The Conqueror by Georgette Heyer

the shade; and most of all for the uncomfortable personality he had. All through his life men were to fear him and find it hard to meet the direct stare he bent upon them. Thus early the French were made aware of the ruthless strength of his will. The truth was he never swerved from his purpose, and would go to any lengths to achieve it. Own him master and he would be your good friend; oppose him and there could be only one outcome.
    ‘Jesu, he is stark!’ Roger de Beaumont said. ‘What shall come of it? I fear him, I promise you. Yea, I fear greatly. He is like no other man I have known. When is he weary? When does he ail? Bones of God, when will he fail of his purpose? Never, I believe! Eh, but he is hard!’
    But they were proud of him, the men who fought under his gonfanon. Prowess in arms was the surest road to a Norman heart, and feats beyond their imaginings William showed them. His men boasted of him, and told how he was first through the breach at Meulan, slaying with his own hand no less than three stout warriors in his impetuous rush; how he lost his bodyguard in a wild chase through dim forests, and how they found him after frenzied search, accompanied by four knights, and driving a score of prisoners before him. His fame spread. King Henry suggested with gentle concern that he risked his life too often. He spoke to deaf ears. A demon of recklessness possessed this Fighting Duke.
    When the war was ended, and Martel had slunk snarling back to his kennel in Anjou, King Henry hid his jealousy beneath a smiling front, and very warmly thanked Normandy for his aid, speaking fair words, and embracing him right cousinly. Maybe he guessed that Martel was already planning vengeance on the stripling who had done so grievously by him, and so was able to smile with a good grace. They parted with expressions of friendship; the Frenchman went home to nurse his spite; and the Norman marched back to his Duchy to find it exultant over his victorious return and very ready to live at peace with him.
    His fame had spread over Western Europe. From Guienne and Gascony, even from kings in far Spain came gifts of splendid destriers, and messages that were panegyrics on his skill and his courage. In one short trial of arms the Bastard of Normandy was become the hero of Europe.
    For a space peace reigned in Normandy, but Martel was not the man to let injuries go unavenged. Suddenly, without declaration of war, he struck a shrewd blow at Normandy’s pride. Marching up through Maine he seized the castle of Domfront, built by Duke Richard the Good, invested it, and swept on over the Frontier to the Norman border town of Alençon on the Sarthe. The town made no resistance, the Castle very little. Martel left a garrison there, laid waste the surrounding country, and returned home in triumph, carrying his plunder.
    This time Duke William asked no aid of France. Leaving Alençon to the east of him he did what no one had expected, and appeared before Domfront a full week before they had thought to see him there. Such swift methods shocked the garrison: they contrived to send word to their Count, and looked down uneasily from their craggy height at the Duke’s preparations for a siege.
    There was no taking Domfront by assault. High on its rocky hill it stood, scowling over the valley of the Mayenne, impregnable and massive. The garrison took heart of grace, and talked of the day that should see Martel advancing to their relief.
    Meanwhile the Duke established a blockade, and occupied his time between riding out to intercept supplies trying to reach the castle, and hunting in the forests near by. It was upon one of these expeditions that he was cut off by a party that had made a sortie from the castle for that purpose.
    ‘Treachery, by God!’ FitzOsbern cried.
    ‘Very like,’ said William. ‘We will try our strength against these bold chevaliers.’
    Roger de Montgoméri blurted out: ‘Beau sire, they outnumber us five to one.’
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