The Conqueror Page 8

  ‘Nay, lord, nay; but here we die like rats in a hole.’

  Guy huddled on his bed, gripping his mantle round him with twitching fingers. ‘Gayter la mort, gayter la mort!’ he muttered. His eyes, fever-bright, peered at the men about him. He gave a cracked silly laugh. ‘Eh, do you mock me, skeletons all?’ He was taken by a fit of shivering. ‘Skeletons from Val-es-dunes!’ he said, panting. ‘I know you, by God’s death! What, do you fleer at me? Dead men! dead men!’ He hid his face, and broke into hard sobbing.

  They succoured him as they could. He lay still on his bed, staring up at the rafters, heeding none, but raving to himself in a monotonous, dreadful voice that stretched the nerves of those who heard him to snapping point.

  Snow covered the ground and thin ice floated on the river when the end came. They brought the keys of Briosne to the Duke on the end of a lance, abasing themselves before him. He said only: ‘Let Guy of Burgundy come before me.’

  Guy came, carrying a saddle on his back in token of submission. He walked with difficulty, staggering under a load too heavy for his wasted limbs to support. At the Duke’s feet Galet brayed, and said: ‘Turn your ass out to grass, brother: it is a galled beast.’

  He was kicked sprawling. ‘Hold your peace, fool!’ the Duke said with a rasp in his voice. He strode up to Guy who knelt, awaiting judgment, and lifted the saddle from his shoulders, and heaved it away with a crash. ‘Stand up, cousin, and hear what I have to say to you!’ he commanded, and set his hand under Guy’s elbow, and raised him.

  Guy’s followers crept up to kiss the Duke’s hand when he had done speaking; the sentence was one of mercy: pardon for the lesser men; no more than confiscation of his lands for Guy, who was declared to be no longer a vassal of Normandy, but bidden, in a gentler voice, consider himself still the guest of his cousin.

  Guy found it hard to speak; he moved his lips soundlessly; a tear rolled sluggishly down his cheek. The Duke summoned up FitzOsbern with a jerk of his head. ‘Take him away,’ he said. ‘Let him be housed with all honour.’ He clapped Guy lightly on the shoulder. ‘Go, cousin,’ he said. ‘You have nothing to fear from me, I promise you.’

  Later, when opportunity served, Raoul kissed his hand, kneeling.

  William looked down at him with a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘How now, Raoul?’

  ‘Beau sire, I have seen your strength, and your justice, but now I see your mercy.’

  William pulled his hand away. ‘Pish! Am I a cat to worry a dead mouse?’ he said disdainfully.

  Guy of Burgundy stayed till spring in the Court at Rouen, but it was plain he wished himself otherwhere. When the last snow melted on the hungry fields he craved leave to depart out of Normandy, and this being granted went away to his own land, a disappointed man.

  With the spring came the promised call from King Henry. King Henry sent to summon his vassal to aid him in a war against Geoffrey Martel, Count of Anjou.

  His need was urgent. A man labouring always under the conceit that his deserts were greater than his holdings, Martel had already caused some disturbance amongst his neighbours. The Counts of Chartres and Champagne could bear witness to this, and did so, with a great deal of noise. Maine, Normandy’s neighbour, lay under his heel, for he was guardian to the young Count Hugh and exercised his right to the full. Having vanquished and imprisoned for a space the noble Counts of Chartres and Champagne, he took it into his head he might become greater yet, and set about the matter very drastically. In the spring of the year he renounced his homage to King Henry, and followed up this gesture of defiance by marching into Guienne and Poictiers. After several engagements he seized the persons of both Counts, and held them prisoners until such time as they should be forced to agree to his demands. These were extortionate, but there was no hope for the Counts but in surrender. It was thought a significant thing when the Count of Poitou died four days after his release. Guienne survived: maybe he drank from another cup. Martel asserted claims to Poictiers and married – by force, some said – a relative of the dead count. Thus matters stood when King Henry sent for the Wolf of Normandy.

  At the head of his chivalry Duke William marched over the Frontier into France. Once more men who lived for little else put on their harness, and swore by the Mass that if that was the Duke’s temper he was a ruler after their own hearts.

  What King Henry made of it he kept carefully to himself, but it was surely now that he conceived his undying jealousy of his young vassal. If he had called on William only to fight under his direction he was soon to find who was the real leader of the expedition. It was Willam’s word that carried the day; it was he who laid an unerring finger on weak places in the King’s plans, and did not hesitate to condemn schemes that seemed a waste of time to his soldierly mind. King Henry might hide his chagrin under a silken smile; the French barons might glower their jealousy: William was left unmoved. They came to hate him, those proud Frenchmen, for his quick brain that outstripped theirs; for his clear foresight; for his reckless daring in the field, which cast the bravest of them in the shade; and most of all for the uncomfortable personality he had. All through his life men were to fear him and find it hard to meet the direct stare he bent upon them. Thus early the French were made aware of the ruthless strength of his will. The truth was he never swerved from his purpose, and would go to any lengths to achieve it. Own him master and he would be your good friend; oppose him and there could be only one outcome.

  ‘Jesu, he is stark!’ Roger de Beaumont said. ‘What shall come of it? I fear him, I promise you. Yea, I fear greatly. He is like no other man I have known. When is he weary? When does he ail? Bones of God, when will he fail of his purpose? Never, I believe! Eh, but he is hard!’

  But they were proud of him, the men who fought under his gonfanon. Prowess in arms was the surest road to a Norman heart, and feats beyond their imaginings William showed them. His men boasted of him, and told how he was first through the breach at Meulan, slaying with his own hand no less than three stout warriors in his impetuous rush; how he lost his bodyguard in a wild chase through dim forests, and how they found him after frenzied search, accompanied by four knights, and driving a score of prisoners before him. His fame spread. King Henry suggested with gentle concern that he risked his life too often. He spoke to deaf ears. A demon of recklessness possessed this Fighting Duke.

  When the war was ended, and Martel had slunk snarling back to his kennel in Anjou, King Henry hid his jealousy beneath a smiling front, and very warmly thanked Normandy for his aid, speaking fair words, and embracing him right cousinly. Maybe he guessed that Martel was already planning vengeance on the stripling who had done so grievously by him, and so was able to smile with a good grace. They parted with expressions of friendship; the Frenchman went home to nurse his spite; and the Norman marched back to his Duchy to find it exultant over his victorious return and very ready to live at peace with him.

  His fame had spread over Western Europe. From Guienne and Gascony, even from kings in far Spain came gifts of splendid destriers, and messages that were panegyrics on his skill and his courage. In one short trial of arms the Bastard of Normandy was become the hero of Europe.

  For a space peace reigned in Normandy, but Martel was not the man to let injuries go unavenged. Suddenly, without declaration of war, he struck a shrewd blow at Normandy’s pride. Marching up through Maine he seized the castle of Domfront, built by Duke Richard the Good, invested it, and swept on over the Frontier to the Norman border town of Alençon on the Sarthe. The town made no resistance, the Castle very little. Martel left a garrison there, laid waste the surrounding country, and returned home in triumph, carrying his plunder.

  This time Duke William asked no aid of France. Leaving Alençon to the east of him he did what no one had expected, and appeared before Domfront a full week before they had thought to see him there. Such swift methods shocked the garrison: they contrived to s
end word to their Count, and looked down uneasily from their craggy height at the Duke’s preparations for a siege.

  There was no taking Domfront by assault. High on its rocky hill it stood, scowling over the valley of the Mayenne, impregnable and massive. The garrison took heart of grace, and talked of the day that should see Martel advancing to their relief.

  Meanwhile the Duke established a blockade, and occupied his time between riding out to intercept supplies trying to reach the castle, and hunting in the forests near by. It was upon one of these expeditions that he was cut off by a party that had made a sortie from the castle for that purpose.

  ‘Treachery, by God!’ FitzOsbern cried.

  ‘Very like,’ said William. ‘We will try our strength against these bold chevaliers.’

  Roger de Montgoméri blurted out: ‘Beau sire, they outnumber us five to one.’

  A challenging look was directed at him. ‘Ha, do you fear them?’ asked the Duke. ‘Who follows me?’

  ‘If you must go, beau sire, be sure we all follow you,’ growled De Gournay. ‘But, before God, it is madness!’

  ‘If we do not scatter this rabble, trust me never!’ said William, and led them over the wooded ground at the gallop.

  Scatter the troop they did. They fell upon the Angevins almost before they were aware, and fought with such fury that the troop broke before their onslaught, and was chased back to the very foot of the castle hill.

  ‘Was it madness, Hugh?’ the Duke said, with a twinkle.

  ‘Beau sire, I am very sure that a devil rides you,’ De Gournay answered frankly.

  ‘I am very sure,’ murmured Raoul, ‘that the Count of Anjou thinks so, and fears it. Still he comes not!’

  But the reason for Martel’s delay was otherwise explained. At dusk one evening word was brought to the Duke’s camp of a troop seen approaching at the gallop, led by one who waved an azure and argent gonfanon.

  The Duke’s eyes narrowed. ‘Néel de Saint-Sauveur,’ he said. ‘Well.’ He looked at FitzOsbern. ‘I shall see now whether I was mistaken in my man. If he comes in peace bring him in to me, William.’

  FitzOsbern went out, agog with curiosity. The Duke looked at Raoul. ‘I want this man,’ he said. ‘Now we shall see if I can win him to me or no.’

  There came the long winding of a horn, the trample of hooves, and presently the sound of voices, and of footsteps.

  The tent-flap was swung back; the Viscount of Côtentin came in briskly with a swirl of his blue mantle, and dropped on his knee before the Duke, looking straight into his eyes.

  For a moment the Duke returned the gaze, saying nothing. Then he spoke: ‘What now, Chef de Faucon?’

  ‘Seigneur, I bring you two hundred horse out of Penthièvre,’ Néel answered. ‘I come from Anjou, hot-foot.’

  ‘What made you there, Néel the Rebel?’

  ‘Ill work for Martel, seigneur,’ Néel said, with the flash of a smile.

  ‘So!’ said the Duke. There was a gleam at the back of his eyes; the corners of his mouth began to lift.

  ‘Seigneur, a year back I did you grievous wrong. I have sought to repay.’

  ‘Is it your work that Martel holds off from me yet?’ William asked.

  ‘Mine, beau sire. I have done some small damage in Anjou, as I think. Now I come to you, my life in my hands.’

  The smile curled the Duke’s mouth fully now. ‘I have a place about me for such a man as you, Néel,’ he said. ‘My thanks: I am well repaid.’ He looked towards the Seneschal.

  ‘FitzOsbern, let fitting quarters be given to the Viscount of Côtentin.’

  Néel rose up quickly. ‘Seigneur!’ he said unsteadily.

  ‘Take back your lands of me, Chef de Faucon,’ William said. He got up, and came round the corner of the table with his hand held out. ‘Let the past lie dead: I would rather have you for my friend than for my foe.’

  The Viscount bent and kissed his hand. ‘Seigneur, I am your man,’ he promised, low, and turned, and went out without another word.

  The Duke lifted an eyebrow in Raoul’s direction. ‘I can sometimes win men,’ he said, ‘even though they call me stark.’

  After this, news was soon brought of Martel’s approach. Doubtless the Castle garrison soon got wind of it, and lifted up their hearts. As for William, he sent out his Seneschal and young Roger de Montgoméri with an escort to meet Anjou and learnt his business. These two heralds came back in a bristle of vanity, and told faithfully what had befallen.

  It seemed they rode up, waving the herald’s banner, and were taken straight before the Count himself. They found him swollen with arrogance, and reported him to be a man of full habit of body, with veins that rose up on his forehead when he was enraged. He greeted them with proud words, displeasing to them, and bade them tell their master he would meet him in battle upon such a day. Then, being enflamed by his own choler, and (said FitzOsbern) fretted by the maggot of vainglory that ate his brain, he burst out in a loud voice to tell them how the upstart of Normandy might know him upon the field of battle, by the red mantle he would wear, and the housings of his destrier.

  This was to add fuel to a growing fire, as may be supposed. Without pausing to consider William FitzOsbern retaliated in kind. He said that in his turn the Duke would wear the purple of his high standing, and a circlet round his helm, and bestride a bay stallion sent to him by a King of Spain.

  ‘Furthermore, seigneur,’ FitzOsbern told, ‘we said that if he were still in doubt he might know you by the golden lions that waved about your head, and by the stout warriors who gathered round you, very hot to avenge the insults sustained by you. I believe it to have been well said. I marked him to change colour.’

  ‘For my part,’ said young Roger, ‘I believe it was not the answer he looked for. He seemed much put out, and chewed his beard, and glanced about him this way and that.’

  Galet looked up from his seat in a corner of the tent, and said: ‘Why, the dog of Anjou is a great one for barking. Take a whip out and you will see him slink back to his kennel.’

  So it proved indeed. The Duke led out his army upon the term-day, but got no word of Anjou. It was heard later that he had withdrawn his troops in haste, and was marching homewards with a strong rearguard. He was the first of many to prefer an ignoble retreat to a meeting in arms with Duke William of Normandy.

  What Domfront made of it no one knew. As for William he gave his sardonic laugh and returned to the business of reducing the Castle.

  Martel having put himself out of court, as it were, the Duke leaped into one of his sudden swift actions. Leaving a small force at Domfront he led the remainder of his troops on a night ride to Alençon. He went by way of Menhendin and Pointel, and an arduous business he made of it. His chevaliers sweated behind him; some fell out on the road upon foundered horses, but the bulk kept on doggedly, setting their teeth in a determination not to be outdone by the tireless man who led them.

  They appeared before Alençon in the morning light, grimed and sweat-stained; and stared through the lifting mist across the river at the town which lay beyond. The town itself was unfortified, but the Castle, with its straight road leading down to the gate-tower over the bridge of the Sarthe, governed all. Above its crenellated battlements floated the standard of Anjou.

  ‘Wine of Christ, if I do not have that down!’ the Duke swore.

  Straightway he dismounted, and knelt at his prayers, for he was never one to forget what was due to God; and his men knelt with him. That being done, he rose up again and bathed his face in the river, and bent his heavy considering frown on the gatehouse that guarded the bridge. While he stayed thus, pondering, the people of Alençon had leisure to observe his force. Men gathered on the further bank of the river, and heads were seen to draw together in excited conference.

  Those who kept the gate-tower marke
d the strength of the Duke’s army, and seeing that he had brought no siege-engines with him, thought themselves safe in their stronghold. Gaining arrogance with their feeling of security, they began to consider themselves already victors and some among them shouted out injurious words, and made signs betokening their derision.

  The Duke noted these things with a gradually darkening brow. He gave curt orders, and his men formed up in battle array. The Duke was conferring apart with his captains, biting his whip-lash as he always did when he saw a difficult task before him, and carefully observing the disposition of the town. The men in the gate-tower, conceiving their jeerings to have gone wide of the mark, bethought themselves of a good jest, and one likely to touch the Duke’s pride nearly. There was a bustle, and a running to and fro; then a growl of fury ran through the Norman troop, and men clapped their hands to their swords.

  Raoul found his brother Gilbert spluttering beside him. ‘Ha, God!’ Gilbert stuttered. ‘See yonder! The lousy dogs!’

  Raoul looked round and saw the defenders on the bridge hanging hides and furs over the battlements, and thwacking them with long sticks, and the flat of their swords. He flushed with quick anger, as the meaning was made plain to him. ‘Cross of Christ, what foul insolence is this?’

  ‘Hail to the Tanner! Hail to the noble Tanner of Falaise!’ shouted the men on the tower. ‘What, are you there, byblow of Normandy? How is the trade in furs with you these days?’

  William’s head was jerked up at that. He thrust his horse past Néel de Saint-Sauveur, who would have shut the sight from his eyes if he could, and came in full view of what was doing on the bridge. Men saw his knuckles grow white with the fierce gripping of his hand on his sword-hilt, and his mouth twitch with the rising tide of his rage. Rigid he sat, still as a stone upon his destrier; he was ice-cold, but with fire blazing under the frozen surface.