The Earl felt an itching desire to get up and move about the small room. He curbed it and sat still, his eyes on William’s face. ‘It is time, and more,’ he said, as though he picked his words. He watched the Duke’s pen travel across the sheet, once, twice, a third time. He found that his fingers were drumming against the carven arm of his chair, and closed them on the hard wood to stay their fidgeting. He wanted the Duke to speak, but William went on writing. The Earl’s brain weighed and rejected phrase after phrase. He said at last, abruptly: ‘Be plain with me, Duke William: what is it you require of me?’
The Duke raised his eyes at that, and laid aside his quill. Pushing the papers from him he linked his hands together on the table, and said: ‘Earl Harold, many years ago when I was an untried boy still in the care of my guardians King Edward dwelled in my Court and was my friend. In those days he made me a promise that if ever he became King of England, and begat no children of his own body, myself should be his heir.’ He paused, but the Earl made no remark. He was leaning back in his chair, his head resting against the dark wood. His face showed nothing but a calm interest. The Duke looked him over with a certain measure of approval. ‘Fourteen years ago,’ he went on, ‘I journeyed into England upon a visit to the King, when he renewed his promises to me, giving me as hostages, Wlnoth, Hakon, and Edgar, the son of Eadwulf. This I think must be known to you?’
‘I have heard it,’ Harold answered, expressionless.
‘The King is stricken in years,’ William said, ‘and I am not the only one who looks towards his throne.’
The Earl’s eyelids flickered, but he said nothing.
‘There is Edgar, the child-Atheling,’ William continued after an infinitesimal pause. ‘I have little doubt there are many will seek to set him up.’
‘It is very like,’ Harold said. He moved his hand so that a ring of balas-rubies which he wore caught the sunlight; he studied it through half-closed eyes.
‘I need a man to hold for me in England,’ the Duke said, ‘guarding my interest until the time comes when Edward is called to his fathers – and after.’
‘Myself?’ There was a hint of steel in the Earl’s voice.
‘Yourself,’ William agreed, ‘bound by oath to uphold my claim.’
The Earl smiled. He looked up from his ring, and found William’s gaze upon him. He met it full, and while a man might count fifty the long interchange of glances held, in a silence unbroken by any other sound than the high sweet song of a lark lost somewhere in the blue haze outside. ‘So that is why you are holding me,’ the Earl said at last, without surprise or heat.
‘That is why,’ William answered. ‘To be honest with you, Earl Harold, had you been other than you are I would not have spent these pains on the matter. I tell you in all frankness you are the only man I have met in all the years of my life for whom I have felt – respect.’
‘I am honoured,’ Harold said ironically.
‘You may well be,’ the Duke replied with a gleam of humour. He watched the last grains of sand trickle through the hour-glass upon the table, and turned it.
‘What bribe do you offer me, my lord Duke?’ Harold asked.
The Duke’s lips curled. ‘Earl Harold, many things you may call me, but I beg you will not call me Fool. I keep bribes for lesser men.’
Harold inclined his head slightly. ‘My thanks. I will word it thus: what reward will you bestow upon a son of Godwine?’
The Duke considered him for a moment. ‘Harold, if you choose you may stand second to me in England,’ he said. ‘I will give you my daughter Adela in marriage, and engage to confirm you in the possessions you hold today.’
If the Earl saw anything ludicrous in the offer of espousal with an infant years younger than the offspring of his own first marriage, he gave no sign of it. ‘Why, this is noble!’ he murmured. Again he studied his ring. ‘And if I refuse?’
The Duke, knowing his man, replied: ‘Using no half-words, son of Godwine, if you refuse I shall not let you depart out of Normandy.’
‘I see,’ said Harold. He might have added that he had seen for many months, and long since weighed the chances of escape, and considered what must be his answer to the Duke’s demands. There was no smile in his eyes now; his lips had taken on a stern look. He drew in a deep breath, as though he had come to the end of a struggle that cost him dear, but his voice, pleasant as always, perfectly under his control, betrayed nothing of this. ‘It seems that I have no choice, Duke William. I will take the oath,’ he said.
He told Edgar that night what he had done. Edgar lighted him to his chamber, and when he would have left the Earl at his door Harold said curtly: ‘Wait: I have something to tell you.’ He dismissed the sleepy page who was holding a taper to the candles on the table, and flung himself down on a chair that stood against the wall, out of the circle of light. ‘Shut that door, Edgar. I leave for England in a week, or maybe a little more, taking you and Hakon with me. Wlnoth remains.’
Edgar stayed still by the door. ‘Leave for England?’ he echoed stupidly. ‘Do you tell me the Duke has relented?’ He sounded incredulous, but as a thought occurred to him he added with some eagerness: ‘Is this because you did so well by him in Brittany, lord? I know that he loves courage, but I never dreamed –’ He stopped, for the Earl had given a scornful laugh under his breath. Edgar took a quick step forward, trying to see his lord’s face. ‘What is the price of freedom?’ he demanded. His hand closed on the edge of the table and gripped it.
‘I have promised to swear an oath to him, engaging to uphold his claim to England,’ Harold said. ‘To deliver up to him when the King dies, Dover Castle, and to wed his daughter Adela as soon as she is of marriageable age.’
‘Soul of God, are you jesting?’ Edgar snatched up the heavy candlestick from the table and held it high above his head so that the light fell on the Earl’s face. ‘Are you mad, my lord?’ he said harshly. ‘Jesu, are you mad?’
The Earl put up a hand to shade his eyes. ‘No, I am not mad,’ he answered. ‘I take the only road that leads to freedom.’
‘Swearing away a crown, a life’s ambition!’ The candlestick shook in Edgar’s hold. ‘What of us, the men who have trusted in you, followed you, died for you? God on the Cross, is it Godwine’s son who speaks?’
The Earl moved restlessly. ‘Fool, do you not know that if I refuse to take the oath William will never let me go? What of you then, you who trust in me? Should I not fail you? Answer!’
Edgar set down the candlestick with a crash. ‘Lord, you leave me without words, without understanding. Be plain with me, I beg of you!’
‘I have told you: it is the only way left to me. If I refuse I must remain a prisoner, and lose what I have striven for all my life.’ He paused, and added meaningly: ‘Have you forgot how I swore to you a year agone that I would escape his net, not matter by what means, or at what cost?’
‘What shall it profit you, this shackled freedom?’ Edgar said. He realized suddenly what the Earl’s words implied, and sank down on to a stool by the table, resting his head in his hands. ‘Oh, heart of God!’ he said. His fingers writhed in the strands of his hair. ‘I am dull-witted indeed,’ he said bitterly, ‘to think that Harold Godwineson would be torn asunder before he broke faith. Forgive me! I have fed on dreams.’
The Earl rose, and stood before his thegn, leaning his hands upon the table that separated them. ‘Tell me, with whom shall I break faith: with William or with England?’ he asked sternly. ‘Speak! With one or other it must be. Shall I shrink from staining mine honour, and betray our England to this Norman tyrant? Is that what you would have me do? Is that work for Harold Godwineson? Torch of the Gospel, if that is the image you nurse of me, banish it and know me for myself, no puppet of your fancy! I stand for England, and England I will hold till the breath leaves my body. Think me what you will: though I break faith with all others, to England I w
ill still be true. What shall I care though my soul be damned in hell, if it must be said of me that what I did I did that England might be safe?’ His voice filled the room; he ceased, and a deep silence fell. The candle-flame burned steadily, unshaken by any draught; beyond the window a star shone in the darkness.
The hoot of an owl broke the quiet. Edgar started, and raised his head from his hands. ‘Forgive me!’ he said again, in a changed voice. His face darkened. ‘What devil’s cunning to put this upon you! Ha God, there shall be a reckoning! Yet might he not guess, lord? Might he not suspect that such an oath would not bind you?’
‘Guess! He knows,’ Harold answered. He began to move about the room; a short laugh escaped him. ‘Lanfranc!’ he said. He unclasped the belt that girt his tunic round his waist, and threw it on the table. ‘What, do you not see it all yet? Think, when England’s crown is set upon my head what an outcry will be raised by William against Harold, a breaker of his oath!’
‘It is black, lord,’ Edgar said in a low voice. ‘An offence against God and chivalry, a stain upon your shield.’ He rose suddenly and pushed back his stool. ‘I thought he had a kindness for you! All these weeks while you have slept, ate, fought together – ah, he bears two faces, the Wolf!’
Harold paused in his striding up and down; he looked curiously at Edgar. ‘You are wrong. You think he has counterfeited liking for me. He does like me, and if I would bend to his will I might be sure of his friendship. Why, he offered me – Well, no matter for that. I have chosen the path I must tread.’ He came close to Edgar, and gripped his arms. ‘Your heart misgives you: do you think mine is not heavy at this hour? Stand by me; trust in me yet, though I lay perjury upon my soul. I need your trust as never before.’
He let him go. Edgar dropped on his knees and put up his hands, palm to palm. ‘God knows I trust in you, my lord, and you know too. Come what may I will follow you to the end.’
The Earl laid his hands lightly on either side of Edgar’s. ‘Yea, I know.’ He raised his thegn. ‘It grows late, and there is no more to say. Leave me now, and pray that William may not require so solemn an oath of me as must put me, in the breaking of it, beyond the Church’s forgiveness.’
They took the road again next day. Edgar rode close behind the Earl, holding aloof from his Norman friends. FitzOsbern rallied him on his coldness, but stopped soon enough, warned by Raoul’s frown. He cantered alongside Raoul, and said: ‘What ails him? I have not seen him so glum these many years.’
‘Let him be, William !’ Raoul said wearily. ‘Cannot you guess how he must hate us?’
‘Hate us!’ ejaculated FitzOsbern. ‘What, because of this oath to be sworn at Bayeux? No, no, what is that to him?’
Raoul heaved a sigh of exasperation. ‘What would it be to us if William stood in Harold’s shoes today? Oh, I do not doubt that Edgar loves his friends still, but in his heart is bitter hatred of our race. Leave him: you can do nothing.’
‘But I see no reason,’ FitzOsbern persisted. ‘No force has been put upon the Earl; it is settled between him and William as between two who understand each other well. Now why out of hell do you laugh?’
‘No force?’ Raoul repeated. ‘God’s eyes, FitzOsbern, is torture the only force you know? I would we were done with this business.’
They came to Bayeux in due course, and were received there by the Bishop. If the Earl’s eyes searched for the Prior of Herluin in the assembly they found him not. Earl Harold was as gay as ever, talking easily to the Duke, and to Odo, often laughing at some jest as though no care weighed on him. Only his followers, Edgar, and Alfric, Sigwulf, Edmund, Oswine, and Earnulph, wore grave faces, and watched him with trouble in their eyes. Each one was in his confidence, each one had sworn to keep silence, but though they said stoutly that no oath extracted thus could bind him, foreboding crept over them, and a vague alarm possessed their minds.
Nothing was done upon the first evening of their stay in Bayeux, but upon the following morning the ceremony of binding by oath took place in the council-hall of the Castle.
The Duke sat upon a throne of state, wearing his coronet and holding a drawn sword in his hand, the point upwards. Behind him were gathered his knights and nobles; before him, in the middle of the hall, a large tub stood, covered by a cloth of gold that entirely concealed it. Near this Odo the Bishop was waiting, attended by his chaplain and several priests.
It was a very bright morning, and long beams of sunlight, slanting down through the windows, showed dust-motes dancing, and barred the hall with gold. Warmth stole into the vast grey hall, and, through the unglazed windows, the hum of the busy town.
The Earl came in last of all with his own followers behind him. He wore his byrnie, but his head was uncovered. A blue mantle hung from his shoulders, and there were golden bracelets on his arms. Raoul had an odd fancy that he had brought the sunlight with him.
He paused for a second on the threshold, looking quickly round. The Duke, remote on his throne, FitzOsbern beside him, Mortain, Grantmesnil, Tesson, Saint-Sauveur, De Gournay, De Montfort, Giffard – he saw them all in that one swift glance. They stood still, their hands on their swords, watching him, grimly, he thought.
He walked forward unhurriedly; he was pale, but perfectly calm. A faint frown lay between his eyes, and his mouth was set in grim lines. Behind him his Saxons formed a semi-circle.
The curtains over one of the archways parted, and a priest came into the hall bearing two reliquaries which he set reverently down upon the draped tub before Odo. Harold looked at them without any change of expression, and fixed his eyes upon the Duke again.
A sigh of relief came from Edgar: the reliquaries held less significance than he had feared.
The Duke moved, leaning forward a little on his throne; the edge of his sword caught the sunlight and the heavy mantle he wore fell away from one arm and showed a lining of ermine. His deep compelling voice was pitched so that no word he spoke was missed by anyone in the hall. ‘Earl Harold,’ he said, ‘you are come here for what purpose you know. I require you, before this noble assembly, to confirm by oath the promises you have made to me: To act as my vicar at the Court of England so long as Edward the King shall live; to do what lies in your power to secure the Sceptre to me after his death; to render up to me the Castle of Dover, and other such castles as I may deem needful to be garrisoned by Norman troops. These things you have promised.’
‘These I have promised,’ the Earl said mechanically.
The Bishop moved forward a pace; Earl Harold scarcely heeded him. He was looking across the hall at William, and at William’s Court, trying to read the dark faces that confronted him. He noticed that Raoul de Harcourt never once raised his eyes from the sword-hilt under his two hands; he saw that FitzOsbern was frowning as though in discomfort, and that a gleam of eagerness shone in Mortain’s eyes. He looked quickly back at William, but could learn nothing from that strong impassive countenance.
He suspected all at once that something lay behind the silence and the intent watchfulness that surrounded him. He glanced down at the reliquaries. They were ordinary enough: the trap was not there. Some warning instinct whispered in his brain; again he looked round the hall, again was conscious of an atmosphere of tension, of pent anxiety that signified more than he could see. Almost he drew back, but recovering himself stepped deliberately up to the reliquaries, glinting on the cloth of gold.
He stretched out his hand over them and thought that a faint sigh ran round the hall. It was too late to refuse the oath now. He drew a long breath and began to repeat the terms he had agreed to.
No tremor shook the steadiness of his hand; his voice was clear and unfaltering.
‘… to do what lies in my power to secure the Sceptre of England to you; to render up to you my Castle of Dover, and others such as you shall hereafter deem needful.’ He paused; his voice gathered strength. ‘So may God help me
, and the Holy Gospels!’ he said. The words rang sternly, and the echoes caught them and carried them among the rafters.
Swords were raised; the barons cried: ‘God aid him!’
Their voices seemed to thunder in the Earl’s ears. His hand fell to his side again; men saw that he had grown deadly pale, and was breathing short and fast.
He heard the sigh again, unmistakably, and saw upon faces that had before been anxious covert smiles of satisfaction.
The Duke made a sign to his brother. The Bishop beckoned two of his attendants forward, and they removed the reliquaries from the golden cloth, and raised it. A musty scent reached Earl Harold: the tub which the cloth had hidden was filled with human bones, and it did not need Odo’s soft explanation to tell the Earl that these were the bones of holy saints.
He shuddered, and started back, covering his face with his hands. A sword rasped behind him; Edgar’s voice cried out: ‘Tricked! tricked! Out, Norman dogs!’
The Earl pulled himself together quickly and grasped Edgar’s wrist in a grip of steel. ‘Back! The oath is taken.’ He turned to face the Duke again. ‘What more remains to do?’ he said harshly.
‘No more,’ the Duke replied. ‘Upon the bones of Saints you have sworn. It is done.’
For a moment they looked at one another across the space that separated them; then the Earl swept round on his heel and went quickly out.
Again steel rasped in the hall. Mortain jumped round to see Raoul slam his sword home in the scabbard. ‘For God’s sake, let me pass!’ Raoul said. His voice shook with a kind of rage. ‘I have had my fill of this work!’ He thrust past the astonished Count, strode to the narrow stair, and disappeared round the bend of it.
Grantmesnil shrugged, and whispered in Mortain’s ear: ‘The Watcher will go too far one of these days. Will the Duke stomach this rude leave-taking?’
The Duke gave no sign of having noticed Raoul’s departure. Handing his sword to the Chancellor, he dismissed the Court, and went out with his brothers and FitzOsbern.