The Last Conquest (17 page)

‘I am saying,’ said Montgomery, ‘that there comes a time when the man who sees the whole picture does not understand the whole picture. You have forged a brilliant weapon. None
of us could have done it – I freely grant it. But it is we who must wield it. I – and Walter, and young Beaumont, and Odo, and Mortain, and the rest. We are the ones who must lead. It
is a question of fine judgement and fine timing, and appreciation of things that are apparent only when one does lead.’

Geoffrey looked distressed. ‘Do you think I do not also wish to lead?’

‘Of course. I know. I do not doubt your honour or your courage for a moment. But we must both accept the Duke’s ruling. Just as we accept your authority in training and in
deployment. Now you must accept our judgement when it comes to assessing the men’s readiness for the biggest test of all – the actual instant of physical clash. This is a skill that is
built just as your own skills are built – with time and experience.’

‘To know when the sword is at its sharpest?’

‘It is finer than that. Finer even than a thumb across a razor. Geoffrey, I bow to your judgement when it comes to preparing cavalry for the field. But our judgement counts too. I want to
make sure that when I reach the Saxon line I can look about me and see all my knights there, with all their heart and soul. It is more than reason, more than training, more than practice. Call it
instinct, if you like. It is closer than a hair’s-breadth, and it is vital.’

Geoffrey was seeing a new side to his old comrade. He had known Roger of Montgomery for sixteen years, and valued his friendship. When Geoffrey had been struggling to make his way both as Bishop
of Coutances and as vassal to the Duke, it had been Roger who had helped him with a hundred hints and suggestions. They were roughly the same age, and both saw clearly that the way to fortune was
at the shoulder of the Bastard, for all the dangers that beset him. Geoffrey came to rely on Roger, as did the Duke himself.

Montgomery was undemonstrative, but his qualities became evident to anyone who campaigned beside him for a year or two. Geoffrey had come to share the view of him that was common to the rest of
the Duke’s commanders – a quiet, solid, courageous vassal. Not given to brilliant insights or to originality, remarkable only for his single-minded loyalty to the Duke, and for his
patience.

These strengths had been most evident when he had shown willingness to marry Mabel of Bellême. Mabel was heiress to a vital frontier stronghold, the castle and fief of Bellême. She
was also notorious for being a snob, and a cat of the very first order. True, it had more than doubled Roger’s land-holding in Normandy, and it had strengthened the Duke’s southern
frontier, but there was nobody who envied him his success, because of the price he had to pay in the shape of Mabel.

He rarely showed impatience at this situation, or indeed at anything else. For him now give expression to such a profound statement of belief was remarkable. Possibly too it was a sign of the
greatness of the moment that such a statement had been dragged from him.

Roger of Montgomery went on to provide yet another surprise when young Robert of Beaumont rode up to join them. When the news had arrived of Sir Walter Giffard’s indisposition, Beaumont
had been deputed by the Duke to lead Giffard’s detachment for the day.

Beaumont was everything one would have expected of a senior vassal’s son – able, well trained, quick to display prowess, and full of the arrogant confidence that went with inherited
wealth.

He talked of the squadron he had just led in the training manoeuvres as if it were his own. Montgomery looked askance at him. Beaumont did not notice.

‘I am not surprised Sir Walter Giffard finds it hard to attend all these sessions. At his age. The men were saying the same.’

Montgomery now looked him fully in the face. ‘I suppose you asked them.’

‘Of course,’ said Beaumont. ‘It only confirmed what I thought anyway. Giffard ought to stick to his horse-breeding. His ideas are out of date anyway. I have heard him arguing
with you, Lord Geoffrey.’

Geoffrey opened his mouth to reply, but was forestalled by Roger. For the second time that morning, the famous Montgomery patience ran out.

‘Let me remind you that Sir Walter Giffard was leading knights when you were soiling your swadding clothes. His squadron is so well trained that a nun astride an ox could have led them
this morning. You, you bumptious young cockerel, were only the pennon on the staff. Lord Geoffrey put you in simply to complete the picture – and to get you away from your precious
hounds.’

Beaumont flushed.

Montgomery had not finished with him. ‘And when Sir Walter returns to duty – as he will tomorrow – he will outlast you in the saddle on the day of battle. And a dozen like
you.’

Gilbert slowed down as they neared the mill. Ralph understood at once.

‘Lingering will not save you.’

Gilbert swore at Ralph’s back.

Sandor came alongside. ‘You have the good luck with these people?’

Gilbert hoped the mail coif would hide the worst of his blushes.

‘I heard very little from them,’ he said. ‘There will be nothing else to find out.’

‘We shall decide that for ourselves,’ said Ralph, whose hearing was little short of miraculous.

Gilbert was stung. ‘Well, I for one will be no party to torture. I am not one with the Flemings.’

‘There is rarely any reason to torture nursemaids.’

Gilbert shouted in rage: ‘They were kind to me. They saved my life.’

‘Good of them,’ said Ralph. ‘Now they can tell us something that may help to save ours.’

Gilbert spurred his horse into greater speed. He drew level with Ralph and Bruno.

‘Do you care about nothing?’

‘I care about winning.’

‘Is that all?’

Ralph kept his eyes on the trail as he replied. ‘I also care about the two men we found an hour ago. They were from our army. Scouts too. Absent for three days. Stripped and mutilated.
Good men. I knew them. Now think of your nurses; it was their countrymen who did that.’

Bruno made his only contribution. ‘Think how lucky you were.’ He sounded as if he half regretted it.

It was Berry who heard them first. Edwin laid down the bundle of kindling he had just tied together. He shook the remains of creeper bindings from around his feet, picked up
his billhook, and crept to the edge of the copse.

‘Here, boy!’ he whispered.

Berry came and sat beside him. Edwin put an arm round his neck to quieten the soft growling.

Two faceless Normans trotted past. In their mail coifs and helmets, with the nasal guard hiding half their features, they all looked the same. True, one was very tall, but apart from that they
could have been peas from the same iron pod. Their mail hauberks and iron-bound weapons jingled and creaked on polished leatherwork. Their heavy horses, each stronger than three bears, passed so
close to Edwin that he could almost feel the air pushed against him with the impact of their passage. The ground shook with the boulder thud of their hooves. Berry recoiled in his arms.

A few paces behind came a third rider. Edwin’s surprise and curiosity leaped up to challenge his fear. This one was different. No helmet. No mail. Only a leather jerkin and grubby
leggings, cross-tied in the Saxon fashion. Yet he was clearly no Saxon. The strangely patterned knife scabbard and large ivory horn dangling from his belt told of a country far, far from
England.

Thick, tousled black hair flopped over a face gnarled and wrinkled like the bark of an oak tree. He did not loom large like the other two. Neither did his horse. More pony than horse –
rough, wiry, sure-footed.

Man and horse moved as one. The other two sat as if they had been riveted into their high wooden saddles by a blacksmith; this man seemed to have grown by magic straight out of the pony’s
back. The two Normans had control of their mounts, but by discipline; this strange, dark creature had not so much total control over his beast as pure harmony with it. Edwin had heard tales from
the monks at Chichester about ancient creatures from the mists of legend, called centaurs, half man and half horse. As he crouched in the bracken and gazed up, he allowed that such stories could
well have been true. He knew that he was looking for the first time in his life at true mastery over a horse.

It took only a blink or two for this odd little man to trot by, but the picture engraved on Edwin’s memory lasted the rest of his life.

His prudence kept him from creeping out as soon as the man had gone. He listened, and heard nothing. He quickly twined a leash of plaited creeper round Berry’s neck, grasped the end in one
hand and the billhook in the other, and communed with himself as to the best route to take.

There was no hope of warning them at the mill, but he had to get there as fast as possible without being seen. He had little presentiment of mortal danger, because he could think of no reason
why two solitary Norman soldiers and a horse goblin could be engaged on anything other than scouting. All the same, he wanted to be on hand, in case the suddenness of his appearance could be used
to create a useful diversion.

He decided to leave the copse at the side away from the mill, skirt the far shoulder of the hill, and come down to the house from the far end, higher up the valley. He waited until the riders
were well over halfway down the path towards the mill. Then, turning about, he raced through the copse, heedless of the noise of twigs and leaves. He burst out of the other side, and ran into
another Norman.

Gilbert’s horse reared, but Gilbert stayed in the saddle with an effort, offering silent thanks that neither Ralph nor Sandor had seen it.

Edwin fought for his breath.

‘You!’

Berry wagged his tail.

Gilbert looked about him. ‘Have you seen them?’

‘Yes.’

Edwin stood still, his breath returning.

There was a long silence.

Gilbert thought of sheepskins beside a warm fire, and of two twisted, naked bodies sprawled beside the trail.

Edwin saw a young man his own age laughing at dog stories as he carved a little doll, and he also saw a third warrior encased in mail and helmet astride a staring giant of a horse.

‘I did not wish to come here,’ said Gilbert at last.

Edwin nodded. ‘I believe you. What do they want?’

‘News.’

Edwin became wary again. ‘What news?’

‘The news your miller carried.’

‘There was no news.’

‘There was news,’ insisted Gilbert. ‘You must realise. They know there is news. If you tell them, we will go away. If you resist, I shall not able to protect you.’

‘Do they know you rested here?’ said Edwin.

Gilbert looked down at the pommel of his saddle. ‘They have guessed – yes.’

‘Is there no debt then?’

‘For me, yes,’ said Gilbert. ‘But not for them. And I must do my duty. We are enemies. And I know you are deceiving me. I give you only this one chance. Tell them what they
wish to know. If not, they will try to – persuade. Your man Godric will fight to protect his woman. There will be bloodshed. Do you want that?’

Edwin hesitated.

Gilbert fidgeted.

‘There will be a battle anyway, whatever you say and whatever you try to hide. Only hurry.’

Edwin came to a decision.

‘We will go down together. Perhaps if I can speak enough French to them they will be satisfied.’

With any luck, he thought, he could forestall Gorm’s craven fear. The miller could not speak to them unless he, Edwin, translated.

Gilbert read his thoughts.

‘Do not try to deceive; we have a man who speaks English.’

Edwin gasped. ‘You mean that dark rider at the back?’

‘His name is Sandor. He is Hungarian. He speaks many tongues.’

‘Then we must indeed hasten,’ said Edwin.

Already he could see Gorm’s tiny eyes and sweat-soaked face.

When Gilbert arrived, he felt as if he had stumbled on a tableau in a fair, so still was everybody. Gorm was indeed sweating as he cowered near the entrance to the mill
machinery, his eyes small, like blackcurrants. Aud hung on his arm, the perfect image of the dutiful daughter. Rowena stood in front of the doorway, still holding the cloth with which she had been
wiping her hands. Behind her, barely visible, lurked Sweyn. Edith was in her usual place by Rowena’s skirt; the stick doll was in her right hand. Godric towered over them all, still as an oak
on a summer’s day, barely an arm’s length from Rowena. He held a large spade as easily as if it were a kitchen knife.

In the strip between the house and the stream, Ralph leaned on a drawn sword. Bruno held the reins of all the horses. In between them was the Hungarian, squat and deep-chested, his hands on his
belt, daylight showing clearly between his legs. Separated from his horse, he looked like an overgrown dwarf acrobat from a group of travelling tumblers.

The very stillness made the tension palpable. Gilbert felt that lightning was about to strike. He motioned to Edwin to stop by the gate. He himself dismounted and handed the reins to Bruno.

Ralph looked at Sandor. ‘Ask them again,’ he said.

Sandor raised his head. ‘My friend, he say you have news of Hardrada, news of King Harold. We ask that you tell us. My friends they are three strong men. You tell us, I think.’

Messages flew from eye to eye across the yard like a flight of swallows. Rowena flashed a warning to her cringing father. Aud looked desperately at Rowena. Gilbert begged them with his eyes to
say something. Edith’s face lit up with recognition when she caught sight of him. Edwin tried to warn Godric against resistance.

Sandor echoed his thoughts when Godric made the slightest of movements towards Rowena.

‘It would not be wise, big man. We do not wish to take lives, only news. But we will take both if you use strength.’ He smiled and made a gesture to show his admiration of
Godric’s large body. ‘To use your strength to no end – I think that would be pity.’

Ralph watched the messages fly, and knew that a chain of deceit bound these people before him. He had to find the weakest link in that chain. He looked from Edith’s vacant expression to
Sweyn’s pout, from Godric’s impassive stare to Rowena’s flashing defiance. Then he turned to the couple by the mill door, and made up his mind.