Close to midday the road climbed a steep hill, at the top of which we came upon crumbling stone walls and what looked as if it had once been a gatehouse. Its arch had long since collapsed; great blocks of lichen-covered stone, dressed and evenly shaped, littered the side of the way. As we passed within the gates I saw the remains where more buildings had once stood: neat rectangles and half-circles of stone foundations, many with trees and bushes growing in their midst. The air was almost still, the skies filled with shadows as rainclouds loomed overhead. Aside from the seven of us, there was no one.
‘Ythde swa thisne eardgeard,’ Ælfwold intoned as he looked about, ‘ælda scyppend, oththæt burgwara breahtma lease, eald enta geweorc idlu stodon.’
‘Thus He, the creator of men, destroyed this city,’ said Eudo, ‘until, deprived of the sound of its inhabitants, the ancient work of giants stood empty.’
I stared at him in surprise, not just since it was the most I had heard him say in a good many hours, but also because I hadn’t known he could translate English so readily.
Ælfwold nodded solemnly. ‘You are near enough. It is from a poem,’ he explained to us. ‘A poem of great sadness and loss, about things which were, but are no more.’
I dismounted, leaving my horse while I walked between the ruins of what must at one time have been houses. Not that there was any sign of those who had lived here; it was probably centuries since they had done so, and all their possessions would have long ago turned to dust.
Shards of slate were strewn across the grass, grey against green, but nestled among them I caught the tiniest glimpse of dull red. I crouched down to get a closer look. It was a stone, cut into a rough cube not much wider than my thumbnail: much like the dice that Radulf owned. I prised it out from the mud and turned its rounded edges between my forefinger and thumb, wiping the dirt from its surface, searching for any hint of markings, though I could see none. One face was smooth, but the rest were rough, encrusted with flakes of something like mortar, which crumbled away at my touch.
Another of the stones caught my eye, less than an arm’s length away from where the first had lain, and I picked it up. It was identical both in size and in shape, although this one was black rather than red. I turned the two of them carefully in my fingers, wondering what they could have been used for.
‘This place, I believe, is what we know in the English tongue as Silcestre, but which the Romans used to call Calleva,’ Ælfwold said. ‘In its time it was a great city; since its fall, however, none have dared live here nor attempt to rebuild it.’
I tossed the two stones back on to the ground and stood back up. ‘Why would God punish them?’ I asked. ‘I thought the Romans were a Christian people.’ Though it was a long time since I had been at my studies, I was certain of that much.
‘They were,’ said Ælfwold, unblinking and unsmiling. ‘But they were also a sinful race, proud and weak in morals, who spent more of their time in pleasure than they did pursuing God’s work. Too concerned with preserving their worldly wealth, they cared little for the future of their souls.’ He gestured all around him at the shattered stones, the broken tiles, the empty town. ‘What you see is the result of His retribution: a warning to all men not to follow the same example.’
For a while no one said anything. The wind began to gust and I felt a drop of water strike the back of my neck, trickling down my spine and causing me to shiver. Overhead, the skies were darkening still further; around us the ground pattered as the rain began to fall.
‘We should find shelter,’ Wace said.
‘A good idea,’ I replied.
The most substantial remains were of a larger building a little to the south, and it was there that we led our animals. There was nothing to which we could tether them, but they were unlikely to roam far, so we left them to graze upon the grass. We huddled down within the walls, which rose here as far as waist-height, offering some protection at least from the chill of the wind at it swept amidst the shattered stonework. There was no roof to keep out the rain, however; instead we sat with the hoods of our cloaks up, eating in silence.
We could have set up our tents, but it would have taken some while, and I did not want us to tarry here any longer than we had to. At one point I imagined I heard a whisper – some words spoken, though I could not make them out – and thought that the ghosts of those who had lived here were trying to speak to us, before dismissing the idea. Such things existed only in the minds of children and the mad, and I was neither of those.
Even so, to shelter as we were doing within the houses of the dead made me uneasy. I was glad when all had finished and we were back in the saddle, and finally we left that place of ruin, that city of the condemned, that symbol of God’s vengeance.
Twenty-three
THE RAIN FELL throughout the rest of the day, sweeping in from the south and the west, driven by a gusting wind which only grew stronger as the afternoon went on. Greyness hung like a sheet across the sky, the cloud veiling the tops of the hills in the distance. By the time we stopped for the night, in a village nestled at the bottom of a valley, known to the local folk as Ovretune, my cloak was soaked through and my tunic clinging to my skin.
Much to our relief there was already a fire roaring in the alehouse when we arrived. We huddled around it, warming our fingers by the flames while platters of smoked trout and boiled vegetables and pitchers of wine were brought out to us by the innkeeper’s wife. She was a thin woman, about the same age as Lady Elise, with chestnut-brown hair and a timid demeanour. Perhaps it was because she recognised most of us for Frenchmen and knights, or perhaps she was merely uneasy around strangers, but she kept her head bowed whenever she approached, as if the slightest glance might incur our wrath.
She reminded me in a way of my mother, the little that I could recall of her at least. It was not that they looked alike; as much as I tried, I could never picture my mother clearly. But I did remember the manner with which she carried herself – quiet and humble, and somehow always afraid – and as I watched this woman now, I felt that I could almost see her again, though it was near twenty years since I had known her.
We ate in silence, content simply to be indoors at last and to have food in our bellies. Gradually the common room filled with men, many of whom seemed to have come straight from the fields, their trews and tunics caked with mud. They kept to small groups, huddled over their cups, occasionally turning their heads in our direction as they muttered to one another in their own tongue. I’d become so used to the company of Ælfwold in recent weeks that it was strange to see such men speaking without a single word of French. I was suddenly aware that we were the only ones in the room who were not English. My fingertips brushed against the cold hilt of my sword beneath my cloak; I pulled them away quickly. I did not want to have to use it tonight.
I turned my attention back to our table. ‘All being well, we ought to reach Wiltune by sunset tomorrow,’ Ælfwold said.
‘How long will it take you to deliver your message?’ Wace asked.
‘Not long. I’d hope that we can be on our way the following morning.’
A roar erupted from across the room and I turned abruptly as a group of Englishmen slammed their cups down upon the table in front of them. One of them, a heavy-set man about the same age as myself, began to splutter, droplets spraying from his mouth, until a friend slapped him on the back. Red-faced and blinking as if in surprise, he wiped a sleeve over his dark moustache before joining the rest in their laughter. After a moment he noticed me watching and I returned to my wine.
‘I need a piss,’ Eudo announced to no one in particular. He stood up, resting a hand on the table to steady himself, and made, half stumbling, for the door. I didn’t think he had drunk so much, but when I went to pour myself a fresh cup, I found the pitcher all but empty, with only the dregs left.
‘How many cups has he had?’ I asked.
Radulf pointed to the pitcher. ‘Has he finished it?’
‘We’ll have to g
et another,’ Philippe said as he looked about for the innkeeper.
‘Maybe if we wait for him to return, he’ll pay for it,’ Godefroi added, grinning slyly.
I glanced at Wace, but he only shrugged. ‘I should make sure he’s all right,’ I said, standing and wrapping my cloak around me. It was still damp, despite having been hanging beside the fire, but it was better than nothing.
The chill of the air struck me as I opened the door. It was still raining, though more lightly than before. I raised my hood over my head, gritted my teeth and ventured out. The ground was slick with mud, and I took care where I trod. Water dripped from the thatch; all about large puddles gleamed in the light from the doorway.
I found Eudo by the stables around the side of the alehouse. He had one arm extended in front of him, propping himself against the wall; even above the sound of the rain I could make out the steady trickle of water on to the sodden ground.
‘Eudo,’ I said.
He kept his back to me. ‘What do you want?’
I shivered as the wind gusted again, its icy fingers grasping at my skin even through my cloak. ‘I want to talk.’
He made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and I saw him fiddling with the laces on his braies before at last he turned. His face lay in shadow; there was no moon and the only light came from inside the alehouse.
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ he slurred as he began to trudge unsteadily through the mud towards me.
‘How much have you drunk?’ I asked.
‘What does it matter to you?’ He wasn’t wearing his cloak, I noticed. He stumbled forward, his dark hair damp and matted against his head, trying to make his way around me, but I stood in his path. ‘Let me past.’ His breath stank of wine.
‘You’ve had enough,’ I said.
‘I’ll do what I want,’ he said with a snort. ‘You’re not my keeper.’
‘You’ve been like this ever since Lundene,’ I said, watching him carefully. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You pretend to be interested but I know you don’t care.’
I felt myself tense. Whatever it was I had done, it had clearly upset him far more than I had thought. ‘That’s not true,’ I said.
‘I know you – don’t think that I don’t. I’ve known you longer than anyone. When you disappear in the middle of the night like you did in Lundene, I know there’s something not right. I know when there are things you’re not telling us.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ I asked, trying to keep the anger from my voice. Of course he was right; I hadn’t told any of them the whole story about that night. But how could he have guessed that?
He shook his head, his mouth set in disgust. ‘You’ve changed. Since Dunholm you’ve kept more and more to yourself. You talk to the priest but never tell us anything. You never tell me anything.’ He pointed at his chest and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I’ve been your friend for all these years. After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me enough—’
‘Do you think I’ve found it easy since Dunholm?’ I burst out.
He glared at me. ‘You think it’s been any easier for me or for Wace? We were all there, all of us. Not just you.’
I’d opened my mouth when I stopped. So caught up had I been in my own grief that I had not understood how much Lord Robert’s death had affected him too.
‘What is it that you want?’ I said, more quietly. I could hear voices and the sound of footfalls upon the mud by the front of the alehouse, and I was wary of attracting too much attention.
‘I want to be in Eoferwic,’ he said. ‘I want to be killing the men who killed Lord Robert. Instead we’re here, wandering the whole damned kingdom after this priest, and I’m tired of it.’
I remained quiet for a moment as I thought of Eadgar, remembered the promise I had made to him outside Eoferwic’s walls. The promise that I would kill him. The fingers on my sword-hand itched even as I thought of it. And so I knew how Eudo felt. But I knew, too, that until we had fulfilled our service to the vicomte, vengeance would have to wait.
‘It’s our duty to Malet,’ I said.
‘No.’ He jabbed a finger at my face. ‘It’s your duty, Tancred. Wace and I never swore any oath to him. He’s promised to pay us and so we’re here, but we owe him nothing.’
I waited in case there was more to come, but there was not. The night was quiet; the rain had eased and was now little more than a steady drizzle.
‘Leave, then,’ I said. ‘Take your horse and ride back to Eoferwic, or wherever you want to go. Take Wace with you. If it’s silver that you’re after, there’ll be plenty of lords willing to pay.’
He took a pace back. ‘No one’s leaving,’ he replied. ‘Maybe you think you don’t need our help at the moment, but you will. Just try to trust us from now on.’
He shouldered his way past, back towards the common room, and this time I didn’t attempt to stop or follow him. Probably he needed a while to gather himself, I decided. At the same time I didn’t want to see his face again so soon. I was angry with him, yes, but there was something else as well: something in what he’d said that had struck me, though I could not place it exactly.
I waited until he had gone back inside and then turned in the opposite direction, towards the stables. Within, my horse was gorging itself on a sack of grain which had been left hanging on the inside of the door, and which was now less than half full. I looked about for the stable-boy, but he was not to be seen. Cursing his carelessness, I lifted the sack down. If the horse overate then he was likely to develop colic, in which case I could well find myself having to find another mount come the morning, for this one would be dead.
I placed the sack on the ground outside the stall and rubbed his muzzle before bolting the door again and checking on the others, making sure that the stable-hand had not left any more feedbags out, but he had not. I would mention it to the innkeeper, and if the boy got a beating as a result, it was no less than he deserved.
I crossed the yard back towards the common room, which was even more full than it had been when I had left. Every one of the men who lived in this village must have come here, I thought, all of them reeking of wine and ale, sweat and dirt.
Eudo was sitting with the rest of the party by the fire. As I approached, the innkeeper’s wife was bringing them another two large pitchers of wine, each one full to the brim, to join the three which were already there. She set them down; Radulf held up a silver penny towards her, but as she held out her hand to receive it, he tossed it to the floor, where it fell amidst the rushes. A roar of laughter went up from Godefroi and Philippe, who began banging their fists on the table. The woman blushed deep red as she got on her knees to retrieve the coin.
Ælfwold rose suddenly. ‘You heartless … nithingas!’ he shouted at the knights. They looked back in confusion. I did not know what the word meant, but I had never before heard the chaplain speak so vehemently.
I rushed over and knelt down beside the woman. She tried to wave me away, speaking in English as she scrabbled around on the floor, and I saw her blink away a tear. In my mind I saw my mother weeping in much the same way.
‘Let me help,’ I said, but she did not seem to understand me, for she simply spoke more loudly as she began to sob. I spotted the penny resting next to the leg of the table, and picked it up to offer to her. She shook her head as water began to trickle down her cheeks, and got quickly to her feet.
‘Hwæt gelimpth?’ a voice shouted from across the room. It was the innkeeper.
I stood and turned to the five knights. ‘Have you forgotten yourselves?’ I demanded, snatching up one of the wine-jugs and tipping its contents on to the floor, staining the rushes red.
‘What are you doing?’ Radulf asked, rising.
‘We paid for that!’ said Philippe.
‘You’ve had enough,’ I said, grabbing the next pitcher in line and doing the same. ‘All of you.’
‘Tancred—’ Radulf b
egan.
I thumped the empty vessel down upon the table so hard that it shook, and glared back at him, then turned to Ælfwold. ‘I’m sorry, father,’ I said.
The chaplain’s cheeks were a bright scarlet, his face tight with anger. ‘I’m not the one in need of an apology,’ he said, and he pointed to the innkeeper, who was hustling over. He was a short man, but broad in the chest and well built for his size, with a large forehead and small eyes.
‘Ge bysmriath min wif,’ he said, sending spittle flying. He gestured towards his woman, who had scurried back to the other side of the room, and stared up at me, for I stood a whole head taller. ‘Ge bysmriath me!’
I stared back, uncertain what to do. I looked about for the chaplain, and saw him making his way through the crowd towards the stairs at the far side of the room.
‘Ælfwold!’ I called after him, but either he did not hear me or he chose to ignore me, for he did not turn around.
Hurriedly I reached for the coin-pouch at my belt, tipping a stream of the pennies out into my palm. I held them out towards the innkeeper, hoping it would be enough to placate him.
He looked first at them, then at me, and half spoke, half spat some more words in his tongue. But the sight of so much silver was enough to cool his temper; he snatched at the coins, almost as if he thought I might take them back if he didn’t accept straightaway. He grunted, whether in appreciation or as a warning I was not sure, and after a final glance at me he returned to his wife.
A few of the other Englishmen had turned to watch, but not many – only those who had been closest – and as I looked around at them they one by one returned to their drinks. For that I thanked God, for they looked like strong men, used to working hard in the fields. Full of ale as they were, it would not take much to incite them.
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