Free The Last Conquest by Berwick Coates

said Edwin. ‘He will see your ankle.’
    Godric gave Gilbert the slightest of nods. Gilbert was surprised. He had naturally thought that the fair one had tended to him. He felt almost disappointed. When Godric touched him, he received
another surprise; he had no idea that such strong hands could be so gentle. He watched, fascinated, as if the leg did not belong to him.
    When Godric had finished, he looked up and nodded in question towards Gilbert’s forehead.
    Gilbert touched the bandage. ‘No, no. It is well. Tell him it is all right,’ he said to Edwin.
    A few words of English passed. Edwin turned back to Gilbert.
    ‘He thinks you should rest longer. Your ankle is still –’ he spread his hands apart as Gilbert had done earlier ‘– big, and your stomach is still weak.’
    Conscience returned in a rush.
    ‘I must return. I have—’ He checked himself, and there was a guilty silence.
    Godric whispered to Edwin. Edwin turned to Gilbert.
    ‘Godric says you must rest or you will be sick again. He says if you leave after midday you can still reach your camp by sunset.’
    This was terrible. Gilbert struggled to a sitting position. ‘I am recovering,’ he said. ‘Look.’
    He held up the half-empty wooden plate, and, as if to prove his claim, picked up some dark bread and crammed a large lump into his mouth. Still with his mouth full, he clambered to his feet. The
sudden effort made him sway; he moved quickly to adjust his balance, and winced at the pain in the ankle. By the time Godric had caught him and eased him down again, he felt sick once more. He made
no resistance as they covered him, made up the fire, and took away the rest of the meal.
    ‘It looks as if he went up there.’
    Ralph reined in his horse beside a sandy little brook and pointed up the hill. Open scrubland stretched all the way to the top, where they could just make out the silhouette of a solitary
stunted tree.
    For most of the morning they had followed their own trail of the previous afternoon, and then Gilbert’s trail when he left them. That had taken them to the settlement they had first seen.
Pursuing it after that, they had now found themselves at the foot of this gently-sloping hill.
    Ralph was in a savage mood. His head was still aching. He was annoyed that they had to be out at all, when he knew that they should be resting before their long sweep of the next day – the
one that Fitzosbern wanted them to make. He hated being unprofessional. He knew too exactly what Bruno was thinking.
    He was even more annoyed with Gilbert. Why had the boy continued beyond that settlement? He was only supposed to have a quick look, then come back. What had made him change his mind? The chance
of heroics? Pray God not.
    Damn Gilbert! And damn all English beer! If Bruno dared to open his mouth . . .
    Ralph looked up the slope. He could be up there. The tree on its ridge was gaunt, twisted . . .
    ‘Well?’ said Bruno, nodding uphill.
    Ralph pointed to the western end, where it sloped down towards a grassy knoll at the foot. ‘Let us look round there first.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I say so!’
    He spurred his horse forward, without waiting to see if Bruno was following.
    When he reached where he was going, he circled several times, gazing at the ground. After a few minutes he came upon a fresh set of hoofprints. They came down from the top of the hill, and went
away north-westwards, in the opposite direction from camp. It was unquestionably Gilbert’s horse; the smith at Rouen had his own unmistakable mark on the shoes.
    Ralph was incredulous. ‘Why do that?’
    Bruno shrugged. ‘You are the expert on novice scouts, not me.’
    Ralph could have hit him.
    ‘At least he is alive,’ said Bruno, reading his mind.
    Ralph cast one more glance at the top of the hill, and pulled his horse’s head round to face west again. ‘Come then.’ Once again, he did not wait for Bruno to agree.
    The trail was clearer now, and Ralph was so absorbed