His mind turned to the battle that had raged over the ground in front of him some thirty-seven years before, changing England for ever. The ridge on which he sat was a superb vantage point, and the geography of the area explained why two fairly evenly matched forces had taken the best part of a day to decide the victor.
He was not alone for long. Several monks were strolling on the field, either singly or in groups, and one laboured up the ridge towards him.
‘You are Godric Mappestone’s son,’ said the monk. ‘I am Brother Wardard and I understand you want to speak to me.’
Geoffrey stood and bowed, but now the man was in front of him he did not know how to put his questions. He gestured that Wardard should sit on the tree stump and stared across the battlefield, wondering what it had been like when the monk had been a warrior waiting to advance. Wardard fumbled in his pouch and drew out a piece of dried meat, which he flung to the dog.
As the monk watched the animal eat, Geoffrey studied him. He must have been nearing his eighth decade but was still impressive. He was tall, strong and erect, although lines of pain etched around his mouth indicated his health was not all it might have been. He had obviously been a fine specimen in his prime, and confidence, nobilesse and dignity were still present. His eyes were alight with intelligence, and there was something about him that suggested he was still more soldier than monastic. Geoffrey understood why the monks of La Batailge had wanted him as their abbot.
‘You wanted to ask about your father,’ said Wardard eventually. ‘Sir Roger told me that Vitalis discussed Godric’s conduct during the battle. He should not have done.’
‘Vitalis was losing his wits,’ said Geoffrey, then realized he should moderate his tone. Wardard and Vitalis had been friends.
‘Illness had turned him self-absorbed and greedy, and the Vitalis you met was not the one who stood here and fought for the Conqueror. Do not think badly of him.’
Geoffrey inclined his head, although he would make up his own mind about Vitalis once he had heard the truth from Wardard.
‘It is wicked to denigrate a beloved father to a son,’ Wardard went on. ‘Dangerous, too – it is not unknown for sons to withdraw masses for their forbears’ souls when they learn certain things. I would not like such a fate to befall Godric’s beleaguered soul.’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘Did you?’ countered Wardard.
It was not an easy question to answer. Geoffrey had been sent away for knightly training at the age of twelve and had not met Godric again for twenty years. His memories were of an aggressive, brutal tyrant, who had ruled his household with a brooding temper and ready fists. They had never shared confidences, and even when he was dying, Godric had lied and schemed.
‘Not really,’ he replied eventually.
‘King Harold stood where you are now,’ said Wardard, after another silence. ‘He had come up in the night and chose to fight from this rise. His men stood close-packed, with their shields forming a solid wall. Duke William’s troops were down there, just out of range of the Saxon archers, and there was a bog between them. And then the Normans advanced.’
‘Up there, first,’ said Geoffrey, waving his hand towards the west, as he recalled Godric’s descriptions. ‘That was where the Bretons were stationed, and my father was with them. The main troops and Duke William were straight ahead.’
‘It was the Breton advance that almost saw the battle lost in its first hour,’ said Wardard. ‘They became mired in the bogs, then were forced to ride up this hill directly into the path of the Saxon archers. Their horses were unprotected, and most who reached the Saxon line were on foot, their mounts shot from under them. The Saxon counter-attack was savage, and it turned into a rout.’
‘Vitalis said my father told his men to retreat before they were halfway up this hill,’ said Geoffrey. ‘On the grounds that the assault was impossible. Once the Breton line was broken, the other invaders might have left the field – and the victory – to Harold. It was only William’s leadership that kept them in battle formation.’
Wardard rubbed his chin. ‘It was not easy to watch our comrades slaughtered in such terrible numbers. Our archers were supposed to have advanced first, but their arrows ran out. The Breton advance was a total failure – and demoralizing, too.’
‘Was my father the first to run?’
Geoffrey found he was afraid of the answer, worried that if Godric had been a coward, then cowardice might be in his own blood, and his courage might fail when he was faced with impossible odds. Of course, it had not failed at Civitot, Nicea, Antioch, Jerusalem or countless other skirmishes through the years when he had been certain he was going to die.
Wardard studied him. ‘What did Godric tell you?’
Geoffrey sighed, not liking the way Wardard answered questions with questions. ‘That he led the charge, screamed encouragement to the faint-hearted, killed at least twenty Saxons in the first assault, and was among the last to leave when it became a rout.’
‘And what do you believe?’
Geoffrey studied the terrain, noting the steep angle of the ridge and the soft, muddy ground that would need to be traversed before making the laborious ascent. And he saw how easy it would have been to rain arrows down on those who were scrambling up it.
‘That the Norman leading the charge was not likely to have lived very long.’
Wardard nodded. ‘So, you have unveiled one truth without my help. It was impossible to tell who reached the Saxons first, but the leaders quickly became trapped between Harold’s line and the press of Bretons surging behind. Death was inevitable.’
‘What else can you tell me?’ asked Geoffrey unhappily, seeing how the discussion was going to go. It was not that he was disappointed in Godric, whom he had never respected, but that he failed to understand how he could then have lied about his conduct on such an unrestrained scale.
Wardard’s expression was wistful. ‘I had an excellent view of the proceedings, although most of the time I wished I had not. But what I recall most vividly was your mother, swinging her axe. There was not a braver woman in Christendom than Lady Herleve. It was a pity she disguised herself, because her courage would have fired the palest of hearts. If she, a woman heavy with child, could fight like a lion, then so could any man.’
‘I am sure she was spectacular,’ said Geoffrey, recalling how she had always bested him and his brothers at axe work. ‘But I would rather hear about my father.’
‘He was given fine estates as a reward for his actions that day,’ said Wardard evasively.
‘I would like to know if he was awarded them on false pretences.’
‘No,’ said Wardard, standing up. ‘It was a long time ago, and no good can come of opening old wounds. Think of him as a great hero, because that is what he wanted you to believe. And your mother certainly was. If you love them, you will do this.’
‘But I do not-’ Geoffrey was going to say that he did not love Godric or Herleve and never had, but Wardard raised a hand to silence him.
‘We shall not speak of this again. Now, I have much to do: the Duke of Normandy is coming.’
Geoffrey had been about to argue, but the last statement jarred. ‘You mean he has invaded?’
Wardard smiled. ‘I would not go that far, although he is here without an invitation from King Henry. He apparently arrived with a handful of knights and intends to visit the abbey before riding to Winchester.’
‘Not an invasion, then,’ said Geoffrey relieved.
‘Not from him. But who knows about Belleme, who has been thinking of revenge ever since his defeat last year? He might be crazed enough to attempt it, and strange ships have been seen…’
Geoffrey lingered on the rainswept battlefield. Had Wardard really refused to tell him the truth because he felt nothing good could come from sullying the memory of a dead warrior? Or was there another reason? It had not escaped Geoffrey’s attention how many old men spoke warmly of his mother, and she had certainly been the more popular of the two. Was the tale of Godric’s cowardice mere spite from thwarted rivals?