Sworn Sword

by James Aitcheson

  Whenever he could, the chaplain would sit with me and tell me the news from outside, little though there was. He made no mention of any further disturbances in the city, nor anything of the Northumbrians marching south, and I began to wonder if perhaps Malet’s concerns were misplaced. At other times the priest would bring with him a squared board on which to play chess, and also a game like it called tæfl, which I knew the English were fond of, and which he took great pleasure in teaching me. But most of the time I had nothing to do but sit, lost in my own thoughts as I faced the same four walls from morning until night.

  As the days passed, however, gradually I recovered my strength, finding my appetite once more. My head began to feel clearer, less heavy, and I found that I was spending less time asleep. By the fifth day since I first woke in that narrow bed my leg had healed enough that I was able to stand, if somewhat unsteadily, and even – with the chaplain’s help – walk about the room. It still gave me trouble, but the priest assured me that the earlier I started to put my weight on it, the faster it would get better. And he was right, for it was but another two days before my piss was finally clear and he judged me well enough to venture out. I couldn’t walk far without stopping to give my leg respite, but simply going beyond the door was a relief; so far I had seen nothing of the world beyond my chamber, not even the rest of Malet’s house.

  ‘This was once the residence of the Earls of Northumbria,’ the chaplain told me as he led me into the great hall, ‘built in the days when Eoferwic fell under their dominion. No finer palace stands in all of England, save perhaps for that at Westmynstre.’

  Indeed it was a place worthy of a vicomte. The hall was easily forty paces in length and perhaps more, with a gallery running around the edge, from which were hung round shields painted in many colours: vermilion and yellow, green and azure. The sun shone in through four high windows, casting wide triangles upon the floor. In the centre stood a table long enough to seat thirty lords, with room for some of their retainers as well, while at the far end was a great stone hearth, over which was set a black cauldron, though it was still too early for the fire to be lit.

  I paced about, taking in the sight. Even Lord Robert had not had a hall such as this. The chaplain was right to compare it with Westmynstre, for it could have belonged to the king himself. And perhaps at times kings had sat here, surrounded by their court.

  My gaze fell upon an embroidery hanging on the wall, depicting scenes from a battle, though which battle it was meant to be, I could not tell. There were groups of horsemen charging with lances couched under their arms, while facing them was a line of foot-soldiers, their shields raised and spears set. But they were not what most drew my attention, for just beyond them I saw a lone figure standing atop a mound. His sword was raised in front of him, pointing towards the sky; to either side, strewn across the hillock, were the corpses of a dozen mailed men. I had never seen needlework so fine, nor images so detailed as these.

  And then above the knight’s head I noticed, stitched in rounded, uneven letters, a legend in Latin: ‘HIC MILES INVICTUS SUPERBE STAT’. It was a long time since I had last been at my studies: since I had last felt Brother Raimond’s hand striking my cheek for forgetting my declensions or mistranslating a passage. But the aged librarian was not watching over me now, and in any case it was not a difficult sentence.

  ‘“Here stands proudly the undefeated knight”,’ I murmured. I traced my fingers across the raised forms of the letters, wondering how long it would have taken to stitch even that one sentence; how many months had been spent in all upon this embroidery; how many nuns must have laboured together with needle and thread. Malet was wealthy indeed if he could afford such a piece.

  ‘You know your letters,’ said Ælfwold, with some surprise. Few men of the sword were able to read or write. Neither Eudo nor Wace could; in fact of all the knights in Lord Robert’s household it was possible that I was the only literate one.

  ‘As a child I spent some years in a monastery,’ I replied. ‘That was before I left and joined Lord Robert.’

  ‘How old were you when you left?’

  I hesitated. I had told few people anything about my time in the monastery at Dinant; the only ones who knew were those who were closest to me. They had not been the happiest of years, all told, and I did not much like to think of them. Yet even so, they had probably been happier times than these were now.

  ‘The summer when I fled was my fourteenth,’ I said quietly.

  ‘You fled?’

  I turned away, back towards the image of the knight. Already I had said more than I had meant to.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Ælfwold said. ‘I do not mean to pry. It is none of my concern, I am sure. Though I do not blame you, for I have never much liked monasteries, still less monks themselves. I have always considered it better to spread God’s message in the world, rather than to while away one’s days in cloistered contemplation. One can so easily become lost in one’s own mind, and so fail to see the glory around us. It’s why I chose to become a priest rather than take the vows, all those years ago—’

  ‘Father Ælfwold!’

  The voice carried sharp and clear across the hall. I looked up to see a young woman stepping lightly towards us. She wore a winter cloak trimmed with fur over a blue woollen dress. Her head was covered by a wimple, but a few strands of hair trailed loose from beneath it, like threads of spun gold.

  ‘Father Ælfwold,’ she said, in an even, mannered voice. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  The chaplain smiled. ‘And you, my lady. You are going out, or have already been?’

  ‘I’ve just returned from the market.’ She looked at me then, as if I had only just appeared and she was noticing me for the first time. ‘Who is this?’

  She had delicate features, coupled with pale cheeks and large eyes that glistened in the light, and I guessed that she was not much older than twenty summers, and probably even younger than that. In truth I often found it difficult to judge: when I had first seen Oswynn, I had thought her older than she was; there had been a wildness about her that made her seem beyond her years. It was only much later that I learnt she had but sixteen summers behind her, although it made little difference to me, for I had already found out she was experienced.

  ‘My name is Tancred a Dinant, my lady,’ I said. ‘Once knight of Earl Robert de Commines.’

  ‘He is presently under my care,’ Ælfwold explained. ‘He was at the battle at Dunholm, where he took an injury to his leg. Your father is giving him shelter until he recovers.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, though I was not entirely sure that she did, for she seemed to be taking little interest in what he was saying. Instead she was looking me up and down in the same disinterested manner as one might appraise a horse, until at last her eyes, tawny-brown, met mine, and then I thought I saw a flicker of a smile cross her face.

  She was, it had to be said, attractive. Not in the obvious ways, perhaps, for she had less meat on her than I usually considered desirable in a woman, but attractive nonetheless: slender, with a narrow waist and full hips.

  Her gaze lingered upon me a moment longer before she turned back to the priest. ‘Is my father about?’ she asked.

  And then I understood: this was Malet’s daughter. I ought to have realised it sooner, firstly from the rich manner in which she was dressed, and also from the way the chaplain had addressed her.

  ‘I’m afraid he isn’t,’ Ælfwold said. ‘He has gone to meet with the archbishop at the minster. So far as I know he means to be back by noon.’

  ‘Very well,’ she said, withdrawing a couple of steps. ‘I’ll seek him out when he returns.’ She glanced once more at each of us, then without another word she hustled away, lifting her skirts so that they did not drag through the dirty rushes, though not so much that she risked baring any skin.

  ‘She’s the vicomte’s daughter?’ I asked as I watched her depart.

  ‘Beatrice Malet,’ the chaplain said in an admonishing ton
e. ‘And you would be wise not to ask any further of her.’ He frowned, and I saw there was a warning aspect to his gaze.

  I felt the heat rise up my cheeks, and began to protest: ‘Father—’

  ‘I’ve seen that look before,’ he said, and he kept his voice low. ‘You wouldn’t be the first to take an interest in her.’

  I stared back at him, offended that he should even suggest such a thing. That Beatrice was pleasing to the eye could not be denied, but that was true of so many women. And in any case, compared to Oswynn she was altogether plain. Oswynn, with her hair loose and unkempt, black as the night itself. Oswynn, who had travelled with me everywhere, who had been afraid of nothing and no one. Often in the last few days I had found myself thinking of our time together, short though it had been. Hardly six months had passed since we had met for the first time under the summer sun, and now, in the silence and the stillness of winter, she lay dead.

  ‘Come,’ the priest said with a sigh as he made for the door at the end of the hall. ‘It is already forgotten. There’s still much I have to show you.’

  He led me outside to the courtyard, where the sun was high and bright, though there were dark clouds gathering in the north, and I guessed there was rain to come. Chill air rushed over me and I breathed deeply of it, drinking it in as if it were ale, until I could feel it reaching my head. I had not been out of doors in so long that I had almost forgotten what it was like. Indeed it was as if everything had become new to me again, and at the same time somehow more real: the smell of smoke wafting upon the breeze; the songs of thrushes perched atop the thatch. Things that before I would scarcely have noticed, but of which I was suddenly now aware.

  A banner fluttered from the gable of the hall, divided into alternate stripes of black and yellow, with gold threads woven into the latter so that it caught the light. Malet’s colours, I presumed.

  The hall and yard were ringed by earth ramparts and a high palisade, and beyond them lay the city of Eoferwic: rows upon rows of thatched rooftops, with only the minster church and the mound and timber tower of the castle rising above them. To the south, sparkling beneath the late-morning sun, ran the river. A few ships were out, their sails filled as they skimmed high over the waters. Most of them looked like simple fishermen’s boats, but one stood out. Larger than the rest, she had a narrow beam and high sides which came to a sharp point at the prow. She was a longship, built for speed, for war. To whom she belonged, though, I could not tell, for her mast and sail had been taken down. A slow, regular drumbeat carried across the waters, signalling every stroke, keeping the oarsmen in time.

  ‘Follow me,’ Ælfwold said. ‘You must see the chapel.’

  I glanced towards him as he began making his way towards the stone building across the yard. In truth, though, I was not paying him much attention, for it seemed that there was some commotion near the gates. One group of men had lifted the bar that held them in place, while others were rushing now to open them.

  The blast of a war-horn rang out, and then the gates swung open and a conroi of horsemen rode hard into the courtyard, two abreast, hooves thundering, each rider mailed and helmeted. Their lord or captain rode in front, carrying a pennon on his lance, though I did not recognise the design, which comprised four segments in blue and green.

  ‘Whose men are they?’ I asked Ælfwold, who had turned back and now stood beside me, his brow furrowed as he looked on in concern.

  ‘They’re the castellan’s,’ he said. ‘But they’re back early. He was supposed to be leading them on a scouting expedition north of the city this morning.’ He began to walk faster, and I followed behind as quickly as I could, wincing at each and every step.

  Already a full score of knights had passed through the gates, and still more were following. Around them a crowd was beginning to form, of servants, kitchen-girls and stable-hands.

  ‘Where is Malet?’ the one with the pennon roared at them as he untied his chin-strap, letting his helmet fall to the ground. ‘Find me the vicomte now!’

  ‘What’s happened?’ the chaplain asked. ‘Is Lord Richard with you?’

  The knight turned to look down at Ælfwold, and all of a sudden his expression instantly turned to anger. ‘It was your kind who did this, Englishman!’

  He levelled his lance at the priest’s throat, just above the green stone that hung around his neck. Ælfwold stepped back slowly, his face going pale. The knight followed him, keeping the point of his weapon steady at the priest’s neck. ‘Tell me why I should spare your life,’ he said, half choking, as his cheeks streamed with tears. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Because he is a priest,’ I called out as I drew my knife and rushed to Ælfwold’s side. ‘You kill him and your soul will be damned for ever.’

  ‘He’s one of them!’ The knight spoke through gritted teeth, the lance quivering in his hand, and I thought that he was about to strike, but then the tears overcame him. His fingers loosened and the lance fell to the ground, into a puddle. The blue-and-green cloth lay crumpled and wet.

  A shout came from close by the gates, quickly followed by a cry from one of the kitchen-girls. I looked up, and then I saw the last two men to have arrived. They were bearing a body between them. It took me but a moment to realise whose it was.

  Beside me the chaplain made the sign of the cross. He was still white in colour: not yet recovered, it seemed, from his fright. He closed his eyes, uttering a prayer in Latin.

  First it had been Robert, murdered at Dunholm. Now too the castellan of Eoferwic, Lord Richard, lay dead.

  Nine

  THE NEWS OF the castellan’s death cast a shadow over Malet’s house in the days that followed. I could see it in the anxious looks of the servants I met; I could hear it in the hushed tones they used in the corridors. Indeed I could almost feel a chill in the air when I walked between the hall and my chamber, as if there were a draught blowing in from somewhere, though that could well have been my imagination. Even Ælfwold, when he came to see me, seemed more subdued than he had been before.

  For the first few hours after the castellan’s men had returned there had been much confusion. A messenger was sent to the minster church to bear the news to Malet, who returned in due haste. That same afternoon he summoned all the Norman lords who were in Eoferwic to his hall, where they remained in private council for some hours. All I knew of it was what the chaplain later told me: that Malet was to assume the responsibilities of the castellan, taking all of Lord Richard’s remaining men under his command.

  The enemy were advancing; of that there could be little doubt. Some of their raiding parties had crossed the Use upstream of the city, and by night the horizon shone bright with the fires of the villages they had torched. But though they were growing bolder, still they did not march on Eoferwic itself.

  Perhaps they were hoping to draw us out, or perhaps they were waiting for something, although what that might be, no one knew. For their full host to gather, some said, in which case it made sense to try to attack them now. But Malet had forbidden any more expeditions, probably rightly, since we could not afford to lose any more men. We had no more than six or seven hundred in Eoferwic, and while word had been sent to the king in Lundene, there was no knowing how long it would take for reinforcements to reach us. And according to the reports that came back from our scouts, the enemy numbered between three and four thousand, which if true made theirs a larger host than any we had faced since Hæstinges itself.

  And so we waited for the English to come to us. All the while my leg was growing stronger, and I was spending less time indoors, and ever more in the yard outside, trading blows with Eudo and Wace as we trained at arms. My nights were filled with dreams of battle: of riding out to face the enemy, of killing those who had murdered my lord, had murdered Oswynn. If the enemy were coming, I wanted to be ready to fight them.

  The chaplain didn’t approve, but by then I was well enough that I didn’t need his permission. In any case, it was over a fortnight since I had so much as held
a sword in my hand – a fortnight in which my limbs had lost much of their strength. I knew that I could get better again only with practice, and so each afternoon I spent hour after hour with whoever would join me: perfecting my strokes, my parries and cuts, repeating the movements until they became instinctive once more.

  It was close to sunset on one of those afternoons, when I was practising with two of Malet’s kitchen-boys, that I caught sight of Beatrice standing by the hall – watching me, or so it seemed. I was about to call to her, but at that moment the boys rushed at me, shouting and laughing as together they swung their wooden blades. One strike bounced off my shield; the other I fended off with my own cudgel, and then I was turning away, dancing out of reach so that their thrusts found only air.

  What they might have lacked in skill, however, they made up for in enthusiasm. Again they came at me, and this time I stepped back, trying to give my sword-arm room, when the back of my legs struck against something hard. Thrown off balance, I staggered backwards, and I was still struggling to stay on my feet as the next onslaught came. I blocked the first blow, and the second, but the third struck me on the shoulder, sending me sprawling, and suddenly I found myself on my back facing the sky.

  Dazed, not quite believing what had happened, I looked up and saw the two boys standing over me. The taller of the two, fair-haired and freckled, grinned and pointed his sword at my neck. ‘Do you yield?’

  ‘I yield,’ I said, laughing as I pushed his blade away and got to my feet. Not five yards from where I stood was a wooden feeding-trough: that was what I must have stumbled into. Though it could have been worse, I thought. I could have fallen in it.

  I glanced towards the hall, where Beatrice still stood, and there was a smile upon her face. I tousled each boy’s hair in turn while I regained my breath, then wiped the sweat from my brow. ‘Keep practising and you’ll both make good knights one day,’ I told them.

  They seemed pleased by that, and in truth they had fought well. So much in battle was a matter of luck, whether good or ill, but the best warriors were those who made the most of their luck, who took advantage of their enemies’ mistakes, and that was what these two had done. I left them to carry on by themselves as I made my way across the yard towards Beatrice.