The Conqueror

by Georgette Heyer

  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!’

  She stood drooping before him; he saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, but his face did not soften. Dame Gytha would have taken her niece in her arms, but his hand shot out and grasped her wrist, and jerked her roughly back. ‘Stand away from her!’ he commanded.

  Elfrida said: ‘Have pity, Raoul! I have borne so much. Oh, you cannot be cruel now!’ She laid a timid hand upon his arm, but he did not move.

  ‘I have no pity,’ he said, ‘but only my love for you, which is more real than pity. Though Edgar lies dead we live on, and there is happiness within our grasp. You would spurn it, cloistering yourself. Well, I hold the deed that gives me Marwell in your right; if I am your foe, speak boldly, and tell me you love me not, and I will tear the deed, and be done with you, f
or though I might take you by force, I will not do it. I want no bride who comes to me against her will.’

  Dame Gytha was flushed and indignant. ‘Tell him you hate all Normans, Elfrida! Give him your answer!’

  ‘I cannot. It is not true.’ Elfrida’s fingers twisted together. ‘I dare not say it.’

  ‘Are you afraid?’ Raoul said. ‘Or have you love for one Norman at least?’

  She did not answer. He gave a short laugh, and swung round on his heel. ‘I see. You dare not say it, and you dare not come to me. Then fare you well: I have done.’

  Her voice followed him, dazed, uncomprehending. ‘You are going?’ she said. ‘You are leaving me?’

  ‘Rest you, since you have no love for me you shall not see my face again,’ he answered.

  ‘That is right good hearing!’ Dame Gytha declared.

  ‘Raoul! Oh, Raoul, stay!’

  The cry was faint, but it stopped him. He looked back. ‘Well?’

  ‘Do not leave me!’ Elfrida begged piteously. ‘I have lost everyone but you. Oh, Raoul, be kind to me! Only be kind to me!’

  ‘Elfrida, will you wed me?’

  Her eyes searched his face, and saw it unyielding. She knew that he would go unless she answered, and she could not let him leave her. ‘I will wed you,’ she said helplessly. ‘I will do what you tell me. Only do not go away!’

  He held out his arms. ‘Then come to me, my heart. I will never leave you.’

  ‘Elfrida, you shall not!’ Dame Gytha cried. ‘Are you wood-wild, girl?’

  But Elfrida did not seem to hear her. Raoul had said: ‘Come to me, my heart,’ and in his eyes the old, dear smile comforted her grief. She went to him; neither aunt nor priest could stop her; and across the grave that lay between her hands clasped his. For a moment they stayed thus, looking down at the grave, then of her own accord Elfrida stepped over it into Raoul’s arms. They closed round her; she gave a deep sigh; and Raoul lifted her, and holding her against his heart carried her out of the dim chapel into the court, where the sun was shining.

  Epilogue

  (1066)

  ‘When the trumpet ceases to sound the sword is returned to the scabbard.’

  Saxon inscription

  Epilogue

  There was snow in London, and thin icicles were hanging from the gutters of the roofs. Inside the Abbey the cold made men draw their mantles closely round them, and blow surreptitiously on benumbed fingers. The Archbishop of York’s hands shook a little; he was nervous, and spoke his office in a low troubled voice. He thought how the Duke had repelled Stigand, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and as he proceeded with the ritual he remembered Harold, whom Stigand had crowned in this Abbey less than a year before. It had all been so different then that it seemed like another life. The Archbishop could not forget how the spring sunlight had glinted on Harold’s golden head. It seemed strange, he thought, to place England’s Crown upon a head as dark as William’s.

  The Duke had chosen Christmas Day for his coronation. The Abbey of St Peter at Westminster was full of people, both Norman and Saxon, and outside Norman troops formed a strong guard to protect the Duke from any attack that might be made by the populace. But it did not seem as though an attack would be made. London had withstood no long siege, but had come to terms with Duke William, after parleys, and deep discussion, and many journeyings to and fro by Ansgard, her intermediary. The Duke had shown great patience, but his huge army encircled the city, cutting her off from any help, so that although he treated Ansgard with courtesy, and attempted no assault on the walls, London knew that he held her in the hollow of his hand and would close that hand if she defied him. The gates were opened to him at last, and the Atheling delivered into his power. Edgar was only ten years old, and when Aldred of York and Wulfstan of Worcester had led him into William’s presence he had been frightened, and had held tightly to the Archbishop’s hand. But the Duke took him in his arms, and kissed him, and talked to him a little while of his Norman cousins, Robert, and Richard, and William, so that he soon lost his alarm, and went away with FitzOsbern, quite happy to exchange a Crown for the suckets that were promised him, and the companionship of the Duke’s sons.

  Earls Edwine and Morkere were the first to render homage to William. Stigand came next, with sleek words, but the Duke was not the man to be won by these. He repelled the Archbishop from office, and chose Aldred to set the Crown upon his head.

  His Holiness the Pope had declared for William. Aldred tried to keep that always in mind. As a Churchman he approved William’s claim, but the Saxon in him kept on reminding him that William was a Norman, and an invader.

  Quite near to William Count Robert of Eu was standing. As he listened to Aldred’s Latin phrases it seemed to him that the years slid back and he stood again in a smoky hall in Falaise, looking down at a babe who clutched a sword-hilt in his tiny hands. An echo reached him from that far-off day: ‘William the Warrior!’ had said Count Robert of Normandy. But someone had whispered: ‘William the King.’ That must have been Herleva, thinking of the queer dream she had had. ‘And the tree stretched out its branches until both England and Normandy lay cowering in its shadow.’ He forgot how it ran. A beautiful woman Herleva had been, he thought. He wondered whether her spirit watched to-day, seeing her dream fulfilled. Someone had said: ‘William the Bastard.’ He tried to remember who could have said that, and suddenly the old Lord of Belesme’s face rose before him, and he remembered how Talvas had cursed the babe. Bastard, Warrior, King: thus William had been called when he lay in his cradle. Count Robert thought how they had laughed: he, and Edward who had also been a King, and Alfred whom Earl Godwine had murdered. It was a long time ago: it made him feel old to reckon up the years. Strange, he thought, that they should have laughed. But they had not known William then: he was only a bastard brat clutching at a sword-hilt.

  The Archbishop was addressing the Saxons in their own tongue. Count Robert came back to the present with a jerk. The Archbishop asked if the people would have William to be their King? They shouted Yea; it sounded spontaneous enough, thought old Hugh de Gournay, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He wondered how long it would be before the whole land accepted William, and whether there would be much fighting to be done. He looked at William, and noted with approval that the Duke held himself very straight, and stared directly before him. Well, he might be a bastard, thought De Gournay, but he would make a good King.

  The Bishop of Coutances stepped forward, and spoke in Norman to the Duke’s own subjects. He asked if they were willing that their Duke should accept the Crown. They cried their consent, as the Saxons had done.

  Am I really willing? thought Raoul, as the word left his lips. God knows! He saw William Malet frowning: he was not willing, but he gave his consent, of course. FitzOsbern was beaming with triumph; Giffard seemed pleased, and Tesson too. Néel looked rather grave; so did Grantmesnil: perhaps they remembered the prodigy at St Jaques, and Galet’s words.

  Prayers followed the two declarations, more ritual. The Archbishop took the golden Crown between his hands, and held it above the Duke’s head, and the assembled people burst out into cheering.

  The Bishop of London held the sacred oil. He moved towards Aldred, but hesitated all at once, and looked in a startled way towards the doors.

  Something was happening outside the Abbey. Shouts were heard, the clash of steel, and a rallying call.

  A voice cried: ‘Treachery, by God!’ and men rushed to the doors.

  The Duke knelt on. Only by his sudden pallor, and the quick look he sent down the aisle did he betray himself.

  For the first time in twenty years, thought Raoul, I have seen him afraid.

  He too was afraid, but he did not move. He thought of Elfrida, who was lodged outside the City, and his mind began to grapple a desperate problem. If London has risen again
st us, how best can I reach to her? he thought.

  The noise was growing louder; a smell of burning wood crept into the Abbey. ‘Spine of God, are we trapped?’ muttered the Count of Mortain in Raoul’s ear.

  The Duke’s jaw was set hard; the Archbishop had broken off in the middle of the ritual, and stood trembling and aghast.

  Men were struggling to get out of the Abbey to beat back the supposed assault. None of the Saxons remained, very few of the Normans. Up by the altar FitzOsbern stood his ground, Robert of Eu also, and De Gournay, and Mortain, and Raoul.

  The Bishop of Bayeux, who had taken an impetuous step towards the door, caught the Duke’s eye, and recovered himself. He whispered something to the Archbishop. Aldred passed his tongue between his lips, and took the sacred oil from William of London.

  In the deserted Abbey, with sounds of strife raging outside, William was anointed. He stretched out his hand to take the gospel-book. Aldred held out the Cross, it shook in his grasp. The Duke kissed it, kneeling, and swore the oath in a clear unfaltering voice. The Crown was set upon his head, the Sceptre placed in his hand. He stood up, and the heavy robes he wore brushed the stone pavement.

  FitzOsbern cried out: ‘Hail, William, King of England!’ and the words echoed through the empty church.

  The Duke’s eyes met Raoul’s; he made a faint sign with his head towards the door, and his brows lifted in a mute question.

  Raoul slipped out of the Abbey. Several houses were blazing near at hand; the open place was crowded with people, but though there were signs of recent strife it seemed to have ended.

  Raoul caught sight of Ralph de Toeni, and made his way towards him, and grasped his arm. ‘For God’s sake, what is it?’ he demanded.

  De Toeni looked round. ‘Nothing. I thought the Londoners had planned an attack, did not you? But it was no such thing. Our men seem to have been at fault, but there is not much harm done: a few slain, but no more than a score, I think. From what I can understand, the guards thought the Saxons within the Abbey had set upon William when they heard the noise of our cheering, and they straightway fired the houses round, and fell on the people gathered here. Tesson and Néel stayed the riot. Holy God, Raoul, I will confess I was sore afraid! Did William leave the Abbey? Where is he?’