The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

  Giffard looked sharply at Gilbert, as if trying to read some answer on Gilbert’s face, and then back at Fitzosbern.

  ‘All he said was “north”.’

  ‘And one other thing,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘He said the man who said it was excited. Excited. Not desolate.’

  ‘So he knew about your “second battle”?’ said Montgomery.

  ‘And it was a victory for Harold?’ said Geoffrey de Montbrai, clinching it.

  Fitzosbern pushed the candlestick back into the centre of the table. ‘That is the best sense I can make of it.’

  There was a general stirring, such as an audience would make after a long story. Pots were raised and lowered noisily on to the table. The Duke, still and watchful, cast his eyes right and left to note reactions.

  ‘Feasible, I suppose,’ said Montgomery at last.

  Geoffrey de Montbrai smiled to himself. As usual, Fitz had thought all of them right off the table.

  There was another silence, broken in the end by Walter Giffard. ‘So where do we go from here?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ said the Duke. ‘We stay.’

  Giffard gaped. ‘With Harold on the march?’

  Gilbert was surprised, and not for the first time, at the amount of plain speaking, even argument, that the Duke tolerated. He was too young to appreciate the ties that bound these hard men together. He had noticed the glitter of greed in their eyes easily enough, and the pride in their bearing; the bravery too, in their very presence in this country. When he stopped sometimes to contemplate the colossal gamble the Duke was taking, it made his throat dry. But it was the straight talking, the frankness, that took him aback. He could not yet see that they sprang not from insubordination but from common purpose, from the mutual confidence that arose from long, shared experience.

  ‘We stay,’ repeated the Duke. ‘If Fitz is right, Harold will come to us in haste and he will come in fatigue. If he attacks in rage to avenge his wasted fields, he may also come to us in disarray. If he comes slowly, he will come to us in plenty of time. However he comes, we are prepared, and we fight on our own terms.’

  ‘And we have the fleet in case,’ said the same voice at the back.

  The Duke looked round the table, his face a blank.

  Nobody chose to speak to that idea.

  ‘What if he does not come at all?’ suggested Montgomery.

  ‘We wait,’ said Fitzosbern, who from long intimacy took up his Duke’s line of reasoning. ‘News will come sooner or later. It must. News travels faster than any army, if you have ears to listen.’

  ‘So we just sit and wait for him to attack us,’ said Giffard, beginning to bristle again.

  ‘We have scouts, Walter,’ said Fitzosbern patiently. ‘We wait to hear news of Harold’s army and news moreover of its condition. We have the resources for an open battle, and we have the supplies and the fortifications for a defensive engagement.’

  Baldwin preened himself.

  The Duke pushed back his chair. ‘We are prepared,’ he said. ‘We wait now only for news. And that we shall seek yet more thoroughly. Fitz – more patrols. Meantime, the training continues. Brittany?’

  Count Alan sat up straight. ‘My swordsmen will be at the peak of readiness whenever you need them, my lord.’

  ‘Coutances?’

  Geoffrey nodded.

  Odo pretended to look pained. ‘Are we to be deafened by trumpets again, my lord? Is my lord of Coutances looking forward to the siege of Jericho?’

  ‘They always sound louder in an empty head,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Enough,’ said the Duke, heading them off. ‘Coutances, get on with it.’

  ‘As far as the ground permits, my lord.’

  Giffard looked at Montgomery and shook his head.

  William caught the glance, and reacted immediately. ‘If Sir Walter Giffard finds the task beyond him, now is the time to say so.’ He allowed a short pause to strengthen his next words. ‘So that I can allow his replacement time to accustom himself to the command.’

  Giffard flushed with shame at the mere imputation. He rose formally. ‘As God is my witness, and before these two princes of the Church –’ he indicated Odo and Geoffrey ‘– I give you my solemn assurance that your Grace will never find me wanting in courage, honour, or loyalty.’

  Gilbert swallowed. It was worth all the pain and nerves and discomfort just to see Sir Walter Giffard, of all people, thoroughly outfaced. For all the informality, there was no doubt about the Duke’s authority.

  As Giffard groped for his stool, William turned to Odo. ‘Brother, you will take whatever spare infantry is needed for extra fatigues on the castle walls and interiors. The rest will be allocated for harbour work and further ground clearance. You will put your men at the disposal of Ranulf.’

  Odo looked like thunder, but said nothing. Geoffrey smiled.

  A voice spoke from the shadows, its tone a nice mixture of innocent enquiry and irony. ‘And what are your Grace’s orders for his loyal Flemings?’

  William did not even turn in the speaker’s direction. ‘To wait until they are called upon, and then to obey. Meantime, to follow standing orders.’

  He stood up.

  Everyone rose, and collected gloves and spurs. One or two on the edge of the group drained furtive mugs. All paid their respects and withdrew. Baldwin pushed Gilbert out. The Duke’s personal servants sprang to their feet, lifted the pots from the fire, and hurried inside with hot water and fresh towels.

  Gilbert hung about, not sure whether he was dismissed or not. When Baldwin left him without further comment, he decided to drift away. Fitzosbern came out of the tent and called after him.

  ‘Here, you.’

  Gilbert hurried back. ‘Yes, Sir William?’

  ‘Come and see me early tomorrow. I want you to go again to where you heard that news of yours.’

  Gilbert felt alarm. ‘But, sir, they were only refugees; they may be miles away by now.’

  ‘The news will not be,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘I want you to find some more.’

  Gilbert searched for an excuse. ‘I do not speak English, sir.’

  ‘Take an English speaker with you.’

  Gilbert tried another, more desperate tactic. ‘Would it not be better, sir, to send a more experienced scout?’

  Fitzosbern looked at him oddly. Modesty in young soldiers was rare, and therefore suspect. ‘Who trained you?’ he said at last.

  ‘Ralph of Gisors, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the Rouen garrison. Works with – um – that tall man with the long face.’

  ‘Bruno of Aix, sir.’

  Fitzosbern nodded. ‘Just so. Well, tomorrow you go together. You will show them the way. Bruno and your Gisors man can then use their “greater experience”. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Fitzosbern strode off towards his own tent. ‘Remember that English speaker,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  A large figure loomed out of the shadows and addressed Geoffrey de Montbrai.

  ‘Greetings to my lord Bishop of Coutances. It is a long time, is it not?’

  Geoffrey regarded the man with distaste, and pointedly did not offer his ring for the kiss.

  Fulk the Angevin ignored the insult, and flashed a smile that his scar turned almost into a leer.

  ‘Surely my lord bishop has not been deliberately avoiding me?’

  Geoffrey stood his ground. ‘I am one of the many who find no need to seek out your company. An opinion shared, it would seem, by his Grace the Duke.’

  Fulk made a dismissive gesture. ‘What of it? He has to be seen to assert himself. I can cope with that. Besides, he is a good general. I freely grant it.’

  ‘Generous of you,’ said Geoffrey.

  Fulk bowed low to acknowledge the barbed compliment. ‘My generous nature, my lord.’

  Geoffrey half smiled at the man’s effrontery. This was the creature who, fifteen or sixteen years ago, had ambushed him on the high road to Burgundy, and had come within an i
nch of killing him. For money. A hired killer. And here he was in England, doing substantially the same thing. In the intervening time, by all accounts, he had been fulfilling similar despicable functions over half Christendom, and beyond.

  Fulk, who was watching his face, read his thoughts. ‘It was a long time ago, my lord. I had a living to earn. No hard feelings, I assure you. It was nothing personal. Indeed, as a result of the episode, and of the skill with which you extricated yourself, my respect for you rose considerably.’

  Geoffrey began to find him tiresome. ‘What do you want?’

  Fulk smiled devilishly. ‘Only to give further proof of my generosity. Not, as formerly, to a contract victim, but to a comrade-in-arms. Strange, is it not, how Fate throws the most unlikely people together?’

  ‘Get to the point,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It grows cold.’

  Fulk produced a bundle from under his arm. ‘If my lord would care to examine this at his leisure . . .’

  He opened the cloth cover, and revealed a beautifully bound book.

  Despite the flickering light of the fire, Geoffrey could appreciate the standard of workmanship; the damaged spine was only incidental.

  Fulk opened it at random, and held out the spread pages for Geoffrey’s closer examination. ‘The best English illustration, my lord. One of the finest schools.’

  Geoffrey was enormously interested, but tried to appear wary.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Does it matter, my lord? You know I am right; you can see for yourself.’

  The devil was right, damn him!

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  Fulk looked as if he were about to savour the coming moment. ‘Your lordship will not believe me, but, as I hope for eternal salvation, it fell off the back of a wagon.’

  ‘What makes you think I should be interested in your lootings?’

  Fulk raised his eyebrows. ‘Is not your reputation as a connoisseur of fine scholarship and jewellery well known? Is not your cathedral at Coutances a byword for beautiful furnishings and venerable relics?’

  The swine was well informed too.

  ‘Since you appear to be aware of its value,’ said Geoffrey, ‘I expect you to name a robber’s ransom for its price.’

  Fulk pretended to look hurt. ‘Come now, my lord – only a realistic bargain, between men of the world?’

  ‘I do not buy without first examining the merchandise.’

  ‘Willingly, my lord. I would, however, counsel reasonable expedition in coming to your decision. The morning tide is early, and your man Thierry returns to Normandy, does he not? Surely it would be safest for him to take it away from the theatre of war – in case any harm should befall it.’

  Damn him – he was extremely well informed.

  ‘You trust me to return it to you if I do not wish to buy?’

  Fulk bowed. ‘Your Grace is, as I said, well known. The very soul of honour. A prince of the Church moreover. What better guarantee could I have?’

  Geoffrey found himself admiring the man’s total confidence. This criminal was capable of anything. If he had nearly murdered him for money fifteen years ago, he was equally prepared to murder him now for non-payment of debt.

  ‘I shall think about it. You will have my decision first thing in the morning.’

  ‘The word of a nobleman. I am answered, and most fairly. There remains only the trivial question of price.’

  ‘Name it,’ said Geoffrey.

  Fulk did.

  Geoffrey laughed. ‘You know what you can do with it.’

  ‘I do indeed, my lord. There is another bishop in this camp, who is equally anxious to enhance the beauty of his cathedral – at Bayeux, I believe, is it not?’

  ‘The skin is a little charred with waiting, but it is good fresh meat.’

  ‘Thank you, Ralph.’

  Gilbert sat down, stretched out his tired legs towards the fire, and loosened the laces on his boots. His ankle still pained him. He began eating, but after a few mouthfuls, he was not sure whether he wanted any more. The nausea threatened from the very pit of his stomach. He tossed the remains into the fire.

  ‘What did Baldwin say?’ said Ralph quietly.

  ‘He took me to the Duke.’ Gilbert enjoyed saying that.

  ‘Then what did the Duke say?’ said Ralph, ignoring the pride.

  ‘The Duke wants more patrols sent out. Tomorrow. You and I and Bruno must go together. With an English speaker.’

  Ralph glanced at Bruno. ‘Where?’

  ‘Where I picked up my information.’

  There was a pause. Ralph became impatient. ‘You mean where your nurses groomed your horse for you?’

  Gilbert flushed, and struggled to his feet. ‘Damn you! Just see to it that you are ready. Fitzosbern’s orders.’

  ‘Do you know the way?’ asked Ralph.

  Gilbert whirled round, furious. ‘You are ordered as company, not as guides.’

  Ralph also became angry. ‘You will have to tell me in the morning. Or I can find out now; I have only to ask Baldwin.’

  ‘Then ask,’ said Gilbert, limping away with his trailing laces. ‘Ask – or wait until the morning.’

  Ralph swore, and savagely poked the fire.

  Bruno cleared his throat.

  Ralph spoke without looking at him. ‘Now what have I done wrong?’

  ‘You know. You simply have trouble in admitting it.’

  ‘Honour. His precious honour. Is that it?’

  ‘If a man does not have that, he has nothing. Honour, pride, self-esteem – call it what you will.’

  Ralph turned to face him. ‘I thought you said he was not up to it.’

  Bruno shrugged. ‘Even dog-boys should be allowed to have their pride.’

  ‘You bastard! And what about survival? Does that not count for anything?’

  ‘Not at the cost of pride – no.’

  Ralph flung an arm in Gilbert’s direction. ‘His precious honour and pride are crippling his life. He is so obsessed with them that he is blind to anything else. He will not live long enough to see his honour avenged if we do not . . .’ He hesitated, having talked himself into a trap.

  ‘If we do not nurse him,’ said Bruno.

  Ralph grimaced as the shaft went home. He wiped his forehead. ‘Bruno, I am knightly born, like you. I know what honour is. But there are things more precious than that. I searched for years for the man who burned my home, killed my friends, sent my mother off her head, and turned my father into a cripple. And when I found him, what did I see? Fulk the Angevin had been ahead of me – tortured him to make the man’s sister open the gates of the castle of Arques.’ Ralph winced at the memory. ‘A truncated, gibbering, wreck of a human being – no eyes, no ears, no nose, no hands, no privates. And do you know what sickened me? Not the sight of him. No. It was the knowledge that, in the long years of my search, I had wanted to do what Fulk had done to him. But when I looked down at this screaming, bloody mess, I knew that I could never have carried it out. I was grateful to Fulk for having shown me in time. Such revenge is pointless. It had crippled my life for years. If I had done it, it would have turned me into an animal. For what? Did it rebuild my home? Did it give my mother back her mind? Did it restore my father’s hand?’

  Bruno dipped the end of a cloth into some fat, and continued polishing a strap.

  ‘Believe me,’ continued Ralph, ‘if I thought any action of mine would have made them whole, I would have raped a nun, spat in the Pope’s face. But it was done, over, past. Just so with Gilbert. He can search the length and breadth of England, and never find the man he seeks. A wasted life. And one in danger. He is liable to notice nothing else.’

  ‘And if he should find him?’

  ‘What good will that do? Will it make Gilbert the true father of his wife’s child?’

  ‘It might help him to live with the fact that he is not.’

  ‘No. It is a madness that could send him to destruction.’

  If the boy did not
improve, he could send them all to destruction, thought Bruno. However, he only shrugged and said, ‘A man must have something to drive him – wherever it should take him.’

  ‘Not blind anger. He is angry for what some man did before his wife married him.’

  ‘You are angry for what God did to your brother before you left home. What is the difference?’

  ‘Hail, sir knight!’

  Taillefer held up a large, bony hand gleaming with gaudy rings. Beside him Sandor sprawled in some straw upon a pile of saddle-cloths. The fire painted shiny spots on his gnome-like face and danced in his dark eyes.

  ‘Welcome to the lord of hosts,’ declaimed Taillefer. ‘What news bringst thou from darkest Scythia?’

  However inappropriate or ill-timed his remarks, it was difficult to feel rage with Taillefer. Gilbert felt his bad mood beginning to evaporate already. He kicked Taillefer familiarly.

  ‘Move over, you old sot. Drunk again. Where does he get it all from, Sandor?’

  Sandor chuckled. ‘Devils have more charm than saints,’ he said. ‘If they did not, Hell would be empty.’

  Taillefer waved his hand again in another theatrical gesture. ‘A soothing tongue can open more pockets than a sharp point.’

  Gilbert joined in the joke. He pulled out his dagger. ‘More pockets than this?’ he said, pretending to jab it into Taillefer’s skinny thigh.

  Taillefer looked down at it for a moment, then raised his head. His bleary eyes seemed to sag with the weight of the bags underneath them. ‘My dear boy,’ he said, ‘your knife will empty pockets only once. My voice will empty them many times.’

  Sandor laughed, and so did Gilbert. They could never catch out Taillefer in moral argument. ‘You and your stories.’

  Taillefer coughed suddenly.

  ‘Phew!’ Gilbert recoiled from Taillefer’s breath. ‘Great Jesus, Taillefer – the onions!’

  Taillefer professed surprise, his eyebrows pushing up a hundred wrinkles. ‘What healthier diet could there be?

  An onion every day for life,

  And never fear the doctor’s knife.

  Gilbert pushed him away. ‘You eat onions only to take away the smell of beer.’