knights from Aquitaine and Poitou came nobly caparisoned into Normandy; little princes brought their levies, ready to hazard their lives on the chance of possessions to be snatched in England. Eustace als Grenons, that Count of Boulogne who had once been flouted by the men of Dover, sent word that he would lead his men in person; Alain Fergant, cousin to Count Conan, swore to raise troops in Brittany; from Flanders Duke William’s brother-in-law wrote in cautious terms inquiring what reward he might expect for his services, if he should agree to risk his noble person in the field.

  His letter reached the Duke in Rouen. William was in his solar, with two clerks busily writing at his dictation, and a tangle of papers spread before him. He had broken off to study the plans of his ship, the Mora, and a ship-wright waited humbly at his elbow. Outside in the ante-chamber two men frowned over lists of stores, which they desired to present to the Duke’s notice, and a master-carpenter wondered whether his designs for the wooden castles William had commanded would meet with his approval.