The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

Baldwin turned to Fitzosbern, who looked inscrutable. William turned to him as well.

  ‘Out with it, Fitz.’

  Fitzosbern cleared his throat. ‘Can you think of a neighbour better connected than Count Baldwin of Flanders? Brother-in-law to the King, and soon to be brother-in-law to Earl Godwin of Wessex. To say nothing of a flourishing cloth trade.’

  William for once looked hesitant. ‘What have I to offer?’

  ‘Yourself. You are a good prospect.’

  William made a face. ‘Suppose she is awful?’

  ‘She is not awful,’ said Baldwin, right on cue. ‘Unusual, maybe, but not awful.’

  ‘Meet her and see for yourself,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘You do not have to propose marriage from here.’

  William looked awkward again. Fitzosbern glanced at Baldwin, then gazed innocently at the ground.

  ‘Of course, if you are afraid of a dwarf with a face like a gargoyle . . .’

  Within days of meeting each other, the two were behaving like a married couple

  Now William scratched some peeling varnish with a fingernail.

  ‘So close, Fitz.’

  Fitzosbern continued looking towards Normandy as he spoke.

  ‘Which would you rather do – carry this through, or court Matilda all over again?’

  William stood up, and slapped the rail with his palm.

  ‘By the Splendour of God, Fitz.’

  As they walked up the shingle, Fitzosbern noticed that the Duke had begun humming again.

  Fulk Bloodeye finished his inspection and closed the tailboard of the last wagon. Florens had done his work as reliably as ever. Fulk nodded.

  ‘All right. Tell them they can rest.’

  Florens passed the word.

  ‘About time too,’ muttered a soldier, flopping onto some old sacks. ‘Christ, he drives you hard. The battle will be a holiday after this.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said an older man.

  ‘We have packed and repacked those Devil-begotten wagons three times. Are we in some kind of competition?’

  ‘Yes, we are, Dieter. It is called surviving.’

  Dietrich hawked and spat. ‘I thought we were hired to fight a battle, not load up for market. What are we – professional soldiers or camp lackeys?’

  Florens of Arras drew out a whetstone and began honing the blade of his dagger. He spoke over his shoulder.

  ‘Both, soldier, and plenty more if need be. Forgotten the wasting, have you?’

  Dietrich looked alarmed; he had not thought Florens could hear him. Florens took no offence, and carried on in an even voice, in time with his sharpening.

  ‘When you have campaigned with Bloodeye as long as I have, you will see the sense of what he does. I tell you, before the week is out, you will be on your knees for what is in those wagons.’

  ‘Half of it is stolen,’ said someone. ‘I hope to Christ the Bastard never finds out.’

  Florens grunted. ‘You should have seen what we did to get the other half.’

  ‘We have to do that sort of thing in battle, to earn our money. Why do we have to do it to find our food? De Clair is a good quartermaster.’

  ‘Baldwin de Clair is a very good quartermaster,’ said Florens. ‘He is also a terrible old woman. You try getting something out of him once the action really starts. Besides, he is a Norman. We are Flemings.’

  ‘The Bastard’s wife is Flemish,’ said Dietrich.

  Rainald of Delft sat beside him and stretched out his long legs.

  ‘What Florens means, Dieter,’ he said, ‘is that we are mercenaries.’

  Dietrich pouted belligerently. ‘We are as good as they are.’

  Rainald and Florens looked at each other and smiled.

  Dietrich pouted again. ‘What is it?’

  Rainald patted him on the shoulder. ‘It is your first season, son, so we make allowances for you. You will learn soon enough.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That everyone needs us and everyone hates us,’ said Rainald.

  ‘We go everywhere and we do everything – for money,’ said Florens. ‘The others do it for excitement or land or power or bloodlust. That is all right.’

  ‘The Lord will smile upon you,’ continued Rainald, ‘and His Holiness the Pope will give you a sacred banner to fight under. But do it for money and you are lower than the dogs.’

  Florens took it up. ‘If they want dirty work done that their precious scruples will not allow them to do, they hire us to do it, and then hate us for doing it.’

  Rainald spat out the end of a broken fingernail. ‘It is noble to die for your lord, killing Saxons right and left. But do the same thing and stay alive for your pay – that is mean.’

  ‘We are professionals,’ said Florens, examining the edge of his blade. ‘They fight for dear life; we fight for a living. And we do it for hard cash. They hate us for being here; they hate us for what we do; and they hate us for having to pay us to do it.’

  ‘And they hate us for surviving,’ added Rainald.

  Florens slid the knife back into the scabbard, and put away his whetstone.

  ‘And if you do not carry out Bloodeye’s orders to the letter, you will not survive. And serve you right.’

  Dietrich glared. ‘I know how to take orders. I am not afraid of battle.’

  Rainald and Florens both burst out laughing. Dietrich looked blank.

  ‘You will be, son, you will be,’ said Rainald.

  ‘Any fool can survive a battle,’ said Florens. ‘Even you – with a bit of luck. It is before and after that is difficult.’ He patted the wagon behind him. ‘That is where Fulk is miles ahead of them. They do not come any better than Bloodeye – take it from me.’

  Dietrich shuddered. ‘Evil bastard! Devil-handed as well. Gives me the shivers.’

  ‘I should have more shivers if he were not here,’ said Rainald.

  ‘I should try living with your superstitions if I were you,’ said Florens. ‘Did it ever occur to you to wonder why he uses the left hand?’

  Dietrich blinked in surprise. ‘Well, I . . . Well, no, not really. You just see the left hand and—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Florens. ‘You just see, and you let the old wives’ tales take over. You still have the mud of the furrow on your boots, boy.’

  Dietrich blustered. ‘I signed on, just like you. I am a professional.’

  Florens sneered. ‘Call yourself professional? Let me tell you something. When I first knew Fulk, he was the finest with the blade I had ever seen – with the right hand. But he kept having trouble – it went back to the wounds he had received.’

  Dietrich fidgeted to interrupt. ‘The face! Right into his brain, they say. That is why—’

  Florens held up a hand. ‘Forget the rumour, and hear the truth. I am talking about the wounds you never see – in the body.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Never mind. He recovered, thanks to Matthew.’

  Dietrich smirked.

  ‘You may have cause to be thankful for that infidel before the week is out,’ said Florens. ‘Matthew saved his life, but every so often Bloodeye would have trouble with his right arm. Something about an arrowhead they could not get out. It would come without warning, and the limb would lose its strength. Just for a few minutes at first. Then the attacks became longer. Matthew warned him they could get worse.’

  Dietrich looked at Rainald. ‘Is this true?’

  Rainald continued lounging. ‘Listen, and learn.’

  ‘So what did he do?’ said Florens. ‘Give up? Weep? Kneel at holy shrines and beggar himself at collection boxes? Retire, become a gaoler or gatekeeper, and bore one and all with a hard-luck story? No. He worked at it. A hand, he reasoned, was a hand. He needed only one to swing a sword. The Almighty had given him two. Very well – he would learn to use the other. For a whole year, he lay low. The stories flew about – Fulk the Angevin was a cripple; Fulk was a prisoner; Fulk was a coward, a drunk, an old man, dead. He put up with all that And he worked.�
� Florens leaned forward. ‘And now, he is still the best with the blade I have ever seen – with the left hand.’ He spat at Dietrich’s feet. ‘And you talk about being professional. Boy – you have not begun to learn what it means.’

  Dietrich made a noise of unwilling agreement. ‘I still say he is an evil bastard. And as for that ghostly little cripple that shadows him . . .’

  Rainald grimaced a silent warning.

  Dietrich glanced round furtively, but Fulk had not heard him. He sat apart, eating and gazing into a vacant distance.

  Dietrich turned back, but whispered his next words: ‘Is it true he drinks only water?’

  Rainald grinned. ‘Why not ask him?’

  Dietrich blushed, mumbled something about a call of nature, and made off. Florens and Rainald chuckled together once again.

  Fulk still heard nothing. He gave up trying to work out where Matthew might be, and found his thoughts being dragged back yet again to the mill, to the fair woman, to the big Saxon prisoner.

  Nearby, some voices were suddenly raised over disputed bets, and there was the usual scuffle. Fulk had only to get to his feet; the crouching archers looked up at him, and settled down once more to their game, continuing their dispute in hoarse, fierce whispers.

  Fulk turned away. Games of chance held no interest for him; he did not have enough control over the outcome.

  He was not short of entertainment in the shape of torture as he wandered about – dogs, dying horses, even birds. It did not hold his attention for long. It was always done by clods, and clods had no imagination. Little skill either; death came too soon

  Rowena.

  Out of the blue, the name came back to him.

  It was too late to go to the mill now. Tomorrow, maybe, if the English had not arrived by then.

  But the Saxon peasant. The giant. There ought to be possibilities there.

  He took out a dagger and flicked a finger across the blade. A picture of the Saxon’s still, dark face came into his mind. Instinctively he knew that no threat would make him cringe; no pain would make him beg for mercy.

  Rowena! Fulk lifted his head sharply as a thought struck him. His bloody eye narrowed as he turned the idea over in his mind. The scar on his cheek twisted as he smiled in satisfaction.

  He put away his dagger, dusted his hands, and went in search of a camp whore.

  She could not understand why he wanted her to walk so far.

  ‘Much nicer here,’ she whined.

  Fulk said nothing.

  She scuttered along beside him, glancing shyly at the watching faces that they passed. She slipped her hand into the crook of Fulk’s great arm, and flung back her head in defiance. The soldiers grinned just the same. Fulk took no notice.

  ‘You must not get yourself too tired first,’ she simpered.

  ‘Shut your mouth. You will be well paid.’

  As they neared the edge of the camp, she became uneasy.

  ‘Here. Where are you taking me? And what are them chains for?’ She began to hang back.

  Fulk grabbed her wrist and pulled her along.

  When she caught sight of the two men tied to trees, she protested again.

  ‘What is this, anyway? They are Saxon.’

  Fulk turned on her. ‘So are you, my precious. Or half Saxon. Probably the result of some French fisherman’s night out in Dover or Rye. No airs and graces, please, my dear.’

  A whole series of alarming prospects flashed through her limited mind.

  ‘I do nothing funny,’ she declared. ‘And certainly not in the open air. Freezing out here.’

  Fulk towered over her. Still holding her wrist, he pulled her towards him, and tilted her chin with his other hand.

  ‘You will do whatever I say.’

  She pulled back her head, away from the livid scar and the sagging eye; she was now afraid as well.

  Fulk took the chains dangling from his shoulders, and tossed them to William Capra and Ralph Pomeroy. He gestured towards Godric. ‘Him. One end to his ankle and the other round the tree. Put this one round his wrists. Then undo the ropes.’

  Capra was glad of the diversion, and began at once to grumble about Baldwin. Fulk, still keeping a firm hold on the girl, drew his dagger. She began whimpering in fear. Capra saw the weapon, stopped grumbling, and hesitated.

  ‘Have no fear for your back,’ said Fulk. ‘I shall not put a mark on him. Do as I say.’

  More from curiosity than from anything else, Capra and Pomeroy obeyed. Edwin and the girl watched in tense silence.

  When Godric was secured, Fulk motioned him forward, until he stood at the limit of the ankle chain. Half an arm’s length of links dangled between the fetters on his wrists. Fulk had judged the distance so that he stood just out of Godric’s reach. This was a refinement he had thought of at the last minute. To allow him greater physical freedom, and so increase the frustration in the mind.

  First he would parade the girl, pull off a strip or two of clothing. Then he would say the name ‘Rowena’. If Godric did not at once catch his meaning, he would when the knife came up to the girl’s throat and drew a spot – just a spot – of blood. Fulk did not intend to be clumsy about this and spoil it by cutting the bitch’s throat too early.

  Then some more clothes would come off. If she protested, he would tie her down – not too tightly; he wanted a good lively struggle. He could rely on Capra and Pomeroy to catch the general drift and make some tasteless remarks. It would all add to the entertainment.

  He had never had a girl watching another man’s face before, but it should provide a novel sensation. All the time, he would say ‘Rowena’. Get the other two to say it as well. Come to think of it, why not let them have her too, when he had finished?

  That was the first half.

  The second half, the part he was really looking forward to, would come the next day. Parade with the horse, mount it, lean down, and say ‘Rowena’ once more, just before leaving. And, as a finishing touch, bring him back a scrap of clothing, a bloodstain or two?

  He pulled the girl round so that he held her facing Godric. He put the dagger to her throat and looked at Godric.

  ‘Rowena,’ he said. ‘Remember? Rowena.’

  He knew from the flash in Godric’s eyes that he had caused a reaction. It was a thrill like seeing the quarry break cover. He felt his heart leap with excitement. This was infinitely better than listening to old stories or tearing birds to pieces.

  Looking down, he was partly dazzled by the sunlight catching his blade. He blinked and looked again. Was the point against her neck or not? He blinked and squinted once more.

  Perhaps he would not bother with the knife after all – just have the girl and finish. Get her to the ground first – that was the best thing. Less trouble. He looked down. Piles of leaves swirled around in a blurred black circle. The ground came up to meet him . . .

  The girl stepped back quickly, her arms clasped about her, her eyes wide with horror.

  Fulk’s face had gone grey, almost blue. His body was rigid. Saliva trickled from the corners of his mouth.

  Edwin felt a thrill of fear, and jerked at his bonds as if they were suddenly going to be merciful and allow him to escape this Devil-possession.

  Capra and Pomeroy looked helplessly at each other.

  ‘Bring him to me,’ said Godric. ‘Bring him here!’

  They looked at Godric, but thought Godric wanted to finish him off. Besides, it meant touching that huge . . . thing on the ground.

  Godric turned in desperation to Edwin. ‘Tell them to do as I say. Tell them I want to stop it, not kill him.’

  ‘Look at their faces,’ said Edwin. ‘Look at mine.’

  ‘There is nothing to fear. If they will not touch him, tell them to let out this chain. It is only two paces more that I need.’

  Edwin looked at Fulk, rigid, foam-flecked, and blue.

  ‘Godric! After what he has done?’

  ‘Threats, threats,’ said Godric. ‘You punish a man for what
he does, not for what he threatens. This is interesting. Hurry!’

  Edwin stared. ‘Interesting!’

  Godric shook the chains impatiently. ‘There is little time. Tell them I can help him. Tell them I can stop it spreading to them. Tell them anything. Only get me to him.’

  Edwin at last succeeded.

  On Godric’s instructions Capra was sent for warm water and a small cup. Pomeroy packed off the girl. He and Edwin watched fascinated as Godric, still carefully chained, laid his hands on the body.

  Fulk was jerking and twitching all over. Godric undid the jerkin at the neck, and told Pomeroy to cut a strip of material from it. He tied two or three knots in it and eased it between Fulk’s teeth. He moved the dropped knife away from the head as it thrashed from side to side, and tossed it to the amazed Pomeroy.

  As the movements became slower and gentler, he turned the body on to its side, and pulled the dark hair away from an ear.

  The girl was still watching from a nearby clump of bushes. Pomeroy leaped up and smacked her across the rump with the flat of his sword. She fled squealing. ‘What about my money?’

  Godric searched hastily through the contents of his waist wallet. He had very little that was suitable. He would have to make do.

  Capra came puffing back with water and the small cup.

  Godric tested it. Half cold. It should have been wine too; he had not thought in time. Still, no matter; it would have to do. He squeezed some juice from the herb into the water, threw in the rest, and stirred it. Then he strained it off into the small cup. He looked at the two Normans.

  ‘Hold him softly, but not loosely.’

  They hesitated.

  Godric reassured them. ‘He will soon be still, but I am in haste and do not wish to spill any. He does not know what you are doing and he will not remember when he wakes. Tell them, Edwin.’

  They swallowed nervously, but obeyed.

  They watched, interested in spite of themselves, as Godric carefully poured the contents of the cup into Fulk’s ear.

  The twitchings subsided, and Fulk lay still.

  ‘It is over,’ said Godric. Edwin translated.

  ‘You mean, dead?’ said Capra, alarmed.

  ‘No. Sleeping.’

  Just then Gilbert and Sandor arrived.

  When they heard what had happened, Sandor was the quicker to take advantage of the situation.