‘No Capra? No Pomeroy?’ he asked.
‘Not a sign of them,’ said Serlo. ‘Have no fear, little man from Hungary. They have burned their fingers. They will not try again. Sir Walter Giffard has placed extra sentries.’
‘Did the tall one come to you?’
‘Bruno? Yes. I gave him a spare horse. Sorrel is resting. See?’
After the frantic activity of the day, the camp seemed to be sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. Would it be like this tomorrow night, the probable eve of battle?
As he picked his way back to the wagon, Sandor wondered idly what chance of success Harold might have if he could launch a thousand determined men on William’s camp at a moment like this. He dismissed the thought almost at once. Even if his army could overcome the depression of night; even if the Norman castle, sentries and scouts never existed; even if the housecarls were all immortal heroes of iron who could consider such an attack immediately after a fifty-mile march from London – there was the simple problem of darkness. Sandor knew from experience that is often difficult for a couple of horse-thieves to keep contact with each other over any distance during an approach in darkness. For an army to find its way, stay together and act together would be impossible. Though it did not stop him worrying a little about William Capra.
He climbed over the tailboard and into the wagon. Gilbert had already gone. Taillefer was asleep. A stained kerchief was crumpled in his bony hand. Sandor eased it tenderly from his fingers, and pulled the blanket right up to his ears.
Sandor wriggled down into the still warm place where Gilbert had lain, curled up, and fell instantly asleep.
Gilbert steered his horse past the last sentries.
‘Good luck, son. Go get them.’
Gilbert did not reply. He had something else to find now besides the enemy.
13 October
‘Twenty thousand voices shout as one’
A heavy dew soaked what grass was left after a fortnight of constant traversing by feet, hooves, and wheels. A few early fires were already sending up wispy plumes of woodsmoke like ghostly shivering poplars. Spangled spiders’ webs trembled below dripping ropes and awnings.
Sandor offered cheery greeting to chilly sentries, who, after the coldest and loneliest watch of the night, did not share his good humour. As he tramped round to the horse lines, a hundred swear words floated towards him. Men cursed the cold, the damp, the stiffness of limbs, the staleness of the food, the English, the Duke, the man in the next row who snored, the smell of the pits. Anything and everything had an obscenity stuck to it; it was a soldier’s way of saying what he thought of soldiering.
Sandor talked to grooms, tested halter ropes, patted steaming noses, murmured in Magyar to twitching ears. Satisfied once again that all was well, he returned to the wagon. He paused outside for a moment, and glanced up at the sky. Gilbert should be back soon, or at least by full daylight. Sandor climbed in beside Taillefer, curled up and went to sleep as quickly as before.
Gilbert breasted the rise and came out of the woods above the mill. There was just enough light to see it.
There was no smoke. He rested in the saddle, as if half expecting to see Rowena come out to collect eggs. He would not be able to distinguish faces at this distance, but he would know her walk anywhere. He knew Edith’s dumpy little gait too, and he would recognise Aud’s voice if he heard it. In his mind’s eye he could also see Gorm’s laboured step; despite the sharpness of the air, he fancied he could sense the fetid staleness that the miller carried around with him. It came as a shock to realise that he felt more comfortable with the sights, sounds, and smells of this household than he did with any other since he had left his family home near Avranches.
He shook his head vigorously, as if to waken himself from a dream. This would never do. They were Saxon; they were foreign. For all that they had shown him kindness, they were the enemy. It was his task now to question them and extract information from them. Without cruelty, maybe, but not without firmness. He was no vomiting weakling now, out of his senses, prostrate in the evening dew. He was a Norman scout, searching out news of the enemy army, and following, moreover, a fresh trail left by an escaping prisoner. He had a duty to do, a task to fulfil, a reputation to make.
Then why was he still sitting here?
He looked furtively over his shoulder, as if he expected Ralph to be there, his mouth already framing questions that cut through his every defence and artifice.
‘God’s Breath! Why do you chase a single quarry for some petty private grievance when you should be carrying out your orders and searching for an entire army?’
Gilbert could almost hear him saying it.
‘Does the Duke care about your precious honour? Does Fitzosbern? Does anyone?’
Gilbert writhed in indecision. Ralph’s voice hammered away in his head.
‘And what of me? How do I face the Duke now? I – who told Fitzosbern you could be trusted alone. How do I tell them that you deserted your duty, disobeyed your orders, endangered the whole expedition – all for your pitiful honour, for an act of adultery that was no act of adultery? Thousands of lives put at risk because a dog-boy is disturbed in his tiny mind.’
Gilbert lashed himself far more viciously than Ralph could ever have done.
He was quite sure that Ralph knew everything. If Taillefer knew, you could rest assured that Ralph did, and the whole army would know before long. That stupid old wineskin could not keep a secret to save his life. He could not resist telling Gilbert himself. How could he resist telling the world?
Gilbert flushed at the thought of the crowded hall in the firelight. Taillefer would not need any onions or carrots; he would have them falling about with a much better story. Gilbert could see even Sandor laughing.
Tears pricked his eyes. How could Sandor have betrayed him? Sandor, of all people. Well, it just showed you; you should not trust foreigners – Magyar or Saxon. To think – less than a day ago, he had shaken the wretch’s hand! No wonder he had looked awkward. How he had had the face to—
Gilbert started as a figure came to the door of the mill. He screwed up his eyes; the figure’s back was turned.
They would all know at the mill too. Sandor and Edwin had talked more than once. And he – Gilbert the Great Fool – had gone along with that disgusting ‘plan’ of Sandor’s. All the time he thought they were hatching it, they were laughing behind his back. And when Edwin was able to reach the mill again, it would be too good a story to keep to oneself.
‘Here, listen to this. You know that clod-wit Norman who got the flux and fell off his horse? The one we cleaned up and packed off to the Duke again? Well, guess who his wife is . . .’
The figure looked as if it was dragging something heavy. As it cleared the threshold, Gilbert recognised Aud’s angular body. It was her father she was trying to carry. The boy staggered out with a leg couched under each arm. They were trying to reach the ox-cart. It was piled high with bundles, which protruded at both ends from the badly fitted awning.
The miller was not completely unconscious either. He flapped his arms, and appeared to be protesting. Disjointed, strident phrases floated up to Gilbert.
They would never get him to the cart at that rate.
He dug in his spurs. With no pretence at caution he cantered down the hill.
It was Sweyn who saw him first because Aud had her back turned. He dropped his father’s legs none too gently and whispered, ‘The Norman.’
Aud dumped her father’s body. One hand flew to her throat.
Gilbert entered the yard, dismounted swiftly, and tethered his horse.
‘Where is Edwin?’
They looked blankly at each other.
Gilbert, in the manner of all foreigners trying to make themselves understood, raised his voice.
‘Where is Edwin? Ed–win. Where is he?’
They still showed fear, so he tried to reassure them. He made signs to show that he was alone, but still extracted no answer. He tried an
other line of approach.
‘Where is Rowena?’
He saw Aud’s lips tighten, but she offered no reply.
‘Edwin!’ he roared. He could think of no other way. It never crossed his mind to draw his sword or strike them even with his hand.
Gorm stirred and blinked his eyes.
Gilbert rushed to the water butt by the barn, snatched a bucket off a hook, and filled it. He came running back and hurled the contents at Gorm’s head.
While the miller was still spluttering, he seized him by the shoulders and shouted into his face. ‘Where is Edwin?’
Gorm’s eyes seemed to recede. With consciousness had returned fear. Despite the dripping water, Gilbert could smell sweat and beer on him.
The miller stretched out an arm towards the north. Gilbert glanced up the valley and back to Gorm.
‘He has gone to find the army. He has gone to join the King.’
Gorm had picked up some words of French in his many travels, more than he cared to admit, probably more than he consciously remembered. Under the stimulus of fear, some now came back to him. He gaped at Gilbert, who tried again.
‘He has gone to join the King.’ Gilbert shook him. ‘Tell me!’
Without shutting his mouth, Gorm inclined his head.
‘Was he mounted?’
Gorm frowned. Gilbert enunciated clearly.
‘Mounted. Was – he – on – a – horse?’ He made clicking noises with his tongue to imitate hooves.
The head dipped in agreement.
‘Did he go that way?’ said Gilbert, flinging an arm in a northerly direction.
Gorm nodded again.
‘When? Today? Yesterday?’
Gorm’s brow puckered.
‘Today?’ said Gilbert.
Gorm shook his head.
‘Yesterday?’
A nod.
Gilbert flung him away, walked swiftly towards his horse, and mounted. Something made him pause. He turned to Aud.
‘Take him. Take him and the boy. And go.’
He made gestures to indicate men coming from behind him, and to show urgency.
Aud ducked her head.
Gilbert rode off up the valley, and soon picked up Edwin’s trail. It was very unlikely to be anyone else’s, he reasoned. Now that he was using his professional skills, he was thinking more clearly. Very few peasants owned horses, and even fewer had them expensively shod like a Norman destrier. In any case, nearly all the horseflesh for miles around would have been either saddled to carry men to the English army, or requisitioned by Norman foraging parties to provide spare mounts and haulage for supply wagons. If they were not fit for that they would have gone into the pot long before now.
The large shoe imprints stood out sharply against all the other split-hoof marks. Gilbert had rarely followed such an easy trail. He was lucky too that Edwin followed the main tracks and lanes; since he knew the country so well, he could stick to them because he knew exactly where each one went. There was no need to strike blindly across open land or thrash through virgin forest.
After three hours he rested. As he munched at the rations that Baldwin’s storemen had issued to him, he found it easier to reconcile his duty with his desires. If he was right, and if this was Edwin’s trail, and if he did not lose it – they were all ‘ifs’, but, now that he was doing something he understood, he felt confidence returning – he would achieve one of two things sooner or later. He would either catch up with Edwin or he would locate the English army. If God were kind to him that day, he might do both. He could return to camp with his honour restored in his own eyes, and his reputation made in everyone else’s. And see what misery-monk Bruno made of that.
He swallowed the last piece of cheese.
For once he did not see how he could go wrong.
‘Spare arrows?’ suggested Fitzosbern. ‘The English are not expected to use many archers. We can not rely on collecting spent enemy shafts.’
‘All taken care of,’ said Baldwin de Clair. ‘I have not been up half the night for nothing. For nothing.’
Fitzosbern, as usual, refused to take offence. He knew perfectly well how thorough Baldwin was; he had spent the last hour, listening while he dressed and breakfasted, going through countless details with him. Moving the supplies and spares of a whole army at a few hours’ notice was a gigantic task, yet as far as Fitzosbern could see Baldwin had not missed a thing. Fitz did not really think Baldwin had forgotten the arrows; he simply wished to find a way of indicating that he had been following closely, a way of showing his appreciation for Baldwin’s efficiency. He did not really listen to Baldwin’s answer.
‘Every man will start with at least thirty. If we can get the wagons near enough – depending on the ground – the archers can retire through the cavalry and draw fresh issues when they need them. As long as they receive proper authorisation from yourself or William.’
Fitzosbern did catch the last remark, and allowed himself a small private smile behind his cup of broth. Like all quartermasters, Baldwin had an aversion to issuing stores without direct orders from on high, preferably God.
‘What is the water situation?’
‘I have briefed William’s own cellarer. Nine coopers have been working at full effort since we had access to a smithy. There was some trouble with the Breton armourers; claimed their swordsmen had priority. I nearly had a row with Count Alan.’
Fitzosbern growled. ‘Why do smiths and armourers always consider they are a law unto themselves?’
Baldwin shrugged. ‘We have enough now – that is the important thing. And the cellarer has not suffered from lack of instructions. We are as ready as we can be, Fitz.’
Fitzosbern nodded. ‘I am sure we are.’
He offered a cup of broth. Baldwin accepted, took a mouthful, and wished he had declined. Back in his own tent, Brother Crispin was no doubt enjoying something infinitely better while he recovered from the sharp side of his master’s tongue throughout hours of lists and checks.
Baldwin made a face. ‘Time you found a better cook, Fitz. This is awful.’
Fitzosbern nodded gloomily. ‘I know. I keep meaning to get round to it. Slips my mind.’
For a minute or so they sipped and slurped, and wiped wayward drips from their chins.
‘How is William bearing up?’ said Baldwin at last.
‘Pretty well, considering,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘He had a bad few hours a day or so ago, but he pulled round. Now that we have firm news, he is better. Then Geoffrey’s man – I forget his name – arrived yesterday, with news from Rouen and St Valéry. So he heard from Matilda. That helped. Matilda sends her best respects to you, by the way.’
Baldwin felt warm; Matilda did not forget friends.
‘How is the lady Emma?’
‘Mother? Well now, thank you. Well.’
There was another silence.
At last Baldwin said, ‘How do you think it will go?’
Fitzosbern gave him a typical Fitzosbern answer. ‘We are here. We are here because we wanted to be here. It is up to us to make it go.’
Baldwin grunted. He had expected nothing more.
Fitzosbern then surprised him with a rare show of emotion.
‘But I will say this: if anyone in Christendom can make it go, William can. And I for one wish to be nowhere else at the moment.’
Baldwin sensed for the first time a whiff of drama. It had begun as a wild dream when the Confessor had, so William said, offered to make him the heir to the throne if there should be no children of the royal body. Then, as the years passed and the Confessor showed less and less interest in Queen Edith (if indeed he had shown any in the first place), what had been a vague project steadily became a constant aspiration – though not taken entirely seriously by the ducal court, any more than one took entirely seriously a prince’s vow to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.
But when the Confessor died, it had taken a leap into the realm of possibility. By the time Fitzosbern had argued doubting v
assals into joining the expedition, it had moved towards distinct likelihood. The celebrations and wet throats of the departure from St Valéry had turned into sick stomachs and dry mouths as they approached the pebble beach of Pevensey. From then on it was the absence rather than the presence of the English that had produced the worry – the lack of news. For a while nerves were pushed into the background as every muscle was strained to make ready for every possible eventuality – building, gathering, collecting, piling, practising, planning.
When they were ready, poised, expectant, there had come the waiting, the boredom, the wondering, the self-doubt. Mercifully, that had not lasted too long. News of Harold’s approach had fired the whole camp into frantic activity. Now that too was nearing a conclusion. All that was needed was definite knowledge of the time and place of Harold’s arrival, and the reckoning would soon come. All those years of hopes and plans and efforts were narrowing down to a single pinpoint of decision. Small wonder the drama of it had touched even a literal man like Fitzosbern.
Baldwin set down his cup on the trestle boards.
‘Did my two lilies come to pay their fine?’
Fitzosbern nodded. ‘Just so. William somebody-or-other and his brother. What are you doing with scum like that?’
‘Putting them in their place. Excuse me; I must go to the harbour. Another ship dropped anchor overnight. Now that we have enough light, the sooner we unload the better. Supplies have a way of melting into thin air. Thin air.’
‘Go then. Come and see me again in the afternoon. If we have news of the English, come at once. Sorry about the stew.’
Baldwin looked round outside for Capra and Pomeroy. There was no sign of them. Baldwin was not entirely surprised. Pity, though. He had had a fine job lined up for them, unloading salt-soaked sacks and heavy wooden crates. Still, on balance, good riddance. They could go and be a curse to some other commander.
He called for his horse, and went to collect Brother Crispin. If he did not reach the ship quickly, the supplies would disappear faster than cheese by a rat-hole. However many trusted men he posted on deck night and day, all sorts of things just seemed to slide away. He had also seen small groups of Flemings drifting innocently in the direction of the harbour. News of fresh arrivals drew them like flies to honey, but he could never catch one with anything on him. Fulk boasted openly that his men were the best equipped in the whole army, and Baldwin knew he was flaunting his success, defying him to detect it.
The Last Conquest Page 32