‘Of course. And I drink beer to take away the smell of onions. It is an excellent arrangement.’
They laughed again.
Gilbert kicked up some embers and lay back on an elbow. ‘Sandor,’ he said, ‘whom do we know who speaks English?’
‘Why do you need such a man?’ asked Sandor.
Gilbert explained.
‘Carry your quest no further,’ said Taillefer. He struggled to a sitting position. His long legs stuck out before him and his toes pointed straight up into the night air.
‘You old fraud,’ said Gilbert. ‘You know not a word of English. And I have never seen you write anything in any language.’
Taillefer turned up his nose. ‘A man does not parade his gifts until they are needed. As the great philosopher said – whose name momentarily escapes me – “Never uncover a blade before you mean to use it.” However, since you disdain to make profit of my generous offer . . .’
Sandor and Gilbert laughed once more.
‘He just wants a ride out to relieve the boredom and to get a chance of looting without danger,’ said Gilbert. ‘Come, Sandor. You know everybody. Who speaks English?’
Sandor pondered. ‘He must be a knight? A Norman?’
‘He can be a cross-eyed Jew, for all I care,’ said Gilbert. ‘Just show him to me and I will take him.’
Sandor’s eyes sparkled. ‘I show you – now!’
Gilbert blinked. ‘Well?’
‘I show you.’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
Gilbert stared. ‘You mean – you?’
‘Sure.’
‘You speak English?’
‘Sure.’
Gilbert spluttered in his amazement. ‘But – but you speak German and Breton. And French.’
‘So why not English?’
‘But that makes four.’
Sandor grinned. ‘It is the first two or three that are difficult.’
‘Ah, the gift of tongues,’ murmured Taillefer to the tumbling flames.
Gilbert still found it difficult to get his voice. ‘But – you never said.’
Sandor shrugged. ‘A man does not put all his knowledge out for show, lest it go stale and be not remarked. Keep it covered and fresh, and it will be the more useful when it is needed.’
‘Where did you learn it?’ said Gilbert. He did not know much of Sandor’s life; he could not understand how this little man from Hungary, on the very edge of heathen Asia, could come to speak a language from the opposite end of Christendom.
Sandor leaned across and retrieved a large pot near Taillefer’s feet. He poured himself a full measure into a large hollow ivory horn, which he always carried with him. It was decorated with strange spiral carvings and bright mosaic chips of enamel. Gilbert waited while he drank. Taillefer slowly toppled backwards until he was totally supine.
Sandor wiped a hand across his mouth.
‘You wish I tell a story, eh?’
‘It is I who tells stories,’ said Taillefer. ‘It is my mystery.’
‘You spin tales in the evening like a spider spins the web,’ said Gilbert. ‘One puff of morning truth and they vanish into fancy’s air. Sandor tells stories with stones in the bottom.’
He had heard one or two episodes from his little friend’s life, and was intrigued to hear more. He found it difficult to relate them to each other, but at least they were not impossible like Taillefer’s fables.
Sandor let out an enormous belch far out of proportion to his size. ‘Many year ago,’ he began, ‘the Vikings conquered England. There was a great king – Cnut. Perhaps you have heard.’
‘Indeed,’ said Gilbert. ‘Lord Geoffrey spoke of him.’
Sandor made an expansive gesture. ‘He was a mighty king. England, Denmark, Norway were his lands. Truly a great empire to rule from a longship.
‘The old Saxon royal family was broken; its king was dead and its princes in danger. Two ran to Normandy – Alfred and Edward. You know this, no doubt. Alfred was murdered. Edward became King when Cnut died and his sons died.’
‘He was the one who died this year, leaving no child,’ said Gilbert. ‘He was the last of his line.’
Sandor shook his head. ‘There was another prince. He also was called Edward. He escaped too. He ran far, far. He came at last to my land.’ His face softened. ‘He came to Hungary. Our king made him welcome. He made his home with us. We have made a Magyar out of him. When he became a man we found him a wife – niece of an emperor, no less. We gave him lands and servants. And horses. In Hungary a lord must ride; he must have horses. He must have a good man to care for his horses.’
Gilbert stared. ‘You?’
‘My father. I too was there. He was a kind man, the prince Edward. But he was sad – sad.’ Sandor sighed. ‘To be sad in Hungary – truly a difficult thing to do.’ He sipped thoughtfully.
‘And then?’
‘I teach him to ride. He teach me the English. It is a rough tongue. I learn with a stiff mouth. And he learn to ride with a stiff back. He was not one with the horse.’ He made a gesture with his hand. ‘He did not – he did not flow. Ah! It was great pity. I try very hard with him. But I learn more English than he learn horse.
‘And then, one day – maybe eight, ten years ago – come messengers from England. King Edward has no son. He wishes Prince Edward to return, to take up the royal crown when it falls from the Confessor’s head. Again Prince Edward, he is sad. Always he is sad. Ah –’
Gilbert and Taillefer joined in the chorus: ‘– to be sad in Hungary.’
Sandor laughed. ‘He has a wife and children. He is forty years away from England. He will be a stranger. But the prize is great. And he is the lawful king. And England is his land. So he returns. It is a long journey – again through Bavaria, and Swabia, and Lorraine, and Flanders to the English Sea. He weeps to leave Hungary. I too weep. But my father is dead and I am master now of Prince Edward’s stables. I have my duty.’
Sandor sighed again and took another swig. ‘After many adventures we reach to Calais. There are many English nobles to meet him. He is received like a prince. He is given rich English clothes and many English servants. He is drowned in the English. He does not see his Sandor swept away in the tide of English.’
He shrugged. ‘Sandor is alone, with only his horses. He must make his own way.’ He finished his drink.
‘Well?’ said Gilbert. ‘What then?’
Sandor grinned. ‘I am not like Taillefer,’ he said. ‘I do not make stories that go on for ever.’
Taillefer snored loudly.
‘Some day,’ said Sandor, ‘I tell another story. Now, we must sleep. Tomorrow you hear my good English and you judge. We go where your horse has the good luck, eh?
9 October
‘Our greatest captain’
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘True as I stand here.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Gorm, I am a carter. I move about. I see people.’
‘And have any of them been fighting?’
‘No, but they had it from the King’s rider himself. Horse nearly dead with running.’
‘All right, all right. Tell me the whole story. Go on, surprise me.’
‘Here, boy! Here!’
Berry came bounding down the hill, bursting with energy and goodwill. He skidded to a halt, his tail wagging furiously.
Edwin crouched beside him and ruffled the fur behind his ears. He looked at the paw that had been caught in Sweyn’s trap. It was healing rapidly.
He clutched to his chest the sacking bag he was carrying, and pretended to growl at Berry.
‘Are you a fine boy now? Eh?’
Berry, excited, jumped at him and assaulted his face with a long steamy tongue. In his crouching position Edwin overbalanced into the wet grass.
‘Get off!’ he spluttered, not really meaning it. ‘You will break the mushrooms.’
The bag fell from his hand as he fought a mock battle w
ith the dog. At last he pushed him off and struggled to his feet.
‘Now – what have you done with those mushrooms?’
Berry crouched with a forepaw outstretched on either side of the bag, watching intently, his muzzle on the ground, his tail waving gently to and fro. As Edwin pounced, he bounded away.
Edwin retrieved the bag and followed Berry back towards the mill. It was such a glorious morning that he could almost have burst into song. What a blessing to the spirit was provided by God’s fresh early air and the loving company of a good dog!
When he had risen in the chill dawn, cold and stiff, the world had seemed much less friendly, and God indeed a long way away.
Gilbert’s departure the previous afternoon had depressed him. He hated the deception he had been forced to practise to hide Gorm’s news, and he had hated Gorm for rushing in at the wrong time and spoiling what was a gentle moment, when two strangers stretched out in gratitude and hesitant friendship towards each other.
Edwin liked Gilbert. He was Gilbert’s age and understood him. Gilbert had shown love to the creature he loved. Berry had whined a little when he rode away. He knew how Gilbert felt, alone in a foreign country. Only two years before, he too had known that loneliness and fear. Perhaps if Gilbert had stayed longer, he might have told him of his solitary, hungry, hunted journey through Normandy.
Then again, perhaps not, for Gilbert was also the enemy. When he had stood in the doorway, what Edwin saw, and what Rowena and the others saw, was not a sheepish young man with a pale face and a weak ankle; they saw instead a strong, armed Norman soldier. Edwin knew better than anyone in that household that his lord and Gilbert’s lord would meet in battle, and that they were well matched. During his stay in Normandy he had seen them both, had seen them talk to each other, watched them sizing each other up. Neither would give way to fear, or compromise, or bribery. The one might offer to parley with the other when the crisis came, but Edwin knew it would be a mere formality. Harold and William would decide their quarrel in open battle.
Gilbert would be summoned to that battle, on the other side. Worse, he – Edwin son of Edward – would not. Gilbert was a soldier; he, Edwin, was not.
It was not for lack of trying . . .
Harold had laughed.
‘You, lad?’
‘Please, sir. I have served you well, have I not?’
‘In the kennels – yes.’
‘Must I remain a dog-boy for ever?’
‘You do not belong with my fyrdmen. Do you really want to be in that legion of middle-aged spear-prodders?’
‘They are not all your army.’
Harold gaped, then laughed uproariously.
‘Surely not one of my housecarls.’ He jerked a thumb over the shoulder, and lowered his voice like a conspirator. ‘Like Wilfrid here. Solid oak from the neck up. They would bore you to tears.’
Edwin could find no answer.
Harold put an arm round his shoulder. ‘Believe me, my friend, you can best help me by keeping my hounds in good health for me. I can find plenty of men for a dirty day’s work brushing away these flies from Norway and Normandy. But I can find very few good men with dogs like you. And I shall want you coursing the Downs with me till Domesday. What do you say?’
So Edwin said goodbye to his king. At least it was not the agony that the other goodbye had been in Normandy. He felt he could still stretch out his hand and touch the tears on her face. God, was it two years now? What had made it so much worse was that they had suffered their first quarrel just before he was told that he had to leave. Harold’s orders again. It was a wonder that he still loved the man.
The days dragged when he returned to England. Luckily he was able to lavish all his love on a cheeky pup. Berry was a blessing, but he was not a cure. Edwin found himself spending more and more time at the mill, because Rowena was so kind. He had wept in her arms and told her of his loss. She tried to comfort him.
‘Aud is fond of you.’
He almost tore himself away in his revulsion at the thought. He saw again her long rangy body, the bones in her chest, the large wrists.
‘Aud! I never wanted her before, and now, after—’ The tears flowed again. ‘You must make her see.’
‘Aud sees only what she wants to see. You are young. You are good. You have the strongest of all lords. What girl would not think what she thinks?’
‘You do not.’
Rowena pushed away a lock hair from an eyebrow. ‘Aud must look ahead. It is only natural.’
‘So must you. You have Godric.’
‘My father must give his word.’
‘With that spoiled brat Sweyn in your way? And your father drunk half the time.’
Rowena took her arm away from his shoulder. ‘They are my kin.’
Edwin knew at once that he had gone too far.
‘I am sorry, Rowena. I meant no harm. But you are more loyal than they deserve.’
‘I am no saint,’ said Rowena. ‘I think sin and I feel sin.’ She pushed him away. ‘But you will not hear of it.’ Edwin stood up.
‘Thank you all the same for your kindness to me.’
‘Well, be kind to Aud too. She has such a gap in her heart.’
Berry stopped, turned, and wagged his tail. It was not a morning for moping. Well, perhaps even Aud would appreciate the mushrooms he had picked.
‘Ite, missa est.’
The ragged little congregation stood back to let the Duke leave first. Breath hung steamily in the dawn air. Geoffrey de Montbrai, Bishop of Coutances, had seldom felt so naked in front of an altar. There was little of the building visible beyond a few corner posts; not even beams and joists for a roof. Ranulf did not put chapels in outer baileys very high on his current list of priorities.
Two shivering chaplains helped him off with the episcopal robes. A servant fastened a long winter cloak round his shoulders and took the robes away for safe storage. The freezing faithful few kneeled at their final prayers, lips trembling and teeth chattering. The numbers would steadily increase as the battle approached. It would take a small regiment of priests to hear confessions on the battle eve.
Geoffrey looked over the hunched shoulders towards the two timbers that marked the doorway. How long would it be before he said Mass in a complete chapel, with a proper altar – not the Duke’s portable box of relics? Would it ever be built? Would these defiant, lonely timbers one day soon be crackling in flames before a jeering Saxon army while daring, tense-jawed looters ransacked the reliquary for jewelled settings of the bones?
Geoffrey pulled the cloak about himself. No more thoughts like that. They always crept in with the early chills of dawn, stiff joints and throats of leather. He should know better.
The Duke was already surrounded by a small knot of officers and servants, and was issuing commands in his usual brusque way. Fitzosbern and Baldwin were passing them on to subordinates.
‘Ah, Coutances,’ he said, when Geoffrey joined them. ‘Get that man of yours.’
‘Thierry, my lord?’
‘Yes. I have some messages for him.’
It was typical of William’s sharp, darting eyes that, despite the poor light, he had recognised Thierry among the bowed heads of the congregation.
Geoffrey had been surprised to come across Thierry’s upturned face when he came forward to administer the Host.
Now he grabbed him as he rose from genuflection.
‘What are you doing here? You did not come to confession.’
Thierry looked shamefaced. ‘Your Grace will forgive, I am sure. I went to my lord Odo.’
He saw the immediate look of disapproval that appeared on Geoffrey’s dark face.
‘But you know all my sins already, my lord – and so well. I thought, if I confessed them to his Grace of Bayeux, it would somehow make it sound more – well, more contrite.’
Geoffrey growled. ‘And you could avoid my lord Odo afterwards, whereas you could not avoid me. I see.’
‘A state of grace b
efore a journey, my lord. Would you deny me that?’
‘And you have fasted since midnight? I do not believe it.’
Thierry spread his hands. ‘It gives me no pleasure to say it, my lord. But consider what lies ahead of me. If I had eaten, I should only bring it all up within half an hour of sailing.’
Thierry was never stuck for an answer.
‘Come,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The Duke wishes to see you.’
It was lucky for Thierry that his memory made up for the sins of his appetite. He listened with overhung brows to what William had to say.
Geoffrey stood apart, but watched. He knew the Duke’s messages were likely to be largely for the lady Matilda, who was rumoured to be coming to the very port of St Valéry, so as to be able to hear the news at the first opportunity.
The army liked Matilda. She was tough, resilient, and did not suffer from the vapours so often attributed to ladies of noble birth. She mixed well, had a good sense of humour, and was not shocked by camp language. She was the perfect partner for the Bastard. She did not flatter, she did not whine, and she was no shrinking violet. Their domestic disagreements were loud, famous, and not infrequent. She shouted things to his face that senior vassals trembled even to think, never mind utter. It was clear to everybody that they were made for each other.
When William had finished, Baldwin grabbed Thierry’s arm. ‘Make sure you add my own good wishes to my lady,’ he said.
Thierry ducked his head. ‘And the lady Albreda, my lord?’
‘What? Oh, yes – her too.’
Thierry threw a furtive glance at Geoffrey. It was common knowledge that there was genuine friendship between Baldwin and Matilda, and that Baldwin only tolerated Albreda. He had married her only on the Duke’s insistence, and, having done his duty by fathering a son or two, had been content to let her lord it at Brionne while he went on summer campaigning.
He had long ago reached the conclusion that, all things considered, desire was a troublesome interruption to the steady tenor of a well-ordered life. He did not enjoy the usual boasting that occurred when women were discussed, and he did not initiate vulgar conversation. Indeed, his lack of interest in the opposite sex had occasioned much camp humour.
The Last Conquest Page 11
