The Splintered Kingdom

by James Aitcheson

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Only that he is a powerful man, and dangerous too, especially to those who get on the wrong side of him. He is more cunning than you know, and unrelenting in pursuit of his ends. Do not think to underestimate him, especially now that he has the Welshmen as his allies.’

  ‘If the Welsh really were planning an attack as you say, I would know of it already,’ I said. ‘The summons would have come for me, and we would at this moment be mustering our own army to fight them.’

  ‘Ignore me if you wish, for I am only the bearer of news. Whether you choose to heed it or not is none of my concern. But let it be known that I have never sold you an untruth.’

  I wasn’t so sure of that, and I was even less convinced by his rumours of a Welsh host gathering. Nevertheless I kept quiet, and talk soon moved on to other things. Of the rebels in the north or the Danes across the sea, Byrhtwald had nothing to relate. That worried me, for the less we heard, the more I began to wonder if Serlo had been right: if perhaps the enemy were biding their time as they gathered their forces for a bigger assault. Something was afoot, even if we did not yet know what.

  Until the enemy showed themselves, though, we could do nothing. Nothing except wait, and that was the part of the warrior’s life I had always liked least. In the heat of the mêlée, with the clash of blades all around, the crash of shield-bosses ringing in one’s ears, there was no time for fear or doubt, but the hours and days before a battle were when those things crept into one’s mind. Every man who made his living by the sword felt the same, no matter how seasoned he was, how many campaigns he had fought or how many men he had killed. With every day that went by I grew ever more restless.

  As it happened we didn’t have long to wait. By then just over a month had passed since the Welsh raid, though somehow it felt longer. Already the crops were growing tall in the fields, ripening under the summer sun, while new houses of wattle and cob were being built not far from where the old ones had been razed.

  On the day that the news came, Pons and Turold had gone scouting with Ædda while I remained in Earnford, hearing the villagers’ grievances with one another and passing judgment. One of the swineherd’s boars had escaped its pen, knocked over his neighbour’s water-butt and uprooted half the vegetables in the garden behind his cottage, and for that he was to pay two piglets to the injured party. Gode the miller’s wife had been caught collecting armfuls of sticks and fallen timber from the woods without my permission, and she was forced to surrender the lot as well as give me three sacks of her finest flour. Since Lyfing’s death she and her husband, Nothmund, had been hard worked, having added their son’s share of the burden to their own. She had never been able to bear another child, for reasons that neither they nor Father Erchembald, who knew something of the various ailments that afflicted people, could fathom. Lyfing’s death had left them distraught and tired and desperate, especially as the dry weather continued and the river ran low, which meant that there were days when the flow was not enough to turn the mill-wheel. But none of that excused what she had done, and so justice had to be dispensed.

  In the usual course of affairs much of this would have been left to my steward, Alberic, except that he had fled my service in the week before Easter. A boor of a man whom I had never taken to, he was guilty of having while drunk begun a brawl with one of the village men whose daughter he’d taken a fancy to. After beating the father to the ground and leaving him for dead, Alberic took one of my best stallions and as much silver as he could carry, riding away before anyone could stop him. That was the last that anyone had seen of him. We’d sent word out to the towns and markets nearby seeking his arrest, but he had never been caught. As a result his lands became forfeit to me and his tearful wife was forced to take another husband, but I had not yet found anyone to replace him as steward. And so the business of the manorial court was left to me.

  It was late that afternoon when the horsemen, some two dozen or so in number, were first spotted in the distance. Their banner was divided into alternating stripes of black and yellow, and the yellow was trimmed with golden thread that caught the light. Those colours I knew well, for not so long ago I had fought under them myself. They were the colours of the Malet family, and of Robert, my lord. He was rarely seen in these parts; most of his estates lay on the other side of this island, in the shire of Suthfolc, and most of his time was spent there or else in Normandy, at his family home of Graville. Which meant that it was something of a surprise to find the black and gold flying there in the valley of Earnford that summer’s evening.

  Straightaway I sent word for Serlo and at the same time called for my sword, which was shortly brought to me by one of the twins, Snocca and Cnebba, boys of around fourteen who worked with Ædda in the stables. Even after a year I found I could not always tell them apart. Whichever one it was, I thanked him as I buckled the belt around my waist. I’d had a new blade forged some months ago from the best steel that I could afford, with two blood-red gems adorning the hilt, and a scabbard to go with it: one that reflected my new-found standing. Reinforced with bands of copper, which were inlaid with lines of silver in twisting plant-like designs, it showed that I had wealth to spend, gold to give to men who would follow me. It was that same promise of riches that had drawn my three knights to my service in the first place.

  I could see Robert himself now, riding at the head of the conroi, flanked on either side by a dozen knights, with his banner-bearer alongside him. Unlike his knights, who all wore helmets and coifs, his head was bare, and I could see his face clearly: his angular features, his high brow, his prominent nose. Beneath his hauberk he was dressed all in black from his tunic to his trews: an affectation which he considered fashionable but which I found a little odd, though of course I would never say so openly.

  They made their way past the mill and the fish-weirs and the hay-meadows, following the cart-track that led to the ford, then past the church. Field labourers looked on as the column of horsemen rode in single file, along the baulks that marked the divisions between the furlongs, up the slope towards the hall. With Serlo at my side I strode down the path to greet them.

  Robert grinned broadly as he saw me. ‘Tancred,’ he said as they drew to a halt and he swung down from his saddle. ‘It’s good to see you. It has been too long.’

  ‘It has, lord,’ I replied, and found that I was grinning too. It was several months since I had seen him: not since the winter, in fact, when he had come here after attending the king’s Christmas court at Glowecestre.

  He was then in his twenty-seventh summer, the same age as myself. He embraced me like a brother, and brothers we were, if not in blood then in arms, for the previous year we had ridden and fought alongside one another in the great battle against the ætheling, and had survived.

  ‘You should have sent word ahead,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you were visiting these parts.’

  His smile faded, and all of a sudden his face bore a grim expression. ‘You haven’t heard the news, then?’

  I frowned as the thought crossed my mind: had the pedlar Byrhtwald been right after all?

  ‘What news, lord?’

  ‘Come,’ Robert said. ‘Let us not discuss it here. We’ve been in the saddle since before dawn. Let us eat and drink first, and then we’ll talk.’

  I held his gaze for a moment, searching for some clue in his expression, but none was forthcoming.

  ‘Of course.’

  The villagers had come in from the fields to see what was happening. Amongst the crowd I caught sight of Snocca and his brother, and I signalled for them to show Robert’s men to the paddock beyond the hall where their mounts could graze. They were a diverse lot: some of them fresh-faced and eager for plunder and glory; others more weathered, with scars upon their faces marking their years of service. More than a few I recognised from the battle at Eoferwic, and some I had even led in the charge, though I did not know all of their names. But I did recall young Urse, he of the ruddy face
and wide nostrils that always put me in mind of a pig’s snout, as well as Ansculf, the captain of Robert’s household knights. Neither ever had much liking for me, though I had no particular quarrel with them. Both regarded me with cold expressions as they rode past.

  If truth be told, there was something magnificent in seeing so many warriors in gleaming mail, so many men of the sword gathered in Earnford, and the villagers clearly shared that feeling. In the faces of the onlookers could be read a mixture of curiosity and apprehension and awe.

  ‘You are a fortunate man, Tancred,’ Robert said, breaking into my thoughts.

  ‘How so, lord?’

  Our boots squelched in the soft earth. Above the distant woods a pair of kites circled.

  ‘To have been spared so far the unrest and bloodshed that plagues the rest of the realm,’ he said. ‘I envy you.’

  I gave him a wry look. If he thought that we didn’t have our own troubles here, then he was sorely mistaken.

  Either he didn’t notice, though, or else he ignored me, for he went on, shaking his head: ‘It amazes me that nearly four years have passed since we came across the Narrow Sea, since the usurper was killed at Hæstinges, and still it seems not a month goes by without risings in one part of the kingdom or another.’

  His father, Guillaume Malet, had said something similar, I remembered, when I had entered his service last year. For a moment as I looked at Robert it almost seemed as if I were back there in the vicomte’s palace, and I felt the same sudden sense of foreboding.

  ‘This is nothing new, lord.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but it is unsettling,’ Robert replied, and his expression was still grim. ‘Every week we hear of Normans being waylaid on the road or murdered in their halls out in the shires. Tales come to us of bands of armed men gathering in the woods and the marshlands, numbering in their scores and their hundreds, building strongholds as they prepare to rise against us, to drive us from this island for good.’

  ‘And you believe those rumours?’ I asked, meaning it as a jibe. Robert did not rise to it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Still, can we afford to ignore them? If we pay them no heed and they turn out to be right, then we stand to lose everything we have fought so hard to gain.’

  Of course the stories that had reached him would have grown greatly embellished in the telling and the retelling. All the same, I knew just as well as he that buried among the roots of each of those tales would be a seed of something that resembled the truth.

  For a moment silence passed between us, and then I asked: ‘What about the ætheling? Has there been any word of him?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Robert said. ‘He continues to hide in the wilds of the north, though no one knows where.’

  From that at least I drew some relief, though it was slight. Eadgar Ætheling was the only figure I could see who was capable of rallying the disparate noble families of Northumbria and uniting them in rebellion against us. The last surviving heir in the old English royal line, he had tried to claim the crown twice already: once in the wake of the defeat at Hæstinges, though he’d lacked the support of the earls and had been forced to submit to King Guillaume; and again last year, when with the aid of the northerners and a host of swords-for-hire from abroad he had tried to take Eoferwic. Already his followers proclaimed him king, and not just of Northumbria but of the whole of England.

  But as long the ætheling stayed in the north, it seemed to me that the kingdom was in little danger. For no one else had either the reputation or the standing to lead the size of army which would be needed to defeat us. The last who had come near to doing so had been Harold Godwineson, and at Hæstinges he had nearly succeeded, despite what the poets who have written songs about that battle would have one believe. Since his death there had been only Eadgar, and unless and until he marched, all the rumours Robert had heard would remain just that: rumours.

  We passed beneath the gatehouse and came to the hall. I let Robert enter first and followed behind him. There were no window-slits of horn to let in the light, and the hearth-fire would not be lit until much later, so it took my eyes some time to adjust to the gloom after the brightness of outside. Along one side stood a long oak table and benches which could be brought out for meals or the rare occasions when we had guests. On the walls were hangings to keep out the draughts, though these were no lavish embroideries depicting scenes from folklore, of battle or of the hunt, with warriors and ships and fantastic beasts, for such things were beyond my means, but rather plain cloths of scarlet and green.

  Robert cast his gaze about the hall. ‘You have a fine place here,’ he said. His tone held genuine appreciation, although compared with the kind of living he was no doubt accustomed to, mine must seem like a modest existence. But what need had I for expensive wall-decorations, for jewelled chalices, silver plates or gilded candlesticks? Such things were, after all, only baubles, and did not by themselves lend a man any more status or influence. And something Father Erchembald had said came back to me: what mattered in the end was that I had around me men I could trust, sworn to my service. Men who would follow me into the heart of battle, into the gravest of peril. Their oaths were worth more than gold or silver or any number of precious stones.

  ‘Tancred,’ came a voice, and I turned. Serlo had not come in with us but had paused out in the yard and was looking back out through the gates, down the slope towards the fields and the cottages, his expression one of concern.

  At that moment I heard shouts from outside, followed by cries of distress. I glanced at Robert, who looked as confused as I was, and we hurried out.

  There was some sort of commotion, though at first as I gazed out into the low sun I could not see what was happening. But then I spotted Pons and Turold close by the sheepfolds. They were on foot, their arms beneath the shoulders of a third man whose weight they were bearing between them as they staggered forward. Pons called for help, and some of the villagers rushed towards them, taking the burden and helping to lay the man down upon a heap of straw.

  I broke into a run across the yard, out towards the swelling crowd, pushing my way through until I stood over the man and could see his face more clearly. Even then it took me a moment to recognise him, so dirtied were his features. His tunic was bloodied and there was an arrowhead lodged in his side, while his face and his beard streamed with blood that even now he was coughing up. Then I saw his burnt face and the black scar where his left eye should have been.

  It was Ædda.

  Four

  I CROUCHED DOWN beside the Englishman. He was alive, but his eyes were closed and every breath seemed laboured, as if there were a great weight pressing down upon his chest.

  ‘Someone find the priest,’ I shouted to those who were watching. ‘Fetch him here now.’

  Father Erchembald was the best-practised of anyone in the valley when it came to healing. In his house he often kept a store of herbs and draughts and other remedies. He would know what to do.

  Ædda groaned, and it seemed a pitiful sound from one so solidly built. His eyelids trembled and then his whole body convulsed as he spluttered. There was fresh blood on his lips and his mouth. His eyes opened, only slightly and only for a moment.

  ‘Lord?’ he managed to utter, as if he wasn’t quite sure it was me. He looked so weak: not at all like the man whose mere presence was often enough to make a room go silent.

  I glanced up at Turold and Pons. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The Welshmen happened,’ Pons answered. ‘They came upon us by surprise in the next valley. We’d just turned for home when suddenly there were arrows flying at us from out of the woods. Ædda was struck and we fled straightaway.’

  Another raiding-party, I suspected. ‘Do you know how many of them there were?’

  ‘We didn’t see, lord,’ said Turold. ‘It all happened too quickly. We didn’t stop to count. All we wanted to do was get away from there.’

  Ædda coughed again. His tunic stuck to his skin. I started to peel
back the cloth around his wounded side, hoping to get a better look at where the arrow had struck. At my touch he recoiled, his face twisted in agony. Sensibly neither Turold nor Pons had tried to pull it free, which could have worsened his injury. Gripping it firmly, I snapped off the shaft so that only the steel head was left buried in his flesh.

  I turned to Pons. ‘Bring me water.’

  Much of my youth had been spent in a monastery, where the infirmarian had taught me a little about wounds and how to treat them. Among other things I knew how important it was to keep them clean to prevent them suppurating, and for that knowledge alone I was grateful, since it had saved not only others’ lives but also my own on more than one occasion.

  ‘Hold him still,’ I said to Turold.

  I cut away part of the Englishman’s tunic with my knife so I could see his injury more clearly. The arrow had struck about halfway up his torso, just below his ribs. Thankfully it didn’t look as though it had penetrated all that deep; certainly I had seen worse. At the same time, however, I remembered losing comrades and friends to wounds which on first sight looked far less severe.

  Pons returned with a pail of water and also a scrap of cloth, which I soaked and then pressed to the stableman’s wound, trying to dab away some of the blood and the dirt which had congealed around the gash. Ædda tried to pull away but Turold kept a firm hold on his shoulder, pinning him down until I’d cleared away as much of the blood as I could, though even as I did so I saw that more was flowing, dark and warm, clinging thickly to my fingers.

  ‘How is he?’ called a voice from behind, and I turned my head to see the stout figure of Father Erchembald hustling towards us.

  ‘Not good,’ I said and got to my feet, making way for him to have a closer look.

  He knelt down and took the cloth from me, wringing it out and pressing it to the side of the big Englishman, trying to staunch the bleeding, before wrapping it around his torso to make a kind of bandage.