The Last Conquest (56 page)

The sheepman looked once more down at the knoll, and crossed himself.

A movement caught his eye. He squinted to concentrate, then exclaimed in amazement.

A man was still alive down there. A big man. A very big man.

The sheepman gasped.

The giant was leaning on a long stave. He was limping badly as he picked his way over the dead and dying.

‘Look!’

Hundreds of eyes followed every hobbled step between the knoll and the main hill. There was no sign of the axe.

A Norman knight spotted him. He turned his horse about, braced his stirrups, and drew his sword.

English voices bellowed warnings. The man tried to hurry, but the effort, as the knight bore down on him, was pitiful. The man seemed to realise it, because he stopped, and swung round to face
his pursuer.

As the Norman rushed in for the kill, the Saxon balanced himself carefully, and grasped the stave with both hands at one end.

Yelling in triumph, the Norman swung his right arm high. The stave caught him across the throat with such force that he was lifted bodily from the saddle. The stave snapped, one end flying up
high. The horseman turned over in the air and fell on his neck.

Without looking to see if he was still moving, the big man resumed his painful climb, using what was left of the splintered stave.

At the top he was greeted by cheers and a score of willing hands.

He ignored them all. Men fell away before him. They could not understand why he kept scanning the whole field. Like some general, they said. Without a glance at them, he struggled through a sea
of puzzled faces into a clear area behind the line.

Muttering and shaking their heads, men turned back to face the enemy.

Godric came to a decision: he was not here; he must be on the other side.

Robert of Beaumont leaped from the saddle and flung the reins towards a stable boy.

‘Did you see that? Did you see that? Perfect order.’

Sir Roger of Montgomery dismounted more deliberately. He patted his destrier’s neck.

‘Parade ground stuff.’

Beaumont’s flush of excitement became one of anger. ‘But we did it. Advance and retire in perfect order.’

Montgomery took the reins of his new mount, and nodded to his groom.

‘The object of a manoeuvre is not perfection; it is victory. Look at them. Are they still there?’

Beaumont looked across from Telham towards the tight English line. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, then.’

Beaumont spluttered. ‘So what was all the practice for?’

‘To get better.’

Beaumont frowned. ‘I do not see.’

Montgomery looked down from the saddle. ‘We are still not good enough.’ He pointed. ‘That is the practice we need now. Over there.’

Edwin had not known that such exhaustion was possible. His arms and legs were quivering; he could barely stand. He bent over in desperate search of breath. Wilfrid patted him
on the shoulder. ‘First blood, eh?’

Edwin nodded, still gasping.

Wilfrid glared down the hill. ‘It will take more than one whipping to beat the Bastard. Look down there.’

Edwin stood up and peered over the shield wall.

Marshals and messengers were cantering to and fro. Most blocks of men, from Telham Hill right down almost to the stream of Caldbec, looked organised and purposeful, if slightly smaller. Isolated
figures were braving the English spears to collect weapons from bodies in the water and beyond. Archers and crossbowmen were beginning to troop back to the field, alert and spry, with full quivers.
The Duke’s standard flew again in the centre.

‘See?’ said Wilfrid. ‘He is going up the hill to get a better look.’

The standard followed the Duke and his staff.

The enemy commander was so visible, so close, and yet untouchable. The impossible thought flashed through Edwin’s mind: could not one determined man, in a sudden dash . . .? Or a lucky
bowshot . . .? Was it not worth a try? Even with their solitary, timid bowman?

Even as he thought it, he knew it was a dream.

He glanced behind towards the apple tree. The Wessex Dragon and the Fighting Man fluttered together. Harold must be with them.

Again, Edwin looked across to Telham Hill. Perhaps some Norman up there was thinking the same thing.

Gilbert! He was sure that Gilbert was just as eager as he was to gain fame, or modest mark – at the very least to bear himself well.

Had he taken part in the battle yet? Would they meet? Gilbert was only a scout; it was unlikely.

Edwin regretted that he had not had time the day before to talk to Gilbert. Really talk. Would they meet after the battle? If they did, what could they say to each other? One a victor, one a
loser . . .

‘Here. Wake up. Give me a hand.’

Wilfrid was struggling with a dead body.

‘What are you trying to do with him?’ said Edwin.

‘Get him over the top, of course.’

Edwin stared. ‘What – tip him outside the shields?’

‘He is no use to us inside. Come on. Grab his legs.’

Edwin spluttered. ‘It is shameful!’

Wilfrid paused with his hands under the corpse’s armpits. ‘I shall have shame if I do not do everything I can to strengthen this line. He can be as useful dead as he was
alive.’ He peered into the corpse’s face. ‘Probably more useful. Eric never was very good with an axe. Do you want his helmet?’

Wilfrid slipped it off and held it out. There was blood inside the rim.

Edwin shuddered. ‘No.’

‘Please yourself,’ said Wilfrid, tossing it aside. He saw Edwin still hanging back. ‘He would have done the same with me. And I should have wanted him to.’

Edwin looked further along the line. More bodies were being tipped over, stripped first of useful equipment.

Grimacing with distaste, Edwin heaved and hoisted, and heard poor Eric flop like a sack of corn down the other side, on top of a dead horse and a transfixed Norman knight.

Wilfrid dusted his hands.

‘Time now for three important things.’

‘What are they?’ asked Edwin, not at all sure that he wanted to know.

Wilfrid cleaned blood off the blade of his axe as casually as a man blowing his nose.

‘A good bite, a good drink, and a good piss.’

Ralph found Sandor on his knees, cradling Taillefer’s head in his lap. He was wiping dirt from the bruised face.

Sandor looked up, his cheeks blotched. ‘What do you do here?’

‘I had a message for Count Alan. I saw you from the top.’

‘You saw my friend?’ said Sandor.

‘I saw what he did, yes.’

Sandor looked down into Taillefer’s face. ‘It was a great thing he did. Surely men will now sing of Taillefer too. As they sing of Roland at Roncesvalles, they will now sing of
Taillefer at the Sandlake.’

Ralph crouched beside him, still carefully holding the reins. He put his other arm round Sandor’s shoulders.

‘Yes, little man from Hungary, I expect they will. Is he . . .?’

Sandor nodded. ‘He was dragged a long way. The hooves and his head . . . There was much trampling by men too; his ribs . . .’

Ralph stood up and looked around him. ‘You can not stay here.’

‘I know. But a friend must have a farewell.’ Sandor let Taillefer’s head go gently to the ground. ‘I must go to my horses.’

‘Cover him,’ said Ralph. ‘Nobody can hurt him now.’

Sandor went to Taillefer’s horse. From behind the saddle he drew the minstrel’s best cloak. He kneeled beside the body and folded the hands across the chest. From inside
Taillefer’s tunic he pulled a cross, snapped off the chain from the neck, and wound it round the fingers.

‘I did not know Taillefer wore a crucifix,’ said Ralph.

‘No,’ said Sandor gruffly.

He took the dagger out of the belt, and stuffed it into his own. He shook out the cloak and laid it gently, pulling it up over the face.

‘Why leave anything valuable?’ said Ralph. ‘It will only be plundered. You know what animals there are on a battlefield.’

‘I leave them because they belong to him. If we bury him, we bury them with him and the worms get them. Animals or worms – what does it matter? We have done what is right.’

‘You take his dagger, I see.’

Sandor patted it. ‘That not belong to him. It would not be proper. He goes to his God clean.’

‘So be it. Now, hurry.’

Ralph had heard rustles in the undergrowth nearby, and was not anxious for private duels.

Sandor stood up, crossed himself – the first time Ralph had seen him do it – and stood for a moment. His hand strayed to his hip and found the horn there. On impulse he started to
unfasten it.

‘What are you doing?’ said Ralph.

‘If I did not blow this,’ said Sandor, ‘my friend Taillefer would be alive.’

Ralph put out a hand to stop him. ‘But you did blow it, Sandor, and you have made your friend immortal. Come.’

After they had cantered off, the nearby bushes parted, and William Capra staggered out. He was streaked with mud and soaked to the knees, but otherwise unhurt.

He untethered Taillefer’s horse – a frightful old nag. With no choice he had no grumbles.

He went to the body, kneeled, and pulled back the cloak. The face looked younger than he remembered it. Peaceful too. Capra had never expected to see a dead man look happy.

Bewitched by temptation, he slid the cloak further, further, until he uncovered the cross and chain. Jewels gleamed.

Capra ran his tongue along his lower lip.

He wished Taillefer would move, just flutter an eyelid, and he would cheerfully cut his throat. This deathly, serene trust was too much for him.

He flung the cloak back over the face, rushed to the horse, and mounted. The noises of battle came once more into his ears.

He paused for a last look. The cloak clearly outlined the beak of a nose and the outsize feet.

William Capra gritted his teeth. ‘I am not an animal!’

He dug in his heels with savage decision.

‘Have you seen a big man, a big man with an axe?’

The groom waved a hand towards the top of the hill. ‘Just over there you will find thousands of them; take your pick.’

‘No, no. I mean a very big man. And not a housecarl.’

The groom shrugged.

Gorm staggered on. The groom looked after him in alarm.

‘You must not go up there.’

Gorm paid no attention.

The groom paused, undecided. A horse nudged his back. He shrugged again and carried on with his work.

Gorm pulled at a fyrdman’s sleeve. ‘Have you seen a big man, with an axe? Limping.’

‘Are you joking? They are talking of nothing else.’

Gorm worked his way to the right wing, where he heard the story several times over.

‘Where is he now?’

‘Gone, thank God,’ said the sheepman.

Gorm swallowed. ‘You mean – dead?’

‘No, I mean gone – somewhere else. Good riddance, I say. The man is mad.’

‘Mad?’

‘Stark, staring. No idea of danger. Thought we were all heroes. Nearly did for all of us.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘No idea.’

‘You must have seen him go.’

‘No – too busy. What is he to you, anyway?’

‘He is my – my kin.’ Gorm could not bring himself to say ‘son’, and the full story was too long.

‘Well, old man, you have a madman in the family. Stay away from him, or he will do for you too.’

Gorm grimaced in frustration.

The sheepman turned away, and carried on to his neighbours in the front line.

‘When I got this arrow in my foot, he never even asked if I was all right. And it was right under his nose. There he was, gazing into empty air and eating mushrooms, if you please, as if
he was—’ He felt his arm being gripped.

‘Did you say mushrooms?’ said Gorm intently.

The sheepman, held close, looked at him with distaste. ‘Yes. Why?’

Gorm flung his arm aside, and stumped off, still looking desperately from side to side.

The sheepman brushed his sleeve. ‘If he does not calm down, that silly old fool will have a fit as well.’

On the left wing, Godric worked his way through to the front. Ploughmen and farm boys took one look at the size of his shoulders and gave him space.

Earl Leofwine came along the line.

‘Any dead – tip them over. It is no time to be soft.’

In front of Godric, a tearful boy was trying to move a body much heavier than himself.

Godric bent down, lifted the dead man, held him high over his head, took one pace forward, and threw him in front of the shields and stakes. Men gaped. He rubbed his hands on his thighs to get
rid of the blood.

Under where the body had lain was a sledgehammer.

The boy wiped his cheeks. ‘My father was a smith.’

Godric stooped and picked up the sledgehammer. Holding it in one massive hand, he examined the head to make sure it was still tightly fixed.

‘Kill them all,’ said the boy.

One or two neighbours in the line were watching. Godric ignored them.

‘Good to have a man like you here,’ said one.

Godric looked at him, but said nothing.

The man looked uneasily at his companion and back at Godric.

‘There is someone like you over on the right. Man with an axe. Already killed sixty Normans, they say.’

Godric peered intently over the shield wall and tried to pick out the various blocks of infantry.

He had to be there; he had to be!

‘I want a second attack from the right, on the English left,’ said the Duke.

‘Using up the infantry first, I see,’ said Fulk bitterly. ‘As usual.’

‘Hold your tongue, you insolent serf,’ said Walter Giffard.

Fulk rounded on him. ‘We have just returned from the English line. May I ask what you and your precious knights have been doing for the last hour? Waiting to follow after the victory
charge and kill off the wounded?’

Giffard appealed to the Duke. ‘My lord! Do we have to tolerate this – this—’

‘Silence, both of you.’ William pulled on the reins to control his restive new horse. ‘The Flemings will have close cavalry support. We learn a lesson from our mistakes on the
left.’

Count Alan of Brittany hung his head.

‘Just so,’ said Fitzosbern. He barked orders. ‘Grandmesnil. Tosny.’