‘Get to the point, Coutances,’ said the Duke. ‘And do you, brother, stay dumb.’
Odo opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again.
Geoffrey resumed. ‘It is simple to find a man’s weaknesses and use them. The trouble is that Harold does not have many. We must therefore turn not only his weaknesses against him but his strengths.’
‘There you go again, Geoffrey,’ said Montgomery. ‘Talking in circles.’
‘Be silent,’ said the Duke sharply.
‘Consider,’ said Geoffrey. ‘One thing we all noticed about this man when he was in Normandy was his charm. If I recall, Roger,’ he said to Montgomery with a sly smile, ‘you were as much – er – affected by this as anyone.’
Montgomery made a face. ‘What if I was? As I said at the time, he—’
‘“He was quite impossible,”’ said Geoffrey. ‘Yes. I know. You may recall that Harold relied greatly on this quality of – I repeat – his charm. If he could lead our Normans across the Couesnon under a rain of arrows, what can he not do with his own men, and in his own land?’
‘So?’ demanded Giffard.
Geoffrey, like Fitzosbern, refused to be rushed. ‘Harold will demand prodigies from his men, and he will get them. Give him further to march, and he will demand more prodigies still. It never crosses the mind of a charming man that his charm will not work. A man who has worked one miracle will be tempted to work more. The greatest temptation placed before Our Lord was not lust, or avarice, but power. Most men, faced with the choice of creating victory by mere preparation or victory by miracle, will choose the miracle.’
‘Geoffrey – please,’ said Montgomery. ‘What does all this mean in simple language?’
Geoffrey allowed another slight smile to appear. ‘It means this, my friend: we must allow Harold to push his men to their very limits, so that by the time they arrive they are on the verge of exhaustion. It also means that Harold will scorn caution, and not wait for his extra levies from the central shires. It means that their elation of spirit will hide from them the fact that they are at the end of their strength. It means that Harold will be so anxious to take us by surprise that it will not occur to him that we might take him by surprise.’
‘How do you propose to do that by staying put?’ asked Giffard.
‘I did not say stay put for ever,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Timing is all important. We wait. When he is near and hastening to attack us, we move at speed to attack him, on a field of our own choosing. There is our true killing ground – where we can deploy cavalry, not in front of our castle ramparts.’
Walter Giffard threw a scalding glance of triumph in Fulk’s direction.
‘Our entire cavalry strategy,’ said Geoffrey, ‘has depended for months on our ability to deploy large numbers of men – safely – on open ground. It is for this that I have been working, on his Grace’s express instructions.’
‘The cavalry are the shock troops,’ said the Duke.
‘You mean the élite,’ muttered Fulk.
William heard him.
‘I mean what I say. The cavalry are the very stomach of our plan. You and the archers are the limbs. You knew this when you agreed to serve.’
‘On the assumption, my lord, that the cavalry, in their pursuit of the greater share of glory, take the greater share of risk.’
‘Try riding with us, and find out,’ said Giffard.
Fitzosbern, sensing trouble again, interposed.
‘I have no doubt that each will do his part, and each will be eager to exploit his share of the profits.’
Before either Fulk or Giffard could reply, Fitzosbern swept on. ‘I agree with most of what my lord of Coutances says.’
Geoffrey nodded in appreciation.
‘However,’ said Fitzosbern, ‘it assumes that Harold’s line of approach will rendezvous very conveniently with the battlefield we have chosen.’
Odo, glad at last to have a chance of criticising Geoffrey, said, ‘We can hardly leave guides all over Sussex, saying, “This way to the battlefield.”’
It was Montgomery’s turn to head off Geoffrey from a dispute with Odo.
‘Will he not come by the simple and obvious way? The old Roman road?’
‘The fact that it is simple and obvious may be the very reason why he does not choose it,’ remarked Odo.
‘We must not be trapped by our own cleverness,’ said Fitzosbern, ‘or we shall waste our time guessing answers to problems we have created for ourselves.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said Geoffrey, ‘I think it would be wise to choose more than one possible field, Fitz, and so do you.’
‘We can not go all over Sussex,’ said Odo, ‘marking out dozens of them just in case.’ He sniggered.
Geoffrey kept his temper.
‘We do not have to. This is where our captain of mercenaries put his finger on a possible solution, albeit without intending to.’
Fulk raised his thick eyebrows elaborately, but continued to lounge.
‘We begin to restrict our wasting activities,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We do not destroy farms merely to infuriate Harold. We also leave farms intact in order to lead him on. Any general marches where the tracks are easiest and the land is richest. So we create a pattern. We leave avenues of untouched land leading to the pieces of ground we have chosen. Harold will be a fool to himself if he does not follow one of them. He must make the journey easy for his men and he must provide food for them. When we know which route he is on, we prepare. When we know he is near, we pounce.’
Gilbert had been listening with his mouth open. He pulled himself together when he and Ralph were questioned about possible avenues of approach and likely fields of engagement.
Ralph mentioned Telham Hill briefly, and let Gilbert take the questioning. Gilbert tried to sound knowledgeable about gradients and fields of vision and length of front. He wished he could remember all the airy thoughts that had gone through his mind when he had first considered Telham and had imagined himself as the Duke.
The council did not seem impressed, and Gilbert looked disappointed. Ralph knew well that the Duke and Fitzosbern were already acquainted with it. He decided to give Gilbert a second chance.
‘There is another hill, sir. Just beyond. My partner here was the first to find it.’
Gilbert felt a glow of pride. Partner!
‘Well?’ said Fitzosbern.
Gilbert glanced at Ralph, who nodded for him to go on.
Gilbert described it as best he could, even to the detail of the old apple tree. The slopes, the field of vision, the woods on the far side, the sandy, marshy brook on the near side – all were included. He did not mention the ravine on the north side of the summit.
‘Telham Hill we know,’ said Odo. ‘What do they call this one?’
‘Sir?’
‘This hill,’ said Odo. ‘It has a name.’
Gilbert began to flounder.
Odo pressed him. ‘You interrogated the local peasantry?’
Gilbert licked his lips. ‘Um – Sandlake, my lord,’ he said at last. ‘Yes. Sandlake.’
‘Sandlake? What is that supposed to mean?’
Odo was making Gilbert feel awkward, and knew it.
‘You remember, my lord, I – I said, at the bottom of the hill was a – a sandy—’
‘Stream, you said. Yes, I remember. You said nothing about a lake.’
Gilbert sweated. ‘Perhaps it was the Saxon accent, sir. He may have said “Sanlic” or “Senlac” – something like that – and I have translated it in error.’ He grasped suddenly at an inspiration. ‘We could call it “Grey Appletree Hill”.’ He subsided into silence, feeling a total idiot.
Odo opened his mouth to make a sarcastic remark, but the Duke cut in.
‘A name is a name. “Senlac Hill” is the simplest. It will do as well as any other. Now – you both need food and rest. All of you will be busy tomorrow.’
‘Sir?’
‘His Grace means you are dismissed,�
�� said Odo. ‘Go, young Master Senlac.’
Everyone laughed – partly as a way of relieving the tension. What hurt Gilbert most was that even Ralph smiled.
Earl Leofwine replaced the tent flap, tossed his gloves on to the table, and flopped on to a stool.
‘The last of the Berkshire levies are in. I doubt we can hope for any more.’
Harold held out a mug of beer to him.
‘My feelings too. We can not wait any longer. It is time now that matters, not men.’
Leofwine nodded. ‘So tomorrow then?’
‘Or the day after. Give the Berkshire boys a rest. Then go. Three days should do it. A good thing the Bastard has chosen Hastings.’
‘You mean, you know the ground.’
Harold grinned craftily. ‘Yes. And I have an idea or two. Show you when we get there.’
‘Welcome, my friend. A fine evening.’
Gilbert’s cheeks were still burning.
‘Is it? Ha!’
The pain on the Magyar’s face cut through Gilbert’s self-pity. He felt as if he had cuffed a faithful dog for wagging its tail.
‘I am sorry, Sandor.’
‘You are tired and hungry,’ said Sandor. ‘Sit and eat; that will stop you to be tired and hungry. And talk; then you will not be sad.’
Gilbert sat down against a log and eased his legs and back. The relief was enormous. Sandor plied him with titbits he had been saving specially.
‘Now – talk.’
Taillefer opened his eyes and propped himself on an elbow.
Gilbert reached out for a mug with one hand, and stuffed food into his mouth with the other. Words tumbled out, mouth full and all: the Duke, the council, the argument; the hot tongue of Sir Walter Giffard, the slow tongue of Sir Roger of Montgomery; the bad feeling between my lord of Coutances and my lord of Bayeux.
‘There is something crooked about Odo. You hear him telling you good reasons for doing something, and all the time you know he has another reason that he is not going to tell you. No wonder Lord Geoffrey does not like him.’
‘With good reason,’ said Taillefer. ‘He has been a thorn in Lord Geoffrey’s side for years.’
‘But Lord Geoffrey is the better man,’ said Gilbert.
‘I agree again. He can see them all off at that table, except Fitzosbern. He has the longest head in all Normandy, save only Lanfranc of course. Even the Duke sits at Lanfranc’s feet.’
‘What was Beaumont doing there?’ said Gilbert. ‘He must be my age.’
Taillefer nodded and smiled. ‘Too young, I agree. All dash and promise. Up in the saddle and down on the cheeks.’
Gilbert missed the hint. ‘Yes. And did you know he brought a pack of hounds with him?’
‘Who does not?’ said Sandor.
‘His father pulls strings,’ said Taillefer. ‘The old man dotes on him – thinks the sun shines out of his backside.’
Gilbert sneered.
Taillefer wagged a finger. ‘Do not be hasty. Lord Geoffrey thinks highly of him. He may yet prove himself.’
Sandor proffered another little treat.
‘And the Bloodeye. Did you see him?’
Gilbert shuddered. ‘A monster. The very air around him is bad.’
Sandor nodded. ‘Truly a bad man. A very bad man. But war too is bad, and he does war very well.’
‘But the Bastard outfaced him. Without a threat or a gesture, without even raising his voice. I was sweating, and he was not talking to me.’ Gilbert sat up in sudden recall. ‘And who is that little cripple behind him?’
Sandor and Taillefer exchanged glances.
‘He is a doctor of some kind,’ said Taillefer after a pause.
‘Why?’ said Gilbert. ‘Is there something wrong with Fulk? He looks as strong as a horse.’
Taillefer looked at Sandor again before replying.
‘Because a man keeps company with a doctor, he is not necessarily an invalid. Rumour has it that their – association – is – of another nature.’ He clapped his hands. ‘But there! Because I associate with this diminutive Magyar horse-keeper, it does not mean that I am either a horse or that I need looking after.’
They laughed, which ended in Taillefer coughing until his eyes ran. Gilbert slapped him on the back until Sandor stopped him.
‘Tell us the story,’ said Sandor.
Gilbert stared. ‘But I have just told you.’
‘Tell it again. A good story deserves to become a friend, to be met many times. I like the stories.’
‘I second the proposition,’ said Taillefer, wiping his eyes.
‘You?’ said Gilbert. ‘You dozed off in the middle, you wrinkled old wineskin. And before I finish, you will be asleep again.’
Taillefer made a grand gesture. ‘Nevertheless . . .’ He fished an onion out of his pocket. ‘A knife, please?’
Gilbert recoiled. ‘And carry that smell around on my blade?’
Taillefer held out his bony hand and waggled his wrist in impatience. ‘Tut! Foolish boy. It cleans the blade; it does not spoil it.’
Gilbert grinned. ‘Taillefer, you are impossible.’
He held out his dagger, and turned back to Sandor. In the firelight, with a blanket that Sandor had tucked round his knees, and with his stomach full, Gilbert relaxed. He told the story of the council all over again.
Sandor enjoyed most the talk of cavalry tactics and deployment.
‘Walter Giffard is right. And your lord Geoffrey. We must have the room for the horses. They are not light and quick like our Magyar mounts in Hungary— Ah! There were some horses for you.’
He wandered for a moment, then pulled himself together.
‘No matter. Norman horses must have room. They are heavy. It is for that also that we must use them together, as says your Geoffrey. For this plan the Duke has trained.’
‘If the Duke already knows his plan,’ said Gilbert, ‘why does he request so much advice?’
Sandor smiled. ‘The horses are the centre of his plan but they are not his whole plan. So he listens to his lords and he watches his enemy. His lords will tell him what is in their mind, and you and Ralph will tell him what is in the Saxon mind. When the enemy marches into battle, all the lords and all the scouts will think that the Duke is marching on their words, and they will be proud. Such pride is a strong rope to bind an army.’
Gilbert cocked his head and looked searchingly at the grubby, shiny face before him.
‘Sandor? Where did you learn so much about horses?’
Sandor spread his hands. ‘I think I tell you before. Prince Edward the Saxon, he—’
‘No, no,’ said Gilbert. ‘That is all about riding. That was about Hungary.’
‘Ah, Hungary—’ began Sandor.
Gilbert headed him off. ‘That was about your light cavalry. Where did you learn all about heavy cavalry? How do you understand so much of knights and their equipment? When I was talking about the council, you listened as if you knew what I was going to say next.’
‘He is a devil,’ said Taillefer in a low voice full of mock horror. ‘He is a dark Hunnish devil who knows everything.’
Sandor gave him a friendly nudge.
Taillefer shifted painfully from one sharp elbow to another, and crunched the last of the onion.
‘How did he learn all about shipping horses across the sea? Our lord the Duke does not employ fools. If he wants the best paid killers, he contracts with Fulk and his bloodstained Flemings. If he is in need of archers, he sends his agents with bags of silver into Artois and Picardy. If he is desirous of moving many thousands of warhorses across the Channel, he will seek out the finest horse ferryman in all Christendom.’ He waved a hand. ‘There he sits before you, my young friend – that devil-begotten little wizard knows more than Poseidon and Pegasus put together.’
Gilbert did not know the names, and even if he had, would have dismissed them as Taillefer’s semi-drunken ramblings. But the drift of the remarks was plain enough.
‘Sandor
?’ said Gilbert decisively. ‘It is time now for you to tell me a story.’
Sandor’s eyes sparkled. ‘You wish I say a horse story?’
Gilbert nodded emphatically. ‘A horse story.’
Sandor hitched his legs into a crossed position.
‘Then be still,’ he said, ‘and pay attention.’
‘And you, Taillefer, be silent,’ said Gilbert, nudging him.
‘Pooh!’ said Taillefer, leaning back and pretending to sleep. ‘I know all the stories there are to know. Sandor is a mere craftsman of stories. I – I am an artist, a weaver of spells. I—’
Gilbert dropped a folded blanket over his face.
‘Now, Sandor.’
Sandor took a long, thoughtful swig from his ivory horn.
‘It is a story of the South,’ he said. ‘A story of the sun, of a land of beautiful crops and a sea of beautiful blue.’ He spread his palm across a calm, sunlit bay just in front of the crackling fire.
Gilbert drew up his blanket and lay back with his hands behind his head. He looked into the dancing flames, and saw white-laced waves swirling upon sands of gold on the edge of a garden of delights.
‘Such lands,’ said Sandor, ‘as you never saw. Their fruits have juice in them to fill a wine goblet, of a sharpness to make the mouth tremble. And they make a cloth called cotton – soft like a maid’s caress, cool in the sun. Softer still, they breed worms that spin like spiders, to weave something to make even cotton feel like the bark of a tree.
‘They grow long sticks in the earth, and crush them to make a juice sweeter than any honey. They breed tall horses with split hooves and towers on their backs – long-necked horses, which drink but one day in seven . . .’
‘The horses, Sandor. Real horses.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Another huge gulp of beer. Gilbert watched the Adam’s apple moving under the black stubble on his throat.
‘I tell you before, the Prince Edward is drowned in the English, and taken from me. I am far from home. I was sad. Any man would be sad who is far from Hungary—’
‘So what did you do?’ said Gilbert quickly.
‘I take service with a great man. Master Roger of Hauteville.’
The Last Conquest Page 16
