Authors: Georgette Heyer
In impotent anguish King Henry watched half his army cut to pieces. He tried to throw his chivalry across the treacherous river, but the water was rising fast, and a hail of arrows drove him back. He sat huddled upon his destrier, unable to take his eyes
from the skirmish on the western bank, and saw his men fighting desperately, not to beat back the Normans, but to escape from the death that seemed to be all amongst and around them.
Montdidier found his tongue, while the rest stood in agonized silence. He stuttered: ‘Bones of the saints, what way of fighting is this? Ah, cravens, beat them back! they are but a handful! God’s death, have we not one leader below there?’ He turned away, unable to look any longer at the dishevelled rabble on the causeway.
They dragged the King from the ground at last; he sat bowed upon his horse, and suffered them to do as they would. Of his rear-guard not a man escaped from that day’s battle. The fight raged all amongst the wagons and the gear of the army; those who were not slain in hand-to-hand combat, or pierced by the deadly arrows, tried to flee across the marsh. Some perished with dreadful cries in the swamp, slowly sucked under the mud and the green water; others were followed by the Norman peasants and either slain or taken prisoner. A few flung themselves into the river in a desperate attempt to swim across to the eastern bank, but their hauberks weighed them down, and they could make no headway against the current. The water was churned up, with tossing limbs and dead bodies floating on the tide; the causeway was littered with overturned carts, their loads of forage and plunder spilled about them. Here the carcass of a horse blocked the way; there a mound of dead men heaved with the last feeble struggles of some wounded soul pinned under the heap of slain.
Hugh de Gournay wrenched out an arrow that was stuck fast in the thick leather of his tunic. ‘My thanks, beau sire,’ he said with grim humour.
William’s charger was standing amongst a heap of scattered treasure. A battered chalice glinted in the dust; a length of sendal shimmering with gold thread was trodden and twisted under the restless hooves; vessels of silver, jewelled chains, a gleaming fibula, lay spoiled upon the road, dabbled in the blood of a disembowelled horse that sprawled incongruously beside them.
The Duke was watching the retreat of the French vanguard across the river, but he turned his head when de Gournay spoke, and saw the arrow. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked. ‘I am sorry, Hugh: that was not as I meant it.’
‘A scratch, no more. It was almost spent when it reached me. But must your bowmen find marks amongst your own men, beau sire?’
The Duke laughed. ‘Nay, that shall not happen again. Yet will you say my bowmen did not win the day for us?’
‘If they were ordered aright,’ said de Gournay, cautiously feeling his shoulder, ‘they might do well enough.’
‘What, do you uphold the archers at last, Hugh?’ inquired Count Robert of Eu, who had come up, picking his way across the dead. He removed his helmet, and threw it to his squire. ‘If the dolts had but held their hands when they saw us engage the French we should have lost scarce a dozen men, I believe. How say you, Walter?’
The Lord of Longueville grunted. ‘Well, I saw some of our men struck, but that was because redeless serfs loosed the shafts. Now if there were a body of skilled archers, schooled under new captains …’ He pursed his lips, planning the formation of such a body.
Robert stole an expressive look at the Duke. There was a smile hovering about William’s mouth. ‘Shall my archers be kept then, Walter?’ he asked innocently.
The Lord of Longueville, interrupted in his meditations, said: ‘Kept? Oh – ah! kept! Why, all Christendom will use archers after this day’s lesson! Would you use them no more because they are as yet unskilled, beau sire? Nay, nay, we must devise how best to order them.’ He nodded kindly at his young master. ‘You must have patience, seigneur, and you shall soon see a very different body of bowmen at work.’
The Duke bowed. ‘My thanks, Walter,’ he said gravely. He picked his way over the debris on the road, and murmured in Robert’s ear as he passed: ‘Give Walter and old Hugh de Gournay but seven days and they will be sure my arrows had birth in their own brains!’ He rode on to see what prisoners had been taken; the Count of Eu lingered long enough to hear the start of a dispute between these two boon comrades, Giffard and de Gournay, over the best way to dispose a troop of archers, and then unobtrusively drew off.
The remainder of the King’s army was in full retreat. All the plunder, the forage, and the accoutrements of war were lost to Henry, and it seemed as though the disaster had affected his brain. When he spoke at last it was to urge a speedier flight. High words passed between him and the Count of Anjou. Martel said blusteringly: ‘At least it was not I ordered this craven retreat. No, by the body and bones of God! Had I the command I would have faced the Bastard in battle.’
At that the King fell into a fit of dreadful laughter, and reminded Martel of his old retreats from Domfront, and from Ambrières. In such melancholy fashion did these two allies at length part company. The crippled host reached the border, and passed into France and safety. King Henry had pitted his might against Normandy for the last time.
It was soon seen that the ruin of his hopes had seriously affected his health. He seemed to have aged ten years in a day, and displayed a listlessness that shocked his nobles. He was forced to sue for peace with Duke William, and while his councillors laboured to mitigate the humiliating terms demanded he sat apart, huddling his mantle round him, and staring into space. The terms were read to him; he nodded his head as though here were no great matter. Only when the article was reached that gave back Tillières to Normandy did he show any signs of chagrin. Then his mouth twitched, and his faded eyes
blazed suddenly with some of his old passion. But the brief fit passed; he assented to all, and bade his councillors see that the peace was soon sealed.
In Rouen the Duchess lay again in William’s arms. She was crushed against the rings of his hauberk, but seemed not to heed the steel bruising her flesh. She said eagerly: ‘You have won back Tillières, lord?’
‘I have won back Tillières, according to my word,’ he replied.
She was in a glow: eyes, cheek, and heart. Her mouth invited his caresses. ‘Ah, William, you are worthy to be the father of my sons!’ she crooned.
He held her from him, gripping her arms unmercifully. ‘Is it burgher-blood that is mingled with yours, wife?’ he said.
There was a harsh note in his voice, but if she remembered the seven-year-old insult it was but fleetingly. She hardly heard what he said; she was brooding over his triumph. ‘O Fighting Duke, if I were but a maid again!’ she said. ‘You might take me then, a conqueror’s guerdon!’
She could enflame him still, driving everything but his love for her from his head. He caught her close to him, saying softly: ‘Shall I not take you though you are maid no longer, my guarded heart?’
‘I am all yours,’ she said, laying her hands on his breast.
Hardly a year later Normandy was rid for ever of her two great enemies. King Henry, who had fallen into a sickness after the signing of the peace, lingered through the winter and the spring, but died at last, worn out with grief. His death was followed in a few months by that of Martel. It was as though Duke William had sapped their life-blood.
Martel left his county divided between his two sons. ‘Nothing to fear there,’ said William.
Philip, King Henry’s son, inherited the Crown of France, but since he was still a child King Henry’s will named Baldwin, the Count of Flanders, Regent during his minority. In death King Henry had sought to redeem the follies of his life. No abler man�could have been found to hold the reins of government, none more honest, none further-sighted. But vassals in Auvergne and Vermandois, Aquitaine and Gascony, Burgundy and Angoulême, heard of the King’s choice with dismay.
If Baldwin was to govern France, Normandy was freed from her last puissant enemy. For thirteen years Duke William had stood upon the defensive, his peace threatened first by his own rebel barons, and then by France and Anjou, hedging him round with spears. Now, at the age of thirty-two, he stood secure. East of him Ponthieu rendered homage; west, Anjou was cleft in twain by Martel’s will; south, France was governed by a wise Count who was Duke William’s father-in-law.
It was with misgiving that the vassals journeyed to swear their oaths of fealty to King Philip at his coronation. Last of them all came Normandy, and men who had never seen the Fighting Duke out of battle-harness now saw him surrounded by a retinue the Court Chamberlains were hard put to it to house, and magnificent in a way that cast the noblest of the vassals in the shade.
‘Well, wife, well,’ said Count Baldwin, using no ceremony, ‘it seems to me that our daughter chose wisely when she chose Normandy for spouse.’
‘He is grown too arrogant for me,’ the Countess, a Frenchwoman, replied: ‘Where shall all this end, my lord?’
Count Baldwin stroked his beard. ‘It is in my mind,’ he said slowly, ‘that it is not yet begun.’
‘Why, how should that be?’ she asked.
Looking at her thoughtfully, the Count said: ‘We have seen him beat back all who would have snatched from him his heritage. How stands he now, think you?’
‘Safe, God wot!’ she answered.
‘Yea, yea,’ he nodded. ‘And shall that content him? I fear it may not, wife.’
Part IV
(1063–1065)
THE OATH
‘Harold, ye cannot deny that ye swore an oath to William upon holy relics.’
Speech of Gyrth Godwineson
One
Now tell me it all, right from the start,’ Edgar said. ‘Holy Thorn, but you are burned as brown as a nut! You took no hurt?’
‘Not so much as a scratch.’ Raoul thrust a hand through his arm. ‘And you? What has chanced since I saw you?’
‘Oh, nothing!’ Edgar said. ‘Rouen has been like a tomb since you all rode away to Maine.’ They walked on slowly through the palace gardens. The ground was hard with frost, and a fringe of snow lay on the edge of the grass. ‘I had news out of England a month ago,’ Edgar said. ‘My father writes of Harold’s victories. While you have been conquering Maine he has conquered the Welsh.’ His cheeks showed a faint flush of pride. ‘Harold carried Griffyd’s head and the beak of his ship back to London,’ he said. ‘Think you that was well done?’
‘Very well done,’ Raoul agreed. ‘He must be a mighty warrior. What other tidings?’
‘Little enough. Wlnoth has taken a leman. Tell your tale. Is it true that the Duke entered Le Mans without a blow?’
Raoul nodded. ‘He kept that for the last. You know his way. We wanted no more bloodshed than had need be. But who holds Le Mans holds Maine.’
‘Was Walter of Mantes in command there?’
‘No, it was held for him by the chief among his friends. Geoffrey of Mayenne was one. I knew that dog would never keep faith.’
‘Well, let me hear how it went!’ Edgar said impatiently. ‘I have been wishing myself beside you all these weary months.’
Three years before, after the death of Martel, Heribert, the youthful Count of Maine, had become Duke William’s man. Freed from the Angevin tyrant he yet did not feel himself strong enough to stand against Martel’s two successors. He approached William, for whom he cherished a deep respect, and entered into an engagement with him to hold Maine as Normandy’s fief in accordance with the charter granted to Duke Rollo in ancient times. A treaty was drawn up between the two princes; Count Heribert’s sister Margaret was formally betrothed to Lord Robert, the heir of Normandy, and Heribert pledged himself to wed Adeliza, the Duke’s eldest daughter, as soon as she should be of marriageable age. Duke William was found to be an over-lord of a very different kidney from Martel, so that Heribert, a man of feeble health, thought he could do no better for Maine than to make a will bequeathing it to the Duke, should he himself die without lawful issue. In two years this possibility had come to pass. Count Heribert, on his death-bed, warned his nobles against such tyrants as Walter of Mantes, the spouse of his aunt Biota; and Geoffrey, the hungry Lord of Mayenne; and with his last breath commanded them to submit themselves to Duke William.
It was not to be expected that the Manceaux could be united in desiring a foreigner to be their Count. A strong party gathered about the standard of Walter of Mantes, who claimed the throne in the right of his wife. They entered and fortified the town of Le Mans, and declared Walter and Biota to be their new rulers.
Thus, in the year ’63, Duke William had put on his battle-harness again and marched out at the head of his forces, not this time to defend, but to conquer. As ever, Edgar had yearned to ride with the army; he had even petitioned William to let him go, but the Duke had said: ‘And if you should fall in battle, Thegn of Marwell? I have pledged my knightly word no harm shall befall you. What would you have me say to King Edward who entrusted you to my care?’
Edgar had gone disconsolately away, and watched, later, the army ride out from Rouen without him. Now the campaign was ended, and once more the palace teemed with the lords and knights of William’s court. Edgar had dragged Raoul apart at the first opportunity, and taken him out into the frosty gardens to learn what had befallen. ‘Tell me it all, right from the start!’ he said.
‘Oh, at first there was little enough!’ Raoul answered. ‘We harried the country to affright the people, since we desired no bloodshed. That was easily done: they hold William in such dread they will fly for their lives if they but catch a glimpse of his spears. We burned a few dwellings, seized some forage for our men, and pressed on, taking what towns lay in our way. And so came to Le Mans. To tell the truth, we wondered how we should capture that citadel, for it is built high on a hill and well fortified.’
‘But there was no siege?’ Edgar interrupted. ‘FitzOsbern said –’
‘No siege, no assault,’ Raoul answered, laughing. ‘They called it the Joyeuse Entrée. I warrant you the burghers had had their fill of Walter’s captains by the time we reached Le Mans. They sent to welcome us, and when they were assured we were close in support chased out Mayenne and the other lords gathered there. William rode in over the flowers that were strewn under his charger’s hooves.’
‘They welcomed you?’ Edgar said incredulously. ‘Strangers? Invaders?’
‘Be sure they desired us to come. You have not seen Walter of Mantes or his men. Maine was groaning under their yoke when we came to claim our right. And all men know that William is a just prince.’
Edgar shook his head. ‘Yea, but – Well, and after your Joyeuse Entrée?’
‘We marched from Le Mans to Mayenne, and finding it so situated it would yield to no assault we took the place by fire.’
‘What, as was done at Mortemer?’
‘Yes, but this was a harder task. Everyone said there was no taking Mayenne, it was so strongly guarded. We took it in half a day.’
A shrill cry of Haro! made him break off. There was a scuffle in some bushes near at hand, and young Roger FitzWilliam, FitzOsbern’s eldest-born, broke through, hotly pursued by the sturdy boy who was heir to Normandy.
Roger stopped when he saw the two men walking across the grass, and drew back, but Robert came on full-tilt, shouting: ‘Holà, Messire Raoul! Do you know my father has brought my betrothed home with him? Her name is Margaret. But of course you know, do you not? She is going to be my bride.’ He planted himself in Raoul’s path, lifting his handsome head to smile in a friendly way at the two men.
‘I wish you joy in your spousing, my lord,’ Raoul said. ‘Have you seen the Lady Margaret?’
‘Oh yes!’ Robert answered, straddling his legs. ‘She is older than I am, but such a little pale creature you would scarcely credit it. My mother says she will be reared with my sisters, but Adeliza does not like it because Margaret will be of more consequence than herself, besides which she is jealous because Count Heribert died, and she is no longer betrothed. As for Margaret, I tell Adeliza of course she must be of more consequence, because she is to be my bride, and when my father dies I shall be Duke of Normandy.’ He began to dance along beside Raoul. ‘And when I am Duke I will make every day a holiday, and Roger there shall be my Seneschal, and we shall have jousting and hunting all day long.’
‘In the meantime,’ Edgar interrupted, ‘I think you have escaped from your governor, little lording, and will soon be under the rod.’
Roger, who was hovering in the background, grinned sheepishly, but Robert only tossed his head and said: ‘That is as may be. Now that my father is home again I know I shall have but poor sport. I wish he would ride away to fight another war.’
Raoul said only: ‘That is foolish talk. How do your brothers? They will be grown since I saw them, even as you are.’
‘Oh, they are well enough,’ Robert answered. ‘William is a silly babe still, and as for Richard he should be with us now, only that he is so slow he can never keep up with Roger and me.’
‘It was not very well done of you to run away from him,’ remarked Edgar.
‘I think I can hear him coming, messire,’ Roger ventured. ‘We did not mean to leave him, but you see we were playing at chase.’
‘For my part,’ said Robert frankly, ‘I would be glad to lose Richard. Just hark at him! He is more of a babe than Red William.’
My lord Richard’s voice was heard lamenting beyond the bushes. He came into sight, a thin child with his mother’s fair locks and pale colouring. When he saw his brother he began at once to scold him. ‘I hate you, Robert! You hid from me! I shall tell my father of you, and you will be beaten.’
‘So will you if you tell the Duke we ran away from our books,’ retorted Robert. He began his restless prancing again, catching at Raoul’s mantle. ‘Ohé, I wish there was no such thing as Latin! I would like to learn only my knightly exercises, and be upon my horse all day long.’
‘Ho, you will never ride as well as I can, because your legs are too short!’ cried Richard. ‘Messire Raoul, the Duke saith that Robert should be called Curthose because he has such short –’ He got no further. With a furious cry of ‘Swineshead!’ Robert plunged at him, and they rolled over together on the grass fighting like two wild cats.
Edgar, hauled Robert off with one hand and held him fast while he raged and struggled. Over his head he said: ‘True sons of a Fighting Duke, I warrant you, Raoul … Have done, lording! You will bring your masters out upon you with all this uproar.’
This fate came to pass. Watching the three boys marched off under escort to the palace, Edgar said: ‘The Duke has bred an heir who will plague him sorely, I think. Already Robert falls foul of him.’
The words were spoken half in jest, but held more truth than Edgar knew. Of all his children, Robert, his first-born, in whom his hopes might have been supposed to lie, was furthest from the Duke’s heart and understanding. Robert was impetuous and could brook no opposition; it was unfortunate for him to have an autocrat for sire. There was enough of his mother in him to make him hard to manage, and he was apt to run against discipline from a natural perversity. His mother adored him, and sheltered him from Duke William’s wrath whenever she might. He began very early in life to look on the Duke as a tyrant; he was afraid of him, but since he was Matilda’s son he hid his fear under an intractable front, and so came under William’s displeasure a dozen times in a week.
As for the other children, it was not to be supposed that issue born of so stormy a union could live at peace for long at a time. The ducal nurseries echoed to the sound of quarrelling: Robert fought Richard; Adeliza defied her governesses with an intrepidity that braved even the rod; the little nun Cecilia betrayed an arrogance hardly in keeping with her saintly calling; while even three-year-old William demonstrated to the world that he had a temper to match his fiery head.
Watching his son from afar the Duke said impatiently: ‘Eh, Raoul, shall I have no worthier successor than Curthose? Bones of God, I had more judgment when I was no older than he is now than he will have when he reaches my present years!’
‘Patience, beau sire: you were bred in a harsher school,’ Raoul answered.
The Duke saw Robert go off with his arm flung round the shoulders of Montgoméri’s son, and said contemptuously: ‘He is too easy; he must always make himself beloved. When have I cared for such things as that? I tell you Robert has heart for my head.’
Raoul was silent for a moment, but presently he said: ‘Seigneur, you are a stark prince, but is it so ill to have a warmer heart than yours?’
‘My friend, I stand supreme to-day because my heart has never ruled my head,’ the Duke said. ‘If Robert learns not that lesson in time, all that I hold now he will lose when I am with my fathers.’
As time went on the Duke could see little in Robert to make him unsay those words. Throughout the winter life at the palace was often disturbed by my lord Robert’s pranks and his father’s speedy vengeance. Lord Robert cared nothing for his governor’s beatings, but complained between laughter and scowls that Duke William’s hand was too heavy.
The spring came, and Robert was kept busy with the knightly exercises he loved. Peace reigned for a while between him and his father, nor were there any troubles in the Duchy to break a monotony unusual in Normandy. Gilbert d’Aufay said with a yawn: ‘Heigh-ho! I could wish another Count of Arques would arise to give us work to do.’
‘Watch Brittany,’ Edgar advised him. ‘I have heard some chance talk.’
‘Edgar, you always hear these things!’ said Gilbert. ‘Who told you? Was it Raoul? Is Conan of Brittany denying us fealty?’
‘That I do not know,’ Edgar said carefully. ‘It was not Raoul. FitzOsbern let fall something that made me wonder, that is all.’
‘Well, God send we have something soon to liven us,’ Gilbert said, with yet another yawn.
His prayer was answered sooner than he could have expected, and in a way no man had foreseen. The Count sat at dinner one day in late spring when a sudden stir arose outside the great doors, and angry voices were heard expostulating. The Duke sat at the high table on the dais, facing down the hall to the entrance. The meal was over, and the company was in merry mood, with the wine and the dulcets still on the tables.
When the disturbance rose in the base-court the Duke looked frowningly towards the door, and FitzOsbern went hurrying off to inquire into the meaning of so unseemly a noise. He was no more than half-way down the hall when there was a scuffle at the entrance, and a voice was heard to cry desperately in broken Norman: ‘Audience! I crave audience of the Duke of Normandy!’ A moment later a protesting usher was thrust so rudely backwards that he fell sprawling on the rushes, and a tattered mud-stained stranger forced his way into the hall, dragging in his wake two men who had snatched at his mantle to detain him. He wore a short tunic, rent in several places, and splashed with mud; his helm was lost, and his long blond ringlets were tossed into disorder and damp with the sweat on his brow. He stopped midway up the hall, staring about him at the surprised faces all turned towards him. His gaze swept them by and found the Duke, seated still and watchful in the middle of the high table. He flung out his hands, dropping on to his knee. ‘Aid, aid, lord Duke!’ he cried. ‘Give me a hearing, and justice!’