The Last Conquest (43 page)

All around these groups were countless small knots of men, with hardly a scrap of proper protection between them. Their weapons were not up to much either. He could swear that he saw scythes and
pitchforks, even plain staves.

All told, it looked a vast host – perhaps forty thousand, on second thoughts. Would the Duke be well advised to wait behind the protection of his castle walls? Or would these scruffy
peasants break before the thunder of a charge of knights? Gilbert rested his chin on his hands. If he were the Duke—

His horse fell on him, winding him completely. He struggled frantically to twist round and away, the helmet at his belt digging agonisingly into his side. Then he saw that it was not his horse,
but an enormous Saxon, who was now astride his chest and pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. A second one pointed a sword at his throat, while a third was hobbling his ankles.

Still gasping for air, he was hoisted to his feet by the scruff of the neck, disarmed, and made to march down the hill. The big man tied his wrists and led him like a donkey; the second walked
behind, still with naked sword; the third brought his horse.

Each group of men looked up and fell silent as they approached. Heads came together again when they had passed, and the mutterings began, with final glances over watchful shoulders.

By the time they reached Harold’s headquarters, Gilbert had accepted that he was as good as dead. He was so consumed with self-reproach that he now welcomed the prospect. He had failed to
find Edwin and therefore failed to redeem his honour. He had failed to get vital news back to the Duke, and so had nothing to justify his breaking of Sir William Fitzosbern’s strict orders.
Worst of all, he had proved once again his incompetence as a scout; he had neglected the most basic points of Ralph’s training, and had allowed himself to be surprised and caught like a
stupid farm boy stealing eggs. He had betrayed his family, his honour, his friend, his comrades, and his duke. What would Adele say? What would Ralph think of him when he heard that he had tamely
allowed a Saxon fyrdman to pull from him the precious hauberk? What shame would his poor father feel!

By the time he stood before the King, he was looking forward to the royal gesture of dismissal and the axe-blow that would release him.

At first the questions were put in English. The King lowered his head and watched him carefully as he waited for an answer.

Gilbert shrugged.

A priest was brought who spoke French.

‘I have nothing to say.’ Gilbert decided that he would at least not add cowardice to his other crimes.

Again that watchful look with lowered head. Gilbert stood and awaited the inevitable.

The King walked away to another group sitting by a wagon. There was a murmured conversation. The King returned with another man.

Gilbert gaped. They were almost identical.

The two men looked at each other and laughed. Then one of them stepped forward and took out a knife.

Gilbert braced himself and shut his eyes. He heard a second laugh, and felt the rope fall from his wrists. When he opened his eyes, he received another shock. Standing between the two
‘kings’ was a third, taller and fairer. He put an arm round the shoulders of each of them.

‘This is my brother, Gyrth, and this is my brother, Leofwine.’ He grinned. ‘Baffling, eh?’

Gilbert found some memory of ’sixty-four coming back. During Harold’s visit to Normandy, he had seen the Earl, as he then was; but he would not have been able to distinguish him now
from his two brothers.

Harold’s French accent was good. Gilbert was also taken aback by the charm and the frankness. The man in the middle was watching him.

‘Surprised at my French?’ he said. ‘We had plenty of Normans here in the Confessor’s day. Court was crawling with them. And I got a lot better when I was in Normandy in
’sixty-four – visiting your duke. You will know therefore who I am. Now, who are you?’

‘Gilbert of Avranches, sir.’ Gilbert amazed himself at how easily the ‘sir’ came out.

The King looked him up and down.

‘Well, Gilbert of Avranches,’ he said at last, ‘it was careless of you to get captured, was it not?’

The question was so direct that Gilbert found himself answering with total honesty.

‘Yes, sir.’

The King began munching an apple.

‘And now that you have discovered us, what are you going to tell your duke?’

Gilbert began to resent the bantering tone.

‘Why play with me, sir? I was stupid. You have caught me. Why not kill me and have done with it?’

Harold paused with the apple in front of his lips. ‘If for no other reason, because it seems to be the one thing you want me to do. Why does a young soldier with everything to live for
wish to die?’

Gilbert lowered his head. ‘I have nothing to live for, sir.’

‘Hate yourself that much, eh?’

Gilbert looked up again. Harold chewed thoughtfully.

‘Well, I am going to give you someone to hate even more – me. That should keep you going – till you get back, anyway. Tell me,’ he continued, ‘did you ever hear the
story of the torturer and the martyr?’

Gilbert looked blank.

‘No? Well, it went like this: the martyr said to the torturer, “Torture me and kill me.” And the torturer thought, and said, “No.”’

The King beamed at him. Gyrth and Leofwine chuckled.

‘Well?’

Gilbert still looked blank.

‘Never mind,’ said Harold. ‘Just understand – I shall not oblige you by killing you. If one Norman scout has seen us, I am sure a dozen have, and they did not get
captured.’

Gilbert grimaced in bitter shame.

‘So,’ continued the King, ‘if we can not arrive quietly, we shall arrive with a banging of drums. It is all one in the end. You will return from here and you will tell your
duke from me that he can squat in his castle and wait for me. He has a castle, of course?’

‘No,’ said Gilbert feebly.

Harold roared with laughter.

‘Boy, you are an even worse liar than you are a scout. A Norman duke goes campaigning without building castles? Perhaps you should be a jester. I fought beside him in Brittany –
remember? And anyway, do you think I have been awaiting this fight for nearly a year without studying my enemy?’

He threw away the apple, walked up to Gilbert, and prodded him in the chest with his finger.

‘You tell your duke – Duke William the Bastard, the son of the tanner’s daughter – tell him that he can cower behind his castle walls and shiver beneath the shelter of
his precious Papal banner, but Harold the King is coming, and coming very soon. He has already thrown one load of waterborne vermin back into the North Sea, and he is about to throw another into
the Channel.

‘If Duke William sees sense and wishes to change his mind at the last minute, then he can leave under my flag of truce and I shall hold the door open for him. If he does not . .
.’

Harold looked hard at Gilbert.

‘I could kill you now, but it will be easier, and tidier, to kill you all together at Hastings. You are a fine young fellow; it would be a pity if you were to die for an act of foolish
presumption by an illegitimate adventurer.’

‘I follow my duke,’ said Gilbert, finding his voice. He sensed that Harold was a man who respected honesty.

The King smiled. ‘Well spoken, son. Nevertheless, go tell your duke what I have said. Follow him by all means. Follow him to Normandy, or follow him to the grave.’

Harold turned to Leofwine and took the apple that his brother was holding. He tossed it to Gilbert, who was so surprised that he nearly dropped it.

‘Here! Not as good as Norman apples, perhaps, but we do our best. While you eat that, you can wander round and see a real army. And it is all army too – no excess weight or surplus
fat, lumbering wagons or screeching whores. You will have my safe conduct, and I give you my housecarl Wilfrid here. He will accompany you until you decide to leave. You will take with you
everything with which you came.’

‘Including my horse, sir?’ said Gilbert in surprise.

‘Well, of course. We want you to get there ahead of us, you idiot. Is there anything else?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Gilbert pointed at the large fyrdman standing behind him. ‘My hauberk. He has it.’

‘Take it off,’ said the King.

‘But, sir,’ protested the fyrdman.

Harold nodded to Wilfrid, who at once began to bear down on the dismayed Saxon.

‘Oh, all right, all right.’

He wrenched it off with a bad grace and flung it at Gilbert.

The King ordered Gilbert’s remaining bonds to be cut, and himself put his sword and dagger back in place. For all that, he was the enemy, Gilbert could not help experiencing a thrill of
excitement at such proximity to this remarkable man.

‘There!’ said Harold. ‘Now you are all in one piece again. Soon we start afresh on the march. See what you want. Ask what you want. Then go. You can rely on Wilfrid. We do not
want any of my wild fyrdmen slicing you up, do we? And I have an interpreter for you. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, sir.’

The King smiled, and his moustache twitched. Then he turned away, beckoning his brothers after him. As the three moved away, he shouted over his shoulder.

‘Edwin! See to him.’

Edwin and Gilbert stared at each other, then went off in awkward silence.

Gyrth said to Harold, ‘That was a fine performance.’

Harold sighed wearily, and flopped onto a fallen tree.

‘You take any luck that presents itself. We have lost the element of surprise. So let us try to overawe them. We can be no worse off.’

‘You will not quicken William.’

‘No. But I quickened that boy. And he will talk. And the stories will get bigger every time.’

‘So you show him the army? We are hardly at our best. Look at us.’

Gyrth gestured at the bent backs and sagging shoulders all round them.

Harold shook his head. ‘It is numbers, not faces, that the boy will take away with him. We must be strung out for over two miles. How can he count? By the time he gets back to the Bastard,
we shall be fifty thousand strong.’

‘That will not fool William either,’ said Leofwine.

‘Of course not,’ said Harold.

‘Well?’

‘My brother, everyone will know the boy is wrong, but they will not know
how
wrong. We have sown doubt – and that is the most fruitful seed of all in an enemy camp. Come. We
now have a meeting to keep.’

‘Where?’

‘In the hall of the Bastard’s castle at Hastings. The one he has not built.’

When Godric caught sight of the thin column of smoke, he feared the worst. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he tried to hobble faster to the top of the hill.

Thank God! It was not the mill that was burning. The smoke was coming from further down the valley, where two or three cottars’ huts were in ruins. A burning wagon was slewed across the
track between them.

There was no sign of life anywhere.

Godric made what jerky speed he could, fresh sweat running down his neck and back. No figure emerged when he splashed noisily across the stream.

Then he heard it. A moaning. Not a sound of physical pain. More a lament.

Turning a corner, he nearly fell over Gorm. The miller was sitting propped against the wall. Across his lap lay Sweyn, his neck loose, like a broken doll. Hideous red-ringed holes gaped in the
boy’s clothes. Gorm cradled the body in bloodstained hands and gently rocked it. He gazed into the distance and intoned a tuneless dirge in his native Danish.

Godric spoke, then shouted. Gorm took no notice until Godric flopped to his knees and shook him.

‘Where is Rowena? Where is Aud? Edith?’

Gorm paused briefly at the sound of the names, then continued moaning.

Godric hit him across the face.

‘Rowena! Where is she?’

The shock brought awareness, then recognition. Gorm reached into his jerkin, pulled out a rag, and began wiping his brow. His eyes narrowed in hatred.

‘You!’

‘Where is Rowena?’ shouted Godric, his voice almost breaking.

‘You! You dare to lust after my daughter.’

Godric shook him again. ‘Is she alive?’

Gorm’s tiny eyes gleamed at the frantic appeal in Godric’s face. At last, after all these years, he had seen Godric truly moved.

‘You want her. Admit it – you want her.’

Godric clenched a fist under Gorm’s nose.

‘Do not play with me, old man. Your son lies dead in your lap. It is no time for riddles. Where – is – Rowena?’

Gorm wiped his face again. His eyes caught sight of the piece of cloth in his hand, now stained with blood as well as with sweat. He gazed at it for a moment, seeming to draw inspiration from
it.

‘They were taken, all of them. Dragged away. I tried to stop it. See? A piece of her dress came away in my hand.’

Godric cried aloud.

Gorm leaned forward, his eyes alight. ‘You know what that means? One man after another, passed from hand to hand, and the remains spitted on a sword. Look at my Sweyn.’

Still groaning in pain, Godric struggled to his feet, and began to move towards the door of the house.

Gorm, sensing triumph, called after him, ‘If she died after one or two, she would be lucky.’

Godric disappeared. Gorm eased Sweyn’s body off his lap and stumbled after him.

Godric was putting food into a satchel.

Gorm came close and shouted in his ear, ‘Now you will never have her. Never!’

Godric turned in fury. Gorm reeled backwards at the awful sight of him. One blow from those huge hands could half kill a man.

Gorm flopped on to a stool, leaned his elbows on the table, and put his head in his hands. Godric moved to and fro, adding to the pile on the table. The limp somehow added to his deliberation.
Last of all, he went out and came back with his great axe. Gorm had retrieved it after the Normans’ previous visit.

Godric rummaged in Rowena’s kitchen corner and pulled out a knife. He sat down at the table, and started to fashion a proper crutch out of a stave he had brought in from the barn. When he
had finished, he picked up a whetstone and began sharpening the edge of the axe. The slow, regular rasping grated on Gorm’s nerves.