The Last Conquest (58 page)

The whole day was impossible.

A hundred times he had strained his ears.

‘Thinks he will hear his trumpets from here – seven miles away,’ whispered one servant to another outside his tent.

‘I can hear
you
,’ shouted Geoffrey. ‘Go away.’

‘I shall leave one sentry, my lord.’

Geoffrey growled something unintelligible.

A fat lot of good one sentry would be if the Saxons arrived. If it was a Saxon hand that pulled back his tent flap.

So he could have seen his last dawn. Eaten his last good meal.

Thierry had thought of that.

Geoffrey sighed.

Had he really been such a good lord? Oh, yes, they had made a fuss of him in the old days – ‘Master Geoffrey’ this and ‘Master Geoffrey’ that – blacksmith
Lambert and Bodo the hayward and Bertha in her kitchen. And Ivo. Dear Ivo! Who growled and nagged; who cuffed him and beat him; who was never satisfied. But Ivo loved him; he was never in any doubt
about that. It was easy when Father was alive, or when brother Mauger ran the castle at Montbrai.

On his own in Coutances – a young and very unwilling bishop – it had been an uphill struggle from the outset. A newcomer, a nobody, in the councils of the Duke. Creating an episcopal
household from nothing. Building a cathedral from the foundations up. In ever-increasing demand by the Duke at his military gatherings and on campaign. There was never enough time. He had never
felt like a particularly good lord.

He had certainly not been a particularly constant lover. He had wanted to be. Things just seemed to go against them. Sybil’s conscience had not helped. Should he have given it all up for
her? Returned to a half-share in a petty knight’s fee in the Cotentin? Would that have made him a better partner for her? Could he really have undone the consecration?

And now, Thierry was on his way with what might be his very last message. Would Sybil weep for him? He hoped so. Just a tear or two. She seemed better able than he to cope with the consequences
of their decision.

So here he was – a split man with a crozier in one hand and a mace in the other. Did he love his cathedral? Yes, of course he did – thought about it all the time. Did he think of
himself as doing God’s holy work then? Hardly! He had simply done the next thing. To the best of his ability. He would say this for himself, though: he hated a half-done job. He liked
efficiency for its own sake.

He turned restively, and swore at the pain in his leg.

And now he was unable to do his work efficiently. Unable to do anything but curse. Where did he wish to be now? With Sybil? In Coutances? Ha!

Somewhere up on Senlac Hill, a spotty-faced Bishop of Bayeux was getting all the credit as the only fighting bishop in the army . . .

William sipped his drink and listened to the casualty reports from his contingent leaders.

They could have been a lot worse. Most of his senior vassals were unhurt. There were few wounded men to crawl in the way of the next charge; most of those struck by a Saxon axe were very
definitely dead.

William flung the cup to a servant, and took the reins of his fresh horse.

‘We hit them again, only stronger. My brothers – bring your contingents from the left and join me. Giffard – we reverse the order. You act as reserve and I lead. It will give
time for you to recover.’

Giffard bitterly regretted his move to the rear, but his military experience told him the sense of it.

‘The same spacing, my lord?’

‘No. Our formation is too loose. It is not enough to go for the centre; we go for the centre of the centre. We try and punch a hole.’

Fitzosbern grunted. So Geoffrey’s trumpets could prove their worth.

He turned to the chief herald. ‘Pass the word. Close order. Very close order. Watch his Grace’s signal.’

William addressed the cavalry commanders: ‘Fresh mounts. In position as soon as possible. No delay after the first arrow flights. They are having too much time to recover.’

‘Not easy, sir,’ said someone. ‘The bowmen have to retire through us. If you want us in close order, it will take even longer.’

William nodded. ‘I agree. So this is what we do.’ He looked about him. ‘Where are those cursed sergeants?’

The archer sergeants came puffing back from the top of Telham Hill.

‘Splendour of God!’ thundered William. ‘I told you to make haste.’

‘Sorry, my lord. It took time to convince Sir Baldwin. He found it hard to believe that you wanted a third issue so quickly.’

As he spoke, and as William swore, the bowmen trotted past with bulging quivers.

William pointed to the left flank. ‘Get them over there, as close to the English as you dare. Not in front of us. We must have a clear run in the centre. We can then begin to move as soon
as you loose the last flight. It also helps you to follow the sun.’

The chief sergeant looked puzzled. ‘How do we replenish, sir?’

‘The long way round. If this idea works, you may not be needed again.’

‘Sir.’

‘And one other thing. I want the shafts high.’

‘High, sir?’

‘You heard. You are making no impression so far. They just squat behind those damned shields.’

‘We have caused casualties, sir,’ said the senior sergeant, offended.

‘Not enough. This is no time for marksmanship. I want damage, not hundreds of shields bristling with wasted arrows. Get the sun behind you and fire high. They must either die from falling
arrows or they must lift their shields. And we can move up while the last ones are falling, before they can recover.’

The sergeant looked unconvinced. ‘We may not be able to guarantee a high degree of accuracy, my lord.’

‘Holy St Stephen!I want obedience, not accuracy. See to it, man!’

‘Sir.’

He scuttled off.

William kicked his new horse into motion.

‘Come, my lords. Come, Robert, Odo. Let us cut the English in two.’

Harold screwed up his eyes.

‘So – this time the Bastard leads.’

He looked at the compact ranks of the Norman knights and at the Papal banner in the centre.

‘The archers are not strung out any more,’ said a thegn. ‘They are up to something. Look.’

‘Damn the archers,’ said Harold, moving swiftly to his messengers.

He grabbed one by the elbow. ‘Now – like the wind. I want all the housecarls behind the wings to join us in the centre. If you can get the Earls Gyrth and Leofwine here too, so much
the better.’

‘A gamble, sir?’ said the thegn.

‘Look out there, man. Can you see anything moving up on our wings? William fights a battle like a game of chess – a piece here, a piece there. Well, two can do that. Besides
–’ Harold pointed at the Papal banner ‘– we have forced him into the open. I have seen the pennons of his two brothers there as well. He is coming for the centre, for me.
Three brothers are challenging; he shall find three brothers to meet him. Gyrth and Leofwine would not miss this for the world.’

Harold spat on his axe and examined the edge of the blade.

‘I never did like Odo.’

Gorm fought against the waves of nausea, and tugged hard.

He flung away the bloodstained head and brushed the broken shaft from his lap. He clutched his bleeding arm and hung his head between his raised knees. The din of battle came and went in his
ears as if someone were constantly opening and shutting a door.

When he felt able to look, he examined the hole in his forearm. He had to find some kind of binding.

He looked around him. Not far away lay a dead man. Gorm was surprised that there were not many more. The front of the man’s hauberk was stained from a hideous spear wound in the
throat.

Gorm glanced to right and left. Nobody was looking. He edged across to the corpse. The mail was of high quality. So were the rest of the clothes. Must be a thegn. If this man was as important as
he looked, he would probably have a soft shirt of some kind under his leather jerkin. Ideal for a bandage.

He lifted the body to ease up the hauberk and jerkin. Yes – there was the shirt. He fought to keep his eyes away from the gaping hole below the jaw.

A kick in the ribs sent him sprawling. A furious servant stood over him.

‘Animal! Pig! Marsh rat! Can you not wait to loot the enemy instead?’ He looked round desperately. ‘Give me a knife – anything!’

Gorm showed his bleeding arm.

The man would have gone for him with his bare hands if his two companions had not held him back. Gorm, whimpering in pain and fear, crawled away as fast as he could.

The servant still struggled.

‘Let me go. Let me kill him.’

‘Wait, Siward. Wait. If you leave Earl Gyrth now to chase that wretch, somebody else will come and do the same. It’s not worth it.’

Siward began to calm down. His friend held on to Siward’s arms to make sure.

‘Now, get him cleaned up,’ he said. ‘The King must not be harrowed beyond need. We shall fetch Leofwine.’

Siward stared. ‘Leofwine, too?’

‘In the same charge. He got it in the chest. One of them brought down the Bastard’s horse, they say, but William survived.’

‘And the King?’

‘Still living, still leading. And still winning. But sorrowing. He will come soon to see them. Do your work – yes?’

Siward nodded, and his friend released him.

‘Oh – and get a priest.’

‘They are getting fewer,’ said Beaumont. ‘I swear the shield wall is contracting again.’

‘Oh, it has done that,’ said Montgomery.

Beaumont pressed his point.

‘And the close order worked. You see? Geoffrey was right.’

‘“Lord Geoffrey” to you,’ said Montgomery. ‘But they are still up there, and we are still down here.’

Fitzosbern reined in beside them.

‘It is time you were doing something about it.’

‘You did not make much impression on the centre, Fitz,’ said Montgomery.

‘You never know what impression a battering ram has been making until the wall falls down,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘We had an effect, I can tell you. The arrows were finding targets
too.’

Montgomery pointed up Senlac Hill.

‘Then where are the gaps?’

‘The shield wall looks the same, I agree. But it is not the same behind it. Gyrth is dead – saw him go. Maybe Leofwine too. At least that is what they are saying. They are
weakening.’

Montgomery was unconvinced. ‘We are getting tired too, you know.’

‘You have had a rest watching us. Now it is your turn again. They pulled in housecarls from the wings to meet us, so the wings are more vulnerable. If we hit them hard, now, with infantry
and cavalry combined, we could open up a flank. With luck, both. But it must be quick – before they put out the housecarls again. William is sending de Montfort in again on the left with the
Bretons.’

Fulk spat. ‘The Bretons. They were the ones who caused the trouble in the first place. If they had not been so anxious to save their own skins, we should have been up there by
now.’

Fitzosbern refused, as usual, to take offence.

‘Then it allows our captain of mercenaries the opportunity to distinguish himself by completing the work so badly begun by our allies from Brittany. Flemings, we all know, are never
anxious to save their own skins.’

Fulk’s scar twisted as he smiled to acknowledge the sharpness of the thrust.

‘Then let us be about winning the Bastard’s battle for him and earning his – er – gratitude. I take it we have archery support –’ he paused significantly
‘– like everyone else.’

‘No,’ said Fitzosbern flatly.

‘What?’

‘They must replenish. And they must go the long way round. If we wait for the archers to return, it gives the English too long.’

‘What about us?’

‘You have just had a rest.’

Fulk glared. ‘You know what I mean.’

Fitzosbern refused to be outfaced. ‘Those are his Grace’s orders. If you do not wish to carry them out, then say so now, and we shall replace you with someone who will. They will of
course receive your reward for doing your work.’

There was a moment of tense stillness. Beaumont scarcely heard any sounds of battle.

At last, Fulk resumed his normal air of casual insolence, and bowed.

‘In that case, Sir William, you can tell his Grace that my men and I will faithfully execute your orders, in every detail.’

Beaumont glanced at Montgomery, and blew out his cheeks.

Fulk looked hard at Fitzosbern. ‘Should you care, Sir William, to come and observe us more closely during the next hour – while we are succeeding where you failed – you will be
very well received.’

The sagging eye stared balefully. Beaumont felt a ripple of fear on the back of his neck.

Fulk strode away.

‘Stay away, Fitz, for God’s sake,’ said Montgomery. ‘He will kill you, and I would not put it past him to do it with a Saxon spear, and from the front.’

Fitzosbern grunted.

‘It had occurred to me,’ he said. He pulled his horse round. ‘You never know. Dig a trap for someone, and you can fall in it yourself. Now get on with it. William wants that
wing rolled up.’

Sir Baldwin de Clair rode down from Telham Hill to complain.

This had been the fourth issue of arrows; it was not according to plan. It was no use asking the archer sergeants to tell the Duke. He had just had a blazing row with them.

He would have to tell William himself. How could he be relied upon to produce sheaves of fresh arrows for the final assaults and the pursuit when stupid sergeants were engaged in such prodigal
waste? And without proper authority. Had they no idea of thrift? Could they not see that the English were not firing arrows that they could recover? Were they blind as well as stupid?

He swore at two carriers who were sloshing precious water everywhere, and paused halfway down to look for the Duke.

Nearest to him, an attack was being prepared from the right against the English left. He heard Montgomery bawling orders.

Baldwin suddenly saw something that drove all thought of arrows out of his head. A tall, strong man, a foot soldier. A well-equipped foot soldier, wearing gleaming mail and metal helmet. A
soldier of great authority, judging by the way he was directing the men around him, and being obeyed. A very powerful soldier, with a drawn sword
in his left hand
. Baldwin winced at the
memory of a burned back, of precious white flesh charred and blistered.