Elizabeth Chadwick - The Conquest

The dappled stallion's coat was dark silver with sweat and his eyes were wild, displaying a dangerous rim of white as Rolf and two grooms fought to hold him.

'Richard, in the name of Christ and Thor, whatever possessed you to buy this brute?' Rolf demanded of his anxiously watching friend. 'The state he's in, he'll kick out the side of the ship for sure!'

Richard FitzScrob scratched the back of his shaven head and pulled a face. 'He's all right saddled up with a rider on his back. He doesn't like ramps, that's all.'

Rolf swore beneath his breath at the understatement. Not even Duke William's Spanish black had been this difficult to load, and Rolf was horribly aware of how short of time they were. All of the horses had to be on board the transports and out of St Valery before sunset in order to take advantage of the outflowing tidal currents. The Duke's fleet had been held up for long enough already, and there would never be a better occasion to embark.

A stiffening easterly wind ruffled Rolf's dark auburn hair and spun the weather vane on the roof of the church of St Valery. Duke William had wanted to sail two weeks ago, but the wind had refused to change until the aid of St Valery himself had been invoked and his relics paraded through the town, escorted by the entire Norman cavalry to the accompaniment of drums, trumpets and horns. Their entreaties must have reached the saint on his heavenly couch, for this very morning the wind had changed direction, banking to the east, and the scramble to embark had begun.

The grey lashed out and a shod hind hoof narrowly missed one of the grooms. The horse waiting behind sidled restively as it caught the scent of the grey's fear.

'Fetch a blindfold,' Rolf snapped at one of his men. 'Richard, take Hamo's place.'

The groom ran off and FitzScrob grasped the stallion's cheekstrap and hung on grimly while the grey sawed up and down. Rolf beckoned the equerry waiting behind to lead his horse up the steep ramp onto the vessel. She was a deep merchant galley with higher sides than the Duke's spearhead of fast, dragon-prowed warships whose sleek lines strongly resembled the raiding vessels of the first Viking Normans. The Duke's own ship, the Mora, was already provisioned and rode at anchor in the bay, separated from the chaos on the beach. The Duke himself was to be rowed out later. For the moment he was stalking up and down the shoreline, supervising the preparations to embark with his customary vigour. Rolf hoped that he would not choose to inspect this particular vessel just now.

'I ought to make you travel with the beast!' he panted to Richard, his arms burning with the effort of holding the grey. The groom returned with the blindfold and the fight began to tie it around the stallion's eyes. 'Where in the name of God did you get him?'

'Not in the name of God, but of Allah the Merciful,' Richard replied between gasps. 'My father bought him off a Moorish trader and found him a little too light compared to the Brabancon stallions he usually rides, so he gave Sleipnir to me.'

'Are you sure there was no other reason?'

'I told you, he's superb to ride,' Richard said defensively. 'He just hates ramps. Stop scowling. Wouldn't you like a Moorish stallion to service your mares?'

'Not if he's going to impart qualities like this!' Rolf snapped. 'First thing I'd do if he were mine is geld him!'

Richard grinned. 'You wouldn't, I promise.'

The blindfold in place, the grey calmed enough to be led onto the ramp. His damp silver shoulders and quarters twitched and trembled. Sweating with the expectation that at any moment the horse would run amok and charge them both off the edge into the freezing sea, Rolf coaxed the destrier on board the ship and after a brief deliberation, tethered him at the end of the line of warhorses in the open hold.

'It will be easier to reach him and cut his throat if he panics once we're at sea,' Rolf said darkly to his friend. 'I mean it, Richard.' He patted his belt. Beside his short meat dagger hung the longer bladed English scramaseax. 'If one runs wild, then the rest will follow and the ship will go in short order to the bottom of the sea.' He gave the quivering grey a jaundiced glance. 'For now, the blindfold remains.'

Accepting Rolf's decision, but looking none too happy, Richard left the ship.

The first vessels sailed out of St Valery in the hour before sunset. Rolf's command was one of the last to leave, since embarking the horses had been left until late to avoid stressing the animals too much. Ships containing men and supplies followed the Mora in ragged procession out of the Somme estuary and into the cold green waters of the Channel. The east wind ruffled their striped sails. Here and there oars were broken out and scuds of white water curled on the surface of the waves. The setting sun was a low slash of orange on the skyline, the tide flowing out fast as Rolf's galley cast off her moorings and to the escort of a dozen wheeling, screaming gulls, set her sails to the wind.

Rolf watched the port of St Valery slowly diminish across the water until it became tiny and unreal. The reality was the creaking deck beneath his boots, the muscular thrust of the sea beneath the caulked timbers, the salt tang of spray exploding against the sheer-strake, and the chill wind searing his ears and face. He fetched a hood and shoulder cape from his baggage and as the sun sank beyond the horizon and Norman soil vanished from sight, he ordered the ship's master to light the lantern on the mast.

In the middle of the night, the invasion fleet hove to so that England would be reached at first light rather than in the pitch-darkness of the hours after midnight. The channel was as smooth as molten jet, with only the gentlest of swells to rock the ships. The crescent moon had set several hours since. In the deep of the night, Rolf watched the twinkles of lantern light which marked the position of the other vessels. Isolated but not alone, he was aware of a feeling of utter tranquillity. A tiny voice warned him that this was literally the calm before the storm, but he paid it no heed except to cast it overboard and commit it to the deep.

On board one of the ships, someone was singing a melancholy tune in the Breton tongue. The sound drifted across the water and filled Rolf's soul with yearning. The moment was as beautiful and eerily mournful as the last drawn-out note of the song. It was with a feeling of deep regret that he left his position on the prow of the transport and stepped down to the open hold to check up on the horses.