The Conqueror (19 page)

Hubert leaned across the table to ask Raoul whether he meant to rest the night at Harcourt. ‘And your friends?’ he added. Then, as Raoul nodded, he said: ‘I like that Saxon. I wish you had his shoulders.’

‘I had rather have my own head,’ said Raoul with something of a grin. He glanced down the table to where Edgar and Gilbert de Harcourt were still arguing, with morsels of bread and the lees of their wine to illustrate their theories of war. ‘He and Gilbert are quite sure they could order this campaign better than the Duke.’

‘To my mind,’ said Hubert, ‘they are talking plain sense. Now you shall tell me, Raoul, since you are so clever, what the Duke’s orders mean? What is in his mind? What does he think to do?’

‘Oh, to drive the French out,’ said Raoul.

‘A strange way to do that!’

‘I don’t know. William is no fool, father.’

Edgar, hearing these words, set down his wine-cup, and said loudly: ‘No, but if a man cares for his country’s weal he doesn’t allow invaders to lay it waste.’

‘Edgar, you are three parts drunk,’ said Raoul. ‘If you had your way we should blunder into the King’s arms in one desperate encounter, and the end would be that Henry would lay the whole Duchy waste instead of one small corner of it.’

‘I don’t see that,’ said Edgar with the doggedness of the slightly intoxicated. ‘William’s plan may be crafty, but what has a warrior to do with craft?’

A murmur of approbation greeted these words; under cover of it Roger de Beaumont said softly across the table: ‘Do you remember, Raoul, how at Meulan I said to you: “I fear him, our Duke”?’

‘Yea, well do I remember. And King Henry feared him. Didn’t we see it? And he will fear him to the day of his death – with good reason.’

Roger said dryly: ‘Hum! As I see it, my friend, the King is stronger than William to-day.’

Raoul stretched out his hand towards a dish of petypanel, and began to nibble a piece of it reflectively. ‘William knows he will win,’ he said.

‘A young man’s faith,’ Roger replied. ‘But I am no longer in my grass-time. I tell you I mislike this business. Too many stand against us.’

‘Yes, but we have William,’ Raoul said. ‘Don’t you see? All of us – yea, and King Henry too – think that the only way of winning is through might. But William thinks there is more to warfare than that. It is not to be our strength pitted against the French host, but William’s skill against Henry’s.’ He drank from his cup, and set it down again. ‘And Henry has no skill at all, from what I can see,’ he said cheerfully.

‘What folly are you talking?’ demanded Hubert, who had been listening with a puzzled frown on his face. ‘In warfare it is might that wins, I can tell you that.’

Raoul shook his head obstinately. ‘No. Not this time. You will see. William’s cunning will win the war, not the might of France, nor our chivalry.’

‘Well, we will hope you may be right, Raoul,’ said Roger. ‘But I should like to hear what Hugh de Gournay has to say to it all.’

Raoul looked at him sideways. ‘He has declared for the Duke, seigneur,’ he said warily.

‘Yea, yea, he would do so, as I do, and all true men must. Yet I wish we had an older head to direct us.’

An hour later Raoul left Beaumont-le-Roger, riding with his father and his brothers north to Harcourt. Edgar trotted ahead with Hubert, and as Gilbert d’Aufay chose to amble along beside Dame Gisela’s palfrey, Raoul was left to ride between his two brothers. They went in silence for some way, while Eudes thought of the dinner he had eaten, and Gilbert surreptitiously scrutinized Raoul’s profile. Gilbert found it hard to remember that he had been used to scoff at Raoul. Of course Raoul still lacked the girth a fighting-man should have, and he still looked half the time as though he were quite detached from his surroundings, but he had somehow acquired a self-possession that impressed Gilbert, and there was no denying that in spite of his squeamish ways he did astonishing things, like going to France in the guise of a pedlar, or rebuking rich seigneurs as though he were one himself. More than ever he was a stranger to Gilbert. One could not guess what he was thinking about, and he had a queer disarming smile that made his eyes dance when no one else could see anything to smile at. Pondering it in his slow way Gilbert remembered that he had never known what went on behind Raoul’s tranquillity. Only in the old days he had never considered it worth while to try to find out.

On the other side of Raoul Eudes spoke presently. Eudes did not wonder about Raoul; Eudes never wondered about anything. ‘You’ve got a fine new destrier there,’ he remarked. ‘But I don’t know that I like a grey horse.’

Raoul patted Blanchflower’s neck. ‘Why not?’ he inquired.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Eudes said vaguely. ‘I would sooner bestride a bay like your old Verceray. You had better ride Verceray into battle – if there is a battle,’ he added with a gloomy look.

‘God’s pity, of course there must be a battle!’ said Gilbert scornfully. ‘What notion have you taken into your head now?’

‘All this talk of cunning and retreating,’ said Eudes. ‘I heard what they were saying while I was eating the fat-puddings. Young Raoul talked of winning the war by craft, and by the way they spoke of it you would think we were going to drive the French out without striking a blow.’ He gave a loud disparaging sniff. ‘Well, I am not like Raoul, addling my brains with bookwork and the like, and I didn’t understand a word of it.’

‘You needn’t be proud of that,’ said Raoul. ‘We are going to retreat first, and then strike. Now do you see?’

Eudes was unmoved. ‘It would be much better to strike first, and then we might not have to retreat,’ he said.

‘There is something in that, you know,’ Gilbert pointed out.

‘I thought you would see it,’ said Eudes, gratified.

Raoul did not say anything, and Gilbert thought: He’s not listening, it’s as though he doesn’t think it worth the trouble to answer. He said testily: ‘Well, are you asleep, or have you grown too great to talk about such matters with us?’

‘No, but I don’t really understand it myself,’ said Raoul.

Mollified, Gilbert said: ‘You seemed to understand it very well, back at Beaumont.’

‘Oh, I had to explain it all there. I do understand William’s plan, of course, but I don’t see it all. I mean I shouldn’t know how to lure the King on, or when was the time to fall upon him.’

Gilbert grunted, and for a time they rode on without saying anything. Eudes broke the silence by asking suddenly: ‘Why does that Saxon wear a beard? Is it a vow, or a penance?’

‘Neither. All Saxons wear beards,’ Raoul answered.

Eudes looked surprised. ‘Well, that’s an odd thing,’ he remarked. ‘But he had much better shave it.’

‘I don’t think you had better tell him so,’ said Raoul in some amusement. ‘He is very proud of it.’

‘I can’t see anything to be proud of in a beard,’ Eudes said. ‘He looks like a barbarian.’

‘Well, take heed he does not hear you say so,’ advised Raoul.

Gilbert fell back to range alongside his lady, and as Eudes had nothing further to say either about the threatened invasion or about Edgar’s beard, he and Raoul rode on in silence until they reached Harcourt.

At daybreak on the following morning Raoul and his escort started on their journey back to Rouen. Gisela gave Raoul a package of food to eat upon the way: Damascus cakes prepared by her own hands, and some slices of lard done up in a clean napkin. But when he gave her the farewell kiss she pressed a tiny object into his hand, whispering that he should wear it, and so be kept safe from all harm.

Raoul looked down at the gift, which seemed to be a little stitched bag on a silken cord. ‘All thanks, sister,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

‘It is good fortune, Raoul,’ she said shyly. Her eyes fluttered to his, and away again. ‘You must wear it about your neck. It is the head of a stag-beetle, and will keep you safe.’

Raoul turned the bag over rather gingerly, but since Gisela was plainly anxious that he should wear it he put the cord round his neck, and tucked the bag away inside his tunic. He got to on to his horse, and waved a last good-bye, and trotted off over the bridge in the wake of his friends.

They reached Rouen in good time, and clattered through the streets to the palace. Here they found signs of arrivals. The Viscount of Côtentin had ridden in the day before with the chief among his vassals; and the Count of Mortain had come in that very morning.

Raoul slid down from Blanchflower’s back, and began to scrape the mud from his soft boots. Gilbert and Edgar lounged away to their own quarters, calling back to Raoul that they would see him at supper. Raoul ran lightly up the outer stairway to the main door of the palace, and passed into the vaulted hall. He met Mortain there on his way out to the base-court, and pulled up short with his hand raised in greeting.

Mortain’s heavy face brightened. ‘Holà, so here you are, Raoul! William was asking whether you had not returned. Have you heard what he means to do? He has won De Gournay over.’

‘I thought he would,’ said Raoul. ‘When did you come, Mortain?’

‘Oh, but an hour or so gone. I’ve appointed my vassals to meet me at Evreux. Saint-Sauveur is here, and Montgoméri, and Grantmesnil rode in yesterday. William is as cool as you please.’ A slow smile made his eyes narrow. ‘The Duchess dreamed she saw William’s new haggard seize her prey, and they say that’s an omen of success.’ He gave his deep chuckle, and passed on. Raoul ran up the stairs to his own chamber, and calling for a page began to strip off his mud-spattered tunic and hose.

As soon as he had washed off the travel stains, and put on fresh raiment he made his way to one of the audience-chambers above-stairs, where he was told he would find the Duke. Curtains of tapestry hung over the arched doorway; a page swung them back, and he went in to find William alone with his Duchess.

Raoul checked upon the threshold, and made as if to draw back. William glanced up under his frowning brows, but when he saw who it was who had entered the frown cleared, and he called a welcome. ‘In a good hour, Raoul! What speed?’

‘They don’t like it, beau sire, but they will obey. Roger de Beaumont can be trusted to see all done according to your word.’ He bent the knee to Matilda as he spoke. One quick look at her had shown him her face brooding and stormy, but the cloud vanished as she held out her hand to him. ‘Madame, how does my lord Robert?’ he asked tactfully.

‘He is well,’ Matilda said. A small, triumphant smile curved her lips. ‘He is greater than Mortain’s boy, who is the elder by a month or more,’ she said with satisfaction. Raoul could picture her measuring her firstborn beside Mortain’s heir to the chagrin of Mortain’s lady, and his eyes began to dance. ‘And to my mind,’ added Matilda, ‘he is more comely. Though my lord may not observe it, I am very sure that you will, Raoul.’

William pushed some documents across the table towards Raoul. ‘These from Longueville. He does my will, misliking it,’ he said with a laugh. ‘So do they all, even Mald here. She would quarrel with me if I would aid her to it, would you not, my heart?’

The Duchess came to the table, holding up her long gown in her hands. The brooding look had come back. ‘I wish you would do what they want,’ she said, with a kind of suppressed passion. Her fingers clenched. ‘I want you to fight the King and beat him,’ she said through her teeth.

William was watching Raoul read Giffard’s despatch. ‘Madame wife, govern your babe, and leave me to govern my Duchy,’ he said lightly.

‘You are the Fighting Duke,’ she insisted. ‘I like a man to fight against odds.’

‘So I do, my fair,’ said William, still watching Raoul.

‘Meet the King face to face,’ she urged. ‘Do not permit him to set foot in Normandy. Ah, if I were a man!’

He turned at that, and looked up at her in some amusement. She had something of the old hungry flame in her eyes. Seeing it he laughed and put up a hand to clasp her wrist. ‘Holy Virgin, you are fierce, my girl! Rest you, I will drive the King out.’

She said in a low voice: ‘You do not mean to fight him, beau sire. You cannot hide that from me.’

He began to swing her hand to and fro. He had that intent look in his eyes that seemed to probe the future. ‘I do not want to fight Henry,’ he said.

She searched his face for a meaning. ‘Is he to wrest your son’s heritage from him, then?’ she demanded. ‘I say you shall not give up so much as one tithe of land, one border fortress!’

‘Nor will I.’

‘What then?’ She leaned towards him till her dress brushed his arm.

‘If I can scatter Prince Eudes’ Belgic host,’ the Duke said slowly, ‘I may yet avoid coming to blows with Henry himself. I know Henry. Mark me if he does not make all speed back to France.’ His fingers tightened unconsciously on her wrist, but she did not seem to feel the crushing grip. He smiled suddenly. ‘Trust me to make a peace worthy of this Robert of ours,’ he said.

Disappointed, she shook her head. ‘I want you to crush the King. You can do it. I know you can. Why will you hold off from him?’

William let go her wrist, and turned back to his despatches. ‘Eh, Maid, he is my suzerain,’ he said impatiently. ‘That is what you will not understand.’

A voice spoke from the doorway. ‘And Brother William is himself a suzerain. God save you, sister, and pity the fool.’ Galet slipped round the curtain, and squatted down among the rushes, and began to juggle with some sheep’s bones, casting them before him, and peering at them with mutterings and grimaces.