The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

  Montgomery leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Come, Walter. Leave Odo to his capacious conscience. Let us do a day of simple soldiering.’

  ‘Enjoy the roast pork?’

  Wilfrid edged up beside the sheepman and his friends.

  Although the morning was clear and sharp, they were stumbling along with their hoods thrown back.

  ‘If we had, we could bear these stakes without sweating like horses.’

  ‘You will be glad of them when you get there.’

  ‘Where is “there”?’

  ‘There.’

  Wilfrid pointed to the bare hilltop where a solitary tree stood black against the light morning sky. A scrap of moon was fading.

  The sheepman squinted. ‘There is no cover there at all.’

  ‘That is why you will be glad of the stakes.’

  The sheepman spat. ‘What do we do? Hide behind this bough of a tree when they fire the arrows?’

  ‘No. You stick it in the ground and point it towards the Norman knights. Their archers will not trouble you; it is the cavalry who will be the threat.’

  ‘All right for you. Those great shields.’

  ‘Just as heavy as your stakes.’

  The sheepman lifted his load from one shoulder to the other.

  ‘Here – did you really walk all the way from York in a week?’

  Wilfrid glanced down at him with fierce pride.

  ‘All the way.’

  ‘In a week?’

  ‘We had a break in London,’ Wilfrid admitted.

  They walked on in silence for a while, the sheepman glancing occasionally at Wilfrid’s gleaming mail and beautifully decorated scabbard. But they were not what he looked at most.

  ‘Can I have a look at your axe?’

  It was the best way he could think of to get a rest; they had been rushed off their feet since they rose.

  Wilfrid stopped, unhooked the thong, and held it out to him. The sheepman unloaded the stake and leaned it against himself. He took the axe reverently in both hands.

  The madman with the mushrooms had a large axe, but nothing like this. The handle was much longer than the farm tool the sheepman was used to, and the head was gigantic. The edge was deeply curved too, more than that of the farm axe.

  It was of course heavy, but not as heavy as he would have expected, because it was so beautifully balanced. The handle was darkly polished and smooth, except for an area of grooves and chafing around the hand-grip. The sheepman paused with his fingers over the leather sleeve covering the blade.

  ‘May I?’

  Wilfrid unloosed the laces and slipped it off.

  The others gathered round the sheepman and stared in amazement and admiration. Never before had they seen such workmanship, such harmony of line, such dazzling brightness. The patterns and decorations on the two faces and the back of the head had been done with as much loving attention to detail as could have been bestowed upon an altar cross. Its very beauty gave them a thrill of horror as they remembered its awful purpose. Somehow it would not have been so awful if it had looked ugly, or even plain.

  Inevitably one of them tried the edge with his thumb.

  ‘Christ!’

  The sheepman carefully replaced the leather sleeve and handed it back for Wilfrid to do up the laces.

  ‘Who would be a Norman, eh?’

  Wilfrid rehung the axe. ‘Who indeed?’

  ‘What do all the patterns mean?’

  Wilfrid smiled. ‘Enough questions. Move.’

  As they humped their loads once again, the sheepman asked, ‘What is the great hurry? There are no Normans up there.’

  ‘Nor do we want them. But they are coming soon. The King’s scouts have made contact. We have dug the Bastard out of his castle. He will now fight on our ground, but we must be there first. And we are late already. Everyone was tired yesterday and slept too long.’

  ‘It is all right for you; you march hundreds of miles every day.’

  ‘You bear your loads badly,’ said Wilfrid. ‘Look at those things there. Bouncing like udders on a frightened cow.’

  ‘Only made them last night,’ said the sheepman.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  The sheepman fished one out and tapped it on his palm. It consisted only of a stick with a sharp stone bound to one end.

  ‘We used to make these when we were boys, to throw at birds. Never thought we would be throwing them at men. Just made them a bit bigger.’

  Wilfrid grunted. ‘Any more secret weapons?’

  The sheepman indicated his crook and his knife.

  ‘You can get hold of anything with this. Fetch anything down. And with this – a tumbled Norman on his back is like a sheep on its back.’

  Wilfrid laughed. ‘I hope so, for your sake. Now – go to the right of that old apple tree. Make for the right-hand end of the hill, the western end, the end away from the sun. When you get there, you will be put into line by Earl Gyrth. Make your position as strong as possible and stay put.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To say the same thing to other groups like yours. I have lingered here long enough.’

  ‘Here – before you go . . .’

  ‘Yes? Be quick.’

  ‘That madman – the one with the mushrooms. Have you seen him today?’

  ‘No. Too many other things to see to.’

  ‘Well, we do not want him round us. Staring into air like that. Upsets a man.’

  Wilfrid sighed. ‘Throw one of your bird-sticks at him. Perhaps you will frighten him off.’

  Wilfrid moved away.

  ‘Oh – one other thing,’ said the sheepman.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘What is it called?’

  ‘What is what called?’

  ‘This place. Where we are now. What is it called?’

  ‘Caldbec Hill. Why?’

  The sheepman shrugged. ‘Just thought I should like to know the name. Considering.’

  ‘Well?’

  Ralph and Bruno dismounted.

  ‘They are on Senlac, sir. As we suspected.’

  Bruno glanced at Ralph. The word ‘we’, implying that they shared in the Duke’s private thoughts, was only part of Ralph’s swagger, but it could have been taken as insubordination by a lesser man. The Duke ignored it.

  ‘What short of shape are they in?’

  ‘Confused, I should say, sir, though a line of battle is being formed.’

  William glanced at the bright eastern sky. If they moved fast, they might get in one attack with the sun directly behind them. On the other hand, he had no intention of spoiling things at this stage by unseemly rush. Let the English do the hurrying.

  He turned to Fitzosbern and asked a question with his eyebrows. As usual, Fitzosbern’s answer was an echo of his own thoughts.

  ‘I suggest, sir, we move with all haste to concentrate behind Telham.’

  ‘I agree. Haste, but no rush. And we wait this side until all main contingents have arrived. We do not show our hand until we are ready to show our whole body.’

  ‘We could commence deployment, sir,’ suggested Fitzosbern. ‘It would ease congestion behind Telham as all units arrive.’

  ‘No! We march as an army over the brow of Telham. I do not want the English sneering at parts of us; I want them trembling at all of us. We concentrate behind Telham.’

  ‘Just so, my lord,’ said Fitzosbern formally. He stood to attention. ‘Permit me to congratulate you on bringing the Saxon to battle.’

  William grunted. ‘Pass the word, Fitz. Not a man over the brow until I say. And get my grooms to me. You?’ He turned to Ralph and Bruno. ‘Go and have another look. I want a clear picture of their battle array.’

  He began his familiar tuneless humming, and walked off to see his brothers. Odo was seen to pray and bless him.

  Ralph looked at Bruno, who was crouching to examine Sorrel’s leg.

  ‘How is it?’

  ‘So far, so good. Sandor has do
ne marvels, but I do not wish to strain it more than I have to. I would have wished not to make a second trip to Senlac.’

  ‘Stay and rest her,’ said Ralph. ‘I shall take Gilbert. The boy is burning to do something.’

  Bruno looked up. ‘And you can keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Go to Hell,’ said Ralph, and cantered off.

  When Gorm woke, he was alone. He was also hungry and shaking with cold.

  He crawled backwards out of his shelter and stood up with difficulty. Dusting the dead leaves from his clothes, he looked about him.

  The countryside seemed empty. There was no trace of the army. No stragglers either.

  He looked up at the sun. Great God, he had slept a long time! No wonder the fyrdmen had gone.

  Speed! Haste! It would be hard enough to find Godric in the battle array; it would be impossible once the battle started.

  He paused only for the needs of nature, and a few wolfed mouthfuls of bread and cheese. He crawled back into the shelter to retrieve his stick, took a gulp from his leather flask, and stumbled back to the main track.

  Before very long he had ceased shivering and started sweating again. His legs were stiff. His sore feet reminded him of the blisters they had gathered the day before. There was a dull ache across his shoulders.

  As his fatigue grew, his judgement dimmed. His thoughts faded and blurred into only one theme – find Godric and tell him. And, please God, find him before he did something stupid in the battle.

  ‘Never mind the point. Get them in first.’

  A ploughman stopped his whittling and paused with his knife in mid-air.

  Earl Leofwine gestured impatiently from his horse. ‘Get the foot of the stake firmly set.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Think of something!’ blazed Leofwine. He turned to a house-carl. ‘Tell him, for God’s sake,’ he said, and trotted off down the line.

  Some clods were still putting them in upright.

  ‘They are not for hiding behind,’ roared Leofwine. ‘They are for fighting behind. We want a hedgehog, not a wall. And sharpen them afterwards, if you have time.’

  He had never seen such a crowd of fussing old women in his life. They might be milling round a stall in a market. You had to say the same thing time and time again, and the minute you turned your back they were doing it wrong once more.

  They still thought a battle was some kind of exciting duel, with the victor chasing gloriously across the field after the fleeing, eye-popped enemy. They had no idea – yet – that it meant a lot of crouching and watching and waiting and sweating; of pushing and shoving and bleeding and dying; of fluke and chance and coincidence and rank bad luck – with the victor grateful, if he was able, to limp away to camp for a drink and a rest, too tired to cheer or weep.

  Harold had told him, and Gyrth, and the other thegns, over and over: ‘Get it into their heads: whatever happens, they stay. Win or lose, they stay. If the sky falls in, they stay where they are. It is a chance they may die where they stand, but if they run down into that low ground, without flank support, it is not a chance; it is a certainty.’

  ‘What if the whole Norman line breaks?’ said Gyrth.

  ‘I do not care if it shatters,’ said Harold. ‘So long as there are Norman knights down there, it is dangerous. We do not go forward until there is a field of Norman dead under our feet, and I appear as the Angel of the Lord to lead them by the hand. Is that clear?’

  Leofwine repeated it and repeated it, up and down his end of the line. Over on the right, Gyrth did the same.

  Some of them clearly understood, but others merely looked at him, muttered ‘Surr!’ in their thick accents, and carried on with what they were doing.

  The fyrdmen were somewhat better. They at least had some experience of campaigning, though Gyrth wondered, as he counted the grey hairs, how long it was since many of them had been in the field.

  Gyrth felt a sudden sinking of the heart; one third of the army stiff in the joints and another third stiff in the head. Oh, for two hundred of the heroes who died at Stamford! A hundred!

  He heard a shout from behind the stepped ranks of housecarls. Every man turned his head. There, up above, by the grey apple tree, was a small knot of men. Gyrth recognised Harold among them; it was probably Harold’s voice he had heard.

  As he looked, two tall standards were raised aloft. First to be unfurled was the great Dragon of Wessex. A cheer went up from the housecarls and rippled along to each end of the line.

  Then the King’s personal banner fluttered proudly into its fullest length – the Fighting Man, its golden threads glittering in the morning sun.

  The roar that went up was deafening. Harold, sensing the moment, mounted a horse and rode to and fro in front of the apple tree, turning and waving to every part of the line.

  The chant arose on the left – ‘Harold the King! Harold the King!’ – and was taken up throughout the whole army’s length. ‘Harold the King! Harold the King!’

  Gyrth’s heart, which had been sinking only a moment before, took such a leap that he almost choked. He looked over towards Leofwine, who returned his look with a vigorous wave of the arm. Each brother was grimacing to fight back the tears. How could they possibly lose?

  Heralds and marshals cleared a way. The Duke trotted from the rear to the front of his whole army. Apart from his helmet and shield, he was now fully dressed for battle. He sat astride his famous Spanish white destrier. As the army was still roughly in column of march, it was a ride of some duration.

  William intended it to be. He was taller than most. Like all men with a commanding eye, he knew when to use it, and could employ it at will. The white horse made a stark contrast to the dark colours around him. His was a striking figure, and he understood exactly what sort of an impression he was making.

  With him rode his two half-brothers, Bishop Odo of Bayeux and Count Robert of Mortain. Odo still wore his episcopal robes. Immediately behind rode Sir William Fitzosbern, the Duke’s deputy, his second brain, his other self. At his shoulder were the three senior battle commanders – Count Alan of Brittany of the left, Sir Walter Giffard of the centre, and Sir Roger of Montgomery of the right.

  Behind again, but close, came Robert of Beaumont, flushed and excited, followed by the pride of Norman vassalage – de Tosny, de Grandmesnil, de Warenne, de Montfort, de Mortagne, Malet.

  ‘Look around you. Be seen!’ the Duke had commanded.

  As they rode, they looked hard at the horsemen in the rear – vassals and knights and soldiers of fortune; in the centre, at the infantry – the Flemings and Bretons and Angevins and Manceaux; finally, as they neared the front of the huge column, at the archers and crossbowmen and scouts.

  Ragged cheering rippled along the lines as they passed. It changed to reverent silence as men saw what came behind – the holy gift of Rome, borne aloft by Count Eustace of Boulogne and his aide, young Turstin of Bec. This was the Papal banner, the present of Cardinal Hildebrand himself. This was the Duke’s sign to all men that their mission – to punish the perjurer Harold and depose the false archbishop, Stigand of Canterbury – was favoured by His Holiness and blessed by God. Those who died shriven this day would go straight to Heaven. Men muttered a prayer and crossed themselves.

  ‘A saintly mission indeed!’ said Fulk Bloodeye when the command party had passed and men began replacing headgear. ‘Fight hard, murder the enemy and die full of Divine Grace, and you will go to Heaven, and do the world a favour by leaving more to be shared among the rest of us . . .’

  Florens of Arras chuckled, and took up the refrain.

  ‘. . . and we who remain will live a life of comfort, and riches, and send ourselves to Hell with our avarice and sloth.’

  They heard the Duke’s marshals calling for closer order and silence. The foot soldiers near the front crowded forward. The cavalry behind, out of earshot, waited patiently and began to give orders to grooms.

  Fulk eased himself on to the tailboard of a supply wagon.
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  ‘Time for a bite,’ he said.

  He stretched behind him and pulled out a package of food and two leather flasks. He offered some ham, cheese and biscuit to Florens, who took it without a word. Matthew took only cheese and biscuit. Fulk drank from one flask and passed it to Matthew. He tossed the other to Florens, who held it up and took a long swig. He wiped the spout with his palm, fastened it and passed it back.

  ‘Good stuff,’ he said.

  Fulk grunted with his mouth full, and stowed it away again.

  Odd, thought Florens – you would think a man would be tempted to a drink just before a battle. He never was. It added to the uniqueness of him; his self-denials could be as disturbing as his self-indulgences.

  They all munched in silence.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ said Florens after a while.

  Fulk shrugged. ‘Quite good.’

  ‘And if not?’

  Fulk looked about him. ‘Here is as good a place as any.’ He turned to the cook. ‘Tether them in that copse over there. Get the wagon in there too, as soon as we deploy. Matthew will help.’

  The cook nodded.

  Florens got up and brushed off the crumbs.

  ‘This could be the big one.’

  ‘Could be. Want to retire, do you?’

  Florens looked doubtful. ‘Hard to break habits.’

  Dietrich and some of the others came running back.

  ‘Any time now,’ Dietrich said breathlessly.

  ‘Probably,’ Florens replied.

  ‘Well, you heard what he said.’

  ‘No,’ said Florens, ‘but I can guess. He told you that we are all going into battle soon against a perjurer, and that God and the Pope and all the saints and angels are on our side. We shall hardly need an army. He said he would share our dangers and conduct us to victory and riches and fame, and that if a man did not fight well he could expect only capture or disgrace or death. He said we are trapped between the enemy in front and the sea behind, but he was sure we would all do well, because we are the greatest army in the whole wide world. Praise God, damn the enemy, and down with that swine Harold.’

  Dietrich gaped. ‘How did you know?’