BooksBarbecue
Back Conqueror Save as PDF
Chapters (88)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. I
  4. I
  5. II
  6. III
  7. IV
  8. V
  9. VI
  10. VII
  11. VIII
  12. IX
  13. X
  14. XI
  15. II
  16. I
  17. II
  18. III
  19. IV
  20. V
  21. VI
  22. VII
  23. VIII
  24. IX
  25. X
  26. XI
  27. XII
  28. XIII
  29. XIV
  30. XV
  31. XVI
  32. XVII
  33. XVIII
  34. XIX
  35. XX
  36. XXI
  37. III
  38. I
  39. II
  40. III
  41. IV
  42. V
  43. VI
  44. VII
  45. VIII
  46. IX
  47. X
  48. XI
  49. XII
  50. XIII
  51. XIV
  52. XV
  53. XVI
  54. XVII
  55. XVIII
  56. XIX
  57. XX
  58. XXI
  59. IV
  60. I
  61. II
  62. III
  63. IV
  64. V
  65. VI
  66. VII
  67. VIII
  68. IX
  69. X
  70. XI
  71. XII
  72. XIII
  73. XIV
  74. XV
  75. XVI
  76. XVII
  77. XVIII
  78. XIX
  79. XX
  80. XXI
  81. XXII
  82. XXIII
  83. XXIV
  84. XXV
  85. XXVI
  86. XXVII
  87. EPILOGUE
  88. Afterword

Sihtric muttered, ‘Just a few days. But will the Normans give us even that much?’

‘Well, in the meantime, I’m hungry. I’m going to find some food.’ She walked off, looking for the first fires.

XX

XX

Orm was wakened by a kick in the ribs. His hand went reflexively to his sword.

The kick had come from Guy fitz Gilbert. He carried a lantern so the men could see his face. All around Orm on the floor of this dingy mud-walled tavern, men under their cloaks were stirring, grumbling.

The window, just a hole in the wall, looked south, and the sky was still dark. Orm could hear the roll of the sea, and smelled salt and smoke. He remembered where he was. ‘Haestingaceaster.’

‘Yes,’ fitz Gilbert said. ‘You’re still here in this arsehole of a place.’

Orm sat up gingerly. His head was sore, his belly aching. Last night he had joined the men in drinking this miserable tavern’s stock of English beer dry. He could do with a bit more time to sleep it off, but that wasn’t to be. He got to his feet and looked for his boots. ‘I don’t even know what day it is.’

‘Saturday,’ fitz Gilbert said, glaring. ‘God’s teeth, Egilsson, I’m glad it’s not me paying your wages today.’

Orm scowled at him. ‘Why am I even awake?’

‘Because the Duke has had word, from Robert fitz Wimarc ...’

There were Normans in England before William’s landing - merchants, mercenaries, immigrants. This fitz Wimarc had been a court official under Edward, and had no love for Harold. Now fitz Wimarc had informed William of the events of the last few weeks: Harold’s victory at Stamfordbrycg, his rapid march to Lunden.

‘They’re trying to bottle us up,’ Orm said. ‘It’s what I would do.’

‘William is having none of it,’ said fitz Gilbert.

‘He isn’t?’

Fitz Gilbert grinned, wolfish. Aged about thirty, he was small, stout, balding. In Normandy fitz Gilbert had struck Orm as pompous, ambitious, an irritant who was never likely to achieve much. But in England he seemed to be growing in stature, assuming an air of command. Normans were natural warriors, and on this stolen patch of foreign soil, fitz Gilbert was in his element. He said, ‘We’re going out to meet them before Harold has time to get his wind back from his march and dig in.’

‘When?’

‘Today. This morning. Now. God’s teeth, Orm, find your wretched boots and come with me.’

Today was the day, then. The climax. Orm felt his heart thump.

Outside the tavern, under a pall of smoke from burning buildings, there was a stench of blood and shit. It came from the bodies of the tavern-keeper, and his wife and daughters. The women had been raped in the usual way, their lives ending with drunken impalings on swords and spears and axe-handles.