The Duke slit open Baldwin’s packet, and ran his eye over its contents. He gave a short laugh, and crumpled the sheet in his hand. ‘Parchment! Give me a fair scroll of parchment!’ he said, and jabbed a quill in the ink-horn. ‘Raoul, where are you? Roll me that sheet, and set my seal to it. Here is a jest you will like. Read young Baldwin’s letter, and you will understand.’ He began to write upon a label.
‘There is nothing writ on the parchment, lord,’ one of the clerks ventured to remind him.
‘No, fool, nothing. Is it done, Raoul? Then bind this distich about the scroll, and let it be dispatched to my noble brother with all speed.’ He gave the label into Raoul’s hands, and turned back to his shipwright.
Raoul read the distich, and laughed. The Duke had scrawled two crisp lines only:
‘Beau frère en Angleterre vous aurez
Ce qui dedans escript vous trouverez.’
‘A right good answer,’ Raoul said, binding it round the scroll. ‘I wish that you had made it to all the others of his kidney.’
The Duke made no reply, and with a heavy heart Raoul watched him at his work. Few princes, he thought, had earned for themselves greater names for upright dealing. It had been said of him always that he could not be bought, and favoured no man unworthily. The serf got justice from him as easily as the baron, and lawless vagabonds had short shrift under his rule. Yet with this obsession of a crown holding him in its grip he seemed to have grown reckless, even callous. Bad enough, thought Raoul, to lead a Norman army into England; to loose upon the land this horde of foreign mercenaries who had joined his standard urged by no loyalty but by hope of plunder alone, would be a deed to cry shame on through the ages.
To Gilbert d’Aufay he said later: ‘Unruly, ravening, swine rootling for truffles – God, what an army have we mustered!’
Gilbert said peaceably: ‘I know, but good Norman blood will stiffen the rabble.’
‘Yes, you know,’ Raoul answered. ‘Full well do you know that it will be beyond even William’s power to curb these masterless rogues once plunder is in sight.’
‘Well, I do not like it,’ Gilbert said in his calm way. ‘I am for Normandy, but as I see it I am bound by mine oaths of fealty to fight for the Duke, be it here or outremer. As for you’ – he looked up gravely – ‘you are bound by friendship, and I suppose that is why you hate it so.’ He wrinkled his brow, trying to find words to explain the vague thought in his mind. ‘You care so much for William, don’t you? Now, I am his man, but I have never been his friend. I have envied you sometimes, but I have come to see yours is no easy path. It is better not to be the friend of such an one as William, Raoul.’
‘Treason, my friend,’ said Raoul lightly.
‘No, only truth. What profit is there in that friendship? What comfort? None, I think. William thinks of kingdoms and of conquest, not of you, Raoul, nor of any man.’
‘No.’ Raoul glanced fleetingly at him, and away again. ‘I have always known that. William stands alone. I have not looked for profit in his friendship. But years ago, when he and I were boys, I took service with him, believing that he would bring peace and strength into Normandy. Trust I gave, not friendship. That came later.’
‘He did bring peace, and strength too.’
‘Yes, both of these. No man ever did more for this Duchy. You might give him fealty of body and soul and not fear to be betrayed.’
‘Still, Raoul?’
‘Always,’ Raoul said tranquilly.
Gilbert shook his head. ‘I think ambition is changing that.’
‘You are wrong. As well as any man can I know him, Gilbert. A crown he may desire, but beyond that is something more. Now you see how great a fool I am, that knowing this I must still grieve to see him pick up weapons – unworthy of his chivalry.’
Gilbert looked at him curiously. ‘What made you give your heart to him, Raoul? Often I have wondered.’
A smile crept into the grey eyes. ‘One little corner of it? Is that by your reading my heart? No, Gilbert, William does not deal in such tender stuff. Worship I had for him in my grass-time. Lads feed upon such stuff. It could not last. It changed to respect, as deep and more enduring. Yea, and friendship also: a queer friendship, maybe, but still – enough.’ He got up, and strolled towards the door. ‘Hearts are given in exchange one for the other. At least, not otherwise does mine leave my breast.’
‘But – Raoul, this is strange talk on your lips. I did not know … If he loves any man that one is you, I am very sure.’
‘Ah!’ Raoul looked pensively at the door-latch. ‘I would rather say: As much as he loves any man he loves me.’ He looked up; the smile lingered in his eyes. ‘That, my Gilbert, is why –’ He broke off; his smile grew. ‘Just that,’ he said, and went out.
All that summer Normandy hummed with activity, and no man talked of anything but the coming expedition. The fleet, numbering nearly seven hundred vessels, both large and small, was built and lay at its moorings at the mouth of the Dives. The army swelled to giant proportions; if many thousands of foreigners joined it, at least two-thirds of the force was composed of Normans, and however the mercenaries might conduct themselves in England, in Normandy they were kept under a discipline that allowed of no rioting, or plundering of the countryside.
At the beginning of August the Duke received the tidings out of Norway for which he had been waiting. Tostig and Harold Hardrada meant to set sail for the North of England towards the middle of September. Their plan was to wrest Northumbria from Morkere’s hold, and to march southward on London with such English auxiliaries as they could prevail upon to join their force.
‘You serve me better than you know, friend Tostig,’ said the Duke. ‘Harold is not the man I think him if he does not march north to crush that army of yours.’
Four days later, upon the twelfth of August, the Duke left Rouen for Dives. Twelve thousand mounted men were gathered there, and twenty thousand foot, and in the river-mouth hundreds of ships swung gently on their anchors with the tide. Chief among them rode the Mora, which Matilda had presented to her lord. Crimson sails hung from the masts, and the prow was carved in the form of a child about to loose an arrow from his bow. The boat was caulked with hair, and gilded, and had a cabin built in the stern which was hung with worked curtains, and lit by silver lamps.
Near to the Mora floated Mortain’s ships, a hundred and twenty in number, beating by twenty his brother Odo’s donation. The Count of Evreux had launched eighty vessels, all nobly equipped, and the Count of Eu sixty.
The Duchess and my lord Robert accompanied William to Dives. Robert was feeling important, because his name was joined with Matilda’s in the powers of Regency which the Duke had delegated for the period of his absence; but he would have preferred to have gone with the army all the same, and when he visited the camps, and had his eyes dazzled with the sparkle of sunlight on steel, or went aboard the Mora, he became so envious that at last he blurted out his wish to his father, and asked to be allowed to go too.
The Duke shook his head. It should have been enough, but Robert was desperate. ‘I am no child. I am fourteen, my lord. It is my right,’ he said, staring up sullenly into the Duke’s face.
The Duke looked him over, not ill-pleased to find him so eager. Behind Robert Matilda clasped her hands suddenly in her lap. ‘Rest you, wife,’ the Duke said, with a little laugh. ‘You are over-young for this encounter, my son, and besides that you are my heir. If I return not, you will be Duke of Normandy in my stead.’
‘Eh, William!’ The Duchess rose quickly, her cheeks grown pale.
The Duke signed to Robert to leave them. ‘What, Mald, afraid?’
‘Why did you say that?’ She came up close to him, and laid her hands on his ringed tunic. ‘You will conquer. You have always conquered. William, my lord!’
‘I wonder?’ he said, with a kin
d of detached speculativeness. His arm encircled her, but he was looking beyond her.
She trembled; she had never known him unsure of himself before. ‘Do you doubt, beau sire? You?’ Her hands tugged at his shoulders.
He glanced down at her. ‘I know, my lass, that this will be my sternest fight. I am risking all upon this venture: life, and fortune, and my Duchy’s weal.’ He knit his brows together. ‘No, I do not doubt. This was foreseen.’
She faltered: ‘Foreseen?’
‘So I believe. My mother dreamed once when she was heavy with child and near her time that a tree grew up out of her womb, and stretched out its branches over Normandy and England till both lay cowering in their shadow. I am that tree, Matilda.’
‘I have heard tell of this,’ she said. ‘I think it was a holy vision, my lord, no sick woman’s fancy.’
‘Maybe.’ He bent and kissed her. ‘We shall soon know.’
The fleet was detained at the river-mouth for a month. Some of the vessels were found to be unseaworthy; the carpenters had not finished building the wooden castles which the Duke was carrying in separate parts to England, and armourers were still labouring day and night to fashion hauberks, and helmets, and tunics of mail. The soldiers grew restive; there were desertions, and pillaging raids were made upon the neighbouring countryside. The Duke punished malefactors by death, and confined the foot-soldiers to the camps, and the trouble died down.
Upon the twelfth day of September when all was at last in order, and a favourable wind blowing, the Duke bade farewell to Matilda, blessed his son, and went aboard the Mora with his Seneschal and his Cup-bearer, and attended by Raoul, Gilbert d’Aufay, and his Standard, Ralph de Toeni.
Watching from the narrow window of the house wherein she lodged ashore, Matilda’s straining eyes saw the banners slowly rising to the mastheads. The consecrated emblem of St Peter unfurled its rich colours against a clear sky; beside it the gold lions of Normandy fluttered bravely in the wind. The Duchess’s fingers gripped together, and she drew a deep sobbing breath.
‘The anchor is up!’ Robert said. ‘Lady, look! the Mora is moving! See how the oars dip in the water! Oh, if I were but aboard!’
She did not answer; the Mora was gliding down the stream, with banners flying, and the furled sails showing crimson against the masts.
‘My uncle of Mortain is next, on the Bel Hasard,’ said Robert. ‘Look, you can see his standard! And that is Count Robert’s ship, and that is the Viscount of Avranchin’s, close behind. Ho, how Richard and Red William will whine that they did not see this sight!’
Still she did not answer; it is doubtful if she heard him. Her eyes did not waver from the Mora; she thought: He is gone. Mary Mother, give aid! give aid!
She stood motionless until the Mora had become a speck on the horizon. Robert, kneeling on a bench drawn up under the window, went on chattering and pointing, but she paid no heed to him. She was thinking how she might stitch this scene with threads to make a tapestry worthy of her skill. She would do it, she decided, she and her ladies, while they were left lonely and anxious in quiet Rouen. She began to plan. Pictures flitted across her mind’s eye: Harold swearing upon the relics at Bayeux; the Confessor dying; the Confessor buried – a very fine panel, this one, with the noble Abbey on one side, and a coffin borne by eight men upon the other. Her brain ran on; her eyes gleamed. She would have Harold crowned too; she could see it all; how he should sit in the middle of the panel upon a throne, with false Stigand standing beside him with his hands outspread to bless. Stigand’s robes would need rich coloured threads; she would embroider them herself, and Harold’s face too: her ladies might work on the background, and the throne. And then there would be William’s preparations for the invasion, a difficult panel this, with arms, and mail-tunics, and stores being dragged to the ships; and after that she would stitch this day’s departure, choosing bright threads to show the glitter of shields, and good blue for the sea, and crimson for the Mora’s sails. It would take a long time, she thought, but the end should justify the labour. And if God were good there would be more panels to embroider: a battle, a crowning – if God were good.
Her gaze left the horizon; she took Robert’s hand in hers, and said in a calm voice: ‘Come, my son. We journey back to Rouen this day, for I have work to do there.’
Standing in the stern of the Mora, Raoul was watching the coast of Normandy grow dim in the distance. FitzOsbern came to join him presently. ‘Well, we are away at last,’ he said comfortably. ‘The lodesman fears inclement weather, I am told, but it seems fair enough to me.’ He leaned on the gilded rail, and stared across the sea at the thin line of coast. ‘Farewell, Normandy!’ he said, jesting.
Raoul shivered.
‘Holà, are you cold, my friend?’ FitzOsbern inquired.
‘No,’ said Raoul curtly, and moved away.
They were sailing northwards, and at nightfall the wind, which had been rising steadily, was blowing half a gale. Heavy seas broke over the deck; the timbers groaned under the strain, and half-naked men with sweat and sea-water streaming off their backs were struggling to lower and furl the sails. They shouted to one another above the noise of the wind, and thrust better-born people out of their way with no ceremony at all.
FitzOsbern grew limp and strangely silent, and crawled away presently to be private in the throes of his sickness. D’Albini scoffed at him, but a roll larger than the rest sent him off in a hurry to join the Seneschal; Ives, the Duke’s page, curled himself into a miserable ball on his pallet in the cabin, and closed his eyes upon the heaving universe. He heard his master laugh, and shuddered, but he would not open his eyes, no, not even if the Duke bade him.
The Duke got up from his bed of skins, and wrapping a cloak of frieze about him made his way out on to the deck. Raoul and Gilbert were standing by the opening into the cabin, holding on to the sides for support. Raoul grasped the Duke’s arm. ‘Have a care, seigneur. Gilbert was all but tipped into this angry sea a minute ago.’
The Duke peered into the gloom. Lights bobbed on the water; he said: ‘We shall lose some of the smaller ships this night.’
Spray broke over them in a shower. ‘Beau sire, stay within the cabin!’ begged Raoul.
The Duke shook the wet out of his eyes and hair. ‘I am staying where I am, Watcher – unless I am washed overboard,’ he added, clutching at a support.
The wind dropped just before dawn, and the grey light showed the sea the colour of lead, with a sullen swell lifting the Mora uneasily. The weary ships drifted towards St Valéry in Ponthieu, and cast anchor there.
It was nightfall before the Duke knew the extent of his loss. Several of the smaller craft had sunk, and some of the horses and stores had been washed overboard, but the damage was not serious. The Duke gave orders that dismal tidings should not be spread, and summoned up the ships’ masters and carpenters to learn from them what repairs must be effected before the fleet could put to sea again.
When these were done a fresh delay occurred to set men grumbling. The wind changed, and blew steadily from the north-east, so that no ship could reach to England from Ponthieu. Day followed day, and still the contrary wind blew. Men began to look askance upon the Duke, and to whisper that this voyage was against the will of God.
Foreboding seized many of the barons; there was an attempt at mutiny amongst the men-at-arms, and the uneasy whispers swelled to open condemnation.
The Duke showed no sign either of impatience or anxiety. He dealt with the mutineers in a summary fashion which put an end to overt demonstrations, and met his barons’ troubled looks with a cheerfulness that heartened them. But matters were beginning to look ugly, and after ten days spent in port he took the Count of Ponthieu into his confidence, and arranged an impressive ceremony for the benefit of his host.
The bones of the good Saint-Valéry were dug up, and carried in procession round
the town. The Bishops of Bayeux and Coutances preceded them in their robes; a service was held, and the Saint invoked, and begged to change the wind, and thus declare the righteousness of the venture.
Hopeful, sceptical, a little awed, the host knelt, awaiting a sign. A hush fell upon the town; men stared towards the fluttering standards in the harbour; fingers were licked, and held up to test the wind. An hour crept by. The sun was a red ball sinking in the west. Men began to murmur; their voices sounded like the growl of some angry monster. Raoul stole a look at the Duke, and saw that he was kneeling with his hands together palm to palm, watching the death of the sun.
The glow faded; a chill of evening spread coldly over the kneeling ranks; the growl was growing louder, and from time to time a single voice could be heard raised in bitter mockery.
Suddenly FitzOsbern sprang up. ‘See!’ he cried, and pointed to the harbour. ‘The wind has dropped!’
Thousands of heads were turned; a breathless stillness lasted while a man might count to sixty. The standards were hanging slack from the mastheads; the wind had died with the sun.
The Duke took one quick look, and rose. ‘The Saint has spoken!’ he said. ‘Get to your ships! When tomorrow dawns, you shall find a favourable wind blowing to carry us over the sea to our goal.’
It seemed as though the Saint had indeed spoken. The next day was bright and clear, with a wind blowing steadily from the south-west. The fleet weighed anchor betimes, and sailed out of Saint-Valéry in good trim.
The fair weather gave the Mora a chance to show her superiority. By sundown she was well ahead of the other ships, and during the night she clean outstripped them.
In the morning an anxious deputation awoke the Duke with the tidings that the Mora was alone. He yawned, and said: ‘I would the Duchess might know how gallantly rode her ship.’
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