The Last Conquest (52 page)

At that moment Sir Walter himself loomed out of the shadows and greeted him.

‘Clear night. Should be a good day.’

‘I hope so, Walter. Where is the Duke?’

‘Mass, would you believe it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I was there. Odo was officiating – of course. Full pontificals. At this hour!’

Montgomery smiled. ‘So you did go to confession after all.’

Giffard pretended he had not heard.

‘And do you know – the reprobate was wearing mail under his bishop’s robes. You could hear it. Truly the most convenient consciences of all reside with the princes of the
Church.’

‘Just so long as they use a mace and not a sword. You know what it says.’

Giffard grunted. ‘Yes. Smash a man’s head in; that is God’s holy work. Cut him down or run him through, and you have committed mortal sin. If that is theology, I am glad I am a
soldier.’

Montgomery leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Come, Walter. Leave Odo to his capacious conscience. Let us do a day of simple soldiering.’

‘Enjoy the roast pork?’

Wilfrid edged up beside the sheepman and his friends.

Although the morning was clear and sharp, they were stumbling along with their hoods thrown back.

‘If we had, we could bear these stakes without sweating like horses.’

‘You will be glad of them when you get there.’

‘Where is “there”?’

‘There.’

Wilfrid pointed to the bare hilltop where a solitary tree stood black against the light morning sky. A scrap of moon was fading.

The sheepman squinted. ‘There is no cover there at all.’

‘That is why you will be glad of the stakes.’

The sheepman spat. ‘What do we do? Hide behind this bough of a tree when they fire the arrows?’

‘No. You stick it in the ground and point it towards the Norman knights. Their archers will not trouble you; it is the cavalry who will be the threat.’

‘All right for you. Those great shields.’

‘Just as heavy as your stakes.’

The sheepman lifted his load from one shoulder to the other.

‘Here – did you really walk all the way from York in a week?’

Wilfrid glanced down at him with fierce pride.

‘All the way.’

‘In a week?’

‘We had a break in London,’ Wilfrid admitted.

They walked on in silence for a while, the sheepman glancing occasionally at Wilfrid’s gleaming mail and beautifully decorated scabbard. But they were not what he looked at most.

‘Can I have a look at your axe?’

It was the best way he could think of to get a rest; they had been rushed off their feet since they rose.

Wilfrid stopped, unhooked the thong, and held it out to him. The sheepman unloaded the stake and leaned it against himself. He took the axe reverently in both hands.

The madman with the mushrooms had a large axe, but nothing like this. The handle was much longer than the farm tool the sheepman was used to, and the head was gigantic. The edge was deeply
curved too, more than that of the farm axe.

It was of course heavy, but not as heavy as he would have expected, because it was so beautifully balanced. The handle was darkly polished and smooth, except for an area of grooves and chafing
around the hand-grip. The sheepman paused with his fingers over the leather sleeve covering the blade.

‘May I?’

Wilfrid unloosed the laces and slipped it off.

The others gathered round the sheepman and stared in amazement and admiration. Never before had they seen such workmanship, such harmony of line, such dazzling brightness. The patterns and
decorations on the two faces and the back of the head had been done with as much loving attention to detail as could have been bestowed upon an altar cross. Its very beauty gave them a thrill of
horror as they remembered its awful purpose. Somehow it would not have been so awful if it had looked ugly, or even plain.

Inevitably one of them tried the edge with his thumb.

‘Christ!’

The sheepman carefully replaced the leather sleeve and handed it back for Wilfrid to do up the laces.

‘Who would be a Norman, eh?’

Wilfrid rehung the axe. ‘Who indeed?’

‘What do all the patterns mean?’

Wilfrid smiled. ‘Enough questions. Move.’

As they humped their loads once again, the sheepman asked, ‘What is the great hurry? There are no Normans up there.’

‘Nor do we want them. But they are coming soon. The King’s scouts have made contact. We have dug the Bastard out of his castle. He will now fight on our ground, but we must be there
first. And we are late already. Everyone was tired yesterday and slept too long.’

‘It is all right for you; you march hundreds of miles every day.’

‘You bear your loads badly,’ said Wilfrid. ‘Look at those things there. Bouncing like udders on a frightened cow.’

‘Only made them last night,’ said the sheepman.

‘Looks like it.’

The sheepman fished one out and tapped it on his palm. It consisted only of a stick with a sharp stone bound to one end.

‘We used to make these when we were boys, to throw at birds. Never thought we would be throwing them at men. Just made them a bit bigger.’

Wilfrid grunted. ‘Any more secret weapons?’

The sheepman indicated his crook and his knife.

‘You can get hold of anything with this. Fetch anything down. And with this – a tumbled Norman on his back is like a sheep on its back.’

Wilfrid laughed. ‘I hope so, for your sake. Now – go to the right of that old apple tree. Make for the right-hand end of the hill, the western end, the end away from the sun. When
you get there, you will be put into line by Earl Gyrth. Make your position as strong as possible and stay put.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To say the same thing to other groups like yours. I have lingered here long enough.’

‘Here – before you go . . .’

‘Yes? Be quick.’

‘That madman – the one with the mushrooms. Have you seen him today?’

‘No. Too many other things to see to.’

‘Well, we do not want him round us. Staring into air like that. Upsets a man.’

Wilfrid sighed. ‘Throw one of your bird-sticks at him. Perhaps you will frighten him off.’

Wilfrid moved away.

‘Oh – one other thing,’ said the sheepman.

‘What now?’

‘What is it called?’

‘What is what called?’

‘This place. Where we are now. What is it called?’

‘Caldbec Hill. Why?’

The sheepman shrugged. ‘Just thought I should like to know the name. Considering.’

‘Well?’

Ralph and Bruno dismounted.

‘They are on Senlac, sir. As we suspected.’

Bruno glanced at Ralph. The word ‘we’, implying that they shared in the Duke’s private thoughts, was only part of Ralph’s swagger, but it could have been taken as
insubordination by a lesser man. The Duke ignored it.

‘What short of shape are they in?’

‘Confused, I should say, sir, though a line of battle is being formed.’

William glanced at the bright eastern sky. If they moved fast, they might get in one attack with the sun directly behind them. On the other hand, he had no intention of spoiling things at this
stage by unseemly rush. Let the English do the hurrying.

He turned to Fitzosbern and asked a question with his eyebrows. As usual, Fitzosbern’s answer was an echo of his own thoughts.

‘I suggest, sir, we move with all haste to concentrate behind Telham.’

‘I agree. Haste, but no rush. And we wait this side until all main contingents have arrived. We do not show our hand until we are ready to show our whole body.’

‘We could commence deployment, sir,’ suggested Fitzosbern. ‘It would ease congestion behind Telham as all units arrive.’

‘No! We march as an army over the brow of Telham. I do not want the English sneering at parts of us; I want them trembling at all of us. We concentrate behind Telham.’

‘Just so, my lord,’ said Fitzosbern formally. He stood to attention. ‘Permit me to congratulate you on bringing the Saxon to battle.’

William grunted. ‘Pass the word, Fitz. Not a man over the brow until I say. And get my grooms to me. You?’ He turned to Ralph and Bruno. ‘Go and have another look. I want a
clear picture of their battle array.’

He began his familiar tuneless humming, and walked off to see his brothers. Odo was seen to pray and bless him.

Ralph looked at Bruno, who was crouching to examine Sorrel’s leg.

‘How is it?’

‘So far, so good. Sandor has done marvels, but I do not wish to strain it more than I have to. I would have wished not to make a second trip to Senlac.’

‘Stay and rest her,’ said Ralph. ‘I shall take Gilbert. The boy is burning to do something.’

Bruno looked up. ‘And you can keep an eye on him.’

‘Go to Hell,’ said Ralph, and cantered off.

When Gorm woke, he was alone. He was also hungry and shaking with cold.

He crawled backwards out of his shelter and stood up with difficulty. Dusting the dead leaves from his clothes, he looked about him.

The countryside seemed empty. There was no trace of the army. No stragglers either.

He looked up at the sun. Great God, he had slept a long time! No wonder the fyrdmen had gone.

Speed! Haste! It would be hard enough to find Godric in the battle array; it would be impossible once the battle started.

He paused only for the needs of nature, and a few wolfed mouthfuls of bread and cheese. He crawled back into the shelter to retrieve his stick, took a gulp from his leather flask, and stumbled
back to the main track.

Before very long he had ceased shivering and started sweating again. His legs were stiff. His sore feet reminded him of the blisters they had gathered the day before. There was a dull ache
across his shoulders.

As his fatigue grew, his judgement dimmed. His thoughts faded and blurred into only one theme – find Godric and tell him. And, please God, find him before he did something stupid in the
battle.

‘Never mind the point. Get them in first.’

A ploughman stopped his whittling and paused with his knife in mid-air.

Earl Leofwine gestured impatiently from his horse. ‘Get the foot of the stake firmly set.’

‘How?’

‘Think of something!’ blazed Leofwine. He turned to a house-carl. ‘Tell him, for God’s sake,’ he said, and trotted off down the line.

Some clods were still putting them in upright.

‘They are not for hiding behind,’ roared Leofwine. ‘They are for fighting behind. We want a hedgehog, not a wall. And sharpen them afterwards, if you have time.’

He had never seen such a crowd of fussing old women in his life. They might be milling round a stall in a market. You had to say the same thing time and time again, and the minute you turned
your back they were doing it wrong once more.

They still thought a battle was some kind of exciting duel, with the victor chasing gloriously across the field after the fleeing, eye-popped enemy. They had no idea – yet – that it
meant a lot of crouching and watching and waiting and sweating; of pushing and shoving and bleeding and dying; of fluke and chance and coincidence and rank bad luck – with the victor
grateful, if he was able, to limp away to camp for a drink and a rest, too tired to cheer or weep.

Harold had told him, and Gyrth, and the other thegns, over and over: ‘Get it into their heads: whatever happens, they stay. Win or lose, they stay. If the sky falls in, they stay where
they are. It is a chance they may die where they stand, but if they run down into that low ground, without flank support, it is not a chance; it is a certainty.’

‘What if the whole Norman line breaks?’ said Gyrth.

‘I do not care if it shatters,’ said Harold. ‘So long as there are Norman knights down there, it is dangerous. We do not go forward until there is a field of Norman dead under
our feet, and I appear as the Angel of the Lord to lead them by the hand. Is that clear?’

Leofwine repeated it and repeated it, up and down his end of the line. Over on the right, Gyrth did the same.

Some of them clearly understood, but others merely looked at him, muttered ‘Surr!’ in their thick accents, and carried on with what they were doing.

The fyrdmen were somewhat better. They at least had some experience of campaigning, though Gyrth wondered, as he counted the grey hairs, how long it was since many of them had been in the
field.

Gyrth felt a sudden sinking of the heart; one third of the army stiff in the joints and another third stiff in the head. Oh, for two hundred of the heroes who died at Stamford! A hundred!

He heard a shout from behind the stepped ranks of housecarls. Every man turned his head. There, up above, by the grey apple tree, was a small knot of men. Gyrth recognised Harold among them; it
was probably Harold’s voice he had heard.

As he looked, two tall standards were raised aloft. First to be unfurled was the great Dragon of Wessex. A cheer went up from the housecarls and rippled along to each end of the line.

Then the King’s personal banner fluttered proudly into its fullest length – the Fighting Man, its golden threads glittering in the morning sun.

The roar that went up was deafening. Harold, sensing the moment, mounted a horse and rode to and fro in front of the apple tree, turning and waving to every part of the line.

The chant arose on the left – ‘Harold the King! Harold the King!’ – and was taken up throughout the whole army’s length. ‘Harold the King! Harold the
King!’

Gyrth’s heart, which had been sinking only a moment before, took such a leap that he almost choked. He looked over towards Leofwine, who returned his look with a vigorous wave of the arm.
Each brother was grimacing to fight back the tears. How could they possibly lose?

Heralds and marshals cleared a way. The Duke trotted from the rear to the front of his whole army. Apart from his helmet and shield, he was now fully dressed for battle. He sat
astride his famous Spanish white destrier. As the army was still roughly in column of march, it was a ride of some duration.

William intended it to be. He was taller than most. Like all men with a commanding eye, he knew when to use it, and could employ it at will. The white horse made a stark contrast to the dark
colours around him. His was a striking figure, and he understood exactly what sort of an impression he was making.