The Last Conquest (5 page)

Gilbert’s spirits fell. It was all so normal. The large load of wood was bigger than any individual peasant was entitled to. The local lord was clearly making his usual preparations for
the winter as if nothing was impending.

Ralph’s comment on the English came back to him.

‘They never take notice of danger until it forces them to fight for dear life.’ He had added, ‘Then you had best be wary of them.’

The absence of excitement caused Gilbert’s mind to take notice of his stomach again. Wincing in discomfort, he switched his attention to the opposite end of the valley, upstream.

There lay the mill. Rising from it was the smoke which had first attracted his attention. It was rising in the still air as straight as a shipbuilder’s pine. It was set slightly back from
the stream, but Gilbert’s eye could follow the course of the mill leat which had been dug from the main watercourse higher up. It led to a well-filled pond behind and above the mill, whence a
timber sluice gate and mill race fed the wheel itself. Gilbert’s ear could easily pick out the regular grinding of the great iron-bound, oaken shaft and the slapping of the flanges.

A cart was drawn up at the main door. A huge peasant – the first fit man Gilbert had seen – was loading flour, humping the great sacks as if they were weightless. The elderly driver
was involved in an altercation with the miller, a balding, overweight figure with hands whitened to the elbows. As the miller waved his ghostly arms about in annoyance, Gilbert smiled to himself;
altercations with millers were clearly as commonplace in England as they were in Normandy.

A young woman came out of the mill house, and went towards the chicken coop. She was tall, and moved beautifully. Even at a distance, her full figure was obvious under the shapeless dress.
Gilbert felt a stir of longing, and at once a stab of guilt.

A second woman, thinner and plainer, came to the doorway. Her voice was edgy and plaintive. Suddenly a third, more stocky figure rushed out past her, and took shelter beside the skirts of the
first one.

Gilbert began to wonder what this small domestic drama was about, but was interrupted by another wrench from his stomach. A wave of nausea made him feel hot and cold.

Some of the pigs were running in his direction, and the boy was still throwing stones after them. He could raise his eyes at any moment.

Gilbert knew he would have to move. There was nothing here to report. The pigs were coming closer up the hill, and the wretched boy was still following. If the nausea continued, he knew he was
going to be sick, and the boy could not fail to hear the noise of retching.

Cursing again at the impossible situation in which he found himself, Gilbert crawled and scrambled back to the shelter of the wood. Sweating with the effort, he now discovered that it was not
his stomach that was going to let him down but his bowels.

Well, at least it was not going to make such a noise. He was crouched in anticipation when he heard a rippling snarl. He stood up hurriedly, just managing to stifle a cry of pain from his ankle,
and pulled frantically at his leggings. He peered into the undergrowth all around him. There was another throaty snarl.

Suddenly another noise came up to him from the mill. A female voice. He peered cautiously between some leaves. It was the tall fair one out in the yard again. She was calling the boy back.
Gilbert could not understand the short hard English words, but the strength and sureness in the voice were unmistakable.

The boy stopped, and tried to argue. But the young woman, confident of her authority, had turned away. Tossing his head sulkily, the boy flung one last stone with extra spite, and trudged
downhill.

Well, that was something. Now all Gilbert had to do was locate the dog. If it barked, the boy would still hear it.

‘Always try what you are good at.’

He had not always paid proper attention to Ralph’s comments, and was surprised at how many of them came back to him when he needed them.

He was good at dogs.

‘It might benefit you one day,’ his father had said. Which had turned out to be true. It had gained him his first employment, with his Grace Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances, in charge
of the hounds.

Gilbert fished in a leather wallet at his waist, and brought out a biscuit. It was going to be a very unusual dog that was not hungry. He made soft chirping and clicking noises with his lips and
tongue.

A rustle betrayed the animal’s presence at last. Slowly, a muzzle emerged from the thicket, then a wild-looking but wiry body. Gilbert held out the biscuit. The dog edged forward, then,
surprisingly, whimpered. It was limping. Gilbert felt sympathy at once; they had something in common.

He saw the twine tight round one of its forepaws. Then, following the twine with his eyes, he made out the remains of some animal trap or other, half hidden in the long grass. The poor creature
had dragged the trap from its moorings in its efforts to free itself, but of course had tightened the twine round its paw, which was chafed almost raw, and bleeding. It had hidden itself when it
heard Gilbert blundering about, and had growled in fear and pain, not anger. There was no anger in its eyes – only entreaty.

‘The northern host is broken. Earls Edwin and Morcar in full flight.’

‘Oh?’

‘Hardrada has wasted York. Twelve more cities too. The whole of Northumbria is in flames. The Archbishop himself – hanged.’

‘Really?’

‘As I live and breathe.’

Gilbert could not do it. It was against all reason, but he could not do it. He was ill; he was tired; he was several miles from camp; and it was getting late. He had to bring
back information, even if it was that there was no information. A dozen of Ralph’s remarks about the needs of scouting came into his head, but he ignored all of them. Crouched in front of
him, in this foreign land of empty farms and lonely furrows, was the first living thing that needed him. Besides, it was a dog. And it had not betrayed him. He was good at dogs. ‘Do what you
are good at.’ Even Ralph had said so.

With the aid of the biscuit, and with more friendly noises, Gilbert soon insinuated some fingers behind the animal’s ears. Safer, he put both hands about its head, coaxing all the time. He
forgot his pain; authority took its place. The dog began to relax.

Gilbert offered another precious biscuit. Then, without letting go of the fur at the back of the dog’s neck, he edged his other hand, slowly, very slowly, down the dog’s injured leg.
It whimpered again, and tried to lift it up. Working as gently as possible, Gilbert loosened the twine and eased it off. Tearing off several handfuls of soft green grass, he spat on them and washed
the dirt out of the wound as best he could. What he needed now was water, and a bandage of some kind. They were both with his horse.

Still holding the dog’s neck, he shuffled on his knees to where the horse was tethered. He opened a saddlebag, and pulled out a spare worsted shirt. With his knife he cut into its tail and
tore off a strip. Making a pad of it in his hand, he soaked it with some water from his flask, and wiped the dog’s paw again. Then he unrolled the pad, and used it to bandage the wound. He
pulled out the leather lace at the neck of his shirt and twined it round to secure the bandage. It would not stay on long, but the coolness and softness would give the animal comfort for a
while.

To his great joy, it whimpered again, this time clearly in gratitude.

Suddenly he doubled up with yet another spasm in his stomach, and was forced to see to himself, almost too late. When he at last fastened his half-soiled leggings, he noticed that the dog was
still there.

Now the face of Ralph appeared before him in all its wrath. He packed everything as fast as he could, and made vigorous gestures to make the dog go away – which it ignored. Indeed, it
wagged its tail.

He went through the charade of mounting yet again, and made off eastwards. The lowering sun cast long shadows before him.

He was swaying now in the saddle, his eyes half closed at times. Once he passed too close under the bough of a tree, and received a thump on the forehead that nearly knocked him to the ground.
The dog was now following him.

Gilbert cursed trees and green apples and hidden ravines and scabbard straps and stale water and God and himself, and anything else he could think of. His bad ankle, constantly shaken by the
movement of the stirrup, shrieked at him. He had to pause for a while.

He slid his feet out of the stirrups and stretched his legs. An early evening badger scurried across his path. The horse stirred. It was not a large movement, but Gilbert was totally unprepared.
He slipped and fell, his ankle twisting under him yet again. As he lay on his back to recover, the nausea rose in his throat once more, and he knew he was going to be sick.

He struggled to a kneeling position, propped himself on his hands, and vomited copiously. All the strength seemed to go from his limbs. He could not move. He found himself gazing at the backs of
his hands as if they did not belong to him. For a moment he panicked, but no matter how urgent his thoughts, his body would not respond. He – could – not – move.

Then he felt pins and needles in his arms and legs. He had heard stories from old soldiers about sickness and seizures and creeping death. There was no pain, they said; you just slipped quietly
away.

His panic was replaced by a mixture of curiosity and surprise. So this was it. This was what it was like. He had often wondered. He had sometimes imagined that it might come suddenly, though he
could have wished it had not come quite so early. Pity.

It struck him that it would be undignified to die, actually to pass away, on all fours like an animal. His limbs would not respond, but now he felt no worry or fear. It was simply a practical
matter of how to get himself into a better position in which to end his life, a more becoming posture in which to be found.

He tried to lean so that extra weight was put on his left arm. Sure enough, it buckled, and he rolled over on to his side and then his back. The hilt of his sword dug into his hip, but it was
not so painful now. There was no point in moving into a more comfortable position, because the end could not be far off. Blades of grass rustled round his ears and swayed over his eyes.

Would they steal his hauberk, as Ralph had cut it from the dead Breton soldier with the spear in his stomach?

He put his hand inside his jerkin and fumbled anxiously. He sighed in relief as his fingers closed over Adele’s crucifix. Suddenly he wanted to gaze on it. Unable to reach the clasp, he
tugged sharply. With his weakened arm it took two or three attempts before it finally came away.

He held it in both hands above his face, and took comfort from what he saw. His arms could not hold the position, and he soon let them flop on to the ground.

He stared straight up. He thought of his father and mother, his gruff brother Robert, his sister Mahaut (who would of course cry). Baby Hugh smiled at him, and Adele held his hand . . .

The sky looked more sombre now. Or was it his eyes darkening? Those old soldiers talked of the eyes of dying men clouding over. He sighed quietly. He would shut his eyes for a moment. Just for a
moment. Then he would open them when he felt the time coming. Men did that too, said the soldiers, immediately before the end.

Ralph peered blearily in the bad light. ‘Does friendship mean nothing to you?’

Bruno sighed. ‘Friendship is not the point. The point is professional skill. I told you when you were sober, and I tell you again now: if you want him to be a scout, he learns to take his
chance. If you do not want him to be a scout, you nurse him – and next time you leave him behind.’

Ralph stretched his hand out into the night. ‘If it were you out there, I should look for you.’

‘I should do the same for you. I am your partner.’

Ralph glowered. ‘And Gilbert is not, I suppose.’

‘He is not mine.’

‘Well, he is mine.’

Bruno continued sharpening his knife. ‘He is not. He is not even a friend. He is a hope, a dream.’

Ralph swore.

Bruno pursued him. ‘He is a liability. You are too soft with him. You give him too many chances.’

Ralph blustered. ‘I am hard on him. He says so.’

‘Which proves my point.’

‘Sandor says so. Taillefer says so.’

‘Taillefer is not a scout. I am. So are you. We are professionals.’

‘And Gilbert is not?’

‘No. And I do not think he ever will be. He will certainly not be if you have to chase across half Sussex looking for him in the dark. If you found him, he would not be
grateful.’

‘He would be alive.’

‘You have no guarantee. We could both die looking for him. Where is the professional responsibility in that? Fitz wants every man out to the north as soon as possible. The Bastard wants to
know where Harold is; what would he say if he found out that two of his best scouts were wasting their time looking for a lost dog-boy?’

Ralph’s eyes twitched. ‘You do not understand. Gilbert is—’

‘Gilbert is not Michael. And Michael is dead.’

Ralph turned away, sighed, and hiccuped.

‘Go on, boy! Find him! Find him!’

Quite what Edwin hoped his dog would find he had no clear idea, but he was so overjoyed at seeing it return that he was prepared to indulge almost any whim.

The dog paused and looked back, making sure that his delighted master was following.

‘Go on, Berry. Seek! Seek!’

Perhaps it was fresh game caught in one of Sweyn’s traps. Edwin had noticed at once the livid mark on Berry’s leg, and knew what had caused it. While he bathed and bound it, he
cursed Sweyn for setting his traps on this near edge of the forest. If he had told the fat little oaf once he had told him a score of times not to set traps across the line of his exercise runs
with the hounds. There was enough woodland and waste in which to set a whole wilderness of traps; all the idle toad had to do was walk a few hundred paces further.

Sweyn was too lazy, too stupid and too spoiled. The more Edwin scolded, the more he whined, until in the end he went running to his father. Gorm always took his son’s side. It was useless
to argue; Gorm was narrow-minded, bad-tempered and blind to his son’s faults. He had sired him too late in life, after his suffering wife had presented him with three daughters.