The Duke of the Normans was in the forest, or park land, of Rouvray, and
his Quens and his knights stood around him, expecting some new proof of
his strength and his skill with the bow. For the Duke was trying some
arrows, a weapon he was ever employed in seeking to improve; sometimes
shortening, sometimes lengthening, the shaft; and suiting the wing of the
feather, and the weight of the point, to the nicest refinement in the law
of mechanics. Gay and debonnair, in the brisk fresh air of the frosty
winter, the great Count jested and laughed as the squires fastened a live
bird by the string to a stake in the distant sward; and “Pardex,” said
Duke William, “Conan of Bretagne, and Philip of France, leave us now so
unkindly in peace, that I trow we shall never again have larger butt for
our arrows than the breast of yon poor plumed trembler.”
As the Duke spoke and laughed, all the sere boughs behind him rattled and
cranched, and a horse at full speed came rushing over the hard rime of
the sward. The Duke’s smile vanished in the frown of his pride. “Bold
rider and graceless,” quoth he, “who thus comes in the presence of counts
and princes?”
Right up to Duke William spurred the rider, and then leaped from his
steed; vest and mantle, yet more rich than the Duke’s, all tattered and
soiled. No knee bent the rider, no cap did he doff; but seizing the
startled Norman with the gripe of a hand as strong as his own, he led him
aside from the courtiers, and said:
“Thou knowest me, William? though not thus alone should I come to thy
court, if I did not bring thee a crown.”
“Welcome, brave Tostig!” said the Duke, marvelling. “What meanest thou?
nought but good, by thy words and thy smile.”
“Edward sleeps with the dead!--and Harold is King of all England!”
“King!--England!--King!” faltered William, stammering in his agitation.
“Edward dead!--Saints rest him! England then is mine! King!--I am the
King! Harold hath sworn it; my Quens and prelates heard him; the bones
of the saints attest the oath!”
“Somewhat of this have I vaguely learned from our beau-pere Count
Baldwin; more will I learn at thy leisure; but take meanwhile, my word as
Miles and Saxon,--never, while there is breath on his lips, or one beat
in his heart, will my brother, Lord Harold, give an inch of English land
to the Norman.”
William turned pale and faint with emotion, and leant for support against
a leafless oak.
Busy were the rumours, and anxious the watch, of the Quens and knights,
as their Prince stood long in the distant glade, conferring with the
rider, whom one or two of them had recognised as Tostig, the spouse of
Matilda’s sister.
At length, side by side, still talking earnestly, they regained the
group; and William, summoning the Lord of Tancarville, bade him conduct
Tostig to Rouen, the towers of which rose through the forest trees.
“Rest and refresh thee, noble kinsman,” said the Duke; “see and talk with
Matilda. I will join thee anon.”
The Earl remounted his steed, and saluting the company with a wild and
hasty grace, soon vanished amidst the groves.
Then William, seating himself on the sward, mechanically unstrung his
bow, sighing oft, and oft frowning; and--without vouchsafing other word
to his lords than “No further sport to-day!” rose slowly, and went alone
through the thickest parts of the forest. But his faithful Fitzosborne
marked his gloom, and fondly followed him. The Duke arrived at the
borders of the Seine, where his galley waited him. He entered, sat down
on the bench, and took no notice of Fitzosborne, who quietly stepped in
after his lord, and placed himself on another bench.
The little voyage to Rouen was performed in silence, and as soon as he
had gained his palace, without seeking either Tostig or Matilda, the Duke
turned into the vast hall, in which he was wont to hold council with his
barons; and walked to and fro “often,” say the chronicles, “changing
posture and attitude, and oft loosening and tightening, and drawing into
knots, the strings of his mantle.”
Fitzosborne, meanwhile, had sought the ex-Earl, who was closeted with
Matilda; and now returning, he went boldly up to the Duke, whom no one
else dared approach, and said:
“Why, my liege, seek to conceal what is already known--what ere the eve
will be in the mouths of all? You are troubled that Edward is dead, and
that Harold, violating his oath, has seized the English realm.”
“Truly,” said the Duke mildly, and with the tone of a meek man much
injured; “my dear cousin’s death, and the wrongs I have received from
Harold, touch me nearly.”
Then said Fitzosborne, with that philosophy, half grave as became the
Scandinavian, half gay as became the Frank: “No man should grieve for
what he can help--still less for what he cannot help. For Edward’s
death, I trow, remedy there is none; but for Harold’s treason, yea! Have
you not a noble host of knights and warriors? What want you to destroy
the Saxon and seize his realm? What but a bold heart? A great deed once
well begun, is half done. Begin, Count of the Normans, and we will
complete the rest.”
Starting from his sorely tasked dissimulation; for all William needed,
and all of which he doubted, was the aid of his haughty barons; the Duke
raised his head, and his eyes shone out.
“Ha, sayest thou so! then, by the Splendour of God, we will do this deed.
Haste thou--rouse hearts, nerve hands--promise, menace, win! Broad are
the lands of England, and generous a conqueror’s hand. Go and prepare
all my faithful lords for a council, nobler than ever yet stirred the
hearts and strung the hands of the sons of Rou.”