Wilfrid smiled wryly as he looked around. They had made several small coverts and windbreaks. The fire burned confidently. The remains of some animal were still spitted over the flames. One man was darning a hole in his breeches. Another was combing his beard. From the shadows of a wattle refuge came the noise of a blade being sharpened. Spread all over the ground were a score of bits and pieces. Wilfrid never ceased to be amazed at how quickly these men could turn a tiny patch of open countryside into a scene of domesticity.
‘You seem to be settled enough,’ he said.
‘Our work is sheep, mate. We spend half our time doing this.’
A stocky, youngish man, prematurely balding, made himself the spokesman.
Wilfrid used his toe to push a stray log back into the flames.
‘Your work tomorrow is Normans.’
The sheepman shrugged. ‘Sheep or Normans – we trim them both to size. All the same really.’
‘Just so long as you stay put and do not go running all over the hill after them.’
‘We do not chase our sheep.’
‘Good,’ said Wilfrid. ‘Make sure you do not break the line and chase Normans.’
‘Not even if they run?’
‘Not even if they run.’
‘Seems daft to me.’
‘Nobody asked you to think about it.’
‘Just die for it, eh?’
‘If need be, yes. Now, is there anything else? Before I send up the ale and the roast pork.’
The sheepman allowed himself a smile, then became serious again. He stood up and came close to Wilfrid.
‘There is one thing,’ he said quietly. ‘Who is that?’
He jerked his head towards a big, dark man who sat a few yards away. He too had made a shelter and a fire, but shared it with no one.
‘No idea,’ said Wilfrid. ‘Try asking him.’
‘No fear,’ said the sheepman. ‘Look at his face. Who would want to go near him?’
‘Has he spoken to you?’ said Wilfrid.
‘No. He just came from nowhere, made himself a spot, and there he is.’ He shuddered. ‘Makes my flesh creep.’
‘Why?’
‘He is a cripple, for a start. See his crutch? What are cripples doing here?’
Wilfrid peered. ‘Is that all?’
The sheepman grimaced in bafflement. ‘And he seems to be – well, the best way I can say it is – he is in a sort of shock. He moves as if he is in his sleep. Crazed, you might say. If you ask me—’
‘Is he armed?’ said Wilfrid.
‘I should say so. Christ! You should see his axe. Apart from eat, he has done nothing since he got here but sharpen it. Gets on your nerves. Oh, yes – talking of eating – another funny thing.’
‘What is that?’
‘Mushrooms. He has a pocketful of mushrooms.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Seen them.’
‘So? We all eat mushrooms.’
‘Not the ones he has. Besides –’ he dropped his voice to a whisper – ‘he has not eaten them. Takes them out, looks at them. As if he is making sure they are there.’
Wilfrid looked towards the new arrival. He could make out only vaguely dark features and a few locks of dark hair under the blanket hood. He seemed quiet enough – hardly the raving madman or the Devil-gripped invalid.
‘Leave him alone, I should. He is not bothering you.’
‘But the size of him!’
‘He is on our side. Why else would he be here?’
‘Makes my flesh creep,’ muttered the sheepman again, as he returned to his fire.
Wilfrid spared a few thoughts for the matter as he walked back to headquarters.
Mushrooms before a battle? He had heard stories. They were common enough in the Danelaw. The man did not look Danish. Then Wilfrid had not been able to see much of his face. Not all Danes were blond; there had to be some dark ones, he supposed. Would they really keep up such practices so long after Alfred and the wars against the Great Army of Guthrum? He had seen no sign of it at Stamford. Then he had hardly had much time, under the circumstances, to look for it.
Wilfrid kicked some dead leaves.
Ah, well, mad or sane, he was a big fellow, able to look after himself. If his axe was as big as they said, he might topple a Norman or two before they ran him through with a spear.
‘Ego te absolvo, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.’
Geoffrey had said it so many times that he was listening to his own voice as if it were that of somebody else. He had given up listening to the muttered confessions of the endless line of penitents. What did it matter? Absolution was what they wanted, not a shoulder to cry on. Not at a time like this.
They got penance first, of course, and, did they but know it, they owed the heaviness of it to my lord bishop’s broken leg. Their prayers to the Holy Virgin to shepherd their souls into Heaven were curiously punctuated by muttered, and equally fervent, desires that the Devil would pilot that of my lord bishop into Hell. My lord bishop’s clerks were filling a sizeable box with physical, and metallic, proof of the army’s true sorrow for its sins. Geoffrey remained gruff and grumpy and unashamed. The chances were that my lord bishop of Bayeux was charging them for hearing confession in the first place.
‘Bless me, father, for I have sinned . . .’
Thierry should be well on his way by now, his head as full of messages as his stomach was full of stew from my lord duke’s kitchens.
‘Never miss the opportunity, my lord, of a good meal. You never know where the next one is coming from. If God puts a full plate before me, who am I to go against the Will of the Almighty?’
You could never shame Thierry. Nor could you ever teach him; most of that last meal would finish on the foam-lined waves of the Channel.
But he would deliver all his messages, and reliably too. My lady Matilda, now waiting and swearing at her serving women in St Valéry, would have word of the Duke. At St Amand in Rouen, my lady Emma would have news of her son Fitzosbern, and her sub-prioress, the lady Sybil, would receive the curious request of Baldwin about some Saxon woman or other.
Most unlike Baldwin. Difficult to understand it properly. Baldwin had been embarrassed, and had not given a very clear account of it. Still, if that was what he wanted. What criticism could a bishop offer, a bishop whose own ex-paramour was the sub-prioress in question?
And what could he say to Sybil on his own account? What words could be put in Thierry’s mouth that would be a substitute for the look in his eyes or the feelings in his heart? He was not sure of them himself.
That he loved her? Did he still? After all these years? Could any unrequited passion, however strong, remain constant all that time? Was it then no more than friendship? Surely not. A true spiritual fusion of like souls? Hardly! Sybil may have been true to her veil, but my lord bishop of Coutances had had occasion to let the vow of chastity slip his mind.
And yet, at a time such as this, it was Sybil whose image came to him – nobody else’s. Except, naturally, his family – Mother, Father, brother Mauger, and Ivo, who had taught him nearly everything he knew. Certainly no other woman.
So what was he to say?
Thierry cleared his throat. ‘Beg pardon, my lord.’
‘Yes?’
‘There is no need to concern yourself.’
‘What do you mean?’
Thierry burped.
‘I have been taking messages to the lady Sybil for many years. I have been passing on the spirit of them all that time. Believe me, my lord, you do not have to think of anything special. The lady Sybil will understand. And, if your Grace will pardon the liberty, so do I.’
Geoffrey opened his mouth to chastise him, but, to his surprise, Thierry went down on his knees.
‘You have been a good lord to me, sir. I could have hoped for none better. If Ivo were here, he would have said the same. If anything – I mean if – well, I just wanted you to know.’
Geoffrey again ope
ned his mouth, but lumps formed instead of words.
Thierry prompted him. ‘If you could bless me, my lord. Please. It would mean a great deal.’
So Thierry had gone, and Fitzosbern had come in, and Giffard, and Montgomery, and Count Alan. Together they had gone over the plan of battle yet again. If Giffard had any reservations about it, he kept them to himself. Now was not the time. If that was the way the Duke and Geoffrey wanted to do it, he and the others would give it their very best effort. If it did not work, thought Giffard, the chances were that he would not get the opportunity to say, ‘I told you so,’ so the argument was one only for scholars.
Geoffrey had been full of last-minute thoughts, final recommendations, late suggestions.
Fitzosbern grinned. ‘Trust us, Geoffrey. We do know. We have all been here as long as you.’
‘It is all right for you,’ Geoffrey grumbled. ‘You will not have to lie here all day tomorrow, wondering.’
Montgomery laughed. ‘You will find out soon enough, Geoffrey, if it is a Saxon hand that pulls back your tent flap in the evening.’
After they had gone, Geoffrey turned again to the line of penitents.
‘Bless me, father, for I have sinned . . .’
Could it be done? To control a line of knights once committed to the charge. To wind back its strength as one would the ratchet of a crossbow, and release it again at will.
Ever since he had first commanded cavalry in battle, he had dreamed of putting the might of the mailed knight to better use. Tighter formations, straighter lines, stronger impact, greater numbers – always greater numbers. Planned withdrawal, swift re-grouping, fresh assault. Unstoppable hammer blows that no enemy could withstand.
Years of trial and error, of plan and mishap, of hope and frustration; of stupid knights and stuffy commanders; of bad timing and poor execution. Now – at last – here in England. A duke committed to the value of the idea; time to practise and to convince squadron commanders; excellent strategic planning and logistic backup; spare mounts by the hundred; and the greatest number of knights seen in the whole century. There would never be such a chance again.
True, the Duke relied also on his archers and his infantry, but they would only start the battle; it would be the heavy cavalry that would press it home and finish it. What a victory it could be! An entire kingdom. If Harold died, there would be little effective resistance. If the boy Edgar had had any appreciable following, they would have chosen him King in the first place.
What a chance then. And what a prize!
Against them? One of the three greatest commanders in Christendom. Since the defeat of Hardrada, one of the two greatest. Backed up by a core of the finest heavy infantry since the legions. They were the ones who had to be broken. If they went, the fyrd and the ragtag would melt away.
But how to move them? If the hammer blows did not do it, dare they try the most ambitious idea of all? Could the English be duped by a feigned retreat? It was the greatest test of his plans. Could the knights really be held together through an assault, a timed withdrawal, a planned full wheel and re-form, and a second charge?
He hoped it would not be necessary, but, if it were, would Fitzosbern do it? Would the Duke back him when it really came to it? Or would the old ideas of Giffard prevail? But – if they tried, and succeeded, what a vindication!
Ivo had always said that Geoffrey’s father was a greater warrior than his son, but to be proved the greater tactician was a worthy consolation.
Geoffrey sighed. If only Ivo were alive to see. Dear Ivo – that gruff, thick-handed barrel of a man who had been his guardian and friend while Father was away; who had set him on his first destrier; who had taught him the profession of knightly arms; who had been at his side through a score of battles and sieges and a hundred skirmishes and a thousand rides; who, alone of the household, still called him, though admittedly only under great stress, ‘Master Geoffrey’.
Would Ivo be proud of his work tomorrow? Geoffrey grimaced. Not if it was a Saxon hand that pulled back his tent-flap in the evening.
‘Bless me, father, for I have sinned . . .’
‘I am sorry to hear about Berry,’ said the King.
Edwin grimaced. Harold put an arm round his shoulders.
‘There will be others to love. You have my word. We shall have good times again, eh?’
‘Yes, sir. I shall get the swine, sir.’
Harold smiled. ‘Do not try too hard. We shall win this fight by staying put, not by rushing about to settle personal scores.’
Edwin looked unconvinced.
Harold finished his meal and stood up.
‘You are not fighting for revenge.’
‘It was not your dog, sir.’
‘No, but it is my kingdom, and I know best how to save it. You will do as I say.’
‘What about my honour?’
‘To Hell with your honour. If you wish to serve me in this battle, any “honour” you have will be to stand in my line with my housecarls and my fyrdmen. Think yourself lucky to be there tomorrow morning. Think yourself even luckier to be there tomorrow evening. In between, you obey my orders. Do I have your word?’
Edwin gulped. ‘Yes, sir. You have my word.’
‘Good.’ Harold fastened a big cloak round his shoulders. ‘I think you had better come with me. I shall show you many men of “honour” who do not wear their private misery like a beggar’s sores. Follow.’
Waving to a few housecarls to accompany him, Harold strode off without glancing back. Edwin, after a moment of hesitation, hurried unwillingly after him.
What he saw in the next hour or so drove all grief and injured pride from his mind. He had seen Harold charm men before, but never had he witnessed such miracles as his king performed that evening.
Whenever Harold reached a group round a fire – proud housecarls, lofty thegns, dour fyrdmen, grumbling ploughmen – he had the trick of becoming one of them without diminishing his royalty in any way. An uncanny instinct told him exactly what action to perform. Edwin was never conscious of Harold working his way in from the outside. He picked a piece of meat off a spit, or peered at the sharpness of a spearhead, or simply squatted and warmed his hands at the blaze, and instantly he was a full member of the group. He did not make speeches to them; he gossiped with them, asked about their families, moaned about blisters. They accepted him at once and spoke without fear or affectation.
Edwin observed, however, that Harold usually managed to slide the occasional piece of military intelligence or general encouragement into the conversation without anyone noticing. It was as if he were an ordinary soldier discussing the King’s plans.
‘The top of a hill is as good a spot as any . . . there are earth spirits up there, you know, round the only tree. Very bare hilltop. Especially unkind to outsiders or intruders. Very strong local tradition. Of course, I know you lads are not superstitious and neither am I. All the same, I do not think I should like to be in the Normans’ shoes – if only to be on the safe side, eh? . . . high ground – they will have to come to us, and we can watch them struggling in the mud . . . a Viking bandit or a Norman bandit – what is the difference? The owner always fights better than the thief . . . William is unfit and overweight; needs a big box, I hear, to help him mount a horse. God help the horse, eh? . . . he knows he has bitten off more than he can chew this time . . . we have a victory under our belts. What do they have? Seasickness . . . we have done it once; we can do it again – stands to reason . . . he has mercenaries, foreigners, all sorts of riff-raff. How well do such men fight in a bad cause? Can they stand with the men of Anglia, or the lions of Wessex, or the heroes of Stamford, in defence of their own land? . . . horses will not jump at spears; it is a well-known fact . . . you will have an easy time tomorrow; you can fight all day sitting on your arse. It is up to the Bastard to get us off it. Those of you with fat arses are laughing . . . we are up here; he is down there. It is as simple as that. And that is how we keep it. And we keep it by doing no
thing . . . how much easier can you have it? Stay put all day and win a great victory . . . if you think you will bore your children with talk of Stamford and the bridge, just wait till they hear about the Bastard and Caldbec Hill . . . William is the gambler; we are on to a sure thing . . . the son of the tanner’s daughter? Bah! We shall skin him alive!’
Time and again great gales of laughter rose into the night air. When Harold arrived, men could hardly wait for sleep; when he left, they could not wait for the dawn.
Edwin knew, with every sense, brain, and instinct at his command, and beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he was close to a man who could make history. What did Berry matter? What did revenge matter? Aud and her clawing desire? Gorm, Godric, the mill, even a lost love in Normandy? Destiny dawned on the morrow, and Edwin was conscious of a fullness of existence that he had never known before. It came with the knowledge that he was going to be part of that destiny. He knew in his bones that tomorrow, Saturday, the fourteenth of October, in the year of Our Lord one thousand and sixty-six, would be a day like no other. He knew that it would be the longest day – and the greatest day – of his entire existence. He knew that, if he survived, and whatever the outcome of the battle, he would look back on that day as a turning-point in his life.
Long after stand-down, the candles continued to burn in Baldwin’s tent.
He sipped some hot broth; beer at this hour of the night only made him colder than he already was. He hitched a blanket tighter round his shoulders. It would get colder still before the dawn.
However, he was ready. The wagons had been checked and double-checked. He had inspected the guards on them nearly every hour. If the Flemings were to steal from them tonight they would have to be invisible. Spare wheels and axles, extra draught animals, drivers, baggage guards, miles of rope, great buckets of grease – he did not see how he could have forgotten anything. Food, drink, rough bandages, leather for emergency tack – the baggage train was bursting with readiness, almost literally. It was ready to move at an hour’s notice.
The Last Conquest Page 38