The Conqueror

by Georgette Heyer

  The Duke had taken Malet’s bridle from the lad who held it, and before the Viscount of Côtentin had finished reading the Seneschal’s message he was in the saddle, his horse sidling and dancing in a fret to be off. ‘Now I shall see which of you is ready!’ quoth the Duke. ‘Now I shall see who will follow me! To Arques, messires!’ He gave Malet his head, and the black horse sprang forward. Men jumped quickly out of reach of the plunging hooves; the Duke was away.

  Upwards of fifty men streamed after him; six only were still with him at the end of that nightmare journey. They rode from Valognes to Bayeux, their numbers dwindling. At Bayeux the Duke had a brief interview with his young half-brother, the Bishop, and was off again in an hour. His knights followed him doggedly, knowing that his haste was not wanton. Reinforcements might even now have joined the Count of Arques, and if the jealous King of France were marching to his aid, as rumour whispered, the Duke’s only hope of staving off a bloody campaign was to reach Arques before him.

  They passed by Caen, and rode on towards Pont Audémar. There Gilbert d’Aufay dropped out upon a foundered horse.

  ‘Eh, Gilbert, are you done?’ Raoul called to him.

  ‘A curse on this brute; he can no more,’ Gilbert answered. ‘Who rides still with William?’

  ‘Néel is here, with two of his men; de Montfort holds close; the Viscount of Avranchin; myself, and some others yet: maybe a score. If I tarry I shall never catch William this side Seine.’

  ‘Go then. If I can come by a horse I will follow you.’ Gilbert waved him on, and began to rub his aching limbs.

  At Caudebec Raoul’s horse sank under him. The Duke rested his little troop by the river bank, and got news from a scout of a loyal band of three hundred men who had sallied forth to oppose the Count of Arques. Raoul was sent off to the capital with a message for FitzOsbern, and Saint-Sauveur rode beside him a little way at a walking pace. ‘Go with God,’ he said, smiling. ‘I will play the Watcher for once, ill though you may like it.’

  Raoul shook his head. ‘Nay, there is no more strength in me,’ he confessed. ‘I am done, and must have failed in another hour. Do not leave him, Chef de Faucon, for by this hand I tell you he will not pause though every man of you falls out upon the road.’

  ‘You have no need to fear me,’ the Viscount promised, and rode back to rejoin William.

  Fording the river the Duke pushed on as hastily as he could to Baons-le-Comte, and from there towards Arques, crossing a ravaged countryside.

  Within a league of Arques he came up with the force that had set out to guard his interests. Their leader was struck dumb at sight of his liege-lord, whom he thought to be in the Côtentin, and for a while could not find his tongue.

  ‘Come, man!’ the Duke said impatiently. ‘Do not stare at me as though you saw a wolf! What news of my uncle of Arques?’

  Honest Herluin of Bondeville recovered his speech and his manners. ‘Lord, pardon! I had not thought to see you ere many days.’

  ‘That is very possible,’ replied the Duke, ‘but you see me now, and in some haste for your news, by the Face!’

  Taking this broad hint, Herluin plunged into a recital of the disasters of Tallou. His scouts had found the Count so strongly supported that he thought it would be folly to attack him with no more than three hundred men. Many lords had joined Arques; their doings made scandalous telling. ‘Beau sire,’ said Herluin earnestly, ‘I pray you draw back upon Rouen till you may gather a sufficient force against these rebels. We are but a handful, and should be cut to pieces.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ said the Duke. ‘With your leave, good Herluin, I will put myself at the head of your men, and try a fall with my rebels.’

  ‘Lord, lord, I dare not let you venture!’ Herluin said in great alarm.

  ‘Do you think you can stop me? I am very sure you were better advised not to try.’ The Duke smote him on the shoulder. ‘What, are you faint-hearted? I tell you, if once the rebels see me face to face they will never dare stand against me.’

  ‘Lord, we have had tidings of a great company out upon their affairs, and we held off from them since we are so few.’

  ‘Ha, this is good news!’ the Duke declared. He swung himself down from his weary horse. ‘A horse, man!’ His eye alighted on a bay mare that pleased him; he tapped her rider’s knee with his whip. ‘Off with you, my friend!’ he commanded pleasantly, and off the man got, wondering how he should fare afoot. The Duke did not concern himself with this. Mounting, he proceeded to make certain changes in the disposition of his small army. The six men who had kept up with him all the way from Valognes formed themselves about him in a bodyguard, and the troop moved forward at a brisk pace, and came soon on to the marshy flats that lay between the high ground of Arques and the sea.

  These flats were commanded by a narrow spit of land near the junction of the Eaulne and the Varenne, upon which the Castle, like a bird’s nest, was perched. To the left rose the chalk hills that guarded the coast; to the right, in the distance, a thick forest climbed the heights of Arques.

  The Castle was mounted on a precipitous hill, and was further protected by a deep fosse dug at its foot. There was only one path up the slope, and this led to a second ditch dug round the Castle walls.

  When the Duke came in sight of the place Count William’s followers were on their way home from a day’s plunder. Their meinie looked formidable, bristling with spears; Richard, the Viscount of Avranchin, who was related to the Duke through his marriage with William’s half-sister, exchanged a rather rueful glance with Néel, and murmured something to the Duke that had to do with caution.

  For answer William took his lance from the squire who carried it. ‘Brother Richard,’ said he, ‘I know very well what I am about. When these men see that I am here in person there will soon be an end to the affair.’ He gave the order to charge, and the troop hurled itself forwards over the flat ground to the foot of the Castle hill.

  Count William’s men were taken by surprise, and hampered by their plunder, but they managed to fling themselves into a hasty formation. Néel de Saint-Sauveur set up a shout of: ‘The Duke! the Duke!’ which was taken up by a score of voices. In a full-throated roar Herluin’s men fell upon the rebels.

  The rebel leaders heard Néel’s cry, and a moment later realized that the Duke was indeed at the head of the band. The word ran through their lines; men caught glimpses of a helmet ringed by a golden circlet, and panic seized them. If the Duke, who should have been at the other end of Normandy, had swept through the country to deal with Arques in person, the rebels had no stomach for battle. Their leaders could not rally them: they knew what manner of warrior William was. Before the shock of his charge they fell back, and in the space of a few minutes, discarding their plunder, they were flying to safety up the hill-path to the Castle.

  The Duke stormed after them, right to the very gates of the donjon. A desperate skirmish was fought there, and it seemed for a little while as though William would force his way through. Reinforcements from within beat him back, and managed to draw up the bridge. Missiles were hurled from the walls; Néel de Saint-Sauveur grasped at the Duke’s bridle, and dragged him out of range.

  ‘Holy God, beau sire!’ goggled Herluin, pop-eyed, ‘they fled like deer before the lerce-hounds!’

  ‘Look you, my friend,’ said the Duke, ‘I am a general, which is a thing you appear to find marvellous.’

  ‘Beau sire, I do perceive it,’ said Herluin, and rode soberly back with him down the hill.

  The Duke was joined soon after by an army led by Walter Giffard of Longueville, and those in the hold of Arques watched with uneasiness preparations for a blockade. The Count of Arques bit his lip, but when his captains quailed he gave a short bark of laughter, and promised them relief from the French King.

  This relief King Henry indeed tried to bring him, but he had planned to join forc
es with Count William before the arrival of the Duke. He marched over the Frontier, bearing in his train the Count’s father-in-law, Hugh, Count of Ponthieu, and he seized the border castle of Moulins in Hiesmes, and gave it into the care of Count Guy-Geoffrey of Gascony. No man saying him nay, he pressed on towards Arques, and hearing what had already befallen there kept a weather-eye cocked for Duke William. Had he but known it his vassal was otherwise, holding in check those allies who would have been glad to join Count William. ‘Let Henry strike the first blow,’ the Duke said. ‘I have not renounced the simple-homage I owe him.’

  The King pushed on, gaining confidence as no sign came from William. He learned that Walter Giffard, and not the Duke, was in charge of the blockade at Arques, and rubbed his hands, and promised he would make a quick end. The end was quick indeed, but hardly in the manner King Henry planned. He unfortunately fell into an ambush laid for him at St Aubin, and although he escaped with his life he lost there the greater part of his force, including the hapless Count of Ponthieu, who was slain before his eyes. He judged it time to retreat, and made the best of his way back to France what time Duke William, having had word brought him of the seizure of Moulins, returned to the siege. King Henry realized with annoyance that by his too hasty snatch at the Duke’s property he had released his vassal from the feudal obligations William had hitherto held in such punctilious respect. So King Henry went home to plan Normandy’s ruin, and the Count of Arques, knowing his nephew, offered terms of surrender.

  Some of his followers demurred, maintaining that the Castle could withstand a siege of many months. The Count said in a kind of weary despair: ‘We allowed William to cut us off from France, and with the craven King’s retreat died our hope. Do you not know William yet?’ He struck his hands together, fuming at himself. ‘Heart of Christ, when he lay in his cradle, jesting I said to Robert, his father: “We shall have to look to ourselves when he is grown.” True, O God! true! Would that I had strangled him in those early days, for by Death he has baulked me since at every turn! I am a ruined man.’ He drew his cloak over his face, and sat glooming.

  ‘We may yet defeat him,’ one of his friends said stoutly. ‘Do you lose heart so easily, Count?’

  The Count raised his head, and answered very bitterly: ‘O fool, I know when I have missed my mark. I thought to take William unawares, and failed. I am beaten, and do not need to be starved into miserable submission before I will own it. I struck a blow that glanced aside from William’s shield! There is no striking twice at him.’ His voice shook with his grief. Controlling it, he said: ‘I must make terms with him. He is not a vengeful man.’ His head sank on to his hands. ‘Ah, bones of God!’ he muttered in great anguish of spirit, ‘I was a fool to trust the French King! I might have succeeded else!’

  He sent a herald to William bearing a message couched in meek terms, asking only safety of life and limb for himself and his men. It was a politic move, however his friends may have disliked it. He had weighed the Duke’s character nicely: William would have used any means to force his uncle to surrender, but when he had achieved his end, and his foe owned himself beaten, all his pitiless enmity left him. Those who reviled him for a tyrant were much at fault; saving only when you roused the devil in Normandy he was never one to wreak vengeance on a beaten man. He granted the terms demanded at once, and when the gates of Arques were opened to him, rode in with his knights, and called his uncle privately to his presence.

  Count William came unarmed and alone, a proud man wretchedly humbled. When he found the Duke unattended he knew that William meant to spare him an added humiliation, and he bit his lip, realizing his nephew’s clemency, and hating him for it.

  ‘William my uncle,’ said the Duke abruptly, looking him over, ‘you have done very ill by me, and it is time and more that an end was put to your affair.’

  The Count of Arques smiled. ‘Do you complain, nephew?’ he asked. ‘You stand master in my Castle, and hold still the throne that might have been mine – faux naistre!’

  ‘As to that,’ said the Duke frankly, ‘if I am bastard-born you at least dare not hurl that in my face. Have I no cause to complain of you, you who swore allegiance to me at my birth?’

  The Count gave him back look for look. ‘By God, William, I would have ruined you if God had willed it so!’ he said.

  The Duke smiled. ‘This is to deal honestly at last. I know it: you have been mine enemy these many days. What dealings had you with the old Count of Mortain whom I banished? Had you traffic with the Hammer of Anjou?’

  ‘Men of straw both, like Henry of France,’ the Count said coolly. ‘I should have done better alone.’

  ‘Yea, you would have done better.’ He sent the Count a quick, appraising look, not unfriendly. ‘You have set many boulders in my path, my uncle, and I think this marks the end of our dealings.’

  The Count said with a flash of arrogance: ‘Not Guy of Burgundy, nor Martel, nor even France has been so dangerous a foe to you as I, William.’

  ‘Nay, for you are of my blood, and we are strong men, we who spring from Duke Rollo,’ William agreed. ‘But you will never succeed against me.’

  The Count moved away to the window, and stood looking out from the heights over grey miles of windswept country. A gull, wheeling in its flight, soared past the window, uttering a cry that sounded mournful in the stillness. There were clouds veiling the sun, and in the distance the trees bent before a strong wind. The Count’s gaze rested on them without seeing them. ‘By the Host, I do not know how it is you stand here alive to-day,’ he said, half to William, half to himself. ‘You should have perished long since: you have had enemies enough.’ He looked over his shoulder, and saw the Duke smiling in the sardonic way he had. The smile spoke his belief in himself. The Count curbed a spasm of anger, and said evenly: ‘There was some talk of prophecies made at your birth, and of strange dreams visiting your mother. I never set much store by that; no, nor even thought to find myself – thus – before you.’ He made a gesture with his hand, and let it fall again to his side. ‘You were born under a fortunate star, William.’

  ‘I was trained in a stark school,’ the Duke replied. ‘Many have snatched at my heritage, you not the least of them, but no man shall take from me what I hold.’

  Silence descended upon them. With an oddly detached interest William of Arques looked across the room at his nephew, pondering him. ‘But of other men’s holdings – eh, I wonder what you will snatch before the sands of life run out in you?’ he said. His eyes dwelled long on the Duke’s face. ‘Yea, I was a fool to venture,’ he said. ‘What now?’

  ‘I take back Arques,’ William said.

  The Count nodded. ‘Have you a cage prepared for me?’ he inquired.

  ‘No,’ said William. ‘You are free to go where you will.’

  The Count gave a cynical laugh. ‘Had I been the victor I would have shackled you fast, William.’

  ‘You would have been wise,’ answered the Duke grimly.

  ‘Have you no fear that what I have failed to do now I may attempt again?’ asked the Count.

  ‘Nay; I have no fear,’ William answered.

  ‘You strip me of my lands and bid me stay in Normandy. I thank you, William.’

  ‘I neither bid you stay nor go. You are free to do as you will. I am Duke of Normandy, but you are still my uncle,’ William said in a gentler voice.

  The Count heard him in silence, and in silence paced the room for a long time. A chill of defeat stole over him; he felt old suddenly and very tired. Glancing at the Duke’s powerful frame he became aware of a dull resentment that ached in his breast. William was right: he would never wrest Normandy from him now. He was nearing the end of life, with his ambitions unfulfilled, and a curious lassitude taking their place: William had not yet reached his prime; life lay before him, ready to be conquered, as he would conquer it. A shiver ran through the Count;
his jealousy surged up in him, jealousy of the other’s youth and strength and mastery. He straightened his shoulders with an effort, and came close to the table beside which William stood patiently watching him. ‘I shall never live at peace with you, William,’ he said. ‘Give me leave to depart out of Normandy.’

  The Duke nodded. ‘I think you have chosen wisely,’ he said. ‘Normandy will not hold us both.’

  The Count gathered his mantle about him. ‘You are merciful,’ he said, ‘but I do not give you thanks.’ He went out with a heavy tread, and the sound of his footsteps died gradually away down the stone corridor.

  Five

  News of all these happenings reached Flanders in due course, but for some time after the grim work at Lille no word was spoken at Count Baldwin’s Court of the violent Duke of Normandy. Matilda saw her sister put into the marriage-bed, and later waved farewell to her when she set forth for England with her lord. ‘God’s grace, I would not wed such an one as that!’ she murmured, with her eyes on Tostig’s florid countenance.

  The Countess Adela said tartly: ‘Rest you, you will end your days a widow still, my girl.’

  Matilda folded her hands. ‘Madame, I shall be content to have it so.’

  ‘Do not take that tone with me, daughter,’ the Countess answered. ‘I am very well aware of your mind.’

  Matilda slid away from her, saying nothing, keeping her glance lowered. She guarded silence these days: poets hymned her frozen mystery; a quantity of bad verse extolled her witch’s eyes. She listened to such effusions with just that faint smile on her lips that drove men wild to possess her. A minstrel of France spilled passionate songs at her feet, and turned pale for hopeless love of her; she let him kiss her hand, but she could not have said whether he had blue eyes or brown. She pitied the poor wretch, but while he sang to her she thought of her fierce lover William, and wondered, and turned in her mind this way and that. The poet went sadly away; after some days the Lady Matilda missed him, but when she was told that he had gone to the Court of Boulogne she said only: ‘Oh!’ without surprise or regret.