A look of surprise mixed with fear came across his face, and now at last he tried to lift his shield, but it was too late. Already I was following through the stroke, cutting through the links of his mail into the flesh beneath, driving the point through his ribs, deep into his chest. I twisted it, thrusting it deeper, and he let out a gasp, his eyes glazing over; then as I wrenched it free his legs gave way and he toppled backwards into the fire. A cloud of sparks lifted up into the night, as the flames began to consume his body.
I wheeled about, searching for my next kill, but few of the enemy remained. Those who did were either turning to flee or were soon finished on Wace and Eudo’s swords; already the second knight lay dead upon the stones. Once more I looked out towards the Temes, looking for any sign of the ship. Now that we were on the beach I could not see it; the inlet was sheltered by two ridges of higher ground which blocked my view. But as soon as the ship rounded the first of those ridges, those aboard would see the light from the campfire, and when they did, all would be lost.
‘The fire,’ I shouted to Wace and Eudo. ‘Put it out! Put it out!’
My attention was elsewhere, as I had seen Ælfwold on the barge. He stared at me, his eyes wide, his face pale in the firelight, his countenance one of desperation. No longer was this the generous, kind-hearted man I had first met in Eoferwic, nor would he ever be again. Behind those eyes, I now knew, lay a mind capable of deceit and treachery of the highest order. An enemy of my lord.
I left my horse and ran towards him, vaulting over the side of the barge and on to the deck. The Englishman stood on the other side of a great iron-bound chest, more than six feet in length, and two in both width and depth.
A coffin, I realised, and not merely any coffin, but that of the usurper himself. Of Harold Godwineson, breaker of oaths and enemy of God. There was no inscription that I could see, but that was only to be expected, if he had been buried in secret, with the knowledge of just a few men.
‘It’s over, Ælfwold,’ I said. ‘We know all about your plan.’
He did not speak, nor take his eyes from me. With hardly a murmur of steel he drew a seax from a scabbard beneath his cloak, holding it before him in both hands, as if warning me not to come any closer.
‘You would fight me?’ I asked, more in surprise than in scorn. I had never seen the Englishman so much as handle a blade, let alone use one in anger, yet here he was, unafraid to stand before me.
The edge of his seax, polished and sharp, gleamed in what remained of the firelight. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Eudo and Wace stamping down on the flames, which were dwindling rapidly.
‘You will not have him,’ Ælfwold said, and there was hatred in his eyes. ‘He is my king!’
‘Harold was no king,’ I said as I began to advance, one step at a time, towards him. ‘He was a usurper and an oath-breaker.’
‘It is your bastard duke, Guillaume, who is the usurper,’ he spat back. He stepped away, keeping his distance, circling about the coffin. ‘He stole this realm by fire and sword, by murder and rape and pillage.’
‘That’s a lie—’ I began, my blood rising.
‘He wears the crown and sits upon the royal throne,’ Ælfwold went on, shouting me down, ‘but as long as the English refuse to submit to him – as long as we continue to fight – he shall never be king.’
‘Liar!’ I said as I leapt up on top of the coffin and lunged towards him.
Ælfwold swung his seax, but it was with the clumsiness of one unused to arms, and he succeeded only in cutting my cloak. My shield slammed into his chest, and the blade tumbled from his grasp as he fell on to his back.
Straightaway he was trying to get up, reaching out for his seax, which lay just beyond his fingers, but I was quicker, kicking it away before he could get hold of it. I levelled my sword at his throat.
He gazed up at me and swallowed, eyes flicking between me and the point of my blade just beyond his chin. ‘You wouldn’t dare kill me.’
‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.’
‘I am a priest,’ he said. ‘A man of God.’
Not so long ago I had spoken similar words in his defence. Yet now he threw them back at me, mocking me. My hand tightened around my sword-hilt, but somehow I managed to restrain myself.
‘You are no man of God,’ I said. ‘You are a traitor to your lord, to your king.’
‘My king is Harold—’
I kicked him hard in the side and he broke off. I didn’t have to listen to this. After everything, it seemed he was little different from all the other Englishmen we had been fighting since first we arrived upon these shores.
‘Malet trusted you,’ I said. ‘You betrayed him.’
‘No,’ he replied, almost spitting the words. ‘For two years and more I have stood by and done nothing while my kinsmen have suffered at your hands, been slaughtered on your swords. That was my only betrayal. All I wanted was to make that right.’
‘You broke your oath to him.’
‘Do you think I did so lightly?’ he countered. ‘Do you think it is so easy? Yes, I swore myself to him, and I gave him and his family my loyal service for as long as I was able. He is a good lord, a good man. But I have a duty more sacred than any oath, and that is to my people.’
He was trying to confuse me with his words, but I was not to be moved. ‘You are a traitor,’ I repeated, and pressed my blade closer to his neck, almost touching the skin.
Ælfwold stared at me, and I at him. ‘Kill me, then, if that’s what you’re here to do,’ he said.
‘Don’t tempt me.’ My skull was pounding, almost drowning out my thoughts. Of course Malet wanted him brought back to Eoferwic alive, but at the same time I realised how easy it would be for my sword to slip, for me to pierce the Englishman’s throat and leave him here to die. I could tell the vicomte that he had fought on to the last, that we had had no choice but to kill him, and he would have to accept our word, never knowing the truth.
All around us lay in darkness. The skies were black, lit only by a few stars, the moon hidden behind the cloud. The fire was out; across the ashes were laid two cloaks, dripping with water, and Wace and Eudo were stamping down upon them, stifling the last tendrils of smoke. And just in time, for as I glanced out upon the black reaches of the Temes, there, edging past the first of the two ridges of land, a shadow amongst shadows, came the high prow, the tall mast, the long hull of the ship.
The point of my blade quivered as I held it before Ælfwold’s neck, held his fate in my own sword-hand.
‘That boat,’ I said. ‘It was supposed to meet with you, to take Harold’s body away, wasn’t it?’
He did not answer, but I knew from his silence that I was right. He was shivering, though whether from the cold or out of fear I could not tell. His eyes were wide, and I thought I saw tears forming in their corners.
And all of a sudden I realised that I could not do it. Despite his lies, despite his treachery, I could not bring myself to kill such a wretch of a man. I was holding my breath, I realised, and I let it out, at the same time sliding my bloodied sword back into its scabbard.
‘Tancred,’ Eudo said. He was pointing out into the river, towards the vessel. A point of orange light shone across the water, like the flame from a lantern. It lasted but a few heartbeats, and then was gone. A signal, I thought.
I turned back to face Ælfwold, about to open my mouth to speak, but at that moment he sprung at me, his face red and full of anger. He crashed into my middle, pressing at me with all his weight. Almost before I knew what was happening my feet were slipping on the wet deck, my ankle twisting, and I was falling. My back slammed into the wooden planks, the breath knocked from my chest.
But Ælfwold had no intention of finishing me, for already he was jumping down from the barge, running across the stones, making for higher ground. I rose to my feet, struggling under the weight of my mail. I loosened my arm from the straps of the shield, letting it fall to the deck as I leapt down and gave chase.
Gravel crunched beneath my shoes, digging through the leather, into my soles. I heard Wace and Eudo shouting, but I did not know if they were behind me; all I cared about was catching the Englishman.
Already he had a start of some thirty paces and more as he scrambled up the grassy slope, through bushes, over outcrops of rock. Branches clattered against my helmet as I followed; thorns scratched my face and my hands. For a moment I lost him amidst a clump of trees, but I kept on going, and as I came out the other side I saw his cloak whipping in the wind.
He was running along the top of the ridge, towards the Temes, waving his arms at the same time as he yelled out in English – trying to catch the attention of those on the ship, I realised. Again the orange light came, glinting off the water, and again it disappeared, the signal unanswered.
‘Onbidath,’ Ælfwold screamed. ‘Onbidath!’ But the wind was blowing more strongly now, and whatever he was saying, it was surely lost.
I was gaining on him with every stride now, despite my mail and the scabbard hanging from my sword-belt. Not much further ahead, the ridge came to a sudden end; instead of a steady slope down to the river, there was a steep drop on to the rocks where the land had fallen away. The priest was trapped, and he knew it too as he came to a halt.
‘It’s finished,’ I said again, having to shout to make myself heard above the wind. ‘There’s no sense in fighting any longer.’
For the ship, I saw, was turning against the tide, its oars heaving as it began to make its way back downstream. For a third time the orange light shone, but it was fainter than before.
‘You can’t get away,’ I said, and now at last he turned to face me. His eyes were wild, his face twisted in a mixture of despair and hatred, as though the Devil were inside him. I laid a hand upon my sword-hilt, ready.
‘England will never belong to you,’ he spat, and pointed a finger at me. ‘This is our land, our home – it is not yours!’
He was raving now, driven to madness by the realisation of his defeat. Slowly I advanced, keeping my eyes fixed upon him.
‘You will not take me,’ he said, shaking his head as he took a step back. ‘Kill me if you have to, but you will not take me.’ He was fewer than five paces from the edge now, and I wondered if he knew.
I lifted my hands away from my body, away from my sword. ‘I’m not going to kill you.’
The wind gusted again, pressing at my back, like icy hands laid upon my skin, digging into the flesh. The priest stepped backwards but the ground was muddy and he lost his footing, falling to his hands and knees. Behind him was nothing but air.
‘Ælfwold!’ I cried. I started forward, holding out my hand towards him.
He clasped it, his palm cold but his grip strong. Too strong, I realised, as he wrenched me from my feet. I met the ground hard, the brink no more than an arm’s length away. My heart was pounding as I rolled on to my back and reached for my sword, but I was not quick enough. The priest flung himself at me, his face red, his cheeks streaming with tears.
He landed on top of me, his hands flying to my throat, and it was all I could do to swing my fist into the side of his head. The blow connected and he reeled back, and in that moment I saw my chance, throwing him off. I struggled to my feet, and he to his, wiping blood from his cheek.
Except that now I was the one with the cliff at my back. I pulled my blade free of its sheath, and held it before me in warning.
‘Stay back,’ I said.
But he was not listening. Screeching like some beast from the caverns of Hell, he charged.
Whether he hoped to catch me off guard and off balance, whether he planned to take us both over, I do not know, and never will. I recovered my wits just in time, waiting until he was almost upon me before dancing to one side, lifting my sword, turning and thrusting the blade out. A moment sooner and he would have seen what I was doing; a moment later and I would have been pitched, with him, on to the rocks below.
My sword flashed silver in the night, striking only air, but Ælfwold was coming so fast that it did not matter. He flew past me, past the point of my blade, and in a single moment his expression turned from rage to fear when he saw the cliff-edge before him and found that he could not stop.
His cloak billowed all about him as, screaming, he tumbled forward, disappearing from sight. Dropping my sword, I rushed to the edge, gazing down towards the rocks. The priest lay on his back, unmoving, his arms and legs spread wide.
‘Ælfwold,’ I called, but he did not reply.
His eyes were open, the whites glistening in what little light there was, but he did not see me. His mouth hung agape, his chest was still and he was no longer breathing. His forehead was spattered with blood, his hair matted where his skull had cracked.
The chaplain was dead.
Epilogue
THE SUN SHONE brightly upon Eoferwic. It was still early but the morning was warm, as Malet and I rode through a city blossoming with colour.
Hardly three weeks had passed since the battle, yet already traders were returning, farmers driving their livestock to market once more. Butchers’ and fishmongers’ stalls lined the streets, which were thronged with English and French alike. Everywhere the trees were in leaf, while in the fields the first green shoots were bursting above the soil. The scent of moist earth drifted on the breeze. After the long winter we had endured, it seemed that spring had at last arrived.
‘It was on a morning like this, some fifteen years ago, that I first saw this city,’ said Malet. ‘I find it remarkable how little it has changed, despite all the troubles of recent times.’
We were alone. I had left Eudo and Wace at the alehouse where we were staying; neither were up when the summons had arrived for me from the vicomte. Exactly why he had called for me he had not yet said.
‘My mother had died not long before,’ he went on. ‘I’d come to England to take up the estates she’d held here. It was only a few months later that I took a young priest into my household as my chaplain.’
‘Ælfwold,’ I said.
Malet’s face was grim. ‘I still find it hard to believe that he was capable of such deceit.’
With that I could only agree. We had told Malet everything when we returned to his hall the night before: everything from our arrival at Waltham and our meeting with Dean Wulfwin, to the fight upon the shore, the ship waiting out on the Temes, my struggle with Ælfwold by the cliff’s edge, and his eventual death. Through all of it Malet had hardly spoken as he sat, pensive and still.
We’d brought Harold’s coffin with us, which had proven no easy task. First we’d had to find a cart to carry it, and of course there’d been the matter of how to raise it from the barge, but with the help of some local folk and generous offerings of silver we had managed. It had taken us many days after that to return to Eoferwic; far longer than it should. But we hadn’t wanted to bring too much attention upon ourselves and so had tried to keep to country tracks, staying away from the old road as much as we could.
‘Where will you bury Harold now?’ I asked. ‘Will you return his body to Waltham?’
Before us a man was driving a flock of geese through the mud. We plodded behind them until he came to a pen at the side of the street and, aided by some of the other townsmen, herded them through its gate, out of our way.
‘Not Waltham, no,’ said Malet. ‘After this, I know I cannot rely on Wulfwin to keep such a secret safe.’
‘Where, then?’
He glared at me, as if in warning, but I held his gaze and he soon turned away. ‘I will find somewhere fitting,’ he answered quietly. ‘By the sea, perhaps, so that in death he may still watch over the shores he tried in life to protect.’
I wondered what he meant by that, whether he was speaking in jest. But he was not smiling and there was no humour in his eyes. He had told me as much as he was prepared to, and it was clear I would get nothing more from him.
For a while we rode on in silence. Pedlars approached us, trying to sell rolls of cloth, wood
en pots and all manner of trinkets, but when they saw that we were ignoring them they quickly moved on.
‘What about Eadgyth?’ I asked, recalling the letter that Wigod had translated for me. ‘Will you send word to her now?’
Malet nodded. ‘I’m leaving for Wiltune tomorrow to meet with her in person. At the very least she deserves an explanation for all that has happened.’
‘You’ll tell her the truth?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Or else I will think of some other story to placate her,’ he said. ‘That the body was lost, or something similar. Perhaps it would be better that way.’
I shot him a glance, but said nothing. A group of children darted about our horses’ legs, chasing each other in some game I did not understand. I held the reins steady, slowing my mount to a halt until they had passed.
‘I suppose I should thank you and your companions for everything you have done in my service,’ Malet went on. ‘I wouldn’t have known of Ælfwold’s deceit had it not been for you.’
He did not look at me while he spoke. I sensed he was testing me, and not for the first time, I thought. By now of course he must have realised that it was only our own treachery that had led us to the answer. For if I hadn’t tried to read his letter in the first place, we could never have known the priest’s plan.
‘We did only what we thought was right, lord,’ I said, picking my words with care.
He remained tight-lipped, concentrating on the road ahead. I wondered what was going through his mind, whether he was angry. But how could he be? He was indebted to us, whether or not he cared to admit it.
Not far off I spied the gaunt figure of Gilbert de Gand, laughing together with a half-dozen of his knights. The king had handed him the permanent role of castellan, I had learnt, with Malet returning to his duties as vicomte. Gilbert saw us, and waved in greeting. Certainly he seemed to be enjoying the new honour he had been granted, for I had rarely seen him in better humour.
Malet was clearly in no mood to speak with him then, however, as he pulled sharply on the reins, turning off the main street, his expression sour.
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