Sworn Sword c-1

by James Aitcheson

  This time, however, he did not see me, for which I was glad. I didn’t expect him to have anything pleasant to say about Robert, even now after his death, nor did I trust myself to hold my own tongue.

  It was a full four days before I received word that Malet wanted to see me. He was at the castle as usual, and so the vicomte’s steward supplied me with a horse, a plodding mare with a grey coat and white patches around her hocks. Not the finest mount I had ever ridden, certainly, although more than adequate, and if slow she was at least docile.

  The bailey was busy that morning. In the practice yard stood a row of wooden poles, each one the height of a man and each with a rotten cabbage set atop it, which men on horseback were taking turns to ride at, slicing with their swords, tearing the leaves to shreds. By the southern gate I saw that a quintain had been set up, with a wooden target to tilt at. It was an exercise that depended as much upon speed as on accuracy: strike the target too slowly and the sandbag on the other arm would whip around before the rider had passed the post, hitting him in the back and knocking him straight from the saddle. Many were the times that I had made that mistake when I was younger.

  Smoke drifted down from one of the many workshops that ringed the yard, obscuring the sun. The smell mingled with that of ox-dung and piss from the tanner’s place close by. I was just leaving the mare at the stables when I spotted?lfwold outside the castle’s chapel: a squat building huddling in the shadow of the palisade, with only a cross fixed atop the gable to mark it out from the rest. He was standing near to the door, berating one of the servant-boys, though I could not tell what it was that he had done wrong.

  He looked up as I came near, at the same time waving the boy away. ‘Tancred,’ he said, and he smiled once more. ‘Forgive me. It’s good to see you.’

  ‘What was that about?’ I asked, as the boy scurried away.

  ‘It’s not important,’ he said, the redness in his face already subsiding. ‘You’ve heard that Lord Guillaume is expecting you?’

  ‘I’ve heard. Where can I find him?’

  ‘He’s been doing business in the tower this morning. I’ll take you to him.’

  He led me across the yard, past the tents of the men who garrisoned the castle, past their smoking fires and the cooking-pots hung over them. In one a stew was bubbling that smelt strongly of fish, and old fish at that. I wrinkled my nose as we hurried past. There was a gate between the bailey and the mound, but the men there clearly recognised the Englishman, for they did not stop us.

  From there a bridge took us across the ditch, and then only the mound stood before us, with a series of steps leading up to its summit, which was ringed with high wooden stakes. The tower itself stood in the middle, rising taller than anything else around, casting its shadow over the city.

  ‘How is your leg faring?’ the chaplain asked, glancing over his shoulder as we began the climb.

  ‘Better every day,’ I said. I was still carrying a slight limp, despite the many hours I had spent in training. But in all it had much improved since I had first climbed from my bed a week before. ‘There’s a little pain still, but not much.’

  ?lfwold nodded. ‘Let me know if you are in need of anything that might ease it. My own knowledge of herbs is limited, but some of the brothers at the monastery may be able to help.’

  ‘Thank you, father,’ I said, though I was not sure that I wanted the attention of any more monks. And in every other respect I was feeling well.

  We had reached the top of the mound, and I could look down on the bailey below and on the men training, their blades flashing, their shouts and their laughter carrying on the wind. The castle, I saw, was bounded by water on all but its northern approach, standing as it did at the meeting-point of two rivers: the Use, which led to the Humbre and the sea; and another, the name of which I did not know.

  The retainers standing guard at the door let us pass, and then we entered into a large chamber, lit only by thin slits of windows on the south wall.

  ‘I’ll see if he’s ready to see you,’ the chaplain said. ‘Wait here.’

  I gazed about at the chamber. There were no hangings on the wall, nor embellishment of any kind, only a long table and two iron braziers, at that time empty and unlit. But then this was not a palace but a stronghold.

  The priest returned in short order to show me through to Malet’s chambers, where he left me. The doors lay open. Inside the vicomte stood poring over a large parchment sheet spread out across a table.

  ‘Enter,’ he said without turning his gaze towards me.

  I did so, closing the doors behind me. Motes of dust floated and danced in the light from the window: a slit of horn scraped thinly so as to let in the sun yet keep out the wind. On the table, beside the parchment, stood a candle, while in the hearth the remains of a fire smouldered away. A great curtain hung across the width of the room, presumably to divide the sleeping area from that intended for studying. Even accounting for what lay on the other side, it was not a large space, although these were probably not the main chambers; more likely they had been rooms intended for guests of Lord Richard, when he was alive.

  ‘My lord,’ I said. ‘I heard that you wished to speak with me.’

  He looked up. ‘Tancred a Dinant,’ he said, with a smile so faint it was almost imperceptible. ‘Indeed I did. Come, look at this.’

  He beckoned me across and stood to one side as he gestured towards the parchment. The ends were furled behind holding-stones, and he moved them back. The sheet was filled with sketches in black ink, of arches and buttresses, pillars, vaults and towers, annotated in a careful hand with measurements of each and every part.

  ‘Plans for the refoundation of St Peter’s cathedral here in the city,’ Malet explained, as he traced his finger along the lines. ‘Our king is most anxious that the kingdom’s churches should reflect the glory of God, and is worried that the present minster is lacking. I had these drawn up last autumn.’

  ‘It is impressive,’ I said, for it was, even to one like myself who knew little of such things. From the measurements I could see that it would be a work of staggering ambition and size: more than one hundred paces in length, and as much as thirty-five from its base to the top of its tower. It would be like nothing I had ever seen. I could scarcely begin to imagine how many artisans, how many labourers, would be needed to build such a thing — nor the thousands of pounds in silver that it would surely cost.

  ‘It is my hope that it will rival even the great church at Westmynstre,’ Malet said. ‘Consider the honour that such an edifice would confer upon this city — not to mention upon the man responsible for overseeing the work.’ He sighed deeply, removing the holding-stones and rolling the parchment into a neat scroll, which he tied with a leather thong. ‘I’d hoped that construction might begin before the spring, but as long as the rebels are marching, it will have to be postponed.’

  He placed the scroll down on the desk. ‘But that’s not why I have called you here.’

  ‘No, lord,’ I said, relieved that he was coming to the business at hand. He had called me here because he sought an answer from me, though even now I was not sure what I was going to say.

  He gestured towards a stool. I sat down as he pulled across another from beside the hearth.

  ‘You will recall our meeting some days ago,’ he said, seating himself also. ‘No doubt you’ll also recall the proposition that I held out to you then.’

  ‘I do,’ I replied.

  He studied me from beneath his heavy eyebrows. ‘As I am sure you’re aware, events are moving rapidly, and for that reason it is now a different thing that I wish to ask of you, Tancred. I have a task for you.’

  ‘What is it, lord?’ I asked.

  ‘It is a task with two parts,’ Malet said, ‘the first of which is this. There is a chance — a small one, to be certain, but a chance nonetheless — that if the rebels march on Eoferwic then both the city and this castle might fall. To prepare for such an eventuality, I would have you es
cort my wife, Elise, and my daughter, Beatrice, to the safety of my townhouse in Lundene.’

  Beatrice. I thought back to the other day, when she had approached me out in the training yard, remembering the way she had kept following me, her ceaseless questions. I didn’t know what to make of her: for all that made her attractive, she still seemed to me rather cold. I wondered whether her mother, Malet’s wife, was anything like her.

  ‘And the second part?’ I asked. It was a fair distance from Eoferwic to Lundene, but thus far it did not sound like a difficult undertaking.

  ‘The second part is to help deliver a message for me.’

  ‘A message?’ I asked, taken aback. I had served Lord Robert for almost twelve years; under his command I had fought more battles than I had ever cared to count. I was a man of the sword, not a mere errand-boy.

  Malet looked back at me, his face stern. ‘A message,’ he repeated.

  I remembered whom I was speaking to, and tried to hold my temper. ‘Surely, lord,’ I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘you must have other men who are better suited to such a task.’

  ‘This is no small matter,’ the vicomte said. ‘I will be placing it in the charge of my chaplain,?lfwold, with whom I believe you are already well acquainted. There is no one I trust more than him. But these are unsettled times, and the roads in winter can often prove dangerous. I cannot leave anything to chance with this, which is why I want you to accompany him and ensure that it is de livered safely to the abbey at Wiltune.’

  Wiltune was in the very south of the kingdom: a long way indeed from Eoferwic, perhaps as much as two hundred miles, and easily more if we were to stop in Lundene first.

  ‘I will send with you five of my household knights,’ he went on. ‘They are to go with you the whole way and will follow your orders.’ He paused, and when he spoke again it was with a softer tone to his voice. ‘I’ve heard much about your judgement and your ability, but I know also that you are a man with great experience. For these and other reasons I believe that you are the best person to entrust this task to. I know how faithfully you served Robert de Commines in his time, and I trust that you would do the same for me.’

  He was certainly being generous with his praise, considering that he had not met me until just a few days before. And yet somehow I could not help but feel that there was more to his offer than this. For why would he tell me so much, knowing that I might not accept?

  I felt the weight of his gaze upon me, but I held it with my own. ‘And what if I decline, lord?’

  ‘Naturally you have that choice. However, I believe you are an honourable man who pays his debts. Remember that while you have been recovering I have provided you with both shelter and victuals.’

  I said nothing, as I realised what he meant. I owed him for the favours he had done me. And I saw that this was no ordinary debt, either: some might have said that I even owed him my life, since had it not been for the healing I had received under his roof, there was every chance that I might now be dead. The thought chilled me, and I did not linger on it. But I knew he was right. I could not ignore this debt.

  ‘I ask only for this one thing,’ Malet said. ‘Do this for me and you may consider yourself free of any further obligation. Should you decline, on the other hand, I will merely seek repayment by some other means.’

  I considered. I had little money left to me, save for what I might gain from selling my mail and the silver cross I carried, neither of which I wanted to part with. My coin-pouch I would never see again, for I had placed it in Oswynn’s hands when I had left her in Dunholm. But I sensed that it was not silver that Malet was concerned with, even if I had enough to pay him. More likely what he meant was that he would demand a longer term of service from me — a year, perhaps, or more — and that I was not ready to give. It seemed, then, that I had no other choice.

  ‘What of my comrades, Wace and Eudo?’ I said. ‘I owe them a debt too.’

  ‘They were the two who brought you here?’ But Malet was voicing his thoughts rather than asking me the question, and he didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Their loyalty to you is clear. And I believe I have met Wace de Douvres before, at the king’s council last Easter. He seemed a thoroughly capable man, and Robert spoke well of him, too.’

  He sat for a moment, as if considering, then he looked at me. ‘If they are willing to accompany you, then I would gladly have them serve me. I will make sure that they are rewarded well for their troubles. But I must have their answers, and yours, by dusk. I intend for you to leave tomorrow, by noon at the latest.’

  I nodded. So I had but a few hours to make my choice; a few hours to speak with the others and then return. I rose from my stool and made towards the door.

  ‘Tancred,’ Malet said as I placed my hand upon the handle.

  I turned. ‘Yes, lord?’

  He left his seat and stood facing me, his eyes on a level with my own, his expression solemn. ‘I trust that you’ll come to the right decision.’

  Ten

  The alehouse where Wace and Eudo were staying was little more than an arrow’s flight from the castle gates, at the top of the street known as the Kopparigat. It meant the street of the cup-makers, or so the chaplain had told me when I had asked him the way there. Their wares were not much in demand that morning, though, since the alehouse was almost empty.

  In the far corner sat two young Englishmen. They spoke in half-voices, every so often glancing towards us, as if we might be listening. At the table next to ours an old man had fallen asleep, his white hair straggling across his face where his head rested beside his cup. The place was damp and windowless; the smell of vomit, sour and sharp, hung in the air.

  I told both Eudo and Wace everything Malet had said to me, about the task that he had in mind, and his promise of payment if they chose to join me.

  ‘Did he say how much he was offering?’ Eudo asked.

  ‘It’ll be more than we could make staying here, however much it is,’ Wace answered sourly as he scratched at his scar, at his disfigured eye. ‘Speak to any lord in Eoferwic and you’ll see how little Lord Robert’s name is worth. They spit at the mere mention of him; they accuse us of being deserters, oath-breakers.’

  Malet had been right, then. I remembered seeing Gilbert de Gand among those speaking with him just the other day. I wondered how much he was responsible for blackening Robert’s name, even though he himself had not been at Dunholm.

  ‘I thought they’d be desperate to take on every man they could,’ I said. ‘Especially with the enemy marching.’

  ‘Obviously they feel secure enough already,’ Eudo muttered.

  On the other side of the common room, a serving-girl refilled the cups of the two young Englishmen, whose expressions lightened straightaway. She was short but well endowed, with full breasts and good hips. Her hair was covered and it was difficult to make out her face in the dim light, but it seemed that she could have been little younger than Oswynn.

  Eudo called to her in English. Though both Wace and I knew a few words, he was the only one of us able to speak the tongue properly. His mother, like mine, had died when he was young, and his father had married an Englishwoman to whom it seemed Eudo had quickly taken a dislike. But his father had been eager for Eudo to get along with his new wife, and so he was made to sit through her chaplain’s lessons, and to speak English whenever she or her servants were present, much though he had hated it.

  The serving-girl turned and slowly came over to us, clutching the ale-jug tightly to her chest. Why she was afraid I didn’t know. We had come armed, of course — I with my knife, the others with their swords — though it seemed to me that there were few men in Eoferwic, Norman or English, who didn’t carry a blade of some kind. None of us was wearing mail or helmet, and, besides, we threatened no one, sitting by ourselves.

  Nevertheless, her hands trembled as she poured the ale, and she did not lift her head, but instead kept her eyes firmly fixed on the jug. Her face was round, her cheeks flushed red.
She reminded me of some of the girls I had known as a youth in Commines, though I could remember none of them in any great detail.

  She finished refilling our cups and Eudo held a silver penny out to her. She took it with a brief curtsy before hustling away.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Wace, after she had gone. ‘Malet must be anxious if he wants to send his wife and daughter south.’

  ‘And yet he can afford to spare six knights to do so,’ Eudo pointed out. ‘Including three from his own household.’

  Both of them looked to me for affirmation, as if I should somehow know Malet’s mind.

  ‘I don’t know what he’s thinking,’ I said, although I pictured him poring over the plans for the new cathedral. He had not seemed especially concerned that there was an enemy army less than a day’s march from the city. But then I had no doubt that Malet, like many lords I had dealt with in the past, was careful about what he revealed to others. I did not imagine for an instant that he had told me everything he knew about the enemy advance. He had not even told me what the message was that he wanted sent to Wiltune, or whom it was meant for.

  ‘When does he want us to leave?’ Eudo asked.

  I sipped at the full cup before me, enjoying the bitter taste of the ale. ‘Tomorrow, before noon,’ I said. ‘But he wants answers from us by this evening.’

  Eudo glanced at Wace. ‘What else is there for us here in Eoferwic?’

  ‘Little enough,’ said Wace, with a shrug. ‘We could stay, wait for the rebels to come, and hope that some lord accepts our service. But I won’t risk my life without being paid for it, that’s for sure-’