I met Wace’s eyes, steely grey, across the table. The same thought had crossed my mind, but I had dismissed it just as soon as it appeared, for I didn’t want to believe it. Could Malet be involved in some sort of conspiracy with Harold’s wife?
‘We can’t know that,’ I said to Wace. ‘There is no proof, only supposition.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘That’s why I didn’t want to say anything.’
‘What?’ asked Eudo.
I glanced at Wace, wondering which one of us should say it. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice to almost a whisper: ‘Malet might be a traitor.’
Eudo frowned. ‘A traitor?’ he said, too loudly for my liking.
I waved him quiet and leant closer. ‘There’s one more thing which might be important,’ I said, and stopped suddenly, unsure whether to go on. But they were watching me expectantly; they would know that I was hiding something if I didn’t say it, and I needed their trust above all else.
‘What is it?’ said Wace.
I tried to recall everything Ælfwold had told me on the ship. ‘In the years before the invasion it seems that Malet was a great friend of Harold Godwineson,’ I said. ‘He was granted land on these shores by the old king, Eadward, and used to spend much of his time in this country. That is, until the king died and Harold stole the crown, when he returned to Normandy to join Duke Guillaume.’
‘He knew the usurper?’ asked Wace.
‘And of course he’s half-English as well,’ Eudo murmured.
‘So now he sends word to Harold’s widow,’ Wace said. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It may mean nothing,’ I said. ‘For one thing, it seems that their friendship was broken when Harold assumed the kingship. Whatever sympathies Malet once had with the English, they were buried when he fought at Hæstinges.’
‘Though even now he fills his household with Englishmen,’ Eudo pointed out. ‘Ælfwold and Wigod, and no doubt there are others too.’
This was true, and it was yet another part of the riddle. But an even bigger question hung in my mind: why would Ælfwold have revealed all this to me if he knew that his lord was a traitor? It didn’t make sense. None of this did.
‘If we knew what the message was, then we would know for sure,’ I said. ‘But the priest won’t say.’
‘He must have a letter on his person, or in his room,’ Eudo said.
‘Unless he carries the message in his head alone,’ Wace put in. ‘If so, we have no way of finding out.’
Then all of a sudden I remembered the scroll he had dropped that day we had left Lundene, how abruptly his manner had changed when I picked it up. ‘No,’ I said. ‘There is a letter.’
‘You’re sure?’ Wace asked.
The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced. What else could it be? ‘I saw him drop it on our way here.’
‘If we could only look at it before he delivers it to this Eadgyth,’ Eudo said.
‘He wouldn’t leave it unguarded, I’m sure,’ Wace said.
‘But would you recognise it if you saw it?’ asked Eudo.
‘Probably,’ I said, picturing it in my mind, with its rough edges and the leather cord tied around it. Otherwise there had been nothing especially distinctive about it. ‘Why?’
‘He’s likely to be asleep by now,’ Eudo said, keeping his voice low. ‘We need only slip into his room and find it—’
‘You’d have us steal it?’ I asked. Angry as I was with Ælfwold, the thought filled me with distaste. Malet had placed his confidence in me, after all. I had sworn an oath to him, an oath to which God had been witness, and as such was not to be treated lightly.
Eudo shrugged.
‘What if we’re wrong about the priest, about Malet and everything?’ For if we did as he suggested, and our suspicions turned out to be false, then I’d be breaking that confidence – breaking that oath. ‘No, there must be another way.’
‘Do the others know about Eadgyth, do you think?’ Wace asked. ‘Godefroi, Radulf and Philippe, I mean. Did you see if they reacted to her name?’
‘I wasn’t watching them,’ I admitted.
‘Neither was I,’ said Eudo.
‘I wonder,’ Wace said. ‘If they’ve served Malet for some time, it’s possible they already know who she is, and of his connection to her. And if they know that, they might also have some idea what this message is about.’
‘It’s possible,’ I agreed. ‘But remember in Lundene they wanted only to get back on the road to Eoferwic. If they’d known that coming to Wiltune was in any way important, they wouldn’t have said that.’
‘That’s true,’ Eudo said. ‘It was the chaplain who reminded them that we had this task to fulfil first.’
‘And I,’ I said.
‘And you,’ he added, with a smile. ‘You and your sense of duty.’
Another time I might have laughed, but I didn’t feel in good humour that night. A log shifted in the hearth and Burginda gave a snort as she moved on her stool; I saw her eyelids flutter as, with a great intake of breath, she began to stir.
‘I just hope things become clear soon,’ I said.
Twenty-six
WILTUNE BY DARK lay silent and still. I stood leaning on one of the fenceposts outside the guest-hall. A thin sliver of moon protruded from behind wisps of cloud; the stars in their hundreds were scattered like seeds in a pale band across the sky.
The only other light came from the nuns’ dormitory, where a faint glow framed the doorway. It was another of the precepts that St Benedict had laid down in his Rule: that a fire be kept burning in the dormitory throughout the night, a symbol of the eternal light of our Lord. And to those who neglected their duty – who fell asleep when it was their turn to watch the hearth, and so allowed the flames to dwindle and die – were dealt the harshest punishments, as I knew only too well.
Still I recalled that frosty winter’s morning as I stood before the two of them: the circator with his lantern, who was the one who had found me, and beside him the prior, his face dark as he delivered his words of condemnation. Still I could picture the crowd of monks gathering around, witnesses to my failure. And I remembered my own desperate pleas to mercy and to God as they struck and struck again, each time harder than the last, bringing their hazel rods to bear upon my exposed back – pain of a kind I had never before known – until at last I was left trembling, bloody and alone upon the hard earth.
It was not the first time I had been beaten for my sins, but I was determined it would be the last. And so I fled.
Of course I had to wait for the right opportunity. For the next day and night I was watched carefully, in case I made any more mistakes for which they could punish me, and so I had to bide my time. But on the following night, under the light of the full moon, I took my chance, treading lightly as I passed the other monks in their beds, making my way quickly across the yard, past the smith’s workshop and the stables, hoping to avoid the circator as he made his nightly rounds. The gatehouse I knew was guarded; instead I made for the northern wall and the gnarled old tree that grew beside it – an oak which, it was rumoured, had stood there ever since the monastery was founded, two hundred years before.
I had reached the infirmary when I heard voices close by. I ducked around its corner, my heart pounding. Lantern-light glowed softly upon the ground, and I held my breath, determined not to be heard. The gruff tones of the circator carried across the yard as he conversed with one of the other monks, whose voice I did not recognise. The light grew brighter; they were coming closer.
What I should have done was wait until they had passed, and probably they wouldn’t have noticed me. Instead I panicked. Thinking that they would find me and all would be lost, I decided to run.
Almost straightaway I heard cries behind me, demanding to know why I was about so late, but I didn’t stop as I made for the old oak and quickly began to climb. I heard their feet running across the grass as I slid along one of the branches and scrambled over the wall
, the stone grazing my palms and my knees as I dropped down the other side. And then I ran, down the hillside, towards the river and the town of Dinant below. They tried to come after me, of course, but I was fast and a boy of just thirteen years is easy to lose in the shadows, and before long their shouts had faded to nothing. As soon as I had made it into the woods, I collapsed. All my strength was gone and I was half-starved besides, but I knew at last that I had done it: I knew that I would never have to go back there.
A few days later, I met Robert de Commines, and my life’s path was set.
This story I had told to few others. Of those who were still alive, none but Eudo and Wace knew it. Yet even when I considered everything that had happened, still a part of me felt ashamed for having left, for having forsaken that life, and I did not know why.
From far off came the sounds of cattle: one long, doleful cry that was answered by another, and then a third and a fourth, carrying clear across the convent. I was aware of Burginda behind me, watching me from the doorway. When she saw me putting on my cloak earlier, she’d tried to stop me from going out. Perhaps she thought I was planning on paying a visit to one of the younger nuns – although if I had, there was little she could have done to prevent it. But that was not why I had come out here. My mind was filled with so many different thoughts, like a hundred skeins of yarn, all twisted together, and I needed the space to tease them out.
Still, I did not blame her. Countless were the stories I had heard of nuns taken against their will, by men who had lusted after them before they’d taken their vows. Often such men would arrive at a convent feigning injury or some other affliction to gain entry; sometimes they would come alone, sometimes in bands. The details changed from tale to tale, but in each one they wasted no time in showing their true purpose once they were inside: marching straight to the chapter house, or wherever else the nuns might be gathered at that time of day, and then stealing away just as quickly.
And so I didn’t resent Burginda for continuing to watch over me, though I did my best to ignore her. My thoughts, however, were not of any of the nuns here, but of Oswynn, and the dreams I’d had the other night. It troubled me, the way her face had been hidden from me; as if my memory of her were already fading.
I heard raised voices behind me. Over my shoulder I saw Wace trying to get by the nun, who was standing in his path.
‘Let me past,’ Wace said, and even in this faint light I could see the tiredness in his eyes.
I straightened and turned back towards the door. Burginda glanced at me, then back at Wace, before grudgingly moving aside, no doubt deciding that two of us was more than she could deal with.
‘I thought you were asleep,’ I said to him. I had waited until both he and Eudo had gone upstairs before venturing out, and had not expected to see either of them again until the morning.
‘I came down for a piss,’ he said. ‘What are you doing out?’
‘Thinking,’ I said, and looked away again, towards the main part of the convent and the three dark towers of the abbey church, like giant pillars holding up the great vault of the heavens. ‘Until today I hadn’t set foot inside a monastery since I was thirteen. Being here brings so much from that time back to my mind.’
Wace said nothing. How much of this did he understand?
‘I was just seven years old when my uncle gave me up to the monks,’ I went on. ‘He was the only family I had left, after my father’s death.’ Of course I had told Wace all this before, though it would have been long ago, and whether he would remember, I did not know. At any rate he did not stop me.
‘It was probably the kindest thing he could do for you,’ he said.
‘Probably,’ I agreed. ‘Though it did not seem that way at the time.’
‘Nor after what happened later, I’m sure.’
I nodded. ‘You know the rest.’
‘Why do you mention it now?’
‘I’ve been thinking how much our lives are shaped by events beyond our control. My father’s death, and everything that followed. What happened at Dunholm, and where that has brought us now.’
‘What of it?’
‘Is all of it just chance?’ I asked, and I could hear the bitterness in my own voice. ‘Or have all these things happened because that is God’s will?’
He shot me an admonishing look. ‘We must believe that it is,’ he said. ‘Otherwise what meaning is there to anything?’
I fingered the cross that hung around my neck. I knew that he was right. For everything on this earth there was a purpose ordained by God, difficult though it might be to comprehend what that was. From that at least I knew I ought to draw some comfort: the thought that He had a design for me, in spite of all that had happened.
‘And He has brought me here,’ I murmured. I looked up again across the orchard and towards the bell-tower, and hesitated, unsure whether I should say what I was about to. ‘I’ve been wondering,’ I said. ‘Wondering what it would be like to go back.’
‘You would give up your sword?’ he asked, with a wry smile. ‘You’d take the vows?’
He sounded like Radulf had only a few hours ago, I thought. It was a mistake to have mentioned it. ‘Someday, perhaps,’ I said, trying not to let my irritation show. ‘Not for many years, but someday, yes.’
The smile faded from his face. Maybe he had not known at first how seriously I was speaking, but now understood. I often found it hard with Wace to tell what he was thinking, and it was rare that he let anyone, even those closest to him, know his true feelings.
‘I’ve been wondering as well,’ he said after a while. He glanced behind him at Burginda, who was only a dozen paces away from us, and spoke more softly. ‘About Malet and everything that we spoke of earlier. And I know that whatever friendship he might once have had with Harold Godwineson, he can’t be a traitor.’
‘What makes you say that?’ I asked.
‘Because if he were, he wouldn’t at this moment be under siege by an English army in Eoferwic.’
Indeed in the midst of all our excitement earlier we had forgotten that. Of course it made no sense for Malet to be engaged in any kind of plot with Eadgyth when he himself was threatened by her own countrymen in Northumbria – when his own life was in peril. Had we been trying to make connections where there were none, where in fact there was a perfectly ordinary explanation?
Even if that were true, I could not help but still feel uneasy. There were so many things that we didn’t yet understand.
‘Have you spoken to Eudo?’ I asked.
‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘I wonder if we owe the chaplain an apology.’
‘Perhaps.’ After what Ælfwold had said last night, the idea was not a welcome one.
‘He’s not our enemy.’
‘How do we know that?’ I asked, and when I saw that Wace had no answer, said, ‘The longer we travel in his company, the less I trust him.’
I was thinking of that night in Lundene, in the street outside St Eadmund’s church. At the time I had been so sure that it was him; it was only later that I convinced myself I had been mistaken. But now I had seen how much the priest was hiding from us, I wondered if perhaps he had been lying about what he had been doing that night as well. What if my instincts had been right, and if they were, what did that mean? What did any of it mean?
‘All we can do is what Malet has asked of us,’ Wace said. ‘After this, after we’ve driven the English from Eoferwic, any obligation we might have to him will be over. We’ll be free to do what we want, and what Malet does then is his concern, not ours.’
‘If we drive them from Eoferwic,’ I muttered. I closed my eyes; my mind was full of possibilities and half-formed thoughts. Never had I been so completely uncertain of my life: not just of the business with Ælfwold and Malet, but also of what I was doing here, of where I was headed.
Sometimes I thought that if I could only wake myself from this dream then I’d find myself back in Northumbria, with Oswynn and Lord Robert and all the oth
ers, with everything just as it had been before. I felt like a ship cast adrift on the open sea, subject to the whims of the tide and the wind, riding each and every storm while always clinging to the hope that I would soon find a safe haven. A hope that seemed to be growing fainter by the day.
‘Let’s see what happens when Eadgyth arrives,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll know what to do.’
Wace placed a hand briefly on my shoulder before he walked away, around the side of the hall.
I stood there a moment longer, gazing out across towards the dormitory and the thin tendrils of smoke rising from its chimney to the stars. Soon, however, the silence was broken by the sound of bells pealing out, this time for matins, I realised. I had not known it was so late.
I returned inside, back to my room. Shortly I heard footsteps on the stairs and on the landing beyond my door: Wace returning, I thought. The creak of hinges followed and then all was still. I shrugged off my cloak and lay down on the bed. The straw mattress was hard and offered little in the way of comfort, no matter how I positioned myself, and after several attempts, at last I stopped trying and sat up instead.
In the darkness I held my head in my hands as I mulled over everything. Amidst all the uncertainty, one thing was becoming ever clearer: I could not carry on not knowing the truth. Above all my conscience would not allow me to serve a man who was a traitor to his king and to his people. If there was some conspiracy between Malet and Harold’s widow, I had to know. Despite what I had said to Wace, I knew there was no guarantee that we would have any answers even when she arrived. I could wait no longer.
And suddenly I knew what I had to do.
The bells had stopped ringing some time ago; if anyone in the house had been woken by them, they would surely now be settled again. I stood up and went to the door, opening it just enough to be able to look out on to the landing. A faint orange glow played across the stairs from the hearth-fire in the hall below.
Sworn Sword Page 29
