The Conqueror Read online

  South of Winchester green meadows and thick woods stretched for many leagues. Marwell lay in a hollow, sheltered by gently-rising hills, and watered by a stream that meandered through its fields. Round the house serfs’ huts were clustered; the house itself, which was built of wood, with a slate roof, and an outer stairway leading to the upper chambers, stood in a curtilage with a little chapel beside it and several out-buildings. A stockade enclosed it, but the gate stood open, and since no guard watched by it, it was plain that a Norman visitation was not expected. As Raoul rode into the curtilage the sacring-bell was ringing in the chapel. The place seemed deserted, but even as he swung himself down from the saddle heads peeped from the chapel door, and men ran out, snatching at whatever weapons they could reach.

  Raoul stood still. He made no attempt to come at his sword, but spoke quickly over his shoulder. His own men rode forward; steel glittered, and the crowd of serfs fell back.

  Raoul said in his halting Saxon: ‘I come in peace. But if you set upon my men there will be bloodshed.’ He walked on alone, unconcerned by the glare of a score of menacing eyes, and went into the chapel.

  The priest was holding the Host between hands that shook. Raoul stopped, and took off his helmet, bending the knee and making the sign of the Cross.

  Elfrida stood by the altar-steps with the serving women clustered about her. All were looking fearfully towards the strange knight; a stout dame threw her arms protectively round Elfrida.

  Raoul spoke her name. She had been peering at him as though she doubted, but when she heard his voice the cloud seemed to lift from her brow, and she broke away from the women who shielded her, and stumbled forward, holding out her hands. ‘Oh, you have come to me!’ she said. ‘I have wanted you so, Raoul!’

  The women were amazed to see her go towards the stranger with just that look on her face, but the stout dame seemed to understand the Norman tongue, and spoke a sharp reproof.

  Raoul strode to meet Elfrida, but even as his hands clasped hers she shrank away from him. ‘Ah God, your scarlet mantle!’ she whispered. She covered her eyes with her hands. ‘Oh no! Oh no! not that!’

  The priest said quaveringly in Latin: ‘I charge you, Norman, as you fear God, stand back from this hallowed ground!’

  For all the heed Raoul paid to him he might have held his peace. Raoul said gently: ‘What is it, my little love? You cannot think I come to hurt you! Look up, my heart: I have come to you, as I swore I would.’

  She backed away from him; her eyes were very wide, fixed on his hands. ‘You must not touch me. There is blood upon your hands.’ She pointed with a shaking finger. ‘Gules, gules!’ she whispered in a dreadful voice. ‘You cannot wash it away. I know. I have tried. O God of mercy!’

  He grew rather pale; he spread his hands for her to see. ‘Look again,’ he said. ‘There is no blood upon my hands.’

  ‘Yea, but I have seen,’ she said. ‘Blood there is, blood that no tears may wash away. Oh, do not touch me!’

  ‘There is no blood,’ he repeated steadily. ‘My hands are clean. Not otherwise would I come to you.’

  She seemed as though she dared not believe him. ‘Not Edgar’s blood? Not his, Raoul?’ She began to wring her hands together. ‘They brought him home to me with a red mantle covering him; and red wounds were on his breast, and a red scar upon his brow. And now I know that it was your mantle.’

  He stood still, holding her eyes with his. ‘It was my mantle, but as God lives Edgar met not his death at my hands,’ he said.

  The stout woman tried to come between them. ‘If you are one Raoul de Harcourt of whom I have heard my nephew speak, answer me now! Sent you his body to us, wrapped in a scarlet cloak?’

  ‘I sent it,’ Raoul replied.

  ‘But you did not slay him,’ Elfrida said. She was trembling. ‘No, Raoul, no! You did not slay Edgar!’

  ‘I have told you. I slew him not, but he died in my arms, and I sent his corse back to the home he loved, wrapping it in my mantle. I sought him amongst the slain when the battle was done, and found him, and he still lived. Elfrida, between us twain was no blood nor any hatred. I swear it on the Cross. We spoke of old days in Rouen, remembering old jests. I cannot talk of that. Yet he said as he lay dying that friendship had endured.’

  The tears were running down her cheeks. ‘You did not slay him. No, you could not. But he lies between us, and you may not take me.’ She threw out her hands to check his advance. ‘See what lies between us!’ she said. ‘It is ended, Raoul, the dream we had.’

  He looked down. A plain paving-stone marked Edgar’s grave. He stood still for a moment with bowed head, but presently he said: ‘You are wrong. He would not wish to lie between us. At the last he spoke your name, giving you into my care.’

  She shook her head. ‘You are mine enemy,’ she said. ‘Normans have slain all that I held dear. It is ended.’

  A harsher note crept into Raoul’s voice. He said: ‘Even though I had slain Edgar with mine own hands I would still take you. Through a path of swords I have come to you, because there was no other way.’ He stepped over the grave and caught her in his arms. ‘Have you forgot?’ he said. ‘Have you forgot how you promised to trust in me even though I came thus to fetch you?’

  She did not struggle, yet neither did she yield. Dame Gytha said angrily: ‘Do you know where you stand, Chevalier? Is this fitting work for such a place? My niece is not for you.’

  He held Elfrida closer, till the rings of his tunic dug into her cheek. ‘Can you say you are not mine? Oh, my heart, I would have died to spare you this bitter grief! Do you think that I wanted to take you as now I do? You know that I did not!’

  ‘There is death all round us,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Dare you speak of love?’

  ‘Yea, I dare.’ His hands gripped her arms ungently; he held her away from him and looked down at her. She had never seen his eyes so stern. ‘You are mine, Elfrida,’ he said. ‘I will not let you go.’

  Dame Gytha pulled at his sleeve. ‘You shall let her go!’ she said. ‘Do you forget that she has lost father and brother both, Norman wolf? What has she to do with bridals now, poor broken heart? She dedicates herself to Holy Church, Chevalier, a surer haven than your arms!’

  He released Elfrida; his face had grown dark. ‘With your own lips tell me that, Elfrida!’ he said. ‘Come, let me hear it! I will believe it from none other.’

  She looked at her aunt, and at the silent priest. ‘I did say it,’ she faltered. ‘It is all so dark, and there is death – death! In a nunnery I may find peace again.’

  ‘And happiness?’ he said.

  She gave a little bitter smile. ‘Never again. I have done with happiness, but peace I may find.’

  ‘Yea?’ He folded his arms across his chest. His glance swept over her; it held no kindness, no pity. He felt neither. She was his woman, and she was denying his right to take her. The gentle chivalry he had practised all his life was thrust under by some more primitive emotion. ‘Then break the vows you made to me!’ he said harshly. ‘Forswear your love, Elfrida! Come! if you love me not you can surely say it!’

  She stood drooping before him; he saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, but his face did not soften. Dame Gytha would have taken her niece in her arms, but his hand shot out and grasped her wrist, and jerked her roughly back. ‘Stand away from her!’ he commanded.

  Elfrida said: ‘Have pity, Raoul! I have borne so much. Oh, you cannot be cruel now!’ She laid a timid hand upon his arm, but he did not move.

  ‘I have no pity,’ he said, ‘but only my love for you, which is more real than pity. Though Edgar lies dead we live on, and there is happiness within our grasp. You would spurn it, cloistering yourself. Well, I hold the deed that gives me Marwell in your right; if I am your foe, speak boldly, and tell me you love me not, and I will tear the deed, and be done with you, f