‘Then I shall make my own way,’ said Wilfrid. ‘Goodbye, boy. You fought well. Might have made a housecarl out of you. Still – no need of them now. I was right, you see. You should have left me to die.’
He stumped off.
When he had gone, Sandor put a hand on Ralph’s shoulder.
‘May I make an idea?’ He pointed at Gilbert. ‘This is pain for you. On the other side of the hill a duty waits which is pain for me.’
‘Taillefer.’
Sandor nodded.
‘Thank you, little man,’ said Ralph. ‘It shall be done.’
‘The hauberk,’ said Sandor. ‘Do you want it?’
Ralph thought of the dead Breton from whom he had cut it so long before. The rings had been driven into the flesh in exactly the same way.
‘No. It belongs to him. He has earned it.’
Sandor coughed awkwardly. ‘I am sorry about Bruno. There are no clever words to—’
Ralph waved a hand. ‘Please. No more. I understand.’
He said a prayer, crossed himself, and was gone.
Sandor looked about him.
‘There are many stones, and we have knives. Will you help?’
‘I have no knife,’ said Edwin.
‘Ah – I nearly forget.’ Sandor pulled a knife from inside his jerkin.
Edwin stared. ‘That is mine! How—’
Sandor gestured vaguely. ‘There is a saying, I believe – “fortunes of war”.’
Roger of Montgomery winced.
‘Noises get on a man’s nerves.’
Walter Giffard unbuckled his sword and handed it to a servant.
‘What do you mean?’
‘All day,’ said Montgomery, ‘we have had one or the other – terrible noise, or unnatural silence. All day I have looked forward to the time when we should have no more of either. Just ordinary sounds. Now listen to that.’ He waved a hand in front of them.
Crippled horses were uttering ghastly cries. Men in their dying agony were shrieking for comfort, a friend, a mother, an ease to pain, a death-wound, a priest – anything. Saxon or Norman, English or French – it mattered nothing. Men were crying for help, torn between two worlds.
As the shadows lengthened, more dark figures flitted from one pile of dead to another, bending and peering. The air was constantly shivered by screams of anguish as an anonymous corpse received, for the last time, its name – from a wife, a mother, a sister, a lover.
Other shadows, more furtive and cat-like, crept and pounced. Each time they moved, their arms were fuller with swords and hauberks and finely wrought spurs, and their pouches fatter with coins and jewelled crosses and silver rings. Where two figures jumped together on the same body, more noises arose – the rasp of knives, the snarls of greed and hate.
William Capra and Ralph Pomeroy, and some of the younger Normans, with blood in their heads instead of brains, were cavorting about the field, forcing their tired horses to strut and rear while they whooped and roared.
Montgomery shook his head. ‘I could not say which I hate more – the awful noise all day, or those noises now.’
Florens of Arras heard another one that chilled him, inured as he was to the horrors of war.
He had been looking for Fulk’s body for some time, and his stomach was already tightening with the knowledge of what would meet his eyes when he found it. He was so prepared for hideous sights that he was shaken into trembling by an unexpected sound.
It was not exactly a crying, because there were no tears in the voice. It was clearly a dirge, yet unlike any sound of mourning he had ever heard. It rose and fell in cadences totally foreign to his ear. For all its strangeness, the message of unutterable loss was obvious to anyone. If Florens had not been on a battlefield, he would have been tempted to derive it from the animal kingdom.
The hair on the back of his neck rose when he saw Matthew. The little hunchback was on his knees, rocking to and fro. His head was raised and his voice called to the open, darkening sky. Florens knew, beyond any doubt, that he had found Fulk’s body.
He could not bring himself to approach until Matthew had gone.
When at last he stood over his old commander, he averted his eyes from the staring, twisted mask of a face. The spear was still where the big Saxon had plunged it, pinning him to the ground like a spitted carcass on a slaughterer’s slab.
Grimacing with fear and revulsion, Florens crouched and reached for the waist wallet. It was empty.
Gorm did not notice the gaping flesh, the stiff stumps, the staring eyes. Pulling and heaving, mostly with one arm, he dragged piles of bodies apart.
Godric could not be far; Gorm felt he could almost have touched him when he shouted the warning. Gorm could still picture the expression on the Norman’s face as he swung his mace against Godric’s splintered pitchfork handle. Somewhere in the background a pennon had fluttered.
Somewhere, somewhere here, Godric lay. If he still breathed, if a flicker of life remained . . . Had he really recognised Gorm in that instant with the stake? Gorm had to be sure. He wrenched at bodies, terrified of what he might find underneath.
He saw the handle first, with great gouges in the wood from where Godric had tried to take the main force of the blow from the mace.
Flinging it aside, Gorm fell upon the nearest corpse, or what was left of it, and pulled it away by its remaining leg.
There he was, face down.
Whimpering and trembling, Gorm pulled him over. The face, for all the blood down one side of it, looked at peace.
Gorm’s cry of pain was as much for himself as for Godric. Now he could never tell him, never lift the burden of the lie from his mind, never wash away the ‘nithing’ curse from his soul.
Gorm kneeled forward and clasped one hand in his own two. He bent over it and wept.
Suddenly he tensed. The hand he was holding was still warm.
He bent down and put an ear to the deep chest. He felt the brow. He looked at the ugly spear gash in the arm; the blood was barely congealed.
Crawling on all fours to a nearby body that had been stripped of mail, he tore off some undershirt and made a rough bandage. He made another for the gash and bruise on the head. The mace had struck, but the ugly spikes had not broken the skull. The handle of the pitchfork had probably taken most of the force. Perhaps something else had knocked him unconscious after the fall. A hoof maybe.
At any rate he was alive.
Working now with purpose rather than with desperation, Gorm cleared more dead around Godric’s large body. Then, gritting his teeth with the pain of his own wound, he put his hands under Godric’s armpits and began dragging him. At first uphill towards where the shield wall had been; he did not think.
The slope stopped him. It was too steep, and there were too many bodies to stumble over. As he paused to regain breath, he heard Norman voices. Of course! There was no shield wall – not now.
Panting again with a fresh urgency, he turned about and began dragging his burden down the hill, away from the voices. The slope made it easier now, and gradually the bodies became fewer. On the low ground he felt safer in the long evening shadows.
The next obstacle was the stream.
He knew he could not afford to drag Godric through that. The shock of the cold water could kill a wounded man. If it did not, he would still have to face the coming night with soaking clothes.
There was nothing else for it.
Gorm, even in recent years, had carried more sacks of corn than he cared to admit. How many times had he railed at Godric for not having enough consideration for his ageing bones? How often had Godric looked right through him with his dark, bottomless eyes? He knew – they both knew – that Gorm was not weak, but lazy.
True, he had not lifted a huge load like this, and he had not had to do it with a gashed arm and a thumping heart. But then he had not been cast into ‘nithing’ outer darkness before; he had never before been hammering on the doors of humanity from the outside.
&n
bsp; Grunting, sweating, slipping, staggering, he kept going until he was past every shallow pool and every clump of rushes.
Afterwards he lay on his back and panted until he thought his lungs would burst. They did not. Eventually he sat up, and wiped the sweat from his face.
Godric was too heavy to be carried any distance, and being dragged would be the death of him.
Gorm looked out across the valley between the two hills. Wagons were creaking down from the right, surrounded by a host of servants and grooms. So the Bastard was going to camp on Caldbec Hill itself. Amid all the carnage! Gorm shuddered.
But it gave him an idea. Nobody would notice another civilian in the throng and in the fading light.
First he hid Godric in some bushes, and made him as comfortable as possible. Then he recrossed the stream and went to the blood-soaked knoll at the foot of the hill beyond. He stripped some bodies of leather jerkins and came back to put them round Godric’s body and legs. He tried to get some water between his lips, but he was still unconscious.
Gorm crossed the stream again, joined the procession of servants and wagons, and climbed the hill to the remains of the shield wall. He rummaged among the fallen stakes, and selected those that would suit his purpose. He toiled back and left them with Godric in the bushes.
Again to the hill, to look for dead horses. With his knife he cut away enough straps and reins for the binding and the dragging.
He was on his knees now, and immersed in a practical problem, his brows knitted in concentration. Making a sledge litter was no great challenge. There was not much that Gorm Haraldsson could not make or repair. God’s Eyes – the number of times he had got things going again when they were barely held together with twine!
When it was ready, Gorm lined the litter with more jerkins, not too stained if he could help it. He rebound Godric’s wounds, cushioned his head, and tied him in securely. He rebound the gash on his own arm.
He would not go back along the way he had come. It would be too full of fugitives, too full of desperate women who would cheerfully kill him to get their hands on the litter for their own menfolk. And on the morrow the Normans would be out, harrying and looting, in the manner of all victorious armies. Besides, it was the way to London, and Gorm guessed that it would be the natural line for the Norman advance.
No – due west was the way to go, straight towards the last of the sun. He could always swing north-west in the morning. He had not travelled half his life without growing a good sense of direction.
If he were lucky he might come across an ox or a donkey that he could harness to the litter.
He stuck his knife into his belt, and took a drink from his leather flask. What would he not give right now for a good draught of beer. After a last glance at Godric’s still features, he faced to the front, looped the straps over his shoulders, lowered his head, and took the strain.
Baldwin de Clair watched his men build the fire. Others were swearing at one another as they put up his tent. The prospect of being warm and dry that night was some consolation.
He had no idea where the rest of his wagon train was. Strung out between Telham and Senlac, probably, or bumping around among the dead bodies on the top of Senlac.
His careful organisation was in ruins, victim of the confusion of order and counter-order from count and bishop and Duke. His hoarded reserves of weapons were gone, his water supplies nearly exhausted.
They would see the folly of all that soon enough, when the English counter-attacked, or when the Duke called for equipment with which to harry the land towards London.
And why they should want to camp on top, amid all the slaughter and away from timber and running water, was beyond his comprehension. It would certainly give the servants a sleepless night fetching and carrying.
Well, damn them. Damn them. He had plenty of firewood to hand and he had the stream nearby. He was far enough away from most of the bodies to be free from the growing numbers of birds. Let the morning take care of itself.
Baldwin saw the first puff of smoke curl up from dried leaves. The victory was won, the usurper was dead, and Bloodeye was destroyed. Not a bad day’s work.
He heard a crunching noise beside him.
‘Glad I am to see you, sir,’ said a young Breton.
Baldwin frowned. Brian held up the stump of a carrot.
‘See – my last one. Kept me going, they did, sir. I saved this for the end. Sort of charm, you might say.’
Baldwin remembered.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, sir, praise the Lord. Apart from an ankle. Swollen like a bladder.’
Baldwin peered. ‘Get that seen to, and soon. It might be broken. You do not want a limp for the rest of your life.’
It was on the tip of Baldwin’s tongue to shout for Crispin, when he recalled where Crispin was – with any luck, within striking distance of a Sussex seaport.
‘If that is all I carry from this battle, then it is truly fortunate I am,’ said Brian. ‘There have been terrible things done today.’ He shuddered at the recollection.
Baldwin liked the boy’s honesty and simplicity, and found it easy to talk to him.
‘Were you frightened?’
‘Scared to death, sir. Then I sort of went mad and lost my head. I can not recall much of what happened. When I recovered I got scared again.’
Baldwin thought of the obsession that had tugged him in search of Fulk, despite all risk and hazard.
‘War is a sort of madness, when you actually have to fight it.’
‘I agree, sir. There is all that excitement beforehand, and looking forward, and wondering. Sort of building up to it. Then comes the madness. Then, afterwards, it is kind of flat. I mean, you know something huge has happened, but it is – well – flat.’
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin awkwardly, as a thought crossed his mind.
Brian swallowed the last of his carrot.
‘It is as if – well, I hardly like to say it because it sounds sort of blasphemous, but it is a bit like making love.’
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin, looking away.
‘Sort of opposite, but similar.’
‘You could say that, yes.’
God – would it be like that with her?
Brian sensed that perhaps he had become too familiar. ‘Well, I must find somewhere to sleep, sir, if you will excuse me.’
‘There is a fire here.’
‘Very kind, sir, I am sure.’
Baldwin grunted, turned away and tripped over a tent rope.
Brian found a space round the fire, and eased himself down without straining his ankle. He watched the first sparks rise.
What a story he would have to tell when he went home.
Walter Giffard watched two men stagger past with yet another body slumped between them.
‘A camp up here! Of all places.’
‘It is a gesture,’ said Montgomery. ‘That is all. Like that.’
He pointed to where servants were toiling over the erection of the Duke’s tent. It was as close to the apple tree as they could get. Piles of bodies showed where the ground had been cleared.
Flying together stood three standards – the Papal banner, the Fighting Man, and the Dragon of Wessex. Their shining threads glinted in the last shreds of the sunset light.
‘A fine compliment,’ agreed Giffard.
‘The least he could do,’ said Montgomery.
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Giffard.
‘Walter, you and I both know it was damned close.’
Giffard snorted.
‘It was touch and go,’ insisted Montgomery. ‘The Bastard knows that too. Those standards there – that is his way of showing it. Harold was a man in a thousand.’
Giffard snorted again. ‘If we had done what I suggested – you know, in ’sixty-four – when we had him in our clutches, all this could have been avoided.’
‘Not a bit of it. We should be merely be tripping over dead Vikings now instead of dead S
axons. Or they would have been tripping over us.’
‘Fortunes of war, eh?’
‘You could say that. All I know is – we are here. We have survived.’
Giffard put his hands on his hips and looked around.
‘What is he doing about Harold?’
‘Full honours of war. The Bastard does things correctly.’
‘I should think he is more concerned to get him safely and provably buried – to stop rumours of miracles and so on.’
‘That too. He is only waiting for positive identification.’
Giffard grunted. ‘I could have told him. I was – well, I could have told him.’
Montgomery sensed his embarrassment.
‘So could I, Walter. But it must be Saxon identification. The English would never take our word.’
‘What will they do then? His brothers are dead as well. We found them.’
‘A female relative, I suppose.’
‘There is a mistress, they say. Been with him a long time. Several children. Would know the body, you see.’
‘Yes,’ said Montgomery. ‘Poor woman. What an ordeal.’
They both stood in silence, seeing the mess of flesh and mail.
‘The Bastard cashiered them both, you know,’ said Montgomery. ‘Dismissed the service.’
‘Ah,’ said Giffard. He coughed awkwardly. ‘I am glad you stopped me, Roger. It was just that I was—’
Montgomery shook his head. ‘You do not have to prove anything to us, Walter. And Beaumont does not deserve to have anything proved to him. Be patient with him; he will learn.’
‘He could learn a lot from you. With that giant.’
Montgomery shrugged. ‘Someone had to do it.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘He fell – that is all I saw. You know what it is like.’
A servant brought a cup of wine for each of them. They sipped thankfully.
‘Do you know,’ said Montgomery after a while, ‘the Bastard did not have a mark on him. I saw them take off his mail. He kissed the relics and kneeled and prayed on the spot.’
Giffard shook his head and smiled. ‘The relics.’
‘You may laugh,’ said Montgomery, ‘but he believes it. Or at any rate he makes enough fuss about it to convince men that he believes it. Did you see him falter for one minute all day? For someone to come through all that without a scratch – it makes you think.’
The Last Conquest Page 50
