He hoped the two prisoners got back to their home, that the big one was able to save his woman. It would be only just; they were good folk, whose only crime was to be in the way of war.
How many times had he seen innocent people – struggling to be happy with their life in the tiny world in which God had imprisoned them, the tiny world that they had made rich with their love and their work – turned into shocked cripples or baffled scarecrows by the blind irruption of war? Small wonder they hoped for mercy from God; they rarely received it from the men who broke in.
And many of the men who broke in were just as lost in their way – lonely, far from their own tiny world, frightened of dying, afraid of fear itself. Taillefer knew; he had seen their faces gazing up at his in the light of a thousand fires. His own craft existed to try to take away some of that fear and loneliness. When they teased him with cowardice they were only hiding the fear of showing their own.
When they drank and talked to each other, they boasted of past exploits. They relived the glory. If it did not exist, they created it. When they listened to Taillefer in the firelight, their faces told a different story – silent, intent, wistful, eager, sad, exultant by turns. They became what they really were – worried, diffident, homesick young men.
Perhaps this truth was the mainspring of Taillefer’s devotion to his craft. Men teased him with being a word-wizard, a teller of tall tales, a spinner of stories. Such a man, who could never say a straight sentence – how could he be relied upon? What did he know of real life, of the world of truth?
Taillefer smiled sadly to himself. He knew the truth. He saw it every time he told a story. God had given him this gift of word magic. He poured fable into men’s ears, but he saw truth come out of men’s eyes.
No written book could ever reproduce such a spell as he wove. No wonder Jesus had been a talker, not a writer.
Taillefer’s eyes gleamed – to share with Our Lord such a gift for moving men.
He sighed. How awful then that such men should, on the morrow, be turned by war into paralysed, self-soiled cowards, or screaming lumps of writhing flesh, or slavering monsters of demonic energy.
It would be his fate to witness it yet again. Later he would have to spin his story about this battle, and tell it before the next battle. He would have to grovel in the mud of reality to find brightly coloured threads to weave into a tapestry of epic and glory. And why? To induce men to leap with joy into the mud of reality once more when the trumpets blared again.
He coughed, wiped his mouth, and replaced his damp kerchief.
Or perhaps not.
Further along the wagon, curled tensely in his blanket, and trying to command sleep, Gilbert resolved that tomorrow – tomorrow of all days – he would be a model of caution and correctness. He would be sensible, he would follow orders, he would remember all that Ralph had taught him. He would push his private miseries to the back of his mind; only the most observant would notice the occasional flicker of pain that would pass across his impassive face.
Not that he intended to go unnoticed – far from it. He would distinguish himself, though, not by rash indiscretion but by his superb example of duty and obedient service. His serene courage would shine as a beacon to frightened archers and unsteady infantry, as an example to hesitant horsemen. Not only would Ralph commend him; Fitzosbern could not but notice him, even perhaps the Duke . . .
‘Arise, Sir Gilbert of Avranches.’
A battlefield investiture. It did happen sometimes, so they said.
There would be no more ‘Master Senlac’ jibes then, no more sniggers about his capture. And if anyone dared to refer to Adele in a disrespectul way, he would call them out to single combat – assuming of course that they were of similar knightly standing to himself.
How proud his father amd mother would be. How Mahaut would cry! No more back-breaking toil for them. Land and an inheritance for baby Hugh. And for the new son. Time enough to see to Edwin the ravisher after the battle – assuming he had survived (being a cowardly seducer, he probably would). Much more dignifed too. One might even take him through the courts, as befitted the new status. It would display to the Saxons that their new Norman masters had proper respect for the law. It would make Adele respect him more.
His hand went to his neck for the crucifix she had given him. It was not there. He groped feverishly.
When had he lost it? In the ravine? When he was knocked off his horse by the tree? At the mill when they stripped and washed him? He grimaced, and almost whimpered in his mortification.
He felt in the straw around his blanket, more in the need to do something than in any real hope of finding it . . .
Of course! When he lay in the grass, waiting to die. It must be still there. He cursed.
Sandor heard him, and was instantly awake.
‘You have a thing wrong?’ he whispered.
Gilbert told him.
Sandor reached out and held his hand. ‘Have no fear. You have the love of friends, and God is love.’
Gilbert swallowed a lump in his throat. ‘Thank you, Sandor. All the same . . .’
Sandor nudged the blanket under which Gilbert’s hauberk nestled, away from damp night air.
‘You have this too.’
Gilbert put his hand on it, and heard the slight, muffled jingle. ‘I know, but—’
‘One moment.’
He heard Sandor moving. Then something was pressed into his hand.
‘Sandor, it is a cross.’
‘Is what you want, yes?’
‘But I could not take yours.’
‘No worry. I have two.’
‘Sandor?’
‘Yes?’
‘You are a liar.’
‘Devilish good liar too. Better than you think. But do not worry for me. I have many old Magyar gods for my company. They follow me across the plains from far, far east.’
‘Then why do you have this cross?’
‘Many gods better than few. Some could forget a man. Gods are only human.’
‘But a crucifix?’
‘A man collects many things to help through his life – or his death.’
There was a pause.
‘Sandor?’
‘Yes?’
‘That ivory horn of yours. Where did it come from?’
‘Long story. Sleepy wagon before battle is not a good time. Some day I play it for thee.’
‘You mean it sounds too?’
‘Is first use. Drinking is only good idea after.’
‘But how—’
A hand closed over Gilbert’s mouth.
‘My friend, you put a stopper in a hole to stop things running out when not needed. Now, sleep!’
‘Yes. Sorry. Good night, Sandor.’
‘Good night, my friend.’
Gilbert wriggled into a more comfortable position.
Great Jesus! If only Sandor did not smell so much.
The dried vomit odour still clung to his clothes. The greedy little goblin had deliberately made himself sick twice that evening. It was revolting.
‘The food is there, my friend,’ Sandor had said, waving a greasy bone in the air. ‘We must not waste it. When shall we eat like this again?’
So Sandor had eaten and eaten as if his life depended on it. The blood from half-cooked meat ran down his chin.
Gilbert saw him staggering from the fire to the wagon, and suddenly realised that he was drunk with food.
Gilbert shut his eyes, and screwed up his face again as Sandor tensed himself and broke wind . . .
Sandor grimaced. Tomorrow, all his babies, his beloved horses, went to war.
What protection were they going to get from the Christian god – that humble, dead carpenter? Sandor fingered the jade talisman that hung on a horsehair lanyard round his neck. It was smooth after many fondlings from many generations during many journeys over many miles across the great plains and steppes to the very edge of the world.
On the other hand, Taillefer seemed
to think highly of that carpenter, and Taillefer was a man of much wisdom, a man who understood men’s hearts.
Sandor put a hand into his pocket, and found his little wooden crucifix, given him by Alexius, his horse-teacher.
No harm in being on the safe side. Whichever god was stronger would know that the other was weaker, and so would not be angry or jealous.
Even so, fighting in battle protected by a god of love? Risky. And struggling to seize from its guardians the top of a hill where a lonely tree might harbour angry spirits? Risky too . . .
Ralph lay on his side and listened to Bruno’s snoring. How annoying and reassuring that noise was, all at the same time. Bruno could be dull; he was taciturn and inclined to shortness of temper. The great slab of a face rarely creased into a full smile.
He could be clumsy and awkward, the common fault of the tall, gangling man. When he was off horseback, there seemed to be simply too much of him.
Ralph smiled wryly. In over ten years of close associaton, Bruno had hardly uttered a score of words about himself. He had not referred to father, mother, wife, or family. He had betrayed no worries, confessed to no sins or regrets, admitted no aspirations. His friendship was undemanding and undemonstrative. Ralph could count on one hand the number of times Bruno had shown anything approaching depth of feeling in his direction. After ten full seasons of campaigning, Ralph knew no more about Bruno than he had at the outset.
The only thing he had seen him show affection for was his horse, Sorrel. The swelling on the leg had not completely disappeared, despite Sandor’s best attention. Bruno would have a difficult decision to make in the morning. He would make it on his own, without fuss. Ralph had long since learned not to feel excluded. Bruno would not have seen it like that; he would simply decide that Sorrel was his worry, not to be inflicted on others, certainly not on those close to him. Being excluded, in fact, was a sort of compliment.
However, Bruno had one priceless gift: he was totally dependable. Ralph could trust him with his life – indeed had done so more than once. Bruno had placed the same confidence in him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, with a readiness and lack of fuss that were almost unnerving. Ralph could think of no man he would rather have at his side tomorrow than the man who was snoring beside him tonight.
Gilbert? Ah, that was different. You saw nothing of Bruno’s heart; you saw all of Gilbert’s. He wore it on his face as if someone had painted it there. It was both touching and flattering to have a lad who was so keen to learn, so bitter about his mistakes, so desperate to improve. Loyalty shone out of his eyes. He watched as a dog watches his master, rejoicing at his pleasure, crushed at his censure, glancing warily for signs of returning favour. Being close to Gilbert was like carrying a mirror round with you.
‘He wants to see admiration in your eyes.’ Taillefer.
‘The boy is a loser.’ Bruno.
Ralph grimaced.
Taillefer said he was too hard; Bruno said he was too soft.
‘He could become a winner.’ Taillefer.
‘Michael is dead.’ Bruno.
Ralph sighed.
They were both right. If he, Ralph, did not show some favour, however small, the boy’s heart would break, and Ralph would lose him. If he did not put some iron into him, he would make one mistake too many. Only a matter of time. And Ralph would lose him again.
If he confounded Taillefer and Bruno, and made a man of Gilbert, that would kill the part of him that was Michael, and Ralph would lose him a third time.
Ralph turned over and tried to command sleep. He was looking all round a problem again. Seeing too much.
It would be the same with the battle tomorrow. The Duke would keep them free from the fighting, for courier work and for maintaining contact with a retreating enemy. So he and Bruno could watch every move from a safe distance, like a third party watching a game of chess. He could study and appraise like . . . like God Himself. With little or no involvement. As always.
Nor could he get excited about the prospect of spoils in England. He had never joined in the eager campfire conversations, when men were drooling over the rumours of loot and land beyond flash-eyed greed. England did not attract him as a country. Neither did its weather. Neither did the picture of himself as a settled man.
So he would probably do what he usually did – move. So much for the future.
The morrow? There seemed little cause for nerves, at any rate not on his own account. Perhaps not on Gilbert’s either, if God could be relied upon to toss a tiny piece of His much-prayed-for Divine favour in their direction.
As scouts they would be out of the way, so Gilbert would not be allowed to fling himself dramatically at the English host in the first onset. A host of – what was it? – ‘fifty thousand men’?
Where did the boy get his figures from? There were probably not that many able-bodied men in the whole of Normandy.
However, the battle would take his mind off his precious honour for a few hours. If he survived, it would be ten to one that the Saxon who had got in first with his wife would be dead, so the sooner he went home and forgot about the whole business, the happier he would be. Pretty, plump little thing she was, too. A lusty son and another on the way. He should think himself lucky. Perhaps it would be that which would really make a man of him.
And if it meant that Michael was dead and buried, once and for all? Well, perhaps he, Ralph of Gisors, should think himself lucky too.
So all Gilbert had to do was get through the day without doing anything stupid . . .
Ralph crossed himself and shut his eyes.
14 October
‘The gleam of Durendal’
‘God’s Face, what an hour to move an army!’
A Norman knight spat.
Sir Roger of Montgomery grinned to himself in the dark. The men were grumbling well this morning – a good sign. All the grooms, valets and servants had turned out of sleep at the first order and worked with a will – another good sign.
Sir Roger looked towards a faint glow announcing the coming dawn. Where would he be this time tomorrow, he wondered.
He crossed himself, took the reins from his chief groom, and mounted. It was time to bring his contingent to the assembly point. Scouts had been out yet again since midnight. The bowmen were already on the march, and the infantry would be starting about now.
He looked at the huge dark shadow that he knew represented the armed knights he had brought to the Duke’s army. This was his personal contribution, paid for out of his own pocket – already half-drained by Mabel’s extravagances. He would command many more than this in the coming battle, but these men stood for his own fief, his most intimate pride and honour. With them, he was fulfilling his promises made at the councils of Lillebonne and Bonneville and Caen. If his men did what they were trained for; if they received the Divine Grace they had been praying for; if they came through the dangers of the day they had been waiting for – the rewards were going to be enormous, greater than a man’s slit-eyed visions of greed.
He heard the reassuring chink of mail and the jingle of harness and the slap of leather.
‘Let us be on our way.’
A man bit into an apple. The chopping noise sounded unnaturally loud.
‘Ready when you are, Sir Roger.’
On their way to the assembly point, they passed Baldwin’s baggage wagons. A veritable herd of spare draught oxen stood patiently tethered, while a small army of drivers, stable lads, potboys, and carriers rushed about under the orders of Baldwin’s staff.
Montgomery paid Baldwin a silent compliment. Baldwin was a terrible old woman, but his wagons would reach the field, which was more than happened in some armies. The fighting men would not be gasping with thirst and forced to break off the engagement, or driven to forage for food after the battle. Nor would they go short of spare arrows or spears.
A storm of neighing told Montgomery that the column of war mounts was also nearby. The bandy little Hungarian knew h
is job too. Hardly a single broken leg on the crossing. And nearly all mounts kept in fine fettle since. Plenty of fodder too – thanks once more to Baldwin. The thought occurred that, victory or no victory, breeders like Sir Walter Giffard had already made a fortune out of the expedition.
Near the castle, more wagons were being loaded with the Duke’s tent and personal gear. One had to admire the man for his supreme confidence. Heaven help the steward who did not have his Grace’s frugal comforts immediately on hand when he had won the battle.
Montgomery remembered the story that was already common talk in the army about the Channel crossing. According to the usual version, the Duke’s own ship had sailed out of sight of the others, despite its warning lantern at the masthead. Early dawn had found it alone off the English coast with not a friendly sail in sight. The Duke told his staff to stop fussing and to get on with serving his breakfast. The other ships duly caught up. It was easy to make light of it afterwards, but it had been a nasty moment, and the Duke had not turned a hair.
Sir Roger could think of no man he would rather have leading him on the day – not Harold, not Hardrada, not the fabled Guiscard. He remembered the glance of smug confidence that Walter Giffard had flashed to him the night before.
At that moment Sir Walter himself loomed out of the shadows and greeted him.
‘Clear night. Should be a good day.’
‘I hope so, Walter. Where is the Duke?’
‘Mass, would you believe it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was there. Odo was officiating – of course. Full pontificals. At this hour!’
Montgomery smiled. ‘So you did go to confession after all.’
Giffard pretended he had not heard.
‘And do you know – the reprobate was wearing mail under his bishop’s robes. You could hear it. Truly the most convenient consciences of all reside with the princes of the Church.’
‘Just so long as they use a mace and not a sword. You know what it says.’
Giffard grunted. ‘Yes. Smash a man’s head in; that is God’s holy work. Cut him down or run him through, and you have committed mortal sin. If that is theology, I am glad I am a soldier.’
The Last Conquest Page 40