The Conqueror (6 page)

William’s hawk-gaze swept the hall. He advanced into the middle of the floor, and knelt stiffly, looking into the King’s face.

Henry rose from his chair, and came down from the dais with his hands held out, and a smile that was a little twisted on his thin lips. ‘Fair cousin, we cry you welcome.’ He raised the Duke, and embraced him. ‘You come in haste who send us no word to expect you,’ he said, watching the Duke under his eyelids.

‘Sire, as my need is desperate so is my haste,’ William answered, coming more swiftly to the point than the Frenchman liked. ‘I am here to solicit aid from France in my Duchy.’

Henry shot a quick look at Eudes, his brother. Then his eyes were veiled again, and he said gently: ‘What dire need is this, cousin?’

Briefly William told his story, and at the end folded his arms across his chest, and stood awaiting the King’s reply, never taking his eyes from that secret face.

The French nobles were whispering amongst themselves, covertly scrutinizing the straight figure before the King. William topped Henry by half a head and was built on lines that made the King look puny. He was dressed very simply in a tunic trimmed with gold, with his sword at his side, and his mantle hanging from his shoulders to his heels. Solid golden bracelets clasped his powerful forearms, and his cloak was fastened on his shoulder by a jewelled fibula. His head was bare, so that his strong, dark face could be seen by everyone in the hall. He stood squarely, and motionless, yet nothing about him argued repose.

Henry plucked at his gown for a moment, pinching the rich stuff between his fingers. ‘We must speak more particularly of this, cousin,’ he said at last. ‘After we have dined you shall give me your company.’

At the end of the council that was held all the afternoon in the audience chamber above the hall it was agreed that Henry should march into Normandy at the head of a French army, and upon a day appointed meet William with such ducal troops as he could raise. The Duke swept him along on the tide of his will; the French nobles caught the infection of his energy: the King found that his council was being swayed by his young vassal, himself driven relentlessly on whither he only half wanted to go.

Upon the following day the Duke was gone again, as abruptly as he had come. The King watched his departure from one of the windows, thoughtfully stroking his long upper lip. At his side his brother Eudes said with a laugh: ‘By the Host, the Bastard seems to be a man, sire!’

‘Yea,’ Henry said slowly. ‘He must be bound to me more closely yet.’

‘So we march to aid him against his rebels, brother. Is that how it runs?’

‘Maybe, maybe,’ the King muttered. ‘I can use him, I think. Yes, I have work for the Bastard.’

Four

The Duke’s cavalcade rode into Rouen again to find it seething with armed men. The streets seemed to resound with the clash of steel, and the sun was bright on polished shields and the hauberks of the knights. The Duke’s faithful vassals were pouring in in answer to his summons to war. From Caux and Brai they came, day after day; from the Evrecin and the Vexin, from Roumois and Lieuvin, while messengers rode in at all hours with promises from Perche and Ouche, Hiesmes and Auge, to join the Duke on his march westward.

A large company met the Duke on his entry into the town. Raoul saw his overlord, Roger de Beaumont, and guessed that his father and perhaps one or both of his brothers were in his train. There were many others, and amongst them a tall man whom the Duke embraced very warmly. This was Count Robert of Eu. He was accompanied by his younger brother William, called Busac, and by a numerous train of followers.

Barons great and small thronged the palace. There was De Gournay, wise in war, with his boon comrade Walter Giffard, the arm-gaunt Lord of Longueville; young De Montfort; William FitzOsbern, the Duke’s Seneschal; the Lords of Crevecoeur and Estouteville, of Briquebec, Mortemer, and Roumare, all with their meinies, all bristling in hardiment. Day after day they streamed into Rouen, hounds straining at the leash, a leash held taut between a young man’s fingers.

‘Not bad, not bad!’ Hubert de Harcourt grunted, watching William de Warenne ride into the town at the head of his men. ‘But for every man of ours I’ll be bound the Viscount of Côtentin has two.’ He shook his head, glooming. ‘Do you see the Lords of Moyon and Magneville? Do you see Drogon de Manceaux, or Gilbert Montfiquet? Where are the Lords of Cahagnes and Asnières? What word comes from Tournières? Where is Saint-Sever? Where is Walter de Lacy? We shall pit our might against theirs on the day appointed. You will not see them before, by my head!’

Feeling ran high against Grimbauld the traitor. The little loyal band of men who had followed the Duke to Valognes had rejoined him at Rouen, hot for revenge on the villain who had drugged them.

Beside William, Count Robert and Hugh de Gournay advised, but he outstripped them. A demon of energy seemed to possess him; they panted behind him in the spirit even as Raoul panted in the body. Boy followed boy now in right earnest. In a night, the night of a wild ride, a queer bond of amity had sprung up between the Duke and the youngest of his knights. Raoul rode behind William, slept at his door, attended him to his council, even carried his gonfanon when he galloped down the lines of his troops. Men lifted their brows; some sneered; some looked jealously, but he cared nothing for that while the Duke’s imperative voice called a dozen times in a day: ‘Raoul!’

His father was puffed up with pride in the favour shown to his youngest born, and could not at all understand how it was that Raoul himself showed no signs of a reasonable conceit. That Raoul had no ambition beyond his burning desire to serve the Duke was a matter of astonishment to him, and some misgiving. Respect for William he could comprehend now that he had seen the Duke at work, but that Raoul should lay his boy’s heart with all its hoarded store of dreams at William’s feet seemed to him a strange unwholesome business. He frowned over it, and growled: ‘Sacred Face! lads were made of sterner stuff in my day!’

The ducal army rode westwards to meet the French, passing Pont Audémer on the Risle, and crossing the Touque at Pont l’Evêque. Here and at other points along the march they were joined by reinforcements led by the barons from outlying districts. From day to day the Duke’s scouts brought him word of the French King’s advance. He had crossed the Frontier at Verneuil at the head of his levies, and marched to Hiesmes by way of Echaufour, and was on his way north through Auge to meet the Duke at Valmérie, a league to the south of Argences, and hard by the camp of the rebels on the plain of Val-es-dunes.

William crossed the Méance at the ford of Berengier, north of Val-es-dunes. Not a baron in his army but had his gonfanonier at his side. Gonfanons and knights’ pennons stretched out in the breeze, a medley of proud colours led by the gold lions that waved over William’s head. The poor folk crowded out of Argences to watch the host ride by. There were open mouths and round eyes, and men nudged one another, and whispered: ‘There he rides! That is the Duke, he on the black destrier. Jesu! but he looks older than his years!’

A girl’s voice cried shrilly: ‘God aid, beau sire! Death to your grace’s enemies!’

There was a cheer, a shout of ‘God aid! God aid!’ The Duke rode by looking straight between Malet’s ears.

The French had heard Mass at Valmérie at daybreak, and marched out to Val-es-dunes, where the rebel army was drawn up along the bank of the Méance. Over the high ground at Argences rode the ducal troops, and saw at their feet the plain of Val-es-dunes, without hill or valley or wood, sloping gently to the east in wind-swept bareness.

‘A fine place for fighting,’ remarked Count Robert, riding abreast of William. ‘Néel has chosen his ground well, by the Host!’

Raoul looked at the silver gleam of the river, and thought: There will be blood on the water, and dead men floating down the stream. Who of us shall wake to-morrow?

It was plain no such misgiving crossed the Duke’s mind. He spurred his horse to a gallop, as though eager to come upon the field of battle. Verceray leaped after, and the wind unfurled the gonfanon Raoul carried, and showed the lions golden on a blood-red ground.

The King of France rode out from his lines to meet the Duke. One of his nobles accompanied him; he wore a red mantle over his ringed tunic.

Everything is red today, Raoul thought. And shall be redder yet, God wot!

Verceray stamped restlessly, and champed at the bit; the wind shivered the silken gonfanon, and bent the grass underfoot in flitting shadows. Raoul looked towards the rebel army, drawn up in battle array at some distance. There too standards fluttered aloft, and the sun caught the tips of a wood of spears, so that they flashed dazzling points of light. The quiet plain stretched as far as the eye could see, and the Méance ran on untroubled, crooning its song. Suddenly Raoul found himself wishing that this tranquillity might remain unspoiled; in his mind he could see the ground torn up under the charging horses’ hooves, and dead, bleeding men lying on the river banks; and hear, drowning the twitter of birds, the shouts and the groans and the clash of battle. He gave himself a shake, for these were womanish fancies, and men were born, after all, to fight. He fixed his eyes upon the Duke again, who was sitting with one hand on his hip, and his head bent towards the King.

Henry was pointing to a band of horsemen, nobly caparisoned, who held apart alike from the rebel troops and the ducal army. ‘Do you know who those men may be, cousin?’ he asked. ‘They rode up a short space before yourself, and stand thus aloof. On whose side will they fight?’

William put up his hand to shade his eyes from the sun, and looked under it at the gonfanon fitfully displayed in the wind. ‘On my side, I think, sire,’ he answered. ‘That is the emblem of Raoul Tesson, the Lord of Turie-en-Cingueliz, and he has no quarrel or cause of anger with me.’

There was a movement in the little troop, and a man was seen to come out, and ride at a canter towards the ducal army.

‘Raoul Tesson comes himself,’ William said, still shading his eyes. He spurred Malet forward in front of the lines to meet the solitary rider, and sat watching under bent brows Tesson’s approach.

The Lord of Cingueliz came up with a shout of ‘Turie!’ that rang out fiercely across the plain. His mantle floated behind him, and he had a glove clenched in his right hand. He reined in his destrier with a jerk. ‘Hail, Duke of Normandy!’ he said, and no man who heard him knew whether he mocked or no. His bright eyes looked full into William’s.

‘What do ye want of me, Raoul Tesson?’ the Duke said calmly.

The Lord of Cingueliz rode up close. The Duke sat unmoved, but Raoul, anxiously watching, loosened his sword in the scabbard. ‘This!’ said the Lord of Cingueliz, and his right hand came up, and he struck the Duke across the cheek with the glove he held. He laughed harshly. ‘It is done!’ he said, and reined back.

There had come a growl of menace from the Duke’s men behind him; spears were couched; there was a movement to press forward. The Duke flung up his hand to check the rush. His eyes did not waver from Tesson’s face.

Tesson cast an unconcerned glance at the angry barons, and looked smiling back at William. ‘What I have sworn to do I have done,’ he said in a clear voice that carried far. ‘I have acquitted myself of my oath to strike a blow at you wherever I should find you. Henceforth, beau sire, I will do you no other wrong, nor ever raise my hand against you.’ He touched his helmet in a stiff salute, and wheeled his destrier to ride back to his waiting men.

The Duke laughed. ‘Thanks be to you, Raoul Tesson!’ he called after him, and rode back to King Henry’s side.

‘That was well done, by my head!’ Henry said, kindling. ‘They are fierce dogs, those men of Normandy.’

‘You shall soon judge of that, sire,’ the Duke promised.

Heralds from either side rode out, and back again. The Normans, led by William in person, the Counts of Arques and Eu, and the Sieur of Gournay, were on the right wing; the French, with their King and the Count of Saint-Pol at their head, formed the left wing. Facing them, the men of Bessin followed the gonfanon of Ranulf of Bayeux; and the wild Côtentin troops chafed behind Néel de Saint-Sauveur, he whom men called
Noble Chef de Faucon.
Raoul saw his standard, azure and argent, gleaming blue across the plain, and marked how he bestrode a restless destrier, and how his lance glittered as it caught the light.

He wound Verceray’s bridle about his wrist, and took a firmer grip on the gonfanon he carried. He felt breathless, as though he had been running hard, and the blood drummed unpleasantly in his ears. His lips were dry; he licked them, and prayed that he might bear himself as became the Duke’s knight, in this his first fight.

The sharp order to charge rang out, and he saw Malet bound forward, and followed close. Suddenly he was excited, not breathless any more, and not afraid.

The thunder of hooves was all about him; a great roan head drew abreast of him; he caught the swirl of a blue mantle, and the hard glitter of a shield, but his attention was fixed on the man who rode Malet so furiously into battle. Ahead of them the opposing troops were galloping towards them. Raoul wondered what would happen when the crash of meeting came. A shout of many voices dinned in his ears; he found that he too was yelling: ‘Dex Aie! Dex Aie!’

The noise of hooves grew louder as charge answered charge. Borne on the wind came the cry of the men of Bessin: ‘Saint-Sever! Sire Saint-Sever!’ and the clarion call of Hamon-aux-Dents, roaring out: ‘Saint-Amant! Saint-Amant!’

The two armies came together with a crash that brought both sides to a jarring halt. Shield clashed against shield; in a tight pack men hacked and hewed, and the maddened destriers struck out with their plunging, steel-shod hooves. There was a man down, trampled under foot; Raoul heard him scream, and gritted his teeth. His grasp was sticky on the shaft of the gonfanon, his arm fast in the enarmes of his big kite-shaped shield. He forced Verceray on after the Duke, struggling through the press. Someone cried out that the King was down; there was a scuffle ahead; the Duke drove his lance home with all his great strength, and a horse fell. Raoul saw its red distended nostrils as it sank, and the terror in the dilating eyes. Then that faded, and he was warding off a spear-thrust with his shield. Verceray reared up before a man on foot who was desperately fighting with his lance among the slain. Raoul wrenched the big horse aside, and cut downwards with his sword. Blood spurted up over his leg; he swept on, over the dead, hacking his way to the Duke’s side.

‘Saint-Sever! Sire Saint-Sever!’ With a howl the man who shouted slashed at the gonfanon Raoul guarded so jealously. Raoul’s sword whirled aloft and hissed down through the air in a flash of deadly blue steel. The gonfanon was safe still, and a rebel went armless. Raoul shook the sweat out of his eyes, and shouted: ‘Death! Death!
Le bon temps viendra!
’

A man drove at him in a wild charge; he flung up his shield, and saw Grimbauld de Plessis’ dark face, with a smear of blood across one cheek. Then Hubert de Harcourt’s spear took Grimbauld unawares, and knocked him out of the saddle. Hubert was shouting: ‘Dex Aie!’ and ‘Yield, yield, false knight!’ Raoul saw his brother Eudes press forward; then he himself swept on, waving the gonfanon, close beside the Duke.

William was fighting with an energy that seemed untiring. Foam from Malet’s mouth spattered his person; his helmet was dented from some glancing thrust, but under it his eyes were sparkling. He had thrown away his lance and fought now with his sword, hand to hand with Hardrez, the finest warrior of Bayeux. The veteran’s sword clanged against his; he yelled out his lord’s battle-cry of ‘Saint-Amant!’ and as he shouted the Duke’s blade beat his down, and the point was driven home to his unprotected throat. Blood gushed over his tunic; he fell with no more than a gurgle, and a riderless horse plunged desperately in the mêlée.

For how long the skirmish lasted Raoul did not know. He kept beside the Duke with a kind of bloodthirsty tenacity, snarling between his clenched teeth as he guarded the gonfanon from the many attacks made upon it. It was bloodstained and foam-flecked and the shaft was greasy in his hand, but it waved still over the Duke’s head.