The Last Conquest (41 page)

Gilbert started as a figure came to the door of the mill. He screwed up his eyes; the figure’s back was turned.

They would all know at the mill too. Sandor and Edwin had talked more than once. And he – Gilbert the Great Fool – had gone along with that disgusting ‘plan’ of
Sandor’s. All the time he thought they were hatching it, they were laughing behind his back. And when Edwin was able to reach the mill again, it would be too good a story to keep to
oneself.

‘Here, listen to this. You know that clod-wit Norman who got the flux and fell off his horse? The one we cleaned up and packed off to the Duke again? Well, guess who his wife is . .
.’

The figure looked as if it was dragging something heavy. As it cleared the threshold, Gilbert recognised Aud’s angular body. It was her father she was trying to carry. The boy staggered
out with a leg couched under each arm. They were trying to reach the ox-cart. It was piled high with bundles, which protruded at both ends from the badly fitted awning.

The miller was not completely unconscious either. He flapped his arms, and appeared to be protesting. Disjointed, strident phrases floated up to Gilbert.

They would never get him to the cart at that rate.

He dug in his spurs. With no pretence at caution he cantered down the hill.

It was Sweyn who saw him first because Aud had her back turned. He dropped his father’s legs none too gently and whispered, ‘The Norman.’

Aud dumped her father’s body. One hand flew to her throat.

Gilbert entered the yard, dismounted swiftly, and tethered his horse.

‘Where is Edwin?’

They looked blankly at each other.

Gilbert, in the manner of all foreigners trying to make themselves understood, raised his voice.

‘Where is Edwin? Ed–win. Where is he?’

They still showed fear, so he tried to reassure them. He made signs to show that he was alone, but still extracted no answer. He tried another line of approach.

‘Where is Rowena?’

He saw Aud’s lips tighten, but she offered no reply.

‘Edwin!’ he roared. He could think of no other way. It never crossed his mind to draw his sword or strike them even with his hand.

Gorm stirred and blinked his eyes.

Gilbert rushed to the water butt by the barn, snatched a bucket off a hook, and filled it. He came running back and hurled the contents at Gorm’s head.

While the miller was still spluttering, he seized him by the shoulders and shouted into his face. ‘Where is Edwin?’

Gorm’s eyes seemed to recede. With consciousness had returned fear. Despite the dripping water, Gilbert could smell sweat and beer on him.

The miller stretched out an arm towards the north. Gilbert glanced up the valley and back to Gorm.

‘He has gone to find the army. He has gone to join the King.’

Gorm had picked up some words of French in his many travels, more than he cared to admit, probably more than he consciously remembered. Under the stimulus of fear, some now came back to him. He
gaped at Gilbert, who tried again.

‘He has gone to join the King.’ Gilbert shook him. ‘Tell me!’

Without shutting his mouth, Gorm inclined his head.

‘Was he mounted?’

Gorm frowned. Gilbert enunciated clearly.

‘Mounted. Was – he – on – a – horse?’ He made clicking noises with his tongue to imitate hooves.

The head dipped in agreement.

‘Did he go that way?’ said Gilbert, flinging an arm in a northerly direction.

Gorm nodded again.

‘When? Today? Yesterday?’

Gorm’s brow puckered.

‘Today?’ said Gilbert.

Gorm shook his head.

‘Yesterday?’

A nod.

Gilbert flung him away, walked swiftly towards his horse, and mounted. Something made him pause. He turned to Aud.

‘Take him. Take him and the boy. And go.’

He made gestures to indicate men coming from behind him, and to show urgency.

Aud ducked her head.

Gilbert rode off up the valley, and soon picked up Edwin’s trail. It was very unlikely to be anyone else’s, he reasoned. Now that he was using his professional skills, he was
thinking more clearly. Very few peasants owned horses, and even fewer had them expensively shod like a Norman destrier. In any case, nearly all the horseflesh for miles around would have been
either saddled to carry men to the English army, or requisitioned by Norman foraging parties to provide spare mounts and haulage for supply wagons. If they were not fit for that they would have
gone into the pot long before now.

The large shoe imprints stood out sharply against all the other split-hoof marks. Gilbert had rarely followed such an easy trail. He was lucky too that Edwin followed the main tracks and lanes;
since he knew the country so well, he could stick to them because he knew exactly where each one went. There was no need to strike blindly across open land or thrash through virgin forest.

After three hours he rested. As he munched at the rations that Baldwin’s storemen had issued to him, he found it easier to reconcile his duty with his desires. If he was right, and if this
was Edwin’s trail, and if he did not lose it – they were all ‘ifs’, but, now that he was doing something he understood, he felt confidence returning – he would achieve
one of two things sooner or later. He would either catch up with Edwin or he would locate the English army. If God were kind to him that day, he might do both. He could return to camp with his
honour restored in his own eyes, and his reputation made in everyone else’s. And see what misery-monk Bruno made of that.

He swallowed the last piece of cheese.

For once he did not see how he could go wrong.

‘Spare arrows?’ suggested Fitzosbern. ‘The English are not expected to use many archers. We can not rely on collecting spent enemy shafts.’

‘All taken care of,’ said Baldwin de Clair. ‘I have not been up half the night for nothing. For nothing.’

Fitzosbern, as usual, refused to take offence. He knew perfectly well how thorough Baldwin was; he had spent the last hour, listening while he dressed and breakfasted, going through countless
details with him. Moving the supplies and spares of a whole army at a few hours’ notice was a gigantic task, yet as far as Fitzosbern could see Baldwin had not missed a thing. Fitz did not
really think Baldwin had forgotten the arrows; he simply wished to find a way of indicating that he had been following closely, a way of showing his appreciation for Baldwin’s efficiency. He
did not really listen to Baldwin’s answer.

‘Every man will start with at least thirty. If we can get the wagons near enough – depending on the ground – the archers can retire through the cavalry and draw fresh issues
when they need them. As long as they receive proper authorisation from yourself or William.’

Fitzosbern did catch the last remark, and allowed himself a small private smile behind his cup of broth. Like all quartermasters, Baldwin had an aversion to issuing stores without direct orders
from on high, preferably God.

‘What is the water situation?’

‘I have briefed William’s own cellarer. Nine coopers have been working at full effort since we had access to a smithy. There was some trouble with the Breton armourers; claimed their
swordsmen had priority. I nearly had a row with Count Alan.’

Fitzosbern growled. ‘Why do smiths and armourers always consider they are a law unto themselves?’

Baldwin shrugged. ‘We have enough now – that is the important thing. And the cellarer has not suffered from lack of instructions. We are as ready as we can be, Fitz.’

Fitzosbern nodded. ‘I am sure we are.’

He offered a cup of broth. Baldwin accepted, took a mouthful, and wished he had declined. Back in his own tent, Brother Crispin was no doubt enjoying something infinitely better while he
recovered from the sharp side of his master’s tongue throughout hours of lists and checks.

Baldwin made a face. ‘Time you found a better cook, Fitz. This is awful.’

Fitzosbern nodded gloomily. ‘I know. I keep meaning to get round to it. Slips my mind.’

For a minute or so they sipped and slurped, and wiped wayward drips from their chins.

‘How is William bearing up?’ said Baldwin at last.

‘Pretty well, considering,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘He had a bad few hours a day or so ago, but he pulled round. Now that we have firm news, he is better. Then Geoffrey’s man
– I forget his name – arrived yesterday, with news from Rouen and St Valéry. So he heard from Matilda. That helped. Matilda sends her best respects to you, by the way.’

Baldwin felt warm; Matilda did not forget friends.

‘How is the lady Emma?’

‘Mother? Well now, thank you. Well.’

There was another silence.

At last Baldwin said, ‘How do you think it will go?’

Fitzosbern gave him a typical Fitzosbern answer. ‘We are here. We are here because we wanted to be here. It is up to us to make it go.’

Baldwin grunted. He had expected nothing more.

Fitzosbern then surprised him with a rare show of emotion.

‘But I will say this: if anyone in Christendom can make it go, William can. And I for one wish to be nowhere else at the moment.’

Baldwin sensed for the first time a whiff of drama. It had begun as a wild dream when the Confessor had, so William said, offered to make him the heir to the throne if there should be no
children of the royal body. Then, as the years passed and the Confessor showed less and less interest in Queen Edith (if indeed he had shown any in the first place), what had been a vague project
steadily became a constant aspiration – though not taken entirely seriously by the ducal court, any more than one took entirely seriously a prince’s vow to make a pilgrimage to
Jerusalem.

But when the Confessor died, it had taken a leap into the realm of possibility. By the time Fitzosbern had argued doubting vassals into joining the expedition, it had moved towards distinct
likelihood. The celebrations and wet throats of the departure from St Valéry had turned into sick stomachs and dry mouths as they approached the pebble beach of Pevensey. From then on it was
the absence rather than the presence of the English that had produced the worry – the lack of news. For a while nerves were pushed into the background as every muscle was strained to make
ready for every possible eventuality – building, gathering, collecting, piling, practising, planning.

When they were ready, poised, expectant, there had come the waiting, the boredom, the wondering, the self-doubt. Mercifully, that had not lasted too long. News of Harold’s approach had
fired the whole camp into frantic activity. Now that too was nearing a conclusion. All that was needed was definite knowledge of the time and place of Harold’s arrival, and the reckoning
would soon come. All those years of hopes and plans and efforts were narrowing down to a single pinpoint of decision. Small wonder the drama of it had touched even a literal man like
Fitzosbern.

Baldwin set down his cup on the trestle boards.

‘Did my two lilies come to pay their fine?’

Fitzosbern nodded. ‘Just so. William somebody-or-other and his brother. What are you doing with scum like that?’

‘Putting them in their place. Excuse me; I must go to the harbour. Another ship dropped anchor overnight. Now that we have enough light, the sooner we unload the better. Supplies have a
way of melting into thin air. Thin air.’

‘Go then. Come and see me again in the afternoon. If we have news of the English, come at once. Sorry about the stew.’

Baldwin looked round outside for Capra and Pomeroy. There was no sign of them. Baldwin was not entirely surprised. Pity, though. He had had a fine job lined up for them, unloading salt-soaked
sacks and heavy wooden crates. Still, on balance, good riddance. They could go and be a curse to some other commander.

He called for his horse, and went to collect Brother Crispin. If he did not reach the ship quickly, the supplies would disappear faster than cheese by a rat-hole. However many trusted men he
posted on deck night and day, all sorts of things just seemed to slide away. He had also seen small groups of Flemings drifting innocently in the direction of the harbour. News of fresh arrivals
drew them like flies to honey, but he could never catch one with anything on him. Fulk boasted openly that his men were the best equipped in the whole army, and Baldwin knew he was flaunting his
success, defying him to detect it.

‘Come on, you,’ he said sourly to Brother Crispin.

Crispin was not a good horseman, a fact partly accounted for by the dreadful nag he had to ride. It was as lean and bony as he was; if you gave both of them a good shake, their legs would drop
off. Baldwin tilted his head slightly in mirthless humour. What they said was true: a man sooner or later came to look like his horse, or the other way round. It was a miracle it had escaped the
pot.

If Brother Crispin felt that the continued existence of this bone-rattling relic of horseflesh was a proof of Divine generosity, he gave no sign of it. To him, any journey on horseback was one
of the many scorpions sent by an inscrutable Providence to scourge man’s sinful body.

So they rode in silence. Crispin, after failing to derive spiritual uplift from the mortification provided by an ill-fitting saddle, shut his eyes and tried to console himself with memories of
distant hours spent toasting his chilblains in the warming room of his monastery at Bec. It was a great test of the imagination.

Baldwin escaped his countless pressing worries for a short while by allowing his mind to slip away to the place whither it had been pulling for nearly two days.

It was ridiculous. He knew only two things about her: her name was Aud, and her father was a freeman. That was something; servile status would have been unthinkable. Aud . . . The name sounded
Danish. Well, that was better than Saxon. Danes tended to produce more freemen than the English. Viking blood, you see. Like his own ancestors, the founders of Normandy. And God knows, they had
started with little enough, barely five generations back.

Perhaps Aud was descended from some Danish adventurer chieftain; that would put her almost on a level with himself. And with Albreda. Albreda! How far away she seemed, and how – how
foreign! They had never had much in common. It was a mistake to assume that members of the same family group were likely to make better marriages. Suddenly Albreda, with her screwed-up eyes and her
sharp tongue, was more than a burden; she was a barrier.