The Last Conquest (40 page)

‘This devil,’ said Ralph.

‘You know of Gilbert’s secret desire in England?’

‘Make yourself clear.’

‘You know he is not the father of his son?’

‘There was castle gossip. What of it?’

‘It troubles him deeply,’ said Sandor. ‘His wife tell him, after many questions. She say a Saxon forced her.’

‘A Saxon?’

‘When Harold visit Normandy. One of his men.’

‘Ah, yes – I remember,’ said Ralph.

‘So now Gilbert scours England for the man who forced his wife.’

‘So what? He is not the first man in this position. He will not find him.’

Taillefer leaned forward eagerly, as if he had been waiting his opportunity.

‘But suppose he did?’

Ralph snorted. ‘Impossible. A million to one.’

‘But do you not see the importance of it? To avenge his honour. Honour will carry him through the fears – fear of letting you down, fear of dying, fear of everything else. You and
Bruno – you have your own knightly pride. Our leaders have their own code of vassal and lord. Our priests and bishops have the ear of the Almighty. What does Gilbert have, apart from
this?’

Ralph shook his head. ‘Too philosophical for me. Too clever by half. The boy does not know and he is never going to find out, and that is an end of it. And you know my views on
revenge.’ He pointed to his stomach. ‘I could show you the scar made by Bloodeye’s dagger sixteen years ago. But I shall fight alongside him if need be. The past is the
past.’

‘As a comrade?’

‘I shall not lift a finger to save his life, but I shall do nothing to take it. Neither action will remove my scar, nor the chills I suffer in the cold weather. Look at your stories. Did
Charlemagne’s revenge bring Roland back? Look at my family. Did Enguerrand’s mutilation restore to my father his hand, or to my mother her wits?’

‘It is not the revenge; it is the honour.’

‘But it
is
the revenge,’ insisted Ralph. ‘Honour is only the skin; revenge is the tasty fruit. It is the pride of fools.’ He flung out an arm in the direction of
the wagon where Gilbert slept. ‘And in any case, there was no dishonour. She was not unfaithful. The offence took place before she was married.’

‘She deceived him.’

‘Rubbish. She did what any terrified girl would have done. What choice did she have? And now this young man has a pretty wife, a son he loves in spite of himself, and another son soon to
be born. If he survives this battle, he will have land and rewards and all the glory he can imagine. Why poison it with senseless revenge for a dishonour that is no dishonour?’

‘And if he does not survive?’ persisted Taillefer.

Ralph did not know what to say; the prospect was beyond even pain to contemplate. He waved an arm in a falsely dramatic way.

‘There are the priests. The Bastard has imported enough to fill a cathedral.’

‘They can remove the fear of death; they can not remove the fear of dying, of pain, of mutilation. I have seen men before battle – far more than you have. I have looked into their
eyes, into their hearts.’

‘More philosophy,’ said Ralph. ‘And in any case irrelevant. He knows nothing and neither do we.’

Taillefer looked at Sandor. ‘Tell him what you told me.’

Sandor repeated his story of what he had heard from Edwin. Ralph was totally unmoved.

‘Coincidence – pure coincidence. You do not know the name of Adele’s ravisher, and you do not know the name of Edwin’s lover. And yet you connect the two? Ridiculous. Put
it into one of your romances, Taillefer.’

‘It matters not,’ said Taillefer. ‘Can you not see? It will give him purpose over and above his fears.’

Ralph shook his head. ‘At best a fancy; at worst a lie. Would you have a man die for that?’

‘Not for knowing it is a lie, no. For believing it is true, yes. What are my stories but fancies? Lies, if you like. But they inspire. Believe me, I have seen it. Did not Our Lord admit to
his apostles that he spoke in parables? That is all I do. If I can create my small portion of faith or courage, where is the harm?’

‘For a lie?’

‘For belief. My friend, we are not talking about absolute truth; we are talking about faith, confidence. About moving men to unwelcome action.’ Taillefer waved an arm to take in the
whole camp. ‘Men, I know, will fight out of lust or greed. I prefer them to fight out of honour, out of a trust in something over and above themselves. So I tell my stories. Who knows if they
are true? Who cares? Men believe because they want to. They need something to get them through the coming day of trial. They
have
to believe. What else do our priests do but help us to get
through a life of trial? Surround us with a fence of hopes and fears. Who knows – who really
knows
– if they are true? And if they did, how many others could they
convince?’

‘So you would spin this romance in Gilbert’s young head?’

‘You have your code,’ repeated Taillefer. ‘I only wish to give him the same chance as you, the same courage. Bruno says he is a loser; this could make him a winner. Would you
not want that?’

Would he not want it!

Taillefer laid a bony, bejewelled hand on Ralph’s arm.

‘Think, Ralph. If he sees his honour there, it is there. If he lives, he will be exorcised. If he dies, he dies justified. Would you have him a broken survivor, a self-soiled failure still
in pursuit of a man he can never find?’

Ralph ached with the pain of willing peace of mind to Gilbert, but into his mind’s eye came the familiar sight of Bruno’s face, the still slab of eloquent flesh below the vociferous
eyebrows. Into his ears came the familiar flat voice: ‘the boy is a loser’; ‘Michael is dead’.

All his instincts, twenty years of wary treading, made him cry out against flights of imagination such as Taillefer described. A battle was a battle; fear was fear; dying was dying.

He did what he did when the pain of Michael’s death was too much in the company of brother Aubrey’s bullying; or when the loss of his friend Aimery gave him no peace in the continued
service of Bishop Geoffrey – he took himself away.

‘The boy does not know,’ he muttered. He retied his laces and stood up. ‘If he does not know, he does not know, and there is an end to it. Far better to concentrate on his
duties.’ He gained assurance as he moved on to the familiar ground of his own work.

He gazed down at Taillefer. ‘Good night, philosopher. When he wakes to go out, tell him I wish him well.’

‘Anything else?’

Ralph deliberately ignored the hint.

‘Yes. Tell him to look after the hauberk.’

William Capra counted his money. It did not take him long. He lay down very carefully, and rested his chin on his hands.

Ralph Pomeroy came in from a scavenging trip.

‘Want some nuts?’ He held out a bulging bag.

‘No.’

Pomeroy made a face, and eased off his leather jerkin with many grunts and curses. He saw the open pouch beside his brother’s hands.

‘How much do we have left?’

‘Not enough.’

‘Ah.’

Pomeroy glanced at his brother’s face, and could see that he was thinking again. He too lowered himself gently onto his stomach, and began cracking some of the nuts.

Capra reached out for a mug of beer and sipped thoughtfully.

‘Ralph?’

‘Yes?’ said Pomeroy, spitting out bits of shell.

‘Someone will pay for all this.’

Taillefer coughed. He lit a fresh stub of candle from the old dying one, and peered at the stains on his kerchief.

He preferred knowing the truth about himself. It would help him to face the battle day.

He looked at Gilbert stretched out beside him. He had it in his power to give the boy something that would help him to face it too. Belief. Was that not even stronger than truth?

He pushed his fingers through a rent in the wagon awning and peered out at the night sky. It was time.

He shook Gilbert.

‘Wake now. Wake.’

‘Mmm?’ Gilbert woke a start.

‘It is nearly the hour. No, no, lie still for a few more minutes. I said, “nearly”. There is something I must tell you before you go.’

Sandor went prowling among the horse lines.

‘No Capra? No Pomeroy?’ he asked.

‘Not a sign of them,’ said Serlo. ‘Have no fear, little man from Hungary. They have burned their fingers. They will not try again. Sir Walter Giffard has placed extra
sentries.’

‘Did the tall one come to you?’

‘Bruno? Yes. I gave him a spare horse. Sorrel is resting. See?’

After the frantic activity of the day, the camp seemed to be sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. Would it be like this tomorrow night, the probable eve of battle?

As he picked his way back to the wagon, Sandor wondered idly what chance of success Harold might have if he could launch a thousand determined men on William’s camp at a moment like this.
He dismissed the thought almost at once. Even if his army could overcome the depression of night; even if the Norman castle, sentries and scouts never existed; even if the housecarls were all
immortal heroes of iron who could consider such an attack immediately after a fifty-mile march from London – there was the simple problem of darkness. Sandor knew from experience that is
often difficult for a couple of horse-thieves to keep contact with each other over any distance during an approach in darkness. For an army to find its way, stay together and act together would be
impossible. Though it did not stop him worrying a little about William Capra.

He climbed over the tailboard and into the wagon. Gilbert had already gone. Taillefer was asleep. A stained kerchief was crumpled in his bony hand. Sandor eased it tenderly from his fingers, and
pulled the blanket right up to his ears.

Sandor wriggled down into the still warm place where Gilbert had lain, curled up, and fell instantly asleep.

Gilbert steered his horse past the last sentries.

‘Good luck, son. Go get them.’

Gilbert did not reply. He had something else to find now besides the enemy.

13 October

A heavy dew soaked what grass was left after a fortnight of constant traversing by feet, hooves, and wheels. A few early fires were already sending up wispy plumes of woodsmoke
like ghostly shivering poplars. Spangled spiders’ webs trembled below dripping ropes and awnings.

Sandor offered cheery greeting to chilly sentries, who, after the coldest and loneliest watch of the night, did not share his good humour. As he tramped round to the horse lines, a hundred swear
words floated towards him. Men cursed the cold, the damp, the stiffness of limbs, the staleness of the food, the English, the Duke, the man in the next row who snored, the smell of the pits.
Anything and everything had an obscenity stuck to it; it was a soldier’s way of saying what he thought of soldiering.

Sandor talked to grooms, tested halter ropes, patted steaming noses, murmured in Magyar to twitching ears. Satisfied once again that all was well, he returned to the wagon. He paused outside for
a moment, and glanced up at the sky. Gilbert should be back soon, or at least by full daylight. Sandor climbed in beside Taillefer, curled up and went to sleep as quickly as before.

Gilbert breasted the rise and came out of the woods above the mill. There was just enough light to see it.

There was no smoke. He rested in the saddle, as if half expecting to see Rowena come out to collect eggs. He would not be able to distinguish faces at this distance, but he would know her walk
anywhere. He knew Edith’s dumpy little gait too, and he would recognise Aud’s voice if he heard it. In his mind’s eye he could also see Gorm’s laboured step; despite the
sharpness of the air, he fancied he could sense the fetid staleness that the miller carried around with him. It came as a shock to realise that he felt more comfortable with the sights, sounds, and
smells of this household than he did with any other since he had left his family home near Avranches.

He shook his head vigorously, as if to waken himself from a dream. This would never do. They were Saxon; they were foreign. For all that they had shown him kindness, they were the enemy. It was
his task now to question them and extract information from them. Without cruelty, maybe, but not without firmness. He was no vomiting weakling now, out of his senses, prostrate in the evening dew.
He was a Norman scout, searching out news of the enemy army, and following, moreover, a fresh trail left by an escaping prisoner. He had a duty to do, a task to fulfil, a reputation to make.

Then why was he still sitting here?

He looked furtively over his shoulder, as if he expected Ralph to be there, his mouth already framing questions that cut through his every defence and artifice.

‘God’s Breath! Why do you chase a single quarry for some petty private grievance when you should be carrying out your orders and searching for an entire army?’

Gilbert could almost hear him saying it.

‘Does the Duke care about your precious honour? Does Fitzosbern? Does anyone?’

Gilbert writhed in indecision. Ralph’s voice hammered away in his head.

‘And what of me? How do I face the Duke now? I – who told Fitzosbern you could be trusted alone. How do I tell them that you deserted your duty, disobeyed your orders, endangered the
whole expedition – all for your pitiful honour, for an act of adultery that was no act of adultery? Thousands of lives put at risk because a dog-boy is disturbed in his tiny mind.’

Gilbert lashed himself far more viciously than Ralph could ever have done.

He was quite sure that Ralph knew everything. If Taillefer knew, you could rest assured that Ralph did, and the whole army would know before long. That stupid old wineskin could not keep a
secret to save his life. He could not resist telling Gilbert himself. How could he resist telling the world?

Gilbert flushed at the thought of the crowded hall in the firelight. Taillefer would not need any onions or carrots; he would have them falling about with a much better story. Gilbert could see
even Sandor laughing.

Tears pricked his eyes. How could Sandor have betrayed him? Sandor, of all people. Well, it just showed you; you should not trust foreigners – Magyar or Saxon. To think – less than a
day ago, he had shaken the wretch’s hand! No wonder he had looked awkward. How he had had the face to—