The Conqueror (36 page)

‘Eh, William!’ The Duchess rose quickly, her cheeks grown pale.

The Duke signed to Robert to leave them. ‘What, Mald, afraid?’

‘Why did you say that?’ She came up close to him, and laid her hands on his ringed tunic. ‘You will conquer. You have always conquered. William, my lord!’

‘I wonder?’ he said, with a kind of detached speculativeness. His arm encircled her, but he was looking beyond her.

She trembled; she had never known him unsure of himself before. ‘Do you doubt, beau sire? You?’ Her hands tugged at his shoulders.

He glanced down at her. ‘I know, my lass, that this will be my sternest fight. I am risking all upon this venture: life, and fortune, and my Duchy’s weal.’ He knit his brows together. ‘No, I do not doubt. This was foreseen.’

She faltered: ‘Foreseen?’

‘So I believe. My mother dreamed once when she was heavy with child and near her time that a tree grew up out of her womb, and stretched out its branches over Normandy and England till both lay cowering in their shadow. I am that tree, Matilda.’

‘I have heard tell of this,’ she said. ‘I think it was a holy vision, my lord, no sick woman’s fancy.’

‘Maybe.’ He bent and kissed her. ‘We shall soon know.’

The fleet was detained at the river-mouth for a month. Some of the vessels were found to be unseaworthy; the carpenters had not finished building the wooden castles which the Duke was carrying in separate parts to England, and armourers were still labouring day and night to fashion hauberks, and helmets, and tunics of mail. The soldiers grew restive; there were desertions, and pillaging raids were made upon the neighbouring countryside. The Duke punished malefactors by death, and confined the foot-soldiers to the camps, and the trouble died down.

Upon the twelfth day of September when all was at last in order, and a favourable wind blowing, the Duke bade farewell to Matilda, blessed his son, and went aboard the
Mora
with his Seneschal and his Cup-bearer, and attended by Raoul, Gilbert d’Aufay, and his Standard, Ralph de Toeni.

Watching from the narrow window of the house wherein she lodged ashore, Matilda’s straining eyes saw the banners slowly rising to the mastheads. The consecrated emblem of St Peter unfurled its rich colours against a clear sky; beside it the gold lions of Normandy fluttered bravely in the wind. The Duchess’s fingers gripped together, and she drew a deep sobbing breath.

‘The anchor is up!’ Robert said. ‘Lady, look! the
Mora
is moving! See how the oars dip in the water! Oh, if I were but aboard!’

She did not answer; the
Mora
was gliding down the stream, with banners flying, and the furled sails showing crimson against the masts.

‘My uncle of Mortain is next, on the
Bel Hasard
,’
said Robert. ‘Look, you can see his standard! And that is Count Robert’s ship, and that is the Viscount of Avranchin’s, close behind. Ho, how Richard and Red William will whine that they did not see this sight!’

Still she did not answer; it is doubtful if she heard him. Her eyes did not waver from the
Mora
;
she thought: He is gone. Mary Mother, give aid! give aid!

She stood motionless until the
Mora
had become a speck on the horizon. Robert, kneeling on a bench drawn up under the window, went on chattering and pointing, but she paid no heed to him. She was thinking how she might stitch this scene with threads to make a tapestry worthy of her skill. She would do it, she decided, she and her ladies, while they were left lonely and anxious in quiet Rouen. She began to plan. Pictures flitted across her mind’s eye: Harold swearing upon the relics at Bayeux; the Confessor dying; the Confessor buried – a very fine panel, this one, with the noble Abbey on one side, and a coffin borne by eight men upon the other. Her brain ran on; her eyes
gleamed. She would have Harold crowned too; she could see it all; how he should sit in the middle of the panel upon a throne, with false Stigand standing beside him with his hands outspread to bless. Stigand’s robes would need rich coloured threads; she would embroider them herself, and Harold’s face too: her ladies might work on the background, and the throne. And then there would be William’s preparations for the invasion, a difficult panel this, with arms, and mail-tunics, and stores being dragged to the ships; and after that she would stitch this day’s departure, choosing bright threads to show the glitter of shields, and good blue for the sea, and crimson for the
Mora
’s sails. It would take a long time, she thought, but the end should justify the labour. And if God were good there would be more panels to embroider: a battle, a crowning – if God were good.

Her gaze left the horizon; she took Robert’s hand in hers, and said in a calm voice: ‘Come, my son. We journey back to Rouen this day, for I have work to do there.’

Standing in the stern of the
Mora
,
Raoul was watching the coast of Normandy grow dim in the distance. FitzOsbern came to join him presently. ‘Well, we are away at last,’ he said comfortably. ‘The lodesman fears inclement weather, I am told, but it seems fair enough to me.’ He leaned on the gilded rail, and stared across the sea at the thin line of coast. ‘Farewell, Normandy!’ he said, jesting.

Raoul shivered.

‘Holà, are you cold, my friend?’ FitzOsbern inquired.

‘No,’ said Raoul curtly, and moved away.

They were sailing northwards, and at nightfall the wind, which had been rising steadily, was blowing half a gale. Heavy seas broke over the deck; the timbers groaned under the strain, and half-naked men with sweat and sea-water streaming off their backs were struggling to lower and furl the sails. They shouted to one another above the noise of the wind, and thrust better-born people out of their way with no ceremony at all.

FitzOsbern grew limp and strangely silent, and crawled away presently to be private in the throes of his sickness. D’Albini scoffed at him, but a roll larger than the rest sent him off in a hurry to join the Seneschal; Ives, the Duke’s page, curled himself into a miserable ball on his pallet in the cabin, and closed his eyes upon the heaving universe. He heard his master laugh, and shuddered, but he would not open his eyes, no, not even if the Duke bade him.

The Duke got up from his bed of skins, and wrapping a cloak of frieze about him made his way out on to the deck. Raoul and Gilbert were standing by the opening into the cabin, holding on to the sides for support. Raoul grasped the Duke’s arm. ‘Have a care, seigneur. Gilbert was all but tipped into this angry sea a minute ago.’

The Duke peered into the gloom. Lights bobbed on the water; he said: ‘We shall lose some of the smaller ships this night.’

Spray broke over them in a shower. ‘Beau sire, stay within the cabin!’ begged Raoul.

The Duke shook the wet out of his eyes
and hair. ‘I am staying where I am, Watcher – unless I am washed overboard,’ he added, clutching at a support.

The wind dropped just before dawn, and the grey light showed the sea the colour of lead, with a sullen swell lifting the
Mora
uneasily. The weary ships drifted towards St Valéry in Ponthieu, and cast anchor there.

It was nightfall before the Duke knew the extent of his loss. Several of the smaller craft had sunk, and some of the horses and stores had been washed overboard, but the damage was not serious. The Duke gave orders that dismal tidings should not be spread, and summoned up the ships’ masters and carpenters to learn from them what repairs must be effected before the fleet could put to sea again.

When these were done a fresh delay occurred to set men grumbling. The wind changed, and blew steadily from the north-east, so that no ship could reach to England from Ponthieu. Day followed day, and still the contrary wind blew. Men began to look askance upon the Duke, and to whisper that this voyage was against the will of God.

Foreboding seized many of the barons; there was an attempt at mutiny amongst the men-at-arms, and the uneasy whispers swelled to open condemnation.

The Duke showed no sign either of impatience or anxiety. He dealt with the mutineers in a summary fashion which put an end to overt demonstrations, and met his barons’ troubled looks with a cheerfulness that heartened them. But matters were beginning to look ugly, and after ten days spent in port he took the Count of Ponthieu into his confidence, and arranged an impressive ceremony for the benefit of his host.

The bones of the good Saint-Valéry were dug up, and carried in procession round the town. The Bishops of Bayeux and Coutances preceded them in their robes; a service was held, and the Saint invoked, and begged to change the wind, and thus declare the righteousness of the venture.

Hopeful, sceptical, a little awed, the host knelt, awaiting a sign. A hush fell upon the town; men stared towards the fluttering standards in the harbour; fingers were licked, and held up to test the wind. An hour crept by. The sun was a red ball sinking in the west. Men began to murmur; their voices sounded like the growl of some angry monster. Raoul stole a look at the Duke, and saw that he was kneeling with his hands together palm to palm, watching the death of the sun.

The glow faded; a chill of evening spread coldly over the kneeling ranks; the growl was growing louder, and from time to time a single voice could be heard raised in bitter mockery.

Suddenly FitzOsbern sprang up. ‘See!’ he cried, and pointed to the harbour. ‘The wind has dropped!’

Thousands of heads were turned; a breathless stillness lasted while a man might count to sixty. The standards were hanging slack from the mastheads; the wind had died with the sun.

The Duke took one quick look, and rose. ‘The Saint has spoken!’ he said. ‘Get to your ships! When tomorrow dawns, you shall find a favourable wind blowing to carry us over the sea to our goal.’

It seemed as though the Saint had indeed spoken. The next day was bright and clear, with a wind blowing steadily from the south-west. The fleet weighed anchor betimes, and sailed out of Saint-Valéry in good trim.

The fair weather gave the
Mora
a chance to show her superiority. By sundown she was well ahead of the other ships, and during the night she clean outstripped them.

In the morning an anxious deputation awoke the Duke with the tidings that the
Mora
was alone. He yawned, and said: ‘I would the Duchess might know how gallantly rode her ship.’

‘Lord, this is no jesting matter,’ De Toeni said seriously. ‘We fear that our ships have been intercepted by Harold’s fleet.’

The Duke said: ‘My good Ralph, I had certain tidings at Dives that the English fleet had been forced to put back into London to revictual. Send me my valet, and do not think you see a wolf at every turn.’

He came out of his cabin presently to find the barons gathered in an anxious group in the stern, trying to catch some glimpse of the sister vessels. He laughed at them, and they jumped round to find that he was munching his breakfast. He had a hunk of cold venison in one hand, and some cocket-bread in the other, and bit into each alternately.

D’Albini started towards him. ‘Seigneur, I implore you, let us turn back! We are defenceless here, and indeed we are sure there has been a mischance.’

The Duke said with his mouth full: ‘O faint heart, what abodement do you fear now? There has been no mischance; we have but outstripped the other vessels.’ His eye fell upon a sailor who was standing at some distance and watching him in great awe. He took another bite of the venison, tearing the meat away from the gristle with his strong teeth, and summoned up the man with a jerk of his head.

Thrust forward by his comrades, the sailor advanced nervously and knelt.

‘My man,’ said the Duke, ‘you cannot serve me in that posture. Up with you to that masthead, and let me know what you can see.’ He watched the sailor climb up the rigging, thrust the last morsel of bread into his mouth, and brushed his hands together to be rid of the crumbs.

D’Albini touched his arm. ‘Beau sire, it pleases you to be merry, but we, your servants, are much alarmed for your safety.’

‘I perceive that you are,’ said the Duke. He looked up at the masthead, and called: ‘Well, fellow. What tidings?’

‘Lord, I see only sky and sea!’ shouted the sailor.

‘Then we will heave-to,’ said the Duke. He looked up again. ‘When you see more than that, my man, you shall come and tell me.’

‘Seigneur!’ D’Albini sounded despairing.

‘Come to my cabin, Néel,’ said the Duke, taking Saint-Sauveur by the arm. ‘We will play a game of chess together, you and I.’

At noon the Duke’s dinner was spread upon a trestle-table on the deck. Several of his barons had no appetite, but the Duke ate heartily of some freshly-caught eels stewed in brewet, followed by hashed porpoise in frumenty, and brawn served with chibolls and Lombard mustard.

The
Mora
rocked lazily on the swell of the waters; at the masthead the sailor gave a sudden shout, and came clambering down to tell the Duke he could espy four vessels upon the horizon.

The Duke tossed him a gold piece. ‘You have sharp eyes, my friend. Keep a watch for more of my ships.’

FitzOsbern had started up from the table to gaze out across the water. ‘I can see nothing,’ he said.