The Last Conquest (7 page)

Godric picked up the stranger, laid him on the fresh soft sheepskins, and placed two more over him. He was still shaking from head to foot, but he had ceased moaning. The fever in his mind
seemed to have gone. As the flames of the fire warmed his face, and the thickness of the sheepskins began to take effect, the trembling slowly died away, and he fell into a deep sleep. Berry came
and lay right beside him, and watched with his chin on his paws and the firelight reflected in his eyes.

Edwin came and stood over the invalid. What was going to happen when this young soldier recovered? What would he do?

‘How is Sawin?’

‘Still nursing his blisters. How is your Edward?’

‘Well, at least he has stopped using his stick.’

‘God, these men! Think they are still eighteen years old.’

‘We can thank the saints, Fleda, that they never reached the battlefield. Fancy – joining the levy. Just because the King crooks his little finger. And who is this man Hardrada,
anyway? Where does he come from? Is he a Dane or something?’

‘No idea. The King’s problem, not ours. And certainly not Sawin’s, not at his age.’

‘Nor Edward’s. Besides, a king is only a king. Harold or Hardrada – what is the difference? Kings are all the same.’

‘Yes. Remember Cnut? Foreign, but not too bad. So my father used to say.’

‘What happened anyway?’

‘What do you mean – what happened?’

‘At the battle.’

‘God knows.’

Gorm was furious.

‘Why was I not told? If it were not for Sweyn—’

Sweyn smirked beside his father.

Gorm swore. ‘How is he to be fed? Who will pay for it? Suppose we catch some foul disease?’

‘He is not ill like that, Father.’

‘All right – when he recovers. What then? Suppose he gets up in the night and cuts our throats.’

He constantly wiped his palms on the thighs of his rough sacking breeches. He spoke in hoarse whispers, with frequent glances over his shoulder at the sleeping invalid. As he leaned forward on
his stool, his heavy jowls glistened in the firelight. Sweaty fear rose from him like fumes from a midden.

‘Have you heard the stories? I have three daughters. Do I have to spell it out?’

Aud surprised herself at the twinge of excitement that she felt.

Edwin sat silent. He was not of this household. If he spoke, Gorm would be within his rights to order him out. Godric, confident in Rowena, left the room.

‘We could do nothing else, Father,’ said Rowena. ‘If we had left him, he would have died.’

‘Good riddance.’

‘The Normans would have found him, and they would decide it was our doing.’

‘What if he dies now? They will think we killed him. They will not believe us.’

‘He will not die. He has only a sickness of the stomach. Godric says in a day or so he will be better.’

Gorm spat. ‘Godric! That ox. What does he know?’

‘He knows.’

Gorm knew that he knew. Godric always knew. It only worsened Gorm’s temper because it inflamed his fear. For the thousandth time he cursed his own good nature in taking on a bastard orphan
because he owed a kinsman a favour. Where had the boy learned what he knew? Certainly not on their endless travels on the rutted roads of Anglia. All those plants. Always gazing into the fire.
Never answering back. Never complaining. His eyes saw things beyond Gorm’s wit and comfort. Gorm had often struck in fear and bafflement as much as in anger.

And now look what he had done. Gorm stood up and looked about him.

‘God – I need a drink.’

Ralph tried to sleep, but saw again Michael’s pale face, drawn and racked in fever, the eyes wide and baffled, pleading for help that would never come.

Ralph opened his eyes, and searched the dark sky for answers. Why did it torment him when he could least cope with it? He turned over and groped for the jug. There were a few dregs in the
bottom. He fell back and wiped his lips.

What if Gilbert did look a bit like Michael? Coincidence – pure coincidence. Gilbert had the makings of a good scout – he really did. Tall, strong, keen, anxious to learn. It was
unnerving sometimes to notice how intently the boy listened. God’s Breath! It was rare enough these days to find somebody who was prepared to listen at all. Far too many thought they could
learn it in a couple of weeks. And how long did they last? You could be good, and still get killed – if the odds were against you.

Like Aimery – patient, long-suffering Aimery, who put up with a companion’s moods and tempers with a shrug and a grimace – ‘very well, if you will have it so’.

Ralph made up his mind. He would teach Gilbert everything he knew.

And in the morning? In the morning, know-all Bruno could come with him or he could not come. Devil take him. He could please himself.

Rowena made sure the soldier was comfortable and put Edith to sleep. Edwin fed Berry, re-bound his leg, and curled up by the fire. Rowena asked him to stay the night. Having
Edwin in the house was an added reassurance. Edwin readily agreed; he was curious to find out why his dog seemed so attached to this young Norman.

Godric stabled the man’s horse, and carefully hid the precious hauberk and the weapons.

Rowena lay back in her corner behind a woollen curtain. She could hear her sister hissing rapid prayers of mindless habit. She pushed a lock of hair from her face, and put her hands behind her
head. She saw in her mind’s eye Godric climbing the wooden ladder to the loft and stretching out his massive limbs on the straw mattress beside the chimney stack.

In the mill house, Gorm groped behind some sacks, pulled out a dusty pot, and took a long draught. He wiped his lips and cursed his bad luck.

It was his good nature once again which had induced him to stop on his travels and get the mill machinery working properly. The silly old fool of a miller was never going to manage it. There was
not much that Gorm Haraldsson could not make or mend when he put his mind to it. He had even married the old man’s wan daughter for him. And what had she done? Died giving him Sweyn, and
leaving him with three daughters – one an empress, one a shrew, and one an idiot. He had nobody to talk to. It was not fair.

He sighed and had another swig. It would be up to him in the morning to see to it all. Man to man. A drink or two. Perhaps offer a daughter by way of good relations. Might do Aud a favour; she
was desperate enough to find out.

That was all it needed – common sense and a bit of worldly wisdom. But they would not be grateful, not one of them.

8 October

Ralph grappled with the fallen horse. Its eyes stared; it whinnied in fear; its legs flailed in frantic effort. Ralph tugged on the reins, and shouted in urgent entreaty.
Suddenly one hoof caught him under the ribs.

He opened his eyes. Bruno was standing over him.

Ralph glared. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘It is time.’ Bruno turned away to murmur to his horse.

‘For what?’ said Ralph, and winced as iron spikes went through his head.

‘To go and look for him.’

Ralph struggled to his feet and looked to right and left. ‘So he did not come back?’

‘Have your piss and go and get some breakfast. I have told Sandor to have something ready.’

Bruno turned back to his horse.

Ralph sniffed. ‘You talk more to Sorrel than you do to me.’

‘Hurry. Do you want Fitz to find out what we are doing on our rest day?’

Gilbert thought it was raining when he woke up. Then he smelled dog. It had just come in from its morning run, and had shaken off the dew. Gilbert saw the fresh scar on the
foreleg.

He made a noise that spoke reproach but meant affection. He put out a hand from under the sheepskins and ruffled the hair behind the dog’s ears. He could not help himself. He forgot where
he was. His father had always said he was too soft with dogs . . .

‘But it might do you some good one day.’

‘No,’ said Gilbert. ‘I shall be a soldier.’ He easily topped his elder brother, the stolid Robert. ‘I want none of your ploughs and your middens.’

His father gave him a ringing box on the ears. ‘You shall do what you can do, and you will show respect. Wait for your chance.’

It came sooner than he expected. One day, Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances stopped by on his way to see his brother bishop at Avranches. Lord Geoffrey’s pack of hounds was his pride and joy.
Gilbert’s father seized the moment. Before he could turn round, Gilbert was saying goodbye to his father and embracing his mother. Robert said nothing, and his sister Mahaut cried – but
Mahaut always cried.

Gilbert travelled all over Normandy with Bishop Geoffrey. He kept his ears and eyes open, and never forgot his desire to become a soldier. He called himself ‘Gilbert of Avranches’,
though he had visited the town only once in his life. What a piece of luck it was that—

A noise from the doorway made him tense. A young Saxon stood there, blowing on his hands, and stamping off the worst of the dew, just like the dog. Each sensed the fear in the other, and each
tried to hide his own. The Saxon put up both palms as he came forward. His cheeks were flushed with the freshness and good humour that came from sharp exercise with a favoured companion. Fair
stubble stood out brightly on his cheeks.

‘You are – you are feeling better?’

Gilbert was surprised to hear French – and Norman French at that.

‘I think so – yes.’ He moved his head to indicate the whole building. ‘Where . . .?’

‘You were sick. We found you. You would have died, Godric says.’

Gilbert’s mind raced. Apples, pain, cascades of earth and badger droppings, blows on the head, the smell of vomit, grass blowing above his eyes, Adele’s crucifix.

He ran his hands over his body under the covers, half expecting to find himself stripped or bound. He was not.

Without thinking, he stretched his legs and flexed his toes. He winced at the pain in his right ankle. He put his right hand down again and felt a bandage. He put his left hand to his head and
found another.

The Saxon watched him. ‘I did say you were sick.’

Gilbert lay back, and found himself savouring the warmth and softness of the sheepskins. He could not remember having had such a good sleep since landing in England. He heaved a great breath of
wellbeing in spite of himself.

The Saxon crouched and began to revive the fire.

There was an awkward silence. The Saxon fiddled unnecessarily with a small log on the edge of the flames. At last he gestured towards Gilbert’s head bandage.

‘The pain – it is going?’

Gilbert felt again.

‘Yes,’ he said. And added, ‘Thank you.’

‘And your leg?’

Gilbert grimaced, and put up both his hands. He drew them apart to indicate swelling.

The Saxon grinned. Then, as if he had offered too much, he turned away and poked the fire again.

Gilbert pointed towards the dog. ‘He is yours?’

The Saxon nodded, and put an arm round its neck. ‘Yes. He is called Berry. He is a fine hunter – eh, boy?’

‘Berry.’ Gilbert made a pretty fair attempt at the Saxon pronunciation.

It made the Saxon grin again. ‘He knows you,’ he said.

‘Yes. I tried to bind his leg.’

The Saxon was instantly interested. ‘How was that?’

Gilbert explained, but was careful to leave out everything else.

Edwin had guessed most of it, however. There was not much else a solitary Norman soldier could be doing this far from the main camp, and he knew from Godric’s search of his equipment that
he was not carrying a message. There was a handful of Norman clerks left in England who could read one.

It had been one of the first things he had thought of. There were still those in England who would welcome the Normans. The saintly King Edward had not been liked because of his Norman leanings.
A Norman mother, a Norman education, a Norman exile – small wonder he arrived in England with a crowd of Norman friends, friends whom he proceeded to promote and reward. It had taken
Harold’s father, Earl Godwin, nearly ten years to get rid of them, and Edward never forgave him for it.

Edwin had heard the tale many times. Harold, with a drink or two inside him, was a fine storyteller and a splendid companion. No wonder most Saxons were pleased now to call him King.

No wonder too that those Normans who lost their estates when they were expelled would want to get them back. Many of their tenants and retainers would be pleased to see them too – men who
had pledged themselves to foreigners for quick reward and who now, in the absence of their protectors, suffered the vengeful spleen of lesser Saxon rivals. Oh, yes, thought Edwin, there would be
those in Sussex and Kent who would welcome the Normans.

As he listened to the story, Edwin wondered how much this young scout knew. Did he know that the King had gone north? Did he know that the Viking host could strike in the north at any moment?
Perhaps Hardrada had already landed. Did this scout know the size of the King’s army and where it was? Did he know that the King had had perforce to send many men home for the harvest? That
the fleet had been broken up in the Channel and sent to London? That the King had had to perform miracles of leadership to keep any army together at all through the long summer of waiting –
did he know that? Edwin hoped not.

Edwin did not want England to become a Norman land, and he loved his King Harold, but, as he listened to the soldier’s story and watched his animation in referring to the dog, he found it
difficult to dislike him. He could not be far from his own age either.

The young Norman had stopped talking and was looking at him.

There was another stiff silence.

Gilbert gestured towards Berry. ‘I too like dogs.’

Edwin blushed. ‘Yes. Yes. Berry is a fine hunter.’

Gilbert pointed to himself. ‘I too have worked with dogs – hunters like your Berry.’ He still hesitated over the name.

‘I also care for hunting dogs,’ said Edwin. ‘My lord is – my lord is away now.’

The Norman did not press him. Instead, he said, ‘My name is Gilbert . . .’ He could not resist adding, ‘. . . of Avranches’.