The king and his court demanded fresh butter for their bread, so in the end they had to bring two of the cows ashore. Garnet and Marigold were brought up on deck and hoisted over the side of the cog into a smaller boat. They looked so funny, Nell thought, hanging in the slings with their legs dangling, mooing with distress, and when Garnet finally landed in the boat, she kicked one of the sailors so hard he fell overboard. The other men cheered her for a stout lass who didn’t take nonsense from anyone.
The chief herdsman should have gone with the cows, but he was heaving his guts out with seasickness, so Nell went instead. The sailors handed her down into the boat and she held the cows firmly by their halters as they were rowed ashore. Once on dry land, she herded them to the nearby manor of Freshwater, right at the western end of the Isle of Wight. Every so often she turned to look out through the rain at the English ships, riding at anchor with their sails furled, unable to make headway against the strong west wind. She thought about the thousands of soldiers packed inside them like saltfish in a barrel, many of them being just as sick as the chief herdsman.
They were expecting her at Freshwater, and the yeoman of the kitchen, Master Coloyne, showed her a byre where she could stable the cows and do the evening milking. Most of the royal household was there, although the king had taken himself off to Carisbrooke Castle a few miles away. Master Clerebaud the sauce-maker reckoned it was because the beds were softer there. After milking, she warmed herself by the hearth, and then sat down with the scullery lads and maids to eat hot pottage with beans and onions and some bacon thrown in. The pottage warmed them all and kept out the cold. ‘You’d never believe it was July,’ someone said.
‘Never mind,’ said Master Coloyne. ‘It’ll be warm enough when we get to France.’
‘Why will it be warm in France?’ Nell asked.
‘Further south,’ said Master Clerebaud. ‘Stands to reason.’
It was growing late by the time they finished eating. They offered her a blanket in the kitchen to sleep on, but Nell wanted to keep an eye on Marigold, who hadn’t given as much milk as usual and might be suffering from the long confinement aboard ship. She accepted the blanket and went back to the byre to check on the cows, then lay down in a pile of straw, pulling the blanket over her and falling asleep. After a while, she slipped into a dream, in which she could hear voices, quiet like they were coming from a long way away.
Curse this weather. If the wind stays against us, the king could abandon the entire expedition and go home. All that preparation and expense, and nothing to show for it.
Calm yourself. The king’s heart is set on this venture. He won’t turn back, not now.
Something in the straw tickled her nose and she woke up. She heard again the two voices from the dream, only it wasn’t a dream and the men were right outside the byre, speaking softly.
‘This delay could ruin everything.’
‘The weather won’t last forever,’ the second voice said. ‘The wind will change, and as soon as it does we will cross over to France. Trust me, I know the king as well as anyone. He’ll not turn back now.’
‘And Bertrand? If the army doesn’t arrive when expected, he and the other Norman loyalists will think we have played him false. What do we do about him?’
Nell lay still, listening hard. Their English was accented, and she had to concentrate to understand what they were saying. The worried man sounded like he came from the West Country; she thought the other might be from somewhere in the north.
‘We need to get word to him,’ the second man said. ‘Get a messenger across to Normandy and tell him the king still intends to land at Saint-Vaast but it will be later than planned. He needs to hold his men together and wait.’
‘And how am I meant to get a message to France? My ships cannot sail into a headwind, any more than the king’s can.’
‘You have money,’ the northerner said. ‘And as you keep telling me, with the right amount of money, anything is possible. Make it happen.’
The West Country man growled under his breath. ‘Oh aye, very well. I’ll see what I can do. What about Harcourt?’
‘If Bertrand succeeds, then Harcourt will be discredited. Do you see now why this is so important? You must get that message to Bertrand.’
‘I will. Christ, now it’s raining again. A pox on this bloody weather!’
The voices faded as the two men walked away. Silence fell. Nell lay for a moment in the darkness, trying to work out the meaning of what she had heard. They needed to send a message across to Normandy, to warn someone called Bertrand. But who was Bertrand? An enemy? Or one of the king’s Norman friends?
She wondered if she should tell someone what she had overheard. But she was a fourteen-year-old cowherd from Hampshire, and she had no idea who to approach or whether they would listen to her. She couldn’t tell her own master, the chief herdsman, because he was still sick aboard the transport. She would tell Master Coloyne tomorrow, she decided, and let him decide the matter.
Pleased at having reached a decision, she fell back into sleep.