The Last Conquest (21 page)

Earl Leofwine replaced the tent flap, tossed his gloves on to the table, and flopped on to a stool.

‘The last of the Berkshire levies are in. I doubt we can hope for any more.’

Harold held out a mug of beer to him.

‘My feelings too. We can not wait any longer. It is time now that matters, not men.’

Leofwine nodded. ‘So tomorrow then?’

‘Or the day after. Give the Berkshire boys a rest. Then go. Three days should do it. A good thing the Bastard has chosen Hastings.’

‘You mean, you know the ground.’

Harold grinned craftily. ‘Yes. And I have an idea or two. Show you when we get there.’

‘Welcome, my friend. A fine evening.’

Gilbert’s cheeks were still burning.

‘Is it? Ha!’

The pain on the Magyar’s face cut through Gilbert’s self-pity. He felt as if he had cuffed a faithful dog for wagging its tail.

‘I am sorry, Sandor.’

‘You are tired and hungry,’ said Sandor. ‘Sit and eat; that will stop you to be tired and hungry. And talk; then you will not be sad.’

Gilbert sat down against a log and eased his legs and back. The relief was enormous. Sandor plied him with titbits he had been saving specially.

‘Now – talk.’

Taillefer opened his eyes and propped himself on an elbow.

Gilbert reached out for a mug with one hand, and stuffed food into his mouth with the other. Words tumbled out, mouth full and all: the Duke, the council, the argument; the hot tongue of Sir
Walter Giffard, the slow tongue of Sir Roger of Montgomery; the bad feeling between my lord of Coutances and my lord of Bayeux.

‘There is something crooked about Odo. You hear him telling you good reasons for doing something, and all the time you know he has another reason that he is not going to tell you. No
wonder Lord Geoffrey does not like him.’

‘With good reason,’ said Taillefer. ‘He has been a thorn in Lord Geoffrey’s side for years.’

‘But Lord Geoffrey is the better man,’ said Gilbert.

‘I agree again. He can see them all off at that table, except Fitzosbern. He has the longest head in all Normandy, save only Lanfranc of course. Even the Duke sits at Lanfranc’s
feet.’

‘What was Beaumont doing there?’ said Gilbert. ‘He must be my age.’

Taillefer nodded and smiled. ‘Too young, I agree. All dash and promise. Up in the saddle and down on the cheeks.’

Gilbert missed the hint. ‘Yes. And did you know he brought a pack of hounds with him?’

‘Who does not?’ said Sandor.

‘His father pulls strings,’ said Taillefer. ‘The old man dotes on him – thinks the sun shines out of his backside.’

Gilbert sneered.

Taillefer wagged a finger. ‘Do not be hasty. Lord Geoffrey thinks highly of him. He may yet prove himself.’

Sandor proffered another little treat.

‘And the Bloodeye. Did you see him?’

Gilbert shuddered. ‘A monster. The very air around him is bad.’

Sandor nodded. ‘Truly a bad man. A very bad man. But war too is bad, and he does war very well.’

‘But the Bastard outfaced him. Without a threat or a gesture, without even raising his voice. I was sweating, and he was not talking to me.’ Gilbert sat up in sudden recall.
‘And who is that little cripple behind him?’

Sandor and Taillefer exchanged glances.

‘He is a doctor of some kind,’ said Taillefer after a pause.

‘Why?’ said Gilbert. ‘Is there something wrong with Fulk? He looks as strong as a horse.’

Taillefer looked at Sandor again before replying.

‘Because a man keeps company with a doctor, he is not necessarily an invalid. Rumour has it that their – association – is – of another nature.’ He clapped his
hands. ‘But there! Because I associate with this diminutive Magyar horse-keeper, it does not mean that I am either a horse or that I need looking after.’

They laughed, which ended in Taillefer coughing until his eyes ran. Gilbert slapped him on the back until Sandor stopped him.

‘Tell us the story,’ said Sandor.

Gilbert stared. ‘But I have just told you.’

‘Tell it again. A good story deserves to become a friend, to be met many times. I like the stories.’

‘I second the proposition,’ said Taillefer, wiping his eyes.

‘You?’ said Gilbert. ‘You dozed off in the middle, you wrinkled old wineskin. And before I finish, you will be asleep again.’

Taillefer made a grand gesture. ‘Nevertheless . . .’ He fished an onion out of his pocket. ‘A knife, please?’

Gilbert recoiled. ‘And carry that smell around on my blade?’

Taillefer held out his bony hand and waggled his wrist in impatience. ‘Tut! Foolish boy. It cleans the blade; it does not spoil it.’

Gilbert grinned. ‘Taillefer, you are impossible.’

He held out his dagger, and turned back to Sandor. In the firelight, with a blanket that Sandor had tucked round his knees, and with his stomach full, Gilbert relaxed. He told the story of the
council all over again.

Sandor enjoyed most the talk of cavalry tactics and deployment.

‘Walter Giffard is right. And your lord Geoffrey. We must have the room for the horses. They are not light and quick like our Magyar mounts in Hungary— Ah! There were some horses for
you.’

He wandered for a moment, then pulled himself together.

‘No matter. Norman horses must have room. They are heavy. It is for that also that we must use them together, as says your Geoffrey. For this plan the Duke has trained.’

‘If the Duke already knows his plan,’ said Gilbert, ‘why does he request so much advice?’

Sandor smiled. ‘The horses are the centre of his plan but they are not his whole plan. So he listens to his lords and he watches his enemy. His lords will tell him what is in their mind,
and you and Ralph will tell him what is in the Saxon mind. When the enemy marches into battle, all the lords and all the scouts will think that the Duke is marching on their words, and they will be
proud. Such pride is a strong rope to bind an army.’

Gilbert cocked his head and looked searchingly at the grubby, shiny face before him.

‘Sandor? Where did you learn so much about horses?’

Sandor spread his hands. ‘I think I tell you before. Prince Edward the Saxon, he—’

‘No, no,’ said Gilbert. ‘That is all about riding. That was about Hungary.’

‘Ah, Hungary—’ began Sandor.

Gilbert headed him off. ‘That was about your light cavalry. Where did you learn all about heavy cavalry? How do you understand so much of knights and their equipment? When I was talking
about the council, you listened as if you knew what I was going to say next.’

‘He is a devil,’ said Taillefer in a low voice full of mock horror. ‘He is a dark Hunnish devil who knows everything.’

Sandor gave him a friendly nudge.

Taillefer shifted painfully from one sharp elbow to another, and crunched the last of the onion.

‘How did he learn all about shipping horses across the sea? Our lord the Duke does not employ fools. If he wants the best paid killers, he contracts with Fulk and his bloodstained
Flemings. If he is in need of archers, he sends his agents with bags of silver into Artois and Picardy. If he is desirous of moving many thousands of warhorses across the Channel, he will seek out
the finest horse ferryman in all Christendom.’ He waved a hand. ‘There he sits before you, my young friend – that devil-begotten little wizard knows more than Poseidon and Pegasus
put together.’

Gilbert did not know the names, and even if he had, would have dismissed them as Taillefer’s semi-drunken ramblings. But the drift of the remarks was plain enough.

‘Sandor?’ said Gilbert decisively. ‘It is time now for you to tell me a story.’

Sandor’s eyes sparkled. ‘You wish I say a horse story?’

Gilbert nodded emphatically. ‘A horse story.’

Sandor hitched his legs into a crossed position.

‘Then be still,’ he said, ‘and pay attention.’

‘And you, Taillefer, be silent,’ said Gilbert, nudging him.

‘Pooh!’ said Taillefer, leaning back and pretending to sleep. ‘I know all the stories there are to know. Sandor is a mere craftsman of stories. I – I am an artist, a
weaver of spells. I—’

Gilbert dropped a folded blanket over his face.

‘Now, Sandor.’

Sandor took a long, thoughtful swig from his ivory horn.

‘It is a story of the South,’ he said. ‘A story of the sun, of a land of beautiful crops and a sea of beautiful blue.’ He spread his palm across a calm, sunlit bay just
in front of the crackling fire.

Gilbert drew up his blanket and lay back with his hands behind his head. He looked into the dancing flames, and saw white-laced waves swirling upon sands of gold on the edge of a garden of
delights.

‘Such lands,’ said Sandor, ‘as you never saw. Their fruits have juice in them to fill a wine goblet, of a sharpness to make the mouth tremble. And they make a cloth called
cotton – soft like a maid’s caress, cool in the sun. Softer still, they breed worms that spin like spiders, to weave something to make even cotton feel like the bark of a tree.

‘They grow long sticks in the earth, and crush them to make a juice sweeter than any honey. They breed tall horses with split hooves and towers on their backs – long-necked horses,
which drink but one day in seven . . .’

‘The horses, Sandor. Real horses.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Another huge gulp of beer. Gilbert watched the Adam’s apple moving under the black stubble on his throat.

‘I tell you before, the Prince Edward is drowned in the English, and taken from me. I am far from home. I was sad. Any man would be sad who is far from Hungary—’

‘So what did you do?’ said Gilbert quickly.

‘I take service with a great man. Master Roger of Hauteville.’

Gilbert whistled. ‘You worked for the Hautevilles?’

‘Ah – you know of them?’

‘My master Lord Geoffrey is their bishop.’ Gilbert dropped his voice. ‘It is said that he and the lady Sybil of Hauteville were once lovers.’

Sandor tried to look severe. ‘Who is telling the story?’

‘Sorry, Sandor.’

Gilbert did not hear the whole story, much as he wanted to. He drifted in and out of sleep, and each time he woke he had to try to piece together disjointed fragments

‘Master Roger of Hauteville has a mind deep beyond his years. If I would tend his horses, he would promise me the adventure . . . Campania, Apulia, Calabria . . . I truly thought he was
the greatest of men . . . until I met one greater, who surpasses even his brother Roger in guile, who sleeps always with one eye open, like this . . . Robert the Guiscard, the mightiest of all the
sons of Tancred of Hauteville . . .

‘You think Bruno is tall? Or the Bloodeye? Pah! They could not kiss the Guiscard’s shoulder . . . His eyes can glitter like sparks off the anvil . . . His wild Normans follow him
because he always is lucky, and he is his own man, and follows nobody . . . he has plans to move over the sea to Sicily . . .

‘But they know only fighting on land, and they try to carry horses over the sea and it is a mess . . . But the Guiscard is willing to learn . . . he must be patient, he must prepare, he
must think ahead. Your Duke has learned much from the Guiscard . . .

‘He put his head on one side and he look from the corner of his eye, like this . . . We learn before from the land, he says, so we learn now from the sea. We learn from those who know . .
. we learn from the Greeks . . .

‘He sends me to see a man called Alexius, who has travelled to Crete and Greece, to the land of the Golden Fleece and the golden city of Constantinople . . . I think I know about horses,
but I am like a child before him.

‘Skander, he say to me – he call me Skander – you do not pour horses into ships; you build ships round horses. Engineer does not tell you where to put horses; you tell engineer
how to build stables at sea. You do not take sailors and make them into grooms; you take grooms and make them into sailors. You must have space and time and food and water – plenty . . .

‘We build the right ships and we take horses for the Guiscard and we have many adventures . . . One winter I travel home to Hungary, but my mother is dead and my brothers do not need me. I
return to Sicily . . .

‘And then, after the winter, comes a messenger from your duke. He has sent word that he prepares a great force for England. He seeks knights, good knights. But even more does he need
knowledge. He must carry horses over the water. His messenger speaks with Alexius, but Alexius will not leave his sun in the south.

‘The messenger asks where he can buy such knowledge, and Alexius says there is only one man, and this I know because I taught him . . .’

There was a pause. Gilbert woke up at the silence.

‘And?’

Sandor shrugged. ‘He found me.’

Taillefer snorted in his sleep, turned over, clawed his blanket up higher, and settled down again.

Gilbert gazed into the embers. He glowed with the Sicilian sun. He felt the juice of magic fruits on his tongue. He burned with longing – to sail with Alexius, to taste the salt of the
Inland Sea on his lips, to set traps with the Guiscard, to conquer rich cities with Roger, to be the boon companion of those other brothers of Hauteville – William of the Iron Arm, Humphrey,
Drogo, Geoffrey, Serlo. In that moment of magic conjured up by his friend, he was ready to neglect his duty, forget his duke; to banish Adele and Hugh from his mind, to cast out all thought of
Adele’s dishonour and his own shame; to turn away from the quest that had helped to bring him to England.

He was almost angry when the spell was broken by a dark shape looming out of the night shadows. It was hooded and it seemed to float. Gilbert screwed up his eyes. It stopped in front of him.

‘You are Gilbert of Avranches?’

There was just enough flame in the fire to hint at the sharp features of Sir Baldwin’s clerk, Brother Crispin.

Gilbert sat up.

‘Yes.’

Crispin kept his hands folded in his sleeves.

‘I come from Sir Baldwin de Clair. Perhaps you remember me.’

Gilbert nodded slowly. He could still hear the monk’s sniffs of disapproval inside Baldwin’s tent.

‘I have news for you. A ship arrived today from St Valéry, carrying supplies. There were also many priests aboard. One of them came from your garrison at Rouen. You know Father
Amaury, I believe.’