‘Come on, you,’ he said sourly to Brother Crispin.
Crispin was not a good horseman, a fact partly accounted for by the dreadful nag he had to ride. It was as lean and bony as he was; if you gave both of them a good shake, their legs would drop off. Baldwin tilted his head slightly in mirthless humour. What they said was true: a man sooner or later came to look like his horse, or the other way round. It was a miracle it had escaped the pot.
If Brother Crispin felt that the continued existence of this bone-rattling relic of horseflesh was a proof of Divine generosity, he gave no sign of it. To him, any journey on horseback was one of the many scorpions sent by an inscrutable Providence to scourge man’s sinful body.
So they rode in silence. Crispin, after failing to derive spiritual uplift from the mortification provided by an ill-fitting saddle, shut his eyes and tried to console himself with memories of distant hours spent toasting his chilblains in the warming room of his monastery at Bec. It was a great test of the imagination.
Baldwin escaped his countless pressing worries for a short while by allowing his mind to slip away to the place whither it had been pulling for nearly two days.
It was ridiculous. He knew only two things about her: her name was Aud, and her father was a freeman. That was something; servile status would have been unthinkable. Aud . . . The name sounded Danish. Well, that was better than Saxon. Danes tended to produce more freemen than the English. Viking blood, you see. Like his own ancestors, the founders of Normandy. And God knows, they had started with little enough, barely five generations back.
Perhaps Aud was descended from some Danish adventurer chieftain; that would put her almost on a level with himself. And with Albreda. Albreda! How far away she seemed, and how – how foreign! They had never had much in common. It was a mistake to assume that members of the same family group were likely to make better marriages. Suddenly Albreda, with her screwed-up eyes and her sharp tongue, was more than a burden; she was a barrier.
Baldwin sighed. He knew he was thinking outrageous things. If only he had somebody to talk to. Matilda would have teased him. Only Agnes would have listened . . .
He understood very little of what Aud had said. He had been quite unable to convey to her what he had thought or felt. And yet – and yet – something had passed between them. How often had he praised God that he had thought to take off his glove before offering her his hand. If he had not, their flesh would not have touched, and then . . . He knew that she was concerned for him. He knew. Why else would she have offered the apples? Their hands had touched again. His mind told him that hers was thin and hard from much kitchen work, that his own was pitted and rough from a lifetime in camp and saddle. Yet his heart assured him that they had touched with the softness of children in prayer.
He could not put into words then what he felt, and he could not now. All he understood was that the moment had been unbearably tender and indescribably precious.
It had been shattered by the Devil-begotten Bloodeye. Not content with that, he had gone on to taunt him in public. Pomeroy and Capra had been led on by him; their insubordination was as much Bloodeye’s fault as their own. But Fulk’s motives were different; he seemed to take delight in crime for its own sake, as if he derived pleasure not from the profit of crime but from the crime itself and from the evil that produced it.
As for the yellow-faced, misshapen little cat of a man who shadowed him . . . A fine pair they made. Theirs was an unnatural partnership, hinting at depths of darkness to make the imagination tremble.
And yet, on the surface, Fulk gave the impression that nothing mattered. This indifference, this lack of apparent effort, could be infuriating. A rare man indeed – who could inspire deep fear and provoke intense irritation at the same time.
Baldwin crossed himself in reflex self-protection.
A nudge on the elbow from Brother Crispin jerked him back to the misty morning.
‘Hmm?’
Crispin pointed.
An altercation was in full swing between Baldwin’s sentries and a handful of Flemish mercenaries. As Baldwin and Crispin hastened closer, one or two knives came out.
‘Enough of that!’ snapped Baldwin.
Men on both sides paused and looked over their shoulders.
‘Put them away, lads.’
Fulk appeared from nowhere, and lounged against a cartwheel, whittling a stick. Baldwin was furious. Fulk had deliberately timed his remark so that their obedience would appear to come from his own command, not from Baldwin’s. And the swine had almost certainly put them up to it in the first place.
Baldwin rode right up to him, still seething, though he had the presence of mind to remain mounted. On foot Fulk would have towered over him. Baldwin waved a gloved hand.
‘Dismiss them.’
Fulk did not even lift his shoulders from the solid wheel.
‘I thought you would be grateful for the extra labour, Sir Baldwin. The ship must be unloaded quickly, in case thieves get at the cargo.’
The gall of the man! Baldwin struggled to keep his temper.
‘I have my own fatigue parties for this. I know my job and do not need to be reminded of the priorities of it.’
Fulk shrugged elaborately. Dietrich, Rainald and the rest stood still, looking to him for a lead.
Baldwin jostled them with his horse.
‘Go on, move!’
Fulk tried one more dig.
‘Do you think his Grace will be pleased to hear that you rejected the chance of assistance to finish the job quickly?’ He looked innocent. ‘Hardly the act of a careful quartermaster, one would have thought.’
Dietrich smirked at the others. Bloodeye was an evil bastard, but you had to hand it to him; he was usually good for a bit of fun.
Baldwin rose to the occasion.
‘I should not expect a mere captain of mercenaries to be fully conversant with the many tasks that require attention in a military camp before a major engagement. All he has to do is to present his men in line of battle at the right time, collect his money afterwards – and do as little as possible in between.’
Fulk made a grand gesture to acknowledge the sharpness of the thrust. Baldwin was not finished.
‘As a matter of fact, since you so kindly offer me the services of your – er – men, they can report at once to Turold at the castle. For a start they can go round all the walls doing some skin-soaking.’
‘On a morning like this? Did you miss the dew? It would take the fires of Hell to set the skins alight, never mind the walls.’
Baldwin leaned slightly forward. ‘If I say the skins on the walls need resoaking, they need resoaking. When they have finished doing that, they can fill all the fire buckets and get them up on the catwalks. When they have done that, I am sure Turold will find plenty more for such – willing workers. You would not like William to reduce your final payment because of dereliction of duty barely hours before the battle, now, would you? Dereliction reported by none other than his quartermaster – and kinsman.’
Fulk looked hard at him. Baldwin did not enjoy the gaze of the disfigured, bloodshot eye, but he tightened his jaw and held his ground.
At last Fulk relaxed. He slammed his knife sharply into the scabbard, tossed away the stick, and brushed some invisible dirt from his hands.
‘Do as Sir Baldwin says, lads. And think of your pay after the battle, when everyone will get what he deserves.’
The eye looked more baleful than ever.
The Flemings trudged off, Rainald hunching his high shoulders and savagely kicking a stone. Baldwin dismounted and began checking supplies with Crispin. Fulk left the cartwheel and came over.
‘Plenty more arrows, I see.’
Baldwin said nothing. He knew that Fulk was not loitering simply to talk about arrows. He tensed in expectation.
Fulk tossed a stone into the water.
‘I hear your Saxon prisoners escaped.’
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin. ‘Two sore backs told you tha
t.’
‘I expect they will return to their mill.’
‘Yes. I expect they will.’
‘Interesting place, that.’
Baldwin refused to be drawn.
‘Worth a second look, I should say,’ said Fulk.
Baldwin struggled to concentrate on Crispin’s recital of figures, but they were going in one ear and out of the other.
‘I found it much more interesting on a second viewing,’ said Fulk. ‘So were its inhabitants.’
He tossed more stones so gently that they barely made a ‘plop’ as they entered the water.
‘Have you noticed how the most unlikely people improve on – er – closer acquaintance?’
Baldwin tried a counterattack; he could not put up with this all morning.
‘If you are trying to vaunt that you raped the fair one, why not come straight out and say so? Then we can all applaud your bravery and continue our work.’
Fulk pretended to look surprised. ‘Oh, her? Oh, yes – ripe and juicy, I agree. A fine romp. But one tires of routine conquests. Being a gourmet in these matters, can I convey to your more ascetic taste the desire one has for the occasional, more astringent dish?’
The finer points of the irony may have slipped past Baldwin, but he knew he was being toyed with. He knew too that, however hard he tried to hide it, it was agony for him, and it was beginning to show. And he knew that Fulk knew.
In a gallant attempt to sound careless, he said, ‘I suppose you can claim two more murders as well as two more conquests?’ Uttering the mere words was pain.
Fulk simulated surprise again. ‘Murder? Oh, precious saints, no! The mill is on one of your duke’s famous avenues, I believe. “Nothing is to be taken.”’ He bowed. ‘Have no fear, Sir Baldwin. You can report to your duke that all I took was a – a liberty or two. Everyone was very much alive when I left.’
He threw a last pebble, and leaned close to Baldwin’s ear. The scar crinkled as his face creased into a parody of a smile.
‘Very much alive – and kicking.’
He strolled away, whistling.
Driven beyond endurance, Baldwin hurled an insult that he would not have contemplated before.
‘Delighted to hear of your success. No passing out on the job this time, then?’
Fulk stopped dead.
Baldwin and Crispin saw his shoulders go taut. He whirled round. The face was suffused with blood. Lips had been drawn back from set teeth. He breathed deeply as if trying to keep control. His fingers made clawing movements close to his thighs.
Baldwin’s hand stole towards the hilt of his dagger.
Slowly Fulk mastered himself. The symptoms of rage faded and the insolent air returned. He bowed again, his right hand on his hip.
‘Truly, Sir Baldwin, you are becoming our master in the art of repartee. What the philosopher said was true: “There is naught surpasses passion for the filing of the tongue.”’
He sauntered off.
‘Bastard!’ muttered Baldwin after him.
He stooped, picked up a stone, and threw it hard into the water almost at his feet.
Crispin shivered with reaction, and crossed himself. Was Fulk evil because he was left-handed, or left-handed because he was evil?
Gilbert knew he was getting closer. The freshness of a pile of droppings told him that.
He had no real idea of what he was going to do when he found Edwin; his nervous excitement was impairing his capacity for clear thinking. One or two shivers ran down his back. He could not explain it, but it seemed the very air was telling him that he was nearing the end of his chase. He shook his head to clear the confused murmuring in his brain.
Suddenly the trail disappeared.
He gazed in disbelief. It was impossible.
He dismounted and walked forward a few paces. There was no sign.
As always, he fell back on Ralph.
‘Trails do not disappear,’ Ralph would say. ‘It simply means that you did not see them go.’
He retraced his steps until he picked it up again, then paused and looked round. He was thinking like a scout again and not like a jealous husband.
To the right of the trail rose some steep downland crisscrossed with broken sheep runs.
‘Look up as well as down,’ Ralph said.
Halfway up was a line of gorse and bracken. Somewhere about its middle was a gap. The lighter colours told him that undergrowth had been pushed down and pushed aside. Taking a line from where he stood, he advanced slowly along the nearest run, and exclaimed in satisfaction when he saw a shoe mark in some sheep droppings.
Pulling his horse after him, he advanced across and up the slope, his confidence and excitement returning with every stride. Again those shivers, and again that odd murmuring in his head. It grew as he neared the top.
‘Great Jesus!’
The whole army sat before him. A million guttural Saxon words rose to his ears like the rumble of the distant sea.
Plunging back over the brow again, he looked for somewhere to tether his horse. The crest was bare.
He cursed himself for his carelessness.
He careered back towards the line of briar, and tied the reins as best he could. He took off his helmet and hung it on his belt. He was about to return, when he thought of the hauberk. If the sun showed again, it could reflect off that as well; after all, he had been oiling and polishing it enough. He paused in indecision. Was it wise to take it off in the presence of the enemy?
He unstrapped the bundle behind his saddle, shook out his blanket, and draped it round his shoulders. He checked that his sword was loose in the scabbard, and returned to the summit.
Holy Virgin, there must be twenty, thirty thousand of them! They were strung out as far as he could see both ways, from the shoulder of the hill on the left to where the track disappeared into forest on the right. Or rather sprawled out. It was the midday rest period. Men were eating, drinking, dozing, examining sore feet, relieving themselves. An orchard was being picked clean. A couple of squawks came from a cluster of cottars’ huts near the bottom of the hill; one prudent group of fyrdmen would eat well that night.
The very fact that the huts were still standing showed that they had been spared by the wasting parties. So plan of the avenues was working; Harold was going where the food was easiest to obtain. At the very least he was taking the line of least resistance.
Gilbert glanced up at the sun. It was almost due south. His sense of direction told him that in his pursuit of Edwin from the mill he had taken a wide swing from the north to the north-east. Thanks to Ralph’s training, he had kept a check on landmarks that he passed, and had constantly verified his position by looking back at them.
His route therefore had brought him on a course to cut directly across the English line of march. At this rate they were exactly on course for Hastings, and would probably get within striking distance by nightfall. The chances were that they would come out of the woods not far from the hill with the apple tree on it.
Senlac Hill!
Gilbert tightened his jaw. There would be no more jokes about ‘Young Master Senlac’ when he returned with this priceless jewel of military intelligence. What praise from Ralph! Bishop Odo’s face ludicrous in its amazement! A slap on the shoulder from Fitzosbern! A compliment from Sir Walter Giffard! Congratulations from the Bastard himself! He tore his mind away from the dizzy dream, and concentrated fiercely on the scene below him, trying to force every detail of it into his memory.
He could make out the housecarls easily enough. They were marching in mail, and it looked as if each man carried shield, axe, and sword as well as food and protective gear. Gilbert shook his head in silent wonder . . . All the way from Stamford – those men must be made of iron.
Clustered around one of the larger cabins were soldiers even better dressed. One or two brightly coloured cloaks stood out against the regular greys, greens, and browns. Horses were tethered in orderly lines. Two banners fluttered from lofty standards.
It had to be the King and his headquarters.
Strung out along the route were sizeable detachments, visibly separate from each other despite the disorder and straggling that occurred in rest periods. Probably the county fyrdmen. Gilbert had heard talk of ‘the Surrey contingent’ and ‘the men of Essex’. There were other shires whose names he could not remember. Like the different pays in Normandy, he thought. These shire fyrdmen kept themselves to themselves, just as men of the Pays de Caux did not drink with men of the Pays d’Auge, as dwellers in the Bessin were wary of folk from the Bocage.
All around these groups were countless small knots of men, with hardly a scrap of proper protection between them. Their weapons were not up to much either. He could swear that he saw scythes and pitchforks, even plain staves.
All told, it looked a vast host – perhaps forty thousand, on second thoughts. Would the Duke be well advised to wait behind the protection of his castle walls? Or would these scruffy peasants break before the thunder of a charge of knights? Gilbert rested his chin on his hands. If he were the Duke—
His horse fell on him, winding him completely. He struggled frantically to twist round and away, the helmet at his belt digging agonisingly into his side. Then he saw that it was not his horse, but an enormous Saxon, who was now astride his chest and pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. A second one pointed a sword at his throat, while a third was hobbling his ankles.
Still gasping for air, he was hoisted to his feet by the scruff of the neck, disarmed, and made to march down the hill. The big man tied his wrists and led him like a donkey; the second walked behind, still with naked sword; the third brought his horse.
Each group of men looked up and fell silent as they approached. Heads came together again when they had passed, and the mutterings began, with final glances over watchful shoulders.
The Last Conquest Page 33