The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And one other thing. I want the shafts high.’

  ‘High, sir?’

  ‘You heard. You are making no impression so far. They just squat behind those damned shields.’

  ‘We have caused casualties, sir,’ said the senior sergeant, offended.

  ‘Not enough. This is no time for marksmanship. I want damage, not hundreds of shields bristling with wasted arrows. Get the sun behind you and fire high. They must either die from falling arrows or they must lift their shields. And we can move up while the last ones are falling, before they can recover.’

  The sergeant looked unconvinced. ‘We may not be able to guarantee a high degree of accuracy, my lord.’

  ‘Holy St Stephen!I want obedience, not accuracy. See to it, man!’

  ‘Sir.’

  He scuttled off.

  William kicked his new horse into motion.

  ‘Come, my lords. Come, Robert, Odo. Let us cut the English in two.’

  Harold screwed up his eyes.

  ‘So – this time the Bastard leads.’

  He looked at the compact ranks of the Norman knights and at the Papal banner in the centre.

  ‘The archers are not strung out any more,’ said a thegn. ‘They are up to something. Look.’

  ‘Damn the archers,’ said Harold, moving swiftly to his messengers.

  He grabbed one by the elbow. ‘Now – like the wind. I want all the housecarls behind the wings to join us in the centre. If you can get the Earls Gyrth and Leofwine here too, so much the better.’

  ‘A gamble, sir?’ said the thegn.

  ‘Look out there, man. Can you see anything moving up on our wings? William fights a battle like a game of chess – a piece here, a piece there. Well, two can do that. Besides –’ Harold pointed at the Papal banner ‘– we have forced him into the open. I have seen the pennons of his two brothers there as well. He is coming for the centre, for me. Three brothers are challenging; he shall find three brothers to meet him. Gyrth and Leofwine would not miss this for the world.’

  Harold spat on his axe and examined the edge of the blade.

  ‘I never did like Odo.’

  Gorm fought against the waves of nausea, and tugged hard.

  He flung away the bloodstained head and brushed the broken shaft from his lap. He clutched his bleeding arm and hung his head between his raised knees. The din of battle came and went in his ears as if someone were constantly opening and shutting a door.

  When he felt able to look, he examined the hole in his forearm. He had to find some kind of binding.

  He looked around him. Not far away lay a dead man. Gorm was surprised that there were not many more. The front of the man’s hauberk was stained from a hideous spear wound in the throat.

  Gorm glanced to right and left. Nobody was looking. He edged across to the corpse. The mail was of high quality. So were the rest of the clothes. Must be a thegn. If this man was as important as he looked, he would probably have a soft shirt of some kind under his leather jerkin. Ideal for a bandage.

  He lifted the body to ease up the hauberk and jerkin. Yes – there was the shirt. He fought to keep his eyes away from the gaping hole below the jaw.

  A kick in the ribs sent him sprawling. A furious servant stood over him.

  ‘Animal! Pig! Marsh rat! Can you not wait to loot the enemy instead?’ He looked round desperately. ‘Give me a knife – anything!’

  Gorm showed his bleeding arm.

  The man would have gone for him with his bare hands if his two companions had not held him back. Gorm, whimpering in pain and fear, crawled away as fast as he could.

  The servant still struggled.

  ‘Let me go. Let me kill him.’

  ‘Wait, Siward. Wait. If you leave Earl Gyrth now to chase that wretch, somebody else will come and do the same. It’s not worth it.’

  Siward began to calm down. His friend held on to Siward’s arms to make sure.

  ‘Now, get him cleaned up,’ he said. ‘The King must not be harrowed beyond need. We shall fetch Leofwine.’

  Siward stared. ‘Leofwine, too?’

  ‘In the same charge. He got it in the chest. One of them brought down the Bastard’s horse, they say, but William survived.’

  ‘And the King?’

  ‘Still living, still leading. And still winning. But sorrowing. He will come soon to see them. Do your work – yes?’

  Siward nodded, and his friend released him.

  ‘Oh – and get a priest.’

  ‘They are getting fewer,’ said Beaumont. ‘I swear the shield wall is contracting again.’

  ‘Oh, it has done that,’ said Montgomery.

  Beaumont pressed his point.

  ‘And the close order worked. You see? Geoffrey was right.’

  ‘“Lord Geoffrey” to you,’ said Montgomery. ‘But they are still up there, and we are still down here.’

  Fitzosbern reined in beside them.

  ‘It is time you were doing something about it.’

  ‘You did not make much impression on the centre, Fitz,’ said Montgomery.

  ‘You never know what impression a battering ram has been making until the wall falls down,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘We had an effect, I can tell you. The arrows were finding targets too.’

  Montgomery pointed up Senlac Hill.

  ‘Then where are the gaps?’

  ‘The shield wall looks the same, I agree. But it is not the same behind it. Gyrth is dead – saw him go. Maybe Leofwine too. At least that is what they are saying. They are weakening.’

  Montgomery was unconvinced. ‘We are getting tired too, you know.’

  ‘You have had a rest watching us. Now it is your turn again. They pulled in housecarls from the wings to meet us, so the wings are more vulnerable. If we hit them hard, now, with infantry and cavalry combined, we could open up a flank. With luck, both. But it must be quick – before they put out the housecarls again. William is sending de Montfort in again on the left with the Bretons.’

  Fulk spat. ‘The Bretons. They were the ones who caused the trouble in the first place. If they had not been so anxious to save their own skins, we should have been up there by now.’

  Fitzosbern refused, as usual, to take offence.

  ‘Then it allows our captain of mercenaries the opportunity to distinguish himself by completing the work so badly begun by our allies from Brittany. Flemings, we all know, are never anxious to save their own skins.’

  Fulk’s scar twisted as he smiled to acknowledge the sharpness of the thrust.

  ‘Then let us be about winning the Bastard’s battle for him and earning his – er – gratitude. I take it we have archery support –’ he paused significantly ‘– like everyone else.’

  ‘No,’ said Fitzosbern flatly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They must replenish. And they must go the long way round. If we wait for the archers to return, it gives the English too long.’

  ‘What about us?’

  ‘You have just had a rest.’

  Fulk glared. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Fitzosbern refused to be outfaced. ‘Those are his Grace’s orders. If you do not wish to carry them out, then say so now, and we shall replace you with someone who will. They will of course receive your reward for doing your work.’

  There was a moment of tense stillness. Beaumont scarcely heard any sounds of battle.

  At last, Fulk resumed his normal air of casual insolence, and bowed.

  ‘In that case, Sir William, you can tell his Grace that my men and I will faithfully execute your orders, in every detail.’

  Beaumont glanced at Montgomery, and blew out his cheeks.

  Fulk looked hard at Fitzosbern. ‘Should you care, Sir William, to come and observe us more closely during the next hour – while we are succeeding where you failed – you will be very well received.’

  The sagging eye stared balefully. Beaumont felt a ripple of fear on the back of his neck.

&n
bsp; Fulk strode away.

  ‘Stay away, Fitz, for God’s sake,’ said Montgomery. ‘He will kill you, and I would not put it past him to do it with a Saxon spear, and from the front.’

  Fitzosbern grunted.

  ‘It had occurred to me,’ he said. He pulled his horse round. ‘You never know. Dig a trap for someone, and you can fall in it yourself. Now get on with it. William wants that wing rolled up.’

  Sir Baldwin de Clair rode down from Telham Hill to complain.

  This had been the fourth issue of arrows; it was not according to plan. It was no use asking the archer sergeants to tell the Duke. He had just had a blazing row with them.

  He would have to tell William himself. How could he be relied upon to produce sheaves of fresh arrows for the final assaults and the pursuit when stupid sergeants were engaged in such prodigal waste? And without proper authority. Had they no idea of thrift? Could they not see that the English were not firing arrows that they could recover? Were they blind as well as stupid?

  He swore at two carriers who were sloshing precious water everywhere, and paused halfway down to look for the Duke.

  Nearest to him, an attack was being prepared from the right against the English left. He heard Montgomery bawling orders.

  Baldwin suddenly saw something that drove all thought of arrows out of his head. A tall, strong man, a foot soldier. A well-equipped foot soldier, wearing gleaming mail and metal helmet. A soldier of great authority, judging by the way he was directing the men around him, and being obeyed. A very powerful soldier, with a drawn sword in his left hand. Baldwin winced at the memory of a burned back, of precious white flesh charred and blistered.

  Godric ran the whetstone over the blade once more.

  He would have been content to continue with the hammer – any weapon would do now, until a Norman killed him. What did it matter? Fulk was dead. There was no further reason for living.

  His two companions in the line had thrust the axe into his hand after the last attack. After watching him with the hammer, they were curious to see what he would do with a housecarl’s axe.

  ‘He will not need it any more,’ they assured him. ‘Stone dead. Arrow in the windpipe – just like Hardrada. Go on, take it. You are the best one to use it.’

  Godric shrugged and took it. Now he stood and watched the preparations for a fresh Norman attack on his end of the line. Infantry and horsemen together. So there would be no violent charge, not until the last few paces.

  In loose order, they started up the slope, picking their way round horses thrashing with broken legs and backs. A few splayed hands rose in supplication between the slippery tussocks of grass.

  Godric ran his hands up and down the haft of the axe. He had never swung anything like this in his life. God, what a weapon! Suppose he had had it just now, when—

  He tensed.

  He was not sure whether it was something he first heard or first saw. There – behind the infantry in studded jackets. Although the man was lower down the slope, he looked bigger, thicker, stronger.

  Godric screwed up his dark face to try to catch his voice again, but it was lost in the general muffled roar that was floating up to him.

  He felt his heart thumping once more, after the curious stillness since he had last killed. It was impossible. Fulk was dead. Godric could still hear the crunching of the skull beneath his hammer.

  But there he was. Godric strained to get a clearer view through the bobbing heads. He was oblivious to the words around him – the commands, the grim jokes, the muttered prayers. He caught nothing of the tenseness of the men beside him, saw none of the staring eyes or whitened knuckles.

  He was looking for one thing, now that he remembered. At last, when the Norman line was almost upon them, the running bodies opened up enough for him to see. The man carried his sword in the left hand!

  Of course! The hand that had held the knife against Rowena’s throat. Suddenly everything became visible and obvious – the cat-like agility for a big man, the livid eye, the scar, the dark jowls. It all seemed so clear that he wondered why he could not have recognised him a mile away. How could he have been deceived by the appearance of the other man – whoever he was.

  A soldier lunged at him with a spear.

  Godric woke up just in time. He parried the blow, then broke the man’s jaw with a backward fling of the axe-head. The scream of pain made him aware of the awful noise around him, of the need to fight, to look everywhere.

  Five minutes before, he had cared nothing for the length of his life or the manner of his death. Now it was vital to stay alive until he could reach Fulk and stand before him.

  A knight was pushing against the weakened shield wall in front of him. As he urged his mount through a gap Godric swung at his knee. He was not used to the length of the axe. It clove the man’s thigh and sank into the flank of the horse.

  While he was struggling to pull it out, another horseman came up faster. A fyrdman rammed a spear into the horse’s chest. The impact threw him backwards, but it also brought down the screaming horse, and threw its rider right over its head and on to the shoulders of some yelling peasants. They finished him off with sickles and billhooks.

  There were several gaps in the shield wall. Some excited fyrdmen had stepped outside in their eagerness to thrust away at the enemy. The first impetus of the assault had gone, but the Normans did not retire at once. Because they had not attacked as quickly as before, they had more breath left to strike another blow.

  The fighting became a series of scrappy encounters between separate groups of men, even single combats. One thin man with a long spear was holding his own against a French swordsman.

  Godric scrambled through the gap in front of him, and nearly fell at once when his knee buckled. The handle of the axe saved him. He recovered, stood erect, and roared Fulk’s name.

  Fulk picked out the one familiar sound in the din around him, and lifted his head.

  It took another roar to work out where it came from.

  When he saw Godric, he recognised him instantly. After a second of tense stillness, he began stalking. Holding his sword before him, he beckoned Godric towards him with his right hand.

  Godric took a few steps forward. Fulk saw the bad limp. A leer twisted the scar on his face.

  Two or three Flemings started at Godric, but Fulk put out his arm.

  ‘No, no – he is mine. Keep them off.’

  He gestured towards the nearest fyrdmen, but none of them showed willingness to advance any further.

  Godric watched as Fulk circled, feinting and leaping back, flaunting his agility. He held the axe across his chest in both hands, turning, watching. He never heard Fulk’s taunts and insults.

  Fulk was enjoying himself. This was an extra, unforeseen pleasure, worth half a day’s pay. At last – something of interest. He felt his heart pounding. He swore when he heard Florens’ voice.

  ‘We must break now. The left wing is beginning to disengage. Our wing will be next. We will be out in front alone. Finish him off.’

  A pity, but there it was.

  He swung at Godric’s shoulder, and gasped in surprise. He had not been prepared for this clumsy giant to swing the axe with one hand. His blow was easily brushed aside. The back swing nearly caught him off balance.

  Once Godric had begun to move, he continued, swinging the huge weapon in deadly gleaming circles. Despite the limp he advanced steadily. Fulk crouched and peered, but could not get past the humming blade; it swung and returned like a whiplash. He was forced to retreat.

  The nearby Saxons cheered. The thin man pushed his foot into the Norman swordsman’s chest, yanked out his spear, and came to have a closer look.

  Fulk played for time. No man could swing a housecarl’s axe like that for long. He received another shock. Godric simply changed hands and bore down upon him. Somehow his limp made it all the more unreal.

  Fulk began sweating. He continued his slow retreat downhill.

  The two knots of Sax
ons and Flemings were drawn along as if by strings.

  Fulk began to feel ridiculous. He had to do something. He found himself swinging wildly with his sword, first in one hand, then, when he became tired, in both.

  Once, they clashed, and Fulk’s weapon was knocked to the ground. Luckily for him, it fell on the downward side, and he was able to get to it before Godric could hobble to the spot.

  Fulk had the presence of mind to appear to hesitate. He stayed in the crouch just a fraction too long, hoping that Godric would swing the axe towards the ground. A leap to one side and a swift downward cut while Godric tugged the blade out of the grass, and it would be all over, except for the torture and the choice of death-thrust.

  Godric ignored the deceit, and simply came on, still swinging in humming circles. Fulk whipped up the sword in the nick of time, and found himself sucked into the same desperate tactics as before. Enraged by the Saxon cheers, he flailed frantically in a two-handed grip, and made sudden contact again.

  There was a gasp from everyone.

  Godric’s axe-head flew up into the air.

  Fulk stood up straight. His chest was heaving, and his face was glistening, but he was leering again. The sagging eyelid gleamed redder, the white scar gnarled and livid against his dark cheek. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

  The Flemings were cheering now. They barely glanced as a single Norman knight rode up to see what was going on.

  ‘Make way, make way!’

  Unwillingly, they edged aside, without taking their eyes off Fulk. They began chanting.

  ‘Finish him! Finish him!’

  Fulk’s face flushed; his lips began twitching. Baring his teeth, he roared like an animal. Holding his sword high with both hands, he poised to rush at Godric.

  Behind him, the knight burst through the last ranks of Flemings, and his horse’s shoulder nudged Fulk in the back so hard that he stumbled forward.

  Godric, now holding the haft of the axe in both hands, brought it down with all his strength on Fulk’s left shoulder.

  Fulk bellowed and fell. The sword flickered away into the grass. His left arm buckled under him, and flopped useless when he rolled over and tried to rise.