The Last Conquest (34 page)

‘Leave him. He knows what he is doing. He did as much for me.’

After his examination, Godric stood up and looked at Sandor.

‘He is very weak. I think maybe there is a rib broken; at least it is badly bruised and therefore painful. This causes more strain on his breathing. He can go no further on
horseback.’

Edwin translated for Gilbert.

‘Then we camp here,’ said Sandor.

Godric shook his head. ‘He must have warmth and dryness. Out here – a frosty night perhaps – no good.’

There was a silence.

Gilbert scanned the land around them. There was no one in sight.

Edwin was the first to speak.

‘It is still several miles to the mill. Delay could be dangerous. If we are recaptured we will all suffer. Taken together like this.’

Sandor beseeched Godric with his eyes.

Godric handed the reins of his horse to Sandor. ‘Little man from Hungary, you have done enough. You have no debt to us. Besides, I am a bad horseman. Sling him between his own horse and
this one. Take him back.’

Sandor wiped an eye. ‘Big man, for you I go back and I lie like the very Devil. We will keep your trail hidden as long as we can.’

‘Good. Now, tell us – where can we hide until dark?’

Sandor pointed up the hill. ‘See that old apple tree? Go beyond and down a slope. You will find a ravine hidden in trees. No one will dare to follow there. We know – eh,
Gilbert?’

‘Yes,’ said Gilbert gruffly.

‘If news of your king comes in the morning, every Norman will be too busy to chase two Saxon prisoners.’

Edwin looked at Gilbert. Suddenly they were enemies again. How did he say goodbye?

There was an awkward silence. Sandor resolved it. He held out his hand to Godric.

‘I get my revenge; you get your woman. Is it a fair bargain – between enemies?’

Godric’s huge paw engulfed Sandor’s hand.

‘A fair bargain.’

Edwin and Gilbert shook hands in red-faced silence.

From the shoulder of the hill Edwin and Godric watched Gilbert and Sandor fashion a sling for Taillefer. As they moved off, they turned one last time and waved.

Godric waved back.

‘I hope we do not meet again.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Edwin. Then, becoming practical, he asked Godric. ‘Will you ride behind me?’

Godric shook his head. ‘No. I have had enough of wooden saddles. And we shall attract too much notice. I shall come behind on foot. You will go faster, and I can watch our trail. Look for
a good place to hide.’

‘And tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow, you go ahead again. Tell Rowena I shall not be far behind. That is all she needs to know.’

Good lying came with practice. Gilbert discovered the truth of Sandor’s philosophy; he got better as he went along.

First they had to see to Taillefer. Sandor knew where some archers had a wagon in a corner of the main camp.

‘It is near to us and away from the Capra. I do them some favours. They will let us use it for Taillefer.’

‘Will they not search the whole camp when the alarm is given?’ said Gilbert.

Sandor shook his head. ‘Sir Baldwin will not waste good soldiers chasing Saxons who escape. If they do search, the camp is the last place they will look. Or ask questions.’

‘And if they come here last?’ said Gilbert, still not reassured.

Sandor shrugged. ‘They find a minstrel who is sleeping off his drink – as he always does. While he recovers from a fall.’

Sandor went off to the horse lines for routine duties. Or so he said. It was really that he was concerned about theft. About an hour later he returned. He clambered hastily over the tailboard
into the wagon.

‘Haste!’ he said to Gilbert. ‘Our friends are out of
la merde
. They have told Sir Baldwin.’

Gilbert sat up in alarm. Sandor put up a reassuring hand.

‘Now it is time to put them back in it again. Sir Baldwin is coming. Remember, enjoy your lies, and you will enjoy your revenge.’

He took the ivory horn from his belt and poured some beer into it. He spilled some of the contents over the straw on which Taillefer was lying. He was bending over the minstrel and cradling his
head when Baldwin pulled back the cloth at the back of the wagon.

Taillefer rose brilliantly to the occasion.

He had been drinking again, he was ashamed to say, with his friends the archers. Gilbert, amazed at his own inventiveness, joined in. They had taken him up one of the new castle catwalks –
Sir Baldwin was no doubt familiar with them – and he had fallen down the steps. All the way, added Taillefer. That explained the bruises on his back. Perhaps Sir Baldwin would care to see
them for himself, suggested Sandor. No, Sir Baldwin would not care to see.

So, Taillefer admitted, he had lain prostrate all day, punished for his sins with many pains and with the bloody flux. Numerous bloodstained cloths were displayed. Baldwin’s nose wrinkled
at the smell of beer inside the wagon.

Taillefer thanked his God that he had had the company of his two faithful friends all day, here, in the wagon. Apart, of course, from the time when they took food to Sir Baldwin’s
prisoners. How were they, by the way?

Escaped? Great Jesus! How could two watchful men like Capra and Pomeroy allow such a thing, especially with the threat of a flogging hanging over them? How could they be so stupid? Their story
was what? Oh, Sir Baldwin must be joking.

Gilbert thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Baldwin satisfied his conscience that he had made all reasonable efforts to secure recapture. If they had gone, well, there was no great harm done. If they had any sense, they would go home and
get the women out of the way. Frankly he rather hoped they did. The battle would not be long now. And there was Fulk.

‘Where is Bloodeye? Have you seen him? William wants him.’

Sandor pretended to cudgel his memory.

‘I did see him earlier, Sir Baldwin. He was – um . . .’

‘. . . at a bit of a loose end,’ said Gilbert. ‘Off duty, as you might say.’

Baldwin read it wrongly. He thought at once of the mill. Of two young women. Of Fulk’s leering face. He wrenched his mind back to the spot.

‘I go now to arrange two floggings.’

It was the nearest he could get to striking a blow at Fulk.

When he had gone, Gilbert and Sandor wrung each other’s hands, and nearly exploded with silent laughter. Taillefer lay back and held a cloth to his mouth.

Gilbert suddenly remembered something.

‘Tell me, Sandor,’ he said between stifled snorts of delight, ‘where did the horses come from?’

Sandor looked innocent.

‘Horses?’

‘There were five – mine, yours, and Taillefer’s nag. Who did the others belong to?’

Sandor grinned from ear to ear.

‘I take from two who do not need them because they are
dans la merde
. Did I not say that it was a very good plan? Besides, they were my horses anyway.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘We are out of reach now of their short-range scouts.’

‘Enough for an hour.’

They tethered their horses to a tree at the edge of the clearing. Ralph decided to risk a fire. It would be their last hot food till well into the next day. It was now dusk, and hard to
distinguish a campfire from a charcoal-burner’s smouldering.

While Ralph cooked, Bruno saw to the horses. He was not happy about one of Sorrel’s legs. They ate and relaxed in silence.

Ralph felt curiously flat and without spirit. He had expected to feel excited, full in the chest, pleased with himself. After all, they had done it; they had found the English. They had done the
one thing that the Bastard had been dying for.

‘We show him the enemy. Now it is up to him.’

Trust Bruno to put it bluntly. It meant, as he and Bruno both knew, that their work was over. There was a long, hard ride back to Hastings, but that was mere drudgery and boredom. Once they had
announced their news, they dropped out of the picture. Up to this very hour, they had been the most important men in the entire army – the only men who could give the Duke what he wanted.
News. The minute they announced it, they became expendable. There would be barely time for a gruff word of thanks, and they would be brushed aside.

Then it would be all rush and command – ‘Fitz’ this and ‘Fitz’ that; Giffard and Montgomery and Beaumont and Odo and Lord Geoffrey and all the rest barking orders;
Bloodeye, his sagging eye gleaming with relief at the prospect of something at last to do. No more gossiping and grumbling and nagging and moaning. Archers and swordsmen and knights, tense-jawed
over final clippings and fastenings of equipment, swearing at last-minute losses and breakages and failures, beating the nearest valets and servants and grooms. Sir Baldwin, totting up his sheaves
of spare arrows and squeezing yet more barrels of water onto his wagons until the axles threatened to buckle.

He, Ralph, and Bruno would not be part of that excitement. They would watch, from the outside.

Ralph dangled some rind above the flames and watched it sizzle.

‘Do not distress yourself. The Bastard will need us again.’ Bruno as usual had read his thoughts.

‘He will not let us fight,’ said Ralph.

‘Of course not. He will need us to get him to London after the battle.’

‘More drudgery.’

Bruno shrugged. ‘It is work. Battles like this are fought once in a lifetime. Work like ours comes every day. You should be grateful.’

Ralph dropped the rest of the rind into the fire and wiped his fingers.

‘Is that how you see it? Do you not mind?’

‘It is my trade, and it is yours. Battle or no battle, there is always a campaign. And that means work. You chose it too.’

‘It chose me really,’ said Ralph.

Bruno shook his head. ‘This is no time for changes of heart. You are empty and drained because you have achieved your object – like a lover after passion. Have no fear – you
will feel desire again. You are a scout because you are a scout, and there is an end of it.’

‘Is that really the end?’ said Ralph. ‘After the conquest, do you see nothing different?’

Bruno ran his tongue over the front of his teeth. ‘One battle will not do it all. It may gain the Bastard the crown, but it will not make every Saxon bend the knee. We shall still be
outnumbered hundreds to one. There will be fighting and campaigning for years, or I do not know the Saxons. We shall not be short of work.’

Ralph looked into the fire.

He had not thought as much about it as Bruno clearly had. The Bastard had attracted most of his army by promises of land – land beyond their wildest dreams of grandeur and greed. Ralph had
vaguely supposed that a small portion at least of that landed loot would fall his way, but he had not stopped to think whether that was what he really wanted.

The idea of settling down crossed his mind as frequently as it did everyone else’s. All men on the move dreamed of stopping, just as all men on the land dreamed of travelling. His father
had been a landed knight, and so was his elder brother, Aubrey. If God had decreed that he should be the first-born of his father, he would have been settled for years by now at Gisors, like
Aubrey, and generally content to be so.

The last time the thought had occurred to him was at the mill. The tall daughter, the fair one – she had put ideas into his head. Of course, it was quite out of the question; she was
humbly born. And he had been campaigning long enough to know that she was sort of young woman with whom every man fell in love when he was far from home.

No doubt there would be celebrations after the victory. He had seen that too. He had caroused and whored with the best of them – or the worst. The trouble was that one forgot the pleasure
so quickly. He had nothing against whores on moral grounds; army life made them indispensable. What he resented was that they offered only relief for the symptoms; they did not cure the disease.
They left him with only an ache in his body, and did nothing for the ache in his mind.

Michael dying of fever, with his large, frightened eyes; Father waving his stump of an arm after the raid; Mother singing to herself in a corner; Aimery gasping to death in the infirmary at
Cluny – the only remedy he could find was to move.

And Gilbert? Would he take away the pain of Michael? Unlikely. Now. Bruno was making him see the truth. Perhaps the boy really was not up to it. So the sooner he went back to his precious Adele
and his baby, probably, the better for all concerned. What did it matter who the father was? In these troubled times, any father was better than none at all. Besides, it was clear that he loved the
child, despite what he said. It shone out of him like a light. Just as Michael’s goodness had shone out of him.

He fidgeted; this was intolerable. Much more, and he would be crying his eyes out. He began to scoop earth on to the embers.

Bruno said nothing, but collected his gear, and went to have another look at Sorrel’s leg.

‘Well?’ said Ralph, as he packed the saddlebags.

‘It will do,’ said Bruno. ‘We can not gallop in this forest. A good steady pace will cause no harm, I think.’

‘With the miles in front of us,’ said Ralph, ‘that is the best we can hope for. You know we must aim to be with the Duke by morning – midday at the latest.’

Bruno pulled on his gloves and grasped the reins.

‘Then let us be on our way. Being still seems only to make you miserable. Let us hope our news does not have the same effect on the Bastard.’

‘You wait. You just wait.’

Gilbert passed the back of his thumb over his lips. Sandor and Taillefer looked at each other.

‘“Dog-boy.” “Kennel boy.” “Master Senlac.”’

‘Words,’ said Taillefer. ‘Only words. They are worth nothing. I am a wordsmith; take it from me, they are worth nothing.’

Gilbert gave a wobbly wave of his beer mug.

‘It is all very well for you. The words were not thrown at you. They do not hurt you. Nothing hurts you, you old wineskin. You can not bruise a wineskin.’ He chuckled. ‘That is
clever. Clever. Can not bruise a wineskin.’

He reached out for the pot. Sandor started to move it away from him, but Taillefer stopped him.