The Last Conquest (31 page)

When the Turk had finished, Sandor sat in silence for a while, then asked one question. By way of reply Matthew pulled down the corners of his mouth and shrugged. Some coins changed hands, and
Matthew was gone, his red sash glowing brightly amid the drab colours of dirty straw and mud-splashed timber.

Taillefer shut both his eyes properly and sighed deeply. If he were honest with himself, it came as no surprise to him. All the same, it was . . . well, it was a pity. He would have liked to
see, just once more, the summer flowers blooming on the upland meadows of the Pyrenees.

‘God’s Breath, where are they?’

‘On their way,’ said Bruno patiently.

Ralph eased his back, took off his gloves, and flexed his fingers.

They were in cover at the forest’s edge, blankets over their mail hauberks to prevent any glinting in the fitful autumn sun. They had rubbed their helmets several times in dirt to hide any
metallic shine.

The further they ventured away from the camp’s operations area, the more peaceful and normal the countryside became, and so the more numerous and careful had to be their precautions to
avoid being observed.

Ralph cursed again. ‘So we just sit here.’

Bruno pointed down towards the open Thames Valley. ‘Do you suggest we show ourselves down there?’

‘So we sit?’ repeated Ralph.

Bruno shrugged. ‘We have come as far north as is practical. They must come south from London, and they must come through the forest. Whether we stay, or move from side to side, they must
pass us sooner or later. If we do not see them, other scouts will. You can not hide several thousand men, even in a forest.’

Ralph swore once more. ‘This is as bad as waiting with the army. Fighting over gambling debts all day, and sitting round the fire all night listening to old sots like Taillefer telling
tales of treachery and revenge.’

Bruno looked at him. ‘You do not think revenge an honourable cause?’

‘No, I do not. And you know why. I have told you enough times.’

‘The Duke does not share your opinion.’

Ralph spat. ‘The Bastard may talk of broken oaths, and he may wave his precious Papal banner. That is only to put himself in the right, to make invasion a virtue. To turn himself from a
usurper into an avenging angel. Revenge for him is merely a means to an end. I say there is no point in revenge for itself.’

‘Try telling that to the Duke.’

‘Try offering this to the Duke: tell him he can have one or the other – revenge or England. And see which one he chooses.’

Bruno pointed up towards the sun. ‘I think your mind is like that,’ he said. ‘It throws a great light on many things. You do indeed see very clearly. But you do not see
everything. Like the sun, the greater your light, the greater the shadows. You miss things too.’

Ralph raised his eyebrows in imitation of Bruno. ‘Oh? And what am I missing?’

‘You see what drives men,’ said Bruno. ‘You do not see what inspires them.’ He turned his horse away. ‘Shall we satisfy your impatience and take a look at the
Rochester road? We have seen all the others.’

‘Who says it cannot be done?’

Robert of Beaumont’s face glowed with sweat and triumph as he reined in his destrier. He tugged off his helmet and pulled the mail coif from his head.

‘Full kit too. Full battle order.’

He tossed the helmet to a puffing servant who had just come level with him.

Sir Walter Giffard and Sir Roger of Montgomery looked at each other and smiled. Geoffrey and his trumpets!

Beaumont flushed deeper still. ‘You may mock, my lords. But you have seen the evidence of your own eyes – which I presume are still good enough.’

Giffard glared, but said nothing.

Beaumont flung out an arm towards the squadrons of knights that were regrouping under the direction of Bishop Geoffrey and his provost-sergeants.

‘An ordered retreat. A tactical withdrawal. Advance and retire on demand. It can be done.’

‘In the mind,’ agreed Montgomery.

Beaumont stared. ‘But you have just seen.’

‘Yes,’ said Giffard. ‘Here.’

Beaumont took a deep breath. ‘My lords, we have done this in the morning, the afternoon, and the evening. We have done it on open ground and over broken ground. We have done it forwards,
backwards, uphill, downhill—’

‘Sideways?’ suggested Montgomery innocently.

Beaumont paused. ‘Sir Roger, do you accept nothing that is new?’

‘I accept anything that is useful. And may I remind you that it is I whom the Duke has placed in command on the right, not you.’

Beaumont patted his horse’s neck. ‘And may I remind you, sir, that we are all committed to the plan of the Duke and Bishop Geoffrey. If we are to break a line of infantry, and we can
not do it by impact, we must do it by guile and manoeuvre.’

‘Young man,’ said Giffard, ‘we shall all be following the Duke’s plan. And you will be following Sir Roger’s orders – whatever they may be.’

Beaumont gestured again towards the resting knights. ‘You are determined that this idea will fail.’

Walter Giffard shook his head. ‘Not at all; it will require no assistance from us.’

‘God’s Blood, man!’ said Beaumont. ‘What more proof do you want? How many more times do we have to do it to make you see? Do you want yet another of these push-and-shove
messes that we have always had? Have you no sense of refinement? Have you no sense of subtlety?’

‘Maybe not,’ said Giffard. ‘But I have my common sense. And my
common
sense tells me that it is not yet proven.’

‘We have tried it under every conceivable condition.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Giffard. ‘You and Geoffrey have put every ingredient into your training except one.’

Beaumont looked puzzled. ‘What is that?’

‘The enemy.’

Beaumont recovered instantly.

‘At least we are trying something new. We believe in being creative.’

‘We believe in winning,’ said Montgomery.

‘You won in the past, I grant you. But this is now. I am a man of now. I am not a man of the past.’

He wheeled his horse, nearly knocking over his servant, and cantered off.

Giffard was purple with rage.

‘Insolent whelp! What does he know?’

‘About as much as you did at his age,’ said Montgomery.

Giffard growled.

Montgomery smiled. ‘And you have to grant, Walter, that he did stand up to us. And who knows? He might – he might just – be right. Ideas have to change some time.’

‘What does the Bastard see in him?’

‘Rest assured, Walter, that William does not promote Beaumont simply because his father makes a fuss about him. There must be talent there. William would not jeopardise the expedition just
to do a favour to an old vassal.’

‘Geoffrey does think well of him too,’ admitted Giffard, somewhat unwillingly.

‘There you are then. And Geoffrey is the finest judge of a fighting man I know.’

Giffard grunted, unconvinced.

As they ambled back to their tents, Montgomery recalled some gossip about Robert of Beaumont’s courtship of a young but plain orphaned heiress. Did the boy really need to chase land and
money like that, when he stood to inherit so much from his father?

Montgomery grimaced. Mabel, with her passion for scandal, and her spiteful tongue, had dug under the news in order to find the dirt. Bellême, after all, was not all that far from the
Beaumont fief . . .

‘She is under age; I think it is disgusting. A limp and a squint too, they say. He hovers round the convent like a tom cat on the tiles. Just wait till her guardian finds out.’

Montgomery had long since learned to take Mabel’s utterances with a large pinch of salt. It struck him that if a vain, good-looking, wealthy boy like Beaumont took notice of an under-age,
cross-eyed cripple in a convent, there must be some genuine affection there. Quite strong too, he would guess.

So – once again it seemed that there was more to this young man than met the eye.

Beside him, Walter Giffard wondered how his friend Roger could take such insolence from a puppy like Beaumont with such patience. Must come from living with a shrew like Mabel. It also meant
that Roger had no doubts whatever about his ability to handle the likes of Beaumont when the time came.

Even so, whoever heard of a worthwhile victory that was not expensive? Where was the honour in cheap success? Five minutes of battle experience could overturn weeks of training theory. Geoffrey
knew that well enough; it was only young, unbled puppies like Beaumont that were completely bewitched by it.

Giffard sniffed. Living in the past, eh? Eyesight furring over? Not stand up to a full day’s fighting? Well, we should see about that.

‘Follow me.’

That is precisely what Fitzosbern did. William kicked his horse forwards without waiting. They made their silent way from the castle right down to the shore. William took no notice of the
glances and the whispers and the salutes. One look at his face, and the fatigue parties and ox teams and groups of loafers went silent, even fell back slightly. Near the beach, the Duke dismounted,
handed his reins to a groom, and walked onto the shingle. Fitzosbern followed.

William commandeered a boat.

‘Take me out to the
Mora
.’

‘Sir?’

A boy gaped. A man cuffed him.

‘His Grace’s ship, you idiot. Jump to it.’

William motioned to Fitzosbern to join him. The oarsmen, their excitement a mixture of surprise, gratification, and fright, pulled with a will. In the entire procedure, the Duke did not utter a
word.

He walked to the rail and looked out to sea. A hesitant member of the crew came forward, but Fitzosbern waved him away.

‘Keep everybody back. If we need anything, we shall call.’

Fitzosbern came and stood beside his duke, and still said nothing. The breeze was blowing towards the shore. What a joy it was to be free from the smells of thousands of men and horses. Free too
from the noise. Fitzosbern’s manner had told the crewman that his Grace wanted not only privacy but silence. Word sped around the nearby ships. Men went almost on tiptoe. Heavy loads were
humped in stifled, cheek-bursting scuffles. Clumsy ship’s boys enjoyed the rare pleasure of being sworn at in whispers.

William and Fitzosbern both leaned on the rail, snuffed the air, and sighed with relief. With nothing to look at but the sea, William’s eyes for once ceased their restless shifting from
side to side. He brushed some invisible dirt from the rail into the water.

Fitzosbern glanced at the Duke. The last time William had looked so awkward had been over fifteen years ago . . .

‘Marriage?’

Baldwin blushed, but stuck to his suggestion.

William scoffed. ‘To some grizzling daughter of a scheming vassal with ideas above his rank?’

Baldwin came back. ‘Would the niece of a king be high enough for you?’

William suddenly remembered that Baldwin had just returned from exile with the Count of Flanders.

‘You surely can not mean Matilda?’

Baldwin blushed again. ‘Why not?’

‘She is a dwarf, so they say.’

‘She is not a dwarf. Short maybe, but not a dwarf.’

‘And a face like a gargoyle,’ snorted William. ‘Besides, she is a child.’

‘She is seventeen years old. And by no means uncomely.’

‘Then you marry her.’

Baldwin was still unwilling to give up.

‘She has great spirit.’

He thought it a good idea not to refer to Matilda’s temper and her rich resources of swearwords. Besides, he had always enjoyed her company; it was impossible not to. They were genuine
friends. It was natural for him to want to bring together the two people who had been near him during his youth. It so happened that he thought they were well matched.

Baldwin turned to Fitzosbern, who looked inscrutable. William turned to him as well.

‘Out with it, Fitz.’

Fitzosbern cleared his throat. ‘Can you think of a neighbour better connected than Count Baldwin of Flanders? Brother-in-law to the King, and soon to be brother-in-law to Earl Godwin of
Wessex. To say nothing of a flourishing cloth trade.’

William for once looked hesitant. ‘What have I to offer?’

‘Yourself. You are a good prospect.’

William made a face. ‘Suppose she is awful?’

‘She is not awful,’ said Baldwin, right on cue. ‘Unusual, maybe, but not awful.’

‘Meet her and see for yourself,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘You do not have to propose marriage from here.’

William looked awkward again. Fitzosbern glanced at Baldwin, then gazed innocently at the ground.

‘Of course, if you are afraid of a dwarf with a face like a gargoyle . . .’

Within days of meeting each other, the two were behaving like a married couple

Now William scratched some peeling varnish with a fingernail.

‘So close, Fitz.’

Fitzosbern continued looking towards Normandy as he spoke.

‘Which would you rather do – carry this through, or court Matilda all over again?’

William stood up, and slapped the rail with his palm.

‘By the Splendour of God, Fitz.’

As they walked up the shingle, Fitzosbern noticed that the Duke had begun humming again.

Fulk Bloodeye finished his inspection and closed the tailboard of the last wagon. Florens had done his work as reliably as ever. Fulk nodded.

‘All right. Tell them they can rest.’

Florens passed the word.

‘About time too,’ muttered a soldier, flopping onto some old sacks. ‘Christ, he drives you hard. The battle will be a holiday after this.’

‘I doubt it,’ said an older man.

‘We have packed and repacked those Devil-begotten wagons three times. Are we in some kind of competition?’

‘Yes, we are, Dieter. It is called surviving.’

Dietrich hawked and spat. ‘I thought we were hired to fight a battle, not load up for market. What are we – professional soldiers or camp lackeys?’

Florens of Arras drew out a whetstone and began honing the blade of his dagger. He spoke over his shoulder.

‘Both, soldier, and plenty more if need be. Forgotten the wasting, have you?’

Dietrich looked alarmed; he had not thought Florens could hear him. Florens took no offence, and carried on in an even voice, in time with his sharpening.