The Last Conquest (46 page)

Harold shook his head. ‘No, my brother, we must prise the Bastard away from his cosy castle and his beloved ships. Far enough away to get his feet tired reaching us, and close enough to
tempt him to cut and run if the fighting gets too hot.

‘And the way to get the best out of our surly yokels and puffing fyrdmen is to tell them there is to be a fight – a big one, once and for all, and that it is tomorrow – before
they can change their minds or get their breath back. Exhaustion and curiosity will keep them here tonight.’

Gyrth waved an arm about them. ‘And we have it here?’

‘It is as good a spot as any.’

Leofwine squinted into the dusk towards Telham Hill. He pointed. ‘What about that one?’

Harold shook his head. ‘No cover this side of it for approach and retreat. One side too shallow. Field of vision not so good. For the sake of an extra mile or two, not worth considering.
William knows we are near. He could start early tomorrow and get there first, and we do not want to be caught down there, halfway, in the open. But we can get here first. Once here, we are astride
his way to London, as I said. He dare not go round us.

‘So we can watch him getting here second. He has to come to us. We have the high ground. Down there it is full of sandy streams, marsh, soft ground at best – bad going for horses.
Woods on our flanks and rear. If we dig our heels in on top here, and bristle with enough spikes and spears, they will never shift us. They will be puffing like old men before they even reach us.
Our yokels are used to hoiking bales of hay off carts; all they will have to do instead is poke a few knights off their frightened horses.’

Gyrth lowered his head and looked at him. ‘You make it sound easy.’

‘No. Simple. Not easy, I agree, but simple. The best plans are the simplest ones. The dullest clod in the whole army will understand that all he has to do is stand fast and poke away all
day. I can not in fairness call upon them to do much else.’

‘Will they hold? Against heavy cavalry?’

Harold considered.

‘If they are still there after the first onset, I should say, yes. If they can turn back the Normans once, it will lift their hearts, and they can turn back the Normans again. We can
stiffen them by sprinkling a few housecarls among them if you like.’

‘Might be a good idea,’ said Gyrth.

‘Do you have any plans for counterattack, for pursuit?’ said Leofwine.

‘Ideas,’ said Harold readily, ‘but no plans. Have you ever seen a fyrdman capable of bearing more than one thought at a time in his head?’

Leofwine grinned.

‘No, my brother,’ said Harold. ‘First things first. If God shines on us the light of victory, He will also light up for me the way to exploit it. If the Bastard dies, his army
will melt away. If not, we besiege him at leisure in his castle and wait for him to run out of salted ox and stacked-up fuel, to starve and to freeze in our winter rains. If the storms are not too
bad we can call out our ships to blockade his harbour. If they are too bad, no Norman ships will get through anyway.’

Leofwine gaped.

‘No,’ said Harold. ‘If we are still here at dusk tomorrow, the rest will be easy.’

He clapped his hands and called up the groom with the horses.

‘Let us go back and pass on all the good news.’

‘Tell me, brother,’ said Leofwine, ‘are you really so light-hearted? Is there nothing that weighs you down?’

Harold looked hard at him, then at Gyrth.

‘Because you are my brothers, I speak openly to you. But remember, only to you.’

He made a signal to keep the groom at a distance.

‘It does not fall to the lot of many kings to have to ward off threats to their country’s life twice in one year. It is the burden I bear, but it is a burden that becomes light. Why?
Because it is for this that kings exist – to guard and to save their people. Because of this I can feel almost glad that God has seen fit to let me justify my kingship – and not once,
but twice. If our Father in Heaven sees fit moreover to reward my efforts with victory, so be it. That is over and above. If not, His will be done. My sense of fulfilment is no whit the less.

‘I am also easy in my mind because I feel that, in all honesty, I am the only man in England who could do what I am doing now. I may not be of the blood royal, and I know that the boy
Edgar still lives, and he has the blood of Cerdic in his body.

‘But I am at least English and I am legitimate, which is more than can be said for the son of the tanner’s daughter. Above all, I am King. William may talk of broken oaths and
perjury and holy relics and Papal banners, but I know exactly what I pledged in that oath and what I did not, and so does he. All this panoply of righteous display is only to hide the weakness of
his case; he is a foreign, base-born, invading usurper, and I am legally designated, elected and proclaimed; I am a crowned and anointed King – by the Grace of God!’

He paused, then smiled softly.

‘I am easy too, because of much love – from my mother, from my dear Edith, from my children, and from you, my brothers. I weep only for dead Sweyn and Tostig, and for absent
Wulfnoth.’

Gyrth spoke with a catch in his voice. ‘Harold, when you talk like that, I could fight them with my bare hands.’

Each brother flung himself into the arms of the other two. The mystified groom looked the other way.

‘Now,’ said Harold, sniffing and wiping his nose. ‘Let us go and tell them all about Caldbec Hill.’

As they mounted, Leofwine frowned. ‘How did you know the name of this place?’

Harold shrugged. ‘I often stay in Sussex. I have many manors here; you know that.’

Gyrth edged beside Leofwine. ‘What he means, brother, is that he has known about this place all the time.’

Leofwine gaped. ‘Do you mean you were always going to fight here, right from the start?’

Harold laughed. ‘Not exactly that. But I did know about it, and I did think it might come in handy.’

Gyrth threw back his head. ‘Handy!’

‘
Ego te absolvo, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti
.’

From there to the fire. But not the fire of Hell; only the fire of warmth and companionship. And of cooking.

Everyone ate well. Carefully hoarded titbits were tossed prodigally into the pot. Even those languishing with nausea or the flux struggled to a place round the flames and forced something down.
It was better than retching on an empty stomach in a chill Saxon dawn. Only the young and foolish talked loud and long. Those with any imagination asked questions of the men who had fought before.
Those with any knowledge thought little and said less; it was safer. Those with long ears, as they returned from confession, hung around the door of the Duke’s hall, hoping to pick up fresh
gossip to take back to the fireside. They were seen off by short-tempered sentries, who, for once, were not anxious for company.

Inside, the Duke’s senior commanders and contingent leaders stretched out hands for a dozen attractive dishes. William was famed for his frugality, and a summons to dine was rarely met
with more than mere obedience. This time, though, as even the most fastidious admitted, he had done them proud. It was certainly a delight to eat meat that was not high. God alone knew where the
kitchen staff had been hiding that sheep all the time. And the beer was actually drinkable.

William sat and sipped, and watched his vassals making free with his meat and drink. These were the men who were going to make his fortune, and their own, on the morrow – his brothers, Odo
and Robert; Fitzosbern, his right hand, who always knew what he was going to decide almost before he did himself; Baldwin, gruff and stuffy, but totally loyal and totally dependable. Were Fitz and
Baldwin thinking of their boys’ frightened oath to each other, all those years ago in the chapel at Vaudreuil? They had followed a long and choppy path since then, and now they were about to
share in the greatest prize of all. Walter Giffard, quick to anger but brave and honourable; Robert of Beaumont, full of promise, but as yet untried in battle command. Giffard sat well away from
him. Roger of Montgomery, stolid and patient, pulled meat off the bone and chewed as deliberately as he soldiered. Count Eustace of Boulogne, the hothead, thirsting for honour, like Beaumont. Count
Alan of Brittany, excitable, not a Norman, and not popular with the others, but a dashing leader of men – his swordsmen were vital to the general plan.

Further down the table, de Tosny, de Montfort, de Warenne, de Grandmesnil . . . Hard men, all of them, but William knew he was their master, at any rate until or unless the battle were lost . .
.

A pity Coutances was not here. Still, fortunes of war. The training scheme and tactical plan were still sound. He owed a lot to the military prowess of the Bishop of Coutances.

Coutances would also help him to rule the new kingdom. The men round the table would suffice to help him win it.

And Lanfranc! He had to have the moral support and advice of Lanfranc. That obstinate Italian cleric preferred the cloisters at Caen, and had said so many times. Time enough to persuade him
afterwards. Present him with the challenge of an entire country-ful of run-down sees and corrupt clerics to reform, and maybe even Lanfranc would succumb to temptation . . .

Matilda? Ah . . . Soon, perhaps – God willing . . .

William set down his cup, clapped his hands, and called for the table to be cleared. Those who were still hungry grabbed what they could and stuffed it into their mouths, while the Duke went
over details that had long since been arranged.

They were chiefly concerned with plans for the regency of the lady Matilda on behalf of the boy Robert, in the event, God forbid, of his Grace not surviving the morrow.

Here William spoke with great deliberation.

‘May I remind you that you have all sworn a sacred oath – on holy relics – to support my lady and the prince Robert. May I remind you too that we are all here because Harold
broke
his
oath, and will fully merit the divine punishment that awaits him.

‘He too swore on holy relics,’ said the Duke. ‘Tomorrow, I shall have some of those relics round my neck.’ He looked sternly round the table. ‘God will always
search out and punish the false perjurer.’

Everyone kept his eyes discreetly down.

The Duke went on to give an account of the progress that his chancellor and clerks had already made in drawing up a full list of the estates owned by most of the leading Saxon earls and thegns.
It was nowhere near complete, and Fitzosbern and the senior commanders knew it was not complete, but it was an obvious carrot to dangle at this time.

‘In other words,’ Sir Walter Giffard whispered to Montgomery, ‘the more Saxons you kill, the better off you will be.’

Sir Roger of Montgomery frowned. He knew he was not a man of great intelligence, but there were some things that were so obvious that even he did not want them spelled out to him. Like everyone
else round the table, he was looking forward to a mighty enhancement of his personal fortune after the victory. Being the master of a border fief in southern Normandy called for more expenses on
security than the average. And Mabel spent money like water, much of it for the wrong reasons. Besides being a shrew, she was a snob, and riven with jealousy of any other man’s wife who lived
in what she saw as greater state than herself. Her extravagance was embarrassing and infuriating as well as worrying. Montgomery often did not know where the next penny was coming from.

However, his friend Walter kept silence while the Duke rehearsed plans for the defence of the castle, the rearguard action in case of withdrawal, and embarkation in case of total defeat. Sir
Walter did wonder whether, in the event of defeat, there would be any ships needed for evacuation. The news from Stamford appeared to indicate that Hardrada’s army had been virtually
annihilated. One account spoke of three hundred ships arriving and only twenty-odd required to carry off the survivors.

Giffard shook his head. It was all very well for Fitzosbern to trot out one of his favourite sayings: ‘There is always something to be saved from any situation.’ But that always
depended upon the saviour, whoever he was, being still alive. He looked round the table. Everyone here – the Duke included – knew perfectly well that this was a life-or-death gamble.
Hardrada had known it too, and look what had happened to him.

Everyone had known it from the moment the Duke had unveiled his plans for conquest and sought their support, way back at the Council of Lillebonne, and at every other council too. They had
rubbed their chins at Lillebonne, and they had scratched their heads at Bonneville, and they had made long faces at Caen. It was not faint-heartedness nor fear that had held them back; it was a
careful calculation of the odds, and they looked impracticably long. Until wily Fitzosbern argued them round, as he always did.

Giffard listened to Fitzosbern and the Duke going patiently through the order of march and order of battle. He had heard it so many times before that he found himself mouthing the words with
them . . . ‘Archers first, then infantry, then the knights.’ It was the usual method – arrows and crossbow bolts to soften them up; heavy infantry to shake them up; and cavalry to
break them up, carve them up, and, with luck, chase them up. Nothing had changed, substantially, since the days of Charlemagne and the arrival of the mailed knight on the battlefield. God knows how
the Romans had managed to conquer the world with little more than the legions.

Giffard yawned. Fitzosbern continued imperturbably. ‘Count Alan of Brittany will lead the left; Sir Walter Giffard the centre; Sir Roger of Montgomery the right. Count Alan will have,
besides his own swordsmen, the knights of Maine and Poitou, and the Angevins. Sir Roger will have the knights from the Ile de France, Champagne, and Vermandois, and the Flemings. He will be
attended by Robert of Beaumont, who has distinguised himself in the summer campaign in Normandy and the training since we landed.’

Giffard sniffed. Summer campaign? Little more than armed reconnaissances and recruiting drives. Call that fighting? And as for the parades and drills that Geoffrey was pleased to call advanced
training . . . Giffard had said it before and he would say it again: there was no substitute for battle experience. There was no substitute for the tried and tested methods. And there was no
substitute for a man’s knightly honour if you wanted to get the best out of him.