The Conqueror Read online

  A girl’s voice cried shrilly: ‘God aid, beau sire! Death to your grace’s enemies!’

  There was a cheer, a shout of ‘God aid! God aid!’ The Duke rode by looking straight between Malet’s ears.

  The French had heard Mass at Valmérie at daybreak, and marched out to Val-es-dunes, where the rebel army was drawn up along the bank of the Méance. Over the high ground at Argences rode the ducal troops, and saw at their feet the plain of Val-es-dunes, without hill or valley or wood, sloping gently to the east in wind-swept bareness.

  ‘A fine place for fighting,’ remarked Count Robert, riding abreast of William. ‘Néel has chosen his ground well, by the Host!’

  Raoul looked at the silver gleam of the river, and thought: There will be blood on the water, and dead men floating down the stream. Who of us shall wake to-morrow?

  It was plain no such misgiving crossed the Duke’s mind. He spurred his horse to a gallop, as though eager to come upon the field of battle. Verceray leaped after, and the wind unfurled the gonfanon Raoul carried, and showed the lions golden on a blood-red ground.

  The King of France rode out from his lines to meet the Duke. One of his nobles accompanied him; he wore a red mantle over his ringed tunic.

  Everything is red today, Raoul thought. And shall be redder yet, God wot!

  Verceray stamped restlessly, and champed at the bit; the wind shivered the silken gonfanon, and bent the grass underfoot in flitting shadows. Raoul looked towards the rebel army, drawn up in battle array at some distance. There too standards fluttered aloft, and the sun caught the tips of a wood of spears, so that they flashed dazzling points of light. The quiet plain stretched as far as the eye could see, and the Méance ran on untroubled, crooning its song. Suddenly Raoul found himself wishing that this tranquillity might remain unspoiled; in his mind he could see the ground torn up under the charging horses’ hooves, and dead, bleeding men lying on the river banks; and hear, drowning the twitter of birds, the shouts and the groans and the clash of battle. He gave himself a shake, for these were womanish fancies, and men were born, after all, to fight. He fixed his eyes upon the Duke again, who was sitting with one hand on his hip, and his head bent towards the King.

  Henry was pointing to a band of horsemen, nobly caparisoned, who held apart alike from the rebel troops and the ducal army. ‘Do you know who those men may be, cousin?’ he asked. ‘They rode up a short space before yourself, and stand thus aloof. On whose side will they fight?’

  William put up his hand to shade his eyes from the sun, and looked under it at the gonfanon fitfully displayed in the wind. ‘On my side, I think, sire,’ he answered. ‘That is the emblem of Raoul Tesson, the Lord of Turie-en-Cingueliz, and he has no quarrel or cause of anger with me.’

  There was a movement in the little troop, and a man was seen to come out, and ride at a canter towards the ducal army.

  ‘Raoul Tesson comes himself,’ William said, still shading his eyes. He spurred Malet forward in front of the lines to meet the solitary rider, and sat watching under bent brows Tesson’s approach.

  The Lord of Cingueliz came up with a shout of ‘Turie!’ that rang out fiercely across the plain. His mantle floated behind him, and he had a glove clenched in his right hand. He reined in his destrier with a jerk. ‘Hail, Duke of Normandy!’ he said, and no man who heard him knew whether he mocked or no. His bright eyes looked full into William’s.

  ‘What do ye want of me, Raoul Tesson?’ the Duke said calmly.

  The Lord of Cingueliz rode up close. The Duke sat unmoved, but Raoul, anxiously watching, loosened his sword in the scabbard. ‘This!’ said the Lord of Cingueliz, and his right hand came up, and he struck the Duke across the cheek with the glove he held. He laughed harshly. ‘It is done!’ he said, and reined back.

  There had come a growl of menace from the Duke’s men behind him; spears were couched; there was a movement to press forward. The Duke flung up his hand to check the rush. His eyes did not waver from Tesson’s face.

  Tesson cast an unconcerned glance at the angry barons, and looked smiling back at William. ‘What I have sworn to do I have done,’ he said in a clear voice that carried far. ‘I have acquitted myself of my oath to strike a blow at you wherever I should find you. Henceforth, beau sire, I will do you no other wrong, nor ever raise my hand against you.’ He touched his helmet in a stiff salute, and wheeled his destrier to ride back to his waiting men.

  The Duke laughed. ‘Thanks be to you, Raoul Tesson!’ he called after him, and rode back to King Henry’s side.

  ‘That was well done, by my head!’ Henry said, kindling. ‘They are fierce dogs, those men of Normandy.’

  ‘You shall soon judge of that, sire,’ the Duke promised.

  Heralds from either side rode out, and back again. The Normans, led by William in person, the Counts of Arques and Eu, and the Sieur of Gournay, were on the right wing; the French, with their King and the Count of Saint-Pol at their head, formed the left wing. Facing them, the men of Bessin followed the gonfanon of Ranulf of Bayeux; and the wild Côtentin troops chafed behind Néel de Saint-Sauveur, he whom men called Noble Chef de Faucon. Raoul saw his standard, azure and argent, gleaming blue across the plain, and marked how he bestrode a restless destrier, and how his lance glittered as it caught the light.

  He wound Verceray’s bridle about his wrist, and took a firmer grip on the gonfanon he carried. He felt breathless, as though he had been running hard, and the blood drummed unpleasantly in his ears. His lips were dry; he licked them, and prayed that he might bear himself as became the Duke’s knight, in this his first fight.

  The sharp order to charge rang out, and he saw Malet bound forward, and followed close. Suddenly he was excited, not breathless any more, and not afraid.

  The thunder of hooves was all about him; a great roan head drew abreast of him; he caught the swirl of a blue mantle, and the hard glitter of a shield, but his attention was fixed on the man who rode Malet so furiously into battle. Ahead of them the opposing troops were galloping towards them. Raoul wondered what would happen when the crash of meeting came. A shout of many voices dinned in his ears; he found that he too was yelling: ‘Dex Aie! Dex Aie!’

  The noise of hooves grew louder as charge answered charge. Borne on the wind came the cry of the men of Bessin: ‘Saint-Sever! Sire Saint-Sever!’ and the clarion call of Hamon-aux-Dents, roaring out: ‘Saint-Amant! Saint-Amant!’

  The two armies came together with a crash that brought both sides to a jarring halt. Shield clashed against shield; in a tight pack men hacked and hewed, and the maddened destriers struck out with their plunging, steel-shod hooves. There was a man down, trampled under foot; Raoul heard him scream, and gritted his teeth. His grasp was sticky on the shaft of the gonfanon, his arm fast in the enarmes of his big kite-shaped shield. He forced Verceray on after the Duke, struggling through the press. Someone cried out that the King was down; there was a scuffle ahead; the Duke drove his lance home with all his great strength, and a horse fell. Raoul saw its red distended nostrils as it sank, and the terror in the dilating eyes. Then that faded, and he was warding off a spear-thrust with his shield. Verceray reared up before a man on foot who was desperately fighting with his lance among the slain. Raoul wrenched the big horse aside, and cut downwards with his sword. Blood spurted up over his leg; he swept on, over the dead, hacking his way to the Duke’s side.

  ‘Saint-Sever! Sire Saint-Sever!’ With a howl the man who shouted slashed at the gonfanon Raoul guarded so jealously. Raoul’s sword whirled aloft and hissed down through the air in a flash of deadly blue steel. The gonfanon was safe still, and a rebel went armless. Raoul shook the sweat out of his eyes, and shouted: ‘Death! Death! Le bon temps viendra!’

  A man drove at him in a wild charge; he flung up his shield, and saw Grimbauld de Plessis’ dark face, with a smear of blood across one cheek. Then Hubert de Harcourt’s spear took G