The Last Conquest (48 page)

‘What?’

‘Fear, Walter. No man is proof against it. If a man told me he was, I should fear him more than I fear the enemy.’

He waved a hand at two dark, cowled figures flitting past. ‘Have you ever seen so many priests so busy before? Geoffrey will have penitents lining up at his bedside, broken leg or no
broken leg. Even Odo will be doing God’s work tonight for once instead of his own.’ He poked Giffard familiarly in the chest. ‘And if you are honest, Walter, you will admit that
you will seek to cleanse the soul before dawn comes. I know I shall.’

Giffard made a vague noise in the back of his throat.

‘The Duke is a wise man, Walter,’ continued Fitzosbern. ‘He is also a professional. He leaves nothing to chance. He does not talk to cooks and pot-boys because he is a kind
shepherd. He does not squat round fires with rude bowmen because he is a saint. He knows that the greatest enemy, next to Harold – perhaps greater than Harold – is fear. Fear is a
disease that can break out anywhere, and can spread with terrible speed. It can eat into a man’s mind and paralyse a sword arm without his knowing whence it comes. The only way to stop it is
to throw a blanket of reassurance around the shoulders of every man here, so that none will suffer the chill of dread, and none therefore will infect his companion.’

Fitzosbern stopped outside his tent. He scuffed some mud off his boots.

‘There is maybe something else too. Tomorrow will be a special day. William wants them to realise that.’

Giffard grunted. ‘They surely realise they might die. Is that not special enough?’

Fitzosbern shook his head vigorously. ‘No. I mean really special. Besides, a man might die any day. Just think, Walter. Hardrada, Harold, and William. The three greatest commanders in the
whole of Christendom. Striving for supremacy, each against the other. And all within three weeks. For an entire kingdom. We are not talking about petty border forays and a scuffle of sieges at
frontier castles. An entire kingdom! And only one of those three champions will be alive at the end of it. One has already gone. What a challenge for the other two! What a moment!’

Giffard had never seen Fitz so carried away. Fitzosbern realised it, and made an effort to resume his usual flat style. He shrugged.

‘Well. I think William is trying to convey to them the sense of the occasion, that is all. This will be no ordinary battle, and they must rise to it. Victory will go – God willing
– to the man who plans for everything. Everything.’

Giffard did not look entirely convinced. ‘Well . . . all I can say is, I should never have done all that.’

Fitzosbern grinned. ‘Just so. And that, Walter, explains why you are a vassal and he is a duke. Soon, we hope, a king.’

Wilfrid the housecarl stopped by a group of Berkshire fyrdmen.

‘Everything all right?’

A voice came out from under a fresh shelter of sticks, fern, and leafmould.

‘Marvellous. Just send up another cask of ale and a couple of shoulders of roast pork, will you? And see that the crackling is properly done this time.’

Wilfrid smiled wryly as he looked around. They had made several small coverts and windbreaks. The fire burned confidently. The remains of some animal were still spitted over the flames. One man
was darning a hole in his breeches. Another was combing his beard. From the shadows of a wattle refuge came the noise of a blade being sharpened. Spread all over the ground were a score of bits and
pieces. Wilfrid never ceased to be amazed at how quickly these men could turn a tiny patch of open countryside into a scene of domesticity.

‘You seem to be settled enough,’ he said.

‘Our work is sheep, mate. We spend half our time doing this.’

A stocky, youngish man, prematurely balding, made himself the spokesman.

Wilfrid used his toe to push a stray log back into the flames.

‘Your work tomorrow is Normans.’

The sheepman shrugged. ‘Sheep or Normans – we trim them both to size. All the same really.’

‘Just so long as you stay put and do not go running all over the hill after them.’

‘We do not chase our sheep.’

‘Good,’ said Wilfrid. ‘Make sure you do not break the line and chase Normans.’

‘Not even if they run?’

‘Not even if they run.’

‘Seems daft to me.’

‘Nobody asked you to think about it.’

‘Just die for it, eh?’

‘If need be, yes. Now, is there anything else? Before I send up the ale and the roast pork.’

The sheepman allowed himself a smile, then became serious again. He stood up and came close to Wilfrid.

‘There is one thing,’ he said quietly. ‘Who is that?’

He jerked his head towards a big, dark man who sat a few yards away. He too had made a shelter and a fire, but shared it with no one.

‘No idea,’ said Wilfrid. ‘Try asking him.’

‘No fear,’ said the sheepman. ‘Look at his face. Who would want to go near him?’

‘Has he spoken to you?’ said Wilfrid.

‘No. He just came from nowhere, made himself a spot, and there he is.’ He shuddered. ‘Makes my flesh creep.’

‘Why?’

‘He is a cripple, for a start. See his crutch? What are cripples doing here?’

Wilfrid peered. ‘Is that all?’

The sheepman grimaced in bafflement. ‘And he seems to be – well, the best way I can say it is – he is in a sort of shock. He moves as if he is in his sleep. Crazed, you might
say. If you ask me—’

‘Is he armed?’ said Wilfrid.

‘I should say so. Christ! You should see his axe. Apart from eat, he has done nothing since he got here but sharpen it. Gets on your nerves. Oh, yes – talking of eating –
another funny thing.’

‘What is that?’

‘Mushrooms. He has a pocketful of mushrooms.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Seen them.’

‘So? We all eat mushrooms.’

‘Not the ones he has. Besides –’ he dropped his voice to a whisper – ‘he has not eaten them. Takes them out, looks at them. As if he is making sure they are
there.’

Wilfrid looked towards the new arrival. He could make out only vaguely dark features and a few locks of dark hair under the blanket hood. He seemed quiet enough – hardly the raving madman
or the Devil-gripped invalid.

‘Leave him alone, I should. He is not bothering you.’

‘But the size of him!’

‘He is on our side. Why else would he be here?’

‘Makes my flesh creep,’ muttered the sheepman again, as he returned to his fire.

Wilfrid spared a few thoughts for the matter as he walked back to headquarters.

Mushrooms before a battle? He had heard stories. They were common enough in the Danelaw. The man did not look Danish. Then Wilfrid had not been able to see much of his face. Not all Danes were
blond; there had to be some dark ones, he supposed. Would they really keep up such practices so long after Alfred and the wars against the Great Army of Guthrum? He had seen no sign of it at
Stamford. Then he had hardly had much time, under the circumstances, to look for it.

Wilfrid kicked some dead leaves.

Ah, well, mad or sane, he was a big fellow, able to look after himself. If his axe was as big as they said, he might topple a Norman or two before they ran him through with a spear.

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

Geoffrey had said it so many times that he was listening to his own voice as if it were that of somebody else. He had given up listening to the muttered confessions of the endless line of
penitents. What did it matter? Absolution was what they wanted, not a shoulder to cry on. Not at a time like this.

They got penance first, of course, and, did they but know it, they owed the heaviness of it to my lord bishop’s broken leg. Their prayers to the Holy Virgin to shepherd their souls into
Heaven were curiously punctuated by muttered, and equally fervent, desires that the Devil would pilot that of my lord bishop into Hell. My lord bishop’s clerks were filling a sizeable box
with physical, and metallic, proof of the army’s true sorrow for its sins. Geoffrey remained gruff and grumpy and unashamed. The chances were that my lord bishop of Bayeux was charging them
for hearing confession in the first place.

‘Bless me, father, for I have sinned . . .’

Thierry should be well on his way by now, his head as full of messages as his stomach was full of stew from my lord duke’s kitchens.

‘Never miss the opportunity, my lord, of a good meal. You never know where the next one is coming from. If God puts a full plate before me, who am I to go against the Will of the
Almighty?’

You could never shame Thierry. Nor could you ever teach him; most of that last meal would finish on the foam-lined waves of the Channel.

But he would deliver all his messages, and reliably too. My lady Matilda, now waiting and swearing at her serving women in St Valéry, would have word of the Duke. At St Amand in Rouen, my
lady Emma would have news of her son Fitzosbern, and her sub-prioress, the lady Sybil, would receive the curious request of Baldwin about some Saxon woman or other.

Most unlike Baldwin. Difficult to understand it properly. Baldwin had been embarrassed, and had not given a very clear account of it. Still, if that was what he wanted. What criticism could a
bishop offer, a bishop whose own ex-paramour was the sub-prioress in question?

And what could he say to Sybil on his own account? What words could be put in Thierry’s mouth that would be a substitute for the look in his eyes or the feelings in his heart? He was not
sure of them himself.

That he loved her? Did he still? After all these years? Could any unrequited passion, however strong, remain constant all that time? Was it then no more than friendship? Surely not. A true
spiritual fusion of like souls? Hardly! Sybil may have been true to her veil, but my lord bishop of Coutances had had occasion to let the vow of chastity slip
his
mind.

And yet, at a time such as this, it was Sybil whose image came to him – nobody else’s. Except, naturally, his family – Mother, Father, brother Mauger, and Ivo, who had taught
him nearly everything he knew. Certainly no other woman.

So what was he to say?

Thierry cleared his throat. ‘Beg pardon, my lord.’

‘Yes?’

‘There is no need to concern yourself.’

‘What do you mean?’

Thierry burped.

‘I have been taking messages to the lady Sybil for many years. I have been passing on the spirit of them all that time. Believe me, my lord, you do not have to think of anything special.
The lady Sybil will understand. And, if your Grace will pardon the liberty, so do I.’

Geoffrey opened his mouth to chastise him, but, to his surprise, Thierry went down on his knees.

‘You have been a good lord to me, sir. I could have hoped for none better. If Ivo were here, he would have said the same. If anything – I mean if – well, I just wanted you to
know.’

Geoffrey again opened his mouth, but lumps formed instead of words.

Thierry prompted him. ‘If you could bless me, my lord. Please. It would mean a great deal.’

So Thierry had gone, and Fitzosbern had come in, and Giffard, and Montgomery, and Count Alan. Together they had gone over the plan of battle yet again. If Giffard had any reservations about it,
he kept them to himself. Now was not the time. If that was the way the Duke and Geoffrey wanted to do it, he and the others would give it their very best effort. If it did not work, thought
Giffard, the chances were that he would not get the opportunity to say, ‘I told you so,’ so the argument was one only for scholars.

Geoffrey had been full of last-minute thoughts, final recommendations, late suggestions.

Fitzosbern grinned. ‘Trust us, Geoffrey. We do know. We have all been here as long as you.’

‘It is all right for you,’ Geoffrey grumbled. ‘You will not have to lie here all day tomorrow, wondering.’

Montgomery laughed. ‘You will find out soon enough, Geoffrey, if it is a Saxon hand that pulls back your tent flap in the evening.’

After they had gone, Geoffrey turned again to the line of penitents.

‘Bless me, father, for I have sinned . . .’

Could it be done? To control a line of knights once committed to the charge. To wind back its strength as one would the ratchet of a crossbow, and release it again at will.

Ever since he had first commanded cavalry in battle, he had dreamed of putting the might of the mailed knight to better use. Tighter formations, straighter lines, stronger impact, greater
numbers – always greater numbers. Planned withdrawal, swift re-grouping, fresh assault. Unstoppable hammer blows that no enemy could withstand.

Years of trial and error, of plan and mishap, of hope and frustration; of stupid knights and stuffy commanders; of bad timing and poor execution. Now – at last – here in England. A
duke committed to the value of the idea; time to practise and to convince squadron commanders; excellent strategic planning and logistic backup; spare mounts by the hundred; and the greatest number
of knights seen in the whole century. There would never be such a chance again.

True, the Duke relied also on his archers and his infantry, but they would only start the battle; it would be the heavy cavalry that would press it home and finish it. What a victory it could
be! An entire kingdom. If Harold died, there would be little effective resistance. If the boy Edgar had had any appreciable following, they would have chosen him King in the first place.

What a chance then. And what a prize!

Against them? One of the three greatest commanders in Christendom. Since the defeat of Hardrada, one of the two greatest. Backed up by a core of the finest heavy infantry since the legions. They
were the ones who had to be broken. If they went, the fyrd and the ragtag would melt away.

But how to move them? If the hammer blows did not do it, dare they try the most ambitious idea of all? Could the English be duped by a feigned retreat? It was the greatest test of his plans.
Could the knights really be held together through an assault, a timed withdrawal, a planned full wheel and re-form, and a second charge?