The two boys saw to the fire, and soon it was burning fiercely again, though a chill had taken hold of my body and I realised I was still shivering. Osric went and came back in with two iron pails filled with water, which he suspended on the spit over the flames.
‘Bring me some food,’ I said to him.
He looked back at me with a blank expression on his face, and I recalled that he did not speak French. I looked to Wigod despairingly.
‘Breng him mete and drync,’ the steward said loudly. Osric grunted and hurried away through a door at the end of the hall.
‘Do you know why he attacked you?’ Wace asked.
I shrugged, though it was clear to me that whatever business the two churchmen had had, they had not meant it to be witnessed by anyone else. The two knights had to be in the pay of one of them. I couldn’t think of any other explanation which made sense.
‘He might have been drunk,’ I suggested, though I was fairly sure that he was not.
Wace frowned, his good eye narrowing, the other all but closing, so that if I hadn’t known better I might have thought he were winking at me. ‘Did you provoke him?’ he asked.
‘Provoke him?’ I choked off a laugh. ‘I didn’t even see him.’ That at least was true enough. ‘The first I knew of him was his knife at my throat—’
Ælfwold emerged from upstairs and I broke off. I rose sharply from my stool – too sharply, for a sudden dizziness overtook me. My feet felt uncertain of their grounding and I had to put a hand out against one of the hall’s wooden pillars to steady myself.
The chaplain was dressed in the same tunic and trews he had worn on the road; his hair was loose and stuck up in tufts from his head. ‘What’s the matter?’ He looked at me and stopped, and he must have noticed my cheek for a look of concern spread over his face. ‘You’re wounded,’ he said.
‘I was attacked,’ I said flatly. ‘Tonight, by St Eadmund’s church.’ I watched him carefully, in case my mention of the place yielded a response, but his face did not so much as flicker.
‘Attacked?’ he asked.
I did not reply, still trying to determine from his expression whether there was anything he might be concealing, but I found nothing.
‘By another knight,’ put in Eudo.
The chaplain’s eyes opened wide. ‘Is this true?’
‘It’s what I said, isn’t it?’ I asked.
‘Do you know who it was? The name of his lord?’
I stared back at him, searching. Either he was able to control himself far better than most men, or truly it had not been him. ‘No,’ I said eventually.
‘How did this happen?’
Osric came back in, carrying in one hand a wooden platter with bread and some kind of meat, and in the other an iron pot with an arched handle, which he hung over the hearth. He placed the platter down beside the stool; my stomach gave a low rumble, but I ignored it for the moment.
‘How it happened isn’t important,’ I said. A flash of pain ran through my cheek, and I put my hand to it.
‘Are you still bleeding?’ Ælfwold asked as he approached.
‘It’s nothing,’ I replied, stepping away from the wooden post and sitting back down on the stool. ‘No more than a scratch.’ If it wasn’t Ælfwold I had seen earlier, then who was it? Who had hired those men?
‘It looks deep. Let me see it.’ He squatted down beside me, digging out a small cloth from his pocket and raising it slowly up to my cheek.
‘It’s nothing!’ I repeated, wrenching away from him and towards the hearth.
He drew back, and from the look of sheer confusion that crossed his face I knew that it could not have been him. Anger flared up inside me and I felt suddenly foolish. I had thought to accuse a priest, a man of God and the Church, who had helped me recover after my fever only three weeks before. The same priest who was chaplain and confessor to the man who was now my lord.
The hall fell silent but for the water bubbling on the hearth and the crackling of the logs beneath. I felt the eyes of the others upon me, and wondered what they must be thinking.
‘It’s nothing,’ I said again, more quietly this time. I sat down again on the stool beside the fire, tore off a corner of the bread and dipped it into the broth heating in one of the iron pots. ‘I just need to eat, and then to rest. We have another few days’ travel ahead of us.’
I took a bite of the bread. The broth it was soaked in tasted of heavily salted fish, and while it was not especially pleasant, neither was it distasteful. It was warm and that was all I cared about, though perhaps the heat of my anger had done something to dispel the chill, for I found that I had stopped shivering. I ladled some more into a wooden bowl which Osric had brought, and lifted it to my lips, sipping it slowly.
‘We should send word straightaway to the town-reeve,’ said Wigod. ‘We could bring a plea before the hundred court.’
‘On what grounds?’ the chaplain replied. ‘There was no injury, short of a mark to the cheek.’
‘Disturbing the king’s peace,’ Wace offered. ‘Isn’t that reason enough?’
‘It would do no good,’ said Ælfwold. ‘Without at least a name to attach blame to, there can be no case.’
The steward sighed. ‘You’re right. And the court here in Lundene isn’t due to sit for another two weeks.’
‘By which time we’ll have gone north with the king’s army,’ I said, defeated. I was no closer to knowing who any of those men were, and indeed it seemed had no way of finding out.
‘I’ll go to the reeve in the morning,’ Wigod said, obviously sensing my frustration. ‘For whatever that might be worth.’
The hall began to empty not long after that, and one by one the other knights fell back asleep, until once more I was the only one left awake. I sat by the fire for a while longer, drawing out the last of the cold, for it had worked itself deep into my bones. The two servants had brought in more wood from the store outside and I added it to the hearth, keeping the flames roaring until my skin had dried completely. Eventually I let the fire be and I lay on my back upon the rushes, gazing at the whorls and splinters in the timber planks that made up the ceiling. My body ached and my limbs clamoured for rest, but my mind was still awake as I fingered the cross at my neck. I saw the fight clearly in my mind: every stroke of my blade, every parry, every thrust. It was then that I remembered I had left my sword behind. I was not going to fetch it then, however; that could wait until the day.
I had thought when we arrived in Lundene that in some small way I would be returning home. Now, though, I wanted nothing more than to be away from here.
Not far off, bells began to chime, marking the beginning of the matins service at one of the monasteries nearby. It could not have been much longer until I did manage to sleep, for in my dreams they were chiming also, and I was there with the monks in their cold stone church, and I was twelve years old again.
We’d hoped to set off for Wiltune at first light, but the snow fell heavily that night, so heavily that in the morning it came halfway to my knee: a blanket across the whole city and the countryside beyond, making it impossible to travel.
I walked on my own, crunching my way down Wæclinga stræt, retaking my steps from the night before. I had left the others at the house, including Ælfwold, who protested when he caught me slipping out unannounced. It was too cold to be out, he said; far better that I stayed inside, where the fire was warm and I could take the time to recover. But save for the scrape I had taken during the fight I was feeling fine, and in any case I was in no mind to listen to the chaplain. I needed the time to think.
What men of the church employed knights to serve as their personal guards? The one I’d thought looked like Ælfwold was English: that much had been clear from his appearance. As for the priest in the black robes, I could not be sure, although if he was from Normandy then it was more likely that he was the one who had hired them, for few Frenchmen I knew would choose to serve an English lord.
Then again, these
were no doubt men who made their living through selling their swords, without thought or scruple. Many such had at one time been oath-breakers, little better than murderers, since by severing those ties – the only things that bound people together – they had defied the natural order. Such men never questioned whom they served or for what purpose, so long as they were rewarded well – and that made them dangerous.
I stopped by the little wooden bridge that crossed the brook. Ice had formed around some of the larger rocks and the ducks were huddled together by its edge. Some had their heads tucked under their wings; others dipped the tips of their beaks into the fast-flowing water, as if testing it. None dared swim.
A bitter wind gusted from the east, piercing through my cloak. I pressed on, into the wind. Across the Temes, the land was a single field of white stretching from east to west, broken only by the cluster of houses that was Sudwerca, and by the woods that lined the distant horizon. In all the years I had spent growing up around Dinant, I had never seen snow like this; only since coming over to England had I known weather so cold.
I wasn’t the first to be out that day. Already the street bore the marks where feet and wheels had pressed, though they were few. Smoke rose thickly from the chimneys of every house; most of the townsmen would still be inside by their fires, for the sun was just rising. Only when I came near St Eadmund’s church again did people come into sight. Two boys drove a herd of pigs up the hill, poking them with sticks to keep them from stopping to dig in the snow. Further up, a man led a team of oxen hitched to a cart, the wheels of which wobbled violently as it trundled on. And there, waiting by the corner from where I had watched the two churchmen last night, were five men on horseback. Four of them were mailed and had spears in their hands, but the other wore a deerskin cloak covering a loose tunic with long, bunched sleeves. He was speaking with a decrepit woman who was clearly in some distress, since she was waving her arms violently, though for what reason I could not discern.
I paid them no more attention, for a glint of metal had caught my eye from the bottom of a rut, where a passing cart had carved its tracks. It was roughly where I remembered, to one side of the street. I rushed over and knelt down on the packed snow, clawing it away with my bare hands to reveal the whole length of the shining blade and the legend inscribed thereon: ‘VVLFRIDVS ME FECIT’.
I lifted it free with both hands, then with my glove wiped the dirt off its underside as I examined it closely for signs of damage. It appeared to be in good condition, despite obviously having been run over. Snowmelt ran down the steel, causing it to gleam in the new day’s light.
I heard a shriek and looked up to see the woman pointing a finger at me. ‘Hwæt la!’ she screamed, and she glanced up at the five men on horseback. ‘Hwæt la!’
The men rode at a trot towards me; were they friends of those I had seen last night? I stood where I was, sword in hand, uncertain whether to run or to fight. I was on foot and there was no way I could get away from them even if I had wanted to. And five was more than I could hope to fight on my own. Two I might have handled, and on a good day even three – if I were less tired, perhaps, and luck were on my side.
‘You,’ said one of those in mail as he slowed to a halt. A red pennon was attached to his spear and I took him for their leader. His face was pockmarked, his chin covered with a sparse stubble. ‘Who are you?’
The other three knights formed a half-circle around me, spears couched and ready under their arms. The other man, the one with the deerskin cloak, kept back, alongside the woman. He was dressed like an Englishman, his cloak clasped at the shoulder with a silver brooch, though his hair was cut short in the Norman style, and I guessed that he was an interpreter of sorts.
I thought about lying again, but something about their demeanour told me that would not be a good idea. ‘Tancred,’ I said stiffly. ‘A knight in the employ of the vicomte of Eoferwic, Lord Guillaume Malet.’
‘Malet?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘And what is a knight of his doing so far south, in Lundene? A deserter, are you?’
I was about to reply that if I were, I was hardly likely to tell him that, but thought the better of it. ‘I’m here with the vicomte’s chaplain.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘For what reason?’
It seemed clear that these men were not here to finish me off, or they would surely have done so already, and I was growing tired of his questions.
‘Why should I tell you?’
A crowd was beginning to gather – of those men and women who were about at such an hour, at least. There were no more than a dozen of them, all standing at a respectful distance, I noted, for no doubt they had spotted that these men held swords.
The pock-faced knight drew himself up in his saddle and gestured towards the woman standing with the interpreter behind him. ‘This peasant claims that she saw you here last night. Do you deny this?’
I said nothing. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that I might have been seen.
‘She swears that she saw you fighting,’ he went on. ‘Here, on this street, with another knight. Is this true?’
‘I was attacked,’ I burst out, which on reflection was not the wisest thing to say, for straightaway I knew he would take that as an admission of guilt, but I had committed myself and had no choice but to press on. ‘I was defending myself.’
He lifted his head slightly, so that he looked at me along the length of his nose. A faint smile spread across his face. ‘Do you know’, he asked, ‘what the penalty is for bearing arms against another in the king’s own city?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The penalty …’ he said slowly, as if to ensure that I did not miss a word, ‘is no less than the forfeiture of your sword-hand.’
I swallowed, and wondered whether this was the time to run. I knew it would be a useless gesture, though: they were mounted and would easily catch me, and it would only reinforce my guilt in their eyes.
‘Give me your sword,’ Pock-face growled.
I held it by the steel and carefully, so as not to cut myself, held it up to him, hilt first.
He looked questioningly down at me as he took it. ‘You carry a naked blade in the streets,’ he said.
‘My scabbard is there,’ I said, and I pointed to the patch of snow which now covered the place where I remembered dropping it.
He looked where I was pointing, and then back at me. The contempt in his eyes was clear.
‘It’s the truth,’ I insisted. ‘Everything I have said is the truth.’
‘You will come with us,’ he said. He gave the signal to two of his men, who swung down from their saddles and grabbed me roughly by the shoulders. I tried to shake them off but they held firm, twisting my arms behind my back.
‘Malet will hear of this,’ I said through gritted teeth as they began to march me up the street. ‘He will have your sword-hands, I swear it.’
‘Wait!’ a voice called.
The knights stopped. I turned my head, though my shoulders were held. The voice had come from amongst the crowd.
The circle of onlookers parted as a man, dressed in a fine-looking cloak of black wool, rode forward. His face was angular, his nose prominent; he looked about the same age as myself or a little older. I had the feeling that I had seen him before, but I could not place when or where. He sat tall in the saddle as he came towards us. From his belt hung a scabbard, decorated along its length with scarlet gemstones, with an intricate design of golden lines weaving between and around each one.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked me, his voice stern. Behind him rode a man of more modest dress – a servant, I presumed. He was thin, with a large boil on the side of his neck and skin so pale that I wondered if he hadn’t ventured outside of doors in some while.
‘Lord,’ said Pock-face. ‘If you will forgive us, we are taking this man to the town-reeve. He is not to be spoken to—’
‘My name is Tancred a Dinant, lord,’ I interrupted him.
The man fixed his eyes upon me,
though not in an unfriendly manner. ‘You know my father?’
‘Your father?’ I said, before realising how it was that I recognised his face. Indeed now that I saw it, the resemblance was clear, not just in his angular features but also in his high brow and the slope of his shoulders.
‘Guillaume Malet, seigneur of Graville across the sea. You know him?’
‘I am a knight in his service, lord.’ As far as I could recall, the vicomte had made no mention of any son. Of course that by itself meant little, for why should he have done so?
‘My lord,’ said the pock-faced one, a note of despair in his voice. ‘If I may say, this is not the time to be making idle conversation. We are—’
‘What business do you have with him?’ asked the man who called himself Malet’s son.
‘He is accused of bearing arms in anger against a fellow Frenchman.’
‘You have witnesses to this?’
‘We have one, lord,’ said another of the knights, a portly and rough-kempt man who looked too large for his mount. He pointed towards the aged woman; she shrank back into the crowd.
‘One witness,’ Malet’s son said. ‘But she is English, and a woman at that.’
‘Others can always be found,’ Pock-face replied mildly. ‘This is not a matter to be dismissed lightly.’
Malet’s son turned to me. ‘And what do you say? Did you bear arms against a countryman?’
I hesitated, tempted this time to deny the accusation outright, so that he might be more inclined to help me. But if I did that, then the others would see that I had openly perjured myself – an offence which was potentially as bad, if not worse than a breach of the peace.
‘I was attacked, lord,’ I said, repeating exactly what I had said before. ‘I was only defending myself.’
He nodded slowly, and I felt my heart sink; that surely had been the wrong answer to give. He looked at his manservant, who merely blinked and shrugged in return. ‘Have you considered that he may be speaking the truth?’ he asked at last.
Sworn Sword Page 23
