The Conqueror by Georgette Heyer Page A

challenging look was directed at him. ‘Ha, do you fear them?’ asked the Duke. ‘Who follows me?’
    ‘If you must go, beau sire, be sure we all follow you,’ growled De Gournay. ‘But, before God, it is madness!’
    ‘If we do not scatter this rabble, trust me never!’ said William, and led them over the wooded ground at the gallop.
    Scatter the troop they did. They fell upon the Angevins almost before they were aware, and fought with such fury that the troop broke before their onslaught, and was chased back to the very foot of the castle hill.
    ‘Was it madness, Hugh?’ the Duke said, with a twinkle.
    ‘Beau sire, I am very sure that a devil rides you,’ De Gournay answered frankly.
    ‘I am very sure,’ murmured Raoul, ‘that the Count of Anjou thinks so, and fears it. Still he comes not!’
    But the reason for Martel’s delay was otherwise explained. At dusk one evening word was brought to the Duke’s camp of a troop seen approaching at the gallop, led by one who waved an azure and argent gonfanon.
    The Duke’s eyes narrowed. ‘Néel de Saint-Sauveur,’ he said. ‘Well.’ He looked at FitzOsbern. ‘I shall see now whether I was mistaken in my man. If he comes in peace bring him in to me, William.’
    FitzOsbern went out, agog with curiosity. The Duke looked at Raoul. ‘I want this man,’ he said. ‘Now we shall see if I can win him to me or no.’
    There came the long winding of a horn, the trample of hooves, and presently the sound of voices, and of footsteps.
    The tent-flap was swung back; the Viscount of Côtentin came in briskly with a swirl of his blue mantle, and dropped on his knee before the Duke, looking straight into his eyes.
    For a moment the Duke returned the gaze, saying nothing. Then he spoke: ‘What now, Chef de Faucon?’
    ‘Seigneur, I bring you two hundred horse out of Penthièvre,’ Néel answered. ‘I come from Anjou, hot-foot.’
    ‘What made you there, Néel the Rebel?’
    ‘Ill work for Martel, seigneur,’ Néel said, with the flash of a smile.
    ‘So!’ said the Duke. There was a gleam at the back of his eyes; the corners of his mouth began to lift.
    ‘Seigneur, a year back I did you grievous wrong. I have sought to repay.’
    ‘Is it your work that Martel holds off from me yet?’ William asked.
    ‘Mine, beau sire. I have done some small damage in Anjou, as I think. Now I come to you, my life in my hands.’
    The smile curled the Duke’s mouth fully now. ‘I have a place about me for such a man as you, Néel,’ he said. ‘My thanks: I am well repaid.’ He looked towards the Seneschal.
    ‘FitzOsbern, let fitting quarters be given to the Viscount of Côtentin.’
    Néel rose up quickly. ‘Seigneur!’ he said unsteadily.
    ‘Take back your lands of me, Chef de Faucon,’ William said. He got up, and came round the corner of the table with his hand held out. ‘Let the past lie dead: I would rather have you for my friend than for my foe.’
    The Viscount bent and kissed his hand. ‘Seigneur, I am your man,’ he promised, low, and turned, and went out without another word.
    The Duke lifted an eyebrow in Raoul’s direction. ‘I can sometimes win men,’ he said, ‘even though they call me stark.’
    After this, news was soon brought of Martel’s approach. Doubtless the Castle garrison soon got wind of it, and lifted up their hearts. As for William, he sent out his Seneschal and young Roger de Montgoméri with an escort to meet Anjou and learnt his business. These two heralds came back in a bristle of vanity, and told faithfully what had befallen.
    It seemed they rode up, waving the herald’s banner, and were taken straight before the Count himself. They found him swollen with arrogance, and reported him to be a man of full habit of body, with veins that rose up on his forehead when he was enraged. He greeted them with proud words, displeasing to them, and bade them tell their master he would meet him in battle upon such a day. Then, being enflamed by