The Conqueror Read online

  Upon the affair of Count Eustace at Dover Godwine had taken up arms in support of the injured citizens, and matters had for a while looked very ugly. The King in a hurry convened his nobles at Gloucester, but when Godwine and his sons appeared in force a few miles from the town and refused to attend the Convention without an army at their backs, Edward grew more than ever uneasy, and summoned a fresh Convention in London. London had a comfortable habit of loyalty. Thither came the nobles of the land, headed by Siward, the great Earl of Northumbria, and Leofric of Mercia, with his calm son Alfgar. These men looked on the power of Godwine’s brood with jealous eyes. With them in support King Edward pronounced sentence of banishment over the heads of Godwine and his two sons, Harold and Tostig. His eldest son, Swegn, had been banished some time before for various turbulent dealings that culminated in his abduction of no less a sacred person than an abbess. He was not felt to be a loss.

  At the same time as he triumphantly outlawed Godwine and his sons, Edward bethought himself that here was at last a good opportunity for putting away his Queen. He shut her in the nunnery of Wherwell, possessed himself of her treasure, and was able to feel himself more nearly a monk than he had done for many years. The lady made no complaint; possibly she knew her kindred well enough to be sure that though they fled now, they would very soon return. Earl Godwine set sail with Tostig for Flanders; but Harold, a man of independent habit, departed into Ireland with a few followers.

  Having succeeded in outlawing the two men who most troubled him, King Edward thought himself now secure. In a mood of uplifted complacency he cured a poor woman of an ulcerous sore by laying his hands upon her, and was more than ever convinced of his own miraculous powers.

  It was in such a mood of mild triumph that William found him. When the Duke of Normandy had been ushered with great ceremony into the King of England’s presence Edward had come down from the High Settle and clasped the Norman in his arms, and embraced him many times. With tears in his eyes he tried to trace a resemblance in this stern, handsome man to the impetuous boy he had parted from ten years before. He wandered into a reminiscent vein, as old men will do, and recalled many incidents of William’s childhood, from his birth onwards. The Duke smiled, gave him at least half of his attention, and kept the other half busy observing all that went on around him.

  At a convenient opportunity Edward related his news, not forgetting the healing of the ulcer. He was pathetically gleeful at what he conceived to have been his strong handling of the situation, and he looked with simple pride in himself at one who at the age of twenty-three had also a reputation for handling situations strongly.

  Approbation was clearly expected; William gave it, but a smile hovered round his mouth. In contradiction to this there was a look in his eyes that might almost have been a frown. He said slowly: ‘So I am not to meet Harold Godwineson.’

  Edward seemed to think this a matter for congratulation.

  Being somewhat deep in William’s confidence Raoul had very well understood the meaning of that shadow of a frown. William wanted to see Earl Harold, a warrior as famous in England as himself was famous through Europe. Knowing of that old promise made to William by Edward that if he died childless the Duke should be heir to his throne, Raoul suspected William of a desire to measure the man who might in the future play no small part in his life. The reason of William’s visit to England he could guess, and all these imaginings he thought fairly confirmed when he learned that they were to carry back to Normandy with them two close relatives of Harold, and one thegn of importance who held lands under him. Obviously then Harold nursed pretensions to the Crown of England, and Wlnoth, Hakon, and Edgar were hostages for his good behaviour.

  A rather cold feeling stole over Raoul. He peered into the future and could see only clouds veiling William’s destiny. They were thunderous, he thought, shot with swift lightning, like everything else in his life. He wished suddenly that Edward would beget an heir of his own body, for William belonged to Normandy. England was alien and unfriendly, a land of golden-haired dogged men who looked with sullen eyes upon all foreigners, and wore flowing locks and long beards like barbarians; who drank themselves to sleep at night; had little learning; lived in rude houses; and built mean towns. Raoul had heard that they were loose-living. A Norman at the Court of King Edward had told him several scandalous stories. It was said that when a noble got one of his bondwomen with child he would very often sell her into slavery to far Eastern merchants. Raoul only half-believed that, but he had not liked the Saxons, and he had been glad to see the white cliffs of Dover fading in the distance.

  He was roused by a hand on his shoulder. Looking round he found that the Duke had come silently out of the cabin. ‘You are wakeful too, beau sire,’ he said.

  The Duke nodded. He pulled his mantle close about him to ward off the cold breeze. ‘Very,’ he answered. His arm lay along the bulwarks, clasped by thick bracelets which shone gold in the moonlight. ‘I am for Flanders,’ he said abruptly.

  Raoul smiled at that. Two years ago, after the fall of Domfront, they had journeyed into Flanders, to the Court of Count Baldwin the Wise at Brussels, and there had set eyes on the Lady Matilda, my lord Count’s daughter. A strange thing had happened then. As the lady sat beside her father, her pointed face framed in the braids of her pale hair, and her hands clasped like white petals on her gown, she had raised her eyes to the Duke’s face, and observed him in a kind of aloof thoughtfulness. Her eyes were pools of light, hazel green. The Duke had stared back; Raoul, behind him, had seen how he stiffened, and had watched the slow closing of his hand. In one deep interchange of glances William had made up his mind. Later, in his chamber, he said: ‘I will make that lady Duchess of Normandy.’

  FitzOsbern blurted out: ‘Beau sire, she is already wedded to one Gherbod, a Fleming.’

  The Duke had thrown him a look of impatience, as at an irrelevancy. ‘She is the woman for me,’ he said crudely.

  FitzOsbern, disturbed to see the lion bent on stalking another beast’s prey, tried to interest him in the lady’s sister Judith, who was considered the more beautiful of the two. He dwelt upon the limpid blue of her eyes, and the richer curves of her body until he saw that the Duke was not listening to him. Matilda, a white slim lady, remote and inscrutable, had captured a heart no woman had touched before. The image of her face with its secret eyes and slow-curving smile glimmered day and night before the Duke’s hot vision.

  It was found upon inquiry that the lady was widowed, and had no mind to a second marriage. There was much dark work done, hints let fall, and evasive answers returned. The Duke swept back to Normandy, and announced to his Council his intention of taking a wife to himself. At this there was satisfaction to be seen on all but one face. The one belonged to Archbishop Mauger, who had his own reasons for wishing his nephew to die a bachelor. The Duke followed up his announcement by naming his intended bride. She was felt to be a sage man’s choice; her father was a haut prince, and powerful: to clasp hands of alliance with Flanders would be a politic thing for Normandy.

  Affairs began to move, but tentatively, in a manner unusual in the Duke’s dealings. Secret embassies journeyed to and fro between Rouen and Brussels and achieved small success. Count Baldwin returned answers that drove his neighbour into a fume of impatience. Not only was the lady too lately widowed to think of espousals, but there was also some question of affinity likely to be displeasing to the Church.

  Archbishop Mauger fell upon this with zeal. From him came the first check, on the grounds of Papal objections. In his opinion there could be no dispensation for such a marriage. No doubt he saw the way clear, knowing his nephew. The Duke rendered deep respect to the Church, and the tenacity of his nature might well lead him to remain a bachelor rather than wed any but the lady of his first love. A subtle man, Mauger, but he underrated the tenacity he thought he gauged so well.

  The lion began to show his teeth. The
Churchmen, all unconscious of gathering storm-clouds, met to discuss the problem, tossed in their minds between Mauger upon the one hand, and upon the other by that energetic half-brother of William, Odo, now Bishop of Bayeux. Lost in ecclesiastical argument the priests were blind to the signs of a rising anger in their Duke. When the wisest man in Europe, Lanfranc, Prior of the Abbey of Herluin at Bec, declared that the marriage was barred by the question of affinity, the storm-clouds burst with a clap of well-known thunder.

  If the Duke’s new-born love had been thought to soften him the message he sent to Bec dispersed that illusion. The messenger arrived with his horse in a foam, and bade Lanfranc, in the Duke’s name, remove from Normandy within three days.

  This was very black, and with any man but Lanfranc might have led to grave trouble. But Lanfranc knew his Duke. He heard the order in calm silence, and seemed to meditate within himself. His deep-set eyes travelled from one man to another of the messenger’s escort and presently lighted on the face he expected to see. He turned, and went back into the Abbey, and the man he had recognized slipped away from his comrades and followed the Prior to his cell by a back way. When he had knelt and kissed Lanfranc’s hand he stood up and looked the Prior full between the eyes. ‘You know our master, Father,’ was all he said.

  ‘Yea, well do I know him,’ Lanfranc said. ‘He is swift to anger, treading a troubled path.’

  ‘But his anger is swiftly over.’

  Lanfranc smoothed his cassock with one thin hand. His smile grew. ‘Do you bring me counsel, Raoul de Harcourt?’

  ‘Nay, who would be presumptuous enough to counsel Lanfranc? I say only that we take the eastern road tomorrow before dusk.’

  They looked at one another. ‘Go with God, my son,’ Lanfranc said gently.

  Upon the next day, in the afternoon, the Prior set forth on his journey into exile, very poorly attended, and mounted upon a galled jade. He took a road that seemed strange to the monks who accompanied him, but when they pointed a more direct path to him he replied in enigmatic words, and kept on his chosen way.

  After about an hour of leisurely riding a cavalcade was seen approaching at a pace that set up a cloud of dust. Lanfranc’s chaplain, greatly alarmed, whispered in his ear that ill-fortune had brought the Duke out upon this road. He was anxious to draw aside into the shade of a wood, but Lanfranc said meekly: ‘We will follow our road, and all shall be as God wills.’

  The cavalcade drew nearer, led by a figure there was no mistaking. Lanfranc held to the middle of the road, but reined in his sorry steed as the Duke came abreast of him. The big destrier stopped with a plunge and a snort. Monks and knights stood still behind their respective leaders. William was scowling. ‘Ha, Sacred Face!’ he said. ‘Are you not gone yet, proud priest?’

  ‘Beau sire,’ said Lanfranc, ‘I shall be gone the quicker if you find me a better horse.’

  The scowl did not lift yet, but a twinkle began to peep in the Duke’s eyes. ‘Lanfranc,’ he said, ‘you have gone too far, by God!’

  ‘Your horse for mine, beau sire, and I shall be further by nightfall.’

  ‘God’s feet, I am not to be baulked!’ William leaned forward in his saddle, and grasped the Prior’s bridle. ‘Turn, Lanfranc: you shall ride apart with me.’

  ‘Your way is none of mine, seigneur,’ Lanfranc answered, looking at him very steadily.

  ‘It shall be yet, I promise you. Are you against me Prior?’

  ‘By no means,’ Lanfranc said. ‘You are too hasty, my son.’

  ‘School me then, Father. Show me an honourable way to my desires and I will own myself a rogue to be in a heat with you.’

  ‘That is very easily done,’ said Lanfranc, and rode ahead with him on the way back to Bec.

  The upshot of all this was the departure of Lanfranc to Rome on the ducal business. He took leave of William on very excellent terms, and the Duke knelt to receive his blessing, and promised a penance for his fiery temper. Ostensibly Lanfranc travelled to Rome to take part in a great argument on Transubstantiation with one Bérengier. It was unfortunate for Bérengier to be pitted against the greatest scholar of his age, but he argued with spirit, and interminably. It was not a trivial matter to be lightly decided. It took five years to refute Bérengier, which was done at last at a Council of Tours. But that is to look ahead. At the start of this discussion Lanfranc had other and more pressing business to attend to. Bérengier with his false doctrines served as a cloak to hide secret matters.

  Thus affairs dragged on, and no definite answer came from Rome or from Flanders. The Duke went to England upon a visit to the Confessor, and since he spoke no word of it men thought that he had put by his thought of marriage. But on the heaving ship, with England lying behind him in the darkness he said to Raoul, abruptly: ‘I am for Flanders.’

  Raoul answered, smiling: ‘We believe you to have given up that business, beau sire.’

  ‘Ha, do you think so, Raoul?’

  ‘No, not I. But you have other ambitions beside that have lately grown large,’ Raoul said significantly.

  William glanced towards the hostages. ‘You heard a promise confirmed to me by King Edward. I am to have England.’

  ‘I heard,’ Raoul said slowly. ‘But is there no other word than his to that?’

  ‘Yea, by the Christ! Mine!’ said William.

  ‘Beau sire, there is the Atheling Edward, and his son after him, who have nearer claims. There is Harold Godwineson, whom the Saxons love.’

  ‘England will go to the strongest hand,’ said William. ‘Trust me: I look ahead.’

  ‘And I,’ Raoul said a little sadly. ‘There will be bloody work done over this. What of our Normandy?’

  For a moment William made him no answer. Raoul saw him frowning out to sea, his eyes fixed hawk-like upon some far-off goal. Still looking into the distance he said: ‘While I live I can hold at bay France and Anjou, both hungry for my lands. After me, soon or late, France will swallow all, and my race will perish, drowned in the tide of Frenchmen. I tell you I will carve for Normandy a fresh holding, a kingdom for my ancestor Rollo’s dukedom; a land guarded by the sea and no fickle border fortresses; a land where my race and my name shall endure.’

  ‘England not France would then swallow Normandy,’ Raoul said.

  ‘Maybe. But by God’s death there will be Normans still!’

  Silence fell between them. At last Raoul said: ‘And there is Harold, the son of Godwine, a great leader of men, so they say; himself a man of large desires.’ He jerked his head towards the sleeping hostages. ‘Do you think to hold him on that slender rein, beau sire?’

  ‘Holy Face, not I!’ William said, with a laugh. ‘Cousin Edward would have me take them. No harm.’

  ‘I wish we had seen Earl Harold,’ Raoul said reflectively. ‘By all accounts he is a man.’

  ‘A false brood,’ William answered. ‘One I have caged.’ He nodded to where they could see Wlnoth’s fair head lying on a reindeer-skin. ‘Be sure I shall hold fast. But five remain: Swegn, Harold, Tostig, Gyrth and Leofwine. Two are boys yet, but Godwine’s blood runs hot in their veins. One, Swegn, is an incontinent dog, a wolf’s head, a violator of holy abbesses; let be for him: he will spin his own winding sheet. Another, Tostig, runs wasting like a boar with foam on his tushes: if he runs not on his own doom, and that a bloody one, trust me never. The last is Harold, whom we did not see. God will judge between us when the time comes. Edward fears him; Edward is hard-driven.’ His mouth curled. ‘King of England!’ he said contemptuously. ‘King of England, holy saints!’

  A voice spoke out of the shadows. ‘With leave, only one holy saint, brother. “King, King, here is a strong force marching against you,” saith the Confessor’s councillors. “Softly, good friends,” mumbles the Saint. “Here is more urgent matter.” And straight he lays his hands upon a serf’s filthy sores,
and falls at his prayers. Thus your King, brother.’ Galet came into the light, and postured, and smirked.

  ‘Jest not at holiness,’ William said sternly. ‘God knows Edward performs great miracles.’

  ‘Yea, but not the greatest miracle of getting his good wife with child to rule after him,’ grinned Galet. ‘Will you fill your time at home with healing lepers, brother?’

  ‘I have not the power, fool.’

  ‘Alack that you have so little saintliness!’ said Galet. ‘It is a great thing to be a saint. Cousin Edward spends his days in prayer and his nights in dreaming holy vision. Pity the poor Queen! “Will you get you a fine son to be King after you, sweetheart?” – “Fie, fie!” cries Cousin Edward, “I am too chaste for such snug dealings.” So he tells his beads over, and prays God and His Mother to bless his continence, and leaves his England like a bone betwixt two hounds. There will be a merry dog-fight before all is done.’

  A gleam of white teeth showed in the moonlight. The Duke was smiling, but he said only: ‘You know too much, friend Galet. Pay heed lest I cut off your ears.’

  ‘Well, well!’ said the fool, ‘I must then journey a second time into England and have the Confessor lay his hands on me. A noble pair of ass’s ears would spring under them, I promise you.’

  ‘Enough of that!’ the Duke said curtly. He swung an end of his mantle over one shoulder, and moved away across the deck. ‘I am for bed,’ he said with a yawn. ‘Come with me, Raoul.’

  The fool’s laughter followed him. ‘Yea, go sleep on your pallet at his side, Raoul,’ he said. ‘Soon comes a day when there will be no place for you in William’s chamber. “I am for bed, wife,” will say William; and anon: “Kennel, Raoul, kennel for you.”’

  They both laughed at that, but the Duke’s laughter changed quickly to a frown. In his cabin he flung himself down on the bed, and stared up at the swinging lantern with his hands crossed behind his head. ‘That, last arrow was not aimed so ill,’ he said.