The Conqueror Read online

  ‘I know it well,’ the monk replied.

  ‘Could you carry a man’s body there for burial?’

  ‘Surely, my son.’ The monk sounded grave. Raoul lifted his eyes, and the holy man looked right into them. He came up quite close, holding his lantern so that he could see Raoul’s face. ‘Whose body must I carry to Marwell?’ he asked.

  ‘The body that lies at your feet, Father. It is Edgar, Thegn of Marwell.’ He watched the monk go down on his knees and draw the corner of the cloak away from Edgar’s face. ‘Cover it,’ he said. ‘But later wash away those stains.’ He saw that the monk was praying, and waited till he had risen to his feet again. ‘You will give the body into his sister’s charge,’ he said. ‘I do not want her to see those ugly wounds. Will you cleanse them?’

  ‘Rest assured, my son, that we shall do all that you would wish,’ the monk answered. His voice was kind; he wondered what lay behind the request, and what interest in a thegn this Norman knight could have.

  Raoul took his purse from his belt and held it out. ‘There will be expenses upon the journey,’ he said, ‘and I should like to buy Masses for his soul. Will you take my purse?’

  The monk hesitated. ‘I pray you, take it,’ Raoul said. He dropped the purse into the monk’s hand, and went down on his knee again beside Edgar’s body. He lifted the cloak for a moment and looked long. The wound and the blood faded; he saw Edgar sleeping, no more. ‘Farewell!’ he said softly. ‘There shall be no bitterness, no enmity, nor any grief when we two meet again. Farewell, my best of friends!’ He rose; two lay-brothers had come up, and were staring at him stupidly. He said: ‘Will these take charge of the body?’

  ‘They will carry it to a place of safety, my son, and it shall be taken thence to Marwell.’ The monk glanced at Raoul’s torn tunic, and at the mantle that covered Edgar. ‘But your cloak?’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘Keep it round him,’ Raoul answered. ‘I do not want it.’

  He went slowly back towards the Norman tents. Lights burned there, and men were seated round fires kindled on the ground. He passed two of these groups on his way to his tent. The soldiers seemed tired, but cheerful, making light of their wounds and talking of the rewards they would snatch as soon as the Duke was crowned.

  Raoul lifted the flap of the tiny tent he shared with Gilbert, and went in. Gilbert was lying on his pallet, not asleep, but frowning up at the tent-pole. When he saw Raoul he sat up. ‘So here you are,’ he said. ‘Where have you been all this while? Why, you have torn your tunic!’ His eyes grew suddenly suspicious. ‘Where is your mantle? What have you been about?’ he asked.

  Raoul did not answer. He sat down on the edge of his own pallet and propped his head in his hands, staring down at the crushed grass beneath his feet.

  ‘I see,’ Gilbert said pitifully. ‘You have been looking for Edgar. And – you found him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Raoul, does he live?’

  ‘No. Not now.’

  Gilbert brought his fist down with a crash on to the pallet. ‘Heart of God, I have had my fill of this accursed war!’ he said. ‘Lands in England? I want none! I have lands in Normandy which need me, and this I tell you, Raoul: when the Duke has done with fighting I will turn to them, and forget these sorrowful shores.’ He stopped, and peered across the small space that separated them. ‘What is that on your arm? Why, it is blood!’

  Raoul glanced down at it. ‘Yes. A Saxon crept up behind me as I knelt beside Edgar. Edgar saw, and died warning me.’ A silence fell between them; Gilbert cleared his throat presently, and Raoul rose stifling a sigh. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Give me your mantle. I must go back to the Duke.’

  Gilbert nodded to where it lay. ‘You gave yours – ?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Raoul unemotionally. ‘He was so cold.’ He fastened the heavy cloak round his shoulders, and went out.

  At the entrance to the Duke’s tent FitzOsbern met him, and grasped him by the arm. ‘William has been asking for you, but I guessed where you had gone, and told him. Raoul, did you find Edgar?’

  ‘Yes. He is dead.’

  ‘Was he dead when you came to him? Tell me it all!’

  ‘No. He was wounded, but he lived still.’

  FitzOsbern cried out: ‘Could you not have brought him in? There are surgeons here who might have saved his life!’

  ‘Oh William, don’t you see?’ Raoul said. ‘He did not want to live. I think he was too badly wounded, but even had he not been – no, it is better as it is. He spoke to me for a while before he died. He said he had seen you in the battle, and asked whether you had survived. When I told him, yes, he said he was glad, for you were his friend.’

  FitzOsbern shed tears at that. ‘I would I had seen him! But the Duke has been busy, and I could not leave him. Ah, poor Edgar! Did he believe I had forgotten him? Did he think my love had changed towards him that I came not?’

  ‘Oh no! Let me go now. Some other time I will tell you how he died; not tonight.’

  ‘But stay!’ FitzOsbern said. ‘He must be buried with honour. Do not tell me you have left his body for the wolves and the vultures to devour!’

  ‘No, I have not done that. I gave it into the care of a monk, who has promised to bear it to Marwell.’

  FitzOsbern was disappointed. ‘You should have brought it here. The Duke would have granted an honourable grave, and we could have followed his coffin, mourning.’

  ‘But he was not a Norman,’ Raoul said. ‘Do you think that is what he would have chosen? I have done as I think he would desire.’ He disengaged himself from FitzOsbern’s hold, and passed into the Duke’s tent.

  William looked up. ‘Well, my friend?’ he said. ‘You have been absent from my side longer than is your wont.’ He glanced keenly into Raoul’s face. ‘If Edgar of Marwell is dead I am sorry. But I do not think he would ever have lived at peace with me.’

  ‘No,’ Raoul said. He came further into the tent. ‘You are alone, beau sire.’

  ‘At last. I have had two monks from Waltham here, begging leave to search for Harold’s body, and offering me ten marks of gold if I would let them bear it hence. That I cannot do.’ He pushed a paper across the table. ‘Here is the first list of those slain. Do you want to see it? We do not know all yet. Engenufe de l’Aigle was one.’

  ‘Oh?’ Raoul ran his eye down the list.

  The Lord of Cingueliz came in. He looked worn, and rather grim. He said: ‘They have found the body. It has been hacked with swords, which, for my part, I think a deed worthy of sharp punishment.’

  ‘Who did it?’ William demanded.

  ‘I know not. Two of Moulines’ knights, I believe.’

  ‘Discover them, and let me know their names. I will have their spurs chopped off for this unknightly deed. Do they want to make my name odious?’

  Raoul was looking at the Lord of Cingueliz. He said: ‘Is all well with you, Tesson?’

  Tesson did not meet his eyes. ‘It is well with me. But my son lies dead. It is no matter. I have others.’ He turned abruptly as the sound of footsteps came to his ears, and held back the flap of the tent.

  Four knights carried Harold’s body in upon a rough bier, and set it down carefully in the middle of the tent. The Duke got up and moved forward. ‘Take off that covering.’

  William Malet drew back the cloak from the body. It lay very straight and stiff, with the feet drawn together, the fearless eyes closed, and the hands crossed on the hilt of a sword.

  For a minute or two the Duke stood still, looking down at the man who had fought him with such stubborn courage. His hand went to the ouch that fastened his mantle, and unclasped it. He took off the mantle and held it out to William Malet, still looking down at Harold. ‘Wrap him in my cloak,’ he commanded. ‘Perjured he was, but a great and a brave warrior.’ He paused and seemed to consider. �€