Elizabeth Chadwick - The Conquest

Rolf had been busy since the early spring, scouring the countryside and the market places of Norman and Flemish towns and villages for likely beasts. In doing so he had reached the satisfying conclusion that his stud at Brize had few rivals this side of the Pyrenees, and that only the stallions of Spain and Nicaea could better his own.

He urged the dun to a trot, his body rising and falling smoothly to accommodate the change of gait. Silver fans of spray skimmed away from the dun's hooves, and returned to the sea in a mesh of spangled droplets. The other horses quickened pace.

Higher up the beach, close to a small harbour and the huts of a fishing village, a gang of shipwrights toiled upon one of the vessels that were to transport the anticipated two thousand warhorses across the narrow sea to England. Three had already been completed and rolled at anchor in the bay, awaiting the command to tack up the coast to the muster at Dives.

A group of sailmakers sat in the lee of the dunes, stitching heavy linen canvases to equip the vessel under construction. Rolf looked at the dark red stripes woven through the buff-coloured linen and imagined the sail bulging in a stiff breeze. For a moment the movement of the hone beneath him became the pitch and roll of a ship's deck, and he fancied that he could hear the creak of the hemp ropes and clinker-built timbers. The strain of Norse blood in the line of Brize-sur-Risle might be in its fifth generation now, but it still exerted a powerful tug on Rolf's soulstrings.

His gaze left the sailmakers and crossed the open sea until it encountered the blue smudge of the horizon. He had met a merchant once who claimed to have sailed off the edge of the world and discovered a land inhabited by strange, copper-skinned men and even stranger beasts. Rolf was not sure if he believed him. The merchant had stayed for several nights at Brize-sur-Risle and when he departed, had made Rolf the gift of a red toadstone which he said would cure lameness in horses. Rolf wore it around his neck beside his cross and a small, battered silver hammer of Thor which had been handed down father to son since the time of his pagan great, great grandfather.

It might be interesting to sail off the edge of the world, but for now what lay beyond the immediate horizon would do. England. He savoured the word, and a shiver of anticipation ran through him. Perhaps on a similar shoreline, unseen across the glint of water, a Saxon warrior was staring out to sea and honing his axe in readiness. The thought filled Rolf with so much restless energy that he wanted to burst. The dun broke into a canter beneath the tension in his master's thin fingers, and the sea water splashed higher, soaking Rolf's linen chausses and tossing cold spray over his midriff and shoulders.

At the edge of the waves near the village, a man was sitting on the beach close to the shoreline. His hands were bound around his raised knees and he was staring out to sea as hungrily as Rolf had been a moment since. Now and then he picked up a stone from the tidemark and flung it at the water.

Rolf slowed the dun. Then he reined to a halt and dismounted in the sandy shallows with a splash.

'By God's beard, do my eyes deceive me, or is it Aubert de Remy sitting on a beach in the middle of nowhere with naught to do but throw stones at the sea?' Laughing, Rolf gave his horses into the care of the following grooms and sat down in the sand beside the merchant.

'I'm waiting for the night's tide.' Aubert clasped Rolf's tough, blistered palm, then rightly punched the hard bicep.

'The night's tide to where?' Rolf eyed his friend speculatively. Aubert had a thriving, legitimate vintner's trade, but Rolf had known him for long enough to be aware that he dealt in more than just barrels of wine.

Aubert smiled and tossed another stone at the sea. 'England, where else?'

'At night, from a small port like this?' Rolf looked at him sidelong.

'I'm making contact with a wine galley from Bordeaux in mid-channel. We'll sail into London without harm. Harold of Wessex is not at war with the peoples south of Normandy.'

Rolf licked his forefinger and held it up to the snags of salty breeze. 'You'll need good oarsmen, there'll not be a wind tonight.'

'There's an eight-man crew, nine including myself'

'And when you get to England, what then?'

'That long nose of yours hasn't got any shorter with age, has it?' There was amused exasperation in Aubert's voice. 'How is Arlette these days, and the baby?'

Rolf grunted. 'They were both well when last I saw them.' His tone was perfunctory. 'What about Felice?'

Aubert's mobile features creased into a frown. 'I am concerned about her,' he admitted. 'I should never have left her in London, but events moved so swiftly that I had no choice but to do so at the time. I was hoping to return for her in May or early June and bring her home to Rouen, but there hasn't been an opportunity. Duke William is a hard taskmaster, as well you know.'

'So what will you do?' Rolf dug a shell out of the sand and cast it towards the gentle shush of the waves.

Aubert sighed. 'Fetch her when I can. She has never said anything to me, but she knows that my trade has certain irregularities.'

'How long do you have… before the invasion, I mean?'

Aubert narrowed his muddy hazel eyes and looked Rolf over very carefully, as if by assessing his companion's physical form, he could see into his mind. 'I do not know which is more dangerous,' he said, 'your curiosity, or your thick-skinned refusal to leave a subject alone.'

Rolf grinned. He knew that the only way to win Aubert's approval was to persist. Sometimes, if the merchant was in the right frame of mind, Rolf learned things. If not, then the repartee still helped to sharpen his mind and stave off boredom. 'Tell me what I want to know and I'll buy you a haunch of mutton and a wheaten loaf in yonder hostelry.' He indicated one of the dwellings clustered beyond the dunes.

Aubert's mouth curled in a sardonic smile. 'Now I see the value you set upon my word.'

'Very well, I'll throw in a dish of buttered worts and a flagon of cider too!' Rolf added flippantly.

Aubert snorted, and with a shake of his head, stood up. 'Your generosity overwhelms me into acceptance!' He dusted golden grit and scraps of mussel shell from his short tunic.

Rolf gestured to one of the grooms, and the youth tossed him a crumpled shirt and tunic from a saddlebag.

Donning the garments as they toiled up the soft sand of the beach towards the houses, Rolf said, 'We are summoned to muster in two weeks at Dives-sur-Mer, but I suppose you know that.'

'I had heard it was so.' Aubert pursed his lips. 'But do not expect to sail before harvest time.'

Rolf frowned. 'Most of the Duke's men are hired warriors; they don't need to take time away to cut the corn.'

'But Harold's do,' Aubert said smugly. 'His army has only a small core of permanent soldiers. The rest have estates and farms to tend. He cannot keep them stood to arms indefinitely.'

'So William is going to wait until the Saxon coast is unguarded and strike then?' Rolf made a face. 'Sooner rather than later, I hope, or else the provisioning of our army will kill us before we set out.'

'It will be a difficult task, I grant you, but easier than for Harold. And our Duke has the edge on him when it comes to being ruthless. Harold has a heart, he's courageous and impulsive. Those are the chinks in his armour and William knows it.'

The two men entered the hostelry. Rolf ducked just in time to avoid being brained by the top of the door. At a little above two yards in height, he dwelt in permanent danger of injury from apertures made for smaller men. 'You have met Harold then?' he asked as they seated themselves at a trestle bench and the proprietor hastened to bring them a jug of the locally brewed potent cider.

The walls gleamed with new whitewash. A wooden statue of the Virgin and Child beamed down on the men from a recess.

Aubert glanced at it and piously crossed himself. 'Briefly at court when King Edward was alive, but I know all about him from my neighbour where I rent my house in London. Goldwin's an armourer and he does much work for the Godwinsons. His wife's brothers are huscarls of Harold's. The information I have gleaned from that quarter has been invaluable. Speaking of which…' Unlatching his belt, he slid a knife sheath off the decorated strap end. 'This is a gift for you — a thank you for the chestnut mare you gave to Felice. I commissioned it from Goldwin at Yuletide.'

Rolf took the weapon from Aubert and examined it with pleasure. The length of the tapered blade spanned his hand from fingertip to wrist and a haft of polished antler fitted his grip perfectly. The craftsmanship was superb. He tested his gift on the haunch of mutton that the hostelry keeper set down on the table before them.

'Slices keener than your wit,' Rolf pronounced to Aubert as he speared an oozing pink morsel and draped it on his tongue.

'You had better warn the Duke if this man is making armour for Godwinson.'

Aubert smiled, but the humour did not reach his eyes as he refastened his belt and drew his own knife so that he could eat. 'He has become a friend,' he said, 'and in my trade that is less than wise.'