The Last Conquest (59 page)

Godric ran the whetstone over the blade once more.

He would have been content to continue with the hammer – any weapon would do now, until a Norman killed him. What did it matter? Fulk was dead. There was no further reason for living.

His two companions in the line had thrust the axe into his hand after the last attack. After watching him with the hammer, they were curious to see what he would do with a housecarl’s
axe.

‘He will not need it any more,’ they assured him. ‘Stone dead. Arrow in the windpipe – just like Hardrada. Go on, take it. You are the best one to use it.’

Godric shrugged and took it. Now he stood and watched the preparations for a fresh Norman attack on his end of the line. Infantry and horsemen together. So there would be no violent charge, not
until the last few paces.

In loose order, they started up the slope, picking their way round horses thrashing with broken legs and backs. A few splayed hands rose in supplication between the slippery tussocks of
grass.

Godric ran his hands up and down the haft of the axe. He had never swung anything like this in his life. God, what a weapon! Suppose he had had it just now, when—

He tensed.

He was not sure whether it was something he first heard or first saw. There – behind the infantry in studded jackets. Although the man was lower down the slope, he looked bigger, thicker,
stronger.

Godric screwed up his dark face to try to catch his voice again, but it was lost in the general muffled roar that was floating up to him.

He felt his heart thumping once more, after the curious stillness since he had last killed. It was impossible. Fulk was dead. Godric could still hear the crunching of the skull beneath his
hammer.

But there he was. Godric strained to get a clearer view through the bobbing heads. He was oblivious to the words around him – the commands, the grim jokes, the muttered prayers. He caught
nothing of the tenseness of the men beside him, saw none of the staring eyes or whitened knuckles.

He was looking for one thing, now that he remembered. At last, when the Norman line was almost upon them, the running bodies opened up enough for him to see. The man carried his sword in the
left hand!

Of course! The hand that had held the knife against Rowena’s throat. Suddenly everything became visible and obvious – the cat-like agility for a big man, the livid eye, the scar, the
dark jowls. It all seemed so clear that he wondered why he could not have recognised him a mile away. How could he have been deceived by the appearance of the other man – whoever he was.

A soldier lunged at him with a spear.

Godric woke up just in time. He parried the blow, then broke the man’s jaw with a backward fling of the axe-head. The scream of pain made him aware of the awful noise around him, of the
need to fight, to look everywhere.

Five minutes before, he had cared nothing for the length of his life or the manner of his death. Now it was vital to stay alive until he could reach Fulk and stand before him.

A knight was pushing against the weakened shield wall in front of him. As he urged his mount through a gap Godric swung at his knee. He was not used to the length of the axe. It clove the
man’s thigh and sank into the flank of the horse.

While he was struggling to pull it out, another horseman came up faster. A fyrdman rammed a spear into the horse’s chest. The impact threw him backwards, but it also brought down the
screaming horse, and threw its rider right over its head and on to the shoulders of some yelling peasants. They finished him off with sickles and billhooks.

There were several gaps in the shield wall. Some excited fyrdmen had stepped outside in their eagerness to thrust away at the enemy. The first impetus of the assault had gone, but the Normans
did not retire at once. Because they had not attacked as quickly as before, they had more breath left to strike another blow.

The fighting became a series of scrappy encounters between separate groups of men, even single combats. One thin man with a long spear was holding his own against a French swordsman.

Godric scrambled through the gap in front of him, and nearly fell at once when his knee buckled. The handle of the axe saved him. He recovered, stood erect, and roared Fulk’s name.

Fulk picked out the one familiar sound in the din around him, and lifted his head.

It took another roar to work out where it came from.

When he saw Godric, he recognised him instantly. After a second of tense stillness, he began stalking. Holding his sword before him, he beckoned Godric towards him with his right hand.

Godric took a few steps forward. Fulk saw the bad limp. A leer twisted the scar on his face.

Two or three Flemings started at Godric, but Fulk put out his arm.

‘No, no – he is mine. Keep them off.’

He gestured towards the nearest fyrdmen, but none of them showed willingness to advance any further.

Godric watched as Fulk circled, feinting and leaping back, flaunting his agility. He held the axe across his chest in both hands, turning, watching. He never heard Fulk’s taunts and
insults.

Fulk was enjoying himself. This was an extra, unforeseen pleasure, worth half a day’s pay. At last – something of interest. He felt his heart pounding. He swore when he heard
Florens’ voice.

‘We must break now. The left wing is beginning to disengage. Our wing will be next. We will be out in front alone. Finish him off.’

A pity, but there it was.

He swung at Godric’s shoulder, and gasped in surprise. He had not been prepared for this clumsy giant to swing the axe with one hand. His blow was easily brushed aside. The back swing
nearly caught him off balance.

Once Godric had begun to move, he continued, swinging the huge weapon in deadly gleaming circles. Despite the limp he advanced steadily. Fulk crouched and peered, but could not get past the
humming blade; it swung and returned like a whiplash. He was forced to retreat.

The nearby Saxons cheered. The thin man pushed his foot into the Norman swordsman’s chest, yanked out his spear, and came to have a closer look.

Fulk played for time. No man could swing a housecarl’s axe like that for long. He received another shock. Godric simply changed hands and bore down upon him. Somehow his limp made it all
the more unreal.

Fulk began sweating. He continued his slow retreat downhill.

The two knots of Saxons and Flemings were drawn along as if by strings.

Fulk began to feel ridiculous. He had to do something. He found himself swinging wildly with his sword, first in one hand, then, when he became tired, in both.

Once, they clashed, and Fulk’s weapon was knocked to the ground. Luckily for him, it fell on the downward side, and he was able to get to it before Godric could hobble to the spot.

Fulk had the presence of mind to appear to hesitate. He stayed in the crouch just a fraction too long, hoping that Godric would swing the axe towards the ground. A leap to one side and a swift
downward cut while Godric tugged the blade out of the grass, and it would be all over, except for the torture and the choice of death-thrust.

Godric ignored the deceit, and simply came on, still swinging in humming circles. Fulk whipped up the sword in the nick of time, and found himself sucked into the same desperate tactics as
before. Enraged by the Saxon cheers, he flailed frantically in a two-handed grip, and made sudden contact again.

There was a gasp from everyone.

Godric’s axe-head flew up into the air.

Fulk stood up straight. His chest was heaving, and his face was glistening, but he was leering again. The sagging eyelid gleamed redder, the white scar gnarled and livid against his dark cheek.
He blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

The Flemings were cheering now. They barely glanced as a single Norman knight rode up to see what was going on.

‘Make way, make way!’

Unwillingly, they edged aside, without taking their eyes off Fulk. They began chanting.

‘Finish him! Finish him!’

Fulk’s face flushed; his lips began twitching. Baring his teeth, he roared like an animal. Holding his sword high with both hands, he poised to rush at Godric.

Behind him, the knight burst through the last ranks of Flemings, and his horse’s shoulder nudged Fulk in the back so hard that he stumbled forward.

Godric, now holding the haft of the axe in both hands, brought it down with all his strength on Fulk’s left shoulder.

Fulk bellowed and fell. The sword flickered away into the grass. His left arm buckled under him, and flopped useless when he rolled over and tried to rise.

Godric struck again, and the helmet flew off. As Fulk struggled up, black hair awry, he put up his right arm as protection; a third swing broke it.

One or two Flemings started to move forward, but the knight on the horse waved a spear and stopped them.

Fulk was now to his knees. Even his good eye was staring. Flecks of foam appeared on his lips. His two arms looked as if they belonged to a drunken puppet. He was roaring incoherently.

Godric limped towards him. Another blow smashed his cheek and knocked him to the ground again.

He uttered a hideous cry that made the watchers’ flesh crawl. The limbs, though bent, went rigid at unreal angles. Blood oozed down his chin from where he had bitten his tongue. His face
and lips turned a ghastly blue, which made the blood look dark.

Saxons and Flemings alike were transfixed with horror. They all wanted it ended.

‘Here, man!’

Godric turned. The thin Saxon tossed his spear. Godric caught it, laid down the broken haft of the axe, and once more took a two-handed grip.

He stumbled forward again until he stood right over Fulk. The body was now jerking and twisting in violent spasms. A fiendish, tense-jawed mask glared evil up at him.

Godric waited until the convulsions took Fulk on to his back, then he plunged. The spear went right through and embedded itself in the grass – so far that Godric almost overbalanced.

Fulk grabbed the spear with both hands, but there was no strength in the misshapen arms. He writhed with staring eyes, foam and blood running from both sides of his mouth. A dark stain appeared
on his leggings at the groin. Where the blood had spread on his chest, it mingled with the mud on the mail, and ran black across the dark ringlets.

Men on both sides gasped and crossed themselves.

Godric held on grimly until all movement had ceased.

The knight on the horse trotted forward. The mail coif, steel helmet and nasal guard masked his face. He looked down at the spreadeagled body.

‘Fortunes of war,’ he said.

He turned to the silent Flemings. ‘Fortunes of war,’ he repeated, more loudly.

He dug in his spurs, and they were forced to move aside. Then he was gone.

The Saxons pulled Godric back up the hill with them. He made no resistance.

Florens was the first to recover. He looked around.

The whole of the Norman attack had ground to a standstill. Men were streaming back on both flanks; the Bretons were in shame again. One or two stepped aside to loot dead bodies. Brian paused,
picked up an axe, and put a horse out of its misery.

At the top of the hill, the two English standards still flew.

Florens clapped his hands. ‘Wake up! Back! Back!’

They could not take their eyes off Fulk’s body. For a moment Florens considered giving orders for them to move it, if only to give a few of them something to do. When he saw the horror on
their faces he changed his mind. Frankly, he did not fancy touching the body himself, though he knew there were gold coins in a belt wallet. Perhaps later, in the evening.

He gave Fulk one last look, and turned away.

‘Back, back, regroup over there, by Beaumont’s pennon. Move!’

Montgomery watched Florens at work. The man was a professional to his fingertips, and he would have them ready for another attack in good time. But he was no Bloodeye.

Montgomery looked up the hill, where jubilant fyrdmen cheered Godric’s return, and a hundred willing hands repaired the gaps in the shield wall. The giant was exercising an influence out
of all proportion to his rank and position. That one duel had knocked the stuffing out of the Flemings. Florens would re-form them, and they would go into action again, but it was now an open
question what would happen when they reached the English line.

Beaumont pulled up noisily beside him.

‘Let us do it. Let us try it.’

‘What?’

‘A retreat. They have come out after us twice. Let us pull them out this time.’

‘Oh, shut up.’

Beaumont stared. ‘This is just the situation that Lord Geoffrey was preparing us for. We shall never get a better chance.’

Montgomery ignored him. Beaumont became angry.

‘What have you got against the idea? Is it too new for you? Like that old man Giffard?’

Montgomery lost his temper. ‘Were we anywhere else than where we are. I should call you out for that. So much for your arrogance. It is surpassed only by your stupidity.’ He flung
out his arm. ‘Just look at those Flemings. Set them running, and they would not stop till they reached the sea. And the knights would follow. We should have nothing else left here but a
chorus of lonely trumpeters and one young idiotic nobleman waving his sword.’

Beaumont flushed. ‘So what do we do –
sir
?’

‘We do not try to harness fear. We change it to hope.’

‘And how do we do that?’

‘By removing the cause of the fear.’

Beaumont swallowed. ‘You mean – the giant?’

Montgomery sneered. ‘Not so keen now, eh? I thought not. Have no fear; I shall not ask you. I shall not ask anybody.’ He hawked and spat. ‘And neither would Sir Walter Giffard
if he were in my place.’

As Florens trudged away, he thought of Fulk and of the partnership of the past years. He could not escape a twinge of relief amid the natural regret.

Fortunes of war.

Sir Walter Giffard looked up Senlac Hill. No doubt now; the shield wall was shorter. The ring of men on the top was smaller, but it was just as still as ever. The only movement
he could detect was the dead being tipped over the wall.