The Last Conquest (11 page)

Everywhere stood crude thatch shelters for livestock, grain, and other supplies. Sir Baldwin had already placed sentries on each one. Several wagons belonging to the Breton contingent had been
moved to make room for more horse stalls – with extra shelter for the favoured destriers. That was Sandor’s work. Two more armourers’ smithies had appeared, and were working full
blast. The Duke had been quick to take advantage of the charcoal-burning in the surrounding forest. Tucked away in a bend of a river, the archers sat over their fires, held up new arrow shafts to
the flickering light, and ran thoughtful thumbs over feathered flights.

Behind the camp, on the far side, the land sloped gradually towards the sea, and the harbour, where the Duke kept his ships in constant readiness. Squads of Baldwin’s men were engaged in
regular altercations with those who were impeding free movement of supplies with their shanties and bivouacs.

The overall impression was one of bustle and purpose. Gilbert had been a soldier long enough to appreciate professionalism when he saw it. In another day or two the Duke’s camp would be
ready to sustain attack by a full army. Rumours were wild about the numbers of the English, but the more Gilbert saw of Baldwin’s supplies, and Fitzosbern’s direction, and Lord
Geoffrey’s training, the more reassured he felt. The more he saw of Ranulf’s building, the less he worried about the arrival of the English. He had seen engineers like Ranulf at work in
Brittany, in Maine, in the Vexin, and in Pevensey too. Normans understood castles. He hoped the English did not.

If the worst did come to the worst, the avenue of escape was assured. The ships were ready at any time, manned and victualled. If the Duke’s men were defeated – which God forbid
– they would not have to turn and sell their lives dearly at the water’s edge. Valhalla glory was all very well for Vikings, but it was not the Norman way.

Ralph and Bruno dismounted. Gilbert remained in the saddle. He did not wish Ralph to see him getting down with the bad ankle.

‘I am going to make my report,’ he said.

Ralph looked up at him. ‘What do you have worth telling – the names of your nurse and groom?’

Gilbert flushed. The gibe made him angry as well as embarrassed. ‘Damn you; you do not know everything. I have information. I go to report it.’

‘I shall hear about it all sooner or later,’ said Ralph.

Gilbert nudged his horse forward. ‘But not from me,’ he said over his shoulder.

Gilbert tethered his horse outside the tent of Sir Baldwin de Clair. He paused outside to warm his hands at the blaze, and to summon up his courage. To his surprise, Sir
Baldwin was there too, sitting on a bench, munching. He spoke with his mouth full.

‘What do you want?’

It sounded more like a challenge than a question.

‘I – I have come to deliver my report, sir.’

‘What – at this hour?’

‘You said to come at any time, sir.’

Baldwin made a noise of annoyance. ‘Oh, very well. Come on. Just getting warm too.’

Baldwin was so ready to grumble that it had not occurred to him to ask questions about the day’s absence. He wiped his hands, threw the towel to a servant, and led the way into a tent that
seemed better provided with the comforts of life than many a senior commander’s accommodation. Sir Baldwin de Clair, like all quartermasters, seemed to spend half his time working to make
himself comfortable, and the other half complaining about overwork and discomfort.

Inside, seated at a low table, crouched against the tent’s sloping wall, a hatchet-faced monk scribbled endless lists, bent low in the guttering light of the mean candle-ends that were all
that Baldwin allowed him

Baldwin saw Gilbert screw up his eyes in the gloom.

‘It is all I have to spare.’ He gestured towards the bowed clerk. ‘Thinks I am as rich as Charlemagne.’

The monk sniffed.

Sir Baldwin could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen years his senior, but Gilbert thought of him as old.

He grunted like a grandfather while Gilbert reported what he had seen on his reconnaissance. He asked close questions on farm sizes, barns, oxen, stores, wells and other matters to do with
supply and shelter. From time to time he barked dictation at Brother Crispin, who merely sniffed and continued recording the information without looking up.

Gilbert was impressed with Baldwin’s professionalism. No anxiety about Harold’s whereabouts showed. It was as if he treated the whole enterprise purely as an exercise in supply.

Well, thought Gilbert, perhaps he could surprise him. He felt the time was approaching for him to produce the choicest morsel of news. He almost licked his lips in anticipation.

Baldwin blew on his hands. ‘Show me where you have been.’ He saw Gilbert hesitate. ‘Is it any good putting a map in front of you?’

Gilbert stammered, ‘I – I am not used to maps, sir.’

‘You are a scout.’

‘Yes, sir, but I have not – I mean, I am not sure yet whether—’

‘What are you, boy? Whose man are you?’

‘I was with the Rouen garrison, sir. Before that, I served Lord Geoffrey de Montbrai – the Bishop of Coutances.’ Gilbert dropped the biggest name he could think of.

‘Thank you,’ said Baldwin. ‘I do know who Geoffrey de Montbrai is. What did you do when you were with him?’

Gilbert cursed to himself. This was not how he had planned the conversation to go. ‘I – I was in charge of the hounds, sir.’

Baldwin threw up his hands. ‘Great Jesus of Nazareth! I ask for trained scouts and they send me kennel boys. All right, all right, just tell me, and Crispin and I will make sense of
it.’

When he stopped grumbling, Baldwin asked sensible and searching questions. Using known landmarks and references to the sun, he pieced together a fair picture of Gilbert’s journey. Crispin
translated it into signs on the map.

Gilbert said nothing about the mill or its people. Nor did he mention the hill with the old apple tree near its summit. He was afraid that Ralph might report later, and it would come out that he
had become separated from his companions, and there would be no end of trouble and shame. Moreover, he did not want anything to spoil the effect of the prime piece of military intelligence that he
had been saving up. If he produced it with the right flourish, Baldwin might let his previous career with Lord Geoffrey’s hounds slip his mind.

Baldwin blew on his hands again. ‘First things first then. No enemy army?’

‘No, sir.’ Getting near.

‘No sign of them?’

‘No, sir.’ A thumping of the chest.

‘No information? No whispers? No rumours?’

Now!

‘I think something has happened, sir.’

Baldwin stopped blowing. ‘What do you mean? How do you know?’

‘I encountered a group of refugees, sir. I overheard something.’

‘How?’

‘I am a scout, sir,’ said Gilbert, relieved at last to make a point. ‘It is part of my job to—’

Baldwin waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes, all right, all right. What did you hear?’

‘One of them was very excited, about some news he had just heard. When he told the others, they were, I should say, impressed.’

‘What did he say, boy!’

‘He spoke English.’

Baldwin glared. ‘Then why did you not question them?’

‘I have no English, sir.’

‘You can manage a few words, surely. One of them might have spoken French.’

‘There were several of them, sir.’

‘Armed to the teeth, I suppose.’

Gilbert squirmed. ‘No, sir. But I thought if I used force I should get nothing from them. By staying in cover I might hear more.’

‘Did you?’

Confidence was evaporating fast.

‘I think – only think, sir – that one of them said something about the north.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Think, man. How did he bring the news?’

Gilbert lashed his memory. ‘He looked excited, sir, as I said. He – he waved his arms about.’

Baldwin scratched his chin. Making up his mind, he picked up a large cloak, fastened it round his shoulders, and beckoned. ‘Come with me.’ He paused at the doorway, turned, and
growled to his secretary. ‘Finish those returns from the Bretons and the Angevins before you kneel down for your Vespers or Compline or whatever it is.’

Crispin sniffed.

Baldwin paused again outside the tent, and looked up at the night sky. He pulled his cloak tighter. ‘We shall have some frost, I should not wonder.’

The previous three days had been mild, but Gilbert decided it was better not to remind him of it.

Baldwin gestured. ‘Is that your horse?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘See to him. See the Magyar. Then meet me outside the Duke’s tent.’

The Duke’s tent! Gilbert was so excited that he did not trouble to try and hide his limp.

‘Welcome.’

Despite the fading light, Gilbert could see Sandor’s face shining with pleasure at seeing him. Sandor was one of those cherished people who always smiled when he met a friend.

Together they saw to the horse. Gilbert knew that there would be no more words until Sandor was satisfied that it was clean, dry, and comfortable.

He told as much of his story as he dared, following the little Magyar as he ambled to and fro in that rolling gait of his. Even when he was on foot, Gilbert thought, Sandor looked as if he ought
to have a horse between his legs. Sailors were supposed to have a roll in their stride from their many hours on swaying decks as they crossed the sea. Did Sandor roll also because of his countless
hours in the saddle when traversing the plains of his native Hungary?

Gilbert had heard many tales, and not only from Taillefer, about those monsters on horseback from the mists of time – the Huns. Their awful leader, Attila, was a fit companion for Satan
and his devils in the fires of Hell. Whole cities, it was said, were consumed in the fires he lit on earth. Not even the mighty Romans could stand against them. They had swept into the Empire like
a human pestilence, destroying all before them. And then, like a pestilence, they had raged, and they had gone. Just as God in His mercy saved enough of His people from the fury of a pestilence to
enable life to stagger on, so He had in His inscrutable wisdom saved enough of Christendom to rebuild itself when He had sent the Huns back into their distant plains of eastern darkness.

As he watched Sandor muttering soothing nothings to his horse, Gilbert wondered whether this grubby little goblin of a man were descended from those Hunnish warriors of the deep past. He was the
right size. His clothes stuck out wildly. His skin was dark with dirt. He reeked of horses. He had a magic touch with them. He was never tired after the longest ride. He spoke an outlandish tongue,
not one word of which Gilbert could understand.

Yet he was no devil. Imp maybe, but no devil; he laughed too readily. He had a great skill with language too. He conversed easily in French, though his natural eagerness with words led him
sometimes into hilarious error. Gilbert had also seen him round campfires with Bretons and Germans. He had a gift for fellowship. He made even the flat-faced Flemings laugh.

His skill with horses was wonderful to behold. Gilbert, conscious of his own gift with dogs and other animals, could appreciate it more than most. Indeed, he had fancied he himself knew about
horses, until he met Sandor.

Now, as he watched Sandor run his hands over his own mount, he stopped talking. It was as if Sandor could read, from the skin and the mane and hooves and harness, what had happened during the
last two days, without any words of confession.

The little Magyar looked up. ‘You have had the good luck,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Gilbert. ‘I have had the good luck.’

Sandor squinted up at him, causing spider-webs of wrinkles to form round his dark eyes. Then he shrugged. ‘I get some hay. You make your report.’

‘Mark my words,’ said Gorm. ‘No good will come of it.’

Edwin sighed at Gorm’s ability to look on the black side of everything. Gilbert had shaken hands. He was genuinely friendly. Of that Edwin was sure. Why else would he have carved that doll
for Edith?

Rowena agreed with him. ‘Father, he was grateful. And he took nothing.’

Gorm staggered towards the door, and looked back for a moment. ‘He took knowledge. That will bring him back. And others too.’

He reeled out towards the mill house, and flopped on to a stool.

He had always solved his problems by moving on; it was easier. Now it was different. He was not the travelling jack-of-all-trades that everyone had always patronised and shunned and swindled.
Making fun of his Danish accent. Now he was a miller; a man of substance. A freeman, holding land direct from the King himself. Sweyn now had an inheritance. He wiped sweat from his face. Dear God
– was all this about to be taken from him?

Gilbert held his hands out to the blaze of the fire outside the great tent, and tried to look casual in front of the Duke’s personal servants as they aired fresh laundry
and heated pots of water. Very shortly he would be in front of the Duke, on his own. For a moment he half regretted not having told Ralph beforehand; Ralph would have had some advice to offer. Too
late now. He hitched up his belt. He had got himself into this, so had only himself to blame.

He recognised Baldwin’s voice, explaining. There was a short rumble of conversation. Then a pause.

‘Come.’

There was no mistaking the harsh, throaty voice. A tent flap lifted, and a finger beckoned. Gilbert ducked his head and went in.

A row of stubby candles had been stuck askew in flat iron candlesticks along a large trestle table. At one end were piled the remains of a simple meal. There was one giant pot of cider in the
middle. Gloves and spurs were strewn here and there.

Gilbert noticed that only the Duke had a proper chair. Most of the others around him were on cheap stools. A few were making do with sawn-off logs. It was obvious that the Duke’s
reputation for frugality and hard living on campaign was no legend put about to flatter the army. Baldwin’s tent seemed far more comfortable than this.

‘Step forward.’