The Last Conquest (65 page)

Ralph refilled his wooden mug.

Sandor sighed. ‘Truly it is a burden you carry now. But a journey could make it easier.’

‘I told you. I must go to tell the boy’s father. Where is the ease in that?’

‘I mean a long journey.’

Ralph stared. ‘You mean a pilgrimage? Oh, spare me that.’

‘There are other journeys which can bring comfort. And if the company is right . . .’

‘Where?’

‘Prades.’

‘Where is that?’

‘The Pyrenees.’

‘You mean to Taillefer’s home?’

‘I too have a sad duty.’

Ralph laughed harshly. ‘You can not mean that Taillefer has some fond mother rocking on her stool waiting for him. She must be a hundred.’

‘No,’ said Sandor, unruffled.

‘Surely not a wife? She must have been a drudge or a shrew to survive living with him.’

‘There is – someone,’ said Sandor.

His stillness impressed Ralph, who apologised.

‘It is the pain and the drink, Sandor.’

‘I know that. So come with me.’

‘Do you not have a duty here?’

‘I was hired to carry horses over the water. I stayed because I loved them. Now too many are dead, and the rest do not need me. Soon, if the Duke wins his crown, they will spread all over
England. I can not fly like an eagle from one to the other.’

‘You have not been paid.’

‘What is money without a friend to help you spend it?’

‘You have earned it.’

‘You have earned your land; you do not want it.’

Ralph rolled his mug between his palms. Sandor put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Think. Each of us has to bring pain to another soul. We must do it in such a way that after the pain comes pride and comfort. To do that one must lie a little.’

‘True.’

‘I am devilish good liar. Perhaps you too, eh?’

Ralph shrugged. ‘If necessary.’

‘I help you to lie in the Avranchin, and you help me to lie a little in the Pyrenees. Then we get drunk together. Yes?’

Ralph tossed the dregs into the hissing flames. ‘Little man from Hungary, I have said it before, and I say it again. You have a gift for friendship.’ He set down his mug. ‘Yes,
we will get drunk together.’

‘That is good. And after we are sober again, I take you, perhaps, to see another man. Another man, a long, long way distant.’

Ralph peered into Sandor’s glowing black eyes. ‘Where – you little Hunnish devil?’

Sandor leaned forward. ‘To a distant land of much sun. To a man who lives a life of great adventure. You think Hardrada is a great captain? Or Harold of Wessex? Or perhaps our noble Duke?
Pah! You have seen nothing till you have seen the Guiscard . . .’

‘What will you do?’

‘Go to Normandy. To Rouen,’ said Edwin. ‘She might still be there. At least I could ask.’

‘Should you not wait for more news of William?’

‘Why? What does it matter whether they crown Edgar or offer the crown to the Bastard? My king is dead. Wilfrid was right; my cause is dead. I have no family. What future have I here
alone?’

‘Your dogs?’

‘There was only one. And any boy can be taught to look after the rest.’

Godric looked doubtful. ‘It does not pay to rush things. Normandy may not be a good place for a Saxon at this time.’

‘I speak French. Godric, somewhere in Normandy is the person I love. I can do no other. You will go for Rowena.’

Together they thrust the freshly carved cross in the loose soil above the grave. Edwin glanced at the little lolling cross on the smaller grave beside it, and stooped to right it.

‘When will you leave?’

‘As soon as my knee is strong enough,’ said Godric.

‘What about that?’Edwin pointed to the bandage.

Godric put up a hand to it, and smiled. ‘I have a very thick head. There will be scars, and on my arm too, but I am healing fast.’

‘The physician is healing himself.’

‘You could say that. I have sent word for Rowena to wait, at least until we have better news of the Norman army.’

‘It is in the air that he will move east, into Kent. He would do well to secure Dover and its harbour. Perhaps he hopes for an offer of submission from London or Winchester.’

‘Perhaps. Meantime, we wait. We have come through too much to risk it now by rushing. We have the mill and we have each other.’

‘And Edith.’

‘And Edith.’

‘What happened to Aud?’ said Edwin.

‘I still do not know. I think he tried to tell me several times, when he spoke of Rowena. But he slipped too often into raving about devils, and flames, and Hell. Something too about a
cart or a wagon that I could not understand. Perhaps the shock of it deranged his mind.’

Edwin kicked up some loose earth. ‘Not so much that he could not tell you that terrible lie. That was unforgivable.’

Godric leaned on his spade. ‘I said terrible things to him too, but then I also was out of my mind.’

‘He deserved them. You were going to your death, for all he knew.’

‘Perhaps. But he had suffered deeply. His son was killed, almost certainly before his eyes. Two of his daughters had gone, and the third – well, we do not know, but I fear the worst.
He lashed out at the only human being he could reach; he found it unbearable that I still lived while Sweyn did not.’

‘Godric, you are the most open-minded man I know.’

‘You forget; I knew him longer than anyone. He remembered that. He came for me.’

‘Only to ease his conscience.’

‘He came,’ insisted Godric. ‘He saved my life. He died with the effort of getting me here. Think of the strain it must have been – a man of his age. In his condition. The
wonder is that his heart did not burst before it did.’

‘I still say you are very kind.’

‘It was not your life that was saved. At the end, too, while he had breath, we talked of many things – of Rowena, of the mill, of long ago. He asked me to lay him to rest beside his
son. I am glad he died at peace.’

‘Amen,’ said Edwin.

‘The
nithing
returned from the darkness,’ murmured Godric to himself.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said that I helped him to die. No man should withhold forgiveness to a frightened, repentant soul at the door of death, or he takes that same sin upon himself.’

Edwin put out his hand. ‘Godric, you are that very rare thing in this world – a good man. And Rowena is a good woman.’

Godric shook it. ‘Not good, my friend, but, I hope, honest. Come back to us soon, and bring her too if you wish.’

‘I pray I shall find you both here.’

Godric pointed to the mill. ‘Norman masters or Saxon masters – they both eat bread.’

‘Can you work it?’

Godric smiled. ‘He was not drunk all the time. I learned from simply watching. He was a clever man.’

Edwin mounted. Godric admired the horse.

‘Norman, of course,’ said Edwin. ‘It seems I am making a habit of it. It was not difficult; there were many loose ones all around the hill. Perhaps I should have brought you a
dozen to start a stud.’

Godric laughed, then became serious again.

‘Do you remember? This all started with finding a Norman horse.’

‘I do,’ said Edwin, tightening his lips. ‘I am going up there now.’

Godric nodded. ‘I understand. I too should like to be alone here for a while. Thank you for helping me to dig it.’

Edwin flexed his feet in the stirrups. ‘Until I return then.’

‘God go with you. You always have a roof here.’

Edwin reached the top of the track and looked back. Smoke curled from the roof as he had seen it do a thousand times.

Dear God, be merciful, look kindly upon those good people.

He saw Godric raise an arm. He returned the wave, and turned his mount towards the copse at the top.

It was here that he had first seen Gilbert’s horse. Gilbert had been lying over there, by that clump of ferns.

Edwin dismounted and walked across to it. He stood with bowed head. The breeze ruffled his fair hair. The horse waited patiently behind him.

He sighed at last, crossed himself, and turned to go. His foot pressed on something hard. He bent down.

It was a crucifix.

‘What will you do about it?’

‘I have done all that I can at the moment,’ said Florens.

‘When do we get our money?’

‘You can not eat money,’ said Florens.

‘Money buys things.’

Florens slammed the tailboard of the wagon.

‘Are you blind as well as drunk with avarice? We have been in England five weeks. The land is nearly stripped bare. The army is living on scraps and stale carcasses. The Bastard himself is
prostrate with flux of the bowel.’ He patted the wagon. ‘Thanks to Captain Fulk we are still eating better than anybody else. What more do you want?’

‘Our money!’

‘Then by the saints, go and ask the Bastard for it. Go on – now. While he strains and retches on the privy.’

There were surly mutterings.

‘Canterbury has surrendered,’ said Florens. ‘Winchester will follow. Then, London. By Christmas it will be all over. You will be under a roof and your stomachs will be fat.
Your pockets will be bursting, and you can spill the lot in the brothels by the Thames.’

‘And in the meantime?’

‘In the meantime, you make the best of it, and think yourselves lucky.’

Florens stumped off, patting his jerkin to reassure himself that the gold was still there. Fulk had been a devil, but he had been thorough. It would not matter now if those fools did find the
false bottom. He could blame the cook or the Turk; men always turned on those they feared. It would serve the thieving little infidel right for getting at Fulk’s wallet first.

Dietrich scowled, and spoke with his mouth full.

‘Bloodeye would have got our money for us.’

Thierry looked doubtful.

‘It will be a big disappointment, my lord. The lady Sybil was looking forward.’

‘Can I help it?’ said Geoffrey. ‘His Grace does not get crowned every day of the week.’

Thierry swallowed. ‘But – Christmas Day, my lord.’

‘I shall be back in the New Year. When my leg is better.’

‘It will be strong enough for the coronation then, my lord.’

‘Get out. You are impertinent.’

Geoffrey hobbled to a cabinet and poured some wine. There was something to be said for having been confined at Hastings. Thanks to Ranulf’s constant improvements, he was able to live in
much better style and comfort than anybody else. From what Fitzosbern and Baldwin had said when they visited, it had been a miserable march – rain and mud and the flux for one and all . .
.

‘Thank God they have surrendered,’ said Baldwin, ‘and we can get under a solid roof in London.’

‘You mean a formal surrender? Or a stream of deserters?’ said Geoffrey.

‘Just so,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘Stigand first, leaving the sinking ship. Then a few days later, the Atheling himself. Aldred of York. Edwin. Morcar. Everyone who counts. They have
given hostages.’

They toasted each other, and stretched out round the fire.

‘Why so glum, Geoffrey?’ said Baldwin. ‘We have done it.’

‘You mean, you have,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I missed it, remember? All that work, all those plans.’ He swore.

Fitzosbern leaned forward. ‘Men will argue about your plans for years, Geoffrey. That does not matter. The fact is they were your plans.’

‘But I was not there!’ insisted Geoffrey. ‘If I had been—’

‘It would have made little difference,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘It would still have been a mess.’

Geoffrey glared. ‘Thank you!’

Fitzosbern took no offence.

‘What I am trying to say is – trumpets or no trumpets – we won because of your effort beforehand. Because of your training, those men were able to respond. To respond when
William called for one more effort, and one more, and more again.’

‘Fitz is right, Geoffrey,’ said Baldwin. ‘It is as much your victory as ours.’

Geoffrey awkwardly acknowledged the compliment.

‘I wonder if Odo would agree. I wonder what his version of things will be.’

‘Which brings me to the point of our visit,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘William wants you in London.’

‘Be reasonable, Fitz. Look at me.’

‘For the coronation,’ said Fitzosbern meaningly.

Geoffrey frowned. ‘When?’

‘Christmas Day,’ said Baldwin. ‘Aldred of York has agreed to crown him.’

‘The man who crowned Harold,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘You see the significance of that.’

‘Impossible,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Travelling in this weather? With this leg. I should break it again.’

Fitzosbern and Baldwin looked at each other. Geoffrey noticed it.

‘Out with it. What is it?’

‘Odo is ill. William wants you to represent the Norman Church.’

‘I shall be there,’ said Geoffrey instantly.

Fitzosbern and Baldwin exchanged glances again.

‘Well?’ said Geoffrey.

Fitzosbern looked innocent. ‘Nothing, nothing . . .’

Geoffrey sipped his wine, stretched out his bad leg, and made a face. It should be all right. If it meant stealing a march on Odo, it was worth crawling to Westminster on his hands and
knees.

Surely Sybil would understand . . .

Brian the Breton limped up the slope through sheets of rain. His bad ankle still troubled him.

He was past fatigue, past hunger, almost past despair. Just as he was past disbelief, past shock, past anguish, past rage, past impotence, past drunkenness . . .

‘They told me you were dead. What was I to do?’

‘Wait. That was what I expected you to do. Just a little while. Was that too much to ask?’ . . .

He hammered on the great iron-bound door. The rain poured down. He hammered again.

‘All right. All right. Just wait, damn you.’

The door swung open. A torch glowed above a shining forehead.

‘Well?’

‘This is the castle of Brionne?’

‘What if it is?’

‘Sir Baldwin de Clair is here?’

‘He might be.’

‘He knows me . . .’

‘So what shall we do?’

Ralph Pomeroy kicked a log so as to make sparks rise.

William Capra stretched. ‘I am in no hurry. I should like to see more of this London of theirs.’