The Splintered Kingdom c-2

by James Aitcheson

  And yet if Fitz Osbern was right, even that might not be enough to stop Eadric and the Welsh, and all the others who threatened the kingdom. In times of crisis men always look to those above them to give them confidence, but I had not gained any from him. Rather, it seemed that he had all but given up hope, not just of defending the March but of holding England altogether. Unlike some other lords I had known over the years, I had always considered him a formidable man, a rival even to the foremost princes of Christendom. A staunch and uncompromising leader, he inspired respect in everyone: from the lowliest knight to King Guillaume himself, who was said to hold his counsel in higher regard than that of any other man. Today, however, I had seen a very different side of him, and all at once I found the admiration that I’d held for him slipping away, as if a veil had fallen from my eyes. I felt strangely embarrassed to be standing there, as if I had witnessed something that I had not been supposed to.

  I cleared my throat. ‘My lord, if you have no further need of me, then I ought to return to my men, and see what needs to be done.’

  He didn’t deign to offer a reply, but waved a hand absently, and I took that to mean that I was dismissed. Without a further word I left him to gaze despondently out across the yard by himself, closing the door softly behind me. Even as I did so, however, a small voice of doubt rose at the back of my mind, and the thought occurred to me: what if he was right?

  Nineteen

  Scrobbesburh’s market square was a quieter place now. Probably the merchants who usually came had made instead for safer ports where they could sell their wares without the threat of Welsh steel slicing open their bellies. Still, as I made my way back past the stalls of the wool-sellers and the stacked cages of chickens and wildfowl destined for the spit, my mood lifted when I glimpsed a familiar face amongst the traders.

  ‘Byrhtwald!’

  With his familiar tired grey mule and cart with its green and scarlet streamers, it could be no other. At the sound of his name he looked up. He did not spot me at first, but as I led Nihtfeax around the side of a pair of haywains towards him, a grin spread across his face.

  ‘Lord Tancred,’ he said, clasping my hand in greeting when I reached him. ‘You’ve been having many adventures, or so I hear. The Welsh haven’t managed to kill you yet, then.’

  ‘Not yet.’ I returned his smile. ‘And I’m hoping that they don’t for a while longer, too. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Buying and selling,’ he said. ‘What else do you think? There’s no better place to make money than a marketplace when there’s an army encamped not an arrow’s flight away.’

  ‘And no better place to hear news that you can later sell to those who’ll pay.’

  ‘You know me too well,’ he said. ‘To tell the truth, though, I’ve learnt little that isn’t already common knowledge. Still, I was right about Wild Eadric and the Welsh, wasn’t I?’

  ‘You were,’ I conceded. Not that it had helped me much.

  ‘I see you carry the reliquary with you,’ he said, nodding at the bronze pendant that hung around my neck. ‘I thought that was bound for the altar in your church. The priest seemed rather taken with it, as I remember.’

  ‘He wanted me to wear it, so that the saint would protect me in battle,’ I said. ‘Since I’m still alive, I suppose he must be looking after me.’

  ‘I’ll confess that’s one sale I regret making. My wife was not best pleased when I told her I’d let you buy it off me, and for less than a pound of silver at that. I should never have agreed to such a price. Clouted me around the head for that, she did.’ He rubbed his temple. ‘I had a lump right here for days afterwards.’

  ‘Your wife is well, then?’

  ‘Well enough, thank you kindly for asking. She’s a tough woman, as strong as an ox, and don’t I know it.’

  ‘No sign of her illness returning, I hope.’

  ‘Illness, lord?’ He frowned for a moment, before he seemed to remember. ‘Oh yes,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Terrible days those were, but God be praised she still lives. To tell the truth, I’ve never known her in such good health as she is now.’ He pointed to the relic-pendant. ‘And to think that she might not be with us at all, were it not for the intervention of blessed St Mathurin-’

  ‘Mathurin?’ I interrupted him. ‘You said this belonged to St Ignatius.’

  ‘St Ignatius, of course,’ he answered, red-faced all of a sudden. ‘That’s what I meant to say. The hair of St Ignatius.’

  ‘Toe-bone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was his toe-bone, or so you told me.’

  ‘And so it is,’ he said, beaming as if he had just been proven right. ‘His toe-bone, indeed.’

  Frustrated, I gave up. I suspected Byrhtwald was merely having a jest at my expense, but I couldn’t be sure. Sometimes it was useless trying to talk with him. For all that I liked him, I always had the sense when we spoke that I was playing some manner of game, the rules of which I did not quite understand. Worse, it was a game I always seemed to end up losing. Quick with his words and confident in his manner, Byrhtwald was the kind of man who would try to sell me the shirt off my own back if he thought he could get away with it. Even then I would probably end up convinced that I’d made a good trade.

  ‘The enemy are coming,’ I said. ‘They know that we are weakened, and no doubt Bleddyn will be wanting to avenge his brother’s death too. I don’t know how long it’ll be before they march, but you probably don’t want to still be here when they do. Otherwise you might find Fitz Osbern forcing a spear into your hands and putting you on the ramparts to help defend the town.’

  ‘Have no fear on my account,’ said Byrhtwald. ‘I promise you that Cwylmend’ — he patted the mule’s flank — ‘and I will be gone long before the enemy get here.’

  ‘Cwylmend?’ My understanding of the English tongue was far from perfect, but I knew enough to be able to translate that. ‘You name that wretched excuse for an animal Tormenter?’

  ‘Watch what you say in her company,’ he said indignantly, covering the mule’s ears with his hands as he glared at me. ‘She’s a loyal friend to me, and fierce in her own way. She doesn’t like to show it, that’s all. Last week a man tried to hit her and she savaged his right hand, bit off all his fingers and left him with only the thumb. If she wanted, I reckon she could probably have your head off.’

  Ignorant of what we were saying about her, Cwylmend continued to munch upon a pile of hay. Flies buzzed around her and once in a while she would swing her tail lazily to fend them off.

  ‘Make sure that you don’t tell Fitz Osbern about her,’ I said. ‘If he finds out that she’s good for killing Welshmen, he’ll have her in the first rank of the shield-wall when the enemy come.’

  ‘I never said she’d killed anyone, lord. Truth be told, I don’t think the old girl has it in her to take a man’s life, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t willing to cause some pain where it’s warranted.’

  He left me for a moment to deal with one of his countrymen, a grey-bearded fellow with a large wart upon his nose, who was looking to exchange a blackened chicken on a stick for one of the ointment-jars that the pedlar had laid out on a bench in front of his cart.

  The deal having been struck, Byrhtwald turned back to me, already tearing into the charred meat. ‘Forgive me,’ he said between mouthfuls. ‘I haven’t eaten in hours. Do you want some?’

  I thanked him but declined, and was about to ask him where his travels had taken him since last I saw him, when he waved the carcass in the direction of St Ealhmund’s church across the market square.

  ‘Friends of yours?’ he asked.

  A group of five knights were riding towards us, and at their head was Berengar. I had avoided him as best as I could since arriving back from the expedition, for I had no desire to see his face.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I replied.

  The tale of how Berengar had captured the Welsh banner in the battle had begun to spread, and everywhere now men were sing
ing his praises, hailing him as a hero for his feats of courage and the number of foemen he had slain. Some were even beginning to say that it was he who had killed Rhiwallon, and though he knew as well as I did that that was not true, he hadn’t made any attempt to deny it.

  The crowd parted to make way for him and his retinue. Their faces I recognised, for they had all ridden in my raiding-host, always at Berengar’s side, unwavering in their loyalty to him. As usual Berengar had a scowl upon his face: the only expression that to my recollection he had ever worn.

  ‘Consorting with the enemy are we now, Tancred?’ he said as they halted before us. ‘Or are you going to tell me you didn’t know?’

  ‘Know what?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re arresting all the travelling merchants and pedlars who are still in the town, and seizing their goods forthwith. The order was given earlier this morning.’

  I frowned. ‘For what reason?’

  ‘To prevent them selling news of our numbers and disposition to those across the dyke. Already three men have confessed to being spies in the enemy’s pay. No doubt the rest will do so in their turn just as soon as we can question them properly.’

  ‘Why haven’t I heard of this?’

  Berengar shrugged. ‘How should I know?’ He fixed Byrhtwald with a stern gaze, although if the Englishman was at all perturbed he did not show it. ‘Now, if you’ll make way, I intend to apprehend this man and take him to the castle.’

  I did not move. ‘Who gave this order?’

  ‘Fitz Osbern himself placed me in charge of the task.’

  ‘He didn’t mention any of this to me,’ I said. ‘I was speaking with him not half an hour ago.’

  ‘And because of that you assume that I’m lying?’ Berengar sneered. ‘You think he considers you so worthy of his attention that he must keep you informed of his every decision? After what happened, you’re lucky he hasn’t put you in chains and cast you into the deepest, dankest pit he can find. At the very least he must realise how misplaced was his faith in you. It took him long enough. We all saw it long ago.’

  He glanced at his five companions, who were all sniggering. By now I had grown used to such childish scorn, and this time I refused to rise to it. Berengar swung down from his horse and marched in front of me, drawing himself up to his full height.

  ‘Unless you want to join your English friend, I suggest you get out of my way,’ he said.

  We stood eye to eye. He was slightly the taller of the two of us, with, I reckoned, a longer reach that would give him an advantage if it came to a fight, but his greater girth would surely slow him down and make him clumsier on his feet.

  ‘If you want me to move, you’ll have to make me,’ I said.

  He gave me a questioning look, as if he had expected that his words alone would be enough to make me stand aside. As if I cared for any instruction that came out of his mouth. Uncertain what to do, he held my stare for a few moments, before slowly a smile broke out across his face and, forcing a laugh, he turned to his friends.

  ‘He thinks he can stop us.’ He raised his tone for all to hear, throwing his hands wide as if beseeching the crowd to witness my obstinacy. ‘He thinks he can defy Fitz Osbern’s bidding!’

  A few of the market-goers were turning their heads to watch, but most were staying well back. Even if they didn’t know enough French to understand what was being said, they surely sensed that this was something they wanted no part of. A woman hustled her children away down the street, glancing over her shoulder nervously as she went. A farmer and his son who were driving a herd of pigs towards the pens on the other side of the square decided not to try to pass us but rather to take the longer route through the side streets.

  ‘This has nothing to do with Fitz Osbern,’ I said to Berengar. ‘This is about your pathetic feud with me.’

  He spat on the floor, narrowly missing my foot. ‘I have no feud with you,’ he said, not entirely convincingly. ‘You’re worth about as much as a sheep’s turd as far as I’m concerned. Now either go from here back to the ewe’s arse that shitted you out or I’ll spill your guts on to the street for all these people to see.’

  ‘You could never kill me,’ I said. ‘You draw your blade and I’ll run you through before you can so much as let out a scream.’

  He drew closer, so that I could feel his warm, reeking breath upon my cheeks and see the pockmarks covering his face. ‘I’m not afraid of you, Tancred. Others might stand in awe of your reputation, but I see you for what you are. You’re no different to the rest of us, nor, when it comes to it, any less mortal. If you stand aside then I will stay my hand. Otherwise I cannot promise you anything. It is your choice.’

  Laying one hand upon the round disc of his sword-pommel, with the other he gave a flick of his fingers as a signal to his friends. They dismounted, drawing their blades as they formed a half-ring around me and Byrhtwald. Behind us lay the trader’s cart together with Cwylmend, who was still chewing contentedly, oblivious to everything that was going on.

  ‘This wasn’t wise, lord,’ Byrhtwald said.

  I hardly needed him to tell me that. ‘What would you rather I’d done?’

  To that he had no answer. From his belt hung a long hunting knife. I’d never seen the Englishman fight and so I had no idea how skilled with a blade he was, but he would have to be exceptional indeed if the two of us were to win out over the five of them. The way the colour had all but drained from his face did not inspire much confidence. If Berengar truly wanted to kill me, then he would not get a better chance than this. Yet I could hardly back down and leave the pedlar to his fate, and even if I did I wasn’t convinced that Berengar would hold true to his word and spare me. Not after everything that had passed between us of late.

  ‘Have your men put away their weapons,’ I said to him, hoping that he didn’t sense my anxiety. ‘We can settle this between ourselves.’

  His fingers curled around his hilt. ‘It’s too late for that. Perhaps if you hadn’t set about trying to disgrace me in front of my men, it need not have come to this.’

  ‘Disgrace you?’ I repeated. ‘You were the one who started this quarrel. You’re the one to blame for-’

  I never got the chance to finish. His sword was free of its sheath in a heartbeat. Barely had I time to work out what was going on than he was rushing at me, swinging the blade wildly across my path, roaring with unrestrained fury. I threw myself to the side just in time as sharpened steel cleaved the air where I had been standing, before lodging itself firmly in the frame of Byrhtwald’s cart. As Berengar struggled to free its edge from the timbers, I staggered to my feet, drawing my own weapon in time to meet the challenge from one of his men. With a scrape of steel on steel I parried his blow, forcing his weapon down and out of position while I stepped forward and slammed my free fist into his jaw. Bright blood dribbled down his chin as, thrown off balance, he staggered sideways, tripping over the bench with the ointment jars and ending up sprawled on his back in the dirt.

  I didn’t wait for him to rise or for any of Berengar’s other friends to bring their blades to bear. Instead I rushed behind the cart. A collection of copper cooking pots sat on top of the canvas; I lifted one of them and hurled it at Berengar’s head, as, red-faced and with gritted teeth, he tried to work his sword free from the timbers into which it had become stuck. He saw it coming, ducked, and the pot sailed over his head, missing him by a hair’s breadth and clattering upon the ground. Abandoning his sword and drawing his knife instead, he approached around one side of the cart while two of his companions came around the other.

  Knowing that I couldn’t fight all of them at once, I ran. A number of side streets and alleyways led away from the marketplace and I made for one of those, pushing past those who were in my way, doing my best not to fall over the crates and barrels stacked upon the ground. Chickens flapped wildly, shedding feathers as they strayed across my path. Everywhere men were shouting; behind me came a scream and I glanced over my shoulder to see Berenga
r and his men shoving a young woman out of their way. Some of the market-goers took refuge behind their carts and their stalls, while others were running, abandoning their wares and their animals at the sight of naked steel.

  Berengar shouted at them to stop me, but they knew better than to risk their lives in something that was none of their concern. I rounded the end of the row of stalls, pausing for the barest heartbeart to kick over a low table stacked with baskets of wet-glistening eels and other fish.

  I was wondering where Byrhtwald had gone when I heard the Englishman shouting to me from further up the street. Leaving Berengar and the others to negotiate the fallen table and baskets, I rushed after him. He was nimbler than his years and his squat stature suggested, diving in between the stalls, fighting his way through the throng. Ahead lay the farrier’s workshop, from which clouds of white charcoal-smoke were billowing out across the street.

  ‘This way!’ Byrhtwald said before darting through the smoke and down an alley that led between the forge and the tanner’s place.

  I charged after him through the clouds, shielding my face, for all the good that seemed to do. My eyes stung with the smoke and the heat, but I was quickly through it-

  And straight into the flank of an ox, one of a pair hauling a wagon loaded with timbers up the alley. The beast snorted indignantly and its owner yelled at me in words I didn’t understand, but I had no time to stop and apologise, even if I could remember the right English phrase. No sooner had I recovered my senses than I was turning, breaking once more into a run, only for my forehead to meet the end of one of the planks, which was jutting out across the side of the wagon. Stunned by the blow and cursing in pain, I lost my footing on the soft ground, and found myself lying amidst the mud and the cattle dung. Blood, warm and sticky, trickled across my brow and down between my eyes. Dazed and not entirely sure what had happened, I put a hand to it and my palm came away smeared with crimson streaks.

  Somewhere in the smoke shadows moved about. The man with the cart and oxen had stopped but now there were voices and he was being hurried on. One of the shadows resolved itself into the shape of a man. At first I thought that the pedlar had come back for me, but then the figure stepped closer and as I blinked to clear my sight I saw his face, fixed as it always was in an expression of hatred and spite.