The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

  When her stomach began to swell so early, his suspicions grew, but Adele brushed them aside with a flurry of old wives’ tales about forward-looking wombs and slender bodies and irregular rhythms of her unclean times. Still he could not bring himself to challenge her outright.

  Her labour was long and painful. It drove all thought of infidelity from his mind. All he could think of was her agony. He had tried to see her in the early stages, but had been driven out by the wildness of her eye and the restless, sweat-soaked body, and the waiting women flitting like ghouls about the bed on errands of mystery. He waited nearby, but was flung from the castle by her screams.

  Ralph tried to get some drink into him.

  ‘Great Jesus, Ralph! Just let it be pulled out dead. Anything to stop her screaming.’

  When he first saw the child, he forgot everything he had thought and said.

  After the gentleness and the baby talk and lumps in the throat came the ribald jokes from Ralph and Bruno, and drinks in the guardroom and reminiscences and back-slappings.

  When it was all over, the whispers and the nudges began again. With them returned Gilbert’s fears and worries. He wanted the story to be untrue, yet his brain told him it was all too likely. He wanted to get at the truth if only to put an end to the torture of doubt, but he was afraid that the truth would tear away his immortality.

  A score of times he screwed up his courage to raise the question. He prepared whole scenes of conversation, planning to steer it carefully towards a well-laid trap where Adele would have to admit the truth. Each time she slipped away, her face watchful, her eye wide, her chatter about baby Hugh faster than ever.

  When the moment came at last, it took them both by surprise. Each felt enormous relief, even though Gilbert struck her, even though tears ran down both their faces.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘It was nobody here.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘It was not my fault. He forced me.’

  ‘And you did not complain?’

  ‘He was not Norman. He was one of the Saxons who came with Harold. How could I complain? They were all the Duke’s guests. We were supposed to be kind to them.’

  ‘Kind!’

  ‘He forced me, I tell you. The next day he was gone. What could I do? Plead with the Duke to go to England and bring him back?’ . . .

  That would not now be necessary. He was in England, and he, Gilbert of Avranches, would find the man who had dishonoured his wife. The man whose bastard he could not help loving. At least it would stop the wagging tongues.

  The wretch could not be far. Most of the Saxons with Harold on that trip had been from his estates in Sussex. Castle gossip had told him that too. It was possible, of course, that he had already been killed by the wasting parties. Possible, but unlikely. This swine had been able-bodied – very able-bodied. Most of those killed by the likes of Capra and Pomeroy and the Flemings had been very young or very old. He could have marched north with Harold to face Norway, and he could be lying in a stagnant ditch near the bridge at Stamford, gazing up at the moon with sightless, glazed eyes. Or he could be on the march southwards again. If so, Gilbert would find him. On the longest patrol, in the deepest forest, in the thickest battle, Gilbert would find him. And when he found him—

  ‘Still no sleep? Truly your mind is heavy more than your body.’ Sandor dropped down beside him. ‘You should sleep the good sleep. You will soon have another son.’

  ‘Oh, Sandor . . .’ Gilbert groped for words.

  ‘Too full, eh?’

  Gilbert nodded miserably.

  ‘It is time, I think,’ said Sandor, ‘that you tell me many things. They will make your mind light like air and you will sleep. But start slowly.’

  Gilbert started slowly, but it all came out in the end.

  ‘So,’ said Sandor, ‘now you must – repair your honour?’

  ‘I shall find him,’ said Gilbert. ‘I shall . . .’

  While Gilbert slept, Sandor lay awake.

  When his young friend had talked of his love, his face had creased in pain. It reminded the Magyar of something earlier that day. A young Saxon had grimaced in the same way when he talked of someone he had known in Normandy, someone who had taught him much in a short time.

  Truly an odd coincidence.

  10 October

  ‘Perjury he hates’

  ‘Top of the morning to you, Sir Baldwin. I hear you want some good wasting done today.’

  Baldwin de Clair looked at them with disgust.

  ‘Enjoying it is not a requirement.’

  William Capra gestured to his brother. ‘We just like doing our duty, Sir Baldwin. At a bit of a loose end today.’

  ‘So Bloodeye kicked you out?’

  ‘Not at all. On temporary transfer, as you might say. Come on, Sir Baldwin, you need the men. I heard you say so.’

  Baldwin did not have the time to argue.

  ‘If dirty work is so much to your taste, you can come with me.’

  Capra threw up a parody of a salute. ‘We shall no doubt learn a lot, sir.’

  Baldwin looked at their horses. ‘Where did you get those?’

  Ralph Pomeroy began to sweat. Capra looked Baldwin straight in the eye.

  ‘Fortunes of war, Sir Baldwin – fortunes of war.’

  Ralph glanced at Bruno. God’s Breath! It was all coming down to them. Well, to them and a few other trusted scouts. It was the most vital commission of the entire enterprise: find the English.

  Fitzosbern could hardly have made it more obvious.

  ‘Draw as many rations as you want. Stay away two days – three. But come back with something.’

  ‘I understand, Sir William.’

  ‘I only hope you do.’

  A rare sign of nerves from the imperturbable Fitzosbern. Defences, food, equipment, training at a peak – they had everything. Except an enemy. They had provided for every conceivable tactic on the part of the English except their absence. It must have entered any thinking man’s head that they and their duke could soon be looking faintly ridiculous.

  ‘Go as far as London if you have to.’

  Bruno allowed himself a lift of his expressive eyebrows. Ralph did not bother even to look at him again, the tension was so palpable. While they were away, the whole army would have to wait. They had been driven to exhaustion to get themselves ready, and now they were ready, but they could not stay ready for much longer. They had to have a battle, and the Duke relied on his scouts to provide the wherewithal for that battle.

  ‘Report as soon as you are back – day or night.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Fitzosbern turned away, then turned back.

  ‘Oh – will you be taking that boy with you – the one who – um—’

  ‘Gilbert of Avranches, sir.’

  ‘Just so. Well – are you? Deep in enemy territory. Could be useful.’

  What a temptation! To have the approval of Sir William Fitzosbern himself. That would be one in the eye for long-faced Bruno.

  Even as he thought it, Ralph knew it was impossible. On their work in the next two days the whole invasion could depend – win or lose, all or nothing, life or death, a kingdom or a grave.

  Gilbert had so often asked him why he, Ralph, always knew. Now he, Ralph, was asking the same question about Bruno. It always hurt, but Bruno was always right.

  Gilbert’s face came up clearly before his mind’s eye – a face alight with eagerness, innocence, the passion to please. Gilbert ‘of Avranches’, as he loved to call himself. And shining through Gilbert’s face was the glow of Michael.

  Bruno cleared his throat. Ralph tore himself away from his visions.

  ‘No, sir. We shall move better as a pair.’

  ‘Have it your own way.’

  When he had gone, Ralph turned at last to Bruno.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  The wasting parties did their work with dread efficiency. Gilbert, bitter and cast down, had to watch them. After the first f
ew burnings and killings he did not bother to turn away his head. What was the use? The sounds assailed his ears just the same – the rushing and crackling and screaming and thudding. Every time he heard the rasp of a dozen sword blades leaving the scabbard his throat went dry and his stomach went tight.

  But he knew that it had to be borne. He could hear Ralph saying, ‘What do you want – soldiering or looking after dogs?’ At least the horror drove from his mind his bitter disappointment at being left behind. He had tried – oh, how he had tried . . .

  ‘Ralph, please. Take me if only for company.’ He pointed at Bruno. ‘You will get none from him.’

  Bruno said, ‘I say one thing to Ralph every day.’

  ‘Just one, eh?’ Gilbert sneered. ‘What is that?’

  ‘The truth.’ He swung round and gave Ralph’s horse a sharp slap on the rump.

  As they trotted off with bulging saddlebags, Ralph shouted over his shoulder, ‘Look after that hauberk.’

  The Duke had accepted Bishop Geoffrey’s plan of calculated destruction along definite paths. Under Fitzosbern’s direction, Sir Baldwin and Brother Crispin had produced maps of the area simple enough for a handful of the more sensible senior knights to follow – though he detailed a scout to go with each group just to make sure that they did not go the wrong way, or, worse, ambush each other.

  Baldwin had decided to lead one party himself, if only to get away from the stores for a day and see some of the terrain with his own eyes. What he actually said was, ‘Anything to get away from Brother Wormwood.’

  By the look on Crispin’s face, the relief was mutual.

  ‘You know the north-west sector,’ said Baldwin to Gilbert. ‘Take us to Senlac and then on from there.’

  ‘Guided from Senlac by young Master Senlac,’ smirked Capra. ‘How nice!’

  Ralph Pomeroy sniggered.

  Gilbert hissed to Sandor beside him. ‘How did he know? Who told him?’

  Sandor sighed. ‘My friend, you can not stop the wind rustling through summer trees, and you can not stop stories running through a camp, when soldiers have nothing to do but listen.’

  Gilbert bared his teeth. ‘When I get the chance, I shall ram those words down his throat.’

  Sandor laid a gnarled hand on his arm. Every crease in the fingers was black.

  ‘My friend, you must learn patience. Revenge is a dish that must be taken slowly.’

  ‘You are not the one who is aggrieved.’

  ‘You make the mistake,’ said Sandor, jogging easily beside him.

  Gilbert looked puzzled. ‘You, Sandor? Why?’

  Sandor lowered his voice. ‘I lost two good horses. For a day I suspect. Now I know.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I offer to come with you to watch the horses when the soldiers . . .’ He made an expressive gesture. ‘While I watch and wait, I look at horses. Now I know the thieves.’

  Gilbert’s face cleared. ‘Ah! You mean—’

  Sandor put his finger to his lips. ‘The two dirty ones. So I say – watch and wait. And think of the good things. It is well that it is not Fulk who comes with us. Would you fight him so quickly if he had said the joke?’ Sandor looked innocent. ‘Or if he were to burn the wrong farm?’

  Gilbert blushed, and fell silent. As usual Sandor had understood not only what he had said, but what he had not said. He was furious at Capra – true. And he was disgusted at the killing and the burning. But all the while the fear fevered his thoughts – would they waste the mill? After he had assured Rowena that they would not.

  He had tried to read Baldwin’s map but had failed. He dared not ask in advance without arousing suspicion. He took comfort, as Sandor suggested, only in the fact that Capra and Pomeroy would at least be likely to follow Baldwin’s order if he said ‘no’. Unlike the beast Bloodeye.

  Gilbert’s respect for Fitzosbern went up; that wise commander had avoided possible trouble by detailing most of the Flemings that day for camp and castle fatigues. It was also quite possibly the Duke’s punishment of Fulk himself for his insolence the night before.

  Gilbert took refuge for the time being in abuse of Taillefer.

  ‘Why are you with us, you old bag of meal? More plunder?’

  Taillefer looked as if he needed hands beneath the bags under his eyes in order to hold them up.

  ‘Tut! A gross slander. Can a minstrel not go for a ride in God’s fresh air without incurring such base calumnies?’

  He snuffed deeply, and doubled up over the saddle with coughing.

  Gilbert and the nearby soldiers laughed.

  They ambled easily between bouts of havoc. Capra and Pomeroy took over the conversation. They shared tastleless jokes about tricks for making houses burn faster, about the best use of an axe for maiming sheep, about the body odour of Saxon women. They compared their meagre haul of loot with each other, and looked forward to better pickings later on in the day.

  The valley of the mill came nearer, and Sandor watched Gilbert’s face become tighter.

  At last they breasted the rise, and paused for a moment, scanning the valley for any sign of Saxon columns or patrols.

  Baldwin’s professional eye took in the mill, the cluster of houses lower down, the clear stream, the well-filled gardens and ample fields. He fished the crumpled map from the inside of his jerkin, peered at it, and looked up again to confirm his whereabouts.

  Gilbert saw the mill wheel moving smoothly and knew that Gorm was at work. He heard Aud’s voice shouting from inside the house. Edith was squatting in a corner of the chicken run. Something small was in her podgy hands. He felt sure it was her stick doll. He swallowed hard.

  Then he heard Capra’s vulgar accent breaking the silence.

  ‘Never burned a mill before.’

  Pomeroy hawked and spat. ‘Should make quite a blaze.’

  Gilbert looked helplessly at Baldwin.

  Rowena came out of the house and collected some water. One of the men-at-arms nudged Capra and pointed.

  ‘Well, Sir Baldwin,’ said Capra, ‘what about one more, just to give us an appetite before we eat, eh?’

  Baldwin stuffed the map back into his jerkin.

  ‘Why so eager?’

  Capra leered. ‘Just seen something interesting, Sir Baldwin.’

  Baldwin picked up the reins. ‘When I have seen what I want to see, then I shall give the word – not before.’

  Pomeroy joined in. ‘Come now, Sir Baldwin, we have been riding and – working – all morning. Give the lads a bit of fun to finish off with.’

  ‘You heard,’ said Baldwin. ‘Do as you are told.’

  ‘She looks nice and ample from here,’ said Capra.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ said Baldwin, blushing.

  Gilbert looked at him in alarm. Was he losing control? Capra, sensing a cheap triumph, pushed him further.

  ‘You can have first bite if you like, sir. Privilege of rank.’

  ‘You are insubordinate,’ said Baldwin, but he did not make it sound convincing.

  Capra looked round at the others and smirked.

  ‘Tell you what, sir – you have her all to yourself and just give us the mill.’

  The men-at-arms grinned.

  ‘Just so long as you let us watch,’ said Pomeroy.

  There were throaty cackles.

  Baldwin was now flushed and embarrassed. He dug his heels in his horse and rode on ahead.

  Gilbert could contain himself no longer.

  ‘Great Jesus, hold your filthy tongue! Or I shall cut it out and feed it to the crows.’

  Capra opened his eyes wide in mock surprise. ‘My, my! Young Master Senlac to the rescue. Whose virtue are you protecting – hers or his?’

  Everyone roared.

  If Baldwin heard he gave no sign. He was probably too far ahead.

  Gilbert half drew his sword and urged his mount forward.

  Suddenly a thin, scrawny horse placed itself between Gilbert and Capra.

  ‘My lusty warriors,’ said
Taillefer, ‘let us not quarrel over the goods before we have ascertained their worth. A wise merchant does not put a price on an article before he has judged its value.’ He smiled devilishly. ‘Should you require a connoisseur to assist you in coming to a wise price, I am at your service.’

  He contrived to produce a dignified bow from the saddle.

  Everyone laughed again; the edge had gone. They spurred their horses cheerfully after Baldwin. Gilbert glared, but at last slammed his sword back into the scabbard.

  Sandor patted him kindly on the shoulder. ‘Save your sword; you may yet need it. Watch and be patient.’

  As Gilbert rode down the hill, he saw Rowena shade her eyes in order to see more clearly where the noise was coming from. He urged his mount forward so as to be at the front with Baldwin.

  Until now, he had been in some awe in the quartermaster’s presence. Now he had seen a lout like Capra tear great holes in his authority. Baldwin’s awkwardness where women were concerned was a camp joke. Gilbert himself had laughed at it.

  He had worried before about Baldwin stopping Fulk. Now, it began to look as if he could not stop Capra or Pomeroy either if they should take it into their heads to disobey him and destroy the mill. Could he, Gilbert and Sandor, and that posturing wineskin Taillefer hold them off? And to what purpose? Suppose they did destroy one farm too many. Would it affect the overall plan that much? Would the Duke bother even to investigate?

  ‘Watch and be patient,’ Sandor had said. Very well. He would watch, but that swine Capra had better watch too.

  ‘Father!’

  Hearing Rowena’s voice, Gorm laid down a lever and came to the door of the mill.

  ‘Fetch Godric,’ said Rowena, without taking her eyes off the Normans.

  Gorm took one look and bolted towards the barn, where Godric was sorting apples.

  ‘They are here again,’ he said, panting with exertion and fear. ‘Why have they come back? He said they would not.’

  Godric stood up and dusted his hands. ‘Then he was wrong.’