For a moment I wondered again: what if we were wrong? But I knew that if I carried on thinking in that vein, then I would lose this chance. There was no other way. We had to know.
The landing ran almost the whole length of the up-floor. At the far end, furthest from the stairs, was the chamber in which Ælfwold was staying. Barefoot, I slipped out of the door, closing it gently behind me; the last thing I wanted was to wake anyone else. There was little wind that night, or anything else which might have helped mask my movements. The only noise I could hear was that of mice rustling in the thatch.
Breathing as lightly as I could, I made my way along the corridor, keeping close to the right-hand side: the outer wall of the house, where the boards were less likely to creak. A little way further along, I could hear snoring, and saw that the door to one of the other knights’ rooms lay open. It was Philippe, his lanky frame stretched out, one arm hanging off the side of the mattress. A copper candlestick stood on the floor, the wax itself almost burnt down. He stirred, muttering to himself, though not in any words that made sense. I froze, thinking that he might have heard me, but thankfully he did not wake.
The next room belonged to the chaplain. This would be the main guest chamber, south-facing: usually reserved for visitors of the highest honour. Ours were mere retainers’ quarters by comparison. For we were just knights, I thought grimly. Nothing more than servants.
The door was sturdily built, with a great iron lock and handle. I pressed an ear up against the wood, stilling my breath as I tried to make out any sound of movement within, but all was quiet. I gripped the handle, hoping that it didn’t turn out to be locked. The iron felt cold against my palm, which I now realised was sweating. I gritted my teeth and pushed: gently at first, gradually putting more force behind it, until I felt it begin to grind open—
I stopped, my heart beating fast as I waited for a sound, though what I was expecting I did not know. A rush of feet towards the door, perhaps; the chaplain’s voice? I heard none of that, only silence.
There was the slightest crack between the door and the frame, and I peered into it, into the darkness. No candle or lantern was lit, and it took some time before I could make out any forms, but then I saw the windows on the far side, with the moonlight filtering through the shutters, the hangings upon the wall. And Ælfwold himself, a woollen blanket wrapped around him as he lay on the great bed, his paunch rising and falling in steady rhythm.
Again I pushed. The door met with some resistance as it grated against the floor, but I could not let it make a noise and so I had to move it slowly, all the time fearing that one of the others would come upon me and wonder what I was doing there.
Eventually the gap was wide enough that I was able to squeeze through sideways, pressing my back against the frame and ducking my head; the doorway had been built for men much shorter than I.
Then at last I was inside. Still the chaplain did not rouse, nor make any sound at all. I closed the door behind me; I didn’t want anyone to see it lying ajar and think that there was something amiss.
I glanced about, taking in the whole of the chamber. The bed itself took up a large part of it: about six feet wide and almost as long, it was made for lords, with posts of a dark-coloured wood, intricately carved in a plant-like design, with leaves and stems and flowers all interwoven. In one corner of the room lay a small hearth; grey ash filled the grate. Another door led from this chamber, no doubt through to a private garderobe. Beneath the shuttered windows on the far side of the room stood a writing-desk, and there I saw what it was I had come for.
It was as I remembered it: the same size, with the same rough edges and bound with the same piece of leather. Lightly I stepped across to it, avoiding the chaplain’s saddlebag, which he had left at the foot of the bed, looking about to make sure that I was not confusing it with any other scroll that he might have had with him. I could see none. A single white goose-quill protruded from a wooden stand, beside a small dish filled with ink. Otherwise there was nothing on the desk. This had to be it.
I heard a low grunt and cast a glance over my shoulder as the priest twisted in his blanket. For a moment I thought he was about to open his eyes, but he did not; he settled facing the opposite direction, towards the door.
My heartbeat seemed to resound through my whole body; I could feel it thumping in my hands, my feet, my ears. When was the last time I had done something so reckless? But I wasn’t going to leave until I had what I’d come for.
I picked the vellum up, holding its ends between my palms, feeling its lightness, its dry crispness. This was it.
I swallowed. I hadn’t planned this far. Did I dare take it with me and return it later, or should I read it now? There was enough light here – as long as the moon did not go behind another cloud, at least – but the longer I stayed, the more of a risk I was taking. But at the same time, if I took it away, I had to be sure that I could get it back before the chaplain noticed. Which meant I would have to do all of this again.
I gave another glance towards the chaplain, but he appeared soundly asleep. Breathing slowly, I started to untie the leather string. It was fastened with a simple knot, and once I had worked free one strand, the rest came easily. Then, holding my breath, I began to unroll it.
And felt a lurch of despair in my stomach. For where I was expecting to find line after line of delicately scripted black letters, there was nothing. At the bottom of the page was Malet’s seal in red wax – a delicately scripted initial ‘M’, with vines climbing and weaving between its legs – but above it, nothing.
Perhaps the chaplain had switched the scroll with another – but why would he have done that? Or else the one I was after was in this room somewhere. Yet it looked every bit the same; it had to be the one.
I squinted at the page, angling it into the faint slats of moonlight shining through the shutter, and as I unfurled the final few inches, a rush of excitement came over me. I saw two simple words, written in Latin, in a shaky hand: one that I presumed must have been Malet’s own, for no scribe could have prided himself on such work.
‘Tutus est.’
That was all it said. I read it again, to make sure that I had understood it all, even turning it over to see if there was anything on the other side that I had missed. There wasn’t. Those two words were all there were.
Tutus est. It is safe. But what did it mean? Perhaps he was writing about Eoferwic, but why then didn’t he mention the city by name, and in any case how could he be so sure that it was safe?
The priest sighed deeply as he turned again, startling me. His face was pressed against the mattress, his grey hair hanging limp across his eyes. His body lay contorted like a hunchback’s as he mumbled some words in English, his brow creased as if he were deep in concentration. Then he settled again, his breathing slow and even as before.
I kept as still as I could, watching him until I was satisfied that he was indeed asleep. But there was no advantage to be had in staying here any longer. I had what I wanted, even if I didn’t yet understand it.
I rolled the vellum back into a scroll, tying it in the same way as it had been before, or as close to it as I could manage, then I replaced it as I had found it. An owl began to hoot outside and I took that as my sign to leave. I remembered Ælfwold’s pack lying on the floor and took care to step around it.
At the door I paused, checking that I hadn’t left anything behind that might later betray that I had been here. Then, shutting it slowly behind me, I made my way across the landing, back to my room.
Twenty-seven
I AWOKE LATE the next morning – later than I had done in a long while, in fact, for when I opened the shutters, the morning light spilt in and I saw that the sun was already high. I dressed as quickly as I could, tugging my tunic on over my shirt before pulling on my braies and heading down to the hall.
The others were gathered around the table, and they greeted me as I made my way over to them. More food had been brought to us: small loaves of brea
d and cheeses; as well as eels, salted and dried, perhaps caught from the river by the nuns themselves. It was a generous provision for guests, particularly since during these winter months they themselves would receive nothing until after the noon service.
I was about to sit down to eat, when I realised that the priest was not there.
‘Where’s Ælfwold?’ I asked, looking about to make sure I had not missed him. Unless he was still abed, though at this hour that seemed unlikely.
‘He went to speak with Eadgyth,’ Wace said. ‘She returned from Wincestre this morning, apparently. One of the nuns came to fetch him.’
At last she was here, then: the woman we had come all this way to see. ‘When was this?’
Wace shrugged and glanced at the others. ‘Not long ago,’ he said. ‘We heard you rousing a little while afterwards; we thought you might have heard him.’
‘And you didn’t think to go with him?’ After everything we had been saying the night before, I would have expected them to keep a closer watch over him, and especially over his business with Eadgyth. Tutus est, I remembered – whatever it was supposed to mean. Only she and Malet would know.
‘He said he wanted to speak with her alone,’ Eudo put in. ‘He wouldn’t allow any of us to go with him.’
‘Where has he gone?’ At least he had only just left.
Eudo and Wace shook their heads, and inwardly I cursed. They ought to have woken me earlier; I would have made sure, somehow, that the priest was not left on his own. But then I spotted Philippe glancing uncertainly at his two comrades.
‘You know, don’t you?’ I asked them, wondering at the same time what else they might have been withholding from me. ‘Where has he gone?’
They exchanged looks, as if they did not know whether or not to tell me, but Philippe must have seen that I was not about to be swayed, for he spoke up.
‘They’ll have gone to Eadgyth’s private chambers,’ he said.
‘And where are they?’
‘The up-floor in the dormitory …’ he began, but if he said anything else, I did not hear it as realisation dawned upon me. The three of them had been here before now. They must have known all along: about Eadgyth and who she was, who she had been. I felt suddenly foolish. Why hadn’t I seen this?
‘This isn’t the first time that Malet has sent you here, is it?’ I said. ‘When were you going to tell me this?’
‘We didn’t think it was important,’ Radulf said sullenly. I met his stare. Ever since we had met he’d been testing my patience, and I confess that I had even less liking for him at that moment.
I strode towards him; he rose from his stool to face me but before he could raise his hands to defend himself I had grabbed him by the collar of this tunic. I heard Philippe and Godefroi shout out in protest, heard the clatter of wood upon stone as they leapt up from their stools, but I ignored them.
‘What do you know of the priest’s business with Eadgyth?’ I demanded.
Radulf had gone white; no doubt he had not been expecting this. The blood was roaring through my veins now. Before me stood a trained warrior, a man of the sword, a knight of Normandy, and he was afraid.
‘Tell me!’ I yelled, spittle flying, striking his cheek.
But Radulf was clearly too shocked to speak, for no words came out, and before I could say it again I felt hands on my shoulders, tearing me away from him. Desperately I tried to struggle, to flail my arms; all I wanted at that moment was to strike him, to punish him for his lies, but it was no use, for they had me pinned.
‘Tancred,’ someone shouted in my ear, and I recognised the voice as belonging to Wace. ‘Tancred!’
The fury started to fade and I found myself breathing hard as my senses returned. I shook my shoulders and felt the hands lift from them. The others were all staring at me, I realised, keeping their distance. None of them were speaking. The nun, Burginda, had risen from her chair, but she clearly did not know what to do, for she stood as if frozen to the floor. There was silence.
I felt the weight of their gazes pressing upon me. It was too much; I couldn’t stand being in this place any longer, surrounded in this way. I turned and made for the door.
‘Where are you going?’ said Wace.
‘To find Ælfwold,’ I answered, neither looking back nor caring to close the door behind me as I marched outside.
It must have rained during the night, or earlier that morning, for all about lay bright and glistening in the sun. The grass was wet, the ground soft under my shoes. The scent of damp earth was all around me, and had the wind not been so piercing I might have thought that spring was almost upon us.
This was the first time I’d seen the nunnery in daylight, and for some reason it seemed smaller than when we had first arrived. The grounds seemed more confined, the walls pressing in. All was closer than it had appeared at first; the guest house in fact was hardly fifty paces from the cloister.
I passed through the orchard: through the row upon row of leafless trees, set apart at strict intervals, their branches barely touching. Beyond it lay the nuns’ dormitory, where I would find Eadgyth’s chambers. That any nun but the abbess herself should have her own quarters was unheard of, to my knowledge at least, but then perhaps it was not uncommon for a woman of her standing: a woman who, after all, had been wife to a king, even if it was to a false king such as Harold.
I heard Eudo’s voice behind me, calling: ‘Tancred!’
I did not answer but carried on until I heard footsteps and I glanced across my shoulder to see him running up. Further behind, the nun was following, lifting her skirts in ungainly fashion as she hustled across the grass. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to venture anywhere in the convent grounds unescorted, but at that moment I did not care. Finding the priest was all that mattered.
Eudo fell into step beside me. ‘Ælfwold won’t be pleased,’ he said.
‘He isn’t pleased with me anyway,’ I replied. ‘If he had the choice, he’d probably sooner be rid of me. But we have to know.’
‘I thought we would wait—’
‘—until Eadgyth arrived,’ I finished for him. ‘And she is here now.’
By now we’d entered the cloister, which ran around three sides of the courtyard between the church, the dormitory and what I guessed must be the refectory, from the smell of bread that was wafting from it. Ahead of us two nuns were walking, speaking to one another as they did so. They glanced over their shoulders as we came up. Both were fairly young – novices most probably – round of face and in stature, with wisps of brown hair trailing from beneath their wimples. They were alike enough, indeed, to be sisters, if not in fact twins. They shied away as we approached, letting us past.
‘What are you going to do once you find him?’ Eudo asked.
‘I’m not sure.’ I stopped and leant closer to him, lowering my voice. ‘I’ve seen Malet’s letter.’
‘What?’ Eudo asked. ‘When?’
‘Last night,’ I replied. ‘While he was sleeping I went into his room and read it.’
‘You—’ he began, but didn’t go on. No doubt he had been about to rebuke me for having done it alone, except that he had given me the idea in the first place. ‘What did it say?’
I glanced about to make sure no one was listening. ‘Nothing that I could make sense of. Just two words in Latin. Tutus est. “It is safe”.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But Eadgyth will.’
The doors to the dormitory building lay open before us. Inside, a short hallway opened into a larger, vaulted chamber with plastered walls. To one side a flight of narrow stone steps led upwards. I checked to see if the two novices were still about, but they had gone, and there did not seem to be any other nuns near. At this time of morning they were probably out in the fields seeing to the animals, or else tending to the herb-garden, if they had one.
‘This way,’ I told Eudo as I went in, heading for the stairs. The sound of my footsteps echoed of
f the stonework, though at the same time I could make out voices, raised but nevertheless indistinct.
I began to climb, with Eudo close behind me. The voices grew louder as we ascended. There were two of them: one clearly belonging to the chaplain, for I recognised his gruff tone even though I could not make out his words; the other that of a woman. She sounded agitated, distressed even. It was then that I realised their voices were more than just raised. They were shouting at one another.
I exchanged a look with Eudo, and we hurried on up the stairs, into a wide room with low beams and a sloping roof. Its length was taken up by an oak table, while upon the floor lay richly embroidered rugs in threads of many colours. A private dining-chamber, I guessed, or else a place for receiving and entertaining guests.
There was a door at the far end, and the voices were coming from within. The floorboards creaked gently as we rounded the table towards it, and I hoped that we were not making too much noise, though above their shouting I doubted they’d be able to hear. I let Eudo in front – he was the only one who could understand what they were saying – and he crept up to the door, I behind him, taking care to step upon the rugs so as to muffle our footsteps. He pressed his ear against the door, although in truth he hardly needed to. Even from where I stood I was able to make out distinct words, even if I did not understand what they meant.
‘Eadgyth—’ I heard the chaplain say, in what sounded like a soothing tone. He was cut off.
‘He is min wer!’ Eadgyth said.
‘“He is my husband,”’ Eudo whispered, as a frown crossed his face.
‘What?’ I said, too loudly, and he waved me quiet. That wasn’t what I had been expecting. He is my husband. Eadgyth’s husband had been Harold, but what did the usurper have to do with this?
‘Hit is ma thonne twegra geara fæce,’ she shouted. ‘For hwon wære he swa langsum?’
‘Two years,’ Eudo murmured. ‘Something about it being more than two years. The rest I’m not sure.’
It was more than two years since the invasion, I thought. Was that what she meant?
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