The Last Conquest (18 page)

He walked forward and grabbed Aud by the wrist. He was a little surprised by the quick flush of colour that came to her cheeks as he pulled her into the middle of the yard.

‘Tell them, Sandor,’ he said. ‘Tell them that if they do not give us the news, we ride away with this young woman. We take her to our camp. Camp whores are few and far between.
Many men are there who have scarcely seen a woman in three months. If they think Normans are barbarians, wait till she sees the Flemings. Tell them, Sandor.’

He waved his sword once or twice while Sandor translated.

Another swallow flight of glances passed between Edwin and Gilbert behind Ralph’s back.

‘No. Enough. I will tell you.’

It was Gorm. He came forward wringing his hands.

‘Only, please let her go. Do not kill us.’

‘When I hear your news,’ said Ralph, and listened as Gorm spoke through Sandor.

‘So,’ said Ralph. ‘Hardrada is dead, eh?’ He glanced at Bruno, without releasing Aud. ‘And Harold marches south again. Good. We shall be prepared for
him.’

He looked for the first time at Gilbert. ‘Your nurses wisely found their tongues.’

Gilbert nearly burst with rage and shame.

Ralph held Aud at arm’s length. He heard her catch her breath, and saw again the flush in her cheeks.

‘What shall we do with her, Bruno?’ he called out with a laugh. ‘Take her with us?’

‘How can you?’ said Gilbert, appalled. ‘You gave your word.’

Ralph looked up, surprised. Seeing Gilbert so vulnerable brought out the hunter in him. A bantering smile spread over his face.

‘A Norman’s promise to a Saxon?’ he said.

‘Let her go,’ said Gilbert, shocked and furious.

‘Do not give me orders, boy,’ said Ralph.

Both were now pushed by pride and temper beyond discretion. Bruno began to tie the horses’ reins to a gatepost.

‘You animal!’

It was Aud. She had thought they were quarrelling over her, and burst out in rage at Gilbert.

‘You barbarian! You spit on the laws of hospitality. Is this what we get for our care of you? If it were not for us you would be dead.’

Gilbert froze, haggard at the thought of what she might have said.

Ralph shook her off as if she were a wet leaf. ‘Great God in Heaven, Sandor, what is she saying?’

Sandor pursed his lips and looked at Gilbert.

Gilbert gazed back at him, entreaty glistening in his eyes.

Sandor gave a thoughtful hitch to his belt.

‘She says her father tells great lies, and that he is a coward. She says she does not fear you and that you will burn in the fires of Hell. She says you are fit only for the Devil. She
says—’

Ralph waved a gloved hand. ‘Yes, yes, I follow the idea. She protects her father as he tried to protect her. She has more spirit than I thought. I was perhaps wrong about her.’

He sheathed his sword. ‘Tell her she has nothing to fear. I respect loyalty.’ He gave her a tiny nod. ‘Away now. We have what we came for.’

He strode towards the gate, where Bruno, having decided that his intervention was not wanted after all, untied the reins. They both mounted.

‘I shall follow,’ said Gilbert. He made an excuse about a need of nature.

When they were out of earshot, he asked Edwin to translate what Aud had said. Then he turned to Sandor. ‘Thank you.’

Sandor smiled and shrugged. Gilbert turned again.

‘Tell them, Edwin, I could not stop them coming. I tried to keep them away.’

‘I will tell them.’ He pointed at Sandor. ‘That is a good friend you have there.’

Gilbert sighed in relief. ‘It is indeed. This is Sandor the Magyar.’

Sandor gave a slight bow.

‘And I ,’ said Edwin, ‘am Edwin son of Edward.’

Sandor repeated the name carefully. ‘Ed-win.’ He bowed again, making himself even more gnome-like.

Edwin returned the bow.

Sandor spoke in English. ‘Where did you learn the French?’

Edwin replied in English, making a dismissive gesture. ‘I went to Normandy two years ago with my lord. We stayed many weeks.’

Sandor’s eyes screwed up. ‘You learn very fast. You had a teacher?’

Edwin winced. ‘I – I knew someone, yes.’

‘That someone was kind to you?’

‘Yes.’

Sandor nodded. ‘That someone is now perhaps dead?’

Edwin shook his head. ‘I do not know. I have not seen – them since.’

‘Ah! A sad farewell.’

Sandor resumed in French: ‘So! We too have a parting. Eh, Gilbert?’

Gilbert mounted, and looked down at Edwin. Two images still fought in his mind’s eye – the sheepskins before the fire, and the two naked, spitted bodies.

‘You have not travelled from here since I last saw you?’

Edwin looked puzzled. ‘No. We rarely travel. I hope soon to meet – my lord. That is all.’

Gilbert sat back in relief; it was what he had wanted to hear. One of the two images was fading. He looked down again.

‘You have told us the news. You will not be troubled again, I think. The wasting parties have done great havoc, but they will not come this far. There may be foraging groups, but they will
take supplies, not lives. Tell Godric he must not place himself in their way. Then you will be safe. Now we must go.’

Sandor flashed his dark smile, and bowed again.

As he waddled beside Gilbert towards the horses, he spoke quietly. ‘How can you make such a promise?’

Gilbert grimaced. ‘How can I not? It is the best I can do.’

Sandor vaulted lightly into the saddle. Edwin shook his head in wonder; the dwarf had again become a centaur.

As they rode out of the yard, Godric moved for the first time and quietly laid down his spade.

Rowena wiped her hands again on her cloth and walked slowly into the house, pausing to rest a moment against the door jamb. She took a deep breath, and carefully pushed a lock of wayward hair
from her forehead. Sweyn followed behind with Edith, and, for no other reason than spite, hit her and knocked the doll out of her hand.

Edwin gazed after Gilbert and Sandor, thinking of love lost in Normandy and glory soon to be found in Sussex.

Gorm walked forward to put his arm round Aud’s shoulder. She shook it off fiercely, puzzled at her own anger.

As they climbed the path towards the copse, Sandor spoke again.

‘It is here you have the good luck?’

Gilbert nodded, tight-lipped.

‘They are good people,’ said Sandor.

‘Mmm.’

‘Good people – for farmers.’

‘Millers,’ corrected Gilbert.

‘Farmers, millers, whatever,’ said Sandor. ‘They are down on the land.’ He made a downward movement with the palm of his hand. ‘They walk. We Magyars –’
he patted his deep chest ‘– we are above the land. We ride.’

Gilbert did not reply. For the first time, Sandor had said something that annoyed him, and he did not know the cause of his annoyance.

Ahead of them, Bruno looked at Ralph and raised his eyebrows.

Ralph swore. ‘I know, I know. That giant could have broken him in half. So he was lucky.’

‘For how long?’

‘He got the news.’

‘Lucky again. A fat coward spills some words. How long do we depend only upon his luck?’

Two bare corpses in the woods stared sightless into Ralph’s memory. They could so easily have been Gilbert. He had done enough things wrong to get himself killed several times over.

Bruno was right. Gilbert could not afford mistakes. He had to be made to learn, and all the best lessons were hard ones. The boy certainly could not allow himself to be distracted by his
senseless search for revenge – revenge on a nameless man he did not know and was never likely to find, for a wrong that was not a wrong when it was committed. In war there was only one way to
survive – to concentrate.

And Ralph knew that he too must concentrate. He could not allow himself the luxury of feeling fondness for Gilbert. Having him there was like having Michael with him again; it helped to soften
the image of Michael’s fever-ridden face; helped him to forget the patient Aimery, coughing his last breath as Ralph sat helpless at his bedside.

How did one avoid pain then? By never thinking, never feeling? Perhaps he should never have become a scout. They were the only ones in the army who were supposed to think. And that was what he
liked about being a scout. Ralph felt wretched.

The Duke looked over the parapet into the seething bailey below. A train of empty ox-wagons was trying to make its way out of the gate and back towards the harbour for a second
load. Whips, voices, and tempers were raised.

Fitzosbern leaned against the new timbers and watched William. The tension was beginning to show. Not visible to sweating soldiers, perhaps, or to grumbling knights, but the signs were there for
the man who had the wit and the experience to see. Fitzosbern had had a lifetime to perfect his understanding of the pale-faced boy with whom he and Baldwin had sworn the oath in the gloomy little
chapel at Vaudreuil twenty-six years before. To him it was as clear as spring water.

For one thing, the Duke was no longer teasing him. Fitzosbern did not like being teased, which of course was why William did it. When nobody was looking. It was a form of intimacy.

On their tours of inspection, he was walking more and more on his own, a few paces ahead. Fitzosbern watched his shoulders get tighter and tighter. When they were face to face, the eyes screwed
up into pinpoints of darting light. A hand fidgeted with the pommel of a dagger; in better times, hands were often clasped behind the back, and there was the frequent tuneless humming. Now the
humming had stopped.

Fitzosbern tried to help by indicating the obvious. He pointed down into the bailey.

‘The curtain wall proceeds well.’

William said nothing.

Fitzosbern tried again.

‘Montgomery reported. Said the training was the best it has been. Even Geoffrey was impressed, he said.’

William grunted.

‘You saw the Bretons yourself this morning,’ continued Fitzosbern. ‘I saw Fulk’s Flemings.’

‘Flemings!’ William spat.

Fitzosbern gave up. He turned as he heard the noise of heavy feet stumping up the steps to the parapet. Baldwin paused and wiped his forehead.

‘More fresh vegetables. Just unloaded and safely stowed. We have enough for another two weeks, at a pinch.’

William whipped round as if stung. ‘Knights, infantry, castle, supplies – yes. We have everything. Everything!’

Baldwin stopped short, as if slapped in the face. He looked blankly at Fitzosbern, who sent a warning with his eyes.

William stalked past Baldwin towards the top of the steps.

‘Everything – except news!’

Baldwin stared after him.

Fitzosbern continued looking down into the bailey, not really seeing.

‘He is trying to take the most difficult decision of all.’

Baldwin understood. ‘To do nothing.’

‘Just so,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘To wait.’ He moved to the top of the steps. ‘And he has no Matilda to tell him he is right.’

‘We think he is right.’

‘Not enough,’ said Fitzosbern from half-way down. ‘Even we two are not close enough. We believe in his decisions; she believes in the man.’

Then he is lucky indeed, thought Baldwin, as he picked at a splinter on the parapet.

Only one person had ever believed in him. Only with his sister had he been able to be himself. There was a radiance and innocence about her. He had always wanted to protect her, and she was no
weakling. Indeed she was tall and big-boned for her age.

‘Why do they always tease?’ asked Baldwin.

Agnes stroked his hair. ‘They see your softness and they think it is weakness.’

‘You are soft,’ said Baldwin, ‘and they do not tease you.’

‘They see me simply as a girl; I do not count. I shall become a wife, an old nursemaid, or a nun, simply as God and my family will it.’

Agnes as usual had spoken the exact truth. At thirteen he understood it. Even at eleven, so did she.

‘Dearest Baldwin, do not be sad. We are given no choice about having life, and we are given no choice about how it is to be lived. I might as well be bitter that I have only two arms
instead of three. Two is what God has given me. You are also what God has given me. I am happy with that.’

Baldwin gazed at her. ‘How did you become so wise?’

‘It is not wisdom; it is truth. Truth is always clear, if you look straight at it.’

‘It is not clear to me,’ grumbled Baldwin.

Agnes laughed. ‘What does it matter? Whatever happens, we can always talk.’

But not for long.

That very night, their guardian, Osbern the Steward, who was also the guardian of the young Duke, was murdered. Arrangements had to be hastily made to keep the children safe.

The young Duke would ride to the court of the King. Osbern’s son William would go with him. Baldwin was to fly to Flanders, where his brother Richard arranged a place for him at the court
of the Count. Osbern’s wife, the lady Emma, was to go to the convent of St Amand at Rouen. Agnes was to go with her.

Dear saints, no! Agnes was his rock.

‘It is as I said: girls do not count.’ Agnes was accepting again, but this time she was crying. ‘Oh, Baldwin, it really is hard.’

Baldwin felt his cheeks wet. ‘I shall come back. By the bones of the Virgin, I shall come back.’

But he rarely did. No matter how hard he tried, the memory faded. As with a dream, he remembered that she represented something vivid and precious, but it became increasingly difficult to recall
what it was. The few times that he managed to visit, the agony of fresh parting made him regret that he had reopened such deep wounds.

Now Agnes was gone. And she was right: what choice had he but to accept?

He looked at the tiny wooden splinters he had been rolling between his fingers. He tossed them over the palisade.

The Duke had a point: the sooner something happened, the better for all of them.

‘Well?’

Again the hard, rasping voice. Gilbert was glad the question was directed at Ralph, not at himself. If he had had his way, he would not have been standing in the Duke’s tent at all.

‘I am not sure they will need me,’he had ventured.