So be it.
Fulk scratched his chin and fingered the scar on his cheek . . .
There was a woman. A fair woman. A proud one. And a big man. That was right – a big man with an axe.
‘Matthew?’
He turned about from force of habit to ask a question, but the Turkish shadow, for once, was not there.
Fulk shrugged off the feeling of unease, and continued his walk.
He passed a clump of hazel half strangled by briar. Higher up there still grew a few nuts that the short-limbed Saxon peasants and Norman foragers had not reached. With his great height he could stretch out and pick them. A tough brown thorn caught the underside of his exposed wrist. As he withdrew it sharply, it scratched him.
He cursed and examined the damage. Nothing serious. Then he looked away, frowning. The blood on the softer skin under his wrist brought back another image – a dagger, blood on a soft neck, a trembling woman, a flashing eye, the feeling of warmth against him.
He raised his head as if snuffing the air in search of further recall.
Just then he caught sight of Sir Baldwin making one of his rounds. The prisoners! There were prisoners – two of them. The picture began to fill out.
Taking care to stay out of sight, Fulk followed.
Baldwin hated armies with nothing to do. He had lost count of the fights over gambling losses. He was not a specially fastidious man, but he never could shed his disgust at the hideous things that some men did to pass the time. He was no dog-lover, but he hurried to get away from the clumps of leering louts torturing strays that they had caught with tempting morsels of rotten meat.
On his way to check up on the two Saxon prisoners, he skirted the camp for a while to get away from the smells, and came upon the burst carcass of a dead horse beside a flooded privy pit. Some bawling Bretons were beating the bloated body with sticks and betting on the number of rats that ran out into the seething mud.
Baldwin roared at them. They looked at him in surprise, and went off at last with surly mutterings. It would be only a matter of time before they found some other nasty things to do, but at least he would not be there to see them.
He was not in the best of tempers when he found his prisoners and their unwilling guards. William Capra and Ralph Pomeroy received the sharp side of his tongue.
Baldwin walked up to Edwin. The boy looked cold and tired, but otherwise not unwell.
Baldwin began hesitantly. ‘You – you are the one who speaks French?’
Edwin nodded.
‘You have been fed?’ said Baldwin.
‘Yes, sir. The little Hungarian.’
Baldwin jerked his head to where Capra and Pomeroy slouched in surly watchfulness.
‘They have not hurt you?’
‘No.’
Baldwin nodded in satisfaction. He glanced awkwardly to and fro, then coughed once or twice.
‘Your – er – your sisters. What are their names?’
Edwin looked surprised at this unexpected line of questioning, and glanced at Godric before replying.
‘They are not my sisters.’
Baldwin swallowed. ‘Then one is your – your wife, I should not wonder.’
Edwin shook his head. ‘I am a friend. I was visiting. The fair one, Rowena, is loved by Godric here.’
‘And the other? The slim one?’
Edwin knew just enough French to appreciate that Baldwin avoided using the word ‘thin’. He glanced again at Godric.
‘Aud. Her name is Aud. She is unmarried.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘Ah. I see, yes. Yes. Aud. Hmm.’
He put his hands behind his back and kicked a stone.
‘Yes. Well, I must be on my rounds. I will come again later. I will see the Magyar and tell him to come again with food.’
As if searching for a way to end the interview tidily, he turned and found fault once more with Capra and Pomeroy before marching off.
Fulk lounged nearby.
So – her name was Rowena, was it?
Taillefer opened his eyes a fraction.
Feeling a draught, he looked down. His clothes were gaping open. Matthew the Turk had his hands upon him.
Taillefer’s immediate reaction was to recoil from the touch of an infidel, but the hands were oddly soft and reassuring. Matthew, or Selim, or whatever his name was, clearly understood his business. Taillefer had seen Moorish doctors at work in Spain, and knew that their skill was far in advance of anything in Christendom. Indeed, one of them had once been captured and brought to the court of Navarre, where Taillefer was employed at the time; the man was appalled by what he saw the Christians doing to cure their sick and wounded.
Matthew saw Taillefer stir. He flashed a charming smile under the silken black moustache, a smile that was curiously not reflected in the eyes.
‘It was like being blessed by a snake,’ said Taillefer afterwards.
‘You must rest,’ said Matthew. ‘I will prepare a medicine for you, and your friend will heat it. I will tell him when to give it to you. Now, sleep.’
Matthew pulled his clothes together again.
Before he shut his eyes, Taillefer glanced at Sandor, and saw the concern in his face.
When he heard them whispering in Greek, it was his turn to be concerned. He did not speak Greek, and Sandor knew he did not.
He opened one eye just enough to see, without perceptibly lifting the lid.
Matthew was asking a lot of questions, which Sandor answered readily enough. He then pulled out the bloodstained cloth from under the saddle. Matthew nodded as if that was what he expected, then gave what was obviously his medical opinion, for Sandor listened attentively.
When the Turk had finished, Sandor sat in silence for a while, then asked one question. By way of reply Matthew pulled down the corners of his mouth and shrugged. Some coins changed hands, and Matthew was gone, his red sash glowing brightly amid the drab colours of dirty straw and mud-splashed timber.
Taillefer shut both his eyes properly and sighed deeply. If he were honest with himself, it came as no surprise to him. All the same, it was . . . well, it was a pity. He would have liked to see, just once more, the summer flowers blooming on the upland meadows of the Pyrenees.
‘God’s Breath, where are they?’
‘On their way,’ said Bruno patiently.
Ralph eased his back, took off his gloves, and flexed his fingers.
They were in cover at the forest’s edge, blankets over their mail hauberks to prevent any glinting in the fitful autumn sun. They had rubbed their helmets several times in dirt to hide any metallic shine.
The further they ventured away from the camp’s operations area, the more peaceful and normal the countryside became, and so the more numerous and careful had to be their precautions to avoid being observed.
Ralph cursed again. ‘So we just sit here.’
Bruno pointed down towards the open Thames Valley. ‘Do you suggest we show ourselves down there?’
‘So we sit?’ repeated Ralph.
Bruno shrugged. ‘We have come as far north as is practical. They must come south from London, and they must come through the forest. Whether we stay, or move from side to side, they must pass us sooner or later. If we do not see them, other scouts will. You can not hide several thousand men, even in a forest.’
Ralph swore once more. ‘This is as bad as waiting with the army. Fighting over gambling debts all day, and sitting round the fire all night listening to old sots like Taillefer telling tales of treachery and revenge.’
Bruno looked at him. ‘You do not think revenge an honourable cause?’
‘No, I do not. And you know why. I have told you enough times.’
‘The Duke does not share your opinion.’
Ralph spat. ‘The Bastard may talk of broken oaths, and he may wave his precious Papal banner. That is only to put himself in the right, to make invasion a virtue. To turn himself from a usurper into an avenging angel. Revenge for him is merely a means to an end. I
say there is no point in revenge for itself.’
‘Try telling that to the Duke.’
‘Try offering this to the Duke: tell him he can have one or the other – revenge or England. And see which one he chooses.’
Bruno pointed up towards the sun. ‘I think your mind is like that,’ he said. ‘It throws a great light on many things. You do indeed see very clearly. But you do not see everything. Like the sun, the greater your light, the greater the shadows. You miss things too.’
Ralph raised his eyebrows in imitation of Bruno. ‘Oh? And what am I missing?’
‘You see what drives men,’ said Bruno. ‘You do not see what inspires them.’ He turned his horse away. ‘Shall we satisfy your impatience and take a look at the Rochester road? We have seen all the others.’
‘Who says it cannot be done?’
Robert of Beaumont’s face glowed with sweat and triumph as he reined in his destrier. He tugged off his helmet and pulled the mail coif from his head.
‘Full kit too. Full battle order.’
He tossed the helmet to a puffing servant who had just come level with him.
Sir Walter Giffard and Sir Roger of Montgomery looked at each other and smiled. Geoffrey and his trumpets!
Beaumont flushed deeper still. ‘You may mock, my lords. But you have seen the evidence of your own eyes – which I presume are still good enough.’
Giffard glared, but said nothing.
Beaumont flung out an arm towards the squadrons of knights that were regrouping under the direction of Bishop Geoffrey and his provost-sergeants.
‘An ordered retreat. A tactical withdrawal. Advance and retire on demand. It can be done.’
‘In the mind,’ agreed Montgomery.
Beaumont stared. ‘But you have just seen.’
‘Yes,’ said Giffard. ‘Here.’
Beaumont took a deep breath. ‘My lords, we have done this in the morning, the afternoon, and the evening. We have done it on open ground and over broken ground. We have done it forwards, backwards, uphill, downhill—’
‘Sideways?’ suggested Montgomery innocently.
Beaumont paused. ‘Sir Roger, do you accept nothing that is new?’
‘I accept anything that is useful. And may I remind you that it is I whom the Duke has placed in command on the right, not you.’
Beaumont patted his horse’s neck. ‘And may I remind you, sir, that we are all committed to the plan of the Duke and Bishop Geoffrey. If we are to break a line of infantry, and we can not do it by impact, we must do it by guile and manoeuvre.’
‘Young man,’ said Giffard, ‘we shall all be following the Duke’s plan. And you will be following Sir Roger’s orders – whatever they may be.’
Beaumont gestured again towards the resting knights. ‘You are determined that this idea will fail.’
Walter Giffard shook his head. ‘Not at all; it will require no assistance from us.’
‘God’s Blood, man!’ said Beaumont. ‘What more proof do you want? How many more times do we have to do it to make you see? Do you want yet another of these push-and-shove messes that we have always had? Have you no sense of refinement? Have you no sense of subtlety?’
‘Maybe not,’ said Giffard. ‘But I have my common sense. And my common sense tells me that it is not yet proven.’
‘We have tried it under every conceivable condition.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Giffard. ‘You and Geoffrey have put every ingredient into your training except one.’
Beaumont looked puzzled. ‘What is that?’
‘The enemy.’
Beaumont recovered instantly.
‘At least we are trying something new. We believe in being creative.’
‘We believe in winning,’ said Montgomery.
‘You won in the past, I grant you. But this is now. I am a man of now. I am not a man of the past.’
He wheeled his horse, nearly knocking over his servant, and cantered off.
Giffard was purple with rage.
‘Insolent whelp! What does he know?’
‘About as much as you did at his age,’ said Montgomery.
Giffard growled.
Montgomery smiled. ‘And you have to grant, Walter, that he did stand up to us. And who knows? He might – he might just – be right. Ideas have to change some time.’
‘What does the Bastard see in him?’
‘Rest assured, Walter, that William does not promote Beaumont simply because his father makes a fuss about him. There must be talent there. William would not jeopardise the expedition just to do a favour to an old vassal.’
‘Geoffrey does think well of him too,’ admitted Giffard, somewhat unwillingly.
‘There you are then. And Geoffrey is the finest judge of a fighting man I know.’
Giffard grunted, unconvinced.
As they ambled back to their tents, Montgomery recalled some gossip about Robert of Beaumont’s courtship of a young but plain orphaned heiress. Did the boy really need to chase land and money like that, when he stood to inherit so much from his father?
Montgomery grimaced. Mabel, with her passion for scandal, and her spiteful tongue, had dug under the news in order to find the dirt. Bellême, after all, was not all that far from the Beaumont fief . . .
‘She is under age; I think it is disgusting. A limp and a squint too, they say. He hovers round the convent like a tom cat on the tiles. Just wait till her guardian finds out.’
Montgomery had long since learned to take Mabel’s utterances with a large pinch of salt. It struck him that if a vain, good-looking, wealthy boy like Beaumont took notice of an under-age, cross-eyed cripple in a convent, there must be some genuine affection there. Quite strong too, he would guess.
So – once again it seemed that there was more to this young man than met the eye.
Beside him, Walter Giffard wondered how his friend Roger could take such insolence from a puppy like Beaumont with such patience. Must come from living with a shrew like Mabel. It also meant that Roger had no doubts whatever about his ability to handle the likes of Beaumont when the time came.
Even so, whoever heard of a worthwhile victory that was not expensive? Where was the honour in cheap success? Five minutes of battle experience could overturn weeks of training theory. Geoffrey knew that well enough; it was only young, unbled puppies like Beaumont that were completely bewitched by it.
Giffard sniffed. Living in the past, eh? Eyesight furring over? Not stand up to a full day’s fighting? Well, we should see about that.
‘Follow me.’
That is precisely what Fitzosbern did. William kicked his horse forwards without waiting. They made their silent way from the castle right down to the shore. William took no notice of the glances and the whispers and the salutes. One look at his face, and the fatigue parties and ox teams and groups of loafers went silent, even fell back slightly. Near the beach, the Duke dismounted, handed his reins to a groom, and walked onto the shingle. Fitzosbern followed.
William commandeered a boat.
‘Take me out to the Mora.’
‘Sir?’
A boy gaped. A man cuffed him.
‘His Grace’s ship, you idiot. Jump to it.’
William motioned to Fitzosbern to join him. The oarsmen, their excitement a mixture of surprise, gratification, and fright, pulled with a will. In the entire procedure, the Duke did not utter a word.
He walked to the rail and looked out to sea. A hesitant member of the crew came forward, but Fitzosbern waved him away.
‘Keep everybody back. If we need anything, we shall call.’
Fitzosbern came and stood beside his duke, and still said nothing. The breeze was blowing towards the shore. What a joy it was to be free from the smells of thousands of men and horses. Free too from the noise. Fitzosbern’s manner had told the crewman that his Grace wanted not only privacy but silence. Word sped around the nearby ships. Men went almost on tiptoe. Heavy loads were humped in stifled, cheek-bursting scuffles. Clumsy s
hip’s boys enjoyed the rare pleasure of being sworn at in whispers.
William and Fitzosbern both leaned on the rail, snuffed the air, and sighed with relief. With nothing to look at but the sea, William’s eyes for once ceased their restless shifting from side to side. He brushed some invisible dirt from the rail into the water.
Fitzosbern glanced at the Duke. The last time William had looked so awkward had been over fifteen years ago . . .
‘Marriage?’
Baldwin blushed, but stuck to his suggestion.
William scoffed. ‘To some grizzling daughter of a scheming vassal with ideas above his rank?’
Baldwin came back. ‘Would the niece of a king be high enough for you?’
William suddenly remembered that Baldwin had just returned from exile with the Count of Flanders.
‘You surely can not mean Matilda?’
Baldwin blushed again. ‘Why not?’
‘She is a dwarf, so they say.’
‘She is not a dwarf. Short maybe, but not a dwarf.’
‘And a face like a gargoyle,’ snorted William. ‘Besides, she is a child.’
‘She is seventeen years old. And by no means uncomely.’
‘Then you marry her.’
Baldwin was still unwilling to give up.
‘She has great spirit.’
He thought it a good idea not to refer to Matilda’s temper and her rich resources of swearwords. Besides, he had always enjoyed her company; it was impossible not to. They were genuine friends. It was natural for him to want to bring together the two people who had been near him during his youth. It so happened that he thought they were well matched.
The Last Conquest Page 24