Stephen Baxter - Conqueror

'Yes, very well. But God does sail with us, for we have the Pope's endorsement. And that's why I wanted to talk to you.'

'Lord?'

'I'll get to the point. I have heard all about the Menologium of Isolde. The prophecy that has been bandied about in King Harold's court.'

'That belongs to a priest called Sihtric.'

'Yes. Whose sister you tupped.'

Orm kept his face blank. 'Your spies are good, my lord.'

'Yes, they are. And they also tell me you have been present when this fool Sihtric has tried to fill his King's head with nonsense from this document.'

'And if I have?'

'Don't be evasive, boy, it doesn't suit you.' The bishop's face was hard, more like William's than ever. 'This prophecy has become famous, at least in the English court. And such instruments can be dangerous. Perhaps even if we win the day, this prophecy will be read by wishful thinkers to say that William's days will be short, that soon an English king will be back on the throne, Harold or one of his brothers. Something like that. You must see that such a prophecy can form a seed from which rebellion may grow. And I want you to make sure that doesn't happen.'

Orm frowned. 'How?'

Odo shrugged. 'Work it out for yourself. Find this Menologium. Destroy every copy. Dispose of Sihtric if you have to. That sort of thing.'

Orm said tightly, 'We are about to invade England. Thousands of men will die in the coming days, whatever the outcome. And you fret over a bit of parchment?'

'It is a detail, I grant you. But worlds can be won or lost over details – and I see it as my duty to William to take care of such details for him.

'And there is more.' The bishop leaned forward, his clever face intent. 'Once, under Rome, the Church was united, from Syria to Britain, from Germany to Africa. When the empire fragmented, so did the Church – and Britain fell away. A few centuries of incursions by your pagan forefathers didn't help.'

'And yours,' Orm said curtly.

Odo grimaced. 'I suppose I deserve that. But my point is that the popes in Rome have long been pursuing the reunification of the Church. When we are done England will be cut free of its ties to the barbarian nations of the north, and brought back into the Latin centre of the south, where it belongs.

'And this is only the beginning,' he said. 'Some of us are thinking further – of a Europe joined together, waging war to reclaim what has been lost. Perhaps we can drive the Moors out of Iberia. Perhaps we can go as far as Jerusalem. Perhaps even the great church of East Rome can be brought back to the ancient centre. Some thinkers call such a war cruciata – marked with a cross, a crusade. The Norman invasion of Britain is only the first of these crusades. And that is why its holiness must be unblemished. The mere existence of this prophecy, with its unknown provenance, no doubt heretical, is a challenge to that holiness.

'Think about it, Orm. By destroying the Menologium and all who protect it you will be doing a service to the mother Church that will see you rewarded in heaven. Even if,' he finished harshly, 'you have to slaughter the girl you tupped to do it.'

It was with relief that Orm heard the cries rising from the lead ships, now dimly visible in the gathering light of dawn. 'Land! Land!'

Orm's ship was one of the first to enter English waters. The Normans were relieved that Harold's navy did not come out to meet the fleet. Perhaps the English had been caught unawares.

They landed at a place called Pefensae, on the coast of the old kingdom of the South Saxons. It was a complicated, treacherous bit of shoreline; the still water shone in the low dawn light, and the ships glided like shadows between shallow islands. As they worked their oars silently, the soldiers peered out, many getting their first glimpse of England and the English. Hovels of reeds and sod slumped on the islands, no doubt inhabited by the poor sort of folk who made a living at the margins of seas. But there was no sign of life, not a thread of smoke or a rack of drying fish. Perhaps, Orm wondered, one of William's local guides had tipped off his relatives that thousands of hungry Normans were about to descend on them.

And, more to the point, there was still no sign of any English resistance, not so much as a sword edge or shield boss. The spies' testimony that Harold had had to withdraw from the south coast to face Harald Hardrada must be true. The men joked nervously that they didn't know if they would face an army of smooth-faced English or hairy-arsed Norse when they landed.

They came at last to a peninsula, where a curtain of walls with round corner towers stood proud – Roman, that was obvious by the quality of the stonework, and the courses of red tiles embedded in the facing blocks. Orm could see now why this place had been chosen for the first landing by the Norman scouts. The harbour was big enough to accommodate William's ships, and the fort large enough to take his troops.

William had his ship pulled up on a shingle beach at the western end of the peninsula, where it was joined by a narrow neck to the land beyond. The men laboured to unload the ships, and the first horses were led ashore, whinnying.

Orm walked into the interior of the fort, with Odo and Count Robert. They passed through the western gate of the old Roman fortifications, the stonework still intact but the woodwork rotted away or robbed. Orm could see holes in the stone where the gates' pivots had once been placed. Inside the walls there wasn't much to be seen. A tracery of foundations in the grassy swathe showed that there had once been stone buildings here, presumably Roman, and shapeless mounds in the earth were probably the remains of later buildings, mud-and-stick shacks sheltering within the Roman walls. Orm had his sword drawn, but he disturbed only a few seagulls that flapped away into the grey dawn light. The walls themselves, a curtain of stone that ran around this near-island, were remarkably intact.

'Too remote for the stone to be robbed, I imagine,' Robert murmured.

Odo said, 'The Romans called the fort Anderida. They built it to keep out the English. They threw up this place in haste, and yet their work stands centuries later. Remarkable people, the Romans.' He opened his arms wide and turned around. 'And look at the scale of it! This will hold all our army and more.'

Orm knew the plan, roughly. This was a good place to land, but not to defend, for the country here was poor. The army would form up tomorrow and move along the coast to Haestingaceaster, a fortified town with a good harbour. There the army could dig in, within reach of the sea and the ships.

And they could get to work ravaging the countryside in the traditional way, both to acquire provisions for the army and also to provoke Harold into a response. Having come so late in the season, William wanted to bring Harold to battle quickly, and this land of the South Saxons was the heartland of the Godwines. 'And we will gnaw at that heart,' William had said darkly, 'as a worm gnaws at an apple.'

But first things first; they had to survive the night here at Pefensae. 'I want a ditch system across that neck of land to the west,' Robert said briskly. 'And I want fortifications in here as well. We don't need all this room. Maybe we can cut off that corner,' he said, indicating the eastern end of the wall circuit. 'An earthwork, a palisade.' The Normans had brought wood in prefabricated sections for just such a task. 'Orm, see to it.'

Orm nodded.

'And in the meantime we'll send parties out into the country. Even in a place as poor as this, there must be something worth robbing…'

Thus the first English would soon die, Orm reflected.

The half-brothers of William walked on, speaking in their blunt Frankish tongue, scheming, plotting, as Orm went about setting up a Norman camp, in a Roman fort, under an English sky.