The Last Conquest (39 page)

As they passed below Godric’s tree, he could hear their laboured breath. At the end of the clearing, the man stopped and turned to allow his wife and father time to catch up. When they
reached him, they paused in relief. He merely turned away and went on. The woman and the old man looked at each other, then they too began again, their legs stiff with the effort of renewed
movement. Nobody said a word.

Godric watched in silence – born of helpless pity as well as of necessary caution. There was nothing he could do for them, and if he had appeared, the suddenness would have shocked the man
into violence or the grandfather into collapse.

Nevertheless, when they had gone, Godric allowed impatience, for the first time, to get the better of him. Instead of climbing all the way down, he jumped from too great a height. As he bent his
legs with the impact, he felt a savage pain in his left knee that made him almost cry out.

Suddenly, even standing became agony.

He hobbled to a clump of young trees and broke off a small bough. Having no knife, he snatched at the twigs down the length of it with his bare hands.

He turned to look up the trail to the end of the clearing. It seemed very far away. And he still had miles to go. A moment ago he had felt sorry for the old man.

Taking a deep breath, he resumed his journey, leaning and hopping, leaning and hopping.

‘Ah, now, that is interesting,’ said Sandor with a straight face. He had listened solemnly to William Capra’s tale of woe. Capra, he noticed, did not accuse
him of anything, and he was not going to protest an innocence that had not been challenged. Pomeroy hovered sulkily in the background.

Sandor continued polishing some girths. Capra waited impatiently.

‘Well?’

Sandor spoke without looking up. ‘It is true: good horses can be procured at any time for cash. Half in advance,’ he added thoughtfully.

‘Then get them,’ said Capra.

Sandor spat on to the freshly applied polish, stuck his finger inside a fold of cloth, and began rubbing small circles on the leather.

‘First there is the question of price.’

‘Name it.’

Sandor waggled a little finger in his ear, then quoted a figure.

Capra opened his mouth to argue, but realised that he was in no position to bargain. However, he did not wish to give in at once.

‘Proper destriers?’

‘From Sir Walter Giffard’s own stock at Longueville.’

‘Fully broken and trained?’

‘Ready for battle tomorrow.’

‘Equipped?’

‘To the last buckle, if you wish.’

Capra pretended to ponder deeply.

‘I suppose, for two good destriers, in time of war . . . Still unreasonable, but under the circumstances . . .’

Sandor looked up. His eyes showed the faintest glimmer of a twinkle.

‘I think you make a small error. The price is for each horse.’

‘Each!’

Sandor bowed his head in solemn assent.

Capra leaped to his feet, wincing at the pain, which in turn made his temper worse.

‘You dirty little Hunnish horsethief!’

Sandor shrugged.

Capra spluttered in anger. ‘I should not put it past you to sell our own horses back to us.’

Sandor privately agreed that it would be a neat, and most apt, resolution of the situation, but out of the question, since Edwin ought, by now, to be at the mill. The other mount, the one Godric
had returned, was too good to be allowed back into the possession of a lout like Capra. Besides, they had both belonged to Sandor’s herd in the first place, and he was not going to allow his
babies away again.

Tucked away in a separate enclosure were the frightened, staring arrivals from the last Channel crossing – almost thrown into ships in Normandy in response to the Duke’s urgent
appeals for spare mounts. They were immature and unstable, their training schedules a mess of compression and half measures, their readiness for battle a matter for fortune-tellers.

Sandor cleared his throat.

‘I have a hundred horses for sale – all of them of the finest breeding, the highest training, the greatest strength, the like of which you will not find anywhere in
England.’

Capra snorted. ‘Do not be so sure.’

Sandor spread his hands. ‘Then go and seek. Search the stables from here to London. You will find good horses, well-bred horses, large horses, fast horses, perhaps even clever horses. But
a horse to carry a knight in full gear – war saddle, mail, helmet, sword, spears, and a shield to flap over his left ear? A horse to turn, wheel, advance, retire and keep a line in the noise
of battle? A horse trained to obedience for constant fighting?’ Sandor shook his head. ‘Such horses do not grow on English trees.’

Capra grumbled, swore, and threatened.

‘You must be mounted by tomorrow morning,’ said Sandor, who seemed to be very well informed.

The coins were flung at his feet.

Aud stopped, and rested her load against a boundary stone. For the last mile or more she had felt her footsteps dragging. Yet it was not normal fatigue; she was sure of
that.

Sweyn had hardly uttered a word, not even to complain. He came now and perched himself on Aud’s bundle, nursing his own in his lap. For once she did not scold him.

She stood for a while with her hands on her hips, looking back the way they had come. Then she wandered to and fro, picking bits of grass and dead leaves from the hem of her skirt. Finally she
squatted by the side of the track, took up a stick, and began making doodles in the bare chalky earth. All the time Sweyn watched her in silence.

At last Aud stood up. She tossed away the stick, dusted her hands, and motioned to her brother to stand up as well. She picked up her bundle and set off in the direction from which they had
come.

Sweyn ran after her.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To get Father, of course. Go back for your things and catch me up. We must be home before dark.’

Sweyn took one look at her face and obeyed. He had always been used to her being loud and dissatisfied. This quiet resolution impressed him. He ran to obey her with such a will that his fat face
was red with effort by the time he drew level again.

‘I thought you said – said – it was – was dangerous to stay.’

‘It is. It is even more dangerous for Father in his state.’

‘But he can not go far.’

‘He can if we use the cart. It was silly of me not to think of it before. We can rest well under a roof tonight, which will give him time to lose the drink. Early tomorrow we can fill the
cart with food, and Father can go at ease.’

‘He will complain about his headache,’ said Sweyn.

‘He will complain about his headache anyway.’

‘What if the Normans come tonight?’

Aud shook her head. ‘No. They will not. They are only men. At night they will seek shelter under their own roof – be it timber or tent. Edwin said they sit still and wait for our
army. If they come out tomorrow to meet the army, we shall be before them and gone, and we shall have with us everything we value.’

‘That means I have to yoke the ox,’ said Sweyn in his usual whine.

Aud boxed his ears.

‘You are right!’

‘What do you think, Sandor?’

The little Magyar rose from the squatting position he had adopted while examining Sorrel’s leg.

‘She has been ridden far.’

‘What choice did we have?’ said Ralph.

‘More than she did,’ said Sandor. ‘You decided. She obeyed.’

Bruno stood at Sorrel’s head and murmured apologies and endearments. Ralph had never seen him so distressed.

‘If she rests tomorrow,’ said Sandor, ‘perhaps she can carry you the next day.’

‘The Duke wants us out at dawn,’ said Ralph. ‘The English are very near.’

‘I know,’ said Sandor. ‘That is an easy matter. I can find a patrol mount for Bruno. It will carry him tomorrow. The next day after that, he can ride his Sorrel. But only
scouting. No fighting – too much strain.’

‘The battle will almost certainly be on that day – on Saturday,’ said Bruno. Not that he or Ralph seriously expected to be in it. Though they could hope.

‘Then you will either miss Sorrel or you will miss the battle,’ said Sandor.

Bruno swore.

Sandor, seeing his chagrin, stooped and felt again at the weakened leg.

‘See,’ he said, standing up. ‘There is heat and swelling. To ride her in battle is a big risk, a big risk. If you love your horse . . .’ He shrugged.

‘I love my horse,’ said Bruno.

‘I am pleased you say that,’ said Sandor. ‘And now, for tomorrow. Go to the third stable behind the Duke’s hall. Speak to Serlo – a thin man with hair the colour of
sand. Say Sandor the Magyar speaks with your voice. He will choose you a fair mount for tomorrow. He will also stable Sorrel for you under good cover and feed her. I shall visit later.’

‘And the next day?’

‘We do not know what the next day brings until we open its bag in the morning,’ said Sandor.

Bruno thanked him and pressed a coin into his hand. Sandor tried to decline but he insisted.

‘That is for loving my horse and telling me the truth,’ he said.

He led Sorrel away, still talking gently to her and patting her neck.

‘Where is Gilbert?’ said Ralph, when they had gone.

‘He rests in a quiet place along with Taillefer. Come.’

‘What is wrong with Taillefer?’

Sandor told him.

‘How does he react?’ asked Ralph.

Sandor lifted his whole body in a shrug. ‘Who can tell? He lies and sleeps, then he wakes and stares into air. Then he drinks and laughs. And he sleeps again. It is hard to
know.’

They wove their way through the usual maze of smoky fires and sizzling spits, overfilled wagons and wattle lean-to’s, fresh horse droppings and head-spinning privy pits.

Ralph made an explosive noise of disgust with his lips. No wonder he preferred being a scout – out of all this.

‘God’s Breath! Come fast Saturday. I shall be pleased to get away from all this, victory or no victory.’

‘Ah,’ said Sandor non-committally. Smells rarely bothered him. Smells gave him information, not offence.

As they passed a knot of Bretons round a fat-dripped carcass suspended over glowing embers, he sniffed deeply, and cast a remark over his shoulder.

‘One of the Beaumont’s hunters has become the prey.’

He paused beside a wagon and greeted a group of archers. In answer to his query, one of them jerked a thumb towards the tailboard.

‘All is well,’ he said. ‘No visitors. Only the boy.’

They climbed inside the wagon. Taillefer, propped on an elbow, put a finger to his lips and pointed to Gilbert, still asleep before his night patrol. One candle stub gave enough light to throw
large shadows on the crude awning, through which came wicked draughts for the unwary.

‘How is he?’

‘He enjoyed the revenge,’ said Sandor, trying to head him off.

‘What revenge?’ said Ralph, frowning.

Sandor told the story of the prisoners and the escape.

Ralph whistled silently. ‘And Baldwin had them whipped?’

‘And fined,’ said Taillefer. ‘Then Matthew emptied one pocket for his medicine, and Sandor emptied the others for two more horses.’

Ralph chuckled softly. ‘Serve them right. I saw them when they arrived. Worthless, both of them. Not only poor soldiers, but poor conspirators, too, it seems.’

Taillefer pointed at Sandor. ‘They were in the presence of a master.’

Sandor’s eyes sparkled.

Ralph frowned again. ‘But why help Saxons to escape?’

Again Sandor explained. ‘When Gilbert was sick, this big Saxon maybe save his life. He carry him like a baby, Gilbert says, and nurse him and make him well. I want revenge on Capra for
stealing my horses. We use the prisoners and pay a debt – that is all.’

‘Hmm.’ Ralph nodded towards Gilbert. ‘How is he now?’

Taillefer glanced at him. ‘Sleep rescues him from his miseries and his ghosts.’

‘That bad?’ said Ralph.

‘You should know,’ said Taillefer.

‘I had no choice,’ said Ralph. ‘I had to leave him. I owed it to Bruno.’

Sandor interrupted. ‘If we are to argue, let us go another place. Gilbert needs to rest.’

‘I shall come with you,’ said Taillefer. ‘A call of nature.’

‘You old soak,’ said Ralph. ‘It is not your bladder; it is your throat that needs attention.’

Taillefer looked straight into his eyes, the bags under his own falling deeper than ever.

‘It is both, if you must know. Now – shall we find a fire and a pot?’

Three or four drinks later, Ralph turned to Taillefer again.

‘What did you mean by “ghosts”?’

Taillefer blinked. ‘Ghosts?’

‘You said “miseries and ghosts”. Miseries I understand. I help to cause them. But the ghosts.’

‘The same that haunt any man – fear. In his case, many of them.’

Ralph undid the laces on his boots.

‘All men fear.’

‘Death, yes. And oblivion. The second rescues you from the first. But Gilbert fears living deaths, from which there is no rescue. He fears that he will not live up to your standards, not
come up to your expectations.’

‘He tries. I see that.’

‘You do not know how much he thinks of you. You do not know the depth of his desire to win your approval.’

Ralph swallowed. ‘I gave him the hauberk.’

‘He treasures that,’ said Taillefer. ‘And more than you will ever know. But he yearns for more; he wants success; he wants to see admiration in your eyes.’

Ralph found his eyes pricking. He could also see Bruno’s face.

‘I am agreeing with Taillefer,’ said Sandor. ‘You and Bruno found the English. He found only a Saxon family who cared for him when he was sick and fell off his
horse.’

Ralph heard Bruno’s voice: ‘The boy is a loser.’

He made a vague gesture. ‘I do what I can. Believe me, I do what I can.’

Taillefer scratched a cheek. ‘I take it you know about the other devil that drives him.’

‘Are you now his confessor?’ said Ralph drily.

Sandor refilled his ivory horn with beer.

‘If you offer a fire, a blanket, a supper, and a willing ear, you catch many things that tumble out of men’s hearts.’