The Last Conquest (35 page)

‘Let him,’ he said softly. ‘What else can he do but wait?’

Gilbert squinted in the bad light of the candle-stump.

‘What are you two whispering about?’

‘Taillefer asks me about medicine,’ said Sandor.

Gilbert waved vigorously. ‘No. You are lying. Lying. I know what you talk about. “Poor Gilbert,” you say. “Left behind while Ralph and Bruno do the real work. Not up to
it, poor lad. Farm boy, you see. Not up to it. Not like sons of knights. Not like Ralph and Bruno.” Oh, no.’

The beer dribbled down his chin. He wiped it.

‘Well, you wait. I shall make them all eat their words. Bishop Odo – Bishop clever Odo. And high-and-mighty Bruno of Aix, with his great wall of a face. And Ralph, most of all . .
.’

His face puckered at the onset of tears. He fought them down.

Sandor put out a hand. Gilbert beat it off.

‘There is a battle to come,’ said Taillefer, from his bed of straw. ‘A chance for all men.’

‘Ah! Now there –’ Gilbert waved the empty pot again ‘– there you say something.’ He hiccuped. ‘There can a man – a real man – prove himself.
Not a mere scout.’ He spat over the tailboard. ‘Not a spotty bishop. You wait. Everyone will see me; there will be no argument. No remarks. Then let Bruno the Great Talker find
something to say about that.’

Sandor and Taillefer looked at each other again. Gilbert caught the expression that passed between them.

‘Sympathy! Last of all do I want sympathy.’ He struggled to his knees, and clambered to the back of the wagon. He fumbled with the catch of the tailboard, failed to undo it, and
tried to climb over. The mug clattered against something metallic. He slipped and fell right out, picked himself up, and lurched off.

‘I go to talk to men. Men, do you hear!’

Sandor retrieved the mug, refilled it, and passed it to Taillefer. He gave himself another full measure in his ivory horn. For a while they sipped in silence.

‘He reaches up so high,’ said Sandor sadly.

‘All to no purpose,’ said Taillefer. ‘He calls himself “Gilbert of Avranches” when he comes from a nearby village. He strives to be a soldier when he is gifted with
animals. He bursts to be a scout when he works best with others.’

‘Is it so wrong?’ asked Sandor. ‘Wrong to wish to please your friend? To make him proud?’

Taillefer shook his head. In the guttering light, the shadows under his eyes and the lines in his forehead showed thick and dark. The bony fingers that clasped the mug glinted from the gaudy
rings.

‘It is not Ralph he seeks to impress. Or Bruno, or Odo, or the Duke, or anybody else. It is himself. He searches for a means of being proud of himself.’

‘His honour?’

‘Yes, if you like. Honour helps a man to cope with fear. In the end it is fear that is the bane of all. Fear of the dark; fear of the forest; fear of the Devil; fear of Hellfire; fear of
famine, disease, pestilence, pain; fear of failure; fear of the enemy; fear of death. These are great truths, which anyone with eyes can see for himself. This is God’s pattern. This is all
that God chooses to show us of His purpose. What chance does a man have? Can he alter this pattern of the world set by Almighty God? Can he alter the place that God has fashioned for him? Can he
remove a single one of the dangers that surround him? But honour can rescue him from despair. Honour can give a man pride. And pride can be a shield against fear.’

‘Stronger than hope?’ said Sandor.

‘Yes. Hopes are too often dashed. Pride is the wreckage to which a man can cling in the shipwreck of his hopes. But it must be the right pride. The pride in a man’s own position as
decreed by God. That is where Gilbert is wrong. He can find a hundred armies in the dark; will that make him a professional scout like Ralph? He can kill a thousand enemies; will that make Bruno
see him as knightly born? He can lead a squadron into battle and win the day for the Bastard; will that bring the respect of Bishop Odo? He is in distress because he searches for other men’s
honour. He needs to find his own.’

Then let him find the man who dishonoured his wife, thought Sandor.

‘There is a devil that drives him,’ he said. ‘I remember it today, when we make our plan. Something the Saxon say to me once. About his love.’

Taillefer sighed, lifting yet more wrinkles in his forehead. ‘Ah – love.’

Sandor grinned. ‘You want I tell a story about love?’

Taillefer smiled. ‘You? You horse-prophet? You saddle-imp? What do you know of love?’

Sandor scratched the stubble under his chin.

‘I am a very deep man,’ he said with mock solemnity. ‘Be silent, and I tell you . . .’

12 October

‘Father! Father, you must wake!’

Rowena shook him roughly. She was past patience now. For nearly two days she had tried to get a decision out of him.

Gorm raised his heavy head from the table. The boards round his sprawled arms were blotched with stale beer. He hated Rowena for waking him.

He looked at the well-strapped bundles by her feet. He saw Edith, scrubbed and dressed for the road, her moon face lifted patiently to await Rowena’s word. In her podgy hand she clutched
her stick doll and her pipe. Trust Rowena, he thought, to truss her up like a sack of wheat. He hated Rowena for being so ready, so capable.

He hated her too for what he knew, even in his stupefied state, she was going to make him do.

‘Father, you must make up your mind.’

Sweyn and Aud hovered in the background.

Gorm looked desperately this way and that.

‘Where is Godric?’ he said. ‘Where is that ox? Never here when you need him.’

Rowena shook him again.

‘Godric is gone. The Normans took him, with Edwin. They may come back at any time. We have wasted enough hours as it is. We are ready to go. All we need is your word. You must give us your
word.’

Gorm frowned in the effort of recall. Godric and the axe . . . Godric at Rowena’s side . . . Rowena pressing her fingers to his lips . . .

‘Godric,’ he said. ‘That lust-ridden serf. He wants you. And you – I remember now. You love him.’ He pondered this in deepening disgust, and repeated with heavy
irony, ‘Love.’

Rowena tossed her head in despair. ‘Father, we must leave – now.’

‘You do love him,’ insisted Gorm, unable to forsake his one coherent thought. ‘See?’ He turned to Aud and Sweyn. ‘She does not gainsay it.’

‘She has been making eyes at him for years,’ said Aud. ‘You were too – too blind to see, Father.’

Gorm turned back to Rowena. ‘You fool!’ he said. If he had been on his feet, he would have struck her. ‘Do you think I will give a portion for my eldest daughter to marry a
bastard foundling?’

‘He is not a foundling. You told me once you knew exactly who he was.’

‘He is nothing,’ shouted Gorm. ‘Nothing. Do you hear? He shall not become my kin.’ He stretched out an arm for Sweyn’s shoulder. ‘He shall not share my
son’s land. On free tenure, mark! Direct from the King. That ox shall have none of it.’

Sweyn nestled against his father and looked smug.

Rowena tried again. ‘Father, if we do not move, there will be no land, and no one to share it either. The Normans are coming from one way, our army from another. You saw what those men
nearly did. We can not hope to be so lucky next time.’

‘She is afraid of being raped,’ said Aud. ‘That big man with the scar and the knife.’

Rowena turned wearily to her. ‘My sister, all women fear it, but we do not all think on it all the time.’

Aud glared.

‘Father,’ said Rowena, turning back, ‘It is not our honour but our lives. You saw how close we came. You are our father. I will do your bidding, but
you must
say
.’

Gorm seized on it as one who looks forward to a meaty argument. ‘You have not done my bidding since your mother died. I fathered an empress in you. You will only do it now if I say what
you wish.’ He looked intently at her.

Sweyn gazed expectantly at Aud; there was another good fat row in the offing.

‘I am not such a fool as you think,’ said Gorm. ‘I know why you wish us to leave. Godric will come back to an empty house and will take it over. A few months’ living
here, and the local court will deem him the owner, especially if you have planned for something to happen to me.’

‘Father!’

‘A child could see that. No court will uphold me here – a mere Dane, an outsider. It has always been the same.’

He wandered off into garbled recriminations from the deep past.

Rowena stood firmly before him and shouted at the top of her voice.

‘Father!’

Gorm looked up, surprised. Rowena composed herself.

‘Father, hear me well. I am leaving and I am taking Edith. We shall not go far – probably the first of the King’s manors that will take us in. Edwin told me to use his name. He
is known in many places where the King hunts. For the last time I beg you to come with us, and tell Aud and Sweyn to do so as well.’

Gorm struggled to his feet, dimly aware that a show of dignity was required. His clothes were awry. An expanse of hairy white stomach bulged over his sagging belt.

‘This is my mill,’ he said. ‘I am a freeman. I hold this mill from the King. My son Sweyn will do as I say. Aud is – Aud is a dutiful daughter. Not a beautiful daughter,
but a dutiful daughter. Not beautiful, but dutiful.’ He sniggered at his own joke. ‘I shall not give up what is mine. Mine. Not yours. You are not a dutiful daughter,’ he said,
returning to his theme.

Rowena turned to her sister.

‘Aud,’ she said. ‘I can not take Sweyn against his will, or against his father’s will. But you – you are a grown woman. I ask you now – use your own mind. Are
you coming with us?’

Aud drew herself up. When she did not stoop, she was taller than Rowena.

‘You have always been headstrong,’ she said. ‘I think you are headstrong now.’ She waved an arm. ‘All round us we have strong walls. We are safe. What safety would
we have on the road? How are you going to look after Edith? Out there are two armies, refugees, deserters. You call that wisdom? Here is your home, your father, your family. Even Godric said,
“watch and wait”.’

‘He also said “hide if need be.” He expects me to use my own mind.’

‘You are running away to save your own skin for Godric.’

Rowena turned away and put out her hand.

‘Come, Edith. We go for a nice long walk, yes?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘You have your doll?’

‘Yes, Edis’ doll here. And Edis’ pipe.’

She blew a jarring note or two. Sweyn winced.

Rowena tried to kiss her father, but he brushed her aside. Sweyn cowered away.

‘Father, will you put the ox to the cart for us?’

‘No. Neither will Sweyn.’

Sweyn made a rude face.

‘Then we walk.’

‘How long?’

‘Hard to say, my lord duke. But certainly not tomorrow. Nor would any normal general be ready by the day after. Then Harold is no—’

‘Splendour of God, man!’ William burst out. ‘I want better than that. Call yourself a senior scout?’

Ralph took the rebuke without flinching. He met the fierce gaze; for once the eyes had stopped their restless shifting, and were almost afire with their intensity.

All about them each man was frozen in total stillness. All those months – and now! Ralph brushed his palms together as if he were dusting away the last vestiges of uncertainty.

‘My lord, if Harold marches hard he could be within striking distance by tomorrow evening.’

There was a buzz of excitement.

Ralph looked round at the effects of his remark. Bruno allowed himself a private grin. Ralph could swagger even when he was standing still.

The meeting had clearly been summoned in a hurry. Nobody was wearing mail. A few were still eating. One or two had been interrupted in shaving. Sir Walter Giffard had cut himself in his haste.
It had not improved his self-control.

‘You mean a night attack? Have some sense, man.’

Ralph met him head on too.

‘No, Sir Walter. I do not think even Harold will try that. His men will be too tired. They must have a night’s rest.’

‘And attack in the morning.’

‘Yes, sir. Try and take us by surprise – early.’

The Duke slapped his knee. ‘Then we rise yet earlier. You agree, Fitz?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘And we go to him.’

‘But our castle is finished,’ said Giffard, dabbing at his chin. ‘Even Ranulf admits it. Why not let Harold beat himself to pieces on it? He will have no siege
machinery.’

‘Because it provides him with the initiative, Walter. We would then be waiting for things to happen.’

‘That is what we have been doing since we arrived,’ said Giffard.

‘Now it is time for a change,’ said the Duke.

Giffard threw up his hands in bafflement. Beaumont, who had squeezed in at the back so as not to miss anything, decided it was time to get himself noticed.

‘I agree with his Grace. I am for moving, not for waiting. At a time like this, standing still is for old men.’

Giffard could have strangled him.

Montgomery tried to calm him down.

‘Walter, listen. Harold has campaigned with us. He knows we are good at castles, good at waiting, good at preparing. Being a man of rapid decision himself, he tends to look down on what he
sees as overcaution. He thinks us overcautious. I heard him say once that Normans make war with a spare saddle on every horse. Maybe we do. But we can change when it is necessary. Now it is
necessary.’

Giffard growled.

‘Roger is right,’ said Fitzosbern, though he intended the remark to be for everyone. ‘All the preparation in the world is no use without the right timing. Nobody here has
attained his senior position without being aware of the paramount importance of timing.’

Beaumont looked proudly at the men on either side of him.

‘Timing will give us surprise,’ said Geoffrey de Montbrai. ‘If we move against him we shall be going against our own habit, our own usage. We shall catch him on one
foot.’

‘And we shall win,’ said the Duke.