The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

  He knew that Ralph’s loyalty to the Duke was beyond question. Ralph would die for the Duke without a second thought. Yet he was capable of sizing up the men about him, just in case the unthinkable happened and he were to be left without a master.

  Gilbert sighed. For all he knew, Bruno thought the same way as Ralph did, though he was never likely to find out for sure; getting ten connected words out of Bruno was like trying to pull a ferret’s teeth. If he lived to be a hundred, thought Gilbert, he would never have as much knowledge as these two men.

  ‘Ralph,’ he would say, ‘why do you always know?’

  Ralph would look at Bruno and shrug. ‘I am just good at guessing.’

  ‘If it were all guesswork, you would make mistakes. But you are always right. Why do you know everything?’

  Ralph would never give a satisfactory answer, and Bruno would only raise his eyebrows.

  Gilbert sighed again. Would he ever be able to match these men in wisdom and ambling confidence? The miracle was that they even tolerated his presence. Whatever did they see in him? Or in each other, if it came to that? Each barely acknowledged that the other was there.

  As he hovered in the shadows near the door of the Duke’s tent, Gilbert began to regret his rash outburst to Bruno that he had no fear whatever of standing before the Duke. How he envied Ralph, waiting at ease in the candlelight. He gaped at his friend’s genius for conveying respect, attentiveness, and total independence by his mere stance.

  To Ralph it was simple. The men around him commanded by heredity; they fought from habit; and they acquired by instinct. But to do all three things successfully they needed news, and that was what Ralph specialised in providing. Every man, in whatever rank God had seen fit to place him in society, found his own way of expressing his rebellion against the men who lorded it over him. A priest could threaten Hellfire and browbeat with penance; a merchant could overcharge and take advantage of ignorance; a peasant had the weapons of delay and inertia. Men like Ralph savoured the moment when, as now, their lords and masters leaned forward, almost licking their lips, like a starving man before a feast.

  ‘It is as we suspected, my lord Duke. There has been a battle, at a bridge near York.’

  Gilbert could not see every man’s face in the bad light, but he could sense that every eye was fixed on Ralph. The strained silence of the illustrious audience sent shivers down his back. If Ralph noticed the tension, he gave no sign of it.

  ‘Hardrada is dead – an arrow in the windpipe. Tostig also has perished. The Norwegians are either destroyed or dispersed. Harold achieved complete surprise. Complete surprise,’ he repeated, as if that were especially significant.

  Gilbert frowned, the more deeply when he noticed the Duke and the men round his table nodding as if they took the point completely.

  ‘You were right, Fitz,’ said Count Robert of Mortain. ‘Harold caught them off guard. It was just as you pictured it.’

  Fitzosbern inclined his head slightly by way of accepting the compliment.

  ‘Maybe,’ he agreed. ‘But I think our other news of today helps to explain it as well.’

  ‘May I ask what news that is, sir?’ said Ralph.

  Gilbert swallowed. He would never have dared to ask questions on his own account.

  Fitzosbern lit another stub of candle from a dying flame.

  ‘Ah, yes. I was forgetting. You have been out all day.’ He set the new stub in the candlestick. ‘Within the last two hours we have had other intelligence from the Kentish side. Pedlars on their rounds from the Port of London had it from east coasters in the Thames. The first battle was at a place called Fulford Gate, also near York. Edwin and Morcar tried to stop Norway and failed. They have retired to lick their wounds. Harold attacked about a week later. That fits in with your news. My guess is that Hardrada’s host was weakened at Fulford, and was probably in no state to face a second engagement so soon. Quite apart from physical tiredness and casualties, they were probably short of supplies and low on weapons and arrows.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Baldwin de Clair. ‘Good raiders but bad campaigners. Viking staff work always was poor.’

  Ralph smiled to himself. Sir Baldwin was an awful old woman, and a self-satisfied one at that.

  ‘Putting the news together,’ said Fitzosbern, continuing to look at Ralph but in effect talking to everybody, ‘the picture we have is this: the Saxon army of the north, under Edwin and Morcar, were defeated by Hardrada at Fulford, but we do not know how heavily. We know nothing of the state of their forces, or of their present position. Hardrada in turn was defeated by Harold. He was killed, his army was destroyed, and the fugitives have dispersed. But just as Hardrada was reduced by his first success, so Harold must have been reduced by his victory at your bridge, near York – um . . .’

  ‘Er – Stamford, sir,’ put in Gilbert, finding his courage and edging forward.

  Fitzosbern looked up. ‘Just so . . . Stamford. Mmm.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Ralph turned to him in amused surprise. Perhaps the boy was developing some independence after all.

  Fitzosbern leaned forward on his elbows, twiddled the rusty candlestick, and continued in his patient way.

  ‘Harold must now march south with all haste. Indeed, I am sure he is well on his way. If he can march north fast to face invasion and bad news, he can march south even faster with the trophy of victory in his belt.’

  ‘His army will be that much more tired,’ said Montgomery.

  ‘I agree. And weakened from the battle at – um –’ He snapped his fingers in annoyance.

  ‘Stamford, sir,’ said Gilbert.

  Ralph smiled drily.

  ‘Yes, Stamford,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘But he will not drag all his casualties with him.’

  ‘What about Edwin and Morcar?’ said Walter Giffard, who had dragged himself from his bed to attend, if only to put young Beaumont in his place should the chance arise.

  ‘My guess,’ said Fitzosbern, ‘is that their army is too scattered. It would take too long to round it up again and reimpose discipline in time to be of use to Harold down here. After defeat, most fyrdmen run home, where they feel safer. Even professionals desert sometimes.’

  ‘The difference is – they desert before the battle, not after. Much more sensible.’

  The speaker sat back, savouring the laughter.

  Gilbert looked fully at him for the first time. Now he remembered the sinister figure in the shadows at the previous council meeting. He saw again the casual, lounging attitude. He saw more clearly a veritable tree-trunk of a man, insolently confident in his own strength. A few days’ growth of dark whiskers covered his heavy face. Thick hair fell to his collar. Black tufts sprouted from his ears and nostrils. A livid scar ran from the corner of his mouth right up to an eye. Where the skin had drawn tight in healing, it had dragged down the lower eyelid, laying bare a pink triangle of inner flesh. The eyeball and pupil were luridly discoloured.

  Gilbert had heard much talk of this man. Most of it was bad, though he noticed that interspersed between the dislike and revulsion was a reluctant, wry admiration. If nothing else, this man was an excellent soldier. Gilbert had glimpsed him now and then, but had never been this close to him before. Now he got his first full taste of the massive captain of Flemish mercenaries, Fulk Bloodeye.

  He knew too that the wispy little cripple standing behind him was his constant companion.

  As the laughter rolled, this wraith leaned over Fulk’s shoulder and proffered a dark drink in a small phial. Fulk waved it away.

  After the laughter had died down, Fitzosbern resumed his summary. Gilbert noted how the Duke said nothing, but watched and listened.

  ‘Harold will select his best men,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘His housecarls. He will get here as rapidly as possible, mustering whatever he can from county fyrdmen on the way. He will probably try to surprise us.’

  ‘Never!’ said Robert of Beaumont, blustering. ‘He must be a fool.’

 
; Bishop Odo reflected the more moderate views of the older men.

  ‘He has seen us before,’ he said. ‘He campaigned with us in Brittany. Surely he knows we do not fight carelessly like Vikings.’

  ‘True,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘But Harold is human. He wants victory, and he is willing to take risks. Why else did he come to us in Normandy in ’sixty-four? Everything he did there involved risk. And remember how successful he was.’

  Montgomery looked at Giffard and chuckled reminiscently.

  ‘The man was quite impossible.’

  ‘Put yourself in his position,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘You have just used the stratagem of forced march and surprise attack and gained a complete victory. Would you, in the face of a similar threat, change that stratagem when it has been so brilliantly successful?’

  Nobody could think of an answer. Gilbert began to understand why Fitzosbern sat so high in the Duke’s councils.

  ‘So,’ said the Duke at last. ‘He approaches. And quickly. So be it. We are prepared.’

  ‘How do we proceed with him, sir? What is to be the manner of his – er –destruction?’

  Fulk Bloodeye’s smile was so disfigured by the scar that it became a leer. Gilbert could not be sure whether it denoted bloodthirsty anticipation or insolent enquiry as to whether the Duke had made up his mind.

  William took it as a challenge, and turned slightly in his chair, so as to face Fulk directly.

  ‘That is one of the things we are assembled to decide. These officers here – my tenants-in-chief – will discuss it. I may choose to listen also to your comments, but you will nevertheless wait until we come to a resolution. Then you will receive your orders. After our victory you will receive the balance of your pay. Meanwhile you will wait – and wait with respect – upon our decision. Whatever is the result, I tell you, by God’s Splendour, that you will get what is coming to you.’

  Fulk’s smile faded, but not his insolent manner. He rose to his feet, towering over the company.

  ‘In that case, your Grace, since I have no relevant advice to offer that I think your . . . officers . . . here would consider, your humble servant will await your Grace’s pleasure by the campfire, with his loyal volunteers.’ He picked up his gloves.

  The Duke lowered his voice to a rasping whisper.

  ‘The captain of Flemish . . . contracted mercenaries . . . will be excused from this council at his commander’s pleasure, not at his own.’

  The air went solid.

  Fulk gazed at the stony faces round the table. Not one was looking at him. After a pause long enough for Gilbert to wipe his wet palms twice on his buttocks, Fulk shrugged, tossed his gloves on to the table, and sat down again.

  If Gilbert’s eyes popped at what he saw, his ears popped even more at what he heard.

  The debate about strategy and tactics raged long and fiercely. Nobody noticed him. Gilbert’s legs ached after his day’s riding, but he dared not ask permission to withdraw, especially after what had happened to Fulk. He looked questioningly at Ralph, who cupped a hand to his ear and nodded towards the table, as if to say ‘listen and learn’.

  Gilbert was impressed once again at how much plain speaking the Duke was prepared to tolerate from the men he trusted. He could afford to; it was obvious from the flurry with Fulk that there was no question about his total authority.

  Gilbert remembered Ralph’s earlier advice, and watched and judged, at least as far as his experience allowed.

  Sir Walter Giffard and Sir Roger of Montgomery he knew. And Bishop Geoffrey, his old lord. Bishop Odo he did not know, but he could see at once that he was petty and small-minded. As for the rest, there did not seem much to choose between them – de Tosny, de Grandmesnil, de Montfort, de Warenne, and others deep in the shadows. Gruff, gritty, greedy men, with a keen eye to profit, and willing to take risks.

  The odd one out was Beaumont. He was so young. What was he doing in this company?

  Gilbert pulled himself together and struggled to concentrate.

  The talk started quietly enough, with the question of what Harold might do when he reached London. Most of those present accepted Fitzosbern’s opinion that Harold would press on at once.

  ‘He must attack our bridgehead,’ he said. ‘Just as Edwin and Morcar had to attack Hardrada. Delay can only favour us. The longer he waits in London for the midland levies to arrive, the better equipped we become.’

  ‘Will he not have a problem with fatigue?’ said Montgomery.

  ‘Fatigue? Exhaustion, I should say,’ said Giffard. ‘Yorkshire and back in less than twenty days and a battle intervening.’

  ‘You forget two things,’ said Geoffrey de Montbrai. ‘One is the magic of Harold’s personality. The other is the excitement of the time. The spirit of these men is moved, by victory and by concern for their native land.’

  ‘Are you expert on these – er – inspired Saxons?’ asked Giffard.

  Montgomery smiled. His friend was beginning to recover.

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey evenly. ‘But I am a bishop. I know something of matters concerning the spirit. I tell you, if men are sufficiently moved, they can perform miracles, and I say these Saxons could be sufficiently moved. In normal times no army could get here so fast from Yorkshire, especially after what they have been through; but these are not normal times, and Harold is no normal general. I say they can do it.’

  ‘At any rate we must be prepared for it,’ said Fitzosbern.

  ‘Suppose he picks up shire levies from Surrey and Sussex on the way?’ said Beaumont, anxious to show off his geography.

  ‘That is a chance we shall have to take,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘We can not commit our main force towards London without precise information as to his numbers and his position, simply in the faint hope of cutting off a few hundred fyrdmen from Surrey or Kent. It would expose our base camp and put all our fortifications at risk. Everything we have done since landing would go for nothing. Harold is no fool. At all times we must remember that. And my lord of Coutances has reminded us that Harold is a commander with great gifts of leadership. We all saw that in Normandy and Brittany two years ago.’

  ‘Saints and angels, I should say so!’ said Montgomery, looking at Giffard. ‘He had our men eating out of his hand, never mind his own. Do you remember?’

  The Duke brought them sharply to order. The infantry commanders were all for letting Harold come right up to the defences of the castle they had nearly completed. The chief engineer, Ranulf of Dreux, was brought in. He talked at great length, in his gloomy way, about fields of fire and tensions and stresses and killing ground. Much of it went over Gilbert’s head. When Baldwin put in his piece about supplies and reserves and siege ration planning, full of facts and figures, he found his jaw aching in the effort to suppress a yawn.

  Fulk Bloodeye added his weight to the argument by suggesting that they should extend the deliberate destruction to a wider area.

  ‘Waste in a wider circle,’ he said. ‘Harold will be provoked and will attack us in haste. He will have to travel over ravaged land to get here and will fight us on an empty stomach.’

  Robert of Mortain was shocked out of his customary silence.

  ‘How much of this land do you wish to destroy, by God? We shall have none left to be worth occupying.’

  ‘I notice,’ added Sir Walter Giffard tartly, ‘that our captain of mercenaries sees himself once again as bandit and arsonist rather than as front-line soldier.’

  ‘I notice too,’ returned Fulk, ‘that one of our . . . captains of cavalry . . . has not been anxious to commit his levy of knights to the business of meeting Harold in open battle before the castle.’

  Giffard flared, and stood up.

  ‘I should have expected such ignorance from a paid gang-master of foot soldiers. Any other member of this council could tell you that it would be insane to try and deploy cavalry in formation over such uneven ground bristling with tree stumps.’

  ‘So it will be the old story,’ sneered Fulk. �
�Send in the infantry to break their strength and break our heads. Then send in the cavalry to carve them up and carve out their own glory.’

  ‘Enough!’ The Duke banged the handle of a dagger on the table, making the candlesticks jump.

  Fulk shrugged again and resumed his careless lounging, Giffard glowered, until Montgomery tugged his sleeve.

  ‘Walter!’

  Giffard allowed himself to be pulled down.

  Thereafter the council tried self-consciously to argue in reasonable tones. If the cavalry could not be deployed before the castle, then suitable open ground had to be found elsewhere.

  Ralph was questioned. So were several other scouts, who had been waiting patiently by the fire outside. All were agreed that the wide stretches of forest in the area did not make the task easy. The more they discussed the advantages of various fields of battle at a greater distance, the more the cautious ones reminded them of the dangers of moving too far from the base camp and castle.

  Then Gilbert’s old master, Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances, introduced a new idea.

  ‘We must not forget,’ he said, ‘in all our talk of ground and of tactics, that we are dealing with a very special man.’

  Fitzosbern grinned. ‘Some more talk of the spirit, Geoffrey?’

  Geoffrey smiled tolerantly. ‘Spirit moves mountains faster even than your engineers, Fitz. Listen. If we are to win, we must not only outfight this man; we must out-think him.’

  ‘Is he so clever?’ said Odo. ‘Are we not just a little bemused by his supposed talents?’

  ‘I am well aware,’ replied Geoffrey, ‘that my lord of Bayeux, in his customary oblique way, means “you” when he says “we”. And I will answer the ill-directed shaft.’

  Odo glared, but said nothing.

  Geoffrey continued. ‘If being bemused by his talents means having a sound appreciation of our adversary’s strength, then I am content to be called bemused. And I am sure our lord the Duke, on those terms, is equally happy to be so called. It is one of the principles of good generalship, in which art I am willing to give my lord of Bayeux the benefit of my not inconsiderable experience.’