The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

  ‘The pain – it is going?’

  Gilbert felt again.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. And added, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And your leg?’

  Gilbert grimaced, and put up both his hands. He drew them apart to indicate swelling.

  The Saxon grinned. Then, as if he had offered too much, he turned away and poked the fire again.

  Gilbert pointed towards the dog. ‘He is yours?’

  The Saxon nodded, and put an arm round its neck. ‘Yes. He is called Berry. He is a fine hunter – eh, boy?’

  ‘Berry.’ Gilbert made a pretty fair attempt at the Saxon pronunciation.

  It made the Saxon grin again. ‘He knows you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I tried to bind his leg.’

  The Saxon was instantly interested. ‘How was that?’

  Gilbert explained, but was careful to leave out everything else.

  Edwin had guessed most of it, however. There was not much else a solitary Norman soldier could be doing this far from the main camp, and he knew from Godric’s search of his equipment that he was not carrying a message. There was a handful of Norman clerks left in England who could read one.

  It had been one of the first things he had thought of. There were still those in England who would welcome the Normans. The saintly King Edward had not been liked because of his Norman leanings. A Norman mother, a Norman education, a Norman exile – small wonder he arrived in England with a crowd of Norman friends, friends whom he proceeded to promote and reward. It had taken Harold’s father, Earl Godwin, nearly ten years to get rid of them, and Edward never forgave him for it.

  Edwin had heard the tale many times. Harold, with a drink or two inside him, was a fine storyteller and a splendid companion. No wonder most Saxons were pleased now to call him King.

  No wonder too that those Normans who lost their estates when they were expelled would want to get them back. Many of their tenants and retainers would be pleased to see them too – men who had pledged themselves to foreigners for quick reward and who now, in the absence of their protectors, suffered the vengeful spleen of lesser Saxon rivals. Oh, yes, thought Edwin, there would be those in Sussex and Kent who would welcome the Normans.

  As he listened to the story, Edwin wondered how much this young scout knew. Did he know that the King had gone north? Did he know that the Viking host could strike in the north at any moment? Perhaps Hardrada had already landed. Did this scout know the size of the King’s army and where it was? Did he know that the King had had perforce to send many men home for the harvest? That the fleet had been broken up in the Channel and sent to London? That the King had had to perform miracles of leadership to keep any army together at all through the long summer of waiting – did he know that? Edwin hoped not.

  Edwin did not want England to become a Norman land, and he loved his King Harold, but, as he listened to the soldier’s story and watched his animation in referring to the dog, he found it difficult to dislike him. He could not be far from his own age either.

  The young Norman had stopped talking and was looking at him.

  There was another stiff silence.

  Gilbert gestured towards Berry. ‘I too like dogs.’

  Edwin blushed. ‘Yes. Yes. Berry is a fine hunter.’

  Gilbert pointed to himself. ‘I too have worked with dogs – hunters like your Berry.’ He still hesitated over the name.

  ‘I also care for hunting dogs,’ said Edwin. ‘My lord is – my lord is away now.’

  The Norman did not press him. Instead, he said, ‘My name is Gilbert . . .’ He could not resist adding, ‘. . . of Avranches’.

  ‘I am Edwin son of Edward.’

  Gilbert began to take his hand out from under the sheepskins. He caught sight of Edwin watching the movement, and stopped. Edwin had also thought of putting out his hand, but, seeing the Norman’s hesitation, could not bring himself to complete the gesture.

  Gilbert felt his cheeks go warm. He swallowed. ‘How do you know French?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Many Normans had lands here once,’ said Edwin. ‘I was born on one of their estates.’ He shrugged. ‘In the master’s house you learn to take orders, in any language.’

  Which was true enough. Edwin took care not to mention that his Norman lord had been exiled, and that his new master was none other than Earl Harold himself, as he then was. Nor did he think it wise to let slip where else he had learned even more French.

  He dusted his hands self-consciously, and stood up.

  ‘I shall see about some food,’ he said. ‘Then we shall look at your bandages.’

  Berry followed him out.

  ‘What about our money?’

  Florens of Arras tipped up his mug to catch the last of the hot soup. He wiped his lips with his hand.

  ‘Would you rather drink silver pieces for breakfast? Do you know what the others have to make do with?’

  ‘The others can eat and drink what they like. Fulk made a contract with the Duke. One third a week after landing. The rest after the battle. That was what he said.’

  Several other Flemings growled in surly agreement.

  ‘It is now ten days,’ said the spokesman. ‘And no money. We want it.’

  Florens tossed his mug towards the cook, who caught it expertly.

  ‘Then it is Fulk you need to speak to, not me. It was not I who drew up the contract. I am not a writing man.’

  The spokesman hesitated.

  Florens sneered. ‘Scared to speak to your own commanding officer?’

  ‘No. It is just that—’

  Florens poked him in the chest. ‘A man who loads his pockets down with silver before the battle runs the risk of not surviving it. He can not move quickly enough. I for one prefer to wait.’ He waved towards their cook’s wagon. ‘You are the best fed and the best equipped troops in the whole army. What more do you want?’

  ‘What is ours.’

  Florens threw his head to the sky in disgust.

  ‘I can get that money, lads,’ said a voice.

  Florens turned round. The men parted in front of him to reveal the owner of the voice.

  Recognition came. It was the newcomer of the previous evening. Florens looked him up and down, his expression one of deepening contempt.

  ‘Oh, you can?’

  The newcomer bowed elaborately. ‘William Capra at your service, gentlemen.’ He stood up again, and surveyed the curious faces round him. ‘But there is, of course, a charge.’

  He had everybody’s attention now. Including his brother’s.

  He pointed at Florens. ‘Your gallant sergeant told me last night that I could expect no payment until after the battle. Arrived too late, you see. Now, I happen to think that is very unfair. Here I am – and my brave brother – ready and willing to do our bit towards the army’s effort. Was it our fault that storms held us up in Normandy, when we wanted nothing more than to come here and share your hardships?’

  ‘Get to the point,’ said the spokesman, trying to regain the initiative.

  Capra flashed a challenging glance at him. ‘Very well. Here it is. I can negotiate with your Fulk for you; he is an Angevin, I am a Norman. We have the bond of the French language – and of our knightly birth.’

  He placed a grubby hand across his chest in a charade of nobility. Florens grunted.

  ‘I wish to give no offence, gentlemen,’ continued Capra smoothly, ‘but perhaps there is a slight language problem here.

  You know – the faintest shade of meaning lost in speaking a foreign tongue? With the best will in the world?’

  ‘What is the deal?’ said the spokesman.

  Capra sprang the trap. ‘I get your money. And you give me a full share of the first third payment.’

  There was a buzz of furtive discussion.

  The spokesman spoke too soon. ‘I do not accept.’

  ‘Well, we do,’ said somebody else.

  The spokesman cursed and stumped off.

  Capra bowed again. ‘An
d the same for my brother.’

  The men hesitated. Florens smiled to himself; this scruffy newcomer had the cheek of the Devil.

  ‘I should accept,’ he said out loud. ‘It will be worth it for the entertainment alone. And you will be no worse off.’ He looked at Capra. ‘You have your chance now. Here he comes.’

  Two minutes later, William Capra was on his hands and knees, wiping away blood that was pouring from his nose. Nearly everybody was laughing at him.

  Fulk pulled on his gloves. ‘You want money, my beauties? I shall give you money today, and more. I have just come from my lord Fitzosbern. Do you know what he said to me? He said –’ Fulk furrowed his brow in mimicry of Fitzosbern ‘– “Now, listen – er – I want you to go out as far as – er – and I want you to – er – and – er – as far as – er – and come back by way of – um” –’ Fulk put on a veritable caricature of a struggle to recall.

  The men roared with laughter.

  Fulk waited until the moment was exactly right. ‘But he did not tell me what we could not do. And you know what that means.’

  He waited for the ribald comments to die down. ‘So – today, my lads – we enjoy ourselves. No more camp fatigues. We draw horses from the reserve pool; no walking for my Flemings. If Fitz wants a lot of damage done, we must have time to do it. I told him that. And we must have energy for – er – I told him that too.’

  More vulgar guffaws. Eyes met each other furtively; grins were exchanged. Fulk was a character; you had to give him that.

  ‘And who knows?’ continued Fulk. ‘Perhaps a nice fat column of refugees on our way back. A bag of silver under a nun’s habit? Which would you grab first, eh?’

  Back came the regular answer: ‘Either – they both get you into the habit.’

  There were more hoots of delight. Florens, also timing the moment precisely, clapped his hands.

  ‘Right then. Hup! Hup! Hup! Let us be moving. Draw your rations. Column of twos. Lively now.’

  Fulk turned back to William Capra, who was about to lever himself to his feet. A huge kick sent him sprawling into the embers of the cook’s fire.

  As he lay there, spitting ashes, Fulk bent down beside him and put his scarred face close to an ear. ‘You have just learned rule number one,’ he said.

  Capra tried to retrieve a scrap of dignity. ‘And what is rule number two?’

  ‘To remember that there is only one rule. Now get on your feet, and show me what you can do. Bring your scarecrow of a brother with you. I may need him to shoo away the birds from our handiwork today.’

  As he stalked away, Fulk passed close to Florens. ‘I take it you did not tell them?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Not a word. It is in the usual place.’

  Fulk glanced in the direction of the cook, who nodded back.

  Gilbert lay back and looked about him. This was no ordinary villein’s hut; the presence of a stone chimney told him that. And the iron utensils; many households had to make do with wood. Nor was it a lord’s house; the furniture was too rough. He heard the sound of running water, regular slapping noises, and the creak of machinery. Of course – the mill! Holy Blood! Was it only yesterday?

  Suddenly he saw a tall, fair young woman framed in the doorway. How long had she been watching him?

  She came forward and put a simple meal beside him. Gilbert felt a thrill of recognition; he would know that queenly walk anywhere. As she crouched, he was close enough to savour the scent of womanhood for the first time since leaving Adele. She made a gesture for him to eat, turned her eyes away, stood up, and went about her work.

  One by one, the other members of the household came in – the stringy, whining woman, the idiot girl, and the boy. Then the swarthy giant. They went about their daily routine. Gilbert could not understand a word they said to each other, but he learned from the weary authority of the tall fair woman, the complaints of the thin one, the moon face of the youngest girl, the pouts of the boy, and the towering presence of the giant. A whole foreign world opened to him, like a morning flower in the summer sun.

  Foreign it may have been, but not strange. As the household became absorbed in their work, they cast fewer glances at him, almost forgot him. To his amazement, he began to feel that he belonged.

  That could be his father’s scythe in the rack. Those baskets of apples and nets of onions hanging from the beams could have been put there by his mother. Saxon households, it seemed, also had one chicken more daring than the others, which ventured further from the doorway across the earthen floor in order to locate more choice scraps in the cleaner rushes. The scanty, rough furniture, the general clutter, even the smells, took him back ten years as if in a wizard’s spell.

  One of his father’s neighbours had a spoilt son like this one. Another had an idiot daughter. The dark shrill young woman reminded him of an aunt who dragged out a tight, lonely spinster’s life in the kitchen of his father’s lord.

  The big man and the fair woman filled the room with their mere presence, but Gilbert could not fathom their relationship. He was struck with the odd thought that if they were not man and wife, then they ought to be.

  His comfortable musings were broken when Edwin returned.

  ‘We will see your leg,’ he said.

  The big man came and crouched beside him

  ‘This is Godric,’ said Edwin. ‘He will see your ankle.’

  Godric gave Gilbert the slightest of nods. Gilbert was surprised. He had naturally thought that the fair one had tended to him. He felt almost disappointed. When Godric touched him, he received another surprise; he had no idea that such strong hands could be so gentle. He watched, fascinated, as if the leg did not belong to him.

  When Godric had finished, he looked up and nodded in question towards Gilbert’s forehead.

  Gilbert touched the bandage. ‘No, no. It is well. Tell him it is all right,’ he said to Edwin.

  A few words of English passed. Edwin turned back to Gilbert.

  ‘He thinks you should rest longer. Your ankle is still –’ he spread his hands apart as Gilbert had done earlier ‘– big, and your stomach is still weak.’

  Conscience returned in a rush.

  ‘I must return. I have—’ He checked himself, and there was a guilty silence.

  Godric whispered to Edwin. Edwin turned to Gilbert.

  ‘Godric says you must rest or you will be sick again. He says if you leave after midday you can still reach your camp by sunset.’

  This was terrible. Gilbert struggled to a sitting position. ‘I am recovering,’ he said. ‘Look.’

  He held up the half-empty wooden plate, and, as if to prove his claim, picked up some dark bread and crammed a large lump into his mouth. Still with his mouth full, he clambered to his feet. The sudden effort made him sway; he moved quickly to adjust his balance, and winced at the pain in the ankle. By the time Godric had caught him and eased him down again, he felt sick once more. He made no resistance as they covered him, made up the fire, and took away the rest of the meal.

  ‘It looks as if he went up there.’

  Ralph reined in his horse beside a sandy little brook and pointed up the hill. Open scrubland stretched all the way to the top, where they could just make out the silhouette of a solitary stunted tree.

  For most of the morning they had followed their own trail of the previous afternoon, and then Gilbert’s trail when he left them. That had taken them to the settlement they had first seen. Pursuing it after that, they had now found themselves at the foot of this gently-sloping hill.

  Ralph was in a savage mood. His head was still aching. He was annoyed that they had to be out at all, when he knew that they should be resting before their long sweep of the next day – the one that Fitzosbern wanted them to make. He hated being unprofessional. He knew too exactly what Bruno was thinking.

  He was even more annoyed with Gilbert. Why had the boy continued beyond that settlement? He was only supposed to have a quick look, then come back. What had made him change hi
s mind? The chance of heroics? Pray God not.

  Damn Gilbert! And damn all English beer! If Bruno dared to open his mouth . . .

  Ralph looked up the slope. He could be up there. The tree on its ridge was gaunt, twisted . . .

  ‘Well?’ said Bruno, nodding uphill.

  Ralph pointed to the western end, where it sloped down towards a grassy knoll at the foot. ‘Let us look round there first.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I say so!’

  He spurred his horse forward, without waiting to see if Bruno was following.

  When he reached where he was going, he circled several times, gazing at the ground. After a few minutes he came upon a fresh set of hoofprints. They came down from the top of the hill, and went away north-westwards, in the opposite direction from camp. It was unquestionably Gilbert’s horse; the smith at Rouen had his own unmistakable mark on the shoes.

  Ralph was incredulous. ‘Why do that?’

  Bruno shrugged. ‘You are the expert on novice scouts, not me.’

  Ralph could have hit him.

  ‘At least he is alive,’ said Bruno, reading his mind.

  Ralph cast one more glance at the top of the hill, and pulled his horse’s head round to face west again. ‘Come then.’ Once again, he did not wait for Bruno to agree.

  The trail was clearer now, and Ralph was so absorbed that he neglected to take regular precautions. It was Bruno who called a warning.

  They burst out of the side track on to the main one, and nearly ran into a small column of refugees, who stood rooted to the ground in terror.

  A carter was poised with his whip in mid-air; a monk trembled beside the oxen, both his chins sagging loose. Women clutched the heads of their children to their stomachs. Two or three old men rested on their staffs, glad of any rest, whatever the cause. After a moment, a sweating priest tottered forward, fumbling at his waist for his crucifix on its chain. He fell on his knees, and held up the cross in dumb, hopeless entreaty, his head bowed, his eyes tight shut at the impending blow.

  Carpenters and their boys paused on the scaffolding to watch Ranulf of Dreux limping round the stacks of freshly piled timber. Any excuse to take a break from the work; the Bastard wanted the impossible – a castle up in days, not weeks.