The Last Conquest (15 page)

Berry stopped, turned, and wagged his tail. It was not a morning for moping. Well, perhaps even Aud would appreciate the mushrooms he had picked.

‘
Ite, missa est
.’

The ragged little congregation stood back to let the Duke leave first. Breath hung steamily in the dawn air. Geoffrey de Montbrai, Bishop of Coutances, had seldom felt so naked in front of an
altar. There was little of the building visible beyond a few corner posts; not even beams and joists for a roof. Ranulf did not put chapels in outer baileys very high on his current list of
priorities.

Two shivering chaplains helped him off with the episcopal robes. A servant fastened a long winter cloak round his shoulders and took the robes away for safe storage. The freezing faithful few
kneeled at their final prayers, lips trembling and teeth chattering. The numbers would steadily increase as the battle approached. It would take a small regiment of priests to hear confessions on
the battle eve.

Geoffrey looked over the hunched shoulders towards the two timbers that marked the doorway. How long would it be before he said Mass in a complete chapel, with a proper altar – not the
Duke’s portable box of relics? Would it ever be built? Would these defiant, lonely timbers one day soon be crackling in flames before a jeering Saxon army while daring, tense-jawed looters
ransacked the reliquary for jewelled settings of the bones?

Geoffrey pulled the cloak about himself. No more thoughts like that. They always crept in with the early chills of dawn, stiff joints and throats of leather. He should know better.

The Duke was already surrounded by a small knot of officers and servants, and was issuing commands in his usual brusque way. Fitzosbern and Baldwin were passing them on to subordinates.

‘Ah, Coutances,’ he said, when Geoffrey joined them. ‘Get that man of yours.’

‘Thierry, my lord?’

‘Yes. I have some messages for him.’

It was typical of William’s sharp, darting eyes that, despite the poor light, he had recognised Thierry among the bowed heads of the congregation.

Geoffrey had been surprised to come across Thierry’s upturned face when he came forward to administer the Host.

Now he grabbed him as he rose from genuflection.

‘What are you doing here? You did not come to confession.’

Thierry looked shamefaced. ‘Your Grace will forgive, I am sure. I went to my lord Odo.’

He saw the immediate look of disapproval that appeared on Geoffrey’s dark face.

‘But you know all my sins already, my lord – and so well. I thought, if I confessed them to his Grace of Bayeux, it would somehow make it sound more – well, more
contrite.’

Geoffrey growled. ‘And you could avoid my lord Odo afterwards, whereas you could not avoid me. I see.’

‘A state of grace before a journey, my lord. Would you deny me that?’

‘And you have fasted since midnight? I do not believe it.’

Thierry spread his hands. ‘It gives me no pleasure to say it, my lord. But consider what lies ahead of me. If I had eaten, I should only bring it all up within half an hour of
sailing.’

Thierry was never stuck for an answer.

‘Come,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The Duke wishes to see you.’

It was lucky for Thierry that his memory made up for the sins of his appetite. He listened with overhung brows to what William had to say.

Geoffrey stood apart, but watched. He knew the Duke’s messages were likely to be largely for the lady Matilda, who was rumoured to be coming to the very port of St Valéry, so as to
be able to hear the news at the first opportunity.

The army liked Matilda. She was tough, resilient, and did not suffer from the vapours so often attributed to ladies of noble birth. She mixed well, had a good sense of humour, and was not
shocked by camp language. She was the perfect partner for the Bastard. She did not flatter, she did not whine, and she was no shrinking violet. Their domestic disagreements were loud, famous, and
not infrequent. She shouted things to his face that senior vassals trembled even to think, never mind utter. It was clear to everybody that they were made for each other.

When William had finished, Baldwin grabbed Thierry’s arm. ‘Make sure you add my own good wishes to my lady,’ he said.

Thierry ducked his head. ‘And the lady Albreda, my lord?’

‘What? Oh, yes – her too.’

Thierry threw a furtive glance at Geoffrey. It was common knowledge that there was genuine friendship between Baldwin and Matilda, and that Baldwin only tolerated Albreda. He had married her
only on the Duke’s insistence, and, having done his duty by fathering a son or two, had been content to let her lord it at Brionne while he went on summer campaigning.

He had long ago reached the conclusion that, all things considered, desire was a troublesome interruption to the steady tenor of a well-ordered life. He did not enjoy the usual boasting that
occurred when women were discussed, and he did not initiate vulgar conversation. Indeed, his lack of interest in the opposite sex had occasioned much camp humour.

Once Agnes had entered a convent, he had not talked intimately with anyone. Only Matilda had come near him. Despite her teasing – ‘Baldwin, why are you so old?’ – she had
become genuinely fond of him, and he felt the same towards her.

Outside soldiering, his main interest was his precious monastery at Bec. He had spent some time in one as a boy, and had learned to read there, even write a little. He found comfort in the daily
round of a holy house, in the chapel bell ringing, endlessly, the hours of Divine Office. It was like being bound up in eternity.

He leaned earnestly towards Thierry. ‘Now, I want you to go to Bec, and see to it that . . .’

Thierry nodded patiently. ‘Yes, indeed, my lord. As usual. I understand.’

He had been doing this for years.

When Baldwin had finished, it was Geoffrey’s turn. He called Thierry to his tent and picked up a parcel. It was double-bound in quality leather. ‘This is to be delivered to Canon
John – into his hands, and no one else’s. Do you understand?’

Thierry drew back warily. ‘It is not another relic, is it?’

None of Geoffrey’s servants would touch a holy relic. When he had brought some back from Italy to grace the new altar in the young cathedral, he had had to carry them himself, all the way.
His men had flatly refused.

‘No, it is not,’ said Geoffrey.

Thierry did not look convinced. ‘It is well bound. It must be valuable.’

Geoffrey sighed and thrust the package at him. ‘Here. Take the cursed thing. It is only a book. And I should not say valuable so much as expensive – cripplingly expensive. God help
you if you lose it after what I paid for it.’

And please God that devil Fulk did not walk past any more upturned wagons at inopportune moments. Much more of this and he would be ruined.

Edwin watched Berry scattering dew on either side as he swaggered ahead down the path towards the mill. He snuffed the air deeply. What a tonic all this was. He stopped once or
twice to touch spiders’ webs in such a way that the dew fell without the thread breaking. He looked inside the bag of mushrooms, took out one of the biggest, and sniffed it. He turned it over
and stroked the soft black gills. It was like the inside of a girl’s thigh.

Rowena would be pleased. She would cook them in fresh butter, add some parsley and a few magic touches of her own, and they would soften the roughest bread into a breakfast fit for princes.

It was the least he could do to repay hospitality. And Rowena’s kindness. And – be it remembered – Rowena’s discretion. She never spoke of his lost love in front of
anybody else. She kept her word.

Yet somehow Godric knew. Edwin was sure of it, but sure too that Rowena had not betrayed him. Thoughts passed between the two of them like magic; Edwin felt he could reach out and touch the
bonds between them. Godric also had this uncanny perception. It gave Edwin shivers sometimes, and he could see that it frightened Gorm.

As they sat round the table and ate the mushrooms, he could feel Godric’s eyes probing into every face while they talked again of Gorm’s news.

‘It was better than I thought,’ said Gorm.

‘Father!’ said Aud. ‘Those old fools make it up as they go along.’

Gorm waved a hunk of bread impatiently in the air. ‘Not Saward and his gang. I do not mean them. Cripples and dotards. Gabbling sots, the lot of them.’

He took a large bite in the brief silence that followed, not noticing how deep it was.

‘I got it from Algar. Now, he goes everywhere. I believe him. Think – the King’s rider himself. He could not have made this up. I tell you there has been a great clash at
Stamford. And the King has won.’

‘Where is Stamford?’ said Sweyn.

‘Near York, son. There has been a big fight at a bridge. Hardrada is dead, and the King’s brother, Tostig.’

‘He always was a bad lot,’ said Edwin.

Gorm leaned forward on his elbows. ‘They say the King wept over him.’

Edwin could see half-chewed food in the miller’s mouth as he spoke.

‘The Viking host is broken,’ said Gorm. ‘There were not enough survivors to fill ten ships afterwards. And they came in hundreds – more plentiful than the pebbles on the
shore.’

‘There you go again, Father,’ said Aud. ‘More tall stories.’

‘That is only half the fighting,’ commented Godric.

There was a silence. Aud looked towards the sheepskins where Gilbert had lain, now piled tidily in a corner on a lath hurdle to keep them from the earth’s dampness. Edith crooned over the
stick doll that Gilbert had given her. Rowena put an arm round her shoulder and looked at Godric.

Only Gorm continued in the same vein. His own news, and the sense of importance it gave him, made him feel sure of the future.

‘The King will be soon here. You will see. He marches fast behind the news of his win. The land of eastern Mercia is flat, with good tracks.’

‘Winning can be as tiring as losing,’ said Godric.

Gorm waved a hand as he belched. ‘Bah! What do you understand? Ah, yes, I know, with brews and broths you are a master. Blind us all with craft. But you are a dreamer. You are not a man of
the world. I have been far and I have kept my eyes open. And I tell you, Harold will be soon to London. He will gather the men of Essex and Surrey and he will be ready for the Bastard. His axes
will trim them down. If Vikings could not withstand his housecarls, the Bastard’s hired Flemings will go down like hay under the sickle.’

Edwin, on the other side of the table, was bored by his talk and sickened by the smell of his breath. He was also finding Aud’s meaningful glances oppressive.

He got up, made an excuse, and went outside. He walked far enough away to escape the sound of Gorm’s harsh voice.

He whistled for Berry, and collected a billhook from a shed. There was always kindling to be gathered, and the leaves were now falling freely. It was one of many services he could do to show his
appreciation.

He paused to fasten a gate that had been left unlatched – almost certainly Sweyn’s laziness again. Luckily, the pig had not escaped. He picked up a hazel stick from a pile of
half-made hurdles, and gave the animal a friendly prod on the rump. He found himself leaning, with his arms draped loosely over the top bar.

If Gorm was right, Harold would return before very long. Would he wait in London for William to come, and let the Bastard waste his strength on the march? Or would he push on at once, catch him
on the beach, and drive him into the sea? It did not appear as if the Normans had yet come very far inland. Gilbert was a scout, and must have been several miles ahead of the main army. So perhaps
William was building a fortified camp near the coast somewhere, just to be on the safe side. From what Edwin had seen in Normandy two years before, it seemed very likely.

When Harold had returned from his season’s campaigning with William in Brittany, he had praised the Duke’s skill and bravery, and his generalship, but he had also remarked on his
diligence and his caution.

‘These Normans, lad! They think everything out. No wonder they love this game of theirs – what do you call it? – chess. They are thorough, but, by the Virgin, they are dull.
They make war with a spare saddle on every horse.’

It was not Harold’s way. The King was no fool, but he liked a decision. It was the urge for a quick decision that had made him march north, and, judging by the news, his instincts had been
proved right.

Harold would be only human if he chose to rely on a method that had already destroyed one invader to destroy the other. Moreover, it fitted his character. He had come to know William’s
methods too, and would expect thoroughness and care in preparation. He would be right to guess that the Bastard had not moved yet.

The more Edwin thought about it, the more he felt sure that Harold would come south from London to meet William in Sussex. He must pass near. It would be only natural for him to march through or
near his own lands, of which there were many close by.

Somehow or other, Edwin would meet him, and somehow or other, he would persuade the King to let him fight at his side. There was always someone at home to feed the dogs. Young Alwin would jump
at the chance of some responsibility. Time he had some, really. Besides, Edwin would not be away for long. A week or so at most. Then they would return in glory. What feastings there would be! The
King would be unable to deny him a place at his tables, especially after his great daring on the field of battle. He would miss the dogs. But what a career of excitement to fill their place. And
surely the King would let him keep Berry.

He gave the pig a final jab.

He may have missed the first battle, but, by the Mother of God, he was not going to miss the second.

Ralph Pomeroy stood up when his brother approached. Though eager to know, he kept his voice down.

‘Well? Was it enough?’

‘Enough – and more. Archers, it seems, will haggle like Jews over arrows, but have no idea of the value of padded jerkins. I could have sold them three times over, and for twice the
price. I must be slipping.’