Once Agnes had entered a convent, he had not talked intimately with anyone. Only Matilda had come near him. Despite her teasing – ‘Baldwin, why are you so old?’ – she had become genuinely fond of him, and he felt the same towards her.
Outside soldiering, his main interest was his precious monastery at Bec. He had spent some time in one as a boy, and had learned to read there, even write a little. He found comfort in the daily round of a holy house, in the chapel bell ringing, endlessly, the hours of Divine Office. It was like being bound up in eternity.
He leaned earnestly towards Thierry. ‘Now, I want you to go to Bec, and see to it that . . .’
Thierry nodded patiently. ‘Yes, indeed, my lord. As usual. I understand.’
He had been doing this for years.
When Baldwin had finished, it was Geoffrey’s turn. He called Thierry to his tent and picked up a parcel. It was double-bound in quality leather. ‘This is to be delivered to Canon John – into his hands, and no one else’s. Do you understand?’
Thierry drew back warily. ‘It is not another relic, is it?’
None of Geoffrey’s servants would touch a holy relic. When he had brought some back from Italy to grace the new altar in the young cathedral, he had had to carry them himself, all the way. His men had flatly refused.
‘No, it is not,’ said Geoffrey.
Thierry did not look convinced. ‘It is well bound. It must be valuable.’
Geoffrey sighed and thrust the package at him. ‘Here. Take the cursed thing. It is only a book. And I should not say valuable so much as expensive – cripplingly expensive. God help you if you lose it after what I paid for it.’
And please God that devil Fulk did not walk past any more upturned wagons at inopportune moments. Much more of this and he would be ruined.
Edwin watched Berry scattering dew on either side as he swaggered ahead down the path towards the mill. He snuffed the air deeply. What a tonic all this was. He stopped once or twice to touch spiders’ webs in such a way that the dew fell without the thread breaking. He looked inside the bag of mushrooms, took out one of the biggest, and sniffed it. He turned it over and stroked the soft black gills. It was like the inside of a girl’s thigh.
Rowena would be pleased. She would cook them in fresh butter, add some parsley and a few magic touches of her own, and they would soften the roughest bread into a breakfast fit for princes.
It was the least he could do to repay hospitality. And Rowena’s kindness. And – be it remembered – Rowena’s discretion. She never spoke of his lost love in front of anybody else. She kept her word.
Yet somehow Godric knew. Edwin was sure of it, but sure too that Rowena had not betrayed him. Thoughts passed between the two of them like magic; Edwin felt he could reach out and touch the bonds between them. Godric also had this uncanny perception. It gave Edwin shivers sometimes, and he could see that it frightened Gorm.
As they sat round the table and ate the mushrooms, he could feel Godric’s eyes probing into every face while they talked again of Gorm’s news.
‘It was better than I thought,’ said Gorm.
‘Father!’ said Aud. ‘Those old fools make it up as they go along.’
Gorm waved a hunk of bread impatiently in the air. ‘Not Saward and his gang. I do not mean them. Cripples and dotards. Gabbling sots, the lot of them.’
He took a large bite in the brief silence that followed, not noticing how deep it was.
‘I got it from Algar. Now, he goes everywhere. I believe him. Think – the King’s rider himself. He could not have made this up. I tell you there has been a great clash at Stamford. And the King has won.’
‘Where is Stamford?’ said Sweyn.
‘Near York, son. There has been a big fight at a bridge. Hardrada is dead, and the King’s brother, Tostig.’
‘He always was a bad lot,’ said Edwin.
Gorm leaned forward on his elbows. ‘They say the King wept over him.’
Edwin could see half-chewed food in the miller’s mouth as he spoke.
‘The Viking host is broken,’ said Gorm. ‘There were not enough survivors to fill ten ships afterwards. And they came in hundreds – more plentiful than the pebbles on the shore.’
‘There you go again, Father,’ said Aud. ‘More tall stories.’
‘That is only half the fighting,’ commented Godric.
There was a silence. Aud looked towards the sheepskins where Gilbert had lain, now piled tidily in a corner on a lath hurdle to keep them from the earth’s dampness. Edith crooned over the stick doll that Gilbert had given her. Rowena put an arm round her shoulder and looked at Godric.
Only Gorm continued in the same vein. His own news, and the sense of importance it gave him, made him feel sure of the future.
‘The King will be soon here. You will see. He marches fast behind the news of his win. The land of eastern Mercia is flat, with good tracks.’
‘Winning can be as tiring as losing,’ said Godric.
Gorm waved a hand as he belched. ‘Bah! What do you understand? Ah, yes, I know, with brews and broths you are a master. Blind us all with craft. But you are a dreamer. You are not a man of the world. I have been far and I have kept my eyes open. And I tell you, Harold will be soon to London. He will gather the men of Essex and Surrey and he will be ready for the Bastard. His axes will trim them down. If Vikings could not withstand his housecarls, the Bastard’s hired Flemings will go down like hay under the sickle.’
Edwin, on the other side of the table, was bored by his talk and sickened by the smell of his breath. He was also finding Aud’s meaningful glances oppressive.
He got up, made an excuse, and went outside. He walked far enough away to escape the sound of Gorm’s harsh voice.
He whistled for Berry, and collected a billhook from a shed. There was always kindling to be gathered, and the leaves were now falling freely. It was one of many services he could do to show his appreciation.
He paused to fasten a gate that had been left unlatched – almost certainly Sweyn’s laziness again. Luckily, the pig had not escaped. He picked up a hazel stick from a pile of half-made hurdles, and gave the animal a friendly prod on the rump. He found himself leaning, with his arms draped loosely over the top bar.
If Gorm was right, Harold would return before very long. Would he wait in London for William to come, and let the Bastard waste his strength on the march? Or would he push on at once, catch him on the beach, and drive him into the sea? It did not appear as if the Normans had yet come very far inland. Gilbert was a scout, and must have been several miles ahead of the main army. So perhaps William was building a fortified camp near the coast somewhere, just to be on the safe side. From what Edwin had seen in Normandy two years before, it seemed very likely.
When Harold had returned from his season’s campaigning with William in Brittany, he had praised the Duke’s skill and bravery, and his generalship, but he had also remarked on his diligence and his caution.
‘These Normans, lad! They think everything out. No wonder they love this game of theirs – what do you call it? – chess. They are thorough, but, by the Virgin, they are dull. They make war with a spare saddle on every horse.’
It was not Harold’s way. The King was no fool, but he liked a decision. It was the urge for a quick decision that had made him march north, and, judging by the news, his instincts had been proved right.
Harold would be only human if he chose to rely on a method that had already destroyed one invader to destroy the other. Moreover, it fitted his character. He had come to know William’s methods too, and would expect thoroughness and care in preparation. He would be right to guess that the Bastard had not moved yet.
The more Edwin thought about it, the more he felt sure that Harold would come south from London to meet William in Sussex. He must pass near. It would be only natural for him to march through or near his own lands, of which there were many close by.
Somehow or other, Edwin would meet him, and somehow or
other, he would persuade the King to let him fight at his side. There was always someone at home to feed the dogs. Young Alwin would jump at the chance of some responsibility. Time he had some, really. Besides, Edwin would not be away for long. A week or so at most. Then they would return in glory. What feastings there would be! The King would be unable to deny him a place at his tables, especially after his great daring on the field of battle. He would miss the dogs. But what a career of excitement to fill their place. And surely the King would let him keep Berry.
He gave the pig a final jab.
He may have missed the first battle, but, by the Mother of God, he was not going to miss the second.
Ralph Pomeroy stood up when his brother approached. Though eager to know, he kept his voice down.
‘Well? Was it enough?’
‘Enough – and more. Archers, it seems, will haggle like Jews over arrows, but have no idea of the value of padded jerkins. I could have sold them three times over, and for twice the price. I must be slipping.’
William Capra pulled on the rein he was dragging until the horse was level with him. Another was tied behind.
‘What do you think of these?’
Ralph whistled in appreciation, then glanced round furtively to see if they were observed. Capra reassured him.
‘Do not distress yourself. Nobody saw me. Which was just as well.’
Pomeroy looked alarmed. ‘You mean to say . . .?’
Capra shrugged. ‘Not my fault. I went with a pocketful of silver, ready and willing to do some trading. But nobody was there. Giffard, apparently, has the flux, and is laid out. Not surprising, at his age. Must be past it. And the little Magyar was out exercising some of the new mounts.’
‘What about the grooms?’
Capra made a dismissive gesture. ‘A few bloody noses and a couple of tips saw to that.’ He patted the wallet on his belt. ‘So we have the horses and the money. Not a bad morning’s work. Better than slaving away at fatigues with that bastard Florens breathing down your neck.’
Pomeroy looked nervous. ‘Will he not know?’
‘Know what?’
Pomeroy made a vague wave with his hand. ‘You know – about the jerkins.’
Capra made a face. ‘I expect so. But he can prove nothing. And he probably stole them himself in the first place. It will make up for them cutting our first day’s pay. In any case, we are not going back, are we?’
Pomeroy looked blank. ‘No?’
‘No, my brother. We are going to take our new destriers, and we are going to find some proud detachment of knights – proper knights. No more of your mud-stained, foot-weary mercenaries. And we are going to carve out glorious careers for ourselves. I think I have rather taken a fancy to his Grace Bishop Odo of Bayeux. He looks a likely prospect.’
Ralph Pomeroy blinked. ‘A bishop? Would not his brother be a better bet?’
‘Mortain? No. Too stupid. I have seen them. My lord Odo has a head on his shoulders, for all that it is somewhat small. My lord Odo looks out for himself. I like a man who does that. Sits at the Bastard’s right hand. Another point in his favour. We can do ourselves a lot of good there, my brother.’
Pomeroy looked at the horses. ‘Suppose the Magyar comes looking for them? Suppose he tells Giffard?’
Capra snapped his fingers. ‘Like Florens, he can prove nothing. He can not even guess. We change the shoes, refashion the mane, renew the tack, and pah! Who will take the word of a dirty little Hunnish barbarian against a knight of Normandy?’
Pomeroy still looked worried. ‘I only hope you are right.’
Capra patted the neck of the leading horse. ‘Your trouble, brother, is that you lack nerve and style. Confidence. That is the secret. You assume that everybody knows what you do. They do not.’
‘I still think it is asking for trouble,’ Pomeroy grumbled.
‘Only if we stay and wait for it to catch up with us.’
Pomeroy looked up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, brother, that we kill two birds with one stone. For a day or so we nobly offer ourselves for the distasteful work of the wasting parties. Thus, we can stay out of harm’s way, and you never know what tempting morsels we may pick up in the line of duty. When the hue and cry dies down, we seek out my lord Odo.’
He handed over the reins of the second horse.
‘Which reminds me. How did you fare with the candlesticks?’
Pomeroy glowered. ‘Everyone laughed.’
‘Up there.’ Ralph waved an arm towards the crest of the hill.
Gilbert hastened alongside.
‘Nothing is there,’ he said.
‘Then we should get a good clear view,’ said Ralph.
‘Just an old apple tree,’ said Gilbert lamely.
‘Then we have nothing to daunt us.’
Sandor caught up beside Gilbert.
‘Only old apples,’ he whispered.
Gilbert flushed as he recalled his illness and its cause. He looked sidelong in guilt. Had he told Sandor? He could not remember.
They reached the tree and saw that it stood on a ridge just below the true summit, which lay a short distance to the north.
‘Why do you want to come here?’ persisted Gilbert, and instantly cursed himself for his mistake. Any scout naturally made for the high ground in a strange area.
Ralph looked at him oddly, but said nothing. He refrained from asking more questions, which might reveal yet other mistakes that Gilbert might have made. The last thing he wanted was Bruno’s eyebrows saying ‘what did I tell you?’
He dismounted and tied his horse to the lichen-covered trunk of the apple tree. He arched his back and stretched his legs. Gilbert, Bruno, and Sandor waited.
‘That is the way we go,’ said Gilbert, still nervous. He pointed north-westwards.
‘So I see,’ said Ralph.
‘Shall we go on then?’ suggested Gilbert, making to move away.
‘All in good time.’
Something was disturbing the boy. Ralph did not know whether he wanted to find it or not. He walked slowly round the tree, not sure what he was looking for. To Gilbert his slowness was infuriating.
‘I have made my report,’ he said. ‘I have seen all this.’
‘And I have not,’ said Ralph. ‘But I intend to before I make mine.’
Bruno stood in his stirrups and gazed about him. With his great legs straight, he looked enormous.
‘This would make a good position,’ he said.
Ralph shook his head and trudged back to his horse.
‘Depends rather on which way you are facing. If we occupied it against Harold coming from the north, we should have to cut down a lot of cover on our flanks. Behind us the ground declines a little too rapidly for an ordered retreat.’
‘And look,’ said Sandor. He pointed to a marshy stream that wound round the south side of the hill. It ran near the small grassy knoll close to its foot where Bruno had picked up Gilbert’s trail the previous day. ‘There is a sandlake.’
Even Gilbert joined in the laughing. Sandor looked surprised.
‘But there is sand, is there not? And a lake?’
‘No, Sandor,’ said Gilbert. ‘It is not a lake; it is a stream. But there is sand. If you like, a sandstream.’
Sandor shook his head. ‘No. If I say that, I am like an angry snake.’
He looked down the hill again and watched the waters of the stream spreading in shallow side pools around the foot of the small knoll. Patches of yellow flashed between the green of the grass tussocks.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I shall say “sandlake”. It is gentle for my weary tongue.’
Ralph smiled, and patted him on the ankle as he stood beside the light pony that Sandor preferred to ride.
‘Have it your own way, Sandor.’ He grinned up at Bruno. ‘What is it called, Bruno?’
‘It is called a sandlake,’ said Bruno solemnly.
Ralph continued his reconnaissance, and tried to ignore Gilbert’s restlessn
ess. What on earth was the boy trying to hide?
He remounted, and walked his horse to the true summit a little way further north.
‘See a long way from here.’
Bruno nodded. ‘Good, open ground.’
‘Yes, apart from this damned gorse. Let us see if there are any tracks in or out of those woods.’
He pointed northwards, and kicked his horse down the shallow slope. Perhaps if they got away from the summit, Gilbert would become less anxious.
‘Be careful!’ called Gilbert. ‘There is a ravine at the bottom.’
Ralph, with Bruno at his side, was too far ahead to hear him.
‘I said, “Be careful!”’ shouted Gilbert.
They cantered on, Bruno edging into the lead.
Swearing to himself, Gilbert kicked his horse into a gallop. Sandor, mystified, followed, after a careful glance behind.
‘What the devil . . .?’
Ralph was knocked aside as Gilbert overtook him.
‘Stop! Stop!’
Gilbert galloped on, leaned out and snatched at Bruno’s bridle. They came to a halt in a flurry of thudding hooves and flying tussocks of grass. Bruno’s horse stumbled and nearly fell.
Bruno dismounted in fury.
‘You fool! Do you want her to go lame? Can you not cry out?’
‘I did. You were deaf. What else was I to do?’
‘Explain yourself. That is what you do.’
Bruno examined Sorrel’s legs.
Gilbert flung out an arm. ‘Look! If it were not for me, you and Sorrel would be down there.’
Bruno peered. ‘I see nothing, unless it is—’ He broke off when he saw the tops of trees growing from the ravine’s banks.
Ralph arrived and dismounted. He parted the undergrowth.
‘God’s Breath, that is well masked.’
‘You see?’ said Gilbert in triumph.
Bruno grunted.
‘Is it steep?’ he said to Ralph.
‘Yes.’
‘You should be grateful,’ said Gilbert. ‘Grateful.’
‘Yes, yes, yes . . .’ said Bruno over his shoulder as he moved to his left. ‘There is an avenue of some kind here.’ He walked his horse further. ‘An old causeway, I should say. So there is a way across.’
The Last Conquest Page 12