It might be interesting to sail off the edge of the world, but for now what lay beyond the immediate horizon would do. England. He savoured the word, and a shiver of anticipation ran through him. Perhaps on a similar shoreline, unseen across the glint of water, a Saxon warrior was staring out to sea and honing his axe in readiness. The thought filled Rolf with so much restless energy that he wanted to burst. The dun broke into a canter beneath the tension in his master's thin fingers, and the sea water splashed higher, soaking Rolf's linen chausses and tossing cold spray over his midriff and shoulders.
At the edge of the waves near the village, a man was sitting on the beach close to the shoreline. His hands were bound around his raised knees and he was staring out to sea as hungrily as Rolf had been a moment since. Now and then he picked up a stone from the tidemark and flung it at the water.
Rolf slowed the dun. Then he reined to a halt and dismounted in the sandy shallows with a splash.
'By God's beard, do my eyes deceive me, or is it Aubert de Remy sitting on a beach in the middle of nowhere with naught to do but throw stones at the sea?' Laughing, Rolf gave his horses into the care of the following grooms and sat down in the sand beside the merchant.
'I'm waiting for the night's tide.' Aubert clasped Rolf's tough, blistered palm, then rightly punched the hard bicep.
'The night's tide to where?' Rolf eyed his friend speculatively. Aubert had a thriving, legitimate vintner's trade, but Rolf had known him for long enough to be aware that he dealt in more than just barrels of wine.
Aubert smiled and tossed another stone at the sea. 'England, where else?'
'At night, from a small port like this?' Rolf looked at him sidelong.
'I'm making contact with a wine galley from Bordeaux in mid-channel. We'll sail into London without harm. Harold of Wessex is not at war with the peoples south of Normandy.'
Rolf licked his forefinger and held it up to the snags of salty breeze. 'You'll need good oarsmen, there'll not be a wind tonight.'
'There's an eight-man crew, nine including myself'
'And when you get to England, what then?'
'That long nose of yours hasn't got any shorter with age, has it?' There was amused exasperation in Aubert's voice. 'How is Arlette these days, and the baby?'
Rolf grunted. 'They were both well when last I saw them.' His tone was perfunctory. 'What about Felice?'
Aubert's mobile features creased into a frown. 'I am concerned about her,' he admitted. 'I should never have left her in London, but events moved so swiftly that I had no choice but to do so at the time. I was hoping to return for her in May or early June and bring her home to Rouen, but there hasn't been an opportunity. Duke William is a hard taskmaster, as well you know.'
'So what will you do?' Rolf dug a shell out of the sand and cast it towards the gentle shush of the waves.
Aubert sighed. 'Fetch her when I can. She has never said anything to me, but she knows that my trade has certain irregularities.'
'How long do you have… before the invasion, I mean?'
Aubert narrowed his muddy hazel eyes and looked Rolf over very carefully, as if by assessing his companion's physical form, he could see into his mind. 'I do not know which is more dangerous,' he said, 'your curiosity, or your thick-skinned refusal to leave a subject alone.'
Rolf grinned. He knew that the only way to win Aubert's approval was to persist. Sometimes, if the merchant was in the right frame of mind, Rolf learned things. If not, then the repartee still helped to sharpen his mind and stave off boredom. 'Tell me what I want to know and I'll buy you a haunch of mutton and a wheaten loaf in yonder hostelry.' He indicated one of the dwellings clustered beyond the dunes.
Aubert's mouth curled in a sardonic smile. 'Now I see the value you set upon my word.'
'Very well, I'll throw in a dish of buttered worts and a flagon of cider too!' Rolf added flippantly.
Aubert snorted, and with a shake of his head, stood up. 'Your generosity overwhelms me into acceptance!' He dusted golden grit and scraps of mussel shell from his short tunic.
Rolf gestured to one of the grooms, and the youth tossed him a crumpled shirt and tunic from a saddlebag.
Donning the garments as they toiled up the soft sand of the beach towards the houses, Rolf said, 'We are summoned to muster in two weeks at Dives-sur-Mer, but I suppose you know that.'
'I had heard it was so.' Aubert pursed his lips. 'But do not expect to sail before harvest time.'
Rolf frowned. 'Most of the Duke's men are hired warriors; they don't need to take time away to cut the corn.'
'But Harold's do,' Aubert said smugly. 'His army has only a small core of permanent soldiers. The rest have estates and farms to tend. He cannot keep them stood to arms indefinitely.'
'So William is going to wait until the Saxon coast is unguarded and strike then?' Rolf made a face. 'Sooner rather than later, I hope, or else the provisioning of our army will kill us before we set out.'
'It will be a difficult task, I grant you, but easier than for Harold. And our Duke has the edge on him when it comes to being ruthless. Harold has a heart, he's courageous and impulsive. Those are the chinks in his armour and William knows it.'
The two men entered the hostelry. Rolf ducked just in time to avoid being brained by the top of the door. At a little above two yards in height, he dwelt in permanent danger of injury from apertures made for smaller men. 'You have met Harold then?' he asked as they seated themselves at a trestle bench and the proprietor hastened to bring them a jug of the locally brewed potent cider.
The walls gleamed with new whitewash. A wooden statue of the Virgin and Child beamed down on the men from a recess.
Aubert glanced at it and piously crossed himself. 'Briefly at court when King Edward was alive, but I know all about him from my neighbour where I rent my house in London. Goldwin's an armourer and he does much work for the Godwinsons. His wife's brothers are huscarls of Harold's. The information I have gleaned from that quarter has been invaluable. Speaking of which…' Unlatching his belt, he slid a knife sheath off the decorated strap end. 'This is a gift for you — a thank you for the chestnut mare you gave to Felice. I commissioned it from Goldwin at Yuletide.'
Rolf took the weapon from Aubert and examined it with pleasure. The length of the tapered blade spanned his hand from fingertip to wrist and a haft of polished antler fitted his grip perfectly. The craftsmanship was superb. He tested his gift on the haunch of mutton that the hostelry keeper set down on the table before them.
'Slices keener than your wit,' Rolf pronounced to Aubert as he speared an oozing pink morsel and draped it on his tongue.
'You had better warn the Duke if this man is making armour for Godwinson.'
Aubert smiled, but the humour did not reach his eyes as he refastened his belt and drew his own knife so that he could eat. 'He has become a friend,' he said, 'and in my trade that is less than wise.'
CHAPTER 7
The August night was so sultry that the air itself felt like a hot, oppressive blanket lying on Ailith's chest. She stretched her legs, trying without success to find a cool spot in the bed. Beside her, Goldwin snored, and stale mead fumes wafted her way each time he breathed out. She was worried about the amount he had been drinking of late, but had said nothing to him in the hope that once the uncertainty of imminent war had passed from their lives, he would become his usual, amiable self.
Ailith turned restlessly and as she tried to settle, felt the tiniest fluttering throb in her belly. Laying her hand over the place, she was rewarded again, and smiled. Felice's baby had been kicking and churning vigorously for over a month now and her belly looked huge. Ailith, on the other hand, was scarcely aware of being pregnant. Her breasts had swollen and were tender to the touch, but her waist had scarcely thickened, and the mound of her belly was no bigger than a small cloth pudding. Nor had she suffered any of Felice's debilitating sickness or spotting of blood. Hulda, the midwife, said cheerfully that she expected Ailith to deliver her baby
as easily as shelling a pea from a pod. Asked about Felice, Hulda had admitted that the fit was going to be tight, but being as the husband was not a man of large proportions, with the blessing of God, and the excellent care of the nuns at St Aethelburga's, the Norman woman would be all right.
Indeed, she would be all right if that ne'er-do-well husband of hers would return, Ailith thought angrily. He had been absent since late April and it was August now. How could he abandon his wife in a hostile land for nigh on four months?
The baby did not kick again. Ailith sighed and rolled onto her back, her mind somersaulting like a butter churn, her body sticky with sweat. Two days ago Aldred and Lyulph had set out with the English fyrd to defend the south coast against a possible attack from Normandy. They had come to the forge to collect the weapons that Goldwin had made for them, and they had said their farewells in stiff and formal fashion. When Ailith had offered them ale and honey cakes in the house, they had declined.
'The only Normans I will love,' Aldred had said, 'are the ones who die on the blade of this axe.' He had run his fingertips over the edge of the steel. 'And before you tell me that the bitch in yonder convent is innocent, it might interest you to know that her husband is a Norman spy.'
Ailith's stomach had contracted. As so often in childhood, she stood up to her brother, jutting her chin at him in bravado. 'I do not believe you.'
'The King himself told me.' Aldred's eyes were filled with scorn. 'The little arsewipe wasn't selling wine at court in January, he was buying information. 'Why do you think he hasn't been back?'
'I don't know, I…" Ailith had found herself floundering.
Aldred had nodded with triumph and again stroked his axe. 'So I tell you that the only Normans I will love are those whom I kill.'
'But Felice is innocent, she doesn't know!'
Aldred had just looked at her and stalked off. Lyulph had hesitated, staring between his older brother and Ailith. Then he had put his arms around her in a brief, but powerful bear hug. 'Your heart is too soft,' he said, 'and Aldred's is too fierce, but I love you both.' Then he too had turned and left, the steel tip of his spear sparkling at the sky, his stride long and proud.
Ailith tossed and turned. She was sure that Felice was not involved in any of Aubert's more questionable activities, although as his wife for more than four years, surely she must have some suspicions. More and more Ailith found herself pitying the young Norman woman, and despite Goldwin's dark looks, she continued to visit her regularly at the convent.
She fell into a restless doze and dreamed that a flock of ravens flew over London and settled in such numbers on the roof of her house that the thatch collapsed and buried her beneath it. She awoke with a gasp, her heart thundering in her breast. Grey fingers of light were prying through the cracks in the shutters and she could hear Alaric's relentless crowing. Goldwin still snored. Quietly, so as not to disturb him, Ailith left the bed and donned her shift and undertunic.
Below stairs, Wulfhild was scratching herself and yawning as she coaxed last night's banked fire to life and prepared the soup cauldron. Sigrid was clattering about in the storeroom behind the screen. Ailith joined her and collected a shallow, wooden bowl of chopped up scraps from the previous evening's meal, then went outside to feed the hens. The birds were able to find most of their own food in the summer months, but a small supplement ensured a reliable supply of eggs. Frequently there was a surplus and Ailith would trade these with a neighbour for cheese or butter.
Entering the garth, she let the hens out of confinement and scattered the scraps for them to peck at while she set about collecting the eggs, warm and damp from their straw. She gathered eight in her wooden bowl, and was deliberating whether to serve them scrambled and piled in a buttered, scooped-out loaf, or hard-boiled, when she caught sight of a man sidling cautiously into her garth from the house that she still thought of as Sitric's.
Alarm winged through her and roosted in her stomach as she recognised him. 'Aubert!' she cried, and almost dropped the eggs.
'What's happened? Where is everyone, why is our house empty?' Less than cautious now that he had been seen, Aubert strode up to her. His face was as brown as a sailor's, with paler creases fanning from his hazel eyes. He had lost weight and there was a tired drag to his mouth corners. 'Where's Felice?'
'If you had taken her with you four months ago you would not have to ask!' Ailith snapped. 'I do not know how you have the audacity or foolishness to return here now!'
'In Jesu's name, Ailith, what has happened to her?'
There was a note of panic in his voice that almost caused her to relent and pity him. 'She is safe, with thanks due to the people whose hospitality you have so lightly abused,' she said stiffly. 'Do not look to receive a welcome in my house, and do not insult me by pretending you do not know what I mean.'
Aubert stared at her, a look of shocked astonishment on his face. Then he rallied. 'Whatever you think you know of me, I still love my wife and it was never my intention to harm you or your family.'
Ailith eyed him in return. His manner seemed sincere, but then he had always appeared affable and genuine when he was winkling information out of Goldwin about the Godwinsons. She shook her head. 'I cannot give you my trust again. Felice is safe in the convent of St Aethelburga, but if you try to see her you will be arrested on King Harold's order. He knows you for what you are.' Her lip curled. 'Take ship for Normandy, Aubert, and do not come back.'
'But I need to see her. I want to take her home to Rouen!'
'That is impossible. You will have to return as empty-handed as you arrived. If Felice travels any distance it will be the death of her. She is with child, Aubert, and there have been some difficulties.'
He looked stunned and the lines of exhaustion on his face deepened further. Against her will, Ailith began to feel sympathy for him, but she hardened herself against the impulse to invite him inside to eat and drink. He was their enemy and he had abused their trust.
'What kind of difficulties?' Aubert rubbed his forehead.
'She came close to losing the child in her second month -she bled for three days. If you value her life, leave her alone.' Ailith gestured brusquely. 'Now go. If Goldwin should come out and discover you, he will kill you with his own two hands, and I would not blame him.'
He chewed his lip and hesitated. 'Ailith, I…'
She did not want to hear what he was going to say, whether it be an apology, a justification, or a stumbling plea for her aid.
'Aubert, go!' she cried. 'Must I drive you oft by screaming for help?'
Numbly he shook his head and turned away. Clutching her wooden bowl before her like a shield, Ailith watched him limp dispiritedly down the garth and compressed her lips so that she would not call him back.
CHAPTER 8
In the September dusk, Rolf stood on the bridge between the courtyard and the keep at Brize-sur-Risle, and gazed out upon a small army of footsoldiers and grooms, knights and equerries, the caretakers of a herd of warhorses more than two thousand strong. The last glimmerings of sunlight flashed across glossy hides, burnishing chestnut into fire-red, gilding dun to gold, and polishing black with a rich patina of bronze. A feeling of awe joined Rolf's elation as he watched the gleaming, equine bodies which were going to bear Duke William's endeavour to victory or doom within the next few weeks.
The holding camp was in the act of being transferred from Dives-sur-Mer to St Valery-sur-Somme which was closer to the English shore and in a better position to receive winds favourable to a crossing. Most of the supplies for the invasion had travelled up the coast in William's huge war fleet, but Rolf had deemed it less stressful to bring the horses in his care overland. Soon enough the destriers would have to be led on board ship and securely tied and hobbled for the sea crossing. Their role was vital and they had to arrive in England healthy and undamaged.
Rolf had practised loading and unloading the horses in Dives, starting initially with his own docile dun and progressing through the variou
s levels to the Duke's highly strung black Spanish stallion. Once a rhythm had been established, the task had not been too difficult. Horses that baulked were blindfolded. Others were sweetly coaxed. Rolf discovered the troublesome ones and practised with them, not only practised, but learned, building upon his expertise. The Duke's horse was given a placid old sumpter pony as a companion in his stall and immediately became more manageable. Not that Rolf had to load every single one of the two thousand. His responsibility lay with those of the most value, those of the Duke's personal stable, and those belonging to William FitzOsbern, Rolf's mentor.
The sun sank behind a banner of solid grey cloud, although the sky was still underlit with burning rose, and the river was as bright as a honed sword pointing towards the sea. The neigh of a horse floated up to him and the loud laughter of a soldier at one of the camp fires. Small midges hovered in the twilight. It occurred to Rolf that he might be looking out over the lands of Brize-sur-Risle for the last time, that a month from now his bones might be lying at the bottom of the narrow sea, or bleaching on an English headland. It was a sobering thought, but he was not depressed by it. Rather it served to add a certain piquancy to his determination. Without a little uncertainty, life was apt to become as dull as unsalted bread in Lent.
Above the fading rose colour on the skyline, the first star twinkled out, bright and tiny. He watched its winking pinpoint and savoured the strange pang of pleasure-pain in his soul.
'My lord, will you not come within?' Arlette joined him, laying her hand upon his tunic sleeve. He saw her glance wander over the huge horse herd which had become a single shape in the dusk. He knew that she was afraid he was going to spend the evening hours at the camp fires with his comrades, rather than with her. She had dressed to please him. Her gown of blue wool was moulded to her figure, accentuating her small waist and clinging across her breasts. A scent of herbs and dried rose petals rose from her garments. His hunger sharpened. He had not been home very often these past few months.
The Conquest Page 6