Capra grumbled, swore, and threatened.
‘You must be mounted by tomorrow morning,’ said Sandor, who seemed to be very well informed.
The coins were flung at his feet.
Aud stopped, and rested her load against a boundary stone. For the last mile or more she had felt her footsteps dragging. Yet it was not normal fatigue; she was sure of that.
Sweyn had hardly uttered a word, not even to complain. He came now and perched himself on Aud’s bundle, nursing his own in his lap. For once she did not scold him.
She stood for a while with her hands on her hips, looking back the way they had come. Then she wandered to and fro, picking bits of grass and dead leaves from the hem of her skirt. Finally she squatted by the side of the track, took up a stick, and began making doodles in the bare chalky earth. All the time Sweyn watched her in silence.
At last Aud stood up. She tossed away the stick, dusted her hands, and motioned to her brother to stand up as well. She picked up her bundle and set off in the direction from which they had come.
Sweyn ran after her.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To get Father, of course. Go back for your things and catch me up. We must be home before dark.’
Sweyn took one look at her face and obeyed. He had always been used to her being loud and dissatisfied. This quiet resolution impressed him. He ran to obey her with such a will that his fat face was red with effort by the time he drew level again.
‘I thought you said – said – it was – was dangerous to stay.’
‘It is. It is even more dangerous for Father in his state.’
‘But he can not go far.’
‘He can if we use the cart. It was silly of me not to think of it before. We can rest well under a roof tonight, which will give him time to lose the drink. Early tomorrow we can fill the cart with food, and Father can go at ease.’
‘He will complain about his headache,’ said Sweyn.
‘He will complain about his headache anyway.’
‘What if the Normans come tonight?’
Aud shook her head. ‘No. They will not. They are only men. At night they will seek shelter under their own roof – be it timber or tent. Edwin said they sit still and wait for our army. If they come out tomorrow to meet the army, we shall be before them and gone, and we shall have with us everything we value.’
‘That means I have to yoke the ox,’ said Sweyn in his usual whine.
Aud boxed his ears.
‘You are right!’
‘What do you think, Sandor?’
The little Magyar rose from the squatting position he had adopted while examining Sorrel’s leg.
‘She has been ridden far.’
‘What choice did we have?’ said Ralph.
‘More than she did,’ said Sandor. ‘You decided. She obeyed.’
Bruno stood at Sorrel’s head and murmured apologies and endearments. Ralph had never seen him so distressed.
‘If she rests tomorrow,’ said Sandor, ‘perhaps she can carry you the next day.’
‘The Duke wants us out at dawn,’ said Ralph. ‘The English are very near.’
‘I know,’ said Sandor. ‘That is an easy matter. I can find a patrol mount for Bruno. It will carry him tomorrow. The next day after that, he can ride his Sorrel. But only scouting. No fighting – too much strain.’
‘The battle will almost certainly be on that day – on Saturday,’ said Bruno. Not that he or Ralph seriously expected to be in it. Though they could hope.
‘Then you will either miss Sorrel or you will miss the battle,’ said Sandor.
Bruno swore.
Sandor, seeing his chagrin, stooped and felt again at the weakened leg.
‘See,’ he said, standing up. ‘There is heat and swelling. To ride her in battle is a big risk, a big risk. If you love your horse . . .’ He shrugged.
‘I love my horse,’ said Bruno.
‘I am pleased you say that,’ said Sandor. ‘And now, for tomorrow. Go to the third stable behind the Duke’s hall. Speak to Serlo – a thin man with hair the colour of sand. Say Sandor the Magyar speaks with your voice. He will choose you a fair mount for tomorrow. He will also stable Sorrel for you under good cover and feed her. I shall visit later.’
‘And the next day?’
‘We do not know what the next day brings until we open its bag in the morning,’ said Sandor.
Bruno thanked him and pressed a coin into his hand. Sandor tried to decline but he insisted.
‘That is for loving my horse and telling me the truth,’ he said.
He led Sorrel away, still talking gently to her and patting her neck.
‘Where is Gilbert?’ said Ralph, when they had gone.
‘He rests in a quiet place along with Taillefer. Come.’
‘What is wrong with Taillefer?’
Sandor told him.
‘How does he react?’ asked Ralph.
Sandor lifted his whole body in a shrug. ‘Who can tell? He lies and sleeps, then he wakes and stares into air. Then he drinks and laughs. And he sleeps again. It is hard to know.’
They wove their way through the usual maze of smoky fires and sizzling spits, overfilled wagons and wattle lean-to’s, fresh horse droppings and head-spinning privy pits.
Ralph made an explosive noise of disgust with his lips. No wonder he preferred being a scout – out of all this.
‘God’s Breath! Come fast Saturday. I shall be pleased to get away from all this, victory or no victory.’
‘Ah,’ said Sandor non-committally. Smells rarely bothered him. Smells gave him information, not offence.
As they passed a knot of Bretons round a fat-dripped carcass suspended over glowing embers, he sniffed deeply, and cast a remark over his shoulder.
‘One of the Beaumont’s hunters has become the prey.’
He paused beside a wagon and greeted a group of archers. In answer to his query, one of them jerked a thumb towards the tailboard.
‘All is well,’ he said. ‘No visitors. Only the boy.’
They climbed inside the wagon. Taillefer, propped on an elbow, put a finger to his lips and pointed to Gilbert, still asleep before his night patrol. One candle stub gave enough light to throw large shadows on the crude awning, through which came wicked draughts for the unwary.
‘How is he?’
‘He enjoyed the revenge,’ said Sandor, trying to head him off.
‘What revenge?’ said Ralph, frowning.
Sandor told the story of the prisoners and the escape.
Ralph whistled silently. ‘And Baldwin had them whipped?’
‘And fined,’ said Taillefer. ‘Then Matthew emptied one pocket for his medicine, and Sandor emptied the others for two more horses.’
Ralph chuckled softly. ‘Serve them right. I saw them when they arrived. Worthless, both of them. Not only poor soldiers, but poor conspirators, too, it seems.’
Taillefer pointed at Sandor. ‘They were in the presence of a master.’
Sandor’s eyes sparkled.
Ralph frowned again. ‘But why help Saxons to escape?’
Again Sandor explained. ‘When Gilbert was sick, this big Saxon maybe save his life. He carry him like a baby, Gilbert says, and nurse him and make him well. I want revenge on Capra for stealing my horses. We use the prisoners and pay a debt – that is all.’
‘Hmm.’ Ralph nodded towards Gilbert. ‘How is he now?’
Taillefer glanced at him. ‘Sleep rescues him from his miseries and his ghosts.’
‘That bad?’ said Ralph.
‘You should know,’ said Taillefer.
‘I had no choice,’ said Ralph. ‘I had to leave him. I owed it to Bruno.’
Sandor interrupted. ‘If we are to argue, let us go another place. Gilbert needs to rest.’
‘I shall come with you,’ said Taillefer. ‘A call of nature.’
‘You old soak,’ said Ralph. ‘It is not your bladder; it is your throat that needs attention.’
/>
Taillefer looked straight into his eyes, the bags under his own falling deeper than ever.
‘It is both, if you must know. Now – shall we find a fire and a pot?’
Three or four drinks later, Ralph turned to Taillefer again.
‘What did you mean by “ghosts”?’
Taillefer blinked. ‘Ghosts?’
‘You said “miseries and ghosts”. Miseries I understand. I help to cause them. But the ghosts.’
‘The same that haunt any man – fear. In his case, many of them.’
Ralph undid the laces on his boots.
‘All men fear.’
‘Death, yes. And oblivion. The second rescues you from the first. But Gilbert fears living deaths, from which there is no rescue. He fears that he will not live up to your standards, not come up to your expectations.’
‘He tries. I see that.’
‘You do not know how much he thinks of you. You do not know the depth of his desire to win your approval.’
Ralph swallowed. ‘I gave him the hauberk.’
‘He treasures that,’ said Taillefer. ‘And more than you will ever know. But he yearns for more; he wants success; he wants to see admiration in your eyes.’
Ralph found his eyes pricking. He could also see Bruno’s face.
‘I am agreeing with Taillefer,’ said Sandor. ‘You and Bruno found the English. He found only a Saxon family who cared for him when he was sick and fell off his horse.’
Ralph heard Bruno’s voice: ‘The boy is a loser.’
He made a vague gesture. ‘I do what I can. Believe me, I do what I can.’
Taillefer scratched a cheek. ‘I take it you know about the other devil that drives him.’
‘Are you now his confessor?’ said Ralph drily.
Sandor refilled his ivory horn with beer.
‘If you offer a fire, a blanket, a supper, and a willing ear, you catch many things that tumble out of men’s hearts.’
‘This devil,’ said Ralph.
‘You know of Gilbert’s secret desire in England?’
‘Make yourself clear.’
‘You know he is not the father of his son?’
‘There was castle gossip. What of it?’
‘It troubles him deeply,’ said Sandor. ‘His wife tell him, after many questions. She say a Saxon forced her.’
‘A Saxon?’
‘When Harold visit Normandy. One of his men.’
‘Ah, yes – I remember,’ said Ralph.
‘So now Gilbert scours England for the man who forced his wife.’
‘So what? He is not the first man in this position. He will not find him.’
Taillefer leaned forward eagerly, as if he had been waiting his opportunity.
‘But suppose he did?’
Ralph snorted. ‘Impossible. A million to one.’
‘But do you not see the importance of it? To avenge his honour. Honour will carry him through the fears – fear of letting you down, fear of dying, fear of everything else. You and Bruno – you have your own knightly pride. Our leaders have their own code of vassal and lord. Our priests and bishops have the ear of the Almighty. What does Gilbert have, apart from this?’
Ralph shook his head. ‘Too philosophical for me. Too clever by half. The boy does not know and he is never going to find out, and that is an end of it. And you know my views on revenge.’ He pointed to his stomach. ‘I could show you the scar made by Bloodeye’s dagger sixteen years ago. But I shall fight alongside him if need be. The past is the past.’
‘As a comrade?’
‘I shall not lift a finger to save his life, but I shall do nothing to take it. Neither action will remove my scar, nor the chills I suffer in the cold weather. Look at your stories. Did Charlemagne’s revenge bring Roland back? Look at my family. Did Enguerrand’s mutilation restore to my father his hand, or to my mother her wits?’
‘It is not the revenge; it is the honour.’
‘But it is the revenge,’ insisted Ralph. ‘Honour is only the skin; revenge is the tasty fruit. It is the pride of fools.’ He flung out an arm in the direction of the wagon where Gilbert slept. ‘And in any case, there was no dishonour. She was not unfaithful. The offence took place before she was married.’
‘She deceived him.’
‘Rubbish. She did what any terrified girl would have done. What choice did she have? And now this young man has a pretty wife, a son he loves in spite of himself, and another son soon to be born. If he survives this battle, he will have land and rewards and all the glory he can imagine. Why poison it with senseless revenge for a dishonour that is no dishonour?’
‘And if he does not survive?’ persisted Taillefer.
Ralph did not know what to say; the prospect was beyond even pain to contemplate. He waved an arm in a falsely dramatic way.
‘There are the priests. The Bastard has imported enough to fill a cathedral.’
‘They can remove the fear of death; they can not remove the fear of dying, of pain, of mutilation. I have seen men before battle – far more than you have. I have looked into their eyes, into their hearts.’
‘More philosophy,’ said Ralph. ‘And in any case irrelevant. He knows nothing and neither do we.’
Taillefer looked at Sandor. ‘Tell him what you told me.’
Sandor repeated his story of what he had heard from Edwin. Ralph was totally unmoved.
‘Coincidence – pure coincidence. You do not know the name of Adele’s ravisher, and you do not know the name of Edwin’s lover. And yet you connect the two? Ridiculous. Put it into one of your romances, Taillefer.’
‘It matters not,’ said Taillefer. ‘Can you not see? It will give him purpose over and above his fears.’
Ralph shook his head. ‘At best a fancy; at worst a lie. Would you have a man die for that?’
‘Not for knowing it is a lie, no. For believing it is true, yes. What are my stories but fancies? Lies, if you like. But they inspire. Believe me, I have seen it. Did not Our Lord admit to his apostles that he spoke in parables? That is all I do. If I can create my small portion of faith or courage, where is the harm?’
‘For a lie?’
‘For belief. My friend, we are not talking about absolute truth; we are talking about faith, confidence. About moving men to unwelcome action.’ Taillefer waved an arm to take in the whole camp. ‘Men, I know, will fight out of lust or greed. I prefer them to fight out of honour, out of a trust in something over and above themselves. So I tell my stories. Who knows if they are true? Who cares? Men believe because they want to. They need something to get them through the coming day of trial. They have to believe. What else do our priests do but help us to get through a life of trial? Surround us with a fence of hopes and fears. Who knows – who really knows – if they are true? And if they did, how many others could they convince?’
‘So you would spin this romance in Gilbert’s young head?’
‘You have your code,’ repeated Taillefer. ‘I only wish to give him the same chance as you, the same courage. Bruno says he is a loser; this could make him a winner. Would you not want that?’
Would he not want it!
Taillefer laid a bony, bejewelled hand on Ralph’s arm.
‘Think, Ralph. If he sees his honour there, it is there. If he lives, he will be exorcised. If he dies, he dies justified. Would you have him a broken survivor, a self-soiled failure still in pursuit of a man he can never find?’
Ralph ached with the pain of willing peace of mind to Gilbert, but into his mind’s eye came the familiar sight of Bruno’s face, the still slab of eloquent flesh below the vociferous eyebrows. Into his ears came the familiar flat voice: ‘the boy is a loser’; ‘Michael is dead’.
All his instincts, twenty years of wary treading, made him cry out against flights of imagination such as Taillefer described. A battle was a battle; fear was fear; dying was dying.
He did what he did when the pain of Michael’s death was too much in the company of brother Aubr
ey’s bullying; or when the loss of his friend Aimery gave him no peace in the continued service of Bishop Geoffrey – he took himself away.
‘The boy does not know,’ he muttered. He retied his laces and stood up. ‘If he does not know, he does not know, and there is an end to it. Far better to concentrate on his duties.’ He gained assurance as he moved on to the familiar ground of his own work.
He gazed down at Taillefer. ‘Good night, philosopher. When he wakes to go out, tell him I wish him well.’
‘Anything else?’
Ralph deliberately ignored the hint.
‘Yes. Tell him to look after the hauberk.’
William Capra counted his money. It did not take him long. He lay down very carefully, and rested his chin on his hands.
Ralph Pomeroy came in from a scavenging trip.
‘Want some nuts?’ He held out a bulging bag.
‘No.’
Pomeroy made a face, and eased off his leather jerkin with many grunts and curses. He saw the open pouch beside his brother’s hands.
‘How much do we have left?’
‘Not enough.’
‘Ah.’
Pomeroy glanced at his brother’s face, and could see that he was thinking again. He too lowered himself gently onto his stomach, and began cracking some of the nuts.
Capra reached out for a mug of beer and sipped thoughtfully.
‘Ralph?’
‘Yes?’ said Pomeroy, spitting out bits of shell.
‘Someone will pay for all this.’
Taillefer coughed. He lit a fresh stub of candle from the old dying one, and peered at the stains on his kerchief.
He preferred knowing the truth about himself. It would help him to face the battle day.
He looked at Gilbert stretched out beside him. He had it in his power to give the boy something that would help him to face it too. Belief. Was that not even stronger than truth?
He pushed his fingers through a rent in the wagon awning and peered out at the night sky. It was time.
He shook Gilbert.
‘Wake now. Wake.’
‘Mmm?’ Gilbert woke a start.
‘It is nearly the hour. No, no, lie still for a few more minutes. I said, “nearly”. There is something I must tell you before you go.’
Sandor went prowling among the horse lines.
The Last Conquest Page 31