The Conqueror by Georgette Heyer

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