The Last Conquest (64 page)

First he hid Godric in some bushes, and made him as comfortable as possible. Then he recrossed the stream and went to the blood-soaked knoll at the foot of the hill beyond. He stripped some
bodies of leather jerkins and came back to put them round Godric’s body and legs. He tried to get some water between his lips, but he was still unconscious.

Gorm crossed the stream again, joined the procession of servants and wagons, and climbed the hill to the remains of the shield wall. He rummaged among the fallen stakes, and selected those that
would suit his purpose. He toiled back and left them with Godric in the bushes.

Again to the hill, to look for dead horses. With his knife he cut away enough straps and reins for the binding and the dragging.

He was on his knees now, and immersed in a practical problem, his brows knitted in concentration. Making a sledge litter was no great challenge. There was not much that Gorm Haraldsson could not
make or repair. God’s Eyes – the number of times he had got things going again when they were barely held together with twine!

When it was ready, Gorm lined the litter with more jerkins, not too stained if he could help it. He rebound Godric’s wounds, cushioned his head, and tied him in securely. He rebound the
gash on his own arm.

He would not go back along the way he had come. It would be too full of fugitives, too full of desperate women who would cheerfully kill him to get their hands on the litter for their own
menfolk. And on the morrow the Normans would be out, harrying and looting, in the manner of all victorious armies. Besides, it was the way to London, and Gorm guessed that it would be the natural
line for the Norman advance.

No – due west was the way to go, straight towards the last of the sun. He could always swing north-west in the morning. He had not travelled half his life without growing a good sense of
direction.

If he were lucky he might come across an ox or a donkey that he could harness to the litter.

He stuck his knife into his belt, and took a drink from his leather flask. What would he not give right now for a good draught of beer. After a last glance at Godric’s still features, he
faced to the front, looped the straps over his shoulders, lowered his head, and took the strain.

Baldwin de Clair watched his men build the fire. Others were swearing at one another as they put up his tent. The prospect of being warm and dry that night was some
consolation.

He had no idea where the rest of his wagon train was. Strung out between Telham and Senlac, probably, or bumping around among the dead bodies on the top of Senlac.

His careful organisation was in ruins, victim of the confusion of order and counter-order from count and bishop and Duke. His hoarded reserves of weapons were gone, his water supplies nearly
exhausted.

They would see the folly of all that soon enough, when the English counter-attacked, or when the Duke called for equipment with which to harry the land towards London.

And why they should want to camp on top, amid all the slaughter and away from timber and running water, was beyond his comprehension. It would certainly give the servants a sleepless night
fetching and carrying.

Well, damn them. Damn them. He had plenty of firewood to hand and he had the stream nearby. He was far enough away from most of the bodies to be free from the growing numbers of birds. Let the
morning take care of itself.

Baldwin saw the first puff of smoke curl up from dried leaves. The victory was won, the usurper was dead, and Bloodeye was destroyed. Not a bad day’s work.

He heard a crunching noise beside him.

‘Glad I am to see you, sir,’ said a young Breton.

Baldwin frowned. Brian held up the stump of a carrot.

‘See – my last one. Kept me going, they did, sir. I saved this for the end. Sort of charm, you might say.’

Baldwin remembered.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir, praise the Lord. Apart from an ankle. Swollen like a bladder.’

Baldwin peered. ‘Get that seen to, and soon. It might be broken. You do not want a limp for the rest of your life.’

It was on the tip of Baldwin’s tongue to shout for Crispin, when he recalled where Crispin was – with any luck, within striking distance of a Sussex seaport.

‘If that is all I carry from this battle, then it is truly fortunate I am,’ said Brian. ‘There have been terrible things done today.’ He shuddered at the
recollection.

Baldwin liked the boy’s honesty and simplicity, and found it easy to talk to him.

‘Were you frightened?’

‘Scared to death, sir. Then I sort of went mad and lost my head. I can not recall much of what happened. When I recovered I got scared again.’

Baldwin thought of the obsession that had tugged him in search of Fulk, despite all risk and hazard.

‘War is a sort of madness, when you actually have to fight it.’

‘I agree, sir. There is all that excitement beforehand, and looking forward, and wondering. Sort of building up to it. Then comes the madness. Then, afterwards, it is kind of flat. I mean,
you know something huge has happened, but it is – well – flat.’

‘Yes,’ said Baldwin awkwardly, as a thought crossed his mind.

Brian swallowed the last of his carrot.

‘It is as if – well, I hardly like to say it because it sounds sort of blasphemous, but it is a bit like making love.’

‘Yes,’ said Baldwin, looking away.

‘Sort of opposite, but similar.’

‘You could say that, yes.’

God – would it be like that with her?

Brian sensed that perhaps he had become too familiar. ‘Well, I must find somewhere to sleep, sir, if you will excuse me.’

‘There is a fire here.’

‘Very kind, sir, I am sure.’

Baldwin grunted, turned away and tripped over a tent rope.

Brian found a space round the fire, and eased himself down without straining his ankle. He watched the first sparks rise.

What a story he would have to tell when he went home.

Walter Giffard watched two men stagger past with yet another body slumped between them.

‘A camp up here! Of all places.’

‘It is a gesture,’ said Montgomery. ‘That is all. Like that.’

He pointed to where servants were toiling over the erection of the Duke’s tent. It was as close to the apple tree as they could get. Piles of bodies showed where the ground had been
cleared.

Flying together stood three standards – the Papal banner, the Fighting Man, and the Dragon of Wessex. Their shining threads glinted in the last shreds of the sunset light.

‘A fine compliment,’ agreed Giffard.

‘The least he could do,’ said Montgomery.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Giffard.

‘Walter, you and I both know it was damned close.’

Giffard snorted.

‘It was touch and go,’ insisted Montgomery. ‘The Bastard knows that too. Those standards there – that is his way of showing it. Harold was a man in a thousand.’

Giffard snorted again. ‘If we had done what I suggested – you know, in ’sixty-four – when we had him in our clutches, all this could have been avoided.’

‘Not a bit of it. We should be merely be tripping over dead Vikings now instead of dead Saxons. Or they would have been tripping over us.’

‘Fortunes of war, eh?’

‘You could say that. All I know is – we are here. We have survived.’

Giffard put his hands on his hips and looked around.

‘What is he doing about Harold?’

‘Full honours of war. The Bastard does things correctly.’

‘I should think he is more concerned to get him safely and provably buried – to stop rumours of miracles and so on.’

‘That too. He is only waiting for positive identification.’

Giffard grunted. ‘I could have told him. I was – well, I could have told him.’

Montgomery sensed his embarrassment.

‘So could I, Walter. But it must be
Saxon
identification. The English would never take our word.’

‘What will they do then? His brothers are dead as well. We found them.’

‘A female relative, I suppose.’

‘There is a mistress, they say. Been with him a long time. Several children. Would know the body, you see.’

‘Yes,’ said Montgomery. ‘Poor woman. What an ordeal.’

They both stood in silence, seeing the mess of flesh and mail.

‘The Bastard cashiered them both, you know,’ said Montgomery. ‘Dismissed the service.’

‘Ah,’ said Giffard. He coughed awkwardly. ‘I am glad you stopped me, Roger. It was just that I was—’

Montgomery shook his head. ‘You do not have to prove anything to us, Walter. And Beaumont does not deserve to have anything proved to him. Be patient with him; he will learn.’

‘He could learn a lot from you. With that giant.’

Montgomery shrugged. ‘Someone had to do it.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘He fell – that is all I saw. You know what it is like.’

A servant brought a cup of wine for each of them. They sipped thankfully.

‘Do you know,’ said Montgomery after a while, ‘the Bastard did not have a mark on him. I saw them take off his mail. He kissed the relics and kneeled and prayed on the
spot.’

Giffard shook his head and smiled. ‘The relics.’

‘You may laugh,’ said Montgomery, ‘but he believes it. Or at any rate he makes enough fuss about it to convince men that he believes it. Did you see him falter for one minute
all day? For someone to come through all that without a scratch – it makes you think.’

‘Fitz came through. So did we.’

‘We are vassals, Walter, not dukes. If you had tried doing what he did today with nothing round your neck, can you be sure you would be here now?’

Giffard growled, and changed the subject.

‘They say he plans to build an abbey here.’

‘I can believe that,’ said Montgomery. ‘He builds them everywhere. Look at Caen. We have a righteous man for a duke.’

‘And a king, it seems.’

‘Yes. I had almost forgotten that.’

Montgomery looked up to the top of the apple tree, where the spikes of thin branches glowed red in the dying sun.

‘All the same . . .’

‘What?’

Montgomery looked at him, then waved a hand around them. ‘Saints and angels – what a place to rest an army!’

Ralph of Gisors cried himself to sleep, alone, under a wagon, and he did not know why he was crying.

After

‘What will you do?’

Ralph leaned his elbows on his knees and gazed into the flames. Outside, the rain beat on the roof and dripped through Ranulf’s hastily laid thatch.

‘Hard to say.’

Sandor gestured to the hall around them. ‘You could stay here.’

Ralph grunted. ‘Garrison duty at Hastings? I might as well have stayed on garrison duty at Rouen. They might have stayed with me then.’

Sandor tried again. ‘The Duke will need scouts. He will not long rest the army.’

Ralph fiddled with a pile of kindling. ‘It would not be the same.’

‘There will be land soon,’ said Sandor. ‘Land for everyone. The Duke has promised.’

‘He is not King yet.’

‘The Atheling Edgar will not fight; he is too young. I knew his father; there is not much spirit in the family.’

‘There are the northern earls.’

Sandor shook his head. ‘I think not. They were shaken by Hardrada. Now they will be shaken again by the death of Harold. Two Harolds are dead. There is not a third among them.’

‘The Bastard is not King until he is crowned,’ insisted Ralph.

‘Then help him to be crowned, and he will be generous.’

Ralph jabbed a twig in and out of the fire. ‘Me? A country knight in some bog-ridden corner of this rain-soaked land. Virtual prisoner in my own tower, unable to converse with my
villagers; half of them lying to me and the other half hoping I break my neck. Local laws and customs that I do not understand, and my sword rusting on the wall.’

Sandor took a swig of beer. ‘The Devil still drives, eh?’

‘He does here – in England.’

Sandor wiped his mouth. ‘Is it always your remedy?’

‘What?’

‘To move on.’

He could think of no other. Yet there ought to be. Or the world would be full of travellers. Unless the world was full of people who never felt the pain of loss.

There must come a time when the hope would not rekindle, and so the risk of pain would fade. Was that what he wanted?

‘What about you?’ said Ralph. ‘Do you not feel pain?’

Sandor heaved a great sigh, which lifted and dropped his whole body.

‘I feel sad, yes, and lonely. But not angry.’

‘Who said I was angry?’ said Ralph.

‘You are,’ said Sandor.

‘With whom?’

‘Your God. And with yourself.’

Ralph made a noise of disgusted disagreement.

‘Is true,’ insisted Sandor. ‘I see. Bruno see. We talk of you. You are angry with God because he take your brother, Michael. You are angry with God because he take your friend,
Aimery. Now you are angry because he take Bruno and Gilbert.’

‘You can not fight God,’ said Ralph.

‘No. So you strike in pain. An animal strikes out when it is wounded – is it pain or anger? What does it matter? It strikes.’

Ralph continued to poke the fire. ‘Ah.’

‘And you are angry with yourself because of your anger with God. You know that this should not be so, but you do not know how to stop it. So you move. It is like trapped animal pacing its
cage.’

Ralph looked at him. ‘And you mean to tell me you feel nothing about Taillefer?’

‘Sad, yes – I say. But not angry. Taillefer was sick to die. You were right; I see now. I help to make him live in fame and song. So I am not angry; I am proud. When the pain of your
anger dies, you too could be proud.’

Ralph spat into the flames. ‘Proud of what? Proud when I go to the Avranchin, and tell his father that I swore at him and sent him only halfarmed into an ambush? Proud of Bruno? When I
knew so little about him that I could not even tell you if his parents live or where they are? Proud to become a great lord in this England, when I know with every fresh dawn that two-thirds of
everything I have should have been shared with them?’