I shivered and trudged onwards, up the hill in the direction of the church dedicated to the martyr St Eadmund, who had been king in these parts in the days when England was more than one kingdom, who was brutally slain by the Danes raiding his lands. So I recalled from my studies, at least: I could picture in my mind the richly decorated leaves of parchment, and my own trembling hand as I copied out the letters by candlelight, inscribing them upon my wax tablet. And I could see all too plainly the stern face of Brother Raimond watching over me, waiting for me to err. How easily such things came back to me, even after so many years.
Of course, in King Eadmund’s time, the Danes were still pagans and enemies of the English. Now they claimed to be Christians and the two peoples were sometimes hard to tell apart, so alike were their customs and their tongues, so completely had they interbred in the years since. But though they might have changed their faith, they had not yet changed their warlike ways. Indeed, if the stories from Denmark were true, we would have to contend with them yet for the right to possess England.
The stone tower of the church rose over the houses on my left, lit by a flickering orange glow. A glow like torchlight. I stopped, surprised, for torches meant people, and I had not expected to find anyone else out in the city this night – especially not at this hour.
There were voices, too. I moved into the shadows, close by the houses. Two roads met here: the first going down from Bisceopesgeat to the bridge; the second running in the same direction as the river. I edged closer to the corner, where, abutting the wall of the house, was piled a great mound of manure.
There were two of them, standing under the branches of an old oak tree by the eastern end of the church, about fifty paces from me. One was a priest, if the black robes he wore were any indication. He was short of stature, with a round face and ears that stuck out from the side of his bald head. Even in the dim light I could make out the ruddy complexion of his cheeks. Beside him a grey horse stood patiently, waiting.
The other man had his back to me, but from the manner of his dress and the length of his hair I knew him instantly for an Englishman, and not just any Englishman.
Ælfwold.
I could not see his face but I was sure it was him. It was there in his stance, the broadness of his shoulders, the grey of his hair. But I had been in the hall, close to the door, all night. How could he have gone out without me noticing? Unless there was a back entrance to the house out of which he might have slipped, though I had not seen one.
Ælfwold handed the priest a leather pouch, about the same size as the one he used to carry his coin. I tried to make out what they were saying, but could not. Then I heard hooves and the clink of mail, and I shrank back, crouching low behind the mound. The stink of shit filled my nose as a knight rode up to the priest.
‘Dominus tecum in itinere,’ Ælfwold said to the priest, who was mounting up, and then he nodded to the knight.
I retreated as far as I could back into the shadows, watching them as the knight and the bald-headed man rode not ten paces in front of me, turning up towards the Bisceopesgeat. I looked back towards the church, to where Ælfwold had been standing, and saw him hurrying away from me, up the road. I rose, meaning to follow him—
Cold steel pressed against my neck.
‘Say a word and I will kill you,’ a voice said from behind me.
I felt warm breath on the side of my face. All I could see was the blade and the hand holding it. I tried to turn my head but straightaway the knife was drawn closer and I swallowed, feeling the sharp edge press against my skin.
‘Don’t turn around.’ The voice was gruff and spoke with a tone of conviction, and I knew he meant what he said. ‘Take off your sword.’ He spoke French well, I noticed, without any accent that I could discern. ‘Slowly,’ he added.
I did as I was asked, undoing the iron buckle and letting the sword-belt fall to the ground beside me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him extend a foot, using his heel to kick the scabbard back towards him.
‘Now, on your knees.’
I did not move, trying to work out how I might escape. Who was this man?
The blade pressed tighter. ‘On your knees,’ the voice repeated.
I had little choice, I realised, and so did as he said. The ground here was still soft, and the water standing on its surface made it slightly slippery. The knife remained at my neck; a hand clamped down on my shoulder.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Fulcher,’ I said, after a moment’s hesitation. I only hoped it was not a moment too long. ‘Fulcher fitz Jean.’ I was not going to give him my real name, and my old friend’s was the first that came into my head.
‘Whom do you serve?’
My mind raced. I did not dare mention Malet’s name after lying about my own. ‘Ivo de Sartilly,’ I said. ‘The lord of Suthferebi,’ I added, as if to bear it out.
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ the voice said. ‘Or this place Suthferebi. He sent you here?’
I was not sure whether that meant he did not believe me. ‘He did.’ How far I could go with this ruse I did not know.
The man grunted. ‘Then he is a fool. As are you for serving him.’
I did not know what to say, and so I said nothing.
‘Who else knows?’
‘Knows what?’ I asked. It was a stupid response, likely to anger him more than anything else, but I needed time if I was going to think of a way out, and I had no answer that was more sensible. And what did he mean, in any case?
‘Don’t play games with me,’ he warned, speaking directly into my ear. ‘Ivo de Sartilly and who else?’
‘Would you spare me if I told you?’ I asked.
He laughed, and at that moment I jerked my head back, connecting with some part of his face, as I threw my whole body backwards. The knife-blade followed, flashing across my cheek, but I did not feel it as I twisted and threw myself at the man’s legs. Cursing, he fell forward, across me, and I heard the thump as he hit the ground. I scrambled forward over the ground to reach my scabbard, just as I heard him rise and draw his own sword free. I tugged my blade from its sheath; it slid out quickly and I turned to face him, still on my back, sword raised above my face.
‘Bastard,’ he said as he towered over me, and I saw his face for the first time. Blood streamed from his mouth and his eyes were full of hate. He wore mail, but had neither helmet or coif to protect his head, and I saw from the cut of his hair what I had suspected from hearing his voice. He was a Norman.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ he said, and he came at me, raining blows wildly. I parried the first, but his sword-edge came perilously close to my face, and so I rolled away from the second, and again from the third, his blade coming crashing down each time inches from where I lay. He lifted his weapon too high for the fourth and I saw an opening, driving my sword up towards his groin, but I missed, managing only a glancing blow on his chausses. He stumbled back out of sword-reach, for a heartbeat looking as though he might fall to the mud again. He did not, but it gave me time to get to my feet.
‘You’ll pay,’ he said, wiping some of the blood from his face. ‘As will your lord.’
I stared silently back at him, wielding my sword before me. His prominent chin was unshaven, and his eyes were deep-set, with an ugly scar above his left. In all he looked perhaps five years older than myself.
He lunged forward, aiming for my chest. I took his sword on my own, quickly stepping around to my right, hoping to kick or trip him from behind, but I was not quick enough, for he had already turned by the time I was ready.
He gave a sarcastic smile. ‘You fight well, Fulcher fitz Jean,’ he said, and he stepped forward, feinting with his sword, tempting me into an attack, but I was well used to such tactics and refused to be drawn in. We circled about, watching each other intently.
He lunged again. Perhaps he thought that his feints had put me off my guard, but I had seen it coming and was ready this time, again stepping rig
ht and this time thrusting my boot out, hooking it around his leg. He stumbled forwards and went down with a cry.
I hesitated, thinking to finish him off, but he was already rolling on to his back, his sword raised and ready to face me, and I knew that I would be hard pressed to find the killing blow. He had mail and I had none, and it was I who was the more likely to die than he, if this continued much longer. My scabbard lay at the side of the street, in the mud, and I knew I had no time to pick it up and sheathe my blade, but neither could I run well with a sword in my hand.
I ran – while my opponent was still on the ground, while I still could – dropping the blade and taking off back down towards the bridge. I didn’t know where I was going, only that going straight back to Malet’s townhouse would be foolish, since if the knight followed me, then he would know I was not who I said.
I heard cursing and glanced behind to see him getting to his feet, giving chase. The weight of his hauberk would slow him down, but I could not rely on that alone and so I pounded on down the hill, through the snow which filled the air, ducking left across the cobbles of the market street, and then straightaway right, into a side alley between two low-gabled houses, hoping to lose him. The river was ahead, and the wharves; the shadows of the ships rose before me.
I came out on to the riverfront, on to the packed earth and wooden planking of the quay. Above my own breathing and the beating of my heart I heard the clink of mail and heavy footsteps following.
‘This way!’ the man shouted. I heard hooves, and understood that there was more than one of them chasing me.
Only one other street led up from the quay, and I could have run on, but it was clear that I could not outpace a man on horseback. There were a number of long sheds along the wharf, and I briefly considered hiding in one of them, but I would have to break in and it would then be obvious where I was. Of course there were the ships too, but I spotted figures asleep on the decks; often shipmasters would leave a part of their crew sleeping on board to ensure the vessels and their goods were not stolen, and I could not afford to wake them.
The sound of hooves grew louder. I ran to the far western end of the quay, closest to the bridge, where two ships were moored closely together, then, bracing myself for the cold, I slipped down between them, off the side.
I gasped in shock as I slid into the water. It was far colder than I had thought possible and immediately I was struggling to keep my head above the surface, to free myself from the thick cloak, which was weighing me down; but I knew if I made too much noise they would spot me and all would be lost.
There was a slight gap between the quayside and the ships’ hulls, and it was through this gap that I saw them now. There were two of them: the man I had been fighting and another, mounted, whose face was in shadow. Both were looking around and I was sure it would not be long before one of them would see me. I almost prayed they would, for the cold was seeping into my arms and legs; I could feel them tiring already and I knew I would not be able to stay in the water for long.
‘He’s gone,’ said the one on horseback. His was a deeper voice.
‘Bastard,’ said the other.
They disappeared from view, moving on down the quay, still speaking.
‘Have you seen anyone come this way?’ I heard the mounted one call.
‘Not tonight, my friend.’ One of the ship-men, perhaps.
The man on the horse cursed, and I heard the two knights talking to each other though the words were no longer distinct. I kept as still as I could; there was a little ridge of rock where I could put my feet. All feeling in my hands and arms was gone, and I found myself gasping, as if the cold had stolen all the air from my chest. The black water lapped around my chin, some of it finding its way up and into my open mouth, and I had to swallow it so as not to choke. I closed my eyes, willing the two men to leave.
It seemed like an eternity but eventually the voices ceased and distantly I heard hooves clattering on the planking, riding away. I could not delay, or else I was sure the waters would drag me down. I swam along the side of one of the ships to where there were steps set into the wharf, looking about to make sure that the two men had left.
There was no one. Clumsily, with hands that were all but numb, I managed to haul myself out of the river, dripping, shivering. Snow whirled about me. I spat on to the ground.
‘Hey! Who are you?’
I turned; it was one of the ship-men, standing at the stern of his vessel, holding a lantern. I ignored him and ran, clothes plastered against my skin, and I did not stop running until I reached the house.
Twenty
I BURST INTO the hall, sending the door crashing against the inside of the wall. The snow billowed around me as, shaking violently, I stumbled in. My breath caught in my chest. I hadn’t realised how far it was back from the wharves.
I closed the door fast against the outside and lifted the thick timber plank that rested against the wall. My arms protested, drained of all their strength, as I set the bar in place across the door. A large brass key rested in the lock and I tried to turn it, but there was little feeling in my fingers and it slipped from my grasp, falling with a dull clang on to the flagstone paving. I cursed out loud but did not stoop to pick it up, instead making my way straight to the hearth. There was a stack of firewood beside it; I picked up several of the smallest pieces, casting them liberally on to the embers, and huddled down on the stool in front of them. I needed fire. I needed warmth.
‘What’s going on?’
I looked over my shoulder as Eudo sat up, rubbing his eyes. I wondered what I must look like, wet and trembling by the fire, but only briefly, for the cold was seeping into my bones.
‘Fetch me a dry tunic,’ I said, my jaw quivering. ‘Braies and a cloak too.’
He saw me properly then and got quickly to his feet. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘First get me some dry clothes,’ I said, as I stripped off my tunic and undershirt and cast them on to the floor. A few tiny flames began to lick at the dry wood I had added; I blew on them to encourage them, trying to will them larger as I tossed more pieces on. I gathered up some of the rushes from the floor in my arms and added them to the smouldering pile. They were dry and ought, I hoped, to burn easily.
Stepping over the sleeping forms of the other knights, Eudo went to where my pack lay beside the round table, and fumbled inside. Wace sat up, dazed and blinking, while the three younger men began to stir. Light appeared, bobbing down the stairs. It was the steward, a candle in his hand.
‘I heard noise,’ he said, frowning. His bald pate gleamed in the firelight. ‘Is everything all right?’
I rose from the stool as Eudo brought me my spare clothes, and his own cloak. ‘I was set upon,’ I said. ‘In the streets by St Eadmund’s church.’
The steward stopped where he was, clearly confused by my appearance, as he looked me up and down. ‘You were—?’
I pulled the dry tunic over my head. ‘I was attacked. By another knight.’ I belted up the cloak while I waited for the impact of that to settle. ‘A Frenchman,’ I added.
‘A Frenchman?’ Wace asked, through the middle of a yawn.
‘You must have been mistaken,’ Eudo said.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I saw him. I heard him speak.’
Eudo shook his head. ‘Why would a fellow Frenchman attack you? Especially in the king’s own city.’
‘It’s the truth,’ I said, and turned away as I unlaced my wet braies, letting them fall to the floor. The air was cold against my bare skin, and I hastily tugged on the dry pair. Straightaway I imagined I could feel the heat returning to my legs, the blood beginning to course through them once more.
I turned to the steward even as I finished lacing the braies up. ‘Where’s Ælfwold?’ I asked him.
‘Asleep in his room, I should think,’ Wigod said.
‘Are you sure?’
The steward looked at me, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
If Ælfwold was mi
ssing, then I could be almost sure that it was him I had seen with the priest. ‘Wake him,’ I said.
‘Why, are you hurt?’
After everything that had followed, I had all but forgotten about the fight and the blow I had taken to the cheek. I pressed a hand to it; my fingers came away warm and smeared with crimson, but I was too numb to feel any pain.
‘Just bring him here,’ I said.
While Wigod hurried away to find the chaplain, I related to the rest what had happened: how I had been unable to sleep and had gone for a walk to clear my head; how suddenly I had found a knife at my throat; how I had managed to fight off my attacker; how I was chased down to the wharves; how I’d had to jump into the river to evade them. I did not mention anything about the two men I had seen speaking by the church, or that one of them I had thought to be Ælfwold; on that matter I wanted to confront him in person.
Besides, now that I had sat down and my heart was no longer beating quite so fast, I found that doubts were beginning to form in my mind. After all, it had been dark and I was tired; the man had had his back to me and I hadn’t been able to see clearly through the snow.
‘What did your attacker look like?’ Eudo asked.
‘He was tall, with a scar above his left eye,’ I said. ‘His hair was cut in the Norman style; in all he looked about five years older than me.’ I ran my finger across my cheek again. The flesh stung this time and I winced. ‘He was a good fighter, too.’
‘And what about the other – the one on horseback?’
I shook my head. ‘I didn’t see him well enough.’
There were footsteps on the staircase and the steward returned, this time with two servants. One of them was Osric, the other a boy I had not seen before, shorter and, it appeared, younger, with dark hair that was a tangle of curls.
‘He’ll be with us shortly,’ Wigod said, which surprised me a little, as I had thought he would have found the chaplain missing. But on the other hand I had been gone some while; he would have been able to return to the house long before me. I felt my heart begin to pound; at least I would have the chance to challenge him in person. I wanted an explanation.
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