A boy of about fourteen or fifteen emerged. Tall and wiry, he wore a brown cap on his head and a sullen expression on his face. His tunic and trews were marked with dirt and there was hay in his hair. Wigod placed a hand on his shoulder and said something quietly in English, before following the chaplain and the ladies inside.
‘Whatever news he has, I’m guessing it’s not good,’ Wace murmured.
‘We’ll see,’ I said, although I’d had the same feeling. ‘If it were so bad, wouldn’t he have told us straightaway?’
Wace shrugged. Osric took the reins of the chaplain’s mount while Philippe and Godefroi took those of the two ladies, and we followed him around the side of the hall, alongside the brook and into a wide courtyard bounded by a picket fence.
‘Here we are, then,’ said Eudo. ‘In Lundene again.’
‘Enjoy it while you can,’ I replied. ‘We might not be staying here long.’ The fact that we had been travelling a whole week would likely count for nothing with Ælfwold; I suspected that the priest would want us on the road again before long. So far he hadn’t said anything more regarding the message he carried, or the person for whom it was intended. I had asked him more than once while we had been on the road; each time, however, he had refused to answer. It made me uncomfortable, for it meant that although we were soon to be on our way, I was no wiser as to exactly why.
‘I might ride over to Sudwerca tonight, if I’m to see Censwith before we go,’ Eudo said.
I grinned. ‘You’re nothing if not loyal.’
‘Sudwerca?’ Radulf put in. ‘You know there are far better whorehouses this side of the river, don’t you?’
Eudo turned to face him. ‘And what would you know of whores, whelp? I’d wager you’ve not so much as seen a naked woman in your life.’
Radulf smiled sarcastically. ‘More times than you could count.’
‘He means women other than your sister,’ Godefroi said.
I laughed with the others; Radulf’s eyes narrowed and he sneered at Godefroi, who stared back, impassive.
We were led to the stables, where Osric showed us the stalls, then left us while we removed the packs from our saddles and untacked the animals. They had worked hard these last few days with little by way of reward. I hoped we would be able to obtain fresh horses for the next part of our journey; it seemed that Malet or members of his household owned several, including four fine-looking destriers, of which one, a black, reminded me of Rollo. Two stable-hands were at work, scrubbing down their coats and brushing out their manes.
Osric returned shortly, bearing water-pails and sacks of grain, with bundles of fresh hay under his arms, and as soon as we had finished seeing to the animals, led us back across the courtyard in the fading light, into the hall. He said nothing the whole time: not even to the stable-hands who I presumed shared the same tongue.
It was dark inside; there were no windows and the walls were hung with leather drapes to keep out draughts. The hearth-fire, recently stoked with fresh wood, was crackling, hissing with white smoke. Ælfwold and Wigod sat on stools at a low round table beside it, with a pitcher and cups and the smell of mead thick in the air around them. The ladies were not to be seen and I presumed that they had – for now at least – retired to their rooms.
Wigod looked up as we entered. ‘Welcome,’ he said to us, before muttering some words to Osric in their own tongue.
The boy grunted and slunk away, out of the door we had come in.
‘My apologies for his manners,’ the steward said.
‘He doesn’t say much,’ I observed, sitting down on one of the stools that had been set out for us.
‘He doesn’t say anything, though he understands well enough. Don’t worry about him; he may be dumb and none too bright either, but he works hard and that’s why I keep him on.’ He poured out six cups of mead from the pitcher and then took a sip from his own. ‘I hear your journey was eventful.’
‘Ælfwold has told you what happened out on the river, then.’
‘I only wish I’d been there to witness it.’
I looked at him sternly. ‘If you had, you wouldn’t be saying that.’ Even though in the end we had come through mostly unharmed, I hadn’t forgotten how close it had been. ‘What word has there been?’
The steward leant closer. ‘Little that will be easy to hear, I am afraid,’ he said. ‘About four days ago it became known that an army had gathered outside Eoferwic and was laying siege to it. Shortly thereafter we heard of a rising by the townsmen.’ He sighed. ‘And then yesterday came the news that the rebels had taken the city.’
‘Taken the city?’ I had known it was possible and yet at the same time found it hard to believe. Malet’s doubts had been well founded, it seemed.
‘It is so,’ Wigod said. ‘Close to dawn last Monday a band of townsmen managed to seize control of one of the gates. They killed the knights who were there on guard and opened the city to the rebels, who swept into the town.’
‘Was there no resistance?’ Wace asked.
‘Lord Guillaume rode out from the castle with more than a hundred knights,’ Wigod said. ‘He tried to head them off, and succeeded in killing a good many of them too. But even as he did so, a fleet of more than a dozen ships had appeared from downriver.’
‘The fleet we saw,’ Eudo muttered.
‘Most probably,’ Wigod said. ‘They landed and attacked Lord Guillaume’s conroi in the rear. He was forced to retreat to the castle, along with Lord Gilbert and what remained of their host. It is thought that in all as many as three hundred Normans were killed.’
I cursed under my breath. The loss of three hundred men would be hard for the defenders to bear.
‘There is more,’ the steward said. ‘Already it seems Eadgar’s own men are proclaiming him king – and not just of Northumbria, but of the whole of England.’
I shook my head; events were moving too fast. It was a matter of weeks, after all, since we had ridden victorious into Dunholm. How could things have changed so much since then?
‘What’s happening now?’ I asked.
‘The king is raising a relief force to march north as soon as possible. His writ has gone out to all his vassals around Lundene and along the north road. There is even talk that he may try to muster the fyrd, as he did last year when he marched upon Execestre.’
‘The fyrd?’ said Philippe.
‘The English levy,’ Ælfwold explained, ‘raised according to shire by the thegns – the local lords – from the men who dwell on their lands.’
‘A peasant rabble,’ I said. In my experience most of the men who made it up could hardly even hold a spear, let alone kill with one. They were farmers, accustomed only to tilling the soil and sowing their crops.
‘Would they march against their own kinsmen?’ Philippe asked.
‘They did at Execestre,’ Eudo answered.
‘The town submitted shortly after we laid it siege,’ Wace pointed out. ‘They didn’t have to fight.’
‘But they would have, had they been called to,’ the steward said. ‘As they will fight any who rise against their lawfully crowned king.’
‘Times have changed,’ Ælfwold added. ‘King Eadward is dead and Harold too. The men of the south understand this; they hold no desire to see Eadgar Ætheling as king in place of Guillaume.’
‘You can’t be sure of that,’ I said. The chaplain had been close to Malet for many years, and I could well believe that for him – as perhaps for Wigod, too – the ties of lordship took precedence over any allegiance he might owe his countrymen. I myself knew how powerful such ties could be, having served Lord Robert through a dozen campaigns. But I was sure that most Englishmen wouldn’t share their sentiments. For although over time they had learnt to live with us, I could not bring myself to believe that they would not rather have one of their own race as king. These were, after all, the same people who little more than two years ago had stood in their thousands against King Guillaume; who had fought under the banner
of the usurper at Hæstinges.
‘In their eyes Eadgar is a foreigner,’ Ælfwold said. ‘He was born and raised in lands far from here; only indirectly is he of the old royal stock. They have no love for him – no more, at any rate, than they do for King Guillaume.’
‘The hearts of the people are fickle, though,’ Eudo put in. ‘If Eadgar holds Eoferwic and the king’s army fails to drive him out, they may start to think differently.’
I sipped at the mead in my cup, but it tasted sickly and I swallowed it fast. ‘How many men does the king have with him in Lundene?’ I asked the steward.
‘Around three hundred knights, and perhaps as many as five hundred foot,’ he replied. ‘More of course will join them as they travel north.’
‘Remember it’s winter,’ Wace said. ‘The king might call on his barons but at this time of year they’re unlikely to be ready to fight. It’ll take time for them all to gather.’
He looked towards me. I was reminded of our conversation back on the Wyvern, and wondered again how long Malet would be able to hold out in the castle. And how long could the king afford to delay, if he was going to arrive in time to relieve him?
‘He’ll need every man he can gather if he’s to retake Eoferwic,’ Eudo said. ‘We’re needed there more than we are here.’
My sword-arm itched as I thought of the Northumbrian host waiting for us in Eoferwic: of Eadgar Ætheling, who had murdered Oswynn, murdered our lord. But at the same time I knew that my oath would not be discharged until I had seen Ælfwold safely to Wiltune with his message, whatever it was.
‘We have our duty to Malet,’ I said.
‘Indeed we do,’ the chaplain said, as he glanced at each of the other knights in turn. ‘Lest you all forget.’
‘But he couldn’t have known when we left that he’d soon have another thousand men at his gates,’ Eudo said. ‘He couldn’t have known the danger.’
I looked at Wigod. ‘How long will it take us to ride to Wiltune from here?’
‘Wiltune?’ he asked. ‘Why do you want to go there?’
‘It’s not important why,’ Ælfwold said. ‘All that matters is that we get there safely.’
Wigod looked first at him, then at me, plainly puzzled. ‘At a steady pace, I should think no more than three days.’
‘So if we left tomorrow, we could be back here in Lundene within the week,’ I said.
‘It is possible, yes,’ said the steward. ‘It will probably take that long for the king to ready his forces. And even if they had gone by the time you returned, you would still catch them on the road north.’
‘In that case we leave tomorrow morning,’ Ælfwold said.
I lifted my mead-cup and drained what was left; the liquid rolled off my tongue, sliding down my throat, and I tried not to grimace at the taste for fear of offending the steward.
I placed the empty vessel down upon the table. ‘To Wiltune, then.’
Nineteen
IT WAS LONG past dark and the house lay cold and silent. The fire in the hearth had dwindled since earlier but nonetheless remained smouldering, the undersides of the logs still glimmering a faint orange. Every so often a finger of flame would rise up and lick over them, and I would feel a flicker of comfort as the warmth played across my face. Out in the street a dog began yapping, only to be silenced by a man’s shouts. Otherwise all was still.
I sat before the hearth on one of the low stools, sword in hand as I scraped a whetstone along its edge, firmly enough to sharpen it, yet not so loud that I would wake the others lying on the floor behind me. Wigod and Ælfwold had long since retired to their rooms, leaving the six of us to bed down on rushes in the hall. It was no less than I was used to, and I had hoped that so many days spent in the saddle would have more than tired me, but instead I had found myself unable to sleep – and not for the first time of late. My mind kept returning to the river and the chase, and Malet in Eoferwic, and myself here, bound by this duty I had to him and yet unable to do anything to help. And so even though we had hardly been in Lundene half a day, I was already eager to be on the road again, for the sooner we were in Wiltune to deliver whatever message it was the vicomte had sent, the sooner we might be back.
How long I’d been sitting there I didn’t know; it could have been hours. I drew the whetstone up the length of the blade one last time, then I set it down upon the paved floor and turned the sword in my wrist, examining its edge. It gleamed in the firelight, keen enough to slice through flesh and even bone. Lightly I put my fingertip to its point, just to test its sharpness for myself. At first it was like touching ice, but then I felt warm liquid oozing forth and I lifted away, watching the blood run down and drip once, twice on to the floor. There was no pain.
I wiped my finger on the leg of my braies and sucked at it to clear away the rest of the blood, then held the flat of the weapon up to the fire. The dim light showed up well the pattern in the metal where the swordsmith had twisted and welded together the iron rods from which the blade was fashioned. Swirls and lines ran the length of the blade, decorating the fuller, the narrow channel which ran down the blade’s centre, into which, I saw for the first time, some words had been inlaid. ‘VVLFRIDVS ME FECIT’, it read, in what appeared to be silver. Wulfrid made me. I turned the sword over, to see if the reverse bore a similar legend. Often the swordsmith would inscribe, as well as his own name, a phrase from the Bible or the readings for Mass, ‘IN NOMINE DOMINI’ or something similar. And more often than not it would be misspelt, but then those who made the engravings were not men of letters. But there was no inscription here, only a single small cross roughly halfway up.
How I longed to find such words then, and the small solace that they might provide. I could have talked to Ælfwold, I supposed, but ever since that night in the woods it seemed he had grown more distant. Nor did I like the fact that he was withholding information from me, whom his lord had placed in charge of this party. Though I could not force him to tell me, it troubled me that he could not entrust me with such things. For how then could I trust him enough to speak about matters so close to my soul?
Even if I did, however, I knew he would not understand, not truly. Priests never could.
I picked the scabbard up off the rushes beside me and slid the sword back into it, glancing back over my shoulder to make sure that I hadn’t woken any of the others. All were soundly asleep. Even Eudo, after hearing the news from Eoferwic, had decided he was no longer in the mood to see Censwith that night and was now snoring gently.
I removed the chain that held the little silver cross from around my neck and sat for a while, staring at the tarnished metal shining in the firelight. I’d had it so long that I no longer knew exactly when or where I had acquired it. All I remembered was the bearded face of the man I had taken it from, with his broken nose, his eyes and mouth wide open in death, and the sounds of slaughter ringing out across the field of battle. It had failed to protect that man from his fate; why I thought it might aid me I had no idea. True, it had served me well enough thus far, but for how much longer?
I had come close to death at Dunholm, and again in the days after; I had the scars to prove it. Had it not been for the help of my friends, I would now be dead and – the thought made me cold – most likely gone to hell. For though I’d tried in my own way to serve the Lord as best I could, I knew that it might yet not be enough. Not after the life I had fled so long ago. The life that perhaps I was running from still.
Ever since I’d met Lord Robert all I had wanted was to bear arms, to be a warrior, and indeed I wanted it even now. It had been my life for a decade and more, in which time I had followed the hawk banner across the breadth of Christendom, from Normandy as far south as Italy and Sicily, and for the past two years in England. I had ridden to battle in summer and in winter, under scorching sun and the cold light of the moon. I had killed more men than I had ever cared to count, each one of them an enemy of my lord, each one of them an enemy of Christ. But it was half my lifetime since
I had been called to that task. Was Dunholm the sign that I was being called back?
The walls felt close around me and I found my palms damp with sweat. I needed space, and to feel the chill of the night air. I replaced the chain around my neck, rose from my stool and fastened my sword-belt to my waist. Even in Lundene, one could never be too careful in these times, especially after dark. I stepped between the sleeping forms of the other men, across the rushes to where I had made my own bed on the floor. I lifted my cloak and shrugged it on, then made for the door.
Outside it was snowing, a few light flakes which melted the instant they touched my skin. There was no wind to speak of and they fell gently through the air, spiralling, dancing about each other.
A small timber bridge spanned the black waters of the Walebroc, but it was too chill to be standing in one place, and so I did not stop there. Instead I walked on down Wæclinga stræt, towards the river Temes, letting my feet take me where they would. The ground lay hard beneath them. Where during the day mud had lain thick and soft across the road, now it was solid; where water had pooled in its many ruts and holes, now there was ice. Already the snow was beginning to settle: a white dusting across the thatch of the houses and on the branches of the trees. The street was silent, as empty of people as the skies were of stars. The moon was new, too, and I regretted not having brought a torch, but then I wouldn’t be going far.
I came to the end of Wæclinga stræt and gazed down towards the bridge, its tall stone piers rising out of the water, defying the current. Across the swollen blackness of the river there was firelight still. While Lundene slept, Sudwerca plied its trade.
Turning, I began the climb up the road towards St Æthelburg’s convent and the Bisceopesgeat, both buildings hidden from sight by the snow, which was starting to fall more heavily, swirling about me in great clouds. I crunched my way over the frozen surface of a puddle, not realising how deep it was. I cursed as icy water gushed into my boots and the hem of my trews stuck, soaked, to my skin.
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