The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

  Well, at least it was not going to make such a noise. He was crouched in anticipation when he heard a rippling snarl. He stood up hurriedly, just managing to stifle a cry of pain from his ankle, and pulled frantically at his leggings. He peered into the undergrowth all around him. There was another throaty snarl.

  Suddenly another noise came up to him from the mill. A female voice. He peered cautiously between some leaves. It was the tall fair one out in the yard again. She was calling the boy back. Gilbert could not understand the short hard English words, but the strength and sureness in the voice were unmistakable.

  The boy stopped, and tried to argue. But the young woman, confident of her authority, had turned away. Tossing his head sulkily, the boy flung one last stone with extra spite, and trudged downhill.

  Well, that was something. Now all Gilbert had to do was locate the dog. If it barked, the boy would still hear it.

  ‘Always try what you are good at.’

  He had not always paid proper attention to Ralph’s comments, and was surprised at how many of them came back to him when he needed them.

  He was good at dogs.

  ‘It might benefit you one day,’ his father had said. Which had turned out to be true. It had gained him his first employment, with his Grace Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances, in charge of the hounds.

  Gilbert fished in a leather wallet at his waist, and brought out a biscuit. It was going to be a very unusual dog that was not hungry. He made soft chirping and clicking noises with his lips and tongue.

  A rustle betrayed the animal’s presence at last. Slowly, a muzzle emerged from the thicket, then a wild-looking but wiry body. Gilbert held out the biscuit. The dog edged forward, then, surprisingly, whimpered. It was limping. Gilbert felt sympathy at once; they had something in common.

  He saw the twine tight round one of its forepaws. Then, following the twine with his eyes, he made out the remains of some animal trap or other, half hidden in the long grass. The poor creature had dragged the trap from its moorings in its efforts to free itself, but of course had tightened the twine round its paw, which was chafed almost raw, and bleeding. It had hidden itself when it heard Gilbert blundering about, and had growled in fear and pain, not anger. There was no anger in its eyes – only entreaty.

  ‘The northern host is broken. Earls Edwin and Morcar in full flight.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Hardrada has wasted York. Twelve more cities too. The whole of Northumbria is in flames. The Archbishop himself – hanged.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘As I live and breathe.’

  Gilbert could not do it. It was against all reason, but he could not do it. He was ill; he was tired; he was several miles from camp; and it was getting late. He had to bring back information, even if it was that there was no information. A dozen of Ralph’s remarks about the needs of scouting came into his head, but he ignored all of them. Crouched in front of him, in this foreign land of empty farms and lonely furrows, was the first living thing that needed him. Besides, it was a dog. And it had not betrayed him. He was good at dogs. ‘Do what you are good at.’ Even Ralph had said so.

  With the aid of the biscuit, and with more friendly noises, Gilbert soon insinuated some fingers behind the animal’s ears. Safer, he put both hands about its head, coaxing all the time. He forgot his pain; authority took its place. The dog began to relax.

  Gilbert offered another precious biscuit. Then, without letting go of the fur at the back of the dog’s neck, he edged his other hand, slowly, very slowly, down the dog’s injured leg. It whimpered again, and tried to lift it up. Working as gently as possible, Gilbert loosened the twine and eased it off. Tearing off several handfuls of soft green grass, he spat on them and washed the dirt out of the wound as best he could. What he needed now was water, and a bandage of some kind. They were both with his horse.

  Still holding the dog’s neck, he shuffled on his knees to where the horse was tethered. He opened a saddlebag, and pulled out a spare worsted shirt. With his knife he cut into its tail and tore off a strip. Making a pad of it in his hand, he soaked it with some water from his flask, and wiped the dog’s paw again. Then he unrolled the pad, and used it to bandage the wound. He pulled out the leather lace at the neck of his shirt and twined it round to secure the bandage. It would not stay on long, but the coolness and softness would give the animal comfort for a while.

  To his great joy, it whimpered again, this time clearly in gratitude.

  Suddenly he doubled up with yet another spasm in his stomach, and was forced to see to himself, almost too late. When he at last fastened his half-soiled leggings, he noticed that the dog was still there.

  Now the face of Ralph appeared before him in all its wrath. He packed everything as fast as he could, and made vigorous gestures to make the dog go away – which it ignored. Indeed, it wagged its tail.

  He went through the charade of mounting yet again, and made off eastwards. The lowering sun cast long shadows before him.

  He was swaying now in the saddle, his eyes half closed at times. Once he passed too close under the bough of a tree, and received a thump on the forehead that nearly knocked him to the ground. The dog was now following him.

  Gilbert cursed trees and green apples and hidden ravines and scabbard straps and stale water and God and himself, and anything else he could think of. His bad ankle, constantly shaken by the movement of the stirrup, shrieked at him. He had to pause for a while.

  He slid his feet out of the stirrups and stretched his legs. An early evening badger scurried across his path. The horse stirred. It was not a large movement, but Gilbert was totally unprepared. He slipped and fell, his ankle twisting under him yet again. As he lay on his back to recover, the nausea rose in his throat once more, and he knew he was going to be sick.

  He struggled to a kneeling position, propped himself on his hands, and vomited copiously. All the strength seemed to go from his limbs. He could not move. He found himself gazing at the backs of his hands as if they did not belong to him. For a moment he panicked, but no matter how urgent his thoughts, his body would not respond. He – could – not – move.

  Then he felt pins and needles in his arms and legs. He had heard stories from old soldiers about sickness and seizures and creeping death. There was no pain, they said; you just slipped quietly away.

  His panic was replaced by a mixture of curiosity and surprise. So this was it. This was what it was like. He had often wondered. He had sometimes imagined that it might come suddenly, though he could have wished it had not come quite so early. Pity.

  It struck him that it would be undignified to die, actually to pass away, on all fours like an animal. His limbs would not respond, but now he felt no worry or fear. It was simply a practical matter of how to get himself into a better position in which to end his life, a more becoming posture in which to be found.

  He tried to lean so that extra weight was put on his left arm. Sure enough, it buckled, and he rolled over on to his side and then his back. The hilt of his sword dug into his hip, but it was not so painful now. There was no point in moving into a more comfortable position, because the end could not be far off. Blades of grass rustled round his ears and swayed over his eyes.

  Would they steal his hauberk, as Ralph had cut it from the dead Breton soldier with the spear in his stomach?

  He put his hand inside his jerkin and fumbled anxiously. He sighed in relief as his fingers closed over Adele’s crucifix. Suddenly he wanted to gaze on it. Unable to reach the clasp, he tugged sharply. With his weakened arm it took two or three attempts before it finally came away.

  He held it in both hands above his face, and took comfort from what he saw. His arms could not hold the position, and he soon let them flop on to the ground.

  He stared straight up. He thought of his father and mother, his gruff brother Robert, his sister Mahaut (who would of course cry). Baby Hugh smiled at him, and Adele held his hand . . .

  The sky looked more sombre now. Or was it
his eyes darkening? Those old soldiers talked of the eyes of dying men clouding over. He sighed quietly. He would shut his eyes for a moment. Just for a moment. Then he would open them when he felt the time coming. Men did that too, said the soldiers, immediately before the end.

  Ralph peered blearily in the bad light. ‘Does friendship mean nothing to you?’

  Bruno sighed. ‘Friendship is not the point. The point is professional skill. I told you when you were sober, and I tell you again now: if you want him to be a scout, he learns to take his chance. If you do not want him to be a scout, you nurse him – and next time you leave him behind.’

  Ralph stretched his hand out into the night. ‘If it were you out there, I should look for you.’

  ‘I should do the same for you. I am your partner.’

  Ralph glowered. ‘And Gilbert is not, I suppose.’

  ‘He is not mine.’

  ‘Well, he is mine.’

  Bruno continued sharpening his knife. ‘He is not. He is not even a friend. He is a hope, a dream.’

  Ralph swore.

  Bruno pursued him. ‘He is a liability. You are too soft with him. You give him too many chances.’

  Ralph blustered. ‘I am hard on him. He says so.’

  ‘Which proves my point.’

  ‘Sandor says so. Taillefer says so.’

  ‘Taillefer is not a scout. I am. So are you. We are professionals.’

  ‘And Gilbert is not?’

  ‘No. And I do not think he ever will be. He will certainly not be if you have to chase across half Sussex looking for him in the dark. If you found him, he would not be grateful.’

  ‘He would be alive.’

  ‘You have no guarantee. We could both die looking for him. Where is the professional responsibility in that? Fitz wants every man out to the north as soon as possible. The Bastard wants to know where Harold is; what would he say if he found out that two of his best scouts were wasting their time looking for a lost dog-boy?’

  Ralph’s eyes twitched. ‘You do not understand. Gilbert is—’

  ‘Gilbert is not Michael. And Michael is dead.’

  Ralph turned away, sighed, and hiccuped.

  ‘Go on, boy! Find him! Find him!’

  Quite what Edwin hoped his dog would find he had no clear idea, but he was so overjoyed at seeing it return that he was prepared to indulge almost any whim.

  The dog paused and looked back, making sure that his delighted master was following.

  ‘Go on, Berry. Seek! Seek!’

  Perhaps it was fresh game caught in one of Sweyn’s traps. Edwin had noticed at once the livid mark on Berry’s leg, and knew what had caused it. While he bathed and bound it, he cursed Sweyn for setting his traps on this near edge of the forest. If he had told the fat little oaf once he had told him a score of times not to set traps across the line of his exercise runs with the hounds. There was enough woodland and waste in which to set a whole wilderness of traps; all the idle toad had to do was walk a few hundred paces further.

  Sweyn was too lazy, too stupid and too spoiled. The more Edwin scolded, the more he whined, until in the end he went running to his father. Gorm always took his son’s side. It was useless to argue; Gorm was narrow-minded, bad-tempered and blind to his son’s faults. He had sired him too late in life, after his suffering wife had presented him with three daughters.

  Edwin gave up in disgust, and let his annoyance be overridden by his joy in finding the hound he had been worrying about nearly all day.

  When it became clear that Berry wanted to show him something up on the hill, he was happy to follow. However, it was late, so he took Godric with him. He checked the knife blade, and made sure that the weapon slid easily in and out of the sheath. He picked up a spare axe handle, and nodded towards a pitchfork. Godric picked it up without a word.

  Everyone knew that the Normans had landed. There had been a steady trickle of fugitives through the valley, each with his own garbled version of events. There was talk of fires and killings, of fighting patrols and foraging parties, of near misses and narrow escapes.

  Edwin had kept his eyes open, but had so far seen no enemy. That was no proof, he knew, that nobody had ridden this far from Pevensey, though the indications were against it. All were agreed that the Bastard had landed at Pevensey, but he would make for London, and so would have little cause to be diverted so far westwards. Still, it would pay to be prudent.

  Motioning to Godric to follow, Edwin set off after the eager hound.

  Berry ranged restlessly up a narrow sheep track, and paused at the top near the edge of the trees.

  Edwin was about to shout encouragement again when an earthy hand closed firmly over his mouth from behind. Another hand pinned his knife arm to his side. He felt an instant of panic, which vanished as quickly when he smelled Godric’s familiar odour.

  He relaxed, and nodded. Godric released his grip, put a hand on his shoulder and pointed with the other.

  Edwin knew a Norman horse when he saw one. A riderless Norman horse could mean several things. He glanced at Godric, who nodded ahead towards the dog. It was circling something in the long grass behind a thicket of ferns. Without a word, they separated, spread out, and came towards the dog from opposite directions.

  A young Norman soldier lay on his back. Edwin recognised the short, almost monkish haircut. Blood trickled past the soldier’s ear from a dirty graze and bump on his forehead. He was moaning softly, and was shaking uncontrollably.

  The thrill of fear that passed through Edwin was not caused entirely by the fact that the body was Norman. It looked as if there was some kind of hideous fever present. Edwin caught sight of dried vomit in the grass nearby. Its fetid smell was still offensive in the evening air. He hung back, uncertain.

  Godric moved past him, stooped, and gently removed both sword and dagger. The soldier made no attempt to prevent him. Godric passed them back without looking behind him. Edwin took them. Not for the first time, he found himself obeying out of sheer respect for Godric’s common sense.

  Godric bent over the prostrate young man. He felt his forehead and under his sagging chin. He peered inside the top of his shirt and looked for any spots or blotches. He ran his hands over the whole body, sniffing all the while. He turned him over, looked at his back, and let him drop gently into his original position. Edwin kept the sword at the ready, feeling a little foolish with his own stick and Godric’s pitchfork clutched awkwardly together in his other hand.

  Godric went over to the horse, tethered it, and examined it. He looked carefully at saddle, bridle, reins, and stirrups. He unlaced and peered into each saddle bag. Reaching into one, he pulled out something that he kept in his hand while he undid the bedroll. The glittering hauberk flopped open. Without even glancing at Edwin, he folded it again, rolled it inside a travelling cloak, and strapped it back behind the saddle, keeping out only the dark woollen blanket.

  He came back to the soldier, crouched, and began rolling him in the blanket as easily as if he were a baby.

  ‘Well?’ said Edwin impatiently.

  Without interrupting what he was doing, Godric answered, ‘He has no fever, and no bones are broken. There are no holes; he is not wounded.’

  ‘What about his head?’

  ‘That is no wound. It is not clean. It was made by no weapon. There are pieces of bark round it. Perhaps he struck his head on a branch.’

  ‘A strong young Norman on horseback, and he does not look where he goes?’

  ‘Young, yes. Strong, no. See, he is weak; he shivers. And he has fallen more than once. A strap has broken on his scabbard. He has mended it in haste. See the mud and leaf mould on his arms and back, on his leggings. There is only grass here. And he has lain a good half-hour; the dew has begun to soak into his clothes.’

  It seemed so simple when Godric explained, and his voice was so mild that Edwin felt no annoyance.

  ‘Smell,’ said Godric. ‘He is sick in the belly. He has soiled himself. Look at this cheese, th
is meat.’ He tossed it away. ‘If this is Norman camp diet, their bellies will beat them before the King does.’

  He pointed downwards. Gilbert, his teeth chattering, put out a trembling hand, and, as if he were in bed, pulled the blanket up to his chin. Berry hovered in concern.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Edwin.

  Godric kneeled beside Gilbert, put his arms underneath him, and lifted him with no apparent effort.

  ‘We move him.’

  It was not a request or a suggestion; it was a plain statement of fact. Godric did not wait for confirmation.

  ‘But what do we do with him?’ said Edwin.

  Godric, who was already on his way back, stopped and turned. ‘Do you wish to kill him?’

  The question, though simple, was unnervingly direct.

  ‘No!’ said Edwin, shocked.

  It was as well that Edwin could not see what an odd figure he looked, loaded with his own knife, two Norman weapons, and a couple of farm implements, each capable of killing a prostrate enemy. The faintest of smiles crossed Godric’s swarthy face.

  ‘Do you wish to leave him then? The dew and the night will kill him.’

  ‘No . . . No.’

  He shrugged, and followed Godric. He could not bring himself to take a life like that, nor did he want it on his conscience to be the wilful cause of the man’s death through neglect. Edwin had seen Normans before; they were invaders, and they were the enemy, but they were not devils in human shape. He had lived among them once for several months; he knew that they were ordinary like everyone else. This young man was about his own age too.

  Conscience or no conscience, it would be foolish to leave a dead Norman lying about for an armed patrol to find. If they killed and buried him, it would not be difficult for a determined search party to find the grave, and that would be even worse. There were many stories already about Duke William and his wastings and burnings; they had floated across the Channel on breezes of gossip and rumour for nearly twenty years, and now they were swirling round Sussex like autumn leaves in a gale. It was stupid to provoke a situation in which they could find out how true these stories were.