The Splintered Kingdom

by James Aitcheson

  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 Berengar 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.

  Berengar. He stood over me, sword in hand. The tip of the blade he pointed towards my chest in warning, lest I had any thoughts about trying to get up. I hadn’t; my head was pounding and already I thought I could feel a lump forming. My own blade had fallen from my grasp when I fell, and lay easily more than an arm’s length away, in one of the puddles that had formed in the wheel-ruts. Too far for me to be able to reach in the time it would take for Berengar’s sword-point to come down.

  ‘At last the great Tancred a Dinant finds himself at someone else’s mercy.’ He spat in my face; I blinked and turned my head in time but that only meant his phlegm struck my cheek rather than my eye. ‘Have you anything to say?’

  ‘Only that if you kill me you’ll have my men to answer to,’ I said, with more confidence than I had any right to, given the situation. ‘As soon as they find out what you’ve done, they’ll hunt you down like the worthless dog you are. When they catch you, they’ll string you up from the nearest tree, tear out your guts and enjoy watching you squirm as they roast them in front of you. They will—’

  ‘Quiet!’ He moved the tip of his blade a fraction closer to my neck; I felt the cold steel touch lightly upon my skin. ‘I do not fear your men, any more than I fear you.’ But a tremble in his voice betrayed his uncertainty.

  ‘What about Fitz Osbern?’ I asked, changing tack, doing my best to hold my nerve. I couldn’t afford to show any weakness. ‘He won’t take kindly to blood being spilt in his streets.’

  With every moment that passed I was growing more desperate. I hoped at least that Byrhtwald had managed to get away, that he was bringing help, until I noticed him being held by one of Berengar’s knights – Frederic by name, as I recalled – with a knife at his throat. He met my gaze, an apologetic look in his eyes.

  ‘Fitz Osbern is too far gone in his cups to care,’ Berengar was saying. ‘He has more things to worry about than the death of one man who defied his word.’

  I was not convinced that Fitz Osbern would be so callous; one way or another justice would be dealt. Unless Berengar planned to flee the town altogether, he would struggle to avoid it. Even if he managed to evade those who would avenge me, he would still have God to answer to eventually. Perhaps those same thoughts were what was causing him to stay his hand now, or at the very least to doubt himself. He stood unspeaking with clenched jaw, his gaze fixed upon me. I counted each breath I took, wondering if it would be my last, waiting for the finishing blow that never came, until eventually I could hold my silence no longer.

  ‘Are you going to kill me, then? Or are you simply going to stand there?’

  I meant it as a challenge, but the words came out less strongly than I would have liked.

  ‘Don’t think I won’t do it,’ said Berengar. ‘I only want to enjoy this moment so that I remember it for a long time to come.’

  As he spoke these words, behind him through the smoke appeared the form of a horseman. Berengar had no time even to turn around before he found a spear levelled beneath his chin, the flat of the head brushing against the underside of his jaw.

  ‘Put away your sword, Berengar fitz Warin,’ the horseman said, and never had I been more glad to hear that voice, for it belonged to Lord Robert. ‘Do it carefully, too. I wouldn’t want my blade to accidently slip and bury itself in your throat.’

  Berengar hesitated. He had a wild, cornered look in his eyes. For a terrifying heartbeat I thought he might decide to take his chances, and kill me even if it meant meeting his own end.

  ‘Do it,’ Robert repeated, and then to the others said: ‘Unhand the Englishman.’

  Thankfully the moment passed. Not once taking his eyes from me, Berengar grudgingly withdrew the blade, tossing it to one side, where it fell in a puddle. It was not quite what had been asked of him, but it sufficed nonetheless. The captain of Robert’s household, Ansculf, picked
it up.

  Relieved, I breathed deeply for the first time in what seemed like an age, letting the air fill my chest.

  ‘Get up,’ Robert barked at me, a little harshly I thought, given that I was the injured party. ‘And you,’ he said to Berengar, ‘get yourself and your men gone from here, and be thankful that I’m letting you leave with your head still attached to your neck.’

  Berengar didn’t seem to hear. ‘This isn’t over,’ he said to me as I rose to my feet. ‘You’ll suffer for all your insults – I will make sure of it!’

  ‘Not before I’ve driven my blade through your bowels and left you to drown in your own shit,’ I retorted, rubbing my forehead.

  ‘Enough,’ Robert said. ‘Both of you. Now go, Berengar, unless you want me to give Tancred a chance to make good on his promise.’

  Berengar shot me one final, vicious look before turning and signalling to his men, and together they stalked off. No doubt he would take word of what had taken place and the many injustices he had borne back to Fitz Osbern. As well he might, though whether the latter cared enough to listen to what he had to say was another matter altogether.

  I turned to Robert. With him was half his conroi, armed and mailed, their horses’ coats glistening with sweat, and I guessed they must have recently returned from a scouting expedition.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘If you hadn’t arrived when you did—’

  ‘Spare me.’ He shook his head in a manner that spoke of frustration and disappointment. ‘You were fortunate. As I recall, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to rescue your hide. How is it that whenever a fight is taking place, I always seem to find you in the middle of it?’

  ‘It was hardly my fault, lord.’

  ‘It never is, is it?’ His tone was cold and lacking in humour. If anything he seemed angry, but what he had to be angry about I wasn’t sure. No blood had been spilt nor any injury done, save perhaps to Berengar’s pride, although that seemed to me battered enough as it was.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked, feeling suddenly defensive.

  He didn’t answer directly but said instead, ‘Nothing good will come of this feud. It has to end, and not by one of you having a knife driven into his back. If you don’t mend this, it will only grow worse, believe me. I have seen it happen.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Even were it possible, I was not enamoured with the idea of coming to terms with Berengar, especially given that this quarrel was all his making. Over the years I’d made many foes and rivals, but none as openly hostile as him.

  ‘If you’re looking for enemies you’d do better choosing one who is at least predictable. The last thing you want is someone as capricious as he is, whose heart is ruled by hate, who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.’

  ‘I’ll deal with him if he comes for me,’ I said.

  ‘As you dealt with him today, you mean?’

  I didn’t dignify that question with an answer. Berengar had merely been lucky. If those oxen and wagon hadn’t been there when they were, or if I had only seen them, then I wouldn’t have struck my head and he would never have found himself in a position where he had a chance of finishing me.

  ‘Whatever he tries, I will be ready for him,’ I said.

  Robert sighed. ‘Of course you must do what you think right, Tancred. I’ll warn you, though, that if you do not mend this by whatever means it takes, it will be your undoing one way or another, if not straightaway, then sometime.’

  Sometime was good enough, as far as I was concerned. Sometime stretched a long way into the future: weeks or months or years, in which time I could easily meet a thousand other worse fates than Berengar’s sword. Besides, I doubted he would be so patient; more probably he would grow tired of me and find someone else to harass rather than wait that long.

  Robert turned to Byrhtwald, who was nursing his shoulder where one of Berengar’s men had held him. He looked shaken but otherwise unharmed.

  ‘Who is this?’ Robert asked.

  I gave him the Englishman’s name. ‘A friend of mine,’ I added. ‘He comes to Earnford every few months with his wares and his stories.’

  ‘And he pays well for them, too,’ Byrhtwald said, smiling. ‘You must be Tancred’s lord, son of the noble and illustrious Guillaume Malet.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Robert said. He didn’t offer his hand in greeting, perhaps trying to work out whether the Englishman was being sincere in his praise, or whether it was some kind of jest at his expense. Byrhtwald had an odd sense of humour that even I, despite having come to know him reasonably well, did not always understand.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked, changing the subject quickly. I did not want another confrontation.

  ‘I’m still in one piece, if that’s what you mean,’ the pedlar replied. ‘Nothing more than a few bruises, though that’ll be enough to get me a scolding from my wife when she sees them. It won’t be the first time, either. She always gets frightened for my sake when she hears I’ve been in a fight. Says I’m too old for them.’

  ‘And she’s probably right,’ I said. ‘Still, at least you’re taking her advice. You ran from that one quickly enough.’

  ‘It looked like you were doing well enough on your own. I didn’t want to get in the way and spoil your fun.’

  ‘If you want my advice, Englishman,’ Robert said, interrupting, ‘you’d be wise to leave this town as soon as you can – if you value your life, at any rate. Most traders left days ago from what I hear, and you won’t want to be here when the Welsh come.’

  ‘If you live even that long,’ I said. ‘If you remain in Scrobbesburh, Berengar will take it as a personal insult and he’ll do everything he can to see you in chains, especially after this.’

  Robert frowned. ‘In chains? What has he done?’

  I repeated what Berengar had told me of Fitz Osbern’s decree that all merchants still in the town were to be arrested forthwith on suspicion of acting as spies.

  ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of this,’ Robert muttered. ‘If it’s true then Fitz Osbern has taken leave of his senses altogether. After all, if it weren’t for the traders bringing news from their travels, we would know even less about the enemy and their movements than we do now.’ He turned again to Byrhtwald. ‘I’d worry less about the chains and more about Berengar’s sword-edge if he ever sees you again. Leave and get back to your wife and family. Otherwise, if he doesn’t kill you, the Welsh probably will.’

  ‘Have no fear on my account, lord,’ the Englishman replied with his usual roguish grin. ‘I’ll survive. I always have.’

  I didn’t doubt that he would. In some ways he put me in mind of a rat, except twice as crafty and only half as dirty: quick enough to scurry away when he sensed danger approaching, happy enough to live off the scraps that others cast aside but careful, too, never to miss a chance to fill his stomach. Or his coin-purse, for that matter.

  We made our way back to the marketplace, where a group of youths were taking advantage of Byrhtwald’s absence to search for things that they could easily steal. While one was busy stuffing his pockets with the ointment jars that lay on the ground, a tall, fair-haired girl in a tattered dress had climbed on top of the pedlar’s cart and begun passing down to her friends bundles of firewood, handfuls of candles and a brass lantern, among other things, all of which they were piling into a large sack. As soon as they saw Byrhtwald coming they fled, with the girl trying to drag the sack behind her, except they had filled it too high and it was too heavy. Before long she broke into a sprint, abandoning it as she ducked in and out amongst the animals and people, narrowly avoiding one of the other stallholders who tried to stop her. Soon I lost sight of her.

  One of Robert’s men had fetched Nihtfeax; with thanks I took the reins. Byrhtwald had righted the bench that had been knocked over and was busy recovering those goods that had been purloined, loading them back on to his cart. I offered to help but he declined.

  ‘In that case, take care on the road,’ I said. ‘T
he enemy could be marching any day now.’

  ‘I will.’ He extended his hand, and I clasped it.

  ‘With any luck our paths will cross again soon.’ Though if the enemy succeeded in taking Scrobbesburh, my path might be very short indeed. Nonetheless, a small part of me sensed I would see the Englishman again before too long. He had a habit of appearing when I least expected him.

  ‘I’m sure of it, lord,’ Byrhtwald said.

  ‘Keep your wits about you,’ I said. ‘I wish you safe travels.’

  ‘And to you the same,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens and wherever events take you from here.’

  A strange thing to say, I thought, but Lord Robert was waiting, so I bade the pedlar farewell. We led our mounts through the narrow, piss-stinking streets in the direction of the camp. This was the height of summer and the heat of the day was upon us, so intense as to be oppressive, reminding me of those long campaigns I had fought under the scorching Sicilian sun in the years before the invasion. Flies swarmed around mounds of steaming ox dung, buzzing in my face as we led our horses past. One flew into Robert’s mouth and he spat it out, his face screwed up in disgust.

  After we had walked a little further, he said, ‘We’re leaving this place.’

  I was taken aback, not just by the announcement but by the suddenness of it too. ‘We’re leaving?’

  I wondered if that was what Byrhtwald had meant. Yet how could he possibly have known?

  ‘Don’t say it too loudly.’ Robert glanced about. The rest of the conroi was lagging some way behind us, laughing at some joke that one of them had heard, and save for a lone beggar sitting cross-legged by the side of the street, there was no one else close by who might have heard. ‘After I heard of Hugues’s leave-taking this morning, I made my decision. I’ve had enough of this town. All is falling apart, and Fitz Osbern seems to be doing little to repair the rot. The barons are deserting in ever greater numbers; those who remain do nothing but argue all day and fight between themselves.’

  Most likely that censure was directed at me. If it was, though, he didn’t press it.