The Last Conquest (6 page)

Edwin gave up in disgust, and let his annoyance be overridden by his joy in finding the hound he had been worrying about nearly all day.

When it became clear that Berry wanted to show him something up on the hill, he was happy to follow. However, it was late, so he took Godric with him. He checked the knife blade, and made sure
that the weapon slid easily in and out of the sheath. He picked up a spare axe handle, and nodded towards a pitchfork. Godric picked it up without a word.

Everyone knew that the Normans had landed. There had been a steady trickle of fugitives through the valley, each with his own garbled version of events. There was talk of fires and killings, of
fighting patrols and foraging parties, of near misses and narrow escapes.

Edwin had kept his eyes open, but had so far seen no enemy. That was no proof, he knew, that nobody had ridden this far from Pevensey, though the indications were against it. All were agreed
that the Bastard had landed at Pevensey, but he would make for London, and so would have little cause to be diverted so far westwards. Still, it would pay to be prudent.

Motioning to Godric to follow, Edwin set off after the eager hound.

Berry ranged restlessly up a narrow sheep track, and paused at the top near the edge of the trees.

Edwin was about to shout encouragement again when an earthy hand closed firmly over his mouth from behind. Another hand pinned his knife arm to his side. He felt an instant of panic, which
vanished as quickly when he smelled Godric’s familiar odour.

He relaxed, and nodded. Godric released his grip, put a hand on his shoulder and pointed with the other.

Edwin knew a Norman horse when he saw one. A riderless Norman horse could mean several things. He glanced at Godric, who nodded ahead towards the dog. It was circling something in the long grass
behind a thicket of ferns. Without a word, they separated, spread out, and came towards the dog from opposite directions.

A young Norman soldier lay on his back. Edwin recognised the short, almost monkish haircut. Blood trickled past the soldier’s ear from a dirty graze and bump on his forehead. He was
moaning softly, and was shaking uncontrollably.

The thrill of fear that passed through Edwin was not caused entirely by the fact that the body was Norman. It looked as if there was some kind of hideous fever present. Edwin caught sight of
dried vomit in the grass nearby. Its fetid smell was still offensive in the evening air. He hung back, uncertain.

Godric moved past him, stooped, and gently removed both sword and dagger. The soldier made no attempt to prevent him. Godric passed them back without looking behind him. Edwin took them. Not for
the first time, he found himself obeying out of sheer respect for Godric’s common sense.

Godric bent over the prostrate young man. He felt his forehead and under his sagging chin. He peered inside the top of his shirt and looked for any spots or blotches. He ran his hands over the
whole body, sniffing all the while. He turned him over, looked at his back, and let him drop gently into his original position. Edwin kept the sword at the ready, feeling a little foolish with his
own stick and Godric’s pitchfork clutched awkwardly together in his other hand.

Godric went over to the horse, tethered it, and examined it. He looked carefully at saddle, bridle, reins, and stirrups. He unlaced and peered into each saddle bag. Reaching into one, he pulled
out something that he kept in his hand while he undid the bedroll. The glittering hauberk flopped open. Without even glancing at Edwin, he folded it again, rolled it inside a travelling cloak, and
strapped it back behind the saddle, keeping out only the dark woollen blanket.

He came back to the soldier, crouched, and began rolling him in the blanket as easily as if he were a baby.

‘Well?’ said Edwin impatiently.

Without interrupting what he was doing, Godric answered, ‘He has no fever, and no bones are broken. There are no holes; he is not wounded.’

‘What about his head?’

‘That is no wound. It is not clean. It was made by no weapon. There are pieces of bark round it. Perhaps he struck his head on a branch.’

‘A strong young Norman on horseback, and he does not look where he goes?’

‘Young, yes. Strong, no. See, he is weak; he shivers. And he has fallen more than once. A strap has broken on his scabbard. He has mended it in haste. See the mud and leaf mould on his
arms and back, on his leggings. There is only grass here. And he has lain a good half-hour; the dew has begun to soak into his clothes.’

It seemed so simple when Godric explained, and his voice was so mild that Edwin felt no annoyance.

‘Smell,’ said Godric. ‘He is sick in the belly. He has soiled himself. Look at this cheese, this meat.’ He tossed it away. ‘If this is Norman camp diet, their
bellies will beat them before the King does.’

He pointed downwards. Gilbert, his teeth chattering, put out a trembling hand, and, as if he were in bed, pulled the blanket up to his chin. Berry hovered in concern.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Edwin.

Godric kneeled beside Gilbert, put his arms underneath him, and lifted him with no apparent effort.

‘We move him.’

It was not a request or a suggestion; it was a plain statement of fact. Godric did not wait for confirmation.

‘But what do we do with him?’ said Edwin.

Godric, who was already on his way back, stopped and turned. ‘Do you wish to kill him?’

The question, though simple, was unnervingly direct.

‘No!’ said Edwin, shocked.

It was as well that Edwin could not see what an odd figure he looked, loaded with his own knife, two Norman weapons, and a couple of farm implements, each capable of killing a prostrate enemy.
The faintest of smiles crossed Godric’s swarthy face.

‘Do you wish to leave him then? The dew and the night will kill him.’

‘No . . . No.’

He shrugged, and followed Godric. He could not bring himself to take a life like that, nor did he want it on his conscience to be the wilful cause of the man’s death through neglect. Edwin
had seen Normans before; they were invaders, and they were the enemy, but they were not devils in human shape. He had lived among them once for several months; he knew that they were ordinary like
everyone else. This young man was about his own age too.

Conscience or no conscience, it would be foolish to leave a dead Norman lying about for an armed patrol to find. If they killed and buried him, it would not be difficult for a determined search
party to find the grave, and that would be even worse. There were many stories already about Duke William and his wastings and burnings; they had floated across the Channel on breezes of gossip and
rumour for nearly twenty years, and now they were swirling round Sussex like autumn leaves in a gale. It was stupid to provoke a situation in which they could find out how true these stories
were.

Besides, even if they concealed both the killing and the body, there was the question of the horse.

Edwin stopped dead.

The horse!

He dashed back and untethered it. He stuffed the Norman’s knife in his belt on one side, the sword on the other, grasped the club and the pitchfork in his left hand, and took the reins in
his right. After a last nervous glance towards the woods, he turned once again to follow Godric, who was now well on his way towards the mill and Rowena.

Ralph reached out for the jug, looked into its depths, sniffed as if he had been crying, and lifted the rim to his lips.

‘Spare a spot of that, lads, for two thirsty warriors?’

Ralph and Bruno looked up.

Two travel-stained, unkempt soldiers edged into the firelight. Behind them lurked the shadows of two horses and a groom. Leatherwork was blackened and frayed. Faces and hands were grey with
dirt. Dried vomit clung to the front of their hauberks. They smelled to high Heaven.

Ralph burped. ‘Who are you?’

‘William Capra, knight of honour, fresh from our lovely Normandy. And whom have I the honour of addressing?’

The bow was a mixture of humour and insolence. The eyes had taken in the whole scene. The elaborate question was a way of throwing Ralph’s drunkenness in his face.

Ralph’s voice went quiet. ‘Ralph of Gisors. This is Bruno of Aix.’

‘Scouts,’ said Bruno, as if the word had been forced out of him.

William Capra laughed and turned to his companion. ‘You hear that, brother? The same name as yours.’ He turned back. ‘Then we are truly comrades in arms. May I present my
brother Ralph Pomeroy.’ He bowed even lower. ‘Two knights come to win a kingdom for the Bastard.’

Ralph’s nose puckered. Dirty, sly, shifty, crude – the very worst type of riff-raff that was still drifting into the army at the last minute, hoping to snatch the profits without
having had to work for them. No honour, no manners, no breeding – common as the dirt on their faces. And likely to run at the first onset. Fit only for wasting and pillage. Just right for
Fulk and his Flemings.

Ralph pointed. ‘Go down that way, then turn right at the end. Past a line of privies. You will see two or three large wagons. Report to Fulk the Angevin, or his sergeant,
Florens.’

William Capra reacted at the name Florens. ‘Flemings?’

‘Yes.’

‘They are infantry.’

‘They are scum,’ said Bruno, bent over his knife with a whetstone.

Capra glared, and his hand moved towards the hilt of his dagger. Bruno held up his knife and pretended to examine the point. Ralph laid down his jug.

Capra thought better of it, and drew himself up in a parody of dignity.

‘Come, brother. We know when we are not wanted. Men of honour never stay uninvited.’

They slouched off.

Bruno resumed sharpening.

Ralph picked up the jug again, and brooded into it. ‘You have a down on him. Yes, you do. A down. Go on; admit it.’

Rowena took charge.

‘Lay him here. Aud, some water.’

Aud glared, pouted, and finally flounced out carrying a bucket.

Rowena looked at Edwin and sighed. Edwin shrugged.

‘Edwin, go and get those fresh sheepskins from the loft. You will find them put to air by the stack. It is time they came down for the winter anyway.’

As Edwin climbed the splinter-shot wooden ladder, he heard Rowena’s voice soften as she spoke to Edith.

‘Here, Dith. Come here, my pet. See? He can not harm you.’

Edith crept from the corner where she was hiding. Rowena took her hand and pulled her gently forward.

‘See? He is like a baby. He is sick, and you must help us to make him well. You would like to do that? Help Rowena?’

Edith nodded, wide-eyed.

Rowena eased her forward another pace. ‘He is just like your baby, like Mimma.’

Edith’s eyes strayed to the corner where a toy cradle was propped. ‘Mimma?’

Rowena patted Edith’s shoulder. ‘Edith bring a clean cloth? We are going to wash our new baby.’

Edith clapped her hands. ‘Yes. Edis help. Edis help.’

Rowena hoped she had concealed the tremble in her hand as it lay on her sister’s shoulder. She had sent Aud for water partly as a means of keeping her mind occupied. Aud had been torn
between terror and morbid curiosity. Sweyn, after one glance of wide-eyed horror, had fled – no doubt to find his father.

Rowena knew that it depended upon her to damp down the fear. She was too shocked to feel angry at this danger that was suddenly thrust upon them. The only hope of coming out of it was to do what
they were doing. She agreed with Godric: they had no other choice.

Thank God it was a solitary scout; it could have been a fully-armed wasting party. Stories were flying. A fine irony it would have been – to have all the men away to save them from the
threat in the north, and to be devoured by men from the south.

Godric built up the fire. While Rowena prepared an extra tallow lamp, he set up a trestle table, and covered it with Gilbert’s blanket. He laid the young Norman gently on it, and began to
undress him.

Edwin returned with the sheepskins, and made up a bed as close to the fire as safety allowed. Aud came in with the full bucket, and tottered forwards with rapid, bird-like steps to show everyone
how awkward it was. As the soldier’s clothes were removed, she glanced guiltily at the white flesh of his body, which contrasted so strongly with the deep tan of his face and neck.

Edwin sensed Rowena’s nerves, but could detect none in Godric. He watched the two of them at work. There were hardly any words. Not for the first time, he found himself admiring the
stillness between them. If ever God made two people for each other, it was these two.

Edwin sighed. Was it not typical of God in His wilful way to give a glimpse of the most wondrous chances, and at the same time to deny their fulfilment? He had done it to Edwin two years before,
and Edwin still felt the pain. He was doing it now to these two good people, who had led godly lives and never hurt a single soul.

Gorm had depended upon Rowena ever since his wife had died. It was Rowena who ran the household and tended the garden. It was Rowena who dealt with irate neighbours when her father was too idle
or too drunk to operate the mill machinery. It was Rowena who tried to knock sense into her brother, Sweyn, when he was not telling tales to his father. It was Rowena who acted as a second mother
to Edith and who alone tolerated her unpredictable moods. It was Rowena who sought to soften Aud’s constant bitterness about not getting a husband. It was Rowena who unceasingly strove to
keep the peace between her father’s drunken rages, and Sweyn’s spiteful teasings, and Edith’s tears and furies, and Aud’s shrewish outbursts.

There was never any question that Gorm would let his eldest daughter go in marriage, certainly not until Sweyn was grown up. Probably not then either; she was far too useful.

Meantime, Godric served him loyally and uncomplainingly, on the land, in the mill, around the house, in whatever duty Gorm chose to lay upon him, and there were many. If Rowena’s character
managed everything, Godric’s strength carried everything. Gorm was equally unpleasant to them both, in the usual way in which weak people dislike those to whom their debt is greatest.