The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

Gilbert, only a yard too far to help, turned his head in revulsion.

  More Normans poured past him and overwhelmed the housecarl. After a brief hesitation and a last sickened glance at Bruno’s headless body, Gilbert spurred again and followed.

  One of the English standards swayed and fell. The last defenders of the tree died where they stood, but took one more Norman with them.

  Harold stood alone against the trunk, his arms at his sides, his axe propped against his thigh.

  The four remaining Normans paused. Harold raised his head. His face was running red, staining his moustache.

  He fumbled for the handle of his axe, but was barely able to lift it. He stepped forward to challenge, and collapsed to his knees.

  Capra and Pomeroy raised their swords and yelled in fury. Giffard dug his spurs, but Montgomery caught his bridle.

  ‘No, Walter. No honour lies there. Beaumont would not regard you for that.’

  When Gilbert arrived he saw two men stabbing and hacking like madmen at something on the ground. One of them was so possessed that he was also slashing indiscriminately at the tree.

  Eustace of Boulogne snatched the Dragon standard and held it aloft, and a scattering of wild-faced horsemen reined in around him to form an escort.

  Crazed with elation, Gilbert made his way through piles of dead to join them. Curiosity took him past the apple tree. He looked down to see what it was that they— and nearly vomited where he sat.

  Were it not for a bloodstained bandage, a dented helmet, and shreds of wet mail, he would barely have recognised it as a body.

  Edwin put his hands under Wilfrid’s armpits and heaved. The strength was not there.

  ‘You must get up. Help me. Up, man!’

  Wilfrid, his helmet gone, shook his head dizzily. His right arm hung useless. His axe was broken.

  ‘I should die here. With my king.’

  Edwin tried to rouse him by shouting in his ear. ‘The King is dead. The standards are gone. It is all over.’

  Wilfrid only half heard him. He looked round for a weapon.

  ‘I must stand in front of my king. It is my duty.’

  Edwin shook him. ‘Wilfrid! The King is dead. The Normans are all round the tree. The Duke’s banner is there. They are all cheering. Listen.’

  A steadily swelling press of Normans and Frenchmen jostled one another around the apple tree. In the centre, William held his sword high. Turstin of Bec held aloft the Papal banner and Eustace waved the Wessex Dragon. There was a great shouting. Many were weeping; some were crying aloud.

  ‘See, Wilfrid. They are not even bothering to fight us now. We are too few. You must get up. Do you want to wait for the scavengers to come in the evening and cut your throat?’

  Wilfrid screwed up his eyes against the setting sun, then groped for a spear.

  ‘I am a housecarl,’ he mumbled.

  Edwin came round in front of him, stooped, and slapped him hard across the face.

  ‘Wilfrid, the King is dead. The cause is dead. Remember what you said. Even you have no duty now.’

  Wilfrid blinked. Edwin tried another idea.

  ‘Besides, I need you. You said you owed me something.’

  Wilfrid put out his unbroken arm. Edwin heaved and hoisted. Wilfrid used the spear to help his twisted ankle. Edwin tugged anxiously.

  ‘Hurry. Before they begin a pursuit. Back to the ravine. Everyone is going there. The Normans will find it dangerous to follow us there.’

  Wilfrid’s mind began to work clearly again.

  A deep ravine . . . the last thing those bastards would expect on a pursuit would be an ambush . . .

  Gilbert sheathed his sword, took off his helmet, and shook his head in relief. He looked round for someone he knew; he was too full to keep it all to himself.

  Kicking his steaming horse, he pushed his way out of the cheering, chanting crowd and picked a path down the hill again. Behind him he could hear Eustace, still wild with excitement, calling for volunteers for the pursuit.

  ‘On, on, on! Who is with me?’

  Gilbert came upon Ralph faster than he had expected, and reined in violently.

  ‘Just listen to that!’ he shouted, gesturing with the hand that held the helmet. ‘The Duke has turned them loose.’

  Ralph made no move. ‘I hear it.’

  Gilbert saw the expression on his face, and tried to calm down.

  ‘Did you – did you see?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gilbert spread his hands. ‘There was nothing I could do. He went down so fast, and that Saxon was on him before I could—’

  ‘Go away.’

  Gilbert blinked. ‘Ralph, I said I am sorry. I was just too far. He was dead before—’

  ‘Go away from me.’

  Gilbert frowned. ‘Why was he trying to stop me? We broke through. We reached the standards. I was at the tree itself. Are you not pleased?’

  Ralph swore. ‘What do I care about you? Or your stinking standards? Bruno is dead.’

  Gilbert swallowed. ‘I know, and I am sorry. Really I am. But I told you—’

  ‘And he died saving your life.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How long would you have survived with so little battle experience? He could see that. You were blind to everything. It was your precious honour that nearly did for the army. Now it is your filthy little bit of glory that has done for Bruno.’

  Gilbert went pale. Ralph fought to keep control.

  ‘Now you strut among the bodies and boast of victory. And my friend Bruno is dead. And you ask me to cheer. Do you understand? My friend is dead – my friend. Not my kennel boy, my novice, my substitute brother. My friend.’ His voice broke completely. ‘Go and get your glory. Go anywhere. Only get out of my sight!’

  Gilbert, his face haggard, flung down his helmet and pulled out his sword. He wrenched his horse’s head round and kicked it into action once more. Back up the hill, after Eustace and his yelling companions.

  Already they were beyond the summit and galloping down the northern slope towards the forest, hacking in the half-darkness at anything that showed itself in front of them.

  ‘Now!’

  The archer let fly, and struck the leading Norman in the neck. He fell into the brambles on the lip of the ravine. He was the lucky one.

  His companions plunged yelling into a void. The wild neighing of terrified horses, and the crashing and thudding of bodies, made a sound as fearsome as that of the battle itself.

  Horses floundered with smashed legs, and rolled on screaming men who were writhing with broken backs. Behind them the second wave of pursuers crashed through undergrowth, toppled over the edge, and fell on to them.

  ‘Ambush!’

  In the panic and shadows, survivors struck blindly at each other.

  Above, on the rim, a third group of pursuers saw the accident, and swung to the left.

  ‘Here! Here is a way!’

  The leaders found the old causeway and thundered on to it.

  Under their combined weight and impact, the ancient structure crumbled like dry sand. Amid roars of bafflement and fear, more bodies were hurled into the seething mass at the bottom of the ravine, followed and smothered by cascades of earth and stones.

  Bellowing at the top of their voices, Saxons leaped onto riders and mounts alike, clawing at them with their bare hands. Owen the archer fired as fast as he could at the screaming shadows below. Aim was barely necessary.

  Wilfrid limped about, stabbing at fallen, winded men with his spear in one good hand. He was roaring and swearing as loudly as ever.

  Edwin snatched a sword from a dying Frenchman, and slashed at horses’ legs. Eight hours ago, he could never have brought himself to consider it.

  The survivors were totally unnerved. In the fading light, the last thing they had expected was resistance. Few were wearing helmets; some had slipped off their mail coifs and rode bareheaded.

  They shouted and swore and struck at anything moving in front of them, fo
rgetting all formation, skill, and training. One dismounted knight, bellowing with rage, was pulling at a man’s hair.

  The English, with the chance of one last blow at the enemy they had withstood so well all day, fought with bitter strength.

  Eustace of Boulogne snatched at a stray bridle, flung himself into the saddle, and bawled, ‘Back! Back! It is a trap. It is their reinforcements. Get back!’

  He kicked the terrified horse towards the other end of the ravine, away from the crumbling causeway and the churning mass of tumbled bodies. Other Normans staggered after him. A few tried to claw their way up the side of the ravine down which they had fallen.

  Jubilant fyrdmen, growling through bared teeth, ran and clambered after them. They hauled on thrashing legs, tore away earth-filled fingernails, and flung screaming bodies on to the thudding billhooks below.

  Eustace, sweating and panting, picked his way out of the mouth of the ravine to the east, swung round to the south, and headed back to the battlefield. He ran into the Duke himself, who was leading more men in the pursuit.

  ‘Get back, sir, get back! It is a trap!’

  Behind him, a bristling housecarl swung a stick with a stone fitted on the end. It was a long shot, but he had nothing to lose and it was his last chance.

  The weapon struck Eustace squarely between the shoulder blades as he raised his arm to point to the ravine. The thud was clearly audible. Blood poured from his nose and mouth.

  The Duke caught him as he fell forward, splattering blood over the mail on his forearms.

  ‘Take him, you two. The rest – follow me. This way – to the east. We find a way to outflank them. Come!’

  In the ravine’s shadows, Wilfrid put his arm on the archer’s shoulder.

  ‘Well, you struck the first blow, and now you have helped us to strike the last. Not a bad day’s work, eh?’

  Owen nodded wearily.

  Behind them the Saxons resumed their retreat. The sheepman paused to pick up a severed axe-head, then heaved himself on to a riderless horse, wincing as his wounded foot found the stirrups. They faded into the evening murk.

  Edwin suddenly heard a crashing sound. He looked up. Another horse and rider were falling down. The man was flung free, and came sliding and tumbling towards him. The thong on his wrist snapped, and his sword flickered away. Brambles wrenched at his mail coif; he wore no helmet.

  Wilfrid limped up behind Edwin as the body rolled free. The Norman was clearly terrified and half winded.

  Edwin stepped forward and lifted his sword. The Norman pulled out a knife. Their eyes met.

  ‘Gilbert!’

  ‘You!’

  ‘Finish him, man. Finish him!’

  Wilfrid pushed past and thrust straight into Gilbert’s stomach. Because the spear was in his left hand it had not gone in as far as Wilfrid had hoped. He wrenched it out and poised it again.

  ‘No, Wilfrid, no! He is my friend.’

  Wilfrid stared in disbelief, but allowed Edwin to push down the spear.

  ‘Help me, Wilfrid. Get him hidden, in case our men come back again.’

  Wilfrid bent unwillingly. Gilbert made no protest or sound. ‘’Tis we who will be hiding soon, I think. The next men down here will be Normans.’

  While they laid Gilbert as comfortably as possible, they heard other riders picking their way down the wreckage of the collapsed causeway.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Wilfrid. ‘And my spear is out there, thanks to you.’

  ‘Sssh!’ said Edwin. ‘He is calling.’

  Edwin listened, grimacing at Wilfrid to stop growling.

  ‘Gilbert! Gilbert!’

  ‘It is Ralph,’ said Gilbert softly, through pain-closed eyes. ‘The senior scout – remember?’

  Edwin nodded.

  Wilfrid frowned. ‘How do you come to know half the Norman army?’

  Edwin did not answer. He burst out from the bushes.

  ‘Ralph! Sandor! It is Edwin, remember? Gilbert is wounded. Here.’

  Ralph came warily forward. He stopped when he saw Wilfrid’s height loom up behind Edwin.

  ‘It is all right,’ said Edwin. ‘He will not fight.’

  Ralph looked at Wilfrid’s twitching hand.

  ‘Have you told him that?’

  ‘What are you doing speaking French?’ demanded Wilfrid. ‘What is going on?’

  ‘Wilfrid, trust me, please. I have not failed you all day, have I?’

  ‘We have been killing Normans all day. Why stop now?’

  ‘It is a long story,’ said Edwin. ‘But I know these men. There is an understanding between us.’

  ‘He says the truth,’ Sandor said in English. ‘We know him. We are alone. We have no cause to fight now.’ He held his open palms wide.

  Wilfrid stared at each in turn, then spat.

  ‘Talk then. I shall keep watch. But first, get him to the top of the bank, in case they come again.’ He pointed to the higher, northern end of the ravine. ‘They will not get up there.’

  Gilbert barely made a sound as they struggled up the steep slope with him, slipping on leaf mould and dragging whole nets of brambles after them.

  At the top, they kneeled and wheezed and wiped the sweat from their faces.

  Gilbert’s hands, folded across his stomach, were covered in blood. Ralph pulled them gently away and peered.

  ‘I am sorry about the hauberk,’ said Gilbert.

  ‘I am sorry too,’ said Ralph, ‘for what I said.’

  ‘There is no need. I understand.’

  Ralph dared not look Gilbert in the face. The wound gaped. The boy was losing blood fast.

  Ralph tried delicately to remove fractured rings of mail. Sandor produced from nowhere a pad of cloth. While Ralph fumbled to stop the flow, Gilbert looked at the little Magyar.

  ‘I did not have the good luck here then – once again.’

  Sandor tried to smile.

  ‘The dark, you see,’ said Gilbert. ‘I misjudged. I always seem to misjudge.’

  A whole flight of significant glances passed between all three.

  ‘Is battle usually like that?’ said Gilbert at last.

  ‘It was a very big battle,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Did I do well?’ said Gilbert.

  Ralph looked down at the pale face, the bloodied hands, the leggings torn and muddy from the fall. He tried to push Bruno’s familiar words away.

  Sandor nudged him.

  ‘You did very well,’ said Ralph.

  Sandor nudged him again.

  ‘I – I am proud of you.’

  Another nudge.

  ‘I shall tell the Duke, and Fitzosbern. Even Odo, if you like.’

  Gilbert smiled. ‘No more “Master Senlac”, eh?’

  ‘No more “Master Senlac”.’

  ‘Will you tell my father?’

  ‘I shall make your father proud of you too.’

  ‘Ah! If you could do that . . .’

  Gilbert tried to reach inside his hauberk. ‘The cross, Sandor. I want you to have it back.’

  Sandor held up his hand. ‘Not now. You keep it for a time. You will rest now.’

  Gilbert shook his head. ‘Sandor – this time only, you are a bad liar.’

  Sandor looked at Ralph across Gilbert. Ralph leaned down.

  ‘Do you have a message for Adele?’

  ‘Yes – but Edwin must take it. Bring him.’

  Ralph whispered to Edwin, ‘Whatever he says, pretend you understand.’

  Edwin came and crouched down. Gilbert’s voice was weakening.

  ‘When I came to England I wanted to find you and kill you. But now – it has all come out different.’

  Edwin looked up at Ralph, who frowned a fierce message.

  ‘I am glad of that,’ said Edwin.

  ‘I called my first son Hugh, after my father. Adele will soon have another son. I want him called after your father. What is his name?’

  Edwin looked baffled, but answered. ‘Edward.’

  �
��A fine name. So be it.’

  Edwin blinked. ‘So be it.’

  ‘I am sorry about Berry,’ murmured Gilbert.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Gilbert squeezed his hand. ‘For us both to love so many of the same things – we must be truly friends, eh?’

  Edwin nodded, tight-lipped, then lowered his head.

  When he looked up again, Ralph was kissing Gilbert’s brow.

  ‘What was he talking about?’ said Edwin.

  Ralph and Sandor looked at each other. They agreed without speaking.

  ‘He had fancies,’ said Ralph at last. ‘We never understood them. Now he is at peace. Let us leave it at that.’

  Wilfrid struggled up beside them, limping and puffing.

  ‘Many horsemen,’ he said.

  They crouched in silence while they went by. It was impossible now to make out faces in the shadows at the foot of the ravine. Ralph thought he heard the Duke’s voice.

  ‘God’s Breath,’ he muttered. ‘That man is everywhere.’

  The Duke surveyed the carnage.

  ‘The birds have flown. Come.’ The sound of milling hooves, then the Duke’s voice again. ‘Call off the pursuit. Tomorrow we chase in earnest – and in safety.’

  When they had gone, Wilfrid gestured awkwardly at Gilbert.

  ‘I remember him now – the one we captured. I am sorry. I did not know.’

  ‘You could not help it,’ said Edwin, wiping his cheek with a thumb.

  Everyone stood up. Wilfrid, with his bruised head, his bad arm, his weak ankle, and blood, it seemed, everywhere – Wilfrid dominated by his sheer presence.

  ‘Tell him,’ said Ralph. ‘Tell him he fought a good fight. I am proud to have had such an enemy.’

  While Edwin translated, Ralph held out his hand.

  Wilfrid bowed with great dignity, and apologetically put out his left hand, which Ralph gripped firmly.

  ‘Tell him,’ said Wilfrid, ‘I am sorry about his young brother.’

  Edwin translated again.

  Ralph looked down at Gilbert, and heaved a great sigh. ‘My brother is dead.’

  Sandor turned to Wilfrid. ‘Hide here until the Duke goes back and makes his camp. The women will come soon and so will darkness. Then it will be safe to move.’

  ‘We shall make our way well enough,’ said Wilfrid gruffly.

  ‘I can not go with you,’ said Edwin. ‘I have another errand first.’