The Last Conquest (66 page)

Ralph Pomeroy sniggered. ‘There is only one part of London you are interested in, and that is down by the Thames.’

Capra shrugged, and took another bite at his apple. ‘Why not? Saxon or Norman – who cares? There is no need to talk to them.’

Pomeroy made a noise of disgust. ‘You whorestruck pig!’

Capra pointed at him with the remains of his apple. ‘No righteous airs from you, brother. You were down there heaving and grunting with the rest of us.’

‘When we arrived, yes. But not since. They reek of beer and river mud. You have practically lived there since Christmas.’

Capra grinned. ‘Got to do something while we wait for the fruits of his Grace’s generosity. Sorry, His Majesty. God, what terrible apples!’ He spat, and threw the rest of it
into the fire. ‘I tell you this – I shall bring over some decent strains of tree when I get settled.’

Pomeroy belched. ‘How can you say that? Dismissed, we are. Dismissed the ducal service.’

‘The royal service,’ corrected Capra.

‘Any damn service! What are we going to do, Will?’

‘Wait for his gratitude.’

‘Gratitude! We killed the King for him and got nothing. Dismissed with ignominy. And brother Odo did not lift a finger to help us – two of his best men. I tell you, we have gained
nothing out of the whole enterprise.’

Capra picked some peel from his teeth. ‘Your trouble, brother, is that you lack style, and you lack confidence. The two go together.’

‘Oh?’

‘We shall get something, rest assured.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘Because numbers are on our side. If the Bastard is going to control England, he will need every one of us – every single one. In a few months’ time, we can almost dictate
terms.’

Pomeroy stared.

Capra took a swig of beer. ‘And then I shall show them how to grow apples.’

Pomeroy shrugged. It was always better to let his brother do the thinking. It was comforting to know that there was little to worry about. He scratched his chin.

‘The ones I ate seemed all right. I should not pull up all their trees by the roots if I were you. Could you not try a mixture – some of each? Not all Norman apples are marvellous,
you know.’

‘You mean the best of both?’

‘Yes.’

Capra sucked his teeth. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘We should waste no time, now that we know.’

Godric smiled. ‘I agree.’

‘I take it there is no doubt,’ said Rowena.

‘None at all. He was crowned at Westminster on Christmas Day.’

‘Then we must make safe our title.’

Godric smiled again.

‘Well?’ said Rowena.

‘You mean you must make it safe. You are the heir, not I.’

Rowena put a hand on his. ‘Everything I have is yours.’

‘That I know. But there is no great hurry.’

‘No hurry? I wish this all to be safe, not only for me, but for you and for Edith – perhaps for Aud too if she still lives. It may be that we can see about joint ownership. Can that
be done – joint ownership?’

Godric shook his head. ‘I can not say. But I think the King will accept you. Your father was a freeman, holding land direct from the Crown. William must acknowledge free tenure, or he will
lose the trust of all his other freemen, Saxon or Norman. He can not afford to do that.’

‘Well, then.’

Godric held up a hand. ‘But as for myself, I have no proof of legitimacy. And there is also the question of marriage.’

‘I am your wife in all but law.’

‘True. But there is no law yet to go to.’

‘Then let us go to find it. The King must have his judges and reeves. London is not far. Priests are coming back now to churches. As soon as you have mended that gear, we can ask Alwin and
Old Saward to watch the house for us. There can be little work for a while until—’ She broke off when she saw Godric’s smile broaden further. ‘What is it?’

Godric laughed aloud. ‘My sweet. Your father used to say to me, in his cups, “I have sired an empress.”’

He bowed elaborately and kissed her hand.

Rowena pulled away in mock annoyance.

‘Well!’

Godric stood up and gathered his tools.

‘I shall carry on now with the gear wheel.’

He came round behind her, put a hand on her shoulder, and kissed the top of her head. ‘All in good time, my love, all in good time.’

Rowena pressed her hand on his. ‘Godric?’

‘Yes?’

‘Will we be all right, do you think?’

‘You mean with William?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think so. He can not fill England with Normans without emptying Normandy. So without us he has nothing. He may have the crown; we still have the earth.’

Rowena looked up at him, and smiled a rich smile.

‘Tell Edith to come in as you go. It is too cold for her out there.’

From outside came the squeak of a reedy pipe.

‘What will you do, Walter?’

‘Back to Longueville for me. The horses. I shudder to think what has been going on. And there is some young buck who is being a nuisance to Judith. When I find out who it is, I shall put a
flea in his ear.’

Why is it, thought Montgomery, that those closest are often the last to know? He kept his face straight.

‘What about the new land?’

‘It can wait. I do not even know where it is yet. I have sent out reeves. And you?’

‘The Welsh Marches. Do you know anything about the Welsh Marches?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Nor me. Trust me to get border fiefs again.’

‘You should feel flattered. With luck you will get another castle.’

Montgomery nodded gloomily. ‘More expense. Once a border vassal, always a border vassal, it seems.’

‘How is it at Bellême?’

‘Well enough. Mabel can cope.’

Giffard smiled to himself. Given the choice between the Welsh and Mabel, Roger had chosen the Welsh. Hardly surprising.

All very well for Walter to smile, thought Montgomery. He had made a fortune out of the conquest. No wonder he wanted to get back to Longueville – to breed more horses.

A thought struck him: why not breed them in England? There was a huge potential market. A whole new country would need castles, garrisons, security troops – horses by the thousand . . . If
only to see the look on Walter’s face. And that look will be nothing to the look when he finds out who has been paying court to Judith. It was almost worth going back for that alone.

‘What are you grinning at?’ said Giffard.

‘What? Oh, nothing, Walter. Nothing.’

‘When can we go to England?’

‘Do you think you are well enough to travel?’

Aud smiled. ‘When you think of the condition I was in when Crispin brought me here.’

Baldwin looked worried. ‘I was thinking of the condition you are in now.’

Aud dropped her eyes. ‘A little more sickness, more or less.’

Baldwin took her hand. ‘I was also concerned about – well – about going back.’

Aud looked up again. ‘I must see them. I have no idea how they are, or whether—’

‘I know, I know. It is just that I do not want you to be seeing where it happened – upsetting yourself. At this stage.’

Aud put a hand to his cheek. ‘There are few scars on my body, thanks to Crispin and the sisters. And there are no scars on my mind, thanks to you.’

Baldwin blushed, but smiled.

‘Besides,’ said Aud, ‘if it had not happened, I should not be here now.’

Baldwin swallowed. Her trust frightened him.

He had never imagined that such happiness was possible. How could he explain all this to them at Brionne? He could hear their reaction . . .

‘A Saxon? A miller’s daughter? You must be mad.’

‘A roll in the hay is one thing. But falling for her as well – it is indecent.’

‘What future is there for her – here or in England – trailing along after you?’

‘And what are you going to do with the brat? If it lives. Let us hope she miscarries, eh? She looks old enough . . .’

Baldwin grimaced. ‘Well, if you say so.’

‘Good, that is settled then. As soon as we can, eh? I should like to travel in a proper ship. I remember almost nothing of the last one. I was very ill.’

Baldwin thought of the monster writhing on the ground, skewered by the giant’s spear.

‘Do you remember anything of the man who did it?’

‘Which man? There was more than one.’

‘You know. The big man – dark, with a sagging eye, and a scar on his face.’

Aud looked surprised. ‘Him? Oh, no. He was not there. It was two, chiefly. I can not recall their faces. They were wearing helmets, you see.’

Her brow puckered with the effort.

‘But they wore no mail, which I thought was odd. Just leather jerkins. And they moved as if – well, as if their backs were stiff.’

Baldwin looked away suddenly.

‘What is the matter?’ said Aud.

‘Hmm? Oh, nothing. Nothing.’

The sheepman hung the axe-head on the wall in the end.

He had shown it to everybody, told them how he had found it, which housecarl it had belonged to. The story improved every time.

He had got as far as fashioning a new handle for it – not as long as the original – but he could not bring himself to use it.

He tried several times to get rid of the bloodstains, but never succeeded completely.

His wife hated it.

‘Dreadful thing,’ she said.

‘Here, were you really at Senlac?’

‘Yes. Came through without a scratch.’

‘God’s Face, what a campaign! Wish I had been there.’

Dietrich looked at the young, eager face. ‘This your first season, son?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it was not all that tremendous, not really. When you have done as much service as I have, you take these things in your stride.’

Florens choked into his beer.

‘Go on, Owen. Tell us.’

‘Is it again you want it?’

‘It is.’

‘Then be quiet. And be still. Now . . . Is it from the beginning you want it?’

‘From the beginning.’

‘Well . . . there I was up on the hill. Caldbec Hill. Chief archer, me, chief archer to His Majesty’s army. I rested my hand on the great apple tree that spread its rich green leaves
like a canopy over the top of the hill. I put my other hand to my eyes – so – and I scanned the battlefield – like this – to see when the Normans would make their
attack.

‘Just then, who should come along but His Majesty – Harold, I mean – the real King – and he said to me, “Owen,” he said . . .’

One doesn’t write long historical novels unless one is pretty crazy about history. (Some sceptics might even say simply ‘pretty crazy’.)

Be that as it may, the dedication identifies what started it all, what sparked the love of history in the first place. What follows in this paragraph is a tribute to what has, over the years,
continued to feed and sustain that love. There are no surprises: books – the printed word, in whatever form; films – even when they get it wrong, the magic is still there; travel
– so long as you are prepared to wonder; people – teachers, talkers, presenters, friends, students; in short, any medium which has been able to bring the past to life in whatever way
possible.

I have drunk from this fountain of enthusiasm all my life, and I hope, with this story, to be able to add my two-penn’orth to it.

That takes care of the business of writing the book. It is another world when one embarks on getting it into print. Sitting at his keyboard, doing his precious ‘creating’, the author
calls the shots. Out there in the marketplace, doing the much less romantic business of selling, he most certainly does not. Particularly when he is what is called in the trade ‘a debut
novelist’.

So I have found surprise, shock, frustration, and a lot of lessons to learn. I have done my best to learn from them, and I am grateful to my teachers. I thank my agent, James Gill of United
Agents, for taking a chance on a beginner, and therefore, by definition, a nobody. It must have been a true leap of faith, and a potentially expensive one too. I thank my editor, Clare Hey, for her
enthusiasm and attention to detail, and for her patience with an author who at times did not know where the next obstacle/problem/ challenge/crisis/deadline was coming from. I have in the process
built significant regard for a will of steel behind the charming smile.

Finally, I thank my friend and colleague, Yvonne Reed, who has been patiently wading through everything I have written for several years now. Her print corrections and editorial comments go a
great deal further than merely spotting typing errors and split infinitives.

I hope they will all come to feel that their efforts have been worthwhile.

Berwick Coates