The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

  Eustace of Boulogne edged up beside the Duke.

  ‘May I go with them, my lord? Turstin can carry this. He is burning to do it.’

  William glanced up at the holy banner. Turstin of Bec looked hopeful.

  ‘No. You follow me. Fitz, I stay with the reserves and watch from higher.’

  In the valley, Fulk swore bitterly to Florens.

  ‘So we attack, but we do not fling ourselves at them. Understand?’

  Florens nodded.

  Fulk looked across at the massed knights in the centre, and at the raised pennon of Sir Walter Giffard in their midst.

  ‘Time those glorified hunstmen showed their manhood.’

  Florens jerked a thumb towards a group of black-cowled figures up on Telham Hill.

  ‘Have you seen them?’

  Fulk spat. ‘The birds of prey! Relieve our souls of sin before battle, and relieve our bodies of valuables after. Blood and Hellfire – who would be a Christian!’

  Florens did not answer. It was at such times that Fulk made him feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Here they come,’ said Wilfrid.

  ‘Holy Mary!’ said Edwin. ‘Cavalry as well.’

  ‘A man on a horse is still only a man.’

  Edwin looked more closely at the approaching troops. The Norman horse in the centre were hanging back. Bowmen were running in front of them.

  ‘I see we are to be blessed with Norman arrows again,’ said Wilfrid. ‘Their right wing will hit our left first, long before the centre engages.’

  Edwin looked puzzled.

  ‘Are we left wing or centre?’ he asked.

  Wilfrid twitched his huge moustache. His eyes twinkled. ‘Never mind where you are standing, lad. Just watch what is coming for you. If it is an arrow, I should duck. If a spearman clambers over that shield wall there, I should have a poke at him. One thing – they can not throw arrows and spearmen at us at the same time unless they want to kill their own men.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Edwin was annoyed with himself for what he thought was a silly question.

  Wilfrid slapped him on the back. ‘Do what you did before, son. Pray hard, shove hard, and keep a spare eye in the back of your head.’

  In the next few minutes, Edwin did all of those things. Amid a nightmare of staring faces, foaming bridles, and screams from the pit of Hell, Edwin stabbed and lunged until he could barely hold the spear. He thought he unhorsed one man, and he drove another mount mad with repeated jabs in the haunches.

  Wilfrid roared and swung beside him, until a knight caught him a glancing blow with a sword on his left shoulder. Wilfrid let his axe arm fall for a moment as he gazed at the blood.

  The Norman, sensing victory, jerked his heels to get his horse round for the deathblow.

  Edwin saw the danger. He pounced on the axe left by the dead Eric. He wrenched it up, took it right back, and swung just as the Norman leaned over with sword arm high. He had barely noticed Edwin half hidden as he stooped.

  The blow glanced off the side of his helmet and fell on his right shoulder. Edwin had braced himself for the shock of impact, but the axe went clean through – chain mail, shield strap, arm and all. The sword clattered on timber stakes. The man fainted without a sound and disappeared from view.

  Edwin almost fainted himself.

  ‘Well done, lad,’ said Wilfrid, recovering himself. ‘Only a scratch, me. That is one I owe you.’

  Edwin nodded feebly.

  ‘God, they are breaking,’ said Wilfrid. ‘That was quick.’

  Edwin now had his hands on his knees in case he was sick.

  ‘Their whole right wing is breaking off,’ repeated Wilfrid. ‘God bless our fyrdmen and ploughboys. Ah – the dolts. The madmen!’

  Edwin looked up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘They are running out. After all we told them. Stop! Stop!’

  Edwin forgot to be sick and stood up to see. A section of the shield wall near the extreme left had opened, and men were streaming down the hill in the chase, yelling in triumph.

  Edwin suddenly felt a chill of horror. He was sure he had seen Godric. It was impossible, but he had seen Godric. It was difficult to mistake his great size. Worse, he was limping as if wounded, and he was following the pursuit down the hill. It looked like a hammer, of all things, in his hand. Dear God – a hammer!

  ‘They are lost. Lost. Dead men, all of them.’ Wilfrid continued to chant to himself.

  Earl Leofwine came along behind them.

  ‘Mend that gap!’ he bawled. ‘Close up . . . They will not be back. If you do not believe me, watch!’

  Leofwine swore non-stop. It was waste, senseless waste.

  Dietrich’s hands trembled as he held the metal cup. It rattled against his teeth. Water spilled down his jerkin. He held out the empty vessel to the two carriers without looking at them.

  ‘Did you see him? Did you see him?’

  Florens flopped to the ground. He had heard Dietrich tell it twice before since leaving the line.

  ‘It was when we broke off. We had everything under control. Even when they came out after us we were still retreating in good order. Rainald was out there holding us all together.’

  ‘Rainald is – was a fine soldier,’ said Florens.

  Dietrich glared wildly. ‘Yes – was! Why did that maniac single him out? He was the one who started it all. He was the one who broke out first. And why was he yelling Bloodeye’s name all the time?’

  ‘Perhaps he thought Rainald was Fulk. Rainald is – was very tall, just like Fulk. In helmet and jerkin it could be difficult to—’

  ‘Bah! Everyone knows Fulk is left-handed.’

  ‘It may not be common knowledge to the English,’ said Florens evenly.

  He caught the eye of two older soldiers, and motioned them forward either side of Dietrich.

  Dietrich could not stop talking. ‘He was laying about him enough as it was – with a hammer of all things. A smith’s hammer. Then he caught sight of Rainald and went crazy. There must have been five or six men between him and Rainald; he just swept them aside. I think three of them are dead, and the others can not count six good ribs between them.’ Dietrich wiped a hand across his forehead. ‘Rainald hardly had time to turn round. He had no idea what hit him.’ He gestured helplessly. His voice rose several tones. ‘It was unbelievable. His head – it simply disappeared into his shoulders.’

  ‘All right,’ said Florens, standing up. ‘Enough.’

  ‘It took six Saxons to drag him off up the hill. Practically carried him.’

  Florens whispered to the two men. ‘Get him up to the wagons and out of the way. Tie him to a wheel if necessary. He is no use here.’

  Florens gulped some water. Apart from the loss of Rainald and a handful of others, mostly at the hands of the crazed giant, the attack and the withdrawal had not gone too badly. In the event, the madman bursting through the shield wall had played into their hands. The hotheads who followed and overtook him had no idea what they were running into. Beaumont and the extra knights must have outnumbered them ten to one. They had been helpless – out in the open, in twos and threes, on foot, low down the hill – it was easier than pig-sticking.

  ‘There go the bows!’

  All eyes turned to watch the hissing flights against the shield wall. Florens was relieved. Dietrich – weak, puzzled and quarrelsome – was pulled away with a grip on each elbow and immediately forgotten.

  At the foot of the hill, Sir Walter Giffard took a tighter grip on his spear. He had watched the attack and withdrawal on the right. Montgomery had handled everything with his usual coolness and deliberation, and the mercenary infantry had proved to be their usual unreliable selves. He snorted. So it was up to him and the heavy knights of the centre after all.

  ‘They are going down behind the shields again,’ said one of his men. ‘Not a head in sight.’

  ‘Never fear, my lads,’ said Giffard. ‘When we have finished there will be no heads to put up afterwards.’
/>
  A noise that was half laugh and half cheer floated out on either side of him.

  Sir Walter flexed his toes and braced his legs once more against the stirrups. As soon as the bows were finished . . .

  Now was the time for the proper fighting. Not feeble pokes on the left from second-rate auxiliaries, or half-hearted attacks on the right led by beardless favourites like Beaumont or faithless villains like Bloodeye – all of them, be it noted, against greybeards or yokels.

  Now was the time for some real soldiers to show them how it should be done. And no more wary fencing on fringes. They were going straight for the middle, the very core of the enemy; they were going to hit the English right in the gut.

  ‘Heads up.’

  Edwin peered over the arrow-spiked shield wall. Holy Virgin! Every knight in Christendom must be out there. A forest of spears waved over them. Pennons fluttered at the lance head of every troop leader.

  Behind them he could see the banner of the Duke himself, though the white horse was gone. He glanced at Wilfrid, who answered his unspoken question.

  ‘He is there all right. If he had fallen, we should be toasting victory by now.’

  Edwin looked behind at the apple tree. The Dragon and the Fighting Man stood out against a blue sky. Harold strode up and down the rear of the line.

  ‘We are up here; he is down there.’

  On the left Leofwine was threatening to kill any man who called the charge.

  The sound of splashing reached them as a thousand hooves crossed the stream at the foot of Caldbec Hill. Edwin fancied he could hear the sound of jingling bridles, till it was overborne by the ever-increasing drumming of the mounting charge.

  The beat quickened. The front lines of the spear forest mysteriously shortened and disappeared, as they were lowered to point straight at the English array.

  Tops of helmets became visible, as knights leaned forward and urged their mounts up the slope. Right arms were raised to hold spears aloft, poised for the cast. Shouts, urgings, trumpet calls, swearwords, and battle cries grew and mingled into one gigantic surge of sound, that made their heads ring almost as the impact of attack made their weapons ring.

  The English housecarls rose to both challenges.

  There was a huge roar of, ‘Out! Out!’ The four-foot axes swung, and clove anything Norman that presented itself.

  Shields were dented or crushed like children’s toys. Chain mail parted like so much wool. Edwin saw one Norman head flying up in the air – someone had severed mail coif, neck, bone and all.

  The Normans had their successes too. The English lines were so densely packed that a spear entering over the shield wall could hardly miss. Men were flung backwards by the shock. They died with no time to show reaction to a shaft in the chest, throat, face . . . Many fell from a downward blow to the shoulder as the knights drew their swords and came in for the second onset.

  Men raved without their reason, and existed from second to second in an orgy of impact and a tempest of noise.

  It could not last.

  There came a moment when the knights pulled back to turn just a yard too far, a moment when the return to the assault was no longer a matter of blind, screaming instinct. There came a moment when they not merely saw, but took notice of the wild faces and wide mouths challenging them, when the crossing of the space between them became a matter of calculated chance.

  In their hesitation, they unconsciously backed their horses another yard, and another.

  Space allowed for the return of the intellect. Intellect reminded them of fatigue and of the danger of hesitation. Fatigue meant that another clash was impossible without rest and recovery. Hesitation provided the enemy with easy targets for a parting spear-cast.

  There was nothing for it but to back off and retire. Again, the trumpets only announced the obvious.

  The English watched them go, in a sweating, chest-heaving silence.

  Before they could get their breath back, the King’s brothers were bullying and hectoring.

  ‘Clear the dead! Fill the gaps! Get those shields up again. Rear ranks forward. Close up. Close up!’

  Gyrth and Leofwine shuffled the wings closer to the centre to make good the losses, and had more shields hastily put up to protect the flanks.

  When Edwin looked over his shoulder, the apple tree and the royal standards were nearer.

  Harold’s voice, though, was as strong and serene as ever. He came along behind the line again, breaking off shafts of arrows that stuck into his shield.

  ‘What did I tell you? We are up here; they are down there. You see? It works. Who will get tired first – the army that runs up and down hill, or the army that sits on its arse? I tell you, we are the only army in Christendom that has the enemy running both ways. Let us keep it like that.’

  There were a few laughs.

  Wilfrid put a massive arm round Edwin’s shoulders. ‘We are doing fine, lad; we are doing fine.’

  ‘Would my lord care for some refreshment?’

  ‘No! . . . Yes! Get something – anything. Use your sense, damn you. And hurry!’

  Geoffrey flopped back on his pillow of sheepskins. He knew he was being impossible.

  The whole day was impossible.

  A hundred times he had strained his ears.

  ‘Thinks he will hear his trumpets from here – seven miles away,’ whispered one servant to another outside his tent.

  ‘I can hear you,’ shouted Geoffrey. ‘Go away.’

  ‘I shall leave one sentry, my lord.’

  Geoffrey growled something unintelligible.

  A fat lot of good one sentry would be if the Saxons arrived. If it was a Saxon hand that pulled back his tent flap.

  So he could have seen his last dawn. Eaten his last good meal.

  Thierry had thought of that.

  Geoffrey sighed.

  Had he really been such a good lord? Oh, yes, they had made a fuss of him in the old days – ‘Master Geoffrey’ this and ‘Master Geoffrey’ that – blacksmith Lambert and Bodo the hayward and Bertha in her kitchen. And Ivo. Dear Ivo! Who growled and nagged; who cuffed him and beat him; who was never satisfied. But Ivo loved him; he was never in any doubt about that. It was easy when Father was alive, or when brother Mauger ran the castle at Montbrai.

  On his own in Coutances – a young and very unwilling bishop – it had been an uphill struggle from the outset. A newcomer, a nobody, in the councils of the Duke. Creating an episcopal household from nothing. Building a cathedral from the foundations up. In ever-increasing demand by the Duke at his military gatherings and on campaign. There was never enough time. He had never felt like a particularly good lord.

  He had certainly not been a particularly constant lover. He had wanted to be. Things just seemed to go against them. Sybil’s conscience had not helped. Should he have given it all up for her? Returned to a half-share in a petty knight’s fee in the Cotentin? Would that have made him a better partner for her? Could he really have undone the consecration?

  And now, Thierry was on his way with what might be his very last message. Would Sybil weep for him? He hoped so. Just a tear or two. She seemed better able than he to cope with the consequences of their decision.

  So here he was – a split man with a crozier in one hand and a mace in the other. Did he love his cathedral? Yes, of course he did – thought about it all the time. Did he think of himself as doing God’s holy work then? Hardly! He had simply done the next thing. To the best of his ability. He would say this for himself, though: he hated a half-done job. He liked efficiency for its own sake.

  He turned restively, and swore at the pain in his leg.

  And now he was unable to do his work efficiently. Unable to do anything but curse. Where did he wish to be now? With Sybil? In Coutances? Ha!

  Somewhere up on Senlac Hill, a spotty-faced Bishop of Bayeux was getting all the credit as the only fighting bishop in the army . . .

  William sipped his drink and listened to the casualty reports
from his contingent leaders.

  They could have been a lot worse. Most of his senior vassals were unhurt. There were few wounded men to crawl in the way of the next charge; most of those struck by a Saxon axe were very definitely dead.

  William flung the cup to a servant, and took the reins of his fresh horse.

  ‘We hit them again, only stronger. My brothers – bring your contingents from the left and join me. Giffard – we reverse the order. You act as reserve and I lead. It will give time for you to recover.’

  Giffard bitterly regretted his move to the rear, but his military experience told him the sense of it.

  ‘The same spacing, my lord?’

  ‘No. Our formation is too loose. It is not enough to go for the centre; we go for the centre of the centre. We try and punch a hole.’

  Fitzosbern grunted. So Geoffrey’s trumpets could prove their worth.

  He turned to the chief herald. ‘Pass the word. Close order. Very close order. Watch his Grace’s signal.’

  William addressed the cavalry commanders: ‘Fresh mounts. In position as soon as possible. No delay after the first arrow flights. They are having too much time to recover.’

  ‘Not easy, sir,’ said someone. ‘The bowmen have to retire through us. If you want us in close order, it will take even longer.’

  William nodded. ‘I agree. So this is what we do.’ He looked about him. ‘Where are those cursed sergeants?’

  The archer sergeants came puffing back from the top of Telham Hill.

  ‘Splendour of God!’ thundered William. ‘I told you to make haste.’

  ‘Sorry, my lord. It took time to convince Sir Baldwin. He found it hard to believe that you wanted a third issue so quickly.’

  As he spoke, and as William swore, the bowmen trotted past with bulging quivers.

  William pointed to the left flank. ‘Get them over there, as close to the English as you dare. Not in front of us. We must have a clear run in the centre. We can then begin to move as soon as you loose the last flight. It also helps you to follow the sun.’

  The chief sergeant looked puzzled. ‘How do we replenish, sir?’

  ‘The long way round. If this idea works, you may not be needed again.’