The Conqueror Read online

  In the bower Matilda was seated on a cushion, working at a fine altar-cloth. The Lady Judith had the other end of it, and both fair heads were bent over the embroidery. Round them were gathered several maidens, all busy with some form of stitchery or another. There was a hum of talk which broke off suddenly as the door at the end of the room was flung open. Needles were stayed in mid-air; six startled faces were turned towards the door, and six pairs of eyes grew round with wonder.

  William stood on the threshold, an incongruous figure in the scented bower. Perceiving the look in his eyes, one of the maidens clasped her neighbour with a frightened whimper.

  It seemed to Matilda that speech was impossible. Some leaping emotion choked her; it might have been fear, or it might have been triumph. She saw how the dust lay thick on the Duke’s boots and mantle, how his face was pale and lined with the fatigue of hard riding, and the shadow of a small exultant smile touched her lips.

  ‘Why, what is this?’ said Judith. Amusement quivered in her voice. She got up, and moved forward a step, glancing from the Duke to her sister’s still face.

  The Duke stalked towards Matilda. She sat like a statue, watching him. He bent (she thought he swooped) and jerked her to her feet, holding her wrists in a grip that made her catch her breath. ‘Your message reached me safe,’ he said. ‘I am come to answer you.’

  ‘Eh, heart of Christ!’ cried Judith, who guessed what was coming.

  One of the maidens saw the lash of the Duke’s whip shaken free, and began to cry. Matilda’s lips moved stiffly: ‘You dare not!’

  ‘Yea, madame, I dare,’ William said. For the first time she saw that smile he had which was like a snarl. ‘I have had men’s limbs lopped off for the very insult you cast at me, proud widow.’ He pulled her into the middle of the chamber. ‘I will spare your limbs, madame, but by God, your sides shall smart!’

  The maids were in a flutter, some staring as though they hardly understood, one sobbing for very horror, and all of them huddled together as far from this dreadful invader as was possible. The whip sang through the air; the girl who was sobbing hid her face, and winced every time she heard the wicked crack of the lash.

  The Lady Judith had recovered her composure. When William raised his whip-hand she slid quickly to the door, and set her back to it with her hands flat on the dark wood, as though she would keep it shut. The eldest of the bower-maidens, aghast at seeing her mistress so brutally flogged, would have run out to summon help, but recoiled before Judith.

  ‘Fool, do you want all the Court to know how the Lady Matilda was whipped?’ Judith said scornfully. ‘Let be, let be! she will not thank you for screeching her hurts to the world.’

  Matilda was sobbing, but she had her underlip gripped hard between her teeth, and would not allow more than a little moan to escape her. Her dress was torn, and her hair dishevelled; William’s fingers were crushing her wrists till the bones ached. His merciless arm was stayed at last; her knees gave way under her as the last blow fell. He threw his whip aside, and caught her round the waist, holding her against him breast to breast. ‘Madame, you scorned me,’ he said, ‘but by God, you will never forget me!’ His hold tightened; his left hand let go her wrists and forced up her drooping head. Before she knew what next was to come, he had kissed her full on her parted lips. She gave a little moan at that. He laughed suddenly and harshly, flung her from him, and swept round on his heel. She fell half-fainting to the ground, and lay there.

  There was an urgent beating on the door; voices were heard in agitated conference outside. ‘Open!’ William ordered.

  Judith looked at him curiously. Her slow smile dawned; she bent the knee. ‘By my faith, William of Normandy, you are a brave man,’ she said, and moved from before the door, and pulled it wide.

  An exclamation broke from the foremost of those on the threshold. Swords scraped in their scabbards; there arose a babel of indignation. The Duke showed his teeth, and stalked forward rather like a beast of prey about to make his spring. The gentleman fell back involuntarily before him. His eyes ran over them; he made no movement to come at his sword; he even set his hands carelessly on his hips. ‘Well, my masters?’ he said sardonically. ‘Well?’

  They were irresolute, but fidgeted with their daggers. They looked at one another, and lastly at Judith. Judith laughed, and said: ‘O want-wits! Stand aside: this is not for you.’

  ‘Holy God, lady … !’ one began in a stutter.

  ‘The Lady Matilda!’ another gasped out.

  A third started forward, hot words bubbling on his tongue. ‘Beau sire, you have done very ill, by the Blood! Not your Grace’s high estate, not –’

  ‘Foh!’ said William. His hand fell on the indignant gentleman’s shoulder, and twisted him out of the way. It was plain he held them all to be of no account. His look commanded; without quite knowing why they did so the gentlemen made room for him to pass, and out he went, very much the better man.

  Raoul was waiting anxiously in the bailey. He drew a sigh of relief when he saw the Duke come through the door, but a second later caught a glimpse of angry faces behind William, and wondered whether it was to be a matter for swords after all. Apparently it was not. The Duke took the bridle in his hand, and leaped into the saddle. He became aware of the men who had followed him, and suddenly laughed.

  This was not to be borne, not even from Normandy. A couple of men sprang forward to grasp at the Duke’s rein; Raoul pulled his sword half out of the scabbard.

  The Duke continued to be amused. ‘No, my friends, I think not!’ he said, and drove in his spurs. His horse plunged forward, snorting; one man jumped clear, the other was knocked sprawling. The Duke was away before anyone could move; the clatter of hooves resounded on the paved ground, and grew fainter in the distance, till it became no more than an echo.

  In the bower her ladies flew to succour Matilda, with little crooning noises, and fluttering hands. She was looking at the bruises on her wrists; they were alarmed to see her so rapt and still. Judith drove them out, slamming the door upon their protests. She came back to Matilda, and knelt by her. ‘Child, you would not be warned,’ she said.

  Matilda’s lips twisted into the semblance of a smile. ‘Do you pity me, Judith?’

  ‘Not I, sweetheart. You have come by your deserts.’

  Matilda straightened her body with a grimace of pain. ‘What did they do to him?’ she asked.

  ‘Why, what should they do to such an one as he?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Matilda. ‘But they might have slain him. I wonder, did he think of that?’ She lifted her hands and considered her bruises again. Her calm broke; she cast herself on Judith’s breast, crying piteously: ‘Ah, ah, he has hurt me, Judith!’

  Four

  There was an air of expectancy about the Norman Court for many days after the Duke’s flying visit to Lille. The tale of his doings there leaked out, and was whispered in various garbled versions from one man to another. But no man thought fit to mention it to the Duke himself. Some confidently prophesied that Count Baldwin’s cartel of war would come, but these were proved to be wrong. No one knew what Count Baldwin said or thought when he returned from that fateful day’s hawking and found his daughter bruised and prostrate, and his Court seething with impotent fury. Whatever his feelings he was not the man to allow these to thrust him unwarily into hostilities. He was a powerful prince, and no craven, but he quite definitely did not want to go to war with his Norman neighbour. ‘There is one man in the world,’ said Count Baldwin, ‘who has the art of war at his finger-ends, and that man is Duke William. I have said enough.’

  His nobles considered that he took Normandy’s daring too meekly; the Lady Matilda nursed her sore sides, and spoke no word; Count Baldwin wrote careful letters to the Duke in Rouen, and digested his answers with a thoughtful eye. He judged it politic to tell his daughter she was a ruined wo