The Conqueror (22 page)

They walked slowly on in the shadow of the curtain walls. Neither spoke again until they had rounded a corner of the chapel in the inner bailey and stood beneath the towering keep itself. Then Edgar, looking up at a narrow window set in the grey stone, said on a lighter note: ‘Well, I’ll wager there at least lies one who feels no love for William.’

Raoul glanced up. ‘The Count of Ponthieu? No, but he will have to bend to William’s will whether he likes or whether he hates him, just as Geoffrey of Mayenne bent.’

‘What of the Archbishop?’ inquired Edgar. ‘Is he to bend too?’

‘Mauger!’ Raoul said. ‘I think his course is run.’

They began to mount the steps leading up to the great door. Edgar said, chuckling: ‘William FitzOsbern told me yesterday how he found Mauger when he went to wait on him last. Did you hear of it?’

‘No, but maybe I can guess.’

‘It made even our sour-faced Albini laugh,’ said Edgar. ‘You know how FitzOsbern can tell a tale. He said they told him that the Archbishop was at his devotions, but in he would go, to await Mauger’s leisure. Some fool of an usher, not understanding what was whispered to him by the steward, led William straightway to the Archbishop’s closet, and called his name. In William marched, just in time to see fat Mauger scuffling his leman off his knee, and trying to look as though his fingers had been busy with his rosary instead of paddling in her neck.’

‘God’s eyes, in his very closet?’ demanded Raoul, half-scandalized, half-entertained.

‘In his closet,’ nodded Edgar. ‘It was that red-haired wench, Papia, that used to drive the swine to market every Friday, the wench who ran from Moulines-la-Marche when he would have taken her. Don’t you recall her? Well, she’s housed in Mauger’s palace now, decked out in silks and gold chains, as grand as the Duchess herself.’

‘A bondman’s slut!’ Raoul said disgustedly. ‘So that was what Galet meant by his jest last night! Well for Mauger if this does not reach the Duke’s ears.’

‘Oh, the Duke is bound to hear it,’ Edgar declared cheerfully. ‘All the Court knows.’

‘Then we shall have a new Archbishop at last,’ said Raoul.

He was right, but the Duke did not choose to make his uncle’s amours the reason for his deprivation. Although Lanfranc had obtained the dispensation for William’s marriage with Matilda, although the master-masons were still labouring over the plans of the two monasteries that were the price of it, and two infants had already been born of the union, Archbishop Mauger had not abated one jot of his disapproval. His ambitions, which had been frustrated by the fall of his brother of Arques, had gradually resolved themselves into a malevolent desire to see his too-powerful nephew laid low. Some said that letters passed between him and the French King; be that as it might, when the news of the King’s flight reached Rouen the Archbishop changed colour, and those who stood near him saw that his pouched eyes held an expression of sickly hatred. He had been accounted a subtle man in his prime, but he was old now, and disappointment had blunted his wits. He chose this inauspicious moment to denounce the two-year-old marriage as though there had been no sanction obtained for it in Rome, and to excommunicate Duke William from the Church.

It was the pretext for which the Duke had been waiting. His heavy hand fell on the Archbishop at last: Mauger was deprived of his see, and bidden depart out of Normandy in twenty-eight days. He was succeeded by one Maurilius, monk of Fécamp, a man of many virtues, and as famous for his abstinence as Mauger had been famous for incontinence.

On the day that Mauger set sail for the Island of Guernsey Galet twitched Walter of Falaise’s stool from under him as he was about to seat himself at the Duke’s board, and stout Walter sat down with a thud among the rushes. ‘God’s belly, if I do not break your skull for this, fool!’ Walter rumbled, aiming a blow at him.

Galet skipped out of reach, crying shrilly: ‘Eh, there is another of Brother William’s uncles down!’

The Duke’s lips twitched; the Court broke into open merriment, and Walter picked himself up from the floor with a good-humoured grin, and a shake of his honest head.

Four

Ahart of twelve, lord!’ cried one of the huntsmen above the sound of the mort. He bent over the still breathing animal, and drew out his hunting-knife. FitzOsbern said disgustedly: ‘I’ll be bound that’s the brute I could not bring down yesterday. All the good fortune is with you, beau sire.’

But William was looking at his bow as though he saw it for the first time.

‘I wish I could shoot as he does,’ Edgar told Raoul. ‘I have rarely seen him miss.’

Raoul answered rather absently. He was watching the Duke, wondering what thought had occurred to him to make him suddenly so abstracted.

The Duke had an arrow in his hand; he balanced it on his finger, looking thoughtfully down at it. FitzOsbern noticed this odd conduct, and inquired if there were anything amiss. The Duke did not seem to hear him. For a moment or two he went on turning the arrow between his fingers; then he jerked up his head, and said briefly: ‘I have done. Raoul, will you ride back with me?’

‘Well, here is a short day’s sport!’ exclaimed FitzOsbern. ‘Have you had your fill of it already, seigneur? Albini, do you go too? Edgar, you have had no fortune yet: do you stay?’

‘I want only Raoul,’ the Duke said over his shoulder.

They rode side by side down the forest-track. The Duke had the lash of his whip between his teeth, and he was frowning in a way that showed his thoughts concentrated. After a while Raoul said: ‘Well, seigneur? What now?’

William turned his head. ‘Raoul, have you ever thought that one might use arrows in warfare?’

‘Arrows?’ Raoul looked rather surprised. ‘Could that be done?’

‘Why not?’ The Duke spurred on at a brisker pace. ‘Men-at-arms could be trained to use bows. They might carry them as well as their gisarmes.’ He stared ahead, still frowning. ‘No. A man fighting with sword or spear must hold a shield beside. There must be some other way.’

‘If a beast can be slain by arrows a man can too, of course,’ said Raoul slowly. ‘But how might an archer contrive to take aim in the press of battle? He must surely be cut down at once, for he could not guard himself.’

‘If he were in the press,’ the Duke agreed. ‘But my archers could shoot from an hundred paces, and so have no need to guard themselves.’ His eyes
lit; he said in his impetuous way: ‘By the Face, I think I have solved a riddle that has plagued me these many days! I believe bowmen might wreak great havoc amongst the enemy.’

‘So can spearmen,’ said Raoul, misliking it.

‘But while we fight hand to hand it must be the stronger side that wins,’ William insisted. ‘If the King were to bring a host across the border again, think you I could drive him out? Yea, if I can lead him to a snare once more. But if I must pit my strength against his in a battle such as we fought at Val-es-dunes? What then?’ He paused. ‘But if I had bowmen, shooting from a place of safety? Bones of God, there would be room then for my strategy!’

‘Yea, but if you hold off these bowmen, seigneur, they must perforce loose their shafts into the backs of your own knights,’ Raoul objected.

The Duke thought for a moment. ‘True. And if I so placed them that they could aim along the enemy lines they would still find marks in my own men, struggling in the mêlée.’ He turned to look at Raoul; there was animation in his face, and the corners of his mouth had begun to lift. ‘Raoul, I tell you I will change the whole way of war!’

Startled, Raoul said: ‘Beau sire, surely you will not seek to send us, your knights, into battle with bows instead of swords!’

‘Nay, but do you not see that there might be more to my battles than my knights’ swords? What if my bowmen were to strike the first blow shooting at sixty, an hundred paces?’

‘Why, they must kill or wound many, I suppose,’ Raoul admitted. ‘Would you send them in advance, then? Where stand your knights?’

‘Drawn up behind in support,’ the Duke said promptly.

Raoul nodded. ‘The enemy charges: it seems to me your bowmen must bear the first shock, and so farewell bowmen!’

‘Not so. I will have them fall back behind my chivalry. That could be ordered. What do you think? Don’t frown: I am not wood-wild yet.’

‘It is in my mind,’ said Raoul, ‘that the barons will take it amiss. Will you put bows into the hands of serfs? Your Council will say it is a thing unknown.’

‘So said they when I retreated before the French,’ the Duke retorted, and set his horse at a gallop towards the bridge across the river.

His bowmen became known soon enough as his new foible. Some of the barons were opposed to such an innovation; some regarded it with indulgent smiles; many were captious, yet interested. The Duke cared nothing either for scorn or approval, but set on foot the training of his bowmen, and was for ever riding out to mark their progress or planning campaigns in his private closet. He drew strange diagrams with quill and ink, and his captains scratched their heads over these, and yielded at last a reluctant interest. That a man should fight battles with pawns from a chessboard was something so new that it had to be regarded with suspicion. Warfare as the barons understood it was a matter of chivalry charging to sound of tucket and of drum; strategy was of the roughest order: one chose one’s ground, one laid ambushes, or made surprise attacks, but while the battle raged there could be nothing more to it than hand-to-hand fighting in a tight pack. But the Duke bent over his miniature battlefields, and moved his pawns this way and that, slowly evolving a more intricate way of war than his captains could understand.

That he was preparing to withstand a fresh attack from his suzerain everyone knew, for although King Henry had signed the treaty of ’54, no one supposed that he would abide by its articles. Men’s eyes looked towards France, and hands were not far from sword-hilts during the three years of peace which followed the taking of Ambrières.

Two years after Mortemer the Atheling Edward died in London, leaving two daughters and an infant son, Edgar, to the King’s protection; and in Rouen Guy, the Count of Ponthieu, at last submitted to Duke William’s terms for his release. Guy had been housed as befitted his rank, and no indignity had been put upon him, but he soon saw that though William might treat him with courtesy he would never release him until the price was paid.

Ransom was offered and refused. ‘You shall pay me homage, Count, not gold,’ William said.

‘By God I will never bend the knee to Normandy!’ the Count swore very earnestly.

‘Then by God, Count, you will not again see Ponthieu,’ William replied without heat.

‘I have offered you a King’s ranson!’ Guy said.

‘I will take your oath of fealty,’ answered William.

‘Duke William, you have mistaken your man!’ the Count cried with spirit.

William smiled. ‘Be sure, Count, that between us two it is not I who mistake my man,’ he said, and on those words went out.

The Count glared after him, but ended by burying his head in his arms. In after-years he was heard to say: ‘If I had been so sure of myself as that man I believe I might have conquered the world.’

He was prepared to endure shackles, a dungeon, perhaps torture, but it was no part of William’s policy to arouse hatred in one whom he meant to make his vassal. The Count was honourably entreated, and might have whatsoever he desired, save only freedom. Walking upon the battlements he would look always towards the east. Beyond the plains, beyond the river that wound through them like a silver thread, over the far hills, eastward and northward still lay Ponthieu, awaiting her lord’s return. His eyes grew dim with looking; he thought he could hear the waves breaking upon his foam-drenched shores, and see the grey towers of his capital. Over his head a standard slapped in the wind; he looked up and saw the golden lions of Normandy waving above him.

For a year he clung to the hope that he would wear out the Duke’s patience. He saw his fellow-captive, the Count of Mayenne, render homage to William, and go riding homeward. He stood firm still, but he knew now that William would never relent. The second year dragged wearily past; the Count grew sick of despair, and no longer looked towards Ponthieu.

William, visiting him in his apartments, said: ‘They tell me you are ailing, Count, but I think no physician of mine can cure your malady.’

‘That is true,’ Guy answered bitterly.

The Duke walked to the window, and beckoned. ‘Come, Guy of Ponthieu,’ he said.

Guy looked at him for a moment, then walked forward to stand at his side. The Duke pointed through the opening. ‘There runs the road to Ponthieu,’ he said, ‘by Arques and Eu; a day’s ride, Count.’

Guy would have turned away at that, but the Duke’s hand descended upon his shoulder. ‘Your lands are masterless,’ he said. ‘Soon comes a day when another man will rule in your stead. Get you back before it is too late.’

Guy broke from under his hold, and began to walk about the room. The Duke stood still by the window, watching him impassively.

‘Though you hold me captive till my death you shall not wring liege-homage from me!’ Guy flung at him.

‘I have not asked for it. But simple-homage you shall pay me, as Brittany pays.’

The Count paced on in silence, turning it in his mind for the hundredth time. Liege-homage, which he had dreaded, would have meant that he must become a vassal such as any baron of Normandy, who received investiture in his lands on his knees, stripped of his sword and his spurs, his head uncovered and his hands between the Duke’s, and took oath to become William’s man thenceforward, serving him with life and limb and worldly honour. But simple-homage, which Normandy paid to France, was unaccompanied by such feudal obligations. There would be no humiliating livery of seisin, when the suzerain in person put his vassal in possession of his lands, nor would he be bound to serve William with troops in time of war, or to go into captivity as hostage for him if ever that need arose. An oath of fealty was all that was required of him. He turned suddenly, and said as though the words were forced out of him: ‘Simple-homage for my freedom: so be it!’

William nodded, and said in a matter-of-fact way: ‘To-morrow we will set a seal to this business. There will be nothing then to keep you longer.’

Not many weeks after Guy’s release the Duchess was brought to bed of her third child. Lost in the coverings of her great bed Matilda nursed her cheek in her hand, and would scarcely look at this second daughter who bade fair to be so like her. She had wanted to bear another son, just such an one as my lord Robert: dark, sturdy, and so high-spirited that he would beat his governors with his little fists if they dared to gainsay him. She glanced resentfully at the fair mite, and presently said. ‘I would dedicate her to Holy Church.’

‘A good thought,’ William replied. He was shown the child wrapped in her bearing-cloth; his eyes rested on her indifferently enough, but all at once gleamed. He said with a laugh: ‘Rood of Grace, here is your very image, Mald!’

‘Robert was the stouter babe,’ she answered.

But a year later a second boy was born to Normandy, and there were public feastings, and the Court kept night-rule for nearly a week, while Matilda lay crooning over her babe, and dreaming of the future that should be his. He was not a robust child; he cried fretfully for hours together, and not even the chaplet of mistletoe he wore could preserve him from the convulsions that from time to time attacked him. The physicians were never far from my lord Richard’s side, and it seemed as though Matilda’s ears were always on the prick for the faint echo of his wail. My lord Richard absorbed her attention for many months; she had little to spare for the Duke’s archers; little even for the news of King Henry’s secret activity. Her husband had no interest outside these two pressing matters.

It was known that Henry and the Hammer of Anjou had once more joined hands in an alliance against Normandy. Once more a great host was assembling; once more plans were laid for the plundering of William’s Duchy; once more William called his knights together, and made ready to defend his own.

The French and the Angevin forces were expected to cross the border in the springtide of ’58, this being a season always suitable for warfare; but King Henry, aware of his vassal’s preparations, used a cunning of his own, and held off for several months.

‘He will delay until I have disbanded my force,’ William said after three months of waiting. ‘So be it!’ To the dismay of his councillors he disbanded his army then and there, keeping only a small force round his person.

Men who had grumbled at the cost of keeping a large army idle now shook their heads at such reckless tactics.

‘The King will sweep into Normandy, and what hope have we with half our strength lost?’ De Gournay demanded.

The Duke spread his plans out upon the table, and it was seen that he had had rough maps drawn of his Duchy. De Gournay grunted: ‘What shall this avail us?’

‘Friend Hugh,’ said William, ‘is it known to us that the King means to march up through Hiesmes with the whole of his force, striking northward to Bayeux – here?’ He laid his finger on the map.

‘Yea, it is known.’ De Gournay gave a chuckle. ‘He will never again venture in two divisions against us. If that Frenchman we seized spoke truth Henry means to turn east from Bayeux to ravage Auge. What then?’

The Duke made him look at the map. ‘Here I may catch him, or here, or even here.’

‘What, are we to play the same trick again?’ inquired Count Robert of Eu. ‘Is he to march up unopposed? The corn is standing, William: he will do great injury.’