Geoffrey stirred painfully on his bed.
‘I suppose if the Turk fashions a strong enough splint . . .’
‘I do not want heroes,’ said the Duke, ‘and I do not want liabilities.’
Geoffrey ran a hand through his dark hair, which stuck out like straw round his tonsure when he was agitated.
‘But what about the – you know, the whole thing? If I am not there . . .’
Fitzosbern was unmoved. ‘It will still work.’
‘Fitz is right,’ said the Duke. ‘If a cart is well fashioned, it does not need its wright to drive it. ‘
Geoffrey flopped back on to his pillow, thoroughly depressed.
‘I am much obliged to your Grace.’
Nobody spoke while the Duke paced up and down. The space inside Geoffrey’s tent was limited; Giffard, Montgomery and the other senior commanders huddled into a corner to give William enough space.
The Duke stopped at the foot of Geoffrey’s bed, and motioned everyone to come closer.
‘The cart is still sound; we simply change the drivers. Fitz – you will take over operational command in place of Coutances. Montgomery – you keep overall control on the right. I shall remove the Flemings from central command and put them directly under you. That will make Fitz’s job easier. Brittany?’
‘My lord,’ said Count Alan.
‘You still take the left. My brothers will come under your orders.’
Bishop Odo and Count Robert of Mortain looked chagrined, but said nothing.
‘Thus we will balance our strength – a cavalry commander on one wing, with spare infantry, and an infantry commander on the other with spare cavalry – and so balance our chances. Possibly improve them. It will give Fitz more flexibility. Giffard – you will take the centre in place of Fitz.’
‘Delighted!’ said Giffard, glancing in triumph at Montgomery. One in the eye for the puppy Beaumont.
‘Hmm! Good. Well then.’ William began humming as he left the tent.
The others followed, except Fitzosbern, who remained for a moment in the doorway.
Geoffrey eased his bad leg into a better position.
‘If you are going to say how sorry you are, I shall excommunicate you.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘I was going to suggest that you stop feeling sorry for yourself. You are lucky you did not break your neck. You are also lucky the Turk understands broken bones; how many cripples have we seen made because simple falls were followed by bad treatment, or no treatment at all?’
‘Anything else?’ said Geoffrey sourly.
‘Yes. You should feel flattered.’
Geoffrey gaped. ‘Flattered?’
‘Yes. It is honour enough that your schemes of training and tactics should be followed when you are there. It is an even greater compliment that we should be following them when you are not.’
‘And I have to lie here and sweat and wonder,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Then do that,’ said Fitzosbern, as he dropped the tent flap. ‘There is no pleasing you.’
Outside he nearly bumped into Fulk.
‘You are late. The Duke wishes to see you at once.’
‘On my way, Sir William. Just visiting the patient.’
Geoffrey greeted him with more ill humour.
‘What do you want?’
Fulk spread his hands in mock appeal. ‘What do I have to do to gain your gratitude? I supply you with rare books for your church. I send my doctor to set your leg. I come in person to enquire after your health.’
‘And you once would have had me killed – for a fee.’
‘I keep telling you – it was nothing personal.’
‘And your word is your bond, of course.’
Fulk still refused to take offence.
‘Very well, I am going. But reflect, my lord; we have more in common than you think. We are both at odds with the world in our respective ways.’
Geoffrey reached for a cup of wine. On impulse, he offered a cup to Fulk.
‘Thank you, no. But I take the gesture as a sign of goodwill – at last. By way of returning the compliment, may I say that I shall, as a fellow-professional, regret your absence in the coming conflict.’
Geoffrey held up his cup in token of acceptance of the favour.
When he had drunk, he said, ‘You remarked that we had something in common.’
Fulk smiled, not in friendship, but in irony. ‘Yes. I said we both know what it is to be at odds with the world.’
‘Is that all?’
Fulk smiled again. ‘I think it would be rash to pursue the search for similarities in men so unlike as ourselves. We might both find surprises.’
Geoffrey put down the cup and looked intently at him. ‘Would you by any chance be getting round to the subject of confession?’
Fulk laughed. ‘Oh, a deadly shaft, my lord bishop.’
He moved towards the door, still laughing, and paused at the flap.
‘Let us leave it at this, my lord: you are impatient with the world; I am merely bored with it. That is enough affinity for both of us, I should say. Rest well. I shall send Matthew tomorrow.’ He twisted his scar in one last ironic grin. ‘After all, you have many faculties beyond your military ones, and we owe it to our noble cause to try and preserve as many of them as possible.’
Geoffrey had hardly lain back again when another request came from outside.
‘Permission to enter, my lord.’
It was Thierry. No mistaking the voice. Back already – he must have made good time. Coutances and Rouen, and two crossings of the Channel. News of Sybil!
But Geoffrey still refused to abandon his sour temper completely; it was too comfortable.
‘Come in, come in. What is this – a private tent or the Pope’s audience chamber? Not a moment’s peace. You took long enough.’
Thierry wiped his mouth to remove the traces of gravy. His Grace was as grumpy as ever, but then, with a broken leg . . . He tried to put the best shine he could upon the situation.
‘At least the lady Sybil will not have to worry about you on the day, my lord.’
Matthew’s dark eyes glowed. Capra and Pomeroy swore at him; they heaped insults on his faith and on his professon; they passed vulgar judgement on the softness of his flesh and the smoothness of his hands. His face showed no further emotion.
When he named his price they swore again.
By way of answer he took a silk kerchief from his cuff and trailed it delicately across one red weal on Capra’s ribs.
‘You must attend the Duke at dawn, I hear – wearing mail.’
Capra cried aloud once more. ‘All right. All right. We agree. Get on with it.’
Matthew held out his hand.
‘Yes, yes, yes, we shall pay,’ said Capra impatiently.
Matthew stood up. In the bad light of the tent’s interior his crippled shoulder and gleaming eyes gave Capra a twinge of fright. The tinkling ringlets of mail around the rim of his helmet added to the unearthly effect.
‘You promised to pay Taillefer after. You pay me before.’
He held out his hand again.
Capra grumbled fearfully, but propped himself on an elbow. Wincing with pain, he fished coins out of his waist wallet and counted them out. Even in his agonising position he took care that their hands did not make contact; he dropped the coins one by one, his chipped and blackened fingernails poised gingerly above the moist brown palm. The delicate fingers snapped shut like a cat pouncing, and flew to a secret fold of his huge red sash.
A silken smile spread under the thin black moustache.
‘Now – lie still. This will give pain at first, but later you will be at rest.’
‘Just get on with it, you perfumed idolater.’
‘One thing more,’ said Matthew, his voice softening almost to a purr. ‘My ointment works best in silence. If insults poison the air, the ointment will catch the evil and sting for longer.’
Pomeroy frowned. ‘What does he mean?�
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Capra growled. ‘He means, brother, that we must hold our tongues.’
They lay in silence while Matthew, enjoying a private joke, tended their backs. They could at least stand and move when he had fastened their bandages, though they cursed the smarting.
‘You wear only wool tonight,’ said Matthew, ‘so that the marks breathe. Then leather tomorrow. Mail if you can stand it.’
He packed his canvas case. Pomeroy wondered what was the meaning of all the strange signs embroidered on it.
‘Now,’ said Capra, ‘we must have horses for tomorrow. Our destriers were stolen.’
Matthew stood up.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I heard. The biters have been bitten.’
Pomeroy was annoyed.
‘We have stolen nothing.’
Capra tossed his head at his brother’s obtuseness.
Matthew smiled at the ease with which Pomeroy had fallen into error.
‘You will of a certainty steal nothing more; everyone will be too watchful.’
He made to go, but Capra seized his arm.
‘Horses. Tell us.’
Matthew recoiled from the physical contact. He wriggled to escape.
‘I am called away.’
‘Oh? Where?’
Matthew glared. ‘Captain Fulk. You wish me to tell him whom I have been treating?’
‘In between treating him?’
Matthew at last disengaged himself, but looked slightly flustered.
‘Captain Fulk is well. He has been riding.’
Capra sensed a chase. With the instinct of the hunter, he pounced on weakness.
‘Where?’
‘Riding.’
‘To that mill again.’
‘He has been riding.’
Capra smiled; the quarry was about to break cover.
‘I bet he has. Riding more than the horse too. God – he recovered quickly. Then he would, with you near him, eh? A magic pass here? A black spell there? How does it feel – to cure him only for that? All your skill, and he spends his energy that way.’
Matthew began to look distinctly uncomfortable. Capra pursued him.
‘Did he tell you what it was like?’
Matthew’s face darkened. ‘He went riding. Now he rests. That is all.’
Capra guffawed. ‘God’s Face, was it that strenuous? Did she struggle that much?’
‘He did not go to the mill.’
‘Liar!’
‘He did not. He told me.’
‘And you believed him? Ha!’
Matthew hesitated. ‘He was – he was near the mill only. He went only to see.’
‘And he caught her running away. Made it more exciting, I suppose. Pity the Saxon giant was not there to see it. Still, the idiot was. Or perhaps he had her too. No wonder he is resting now.’
Matthew raised his voice a tone or two. ‘Captain Fulk will be on duty tomorrow for many hours. Now he is resting. He needs – to rest.’
Capra thrust his face close to Matthew’s. ‘You hate the idea. You hate the very idea of his being with a woman. Go on – admit it.’
Matthew’s eyes flashed. ‘I shall tell Captain Fulk. I shall tell him where to find you. Tomorrow he will come. But he will not have whips, like Baldwin. He will have chains and knives, and he will have Florens and Rainald and Dieter. And I shall watch!’ He almost spat the last words, his chest heaving with excitement.
Capra and Pomeroy laughed at the success of their chase.
Matthew drew a deep breath in the effort to control his emotion.
‘And when Captain Fulk has finished with you, you must obtain horses. Only this time you must pay, as you paid me. You will have to go to the Magyar.’ His eyes gleamed in triumph. ‘You need medicine from a Muslim; now you need horses from a pagan.’
He left them staring at each other in furious impotence.
Godric needed all his patience. His journey was dogged by delays and bad luck.
A score of times he was forced to hide when he heard hoof-beats or voices. He praised God for the sprawling size of the Wealden forest, though he cursed the number of false alarms. Only twice did he nearly run into genuine Norman patrols. Most times it was bedraggled groups of refugees, fleeing they knew not where. Nor did they care, so long as it was away from the invaders.
In his head all the while was the image of Fulk – Fulk lounging, Fulk leering, Fulk with his knife at Rowena’s throat, Fulk taunting him as he strove in chains, Fulk twitching on the ground, his head lolling with sightless open eyes.
Edwin should be at the mill by now. He would warn, but he would not stay to protect; his destiny, and his duty, as he saw it, lay with his king. Godric understood that. All the more reason to make haste himself.
Suppose Rowena did not take flight? Suppose she were prevented? Suppose the rest of the family united against her? Suppose Fulk . . .? Fulk was capable of anything; it would not be simple murder or swift, lancing dishonour.
Yet another disturbance up ahead forced him to climb a nearby tree. Into the clearing straggled a line of more fugitives. The man was nearly at the end of his tether. A thin child clung round his neck, and another stumbled by his side, clutching his hand. In his spare hand he carried a pitchfork, the knuckles white with unnecessary tension. Behind him came a haggard woman, bowed with a bundle too big for her. Behind again staggered the grandfather, using both hands to support himself on a long stick.
As they passed below Godric’s tree, he could hear their laboured breath. At the end of the clearing, the man stopped and turned to allow his wife and father time to catch up. When they reached him, they paused in relief. He merely turned away and went on. The woman and the old man looked at each other, then they too began again, their legs stiff with the effort of renewed movement. Nobody said a word.
Godric watched in silence – born of helpless pity as well as of necessary caution. There was nothing he could do for them, and if he had appeared, the suddenness would have shocked the man into violence or the grandfather into collapse.
Nevertheless, when they had gone, Godric allowed impatience, for the first time, to get the better of him. Instead of climbing all the way down, he jumped from too great a height. As he bent his legs with the impact, he felt a savage pain in his left knee that made him almost cry out.
Suddenly, even standing became agony.
He hobbled to a clump of young trees and broke off a small bough. Having no knife, he snatched at the twigs down the length of it with his bare hands.
He turned to look up the trail to the end of the clearing. It seemed very far away. And he still had miles to go. A moment ago he had felt sorry for the old man.
Taking a deep breath, he resumed his journey, leaning and hopping, leaning and hopping.
‘Ah, now, that is interesting,’ said Sandor with a straight face. He had listened solemnly to William Capra’s tale of woe. Capra, he noticed, did not accuse him of anything, and he was not going to protest an innocence that had not been challenged. Pomeroy hovered sulkily in the background.
Sandor continued polishing some girths. Capra waited impatiently.
‘Well?’
Sandor spoke without looking up. ‘It is true: good horses can be procured at any time for cash. Half in advance,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘Then get them,’ said Capra.
Sandor spat on to the freshly applied polish, stuck his finger inside a fold of cloth, and began rubbing small circles on the leather.
‘First there is the question of price.’
‘Name it.’
Sandor waggled a little finger in his ear, then quoted a figure.
Capra opened his mouth to argue, but realised that he was in no position to bargain. However, he did not wish to give in at once.
‘Proper destriers?’
‘From Sir Walter Giffard’s own stock at Longueville.’
‘Fully broken and trained?’
‘Ready for battle tomorrow.’
‘Equipped?’
‘To the last buckle, if you wish.’
Capra pretended to ponder deeply.
‘I suppose, for two good destriers, in time of war . . . Still unreasonable, but under the circumstances . . .’
Sandor looked up. His eyes showed the faintest glimmer of a twinkle.
‘I think you make a small error. The price is for each horse.’
‘Each!’
Sandor bowed his head in solemn assent.
Capra leaped to his feet, wincing at the pain, which in turn made his temper worse.
‘You dirty little Hunnish horsethief!’
Sandor shrugged.
Capra spluttered in anger. ‘I should not put it past you to sell our own horses back to us.’
Sandor privately agreed that it would be a neat, and most apt, resolution of the situation, but out of the question, since Edwin ought, by now, to be at the mill. The other mount, the one Godric had returned, was too good to be allowed back into the possession of a lout like Capra. Besides, they had both belonged to Sandor’s herd in the first place, and he was not going to allow his babies away again.
Tucked away in a separate enclosure were the frightened, staring arrivals from the last Channel crossing – almost thrown into ships in Normandy in response to the Duke’s urgent appeals for spare mounts. They were immature and unstable, their training schedules a mess of compression and half measures, their readiness for battle a matter for fortune-tellers.
Sandor cleared his throat.
‘I have a hundred horses for sale – all of them of the finest breeding, the highest training, the greatest strength, the like of which you will not find anywhere in England.’
Capra snorted. ‘Do not be so sure.’
Sandor spread his hands. ‘Then go and seek. Search the stables from here to London. You will find good horses, well-bred horses, large horses, fast horses, perhaps even clever horses. But a horse to carry a knight in full gear – war saddle, mail, helmet, sword, spears, and a shield to flap over his left ear? A horse to turn, wheel, advance, retire and keep a line in the noise of battle? A horse trained to obedience for constant fighting?’ Sandor shook his head. ‘Such horses do not grow on English trees.’
The Last Conquest Page 30
