The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Berwick Coates 2013

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Berwick Coates to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  HB ISBN: 978-1-47111-194-5

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-47111-197-6

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  To a lady whose name I cannot remember. In a remote country primary school, when I was seven, she gave me my first history lesson. I remember saying to myself, ‘Here – there could be something in this.’ And, as Fate would have it, the lesson was about William the Conqueror and the Battle of Hastings. She would be pleased, I hope, to know that that seed sown so long ago has at last borne some fruit.

  Contents

  Historical Note

  List of Characters

  7 October

  ‘Far, far to a distant land’

  8 October

  ‘Such wealth . . . adorns your bloody swords’

  9 October

  ‘Our greatest captain’

  10 October

  ‘Perjury he hates’

  11 October

  ‘This foreign camp’

  12 October

  ‘The Holy Banner flutters out before’

  13 October

  ‘Twenty thousand voices shout as one’

  14 October

  ‘The gleam of Durendal’

  After

  ‘The horn of Roland sounds in Roncesvalles’

  Acknowledgements

  Historical Note

  The only real point of writing this historical note is to say that there isn’t one.

  A work of fiction is a work of fiction – anyone interested in finding out how a historical novelist gained his information, selected his facts, made his judgements, and produced his interpretations, can go and read the same sources and form his own opinions. Indeed, the novelist can count it as a bonus that he has stimulated his reader sufficiently to make him want to do so.

  Nevertheless, a work of fiction can still have historical value. The historical novelist, like the historian, tries to arrange the evidence he collects into a pattern that coheres, that makes sense, and that persuades. He hopes to re-create, and he hopes to ‘get it right’. He wishes, naturally, to entertain, to make the past interesting, but that does not necessarily imply a disdain of cold fact. Within his academic and literary capabilities, he aspires to bring the past into focus, and to create sympathy for the people who lived in it.

  The wise historian, in his tireless search for hard evidence, appreciates the value of the occasional leap of informed imagination; the sensible novelist should not be so bewitched by the glitter of a good story that he consciously ignores the main body of accepted truth. Each, in his own way, if he works honestly, is serving the cause of history in general – and a very worthy cause that is too.

  List of Characters

  Norman

  William II, Duke of Normandy – the Bastard, later the Conqueror, William I of England

  Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, half-brother to the Bastard

  Robert, Count of Mortain, half-brother to the Bastard

  Sir William Fitzosbern, kinsman, companion and chief adviser to the Bastard

  Sir Baldwin de Clair, kinsman, companion and quartermaster to the Bastard

  Geoffrey de Montbrai, Bishop of Coutances, in charge of military training

  Sir Roger of Montgomery, commander of the Norman right at Hastings

  Sir Walter Giffard, commander of the Norman centre at Hastings

  Count Alan of Brittany, commander of the Norman left at Hastings

  Robert of Beaumont, a junior commander at Hastings

  Eustace of Boulogne, standard-bearer at Hastings

  Crispin of Bec, a monk, chief clerk to Baldwin de Clair

  Ranulf of Dreux, chief military engineer to the Bastard

  Fulk Bloodeye, captain of Flemish mercenaries

  Matthew, a doctor, companion to Fulk

  Florens of Arras, sergeant of Flemish mercenaries

  Rainald of Delft, corporal of Flemish mercenaries

  Dietrich, a Flemish soldier

  Ralph of Gisors

  all three scouts in the Norman army

  Bruno of Aix

  Gilbert of Avranches

  Taillefer, a minstrel

  Sandor the Magyar, chief horse-handler in the Norman invasion fleet

  William Capra and

  Ralph Pomeroy, soldiers of fortune in the Norman army

  Brian, a Breton swordsman

  Adele, wife of Gilbert of Avranches

  The first eleven of the above people are specifically mentioned by name in the contemporary chronicles as having been present at Hastings. Taillefer’s name figures in the later, more romantic accounts. There were also Bretons, Flemings, scouts, clerks, horse-handlers, engineers, and soldiers of fortune present. I have simply taken the liberty of giving names to some of them, and of providing one of them with a wife.

  English

  King Harold II, Harold Godwinsson, King of England (Jan.–Oct. l066)

  Gyrth, Earl of East Anglia, brother to Harold

  Leofwine, Earl of Kent, brother to Harold

  Edwin, dog-handler to the King

  Gorm Haraldsson, a Sussex miller

  Sweyn, Gorm’s son

  Rowena

  Gorm’s daughters

  Aud

  Edith

  Godric, Gorm’s foster-son

  Wilfrid, a housecarl

  A sheepman, one of the Berkshire levies who fought at Hastings

  Owen, a Welsh archer who fought at Hastings

  Of the English, only three have their presence at Hastings vouched for by the documents – Harold and his two brothers – all of whom died there. The remaining characters are fictitious, but, I hope, not unlikely.

  The Name of the Battle

  It is a typical irony that the best-known battle in English history, and arguably the most decisive, did not take place at Hastings; it was fought on the ridge of a hill about seven miles away, on the site now partly obscured by the modern town of Battle.

  Some Normans later called it the Battle of Hastings, because the town of Battle obviously did not exist then. The name ‘Senlac’ appears in a Norman chronicle of the twelfth century, and was adopted by the great Victorian expert, E. A. Freeman. It is suggested that the name may be a corruption of the sandy, marshy area at the foot of the hill – ‘Sandlake’; even that the ‘Sen-’ of Senlac comes from the French ‘sang’ – ‘blood’.

  The Saxon name for the area was ‘Caldbec’ – ‘the cold stream’. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle says that the battle was fought ‘at the grey apple tree’ – ‘aet haran apuldran’.

  I have tried to incorporate most of these ideas into the narrative, hoping that they add
to the interest without blurring the clarity of the picture. In general terms, I have made the English refer to it as Caldbec Hill, and the Normans as Senlac.

  7 October

  ‘Far, far to a distant land’

  A buzzard lifted itself from the grey branches of a dying apple tree and drifted away westwards from the scrubby hill. It soared and circled above spreading woods, scanty field-clumps, and shallow, south-flowing streams, scorning the element below, shunning the many beings who had so suddenly made it difficult to keep to regular habits.

  One of those beings shielded his eyes against the afternoon sun as he squinted upwards at the curiously blunt silhouette.

  ‘They are annoyed with us,’ said Gilbert.

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ said Bruno, not bothering to look.

  Ralph glanced up. ‘If they are patient, they will have carrion enough to feed them for a year.’

  Gilbert spat. ‘Great Jesus, Ralph! Is that all you can think of?’

  Ralph sighed inwardly, and looked sidelong at Bruno. Bruno let his eyebrows do the talking.

  They rode on in silent file, their leggings scratched by fern and bramble, the hooves of their heavy horses thudding into soft soil. They scanned trail and landscape on either side, but there was little knowledge to be gained.

  Then, after a while, they breasted a small rise and came in sight of a settlement. They reined in beneath the last trees, keeping their helmets out of the sunlight.

  Not much down there either, thought Ralph. He looked at Bruno, who was already shaking his head and pulling down the corners of his mouth.

  Ralph screwed up his eyes at the sun. Maybe three hours of daylight left. Time to go back. He and Bruno had been in the saddle since daybreak. There was nothing here that they had not already seen a dozen times.

  When Ralph turned his horse’s head, Gilbert looked surprised.

  ‘Are we not going down?’

  ‘Not worth it.’

  ‘How do you know? You said yourself—’

  ‘I said a lot of things,’ said Ralph, his shoulders now aching all the more at the prospect of camp and rest ahead. ‘Now I say it is not worth it.’

  ‘I can go,’ said Gilbert.

  ‘Please yourself,’ said Ralph over his shoulder.

  Gilbert looked surprised. ‘Do you mean that?’

  Ralph paused.

  Gilbert seized upon his hesitation. ‘How can I improve unless I try my own judgement? You said yourself—’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  Ralph looked at Bruno.

  Buzzards and other birds hovered closely round the settlement. There was no sign of smoke.

  Bruno nodded.

  Ralph turned to Gilbert. ‘Go then. But be careful. We shall not hurry back. You can catch us up. If you lose our trail, go back by the way we came. You remember the landmarks, I presume?’

  Gilbert tilted his head scornfully. ‘Of course.’

  For the first time, Ralph grinned. ‘All right. But take no risks.’ He began to turn away and suddenly remembered. ‘Oh, and—’

  ‘I know,’ said Gilbert. ‘Look after the hauberk.’ He plucked at some of the shining links of mail that he never tired of polishing.

  They both laughed.

  Ralph watched him pick his way down towards the settlement. ‘I can see no risk, can you?’

  ‘No,’ said Bruno. ‘None whatever.’

  Ralph looked sharply at him. ‘Well?’

  Bruno shrugged. ‘If there is no risk, there is no test.’

  ‘He thinks there is, so there is.’

  ‘Will that make him a better scout?’

  ‘In his own eyes, yes.’

  ‘And in yours?’

  Ralph avoided Bruno’s gaze. ‘I see clearly enough,’ he muttered.

  ‘No man sees clearly through a veil.’

  Ralph glared. ‘And what does Bruno the great prophet see so clearly?’

  ‘I am no prophet.’

  Ralph swore. ‘Say it!’

  Bruno shrugged again. ‘Very well. The boy is a loser.’

  ‘Damn you to hell.’

  But Bruno was already on his way.

  With another curse, and a final glance in Gilbert’s direction, Ralph turned for camp.

  Edwin put his head in the doorway without knocking. ‘Anyone at home?’

  ‘Come in, Edwin,’ said Rowena, without looking round. She carried on with slicing some vegetables.

  ‘And bring no mud with you,’ said Aud.

  Edwin grinned as he spoke to Rowena. ‘That is a fine welcome from your sister.’ He turned to Aud, who was frowning, and gave her an ironic bow. ‘But I have brought a peace offering.’

  He put a bundle of packages on the table.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ said Aud, still unwilling to look grateful.

  Edwin gestured vaguely. ‘Oh, this and that. From my lord’s kitchen. Nobody will notice.’

  Rowena pretended to look serious. ‘You wait till my lord Harold catches up with you.’

  Edwin laughed, and ruffled the fur round the neck of his dog. ‘No danger. He is far too busy right now – no time for hunting. Eh, Berry?’

  Rowena became really serious now. ‘Is there any news?’

  Edwin became serious too, and sat down without being invited. ‘No. We know they have landed, but that is all.’

  ‘What is the King doing about it?’

  ‘The King is not here.’

  ‘Where has he gone?’ said Aud.

  Edwin shook his head. ‘No idea. But he has taken his bodyguard – I do know that.’

  ‘The housecarls.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  Edwin shrugged and spread his hands.

  For a few minutes nobody wanted to share doubts or worries. Nobody seemed to know where anybody was.

  At last Edwin lifted his head. ‘Where is Godric?’

  ‘Working with Father in the mill,’ said Rowena.

  Aud sniffed. ‘She means Godric is working and Father is sprawling somewhere.’

  Edwin nodded. ‘You mean . . .?’

  ‘He has pots hidden everywhere,’ said Aud.

  Edwin stood up. ‘I must talk to Godric. Excuse me a moment.’

  He went out towards the mill. There may be no news, but there were rumours. Of burnings and wasting parties. Godric needed to know.

  Gilbert paused on the edge of the settlement. There was no sign of life. Left behind were the neat stacks and bulging barns. Gilbert had seen them everywhere that he and Ralph and Bruno had been. Here was a fat land indeed. And nobody to look after it, much less defend it.

  He expected peasants to flee, but where were the fighting men? He had not seen one. That would not do; Sir William Fitzosbern would want information.

  ‘Never fear to tell the truth,’ Ralph would say. ‘If there is nothing there, you must say so. Fitz will be pleased to hear it. Remember, a scout is the only man in the army who is allowed to think. The only man who can speak the truth to his betters. Ours is the finest work in the world.’

  Gilbert always felt a glow of pleasure when he heard Ralph talk like that.

  Taking care to make little noise, Gilbert went forward to make sure. But there were only a few scavenging pigs. An overturned bucket by a door; gates left open; a pitchfork cast at random on the ground – hasty departure. Dried cowpats – gone several days.

  Gilbert felt a sudden surge of patronising pity. Poor devils – what chance did they have? A life of constant toil, and it could all collapse at the mere whisper of danger.

  How glad he was that he was a soldier. Soldiers made fortunes; peasants made do.

  Ralph did not see it that way. ‘The peasants always lose and the peasants always win.’

  Gilbert could not understand why it annoyed him. He picked up a stone and hurled it aimlessly at an open door. It clanged against an iron pot.

  But Ralph was right; there was nothing to be gained here. He would eat and move on.

  He found some
neglected, rather green apples in the orchard, pulled down a hunk of stale salt pork from a beam, fished out some hard cheese, and filled his flask from a leaf-strewn water-butt. He picked up the bucket and sloshed some water into the stone trough for his horse, then sat down to make the best meal he could.

  Sir Baldwin de Clair counted bales of fresh hides as they were carried past.

  ‘Fifty. As they said.’

  Beside him a thin, blue-jowled monk scribbled uncomfortably, resting his lists on the lid of a barrel. A sea breeze flapped the edges of his habit.

  Scowling troops staggered up the beach, their shoulders bowed with casks of nails, bundles of spears, huge sheaves of arrows. Captive Saxons slipped and stumbled among the pebbles, lugging between them great stretchers piled with sacks of tools and their ash handles, already fashioned for fitting.

  Sir William Fitzosbern jumped ashore from another ship, which had just been dragged up on the shingle. Impatient to hear the news, he had had himself rowed out to it before it beached. He stumped across to Baldwin. Behind him the puffing crew made fast, and began at once to unload. From the far side, patient grooms tried to coax wary horses on to uncertain land. A few late recruits leaned on their hands, hung their heads, and thanked the God of journeys that their ordeal by water was over.

  Fitzosbern stood beside Baldwin, put his hands on his hips, and watched the never-ending procession.

  ‘If Ranulf says he can not build a castle with this lot, I shall tell William to send him back to Dreux.’ He extended a hand towards a colossal pile of seasoned planks waiting to be taken inland to the chosen site. ‘I wish some of my floors had timber like that, I can tell you.’

  Baldwin did not fish for compliments. He and Fitz knew each other too well for that. All credit to the Duke for laying down supplies of sound timber, and at a time when the idea of an invasion of England seemed to many the height of lunacy. (It still did, but most of the doubters were now shivering round their timid hearths in Normandy.) But all credit to him too – Baldwin de Clair, quartermaster to his Grace Duke William II of Normandy – for concentrating those supplies, and for moving them so efficiently.