Free The Last Conquest by Berwick Coates Page B

haulage. I let some of them out to the Flemings today; they are too ignorant to know any better. Just look
at them, Baldwin! It is a wonder they survived the crossing. They are no use for any kind of action at all. Show them a fully armed knight, and they would break in the middle.’
    ‘What about the fresh knights who came in yesterday?’
    Giffard spat again. ‘Human offal! And their mounts are not much better. I tell you, Baldwin, this battle had better be over quickly, or I shall never be able to provide enough spare mounts
to last.’
    Baldwin grinned. ‘Losing your profits, Walter?’
    He knew, and Giffard knew, that every respectable knight in the army provided himself with at least two, sometimes three battle destriers, to say nothing of spare mounts for the approach march
and the withdrawal to camp afterwards. What was annoying Sir Walter Giffard was that he might not have enough mounts of suitable quality to sell to knights who had accidents or casualties among
their stables.
    Giffard growled. ‘I am expecting some proper mounts from Longueville. The very last I can manage.’
    Sir Walter Giffard made a habit of protesting that the horses he trained and offered were always the last, the very last, that he would be able to provide without impoverishing himself, or
exhausting his breeding stock. Buyers made a similar habit of reminding him that the prices he charged should help him to avoid total ruin.
    Giffard nodded in the direction of the shore. ‘I have sent the little Magyar down to meet the next tide.’ He made a noise of annoyance in his throat. ‘Another know-all like
your precious engineer.’
    ‘Not my fault. William hired him. All the way from Sicily. From Sicily.’
    ‘Well,’ said Giffard, ‘he does know his business. I give him that.’
    ‘So does Ranulf. William would not keep either of them a minute if they did not.’
    Baldwin was one of the very few men in the army who referred to the Duke, not as ‘the Bastard’, but as ‘William’. Giffard had never got right to the bottom of the story,
but he knew it had something to do with some oath or other that the three of them had sworn as boys – William, Fitzosbern and Baldwin – after the murder of Baldwin’s and
Fitz’s fathers. Three orphans – all about twelve or thirteen years old – in a hostile world – it was scarcely surprising. What was surprising was that they had all three
survived and prospered. Fitz was the Bastard’s right hand, his other self; it was uncanny they way they reflected each other’s thoughts in their speech. Baldwin’s skills lay in
another direction. He was dull and stuffy, but he was also deliberate, and thorough. The perfect quartermaster.
    Oddly, too, there was a bond between Baldwin and the lady Matilda, and Giffard had not really got to the bottom of that either. It was common knowledge that, after the murder, Baldwin had taken
refuge in Flanders, at the court of Count Baldwin (a lucky coincidence of names perhaps), and Matilda was the Count’s daughter. They were young then – Matilda was barely out of the
nursery.
    But they had become genuine friends. She teased him – ‘Baldwin, why are you so old?’ – but it was obvious that she liked him, and he clearly enjoyed her company.
    Giffard shrugged. It was none of his business. The Bastard did not seem to mind, so there was nothing in it. Heaven help the man he so much as suspected of making advances to my lady
Matilda.
    They were walking back towards their tents now. Baldwin blew on his hands.
    ‘I shall be glad to stand by a fire for a while. Will you come in and take something?’
    Giffard grinned. Baldwin’s perpetual complaints about the cold were a camp joke, but he was free with his hospitality, and the fire could be relied upon to be a big one. Moreover, as
quartermaster, he usually had good fare to offer.
    ‘Thank you. I will.’
    They stood for a while, holding out their hands to the blaze. Then they went inside.