The Splintered Kingdom c-2

by James Aitcheson

  The Englishman began to open his mouth, and suddenly a cold feeling overcame me as I thought he was about to give us away, when Pons, who was standing not far behind, clouted him about the back of the head, sending him sprawling upon the dirt.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, slave,’ he said. ‘Remember your place.’

  That was quick thinking, I thought. It took me but a moment to recover my voice.

  ‘He belongs to me,’ I told the Dane. ‘He speaks only with my permission.’

  Pons had obviously hit Runstan harder than I’d realised, for he was crying out in pain, shouting insults at us, calling us sons of whores and even worse. I nodded to Pons, who kicked him in the gut, and that discouraged him from saying anything further.

  Still, the Dane seemed convinced by our story. Shouting now to make himself heard over the dogs’ barking, which I reckoned loud enough to wake the dead from their graves, he began: ‘Tell me what your business is with-’

  He didn’t get the chance to finish, for at that moment the man holding the leash found himself dragged to the ground by the beast on the other end. Suddenly free, the animal hurled itself at one of Wace’s knights, who was not expecting it and fell backwards.

  ‘Harduin!’ Wace shouted, drawing his sword and rushing to his retainer’s aid even as the other two dogs broke free of their masters’ grips and charged, their teeth bared. One made for Wace himself, but he had enough time before it was upon him to raise his sword, plunging the tip of his blade into its breast as it leapt up at his chest. The other sank its teeth into Serlo’s ankle, and he swore violently as blood streamed from the wound, soaking into the hem of his trews.

  The three huscarls who had been in charge of the hounds came forward, seeking at the same time to restrain them and to stop us from killing them. Most of the others were laughing, enjoying the spectacle as if it were some game, and among them was their captain.

  Our ruse wouldn’t hold for long, and so this seemed to me as good an opportunity as any we would get.

  Roaring through gritted teeth, I pulled my blade free of its scabbard and, with all the might I could muster, heaved it towards the chest of the big man, who all of a sudden was no longer laughing as he saw the sharpened steel glinting wickedly in the light of his men’s torches. He ducked just in time, and my strike only succeeded in glancing off his upper arm, failing to penetrate the chain links of his hauberk.

  ‘Kill them,’ I shouted. ‘Kill them!’

  I had thought somehow we might manage to get in and out of this stronghold without having to fight. A hollow hope that seemed in hindsight, since a fight was exactly what we had found.

  As I recovered my sword ready for another strike, the giant drew his long-handled axe from over his shoulder, hefting it in both hands, bellowing with fury as he swung it at my head. Having only a buckler with which to defend myself, it was all I could do to throw myself to one side, rolling away from the path of his blade as it clove the air inches from my ear. But he wielded no shield either, which meant he had no protection against the low blow. Even as I scrambled to my feet, I aimed a slice at his shins, hoping to take his feet out from under him or at the very least cripple him so that he would be easier to kill. But rather than cutting through flesh and smashing bone, instead my sword found something like steel, and I realised that under his trews he wore hidden greaves.

  The Dane smirked at my surprise and swung his axe again, confident now that he had the better of me. This time, however, rather than stepping back or diving aside I lunged forward, inside the reach of his weapon, seeking an opening higher up as I thrust my knife towards his face. The weight of his weapon and the strength of his swing had drawn him off balance, and that was all the chance I needed as I drove the thin blade up and under his chin, into his throat. Blood bubbled and trickled down the Dane’s chest, over my hand, and in an instant his expression changed. The smirk vanished and it was his turn to look surprised as his eyes opened wide and he saw his death approaching. I twisted the knife hard and wrenched it free, and the force of that was enough to pull him off his feet and to the ground, where he lay heavy and still.

  The rest of the enemy were by then in disarray. The suddenness of our attack had worked in our favour for I counted only four of them still standing and one of their dogs. Another Dane, who shared the same build and who might well have been a brother or a cousin of the first, rushed towards me, screaming, his eyes filled with hatred and thoughts of revenge. Like his countryman he was not quick, or perhaps it only felt that way because the battle-calm was upon me, that peculiar sense of quietness that often descends during the melee. Time itself seemed to slow; suddenly everything seemed so easy, as if I knew even before it happened exactly how and when and where my foe would make his attack. Thus as the Dane lunged with sword drawn I was able to dance around and behind him, landing a kick upon his backside to send him flailing forwards. He rolled on to his back so as to face me, but no sooner had he done so than I laid my foot upon his chest and was thrusting my sword-point with both hands down through his ventail into his neck.

  At the same time the last of the three dogs writhed upon the ground, giving a great howl of distress, so terrible as to rent the sky asunder, its lifeblood draining away before at last it was run through by Eudo’s hand. Having seen their leader and friends felled, the remaining three Danes preferred not to waste their lives in a hopeless cause and instead tried to flee. Burdened with shields and mail, they didn’t get far. One failed to spot a latrine pit in his path and tripped — Pons made short work of finishing him — while the other two threw down their arms, vainly pleading mercy before they were struck down by Eudo and the second of Wace’s two retainers, a broad and large-jowled Gascon whose name I had forgotten.

  I glanced about to check upon the rest of our party. Wace had dropped his sword and was standing hunched over, clutching his side. Blood, dark and glistening, stuck to his fingers and his expression suggested he was in some pain, although at his feet lay the corpse of the man who must have struck him, so it couldn’t have been too grievous an injury.

  ‘Is it bad?’ I asked him.

  ‘I’ll live, if that’s what you mean,’ he replied breathlessly, a grimace upon his face. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as he gestured towards his knight Harduin, who had not got up from where he lay, his face and neck crossed with savage bite marks where the dog had buried its teeth.

  This was not the time to mourn him, however. Most of the others looked unhurt save for perhaps some scratches and bruises, although Serlo was limping and cursing violently while one of Eudo’s men was nursing a wound to his arm below the sleeve of his hauberk. But still there were eight of us standing.

  Eight, when there should have been nine. Our guide, Runstan, had gone. Sheathing my sword and my knife, I glanced about in all directions, hoping to spot him amongst the corpses, but it was a futile hope. He was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where’s the Englishman?’ Pons called as he and Eudo returned from their slaughter.

  ‘I thought you were watching him,’ I said, unable to restrain my anger. ‘If he’s gone-’

  ‘I killed three Danes!’ Pons protested, interrupting me. ‘How was I supposed to fight them and watch him at the same time?’

  I swore. Runstan would take word to his countrymen; they would bring men before long and we would never get out of Beferlic alive. If we’d had little time before, we had even less now.

  One of the Danish corpses twitched. At least, I’d assumed it was a corpse. He was lying on his back, his eyes closed and his limbs splayed out on both sides, but then I glimpsed the faintest cloud of mist forming in front of his half-open mouth, and the rise and fall of his chest, so slight as to be almost unnoticeable. I stood over him.

  ‘On your feet,’ I said, and when he didn’t respond I stamped down hard upon his groin.

  That broke his pretence. Howling and shouting curses in his own tongue, he rolled over, clutching his nether regions with both hands.


  ‘Get up,’ I said, and with the help of both Eudo and Pons stripped the Dane of his helmet and dragged him to his feet, so that I could look him in the eyes and spit upon his wart-ridden face. ‘Where are the hostages?’ I asked him in both French and English.

  At first he pretended not to understand what I was saying, and began jabbering something in Danish, but the moment my hand went to my knife-hilt he discovered he could understand me after all, and suddenly he was pointing to the smallest of the three halls, on the opposite side of the yard from the church, where the kitchens usually were. I thanked him for his kind help before burying my knife in his gut and slitting his throat.

  At the same time the Gascon called to me, brandishing a set of four iron keys attached to a ring that he’d found on the belt of the huscarls’ captain. Leaving Wace and Serlo to take charge and keep watch while they tended to their wounds, I took the keys and, signalling for Pons and Eudo to follow, went around the hall to the side facing the yard, where I found the doors lying open. Inside, the only light came from a lantern set upon a large round table beside several flagons of ale. Casks and crates were stacked everywhere; skinned carcasses of deer dangled from hooks fixed into the ceiling-beams; bunches of herbs hung, tied by their stems, upon one wall; logs and kindling had been piled in a corner. At one end of the hall was a wide hearth with a flue above it, though no fire had been lit. At the other, a staircase led downwards towards an ironbound door with a sturdy lock.

  ‘Bring me that lantern,’ I said to Pons as I descended the steps and tried each one of the keys in turn. The first and the second didn’t fit, and I was beginning to think we would have to break the door down when thankfully the third turned cleanly and the door swung open into darkness.

  Pons handed the lantern to Eudo, who passed it down to me, and I shone it into the cellar, lighting the way ahead.

  ‘Lord,’ I said. ‘Are you there?’

  Even as the words left my tongue, I saw him, blinking in the lantern-light, dazed as if half-asleep. He looked considerably thinner than when I’d last seen him. His eyes were heavy, his face was unshaven and his black tunic and trews were torn and frayed.

  A flicker of recognition crossed his face, and he found his voice. ‘Tancred,’ he said. ‘I thought-’

  ‘That I was dead,’ I finished for him. ‘And I almost was.’

  His hands were tied behind his back and I went to free them, picking at the knot. The rope was tight around his wrists and ankles, and I could see the marks where it had rubbed his skin raw.

  ‘How did you get here?’ he asked. ‘Has the king arrived with his army? Or have you come with the ransom?’

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that we had come alone, and in any case explanations could wait until later. The sooner we escaped this place, the better.

  Instead I said: ‘Are your father and sister here?’

  ‘My father’s over there,’ Robert replied, pointing to the far corner of the cellar and a stack of barrels from behind which I could just see a pair of feet. ‘Father!’

  In reply there came a low, drawn-out groan. While Eudo saw to the elder Malet’s bonds I helped Robert to his feet. He could stand well enough, although it took him a moment to find his balance.

  ‘He’s been gripped by fever and sickness for days,’ he said. ‘They’ve kept us down here, in the damp and the dark, for I have no idea how long.’

  ‘What about Beatrice?’ I asked. ‘Where is she?’

  Robert shook his head. ‘They took her somewhere else. I don’t know where.’

  I should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. I should have kept that wart-faced whoreson of a Dane alive so that he could lead me to her.

  I rushed to the door, yanking the ring of keys from the lock. ‘Pons, show Robert and his father the way to the others. Find them food and drink and keep the vicomte warm, but be ready to leave as soon as I return.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ he shouted after me as I charged up the wooden steps.

  ‘To find Beatrice,’ I answered without so much as turning around.

  And I prayed to God that she was safe.

  Twenty-nine

  There were no other doors leading off from the kitchen. Outside, adjoining the hall, were two small storehouses whose timbers were decaying, and I tried their locks. Both opened on the same key as the cellar; the first was empty while the second held only some mould-ridden sacks of vegetables and flour that provided food for the rats, which scurried away the moment the door creaked and I stepped inside. Which meant that Beatrice was probably being held in one of the other halls: either the large, two-storeyed one that I imagined would have been both the refectory and, on the up-floor, the abbot’s chambers; or the one forming the eastern wing opposite from it, which was probably the dormitory. Thinking that the Danes and Eadgar would probably have taken the latter with its large hearth-fire for their chambers, I made instead for the refectory. In truth it was a guess. I had no way of knowing whether she was here at all, and had not been taken to another part of the town entirely.

  Unlocking the heavy oak door, I ventured into the blackness, wishing I had a torch or something else to light my way. When my eyes adjusted I could see a long dining table with a dozen stools around it, some of them overturned, and the abbot’s chair at the far end. Rotten, half-finished food that no one had cleared away sat on wooden plates, while a clay pitcher lay in fragments on the floor. The rushes and sawdust were stained with what could have been either wine or blood. The monks must have been in the middle of their repast when the pagans stormed the abbey.

  ‘Beatrice!’ I shouted. ‘Beatrice!’

  There was no answer. A flight of stairs led to the up-floor and I ran up them two at a time until I found myself in what must have been a private parlour, hung with richly embroidered drapes, but which now, to judge from the many gilded candlesticks, silver-inlaid plates, bags of coin and fine winter cloaks of wool and fur that had been left here, was being used as a treasure house to store the enemy’s plunder.

  From the parlour a door led to a chamber beyond, from which I could hear movement: a shuffling that sounded like it came from more than simply vermin.

  ‘Beatrice?’ I called. ‘Is that you?’

  There was no reply, but I was certain that there was someone in there. I tried the door only to find it locked, and I could not open it with any of the keys on the ring. Of course the abbot had probably possessed a separate key to his quarters that was not kept with the others, but it could be anywhere, and I had not the time to search for it.

  ‘Stand back,’ I said, and drew my sword. An axe would have been better had I thought of fetching one, but in that moment all I cared about was breaking down that door as quickly as possible by whatever means were at hand. Teeth gritted, I raised the weapon high and brought it down again and again, hacking at the timbers around the lock. At first it did no more than bounce off the surface, but after a couple of strikes the edge began to bite, and shortly splinters were flying, until eventually I cast the blade with a clatter to one side and hurled myself shoulder first at the door. The first time I heard a creak as the wood flexed; the second time I felt it budge. The third time it gave way, flying back on its hinges, and I found myself stumbling forward, breathless, into the chamber.

  There she was, sitting huddled in the far corner upon a mattress of straw. Her hands and feet were tied; her knees were drawn up in front of her chest; her mouth was bound with cloth to stop her from speaking. Her fair hair was loose and dishevelled and streaked with dirt, falling across her pale shoulders and breasts. They had stripped her of her clothes, leaving her with nothing so much as a coverlet to hide her modesty.

  Her eyes widened in relief as she saw it was me, and I rushed to her, untying the gag from across her lips and freeing her from her bonds.

  ‘Tancred,’ she said, gasping and almost in tears. ‘Is it really you?’

  She threw her arms around me and I held her trembling, naked figure close as a surge of affe
ction coursed through me: affection of a sort and an intensity that I had not expected.

  ‘It’s me,’ I replied, partly to reassure her and partly because I could think of nothing else to say. My throat was dry. There were bruises upon her arm and upon her face where she had been beaten, and a graze to her forehead too. ‘Are you hurt? Did they-?’

  I didn’t want to finish the question, though she knew well what I meant. ‘No,’ she said hurriedly. ‘No, they didn’t.’

  That was some relief, although I already knew what fate would befall the men who had done this, if ever I found them. ‘Can you stand?’

  She nodded, and while she found her feet I brought her one of the winter cloaks I had noticed in the treasure chamber, wrapping it around her to cover her nakedness and keep her warm. It wasn’t much, but it would do for now. She was shaking hard, although whether that was born of cold and hunger or of the surprise of seeing me and the anticipation of escape, I couldn’t tell.

  Having first retrieved my sword, I took Beatrice’s cold hand, leading her down the stairs and out through the yard with the yew tree to where the rest of our band were gathered. Father, son and daughter embraced, overjoyed at seeing each other, at being reunited for the first time in what I supposed must be weeks.

  I would have liked to allow them more time together, but Wace as ever saw reason. ‘Come on,’ he said hoarsely, grimacing in pain. He’d wrapped a strip of cloth cut from the tunic of one of the huscarls in an effort to staunch the flow of blood, but the wound was clearly hindering him. ‘We can’t tarry here.’

  He was right. We set off towards the abbey’s gates, some of us, like Serlo, limping, others slowed by wounds or hunger. At all times I made sure the Malets remained at the centre of our party, protected at both front and rear. Robert had donned a sword-belt and shield taken from the corpse of one of the huscarls, but he looked far from ready to do much fighting. Still, he looked in better condition than his father, Guillaume, who was more haggard than I had ever seen him, ashen-faced and coughing so hard that he was barely able to speak. When last we had crossed paths his grey hair had already been turning to white, but now he appeared truly old, drained of vigour, no longer the man I’d known. No doubt his sickness had played a part in that, but I wondered whether there was something else behind that change as well: a kind of world-weariness, as if this latest ordeal had proved too much for his spirit to bear. As he stumbled forward I offered him my shoulder to lean upon for support.