Sworn Sword

by James Aitcheson

  ‘Defeated by a couple of boys,’ she said as I approached. ‘You disappoint me.’

  ‘They show great promise,’ I replied. ‘Your father is fortunate to have such able young fighters in his household.’

  I watched them as they finished marking out a duelling circle, and picked up their practice swords and wicker shields. They rushed together, exchanging blows before just as quickly backing away again, circling about, each searching for the all-important opening.

  ‘There are many who can wield a sword,’ Beatrice said. ‘Though from what I’ve heard, there are few who can match your prowess.’

  ‘If you believe that, then you couldn’t have seen me fall over that horse-trough.’ I spoke only half in jest. For all the hours I had spent in the practice yard of late, my sword-arm still felt slow, my body heavy. Nor was I nearly as steady on my feet as I would have liked, even without mail shirt and chausses to weigh me down.

  She smiled gently as she tucked a wisp of hair beneath her hood. ‘I’ve heard much about you,’ she said. ‘My father told me how you fought in the great battle at Hæstinges, how by your valour and your quick thinking you saved your lord’s life.’

  At Hæstinges, but not at Dunholm. ‘That was more than two years ago,’ I said. ‘A lot of things have changed since then.’

  She paused a moment, then said, ‘You know that what happened to Earl Robert was not your fault.’

  I frowned. How much exactly had her father told her? ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said, turning to walk away, though I didn’t know where.

  Within a matter of heartbeats she had fallen into step beside me, hitching up the hem of her dress to stop it trailing in the dirt. ‘You can’t blame yourself for his death.’

  ‘Then whom should I blame?’ I asked as I rounded on her. Though slight of frame, she was fairly tall for a woman, only a head shorter than I, and we stood almost eye to eye as she held my stare. Certainly she was determined; in that respect she seemed much like her father.

  ‘It wasn’t just your lord whom you lost at Dunholm, was it?’ she asked after a while. ‘There was someone else. Someone dear to you.’

  A picture of Oswynn rose to my mind, her hair falling to her round breasts, and I saw myself holding her, just as I had held her before I left her that night. The night that she had died. But how could Beatrice know, and why did she torment me with such questions?

  ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it,’ she said quietly as she looked down.

  ‘No,’ I said, glaring at her. ‘You shouldn’t.’ I had no wish to talk about Dunholm, or about Lord Robert, or Oswynn, especially not to someone like her, who knew nothing about them.

  ‘I’m sorry. For what happened, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t need your pity.’ I made for the well that stood beside the forge, hoping that she would grow tired of hounding me. My throat was parched from the fight and I needed something to cool it. I found the bucket still half full, and I rolled up my sleeves and splashed some of the brown water into my face, gasping at how cold it was, sweet yet at the same time earthy. It trickled over my chin and neck, down the front of my tunic, like icy fingers playing across my chest.

  ‘My father thinks highly of you,’ Beatrice said from behind me.

  I let out a sigh and turned, raising a hand to shield against the sun which was in my eyes. ‘Why do you persist in following me, my lady?’

  Her face was in shadow and I could not read her expression. ‘Because you intrigue me, Tancred a Dinant.’

  My face was still dripping and I wiped my sleeve across it. I felt stubble upon my chin and realised I had not shaved in the last few days. Unshaven, sweating, my hair unkempt, my arms covered with scars and bruises; I wondered what I must look like to someone like her, the daughter of one of the most powerful men in England. What could possibly intrigue her about me?

  Without another word I strode past her, towards the hall’s great doors and the warmth of the hearth-fire. And this time she did not follow me.

  In all that time I saw almost nothing of Malet, nor heard any word from him. Since being made castellan he had moved with his servants into what had been Lord Richard’s chambers in the castle tower. Those times that I did see him, it was often from a distance across the training yard, and he was always engaged in some business with one lord or another. Most I did not know; perhaps they were lesser tenants of the king, or even men who owed their positions to Malet’s patronage directly.

  There was one, however, whom I did recognise, for I had met him before: Gilbert de Gand, whose long face seemed to me twisted into a perpetual sneer. He was Flemish by birth, just as Lord Robert had been, but though the two were about the same age he had never risen as high in the king’s estimation. Indeed I couldn’t remember a time when the two had not been rivals. We had first met when I was around seventeen years old and riding for the first time in Lord Robert’s conroi. He had taken little notice of me then, though as I had grown in standing over the years, he came to recognise me as one of Robert’s closest knights, and to regard me with the same hostility that he otherwise reserved for the man himself.

  This time, however, he did not see me, for which I was glad. I didn’t expect him to have anything pleasant to say about Robert, even now after his death, nor did I trust myself to hold my own tongue.

  It was a full four days before I received word that Malet wanted to see me. He was at the castle as usual, and so the vicomte’s steward supplied me with a horse, a plodding mare with a grey coat and white patches around her hocks. Not the finest mount I had ever ridden, certainly, although more than adequate, and if slow she was at least docile.

  The bailey was busy that morning. In the practice yard stood a row of wooden poles, each one the height of a man and each with a rotten cabbage set atop it, which men on horseback were taking turns to ride at, slicing with their swords, tearing the leaves to shreds. By the southern gate I saw that a quintain had been set up, with a wooden target to tilt at. It was an exercise that depended as much upon speed as on accuracy: strike the target too slowly and the sandbag on the other arm would whip around before the rider had passed the post, hitting him in the back and knocking him straight from the saddle. Many were the times that I had made that mistake when I was younger.

  Smoke drifted down from one of the many workshops that ringed the yard, obscuring the sun. The smell mingled with that of ox-dung and piss from the tanner’s place close by. I was just leaving the mare at the stables when I spotted Ælfwold outside the castle’s chapel: a squat building huddling in the shadow of the palisade, with only a cross fixed atop the gable to mark it out from the rest. He was standing near to the door, berating one of the servant-boys, though I could not tell what it was that he had done wrong.

  He looked up as I came near, at the same time waving the boy away. ‘Tancred,’ he said, and he smiled once more. ‘Forgive me. It’s good to see you.’

  ‘What was that about?’ I asked, as the boy scurried away.

  ‘It’s not important,’ he said, the redness in his face already subsiding. ‘You’ve heard that Lord Guillaume is expecting you?’

  ‘I’ve heard. Where can I find him?’

  ‘He’s been doing business in the tower this morning. I’ll take you to him.’

  He led me across the yard, past the tents of the men who garrisoned the castle, past their smoking fires and the cooking-pots hung over them. In one a stew was bubbling that smelt strongly of fish, and old fish at that. I wrinkled my nose as we hurried past. There was a gate between the bailey and the mound, but the men there clearly recognised the Englishman, for they did not stop us.

  From there a bridge took us across the ditch, and then only the mound stood before us, with a series of steps leading up to its summit, which was ringed with high wooden stakes. The tower itself stood in the middle, rising taller than anything else around, casting its shadow over the city.

  ‘How is your leg faring?’ the chaplain asked, glancing over his shoulder as w
e began the climb.

  ‘Better every day,’ I said. I was still carrying a slight limp, despite the many hours I had spent in training. But in all it had much improved since I had first climbed from my bed a week before. ‘There’s a little pain still, but not much.’

  Ælfwold nodded. ‘Let me know if you are in need of anything that might ease it. My own knowledge of herbs is limited, but some of the brothers at the monastery may be able to help.’

  ‘Thank you, father,’ I said, though I was not sure that I wanted the attention of any more monks. And in every other respect I was feeling well.

  We had reached the top of the mound, and I could look down on the bailey below and on the men training, their blades flashing, their shouts and their laughter carrying on the wind. The castle, I saw, was bounded by water on all but its northern approach, standing as it did at the meeting-point of two rivers: the Use, which led to the Humbre and the sea; and another, the name of which I did not know.

  The retainers standing guard at the door let us pass, and then we entered into a large chamber, lit only by thin slits of windows on the south wall.

  ‘I’ll see if he’s ready to see you,’ the chaplain said. ‘Wait here.’

  I gazed about at the chamber. There were no hangings on the wall, nor embellishment of any kind, only a long table and two iron braziers, at that time empty and unlit. But then this was not a palace but a stronghold.

  The priest returned in short order to show me through to Malet’s chambers, where he left me. The doors lay open. Inside the vicomte stood poring over a large parchment sheet spread out across a table.

  ‘Enter,’ he said without turning his gaze towards me.

  I did so, closing the doors behind me. Motes of dust floated and danced in the light from the window: a slit of horn scraped thinly so as to let in the sun yet keep out the wind. On the table, beside the parchment, stood a candle, while in the hearth the remains of a fire smouldered away. A great curtain hung across the width of the room, presumably to divide the sleeping area from that intended for studying. Even accounting for what lay on the other side, it was not a large space, although these were probably not the main chambers; more likely they had been rooms intended for guests of Lord Richard, when he was alive.

  ‘My lord,’ I said. ‘I heard that you wished to speak with me.’

  He looked up. ‘Tancred a Dinant,’ he said, with a smile so faint it was almost imperceptible. ‘Indeed I did. Come, look at this.’

  He beckoned me across and stood to one side as he gestured towards the parchment. The ends were furled behind holding-stones, and he moved them back. The sheet was filled with sketches in black ink, of arches and buttresses, pillars, vaults and towers, annotated in a careful hand with measurements of each and every part.

  ‘Plans for the refoundation of St Peter’s cathedral here in the city,’ Malet explained, as he traced his finger along the lines. ‘Our king is most anxious that the kingdom’s churches should reflect the glory of God, and is worried that the present minster is lacking. I had these drawn up last autumn.’

  ‘It is impressive,’ I said, for it was, even to one like myself who knew little of such things. From the measurements I could see that it would be a work of staggering ambition and size: more than one hundred paces in length, and as much as thirty-five from its base to the top of its tower. It would be like nothing I had ever seen. I could scarcely begin to imagine how many artisans, how many labourers, would be needed to build such a thing – nor the thousands of pounds in silver that it would surely cost.

  ‘It is my hope that it will rival even the great church at Westmynstre,’ Malet said. ‘Consider the honour that such an edifice would confer upon this city – not to mention upon the man responsible for overseeing the work.’ He sighed deeply, removing the holding-stones and rolling the parchment into a neat scroll, which he tied with a leather thong. ‘I’d hoped that construction might begin before the spring, but as long as the rebels are marching, it will have to be postponed.’

  He placed the scroll down on the desk. ‘But that’s not why I have called you here.’

  ‘No, lord,’ I said, relieved that he was coming to the business at hand. He had called me here because he sought an answer from me, though even now I was not sure what I was going to say.

  He gestured towards a stool. I sat down as he pulled across another from beside the hearth.

  ‘You will recall our meeting some days ago,’ he said, seating himself also. ‘No doubt you’ll also recall the proposition that I held out to you then.’

  ‘I do,’ I replied.

  He studied me from beneath his heavy eyebrows. ‘As I am sure you’re aware, events are moving rapidly, and for that reason it is now a different thing that I wish to ask of you, Tancred. I have a task for you.’

  ‘What is it, lord?’ I asked.

  ‘It is a task with two parts,’ Malet said, ‘the first of which is this. There is a chance – a small one, to be certain, but a chance nonetheless – that if the rebels march on Eoferwic then both the city and this castle might fall. To prepare for such an eventuality, I would have you escort my wife, Elise, and my daughter, Beatrice, to the safety of my townhouse in Lundene.’

  Beatrice. I thought back to the other day, when she had approached me out in the training yard, remembering the way she had kept following me, her ceaseless questions. I didn’t know what to make of her: for all that made her attractive, she still seemed to me rather cold. I wondered whether her mother, Malet’s wife, was anything like her.

  ‘And the second part?’ I asked. It was a fair distance from Eoferwic to Lundene, but thus far it did not sound like a difficult undertaking.

  ‘The second part is to help deliver a message for me.’

  ‘A message?’ I asked, taken aback. I had served Lord Robert for almost twelve years; under his command I had fought more battles than I had ever cared to count. I was a man of the sword, not a mere errand-boy.

  Malet looked back at me, his face stern. ‘A message,’ he repeated.

  I remembered whom I was speaking to, and tried to hold my temper. ‘Surely, lord,’ I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘you must have other men who are better suited to such a task.’

  ‘This is no small matter,’ the vicomte said. ‘I will be placing it in the charge of my chaplain, Ælfwold, with whom I believe you are already well acquainted. There is no one I trust more than him. But these are unsettled times, and the roads in winter can often prove dangerous. I cannot leave anything to chance with this, which is why I want you to accompany him and ensure that it is de livered safely to the abbey at Wiltune.’

  Wiltune was in the very south of the kingdom: a long way indeed from Eoferwic, perhaps as much as two hundred miles, and easily more if we were to stop in Lundene first.

  ‘I will send with you five of my household knights,’ he went on. ‘They are to go with you the whole way and will follow your orders.’ He paused, and when he spoke again it was with a softer tone to his voice. ‘I’ve heard much about your judgement and your ability, but I know also that you are a man with great experience. For these and other reasons I believe that you are the best person to entrust this task to. I know how faithfully you served Robert de Commines in his time, and I trust that you would do the same for me.’

  He was certainly being generous with his praise, considering that he had not met me until just a few days before. And yet somehow I could not help but feel that there was more to his offer than this. For why would he tell me so much, knowing that I might not accept?

  I felt the weight of his gaze upon me, but I held it with my own. ‘And what if I decline, lord?’

  ‘Naturally you have that choice. However, I believe you are an honourable man who pays his debts. Remember that while you have been recovering I have provided you with both shelter and victuals.’

  I said nothing, as I realised what he meant. I owed him for the favours he had done me. And I saw that this was no ordinary debt, either: some migh
t have said that I even owed him my life, since had it not been for the healing I had received under his roof, there was every chance that I might now be dead. The thought chilled me, and I did not linger on it. But I knew he was right. I could not ignore this debt.

  ‘I ask only for this one thing,’ Malet said. ‘Do this for me and you may consider yourself free of any further obligation. Should you decline, on the other hand, I will merely seek repayment by some other means.’

  I considered. I had little money left to me, save for what I might gain from selling my mail and the silver cross I carried, neither of which I wanted to part with. My coin-pouch I would never see again, for I had placed it in Oswynn’s hands when I had left her in Dunholm. But I sensed that it was not silver that Malet was concerned with, even if I had enough to pay him. More likely what he meant was that he would demand a longer term of service from me – a year, perhaps, or more – and that I was not ready to give. It seemed, then, that I had no other choice.

  ‘What of my comrades, Wace and Eudo?’ I said. ‘I owe them a debt too.’

  ‘They were the two who brought you here?’ But Malet was voicing his thoughts rather than asking me the question, and he didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Their loyalty to you is clear. And I believe I have met Wace de Douvres before, at the king’s council last Easter. He seemed a thoroughly capable man, and Robert spoke well of him, too.’

  He sat for a moment, as if considering, then he looked at me. ‘If they are willing to accompany you, then I would gladly have them serve me. I will make sure that they are rewarded well for their troubles. But I must have their answers, and yours, by dusk. I intend for you to leave tomorrow, by noon at the latest.’

  I nodded. So I had but a few hours to make my choice; a few hours to speak with the others and then return. I rose from my stool and made towards the door.