The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

  He reassembled the table under the beam, then tried several times to climb on to it. He simply could not get his knee high enough to provide leverage for his body. Sweating and whimpering, he went to get the stool.

  He placed it beside the table, put one foot on it, and paused. There was no going back now. He was shaking all over. He looked up at the beam, gathering the rope over one arm.

  Grunting with the effort, he got onto the stool, then, very carefully, onto the table. He waved his arms to keep his balance. The mill wheel swished and creaked.

  He would make absolutely sure the first time – no halfhearted efforts. He coiled the rope in loops in his right hand, and looked up once more at the beam above him. Sweat poured down his face. He blinked as it ran into his eyes.

  He swallowed, licked his lips, took a huge breath, swung his right arm, and heaved. The effort took him off balance. As he saw the rope flop over the beam, he knew he was falling. The rope slipped back. He crashed on to the table, the planks broke, and the trestles collapsed. The old leather noose grazed his neck again.

  Sprawled in the ruins, weeping and panting, he thumped with his fist on the ground.

  Once more he crawled to the doorway. The sound of the stream came more clearly to his ears.

  Still on hands and knees, still with the rope trailing behind him, he set out towards the water. When he reached the gravel at the edge, he stopped. It was not very deep here. The mill pool was really the best place.

  He struggled up, turned, and caught sight of Sweyn’s body. With damp patches now on his knees as well as on his buttocks, he came back to look on his son. Already the flies were clustering round the edges of the wounds.

  A frown appeared on Gorm’s face. He pulled off the noose and went to get a spade . . .

  He stuck the rough wooden cross into the earth and stood up. His wife would have liked the cross. At least he had done something right.

  Only Godric was left now.

  Aud was taken. He could do nothing for her. If she were not dead already, she soon would be, and he had no idea where she was.

  Rowena and Edith were away, and there was nothing he could do about that either.

  Only Godric remained. He must tell Godric. Godric must come back and they must carry on with the mill – together. He always had Godric. And a freeman always had his land.

  All he had to do was to stop Godric fighting in that stupid battle. What use was a dead miller? Even if the Normans won, they would need millers just like everyone else. He and Godric had dealt with Saxons; they could deal with Normans. It was only exchanging one set of foreigners for another.

  Godric was no soldier; he would be cut down in the first charge. He had to be made to see sense. It was unlike him to go charging off like that.

  Gorm looked for his travelling stick. It was gone. A curse formed on his lips, but he remembered the wooden cross.

  He rescued a leather jerkin from the tumbled pile on the floor of the house, and stuffed some food into a bag. He undid his clothes, rearranged his shirt and breeches, and refastened his belt. Outside, he went to the stream and threw some water into his face. He filled a leather flask and fixed it to a strap over his shoulder. He cut a makeshift walking stick and stuck the knife into his belt.

  Godric would not get far on his crutch. Catching him up would not take long. And then he would tell him everything. Everything. Godric would understand. Godric always did.

  ‘How much further, Sir Baldwin?’

  ‘Not far now. Just the other side of this hill.’

  ‘Praise be,’ muttered Brother Crispin.

  ‘I found you an easier horse,’ said Baldwin. ‘I thought you would be grateful.’

  ‘As the martyr is whose scourge of nails is exchanged for a scourge of thorns.’

  They came up over the crest.

  Baldwin pointed. ‘There it is. No sign of fire.’

  ‘There is down there,’ said Crispin, pointing down the valley, where the wagon still smouldered.

  Baldwin had not heard him. He was urging his horse impatiently down the track towards the mill.

  Crispin made his best possible speed. His master’s ways were becoming as inscrutable as those of the Almighty. There was clearly something pulling Sir Baldwin to this mill, and it was connected with the conversation he had witnessed with Fulk Bloodeye that morning. Sir Baldwin had been agitated ever since, alternating between fits of savage swearing and moods of total abstraction.

  When the last supplies had been checked, moved, and put under lock and key, Baldwin started to make excuses as to why it would be a good idea to come on this journey. It started with the expressed desire to ‘get away for once from camp smells’, to be followed with the need for ‘checking the avenues of clear ground’. Out of the blue, he said he thought it would be a change to ‘do a turn of scouting’, which he had ‘not done for years’. Finally he declared that as everything possible had been done and Harold had still not shown himself, he had time on his hands, and he had to do something. Crispin knew better than to ask questions.

  The real surprise came when Sir Baldwin ordered Crispin to accompany him. Again, Crispin kept silent. He noticed that they took no outriders with them, and that they left camp by way of the archers’ lines, well away from any knight’s quarters or senior commander’s establishments. On the journey, Baldwin made no comment except bad-tempered remarks when Crispin failed to maintain the required smart pace.

  Now that they had arrived, Crispin was none the wiser. He kept as close behind Sir Baldwin as he could.

  By the time he crossed the stream, Baldwin had been through all the buildings, and was kneeling by a freshly dug grave.

  He scrambled to his feet and beckoned Crispin over to him.

  ‘There is no one else here. Only this. I have to find out. Use this spade. Tell me who it is.’

  Crispin dismounted painfully, and stared at the grave and its humble little cross. Then he stared at Baldwin.

  ‘Open a grave marked with the cross of Our Lord? Disturb a soul at peace?’

  Baldwin burst out. ‘Jesus of Nazareth, man. I have to know, or my soul can never be at peace.’

  ‘You may find it – not pleasant,’ said Crispin.

  Baldwin flung the spade.

  ‘Damn you – dig!’

  It did not take Crispin long.

  ‘It is a boy, sir.’

  Baldwin ceased his frenzied pacing.

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘The face is unmarked. Would you like to see?’

  Baldwin came and peered.

  ‘So – he kills boys too.’

  ‘The Devil and his minions know no mercy,’ said Crispin.

  Baldwin stormed off.

  Crispin remade the grave and gently replaced the cross. He kneeled and said a prayer, crossed himself, and rose to follow Baldwin, who was halfway towards the smoking ruins of the wagon and the cottars’ huts.

  Crispin saw him suddenly tense, and stop. Then he burst into a run. He dashed past the wagon and kneeled beside a figure sprawled on the track. Crispin hitched up his skirts and ran too.

  When he arrived, Baldwin was wringing his hands.

  ‘Look at her back. See what they have done to her back.’

  Crispin crouched. ‘These marks were not made by the whip; they are burn marks. They tied her to the wagon, set fire to it, and let it run down the slope. She must have freed herself. Look at the blood on her wrists. She must have had great strength. Then she flung herself down from—’ Crispin stopped, bent low, and examined her more closely.

  ‘She lives!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She lives. She is warm. She breathes.’ Crispin ran a hand over her. ‘There do not appear to be any broken bones. Nor any wounds.’

  Dear God!

  Baldwin cleared his throat.

  ‘Is she – did they . . .?’

  Crispin glanced uneasily. ‘The clothing does not appear disordered.’

  ‘Is there not a better way
of making sure?’

  ‘I am not a doctor, sir.’

  ‘You come from Bec; my house is famous for its learning.’

  ‘We can not all aspire to Lanfranc’s eminence, sir.’

  ‘You must have taken your turn in the infirmary. You picked up enough to – well – you know. ‘Baldwin gestured vaguely.

  Crispin looked troubled. ‘Our vow of chastity, sir.’

  Baldwin lost his temper.

  ‘To the midden with your vow of chastity. What about your vows of mercy and charity? Find out.’

  Crispin lifted the material. Baldwin turned away and waited, drumming with a fist on the pommel of his sword.

  Crispin gently replaced the skirt.

  ‘I should say that she has not been dishonoured.’

  Baldwin raised his eyes and sighed hugely. ‘We must get her to shelter and safety.’

  Crispin stared. ‘Sir Baldwin, you know the wasting parties. There must be a hundred women in this condition, spread all over Sussex.’

  ‘Not like this one. I want her . . . saved.’

  Crispin noticed the odd spacing of the words. He tried to choose his own words carefully.

  ‘You have . . . a special reason?’

  ‘You could call it that. We met once before, when I came here on patrol.’

  Crispin said nothing.

  Baldwin gestured in annoyance. ‘Damn it, man, I can not properly explain it to myself, much less to you. All I know is that I shall not be at rest until I have done what can be done.’

  ‘You mean until I have done what can be done,’ said Crispin.

  ‘Of course. That is why I brought you. I was afraid we should find something like this. You heard Fulk. God knows what he did to the others.’

  ‘We must make a litter,’ said Crispin.

  Baldwin stood up and looked all round the valley, partly to ensure that no Saxon soldiers surprised them, partly too – if he were honest – to make sure that no Norman man-at-arms was a witness to his doing manual labour.

  Under Crispin’s directions, Baldwin fetched and carried, casting furtive glances at Aud’s white flesh, which had to be laid bare. While Crispin bathed and bandaged, Baldwin revived the fire and searched for something to drink.

  When she was as comfortable as they could make her, clerk and quartermaster sat in front of the fire and sipped beer.

  ‘Do you think you can manage?’ said Baldwin.

  Crispin nodded. ‘I think so, sir. I have my horse. It will not take long to find a wagon lower down the valley.’ He smiled wanly. ‘It will be a relief not to have to ride any more.’

  ‘You should be safe,’ said Baldwin. ‘That animal Fulk will not come again; there is nobody left to destroy. The battle will be tomorrow or Sunday; there will be no more patrols out this far.’

  ‘I shall get her to the coast. Some ship or other will be sailing to Normandy if we are patient. A few days of waiting at most, I should say.’

  Baldwin gave him some coins.

  ‘Will that be enough? Do you want an escort? I can arrange it.’

  Crispin considered.

  ‘I take it you wish this mission to be as – discreet as possible?’

  Baldwin blushed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I assume too that you wish me to get her there, win or lose?’

  ‘Win or lose,’ said Baldwin. ‘Besides, she has no family here now.’

  ‘Then I think we shall manage better alone. A monk and a sick woman will attract less notice than two foreign soldiers. In England, I can speak Latin if necessary; in Normandy, there will be no problem if she stays silent.’

  ‘You will go to Bec, I should not wonder?’

  As soon as he said it, Baldwin knew it was a mistake. True, Bec was in his demesne, and he was its chief benefactor, patron, and protector. It was also Crispin’s parent house. For all that, it was also the last place to use as a refuge for a woman with whom he could claim no legitimate connection. It was too close to the family seat at Brionne. The lady Albreda would certainly hear of it sooner or later.

  Baldwin made a face. Knowing Albreda, sooner. It was asking for trouble. Never mind Albreda’s tongue; think of the scandal, the Duke, Lanfranc – there would be no end to it.

  Crispin read his thoughts.

  ‘There is the lady Matilda’s new house at Caen,’ he ventured.

  Holy Trinity. Baldwin remembered all too clearly. Everyone had been there for the consecration in June. Matilda might understand; she was a friend. On the other hand, she was also the Duke’s wife. It was not fair to her.

  Baldwin thought again.

  Geoffrey! He would help. His lady Sybil. Since Fitzosbern’s mother, the lady Emma, had been in indifferent health, Sybil was practically in charge at St Amand. If anybody should understood how he felt, and appreciated the need for discretion, she should. So should Geoffrey. A word with Geoffrey here as soon as possible, and a message sent to Sybil by Geoffrey’s man, Thierry – if he had not already gone. Yes, that was the answer. Time enough to attend to the details after the battle. If they were not still here, the problem would not arise . . .

  ‘Go to St Amand at Rouen,’ he said. ‘Use my name, and that of my lord Geoffrey de Montbrai, Bishop of Coutances, and ask to see the lady Sybil of Hauteville.’

  Crispin made no comment.

  Baldwin held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Crispin. I am in your debt.’

  Crispin took it. ‘Goodbye, Sir Baldwin. Have no fear. I respect your trust in me, and I shall therefore respect your confidence. She will be well cared for.’

  Baldwin hesitated before going.

  ‘If I do not – I mean, if the battle – go quietly to my head bailiff at Brionne. He will give you money for – you know.’

  Crispin nodded. ‘I understand, Sir Baldwin.’ He allowed himself one of his rare dry smiles. ‘We shall make a good Norman of her. God go with you and God preserve you.’

  If Gilbert expected his information to come as a thunderbolt, he was to be disappointed. He was able to enjoy the thrill of a dramatic arrival at the gallop. He leaped from the saddle, flung the reins at Ralph, and dashed off towards the Duke’s hall.

  ‘Take me to the Duke,’ he demanded of a bodyguard.

  Instead Sir William Fitzosbern came out.

  ‘I am the one you tell.’

  Gilbert blurted his news, though he was careful to omit Harold’s sharp references to the Duke’s parentage.

  Sir William questioned him closely about direction and distance and speed. Gilbert answered as best he could, a little breathlessly, then stood with his hands on his hips awaiting the dramatic reaction and the congratulations.

  Sir William grunted. ‘Well, that makes sense. It confirms that they are coming through the forest towards Senlac and Telham.’

  ‘You mean you knew?’ said Gilbert, forgetting his manners in his surprise.

  ‘You are not the only scout in the army, boy.’

  Gilbert’s world of triumph began to crumble.

  ‘Others found the English first?’

  ‘We have had news of reliable sightings for the last two or three hours.’

  Damn Ralph! Damn Bruno! Damn everyone!

  ‘It seems,’ continued Fitzosbern, almost to himself, ‘that many of our complicated precautions may not have been needed. Harold is coming the simplest and most direct way after all. Hm!’ He seemed to find it faintly amusing.

  Gilbert’s face fell. ‘So you are not surprised?’

  ‘God’s Face, of course not. Relieved, I should say. Now we know. Now we can react.’

  Fitzosbern rubbed his chin, gazed away abstractedly, and seemed to have forgotten Gilbert. Gilbert fidgeted, not knowing what to do. He coughed politely. Fitzosbern looked up.

  ‘Go on. Go and eat. You have done your job.’

  ‘Sir!’

  Gilbert trudged away, thoroughly crestfallen. The only crumb of comfort was that he had not been reprimanded for breaking orders. Thank the saints Sir William had a lot on his mind.
/>   ‘Hey! You!’

  Gilbert stopped and turned.

  ‘Yes, Sir William?’

  ‘You are late!’

  ‘Yes, Sir William.’

  Fitzosbern glared, then retired into the hall.

  Gilbert did not escape Ralph’s wrath so easily.

  ‘And all because of your thrice-damned honour.’

  Gilbert – tired, disappointed, ashamed, frustrated – blazed back at him.

  ‘And I suppose you have all had a good laugh about it, thanks to that senile sot, Taillefer.’

  ‘I have told Taillefer exactly what I think of him,’ said Ralph. ‘Telling you all that nonsense. He might have known you would do something st— Well, no matter. You are back.’

  What was the point? The battle was coming tomorrow. Far better to talk about friendship, and loyalty, and duty, and pride in work, and a hundred other things. And no Bruno to raise his eyebrows.

  When he had finished, Gilbert drooped.

  ‘I am sorry, Ralph.’

  He raised his head. He looked so contrite and lost that Ralph could have put his arms round him. Instead he growled. ‘I should think so too.’ He swallowed awkwardly. If only for something to say, he asked, ‘Did you find him?’

  Gilbert blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘After all that, did you find him – the Saxon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  Gilbert waved his hands helplessly. How could he possibly put it into words? His shock at seeing Edwin at the King’s headquarters. The stilted formalities they exchanged in the company of the stolid Wilfrid. The aching time spent wandering among the clusters of tired fyrdmen, Edwin offering trite comments, himself pretending to be interested, and all the time trying to think of a way to bring up an impossible subject. Taking gloomy bites at the apple every time he came close to forming actual words. Knowing about Adele, and – even more ridiculous – knowing that Edwin did not know that he knew. Unless Sandor had told him – which, come to think of it, was not altogether too fanciful. After all, he had told Taillefer. All of which only added yet another crazy dimension to the situation.

  Beyond that, the shame of stupidity, incompetence, and capture, the greater disgrace that he was not worth killing at that time. Above all, the need to get back with what he thought was vital news. Vital! That was a laugh. Finally, the parting, and, just when he was screwing up courage to broach the matter, Wilfrid had given his horse a great wallop on the rump and sent him on his way.