The Conqueror (14 page)

She appeared confused. ‘Beau sire, pardon! I have said too much,’ she faltered. She looked in a frightened way towards her lord, who was by now in a stew of apprehension.

The Duke took account of that look, as indeed he was meant to. ‘By the Face, I think you have said too much or too little!’ he said. His eyes flashed to Montgoméri’s face. They held some menace, but he shut his lips on further speech, and presently turned to bestow his attention on the Count of Eu. He left the board presently, apparently in good spirits, but if Montgoméri hoped to hear no more of the matter from him he was soon disappointed. A page brought a summons to him to attend the Duke in his chamber; he went off with a backward glance of reproach at his lady. She was smiling and content, a devil with the face of an angel, he thought with a stab of bitterness.

He found William alone, pacing the floor of his chamber. William crooked a beckoning finger. ‘Enter, my honest messenger, enter! What do you tell your lady that you keep hid from me?’

Montgoméri floundered into speech, lost himself in a flood of words, and begged the Duke to ask Raoul de Harcourt for the truth.

The Duke crashed his fist down on the table. ‘Splendour of God, Montgoméri, I am asking you!’

Montgoméri said unhappily: ‘Beau sire, the Lady Matilda spoke unadvisedly, as women will. We had our answer from the Count’s puissance, as was faithfully reported to your Grace.’

‘Montgoméri, speak!’ The Duke’s voice made Montgoméri start nervously.

‘Beau sire, with respect I say that I was no more than the companion of the Chevalier de Harcourt. From his lips you should learn what chanced at Lille.’ He encountered a look that made him goggle, and added hastily: ‘Seigneur, if we did ill to withhold the Lady Matilda’s words from your ears it was out of love for Your Grace, and because it was not felt by us that those words were meant for you to hear.’

‘By God and His Mother, Montgoméri, I think you did very ill when you told your lady what you dared not tell to me,’ said the Duke terribly.

With this the unhappy man felt himself to be in full accord. He stood straight, and said with what dignity he could muster: ‘I am at your mercy, beau sire.’

The Duke replied: ‘Let me have the truth without more ado.’

‘Beau sire, the Lady Matilda said that she would obey her father in all things, but she prayed him, if he would bestow her hand in marriage, to choose for her a groom whose – who was – Seigneur, the Lady Matilda used certain words concerning your Grace’s birth which I dared not repeat.’

‘I think you had better repeat them, Montgoméri,’ said the Duke in a still voice that was like the lull before a storm.

Looking at the ground, Montgoméri said: ‘The Lady Matilda desired her father not to give her in marriage to one who was not born in wedlock, beau sire.’

‘Ha, God! Was there no more than this?’

His first indignation rose up again in Montgoméri. ‘Yea, there was more,’ he said, forgetting caution. ‘The lady used very injurious terms towards you, lord, and dared to say her blood should not mingle with that of one who was basely descended from a race of burghers.’

Raoul entered the room in time to hear these unwise words. Even as he shut the door he knew that it was too late to attempt to soothe or to palliate. Montgoméri, in obedience to a signal from him, escaped thankfully, and made up his mind to stomach in silence his low-spoken: ‘Go, prating fool!’

Raoul set his back to the door, and listened with calm deference to the first outburst of William’s rage. At a convenient moment he said: ‘Montgoméri told his tale ill. It is true she spoke those words, but she spoke them out of a woman’s desire to wound what she maybe likes too well for her heart’s peace. I believe you would do wisely to ignore her.’

‘Bowels of God, I will make her repent in tears of blood!’ William swore. ‘Ah, proud widow! Ah, insolent dame!’ He began his restless pacing again. ‘She will not have me for a lover. Then, by the Cross, she shall taste of my enmity!’ He stopped short by the window, and stared out at the sailing moon. His fingers gripped the stone ledge; he laughed suddenly, and turning, said: ‘I am for Lille. If you ride with me, come! If you choose to stay, bid my page Errand saddle his horse.’

‘My thanks, beau sire. I think I will ride with you. But to what avail?’

‘The Lady Matilda has misread me,’ the Duke said grimly. ‘She sent such a message as one might send to a nithing, a man of no weight. Well, I will school her.’

More he would not say, nor could he be turned from his resolve to set out at once for Lille. Seriously alarmed, Raoul went off to bespeak the horses and to drop a word in the Count of Eu’s ear. He hoped that half an hour’s reflection might bring about some change in William, but was disappointed. When he saw him again the Duke seemed cool enough, but would listen to no entreaty, either from Raoul or from his cousin of Eu. Robert was between laughing and scowling, but knew his lord well enough to be sure no words spoken of man would turn him when he had that look in his face. He feared some foolhardy act of daring which the Duke had not yet outgrown, and exchanging a rueful glance with Raoul, he ventured to suggest that an armed escort should accompany William. This was refused with a scornful snap of the fingers. William flung himself into the saddle, and rode off at a gallop.

‘Soul of a virgin, I fear him!’ ejaculated Count Robert. ‘The devil is loose, Raoul!’

Raoul gathered up Verceray’s bridle in his hand, and grinned. ‘Give us God-speed on this – love-quest!’ he said, and vaulting into the saddle, galloped off in the Duke’s wake.

There was no tarrying upon the journey. Ground that had taken the embassage two days to cover the Duke covered in a night. He stopped only once, at dawn, to change horses at a certain place on the road. He would rest nowhere; what food he ate was eaten standing, and in haste. He said little, but the nearer he got to Lille, the more impatient he grew. Raoul, aching with fatigue, was shaken by a fit of silent laughter. He was too tired to wonder any longer how the Duke meant to approach Count Baldwin’s daughter, but he felt that William was in no state to present himself at that elegant court. Travel-stained, powdered with dust, he looked more like a hasty messenger than a ruling prince, but it was of no use to point this out to him. Raoul was not even surprised when he dashed headlong through the narrow streets of Lille to the palace gates, and through them without a check.

At the entrance to the great hall the Duke was recognized. A startled page gaped at him, and called to his fellows. Several people came hurrying up as William swung himself down from the saddle, and there was much bowing, and many tentative, apprehensive inquiries, and offers of escort to a bedchamber. The Duke thrust all these aside with no ceremony at all. He told Raoul to hold his horse. ‘What I have to do here will not keep me long,’ he said, and strode past the polite gentlemen into the palace.

There were some six or seven men in the hall awaiting the supper-hour. Tostig called out: ‘Bones of God, it is Normandy! What is your haste, Duke William?’

One of the Flemish nobles sprang up, and began to say that the Count and his sons were expected to return from a hawking at any moment. He broke off in the middle of this, for it was plain that the Duke was not listening. He clanked through the hall, and was gone up the narrow stair before anyone had time to do more than rub his eyes. It was seen that he wore his sword at his side, and carried a whip in his right hand.

In consternation the Flemings stared at one another. It seemed to them that the Norman Duke had gone moon-mad.

In the bower Matilda was seated on a cushion, working at a fine altar-cloth. The Lady Judith had the other end of it, and both fair heads were bent over the embroidery. Round them were gathered several maidens, all busy with some form of stitchery or another. There was a hum of talk which broke off suddenly as the door at the end of the room was flung open. Needles were stayed in mid-air; six startled faces were turned towards the door, and six pairs of eyes
grew round with wonder.

William stood on the threshold, an incongruous figure in the scented bower. Perceiving the look in his eyes, one of the maidens clasped her neighbour with a frightened whimper.

It seemed to Matilda that speech was impossible. Some leaping emotion choked her; it might have been fear, or it might have been triumph. She saw how the dust lay thick on the Duke’s boots and mantle, how his face was pale and lined with the fatigue of hard riding, and the shadow of a small exultant smile touched her lips.

‘Why, what is this?’ said Judith. Amusement quivered in her voice. She got up, and moved forward a step, glancing from the Duke to her sister’s still face.

The Duke stalked towards Matilda. She sat like a statue, watching him. He bent (she thought he swooped) and jerked her to her feet, holding her wrists in a grip that made her catch her breath. ‘Your message reached me safe,’ he said. ‘I am come to answer you.’

‘Eh, heart of Christ!’ cried Judith, who guessed what was coming.

One of the maidens saw the lash of the Duke’s whip shaken free, and began to cry. Matilda’s lips moved stiffly: ‘You dare not!’

‘Yea, madame, I dare,’ William said. For the first time she saw that smile he had which was like a snarl. ‘I have had men’s limbs lopped off for the very insult you cast at me, proud widow.’ He pulled her into the middle of the chamber. ‘I will spare your limbs, madame, but by God, your sides shall smart!’

The maids were in a flutter, some staring as though they hardly understood, one sobbing for very horror, and all of them huddled together as far from this dreadful invader as was possible. The whip sang through the air; the girl who was sobbing hid her face, and winced every time she heard the wicked crack of the lash.

The Lady Judith had recovered her composure. When William raised his whip-hand she slid quickly to the door, and set her back to it with her hands flat on the dark wood, as though she would keep it shut. The eldest of the bower-maidens, aghast at seeing her mistress so brutally flogged, would have run out to summon help, but recoiled before Judith.

‘Fool, do you want all the Court to know how the Lady Matilda was whipped?’ Judith said scornfully. ‘Let be, let be! she will not thank you for screeching her hurts to the world.’

Matilda was sobbing, but she had her underlip gripped hard between her teeth, and would not allow more than a little moan to escape her. Her dress was torn, and her hair dishevelled; William’s fingers were crushing her wrists till the bones ached. His merciless arm was stayed at last; her knees gave way under her as the last blow fell. He threw his whip aside, and caught her round the waist, holding her against him breast to breast. ‘Madame, you scorned me,’ he said, ‘but by God, you will never forget me!’ His hold tightened; his left hand let go her wrists and forced up her drooping head. Before she knew what next was to come, he had kissed her full on her parted lips. She gave a little moan at that. He laughed suddenly and harshly, flung her from him, and swept round on his heel. She fell half-fainting to the ground, and lay there.

There was an urgent beating on the door; voices were heard in agitated conference outside. ‘Open!’ William ordered.

Judith looked at him curiously. Her slow smile dawned; she bent the knee. ‘By my faith, William of Normandy, you are a brave man,’ she said, and moved from before the door, and pulled it wide.

An exclamation broke from the foremost of those on the threshold. Swords scraped in their scabbards; there arose a babel of indignation. The Duke showed his teeth, and stalked forward rather like a beast of prey about to make his spring. The gentleman fell back involuntarily before him. His eyes ran over them; he made no movement to come at his sword; he even set his hands carelessly on his hips. ‘Well, my masters?’ he said sardonically. ‘Well?’

They were irresolute, but fidgeted with their daggers. They looked at one another, and lastly at Judith. Judith laughed, and said: ‘O want-wits! Stand aside: this is not for you.’

‘Holy God, lady … !’ one began in a stutter.

‘The Lady Matilda!’ another gasped out.

A third started forward, hot words bubbling on his tongue. ‘Beau sire, you have done very ill, by the Blood! Not your Grace’s high estate, not –’

‘Foh!’ said William. His hand fell on the indignant gentleman’s shoulder, and twisted him out of the way. It was plain he held them all to be of no account. His look commanded; without quite knowing why they did so the gentlemen made room for him to pass, and out he went, very much the better man.

Raoul was waiting anxiously in the bailey. He drew a sigh of relief when he saw the Duke come through the door, but a second later caught a glimpse of angry faces behind William, and wondered whether it was to be a matter for swords after all. Apparently it was not. The Duke took the bridle in his hand, and leaped into the saddle. He became aware of the men who had followed him, and suddenly laughed.

This was not to be borne, not even from Normandy. A couple of men sprang forward to grasp at the Duke’s rein; Raoul pulled his sword half out of the scabbard.

The Duke continued to be amused. ‘No, my friends, I think not!’ he said, and drove in his spurs. His horse plunged forward, snorting; one man jumped clear, the other was knocked sprawling. The Duke was away before anyone could move; the clatter of hooves resounded on the paved ground, and grew fainter in the distance, till it became no more than an echo.