The Conqueror (33 page)

Nothing was done upon the first evening of their stay in Bayeux, but upon the following morning the ceremony of binding by oath took place in the council-hall of the Castle.

The Duke sat upon a throne of state, wearing his coronet and holding a drawn sword in his hand, the point upwards. Behind him were gathered his knights and nobles; before him, in the middle of the hall, a large tub stood, covered by a cloth of gold that entirely concealed it. Near this Odo the Bishop was waiting, attended by his chaplain and several priests.

It was a very bright morning, and long beams of sunlight, slanting down through the windows, showed dust-motes dancing, and barred the hall with gold. Warmth stole into the vast grey hall, and, through the unglazed windows, the hum of the busy town.

The Earl came in last of all with his own followers behind him. He wore his byrnie, but his head was uncovered. A blue mantle hung from his shoulders, and there were golden bracelets on his arms. Raoul had an odd fancy that he had brought the sunlight with him.

He paused for a second on the threshold, looking quickly round. The Duke, remote on his throne, FitzOsbern beside him, Mortain, Grantmesnil, Tesson, Saint-Sauveur, De Gournay, De Montfort, Giffard – he saw them all in that one swift glance. They stood still, their hands on their swords, watching him, grimly, he thought.

He walked forward unhurriedly; he was pale, but perfectly calm. A faint frown lay between his eyes, and his mouth was set in grim lines. Behind him his Saxons formed a semi-circle.

The curtains over one of the archways parted, and a priest came into the hall bearing two reliquaries which he set reverently down upon the draped tub before Odo. Harold looked at them without any change of expression, and fixed his eyes upon the Duke again.

A sigh of relief came from Edgar: the reliquaries held less significance than he had feared.

The Duke moved, leaning forward a little on his throne; the edge of his sword caught the sunlight and the heavy mantle he wore fell away from one arm and showed a lining of ermine. His deep compelling voice was pitched so that no word he spoke was missed by anyone in the hall. ‘Earl Harold,’ he said, ‘you are come here for what purpose you know. I require you, before this noble assembly, to confirm by oath the promises you have made to me: To act as my vicar at the Court of England so long as Edward the King shall live; to do what lies in your power to secure the Sceptre to me after his death; to render up to me the Castle of Dover, and other such castles as I may deem needful to be garrisoned by Norman troops. These things you have promised.’

‘These I have promised,’ the Earl said mechanically.

The Bishop moved forward a pace; Earl Harold scarcely heeded him. He was looking across the hall at William, and at William’s Court, trying to read the dark faces that confronted him. He noticed that Raoul de Harcourt never once raised his eyes from the sword-hilt under his two hands; he saw that FitzOsbern was frowning as though in discomfort, and that a gleam of eagerness shone in Mortain’s eyes. He looked quickly back at William, but could learn nothing from that strong impassive countenance.

He suspected all at once that something lay behind the silence and the intent watchfulness that surrounded him. He glanced down at the reliquaries. They were ordinary enough: the trap was not there. Some warning instinct whispered in his brain; again he looked round the hall, again was conscious of an atmosphere of tension, of pent anxiety that signified more than he could see. Almost he drew back, but recovering himself stepped deliberately up to the reliquaries, glinting on the cloth of gold.

He stretched out his hand over them and thought that a faint sigh ran round the hall. It was too late to refuse the oath now. He drew a long breath and began to repeat the terms he had agreed to.

No tremor shook the steadiness of his hand; his voice was clear and unfaltering.

‘… to do what lies in my power to secure the Sceptre of England to you; to render up to you my Castle of Dover, and others such as you shall hereafter deem needful.’ He paused; his voice gathered strength. ‘So may God help me, and the Holy Gospels!’ he said. The words rang sternly, and the echoes caught them and carried them among the rafters.

Swords were raised; the barons cried: ‘God aid him!’

Their voices seemed to thunder in the Earl’s ears. His hand fell to his side again; men saw that he had grown deadly pale, and was breathing short and fast.

He heard the sigh again, unmistakably, and saw upon faces that had before been anxious covert smiles of satisfaction.

The Duke made a sign to his brother. The Bishop beckoned two of his attendants forward, and they removed the reliquaries from the golden cloth, and raised it. A musty scent reached Earl Harold: the tub which the cloth had hidden was filled with human bones, and it did not need Odo’s soft explanation to tell the Earl that these were the bones of holy saints.

He shuddered, and started back, covering his face with his hands. A sword rasped behind him; Edgar’s voice cried out: ‘Tricked! tricked! Out, Norman dogs!’

The Earl pulled himself together quickly and grasped Edgar’s wrist in a grip of steel. ‘Back! The oath is taken.’ He turned to face the Duke again. ‘What more remains to do?’ he said harshly.

‘No more,’ the Duke replied. ‘Upon the bones of Saints you have sworn. It is done.’

For a moment they looked at one another across the space that separated them; then the Earl swept round on his heel and went quickly out.

Again steel rasped in the hall. Mortain jumped round to see Raoul slam his sword home in the scabbard. ‘For God’s sake, let me pass!’ Raoul said. His voice shook with a kind of rage. ‘I have had my fill of this work!’ He thrust past the astonished Count, strode to the narrow stair, and disappeared round the bend of it.

Grantmesnil shrugged, and whispered in Mortain’s ear: ‘The Watcher will go too far one of these days. Will the Duke stomach this rude leave-taking?’

The Duke gave no sign of having noticed Raoul’s departure. Handing his sword to the Chancellor, he dismissed the Court, and went out with his brothers and FitzOsbern.

Upstairs Raoul ran on Edgar in the narrow passage. Both stopped short, and for a moment neither spoke. Edgar folded his arms on his chest; his eyes smouldered still; he said in a fierce low voice: ‘Thus your Duke! Thus this Norman Wolf! False knavish trickster!’

Raoul pressed his lips together; his brows were drawn close; he said no word.

‘A ruse to cheat Earl Harold! And you knew! Yea, you knew, all of you, and stood by in silence while that devil’s work was done!’

‘Enough of that! As I do not condemn your master, who swore an oath with perjury in his heart, so keep your tongue from mine!’

Edgar said swiftly: ‘What do you mean? Who says that Harold had perjury in mind?’

‘Why leaped he back from the relics in dismay?’ Raoul flung at him. ‘Oh, rest you, my lips are sealed! But who lies deepest in shame: my master who conceived this plot, or yours who swore a solemn oath, scheming as he swore how best to break it? Let us be done with this, I beg of you! Our words lead nowhither, save to bitter quarrelling.’

He would have passed on, but Edgar stayed him. ‘Do you uphold Duke William? You?’

‘Till death!’ Raoul said violently. ‘Now let me go!’

Some of Edgar’s wrath seemed to die in him. ‘You do not. Nay, I can read you, my friend. Eh Raoul, what an end to all our hope, what an end to friendship, when we are torn apart by such dealing!’ He put out his hand to lay it on Raoul’s arm, but let it fall again. ‘A drawn sword lies between us. I am glad we fought together in Brittany.’ He stared at the ground, but raising his head again in a little while, said: ‘Bound, both of us, yet when I think of all that is held by the past – friendship and what small happiness I have known – I can hear some voice in my heart that cries, heedless of fealty: “Would to God I had no lord!”’

‘Ah Christ, and in my heart also!’ Raoul said. His smile went awry. He held out his hand. ‘Across the sword …’ he said.

Edgar clasped it, and did not at once let go. He seemed to find it hard to speak. He said at last: ‘You would have come with us to England. Do not, Raoul. I thought to light you to your marriage-bed, but what has passed this day ends that dream with all else that we two held dear.’

‘I know it,’ Raoul said. ‘But let me still cherish hope! Edgar –’ He broke off, and pressed Edgar’s hand. ‘I cannot say it. I shall see her again. When do you set sail? As soon as may be?’ He gave an uncertain laugh. ‘God’s pity, it will be strange in Rouen with you gone!’

They left Bayeux the next morning. The Earl rode beside William as he had done each day for many weeks. Neither spoke of the oath, but when they came to Rouen and lay again in the palace the question of the Earl’s betrothal was broached. He was solemnly affianced to the Lady Adela. She did not stand as high as his elbow, and was torn between pride in her future lord and exceeding great awe of him. He had an easy way with children, and lifted her in his arms and set a kiss upon her cheek. The memory of his smile was to remain with her all her short life.

There was no more to do but to take leave of the Norman Court. The day after his betrothal Earl Harold rode away to the coast, and amongst his escort was Raoul de Harcourt, ranging close beside Elfrida’s litter.

Their farewells had been said. She had lain sobbing in his arms like a tired child, while he stroked her hair and whispered to her of courage and hope. ‘I shall come to claim you,’ he said. ‘As God lives and reigns, I shall come to you.’ He held her closer still. ‘Wait for me: trust me! It will not be long. And whatever guise I come – remember that I love you, yea, and would give my life to spare you pain! Remember that always, O my little love!’

She promised, wonderingly, searching his face for his meaning.

He said: ‘I can tell you no more. Only remember! and though the future hold grief and bitter anguish, think this: as Edgar is bound, so too am I, by ties I cannot break.’

‘I am afraid! I am afraid!’ she said. ‘What grief but this parting? What anguish? Raoul, Raoul!’

‘Please God, none!’ he said. ‘But know this, my heart: if it should chance that I may reach to you only by the sword’s path, then, by Death, I will take that path!’

Part V

(1066)

THE CROWN

‘There is no road for retreat.’

Speech of William the Conqueror

One

It was not long after Harold’s return that another visitor came to Normandy from England. This one was Tostig, Earl of Northumbria, who arrived with his wife and children in a mood of sullen anger, and presented himself at Duke William’s Court with an involved tale of treachery, hatred, and unbrotherly dealing on his lips. It was impossible to unravel his story, but one fact emerged clearly: Earl Tostig had culminated his reign in Northumbria by behaviour of such violence that his subjects rose against him as one man, and declared for Morkere, the son of Alfgar. They were supported by Earl Harold. It was at this point that the tale grew incoherent.

Duke William, looking his guest over with a sardonic eye, wasted no more time upon it. Judith, closeted with her sister, was somewhat more explicit.

Judith had grown stout, and white streaked the brown of her hair. She had acquired a comfortable habit of placidity, and spent the greater part of her day in eating sugar-plums. Her lord’s vagaries left her as unmoved as everything else in her world. She observed Matilda lazily, and remarked: ‘Eh my dear, I see you are slender still! Well-a-day, and is it seven or eight children you have borne your lord?’

‘Eight, and three of them sons,’ said Matilda proudly.

‘They are all very like him,’ Judith said. ‘How many years is it since the Fighting Duke stalked into our bower at Lille, and flogged you?’

Matilda was unperturbed by this old memory. ‘As many years since I put you into Earl Tostig’s bed.’

Judith ate another sugar-plum, and carefully licked her fingers. ‘Well, that is like to have been an ill night’s work. He was then a fool, and is now a wolf’s head.’ She yawned. ‘This is no way to combat Harold, to get himself outlawed. That sleek cat Eadgytha was to blame.’

‘The Queen?’ Matilda paused in her stitchery to look up.

‘She and Tostig hatched the plot to slay Gospatrick last year. The King had nothing to say to it then, but your lord let Harold go and I warrant you he had the matter at his finger-end soon enough. It was farewell to Tostig within a month of Harold’s return.’ She seemed to meditate within herself. ‘Tostig plans largely. They have great desires, all the sons of Godwine. But I doubt my spouse is not the man to carry these to a successful issue. More I do not say.’

The Duchess thought of her own very different lord, and smiled secretly. Judith lay back at her ease, watching her out of her sleepy eyes. ‘Yea, coney,’ she said. ‘You think that you chose more wisely at last than I. I do not gainsay it. A proper man is Duke William. I remember he would have nothing to say to me when he came a-wooing you.’

Earl Tostig remained at the Court some weeks, airing his grievances, but departed to spend Christmas in Flanders. The sisters embraced lovingly enough, but the old intimacy was lacking. Each nursed secrets; neither was sorry to see the last of the other.

Christmas passed quietly. Raoul rode south to see his father, and remembered how Edgar had gone with him on so many other visits to Harcourt. He urged his horse to a brisker pace, trying to cast off the memory, but beside him rode some phantom of Edgar, and he thought that he could hear an echo of the old song of Brunanburgh which Edgar used to sing. At Harcourt Hubert inquired for him, and seemed surprised to hear that he had gone home to England. Hubert’s memory was failing, but he did not like to be reminded of this. He said: ‘Had he not a sister?’ He was pleased to think he could remember that, and with an effort sought in his mind for her name. ‘Elfrida!’ he pronounced at last, triumphantly.

Her name, spoken after so many month, made Raoul start. He thought it lived only in his dreams. A flush stole into his lean cheeks; he said: ‘Yes. He has a sister.’

‘I never saw her,’ Hubert said. ‘But Edgar I knew well, yea, and liked. What ailed him that he must needs to go to England?’

‘He is a Saxon, father,’ Raoul said gently.

‘Well, I know that,’ Hubert replied rather testily. ‘But he lived among us long years – enough to make Normandy his home. Is he coming back?’

Raoul shook his head. He turned away, and stirred the wood-fire to a blaze, bending over it so that Hubert could not read his face.

‘A pity,’ Hubert remarked. He relapsed into one of the sudden forgetful silences of old age, and sat staring into the fire as though he saw pictures of the past there. He smiled and nodded, and presently dropped off into an easy doze. When he woke again he had forgotten Edgar and wanted only his supper.

In Rouen the Duke kept Christmas with good cheer, and prayer, and hunting. My lord Robert set a trap of a sack of flour on a half-open door for his corpulent great-uncle Walter, and counted the day well spent when the jester was blamed for it.

A sharp frost set in after Christmas; water froze in the gutters of the palace, and snow covered the leaden roof. Men went abroad in fur-lined mantles, and the Duke’s sons made a slide in the bailey which was even better sport than they had expected, since no less than three noble gentlemen stepped on it unawares.

The cold weather, though it made other men long only for fires, seemed to increase the Duke’s energy. He spent whole days at the chase, and the woods echoed continually to the sound of his huntsman’s horn winding a mort. The hardiest of his court accompanied him on these expeditions, but it was observed that his most devoted friend had in part deserted him. The Chevalier de Harcourt pulled his scarlet cloak close round him and shivered at the sharp wind, and prayed the Duke to hold him excused.

‘Raoul,’ said Grantmesnil slyly, ‘is mumpish because he has lost his fair lady.’

A look cold as the ice on the river was directed towards him. The truth of Grantmesnil’s gibe did not make it more palatable to the Chevalier.

If there was any truth in his plea that he hated the bitter wind he was not alone in his complaining. One day in the New Year the Duke took a boat across the Seine to the forest of Quévilly to hunt the deer there, and he was the only man of the party who did not grumble at the cold. The gaunt tree branches bore thin crusts of snow; the ground was hard and cracked with frost, and the men’s breath made little clouds of steam in the clear air. They had to stamp their feet to keep the blood flowing, and Grantmesnil, blowing upon his chilled fingers, grunted: ‘No weather for hunting, this.’

The Duke had brought down a hart of twelve. He did not seem to feel the cold; his cheeks were flushed, and he had thrown off his mantle to give his arms greater play. The huntsmen were driving up more beasts; Ralph de Toeni began to fit an arrow to his bow, but complained with a laugh that his fingers were all benumbed. William de Warenne shot and missed; the Duke drew his arrow to the head.

The bow was bent when an interruption occurred. A messenger from Rouen had come up at a stumbling jog-trot, and now ran towards William and dropped on his knee before him without pausing to allow the Duke to loose his arrow. His leather tunic and his boots were stained with salt water; he seemed to have come far, and in haste. ‘Lord,’ he said, panting, ‘they told me to seek you here!’

The Duke lowered his bow with an impatient oath. He turned and looked frowningly down at the messenger. An angry reproof hovered on his tongue but was checked. He gave his bow abruptly to his forester and signed to those about him to draw back out of earshot. ‘Speak, then! What tidings do you bring me, you out of England?’ he said.

‘Lord, Edward the King is dead, and was coffined upon the day of Epiphany, and the wake-plays are done. Harold Godwineson is crowned King in his room.’

‘Crowned!’ The Duke turned rather pale. ‘Is this truth indeed?’

‘Yea, lord, it is truth. Stigand the Archbishop anointed Harold, himself being under interdict. Harold reigns in England this day.’ He paused, and seemed at a loss to know how to continue.

‘Well?’ the Duke said sharply. ‘What more?’

‘Lord, Harold has taken to wife Aldgytha, Griffyd’s widow and Earl Alfgar’s daughter,’ muttered the messenger.

He saw the Duke’s hand clench suddenly, and cringed, but William did not strike. Turning, he went back to the huntsmen, who were watching him in surprise and alarm. He paid no heed to them, but took his mantle roughly from the page who held it and flung it round his shoulders. In a silence that was felt to be more terrible than any outburst of anger he strode quickly away down the track that led to the river.

His sudden wordless departure was so strange that no one knew what to make of it. Hugh de Grantmesnil looked blankly at De Toeni; William de Warenne said in a puzzled undertone: ‘What has chanced? I have never seen him behave thus before. We had best go with him, but say nothing.’

The three barons gave their bows to their squires, and followed the Duke in wondering silence to the river. They saw how heavy was the frown on his brow, and how he continually tied and untied the strings of his mantle, and not one of them dared to address him. His boat was awaiting him at the landing-stage; he stepped into it with so little care that it rocked perilously for a moment. He sat down in the stern, still without speaking or glancing towards his escort. His eyes stared across the water; his fingers went on fidgeting with the strings of his mantle. Grantmesnil, who was watching him covertly, saw the twitch at the corners of his mouth, and nudged De Toeni warningly. Thus had the Duke’s mouth twitched when he had banished these two some years ago in a fit of black rage. De Toeni gave a little shiver and laid his finger on his lips. Blameless they might both be today, but they knew and dreaded that sign of a rising anger in their lord.

When the boat’s keel grated on the shingle of the further bank De Warenne jumped ashore to offer the support of his arm to the Duke. William sprang to land without apparently perceiving the outstretched hand, and made his way at a brisk pace towards the palace.

Behind him his attendants followed in as deep a silence as his own. For all the heed he paid to them they might not have been there.

He stalked into the hall of the palace. An usher who had hurried forward to take his cloak and his gloves of marten-fur fell back in startled dismay before the look on his face. The Duke brushed past him to a bench by one of the stone pillars, and cast himself down on it, and drew his mantle across his face.

There were several gentlemen in the hall, and it was plain that they knew the cause of the Duke’s conduct. One of them began to whisper in De Warenne’s ear; De Toeni caught the words: ‘Harold is crowned King of England,’ and gave a little grunt of understanding.

Grantmesnil jerked his thumb towards the ambry, and the ushers who still lingered uncertainly in the middle of the hall went out on tiptoe.

A sparrow, flying in at one of the high unglazed windows, made the barons start. De Warenne whispered: ‘Should we speak to him? Should we withdraw?’

Before Grantmesnil could answer the uneasy silence was broken by an oddly incongruous sound. Someone was coming down the stairs humming a gay tune to himself.

Involuntarily De Toeni glanced towards the Duke, but William had not moved. Round the bend of the stair came FitzOsbern with Raoul behind him. The Seneschal had one hand on the rope; a ring of amethyst glinted on his finger; a bracelet upon his forearm was studded with the same jewels. His jovial eye took in the group of men by the door and twinkled. His voice rose on the lilt of his little tune.

De Warenne made a sign to him to be quiet and pointed towards the Duke. Both FitzOsbern and Raoul looked round; the song was broken off; the Seneschal went across the floor to the Duke’s side and laid a fearless hand on his shoulder. ‘Up, seigneur, up!’ he said cheerfully. ‘What do you here? Of no avail to keep silence now: the tidings were spread before ever you came back from the forest.’

The Duke let his mantle fall; the scowl had left his brow, but he looked to be in no very pleasant mood. ‘William, Harold Godwineson is forsworn, and reigns King in England this day.’

‘I know it,’ FitzOsbern answered. ‘What, did you place faith in him, beau sire?’

‘Too much,’ William said. He got up and began to pace about the hall. His eye fell upon the gentlemen by the door; he said impatiently: ‘Splendour of God, what make you here?’

‘Beau sire, give us leave to withdraw,’ Grantmesnil said hastily.

The Duke gave a short laugh, and continued to pace to and fro. The gentlemen went out; FitzOsbern tucked his hands in his jewelled belt, and said: ‘Seigneur, you are too greatly put about. By conquest shall you take England. What do you say, Raoul?’

Raoul was standing by one of the long trestle tables with his arms folded on his chest. He answered: ‘Nothing. The Duke knows my mind, and has known it these many days.’

William said over his shoulder: ‘Rest you, my friend, you shall have Elfrida for your warison.’

It was not thus he had planned to take her, yet what else remained? ‘Oh, if life were the easy concern we thought it in our grass-time!’ Raoul said wearily. He went slowly to the fire and stood staring down at the smouldering logs.

Behind him he heard the quick give-and-take of words between the Duke and FitzOsbern. The Seneschal was for putting matters in warlike train at once; in his imagination England’s crown was already on William’s head. He spoke of ships, of arms, and as he listened Raoul knew that one half of him strode ahead of FitzOsbern on that bloody campaign, striving to reach to the heart’s desire down a path lined with swords. What other way? None, he thought. Yet when he heard FitzOsbern urging the Duke to send his cartel of war to Harold that other half of him grew angry, and he turned, saying sharply: ‘O rash want-wit! When did William our Duke need urging into battle? Give gentler rede, or hold your peace. Spine of God, can you too see no more than victory?’