Sworn Sword c-1

by James Aitcheson

  ‘Was there no resistance?’ Wace asked.

  ‘Lord Guillaume rode out from the castle with more than a hundred knights,’ Wigod said. ‘He tried to head them off, and succeeded in killing a good many of them too. But even as he did so, a fleet of more than a dozen ships had appeared from downriver.’

  ‘The fleet we saw,’ Eudo muttered.

  ‘Most probably,’ Wigod said. ‘They landed and attacked Lord Guillaume’s conroi in the rear. He was forced to retreat to the castle, along with Lord Gilbert and what remained of their host. It is thought that in all as many as three hundred Normans were killed.’

  I cursed under my breath. The loss of three hundred men would be hard for the defenders to bear.

  ‘There is more,’ the steward said. ‘Already it seems Eadgar’s own men are proclaiming him king — and not just of Northumbria, but of the whole of England.’

  I shook my head; events were moving too fast. It was a matter of weeks, after all, since we had ridden victorious into Dunholm. How could things have changed so much since then?

  ‘What’s happening now?’ I asked.

  ‘The king is raising a relief force to march north as soon as possible. His writ has gone out to all his vassals around Lundene and along the north road. There is even talk that he may try to muster the fyrd, as he did last year when he marched upon Execestre.’

  ‘The fyrd?’ said Philippe.

  ‘The English levy,’ Aelfwold explained, ‘raised according to shire by the thegns — the local lords — from the men who dwell on their lands.’

  ‘A peasant rabble,’ I said. In my experience most of the men who made it up could hardly even hold a spear, let alone kill with one. They were farmers, accustomed only to tilling the soil and sowing their crops.

  ‘Would they march against their own kinsmen?’ Philippe asked.

  ‘They did at Execestre,’ Eudo answered.

  ‘The town submitted shortly after we laid it siege,’ Wace pointed out. ‘They didn’t have to fight.’

  ‘But they would have, had they been called to,’ the steward said. ‘As they will fight any who rise against their lawfully crowned king.’

  ‘Times have changed,’ Aelfwold added. ‘King Eadward is dead and Harold too. The men of the south understand this; they hold no desire to see Eadgar Aetheling as king in place of Guillaume.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that,’ I said. The chaplain had been close to Malet for many years, and I could well believe that for him — as perhaps for Wigod, too — the ties of lordship took precedence over any allegiance he might owe his countrymen. I myself knew how powerful such ties could be, having served Lord Robert through a dozen campaigns. But I was sure that most Englishmen wouldn’t share their sentiments. For although over time they had learnt to live with us, I could not bring myself to believe that they would not rather have one of their own race as king. These were, after all, the same people who little more than two years ago had stood in their thousands against King Guillaume; who had fought under the banner of the usurper at HAestinges.

  ‘In their eyes Eadgar is a foreigner,’ Aelfwold said. ‘He was born and raised in lands far from here; only indirectly is he of the old royal stock. They have no love for him — no more, at any rate, than they do for King Guillaume.’

  ‘The hearts of the people are fickle, though,’ Eudo put in. ‘If Eadgar holds Eoferwic and the king’s army fails to drive him out, they may start to think differently.’

  I sipped at the mead in my cup, but it tasted sickly and I swallowed it fast. ‘How many men does the king have with him in Lundene?’ I asked the steward.

  ‘Around three hundred knights, and perhaps as many as five hundred foot,’ he replied. ‘More of course will join them as they travel north.’

  ‘Remember it’s winter,’ Wace said. ‘The king might call on his barons but at this time of year they’re unlikely to be ready to fight. It’ll take time for them all to gather.’

  He looked towards me. I was reminded of our conversation back on the Wyvern, and wondered again how long Malet would be able to hold out in the castle. And how long could the king afford to delay, if he was going to arrive in time to relieve him?

  ‘He’ll need every man he can gather if he’s to retake Eoferwic,’ Eudo said. ‘We’re needed there more than we are here.’

  My sword-arm itched as I thought of the Northumbrian host waiting for us in Eoferwic: of Eadgar Aetheling, who had murdered Oswynn, murdered our lord. But at the same time I knew that my oath would not be discharged until I had seen Aelfwold safely to Wiltune with his message, whatever it was.

  ‘We have our duty to Malet,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed we do,’ the chaplain said, as he glanced at each of the other knights in turn. ‘Lest you all forget.’

  ‘But he couldn’t have known when we left that he’d soon have another thousand men at his gates,’ Eudo said. ‘He couldn’t have known the danger.’

  I looked at Wigod. ‘How long will it take us to ride to Wiltune from here?’

  ‘Wiltune?’ he asked. ‘Why do you want to go there?’

  ‘It’s not important why,’ Aelfwold said. ‘All that matters is that we get there safely.’

  Wigod looked first at him, then at me, plainly puzzled. ‘At a steady pace, I should think no more than three days.’

  ‘So if we left tomorrow, we could be back here in Lundene within the week,’ I said.

  ‘It is possible, yes,’ said the steward. ‘It will probably take that long for the king to ready his forces. And even if they had gone by the time you returned, you would still catch them on the road north.’

  ‘In that case we leave tomorrow morning,’ Aelfwold said.

  I lifted my mead-cup and drained what was left; the liquid rolled off my tongue, sliding down my throat, and I tried not to grimace at the taste for fear of offending the steward.

  I placed the empty vessel down upon the table. ‘To Wiltune, then.’

  Nineteen

  It was long past dark and the house lay cold and silent. The fire in the hearth had dwindled since earlier but nonetheless remained smouldering, the undersides of the logs still glimmering a faint orange. Every so often a finger of flame would rise up and lick over them, and I would feel a flicker of comfort as the warmth played across my face. Out in the street a dog began yapping, only to be silenced by a man’s shouts. Otherwise all was still.

  I sat before the hearth on one of the low stools, sword in hand as I scraped a whetstone along its edge, firmly enough to sharpen it, yet not so loud that I would wake the others lying on the floor behind me. Wigod and Aelfwold had long since retired to their rooms, leaving the six of us to bed down on rushes in the hall. It was no less than I was used to, and I had hoped that so many days spent in the saddle would have more than tired me, but instead I had found myself unable to sleep — and not for the first time of late. My mind kept returning to the river and the chase, and Malet in Eoferwic, and myself here, bound by this duty I had to him and yet unable to do anything to help. And so even though we had hardly been in Lundene half a day, I was already eager to be on the road again, for the sooner we were in Wiltune to deliver whatever message it was the vicomte had sent, the sooner we might be back.

  How long I’d been sitting there I didn’t know; it could have been hours. I drew the whetstone up the length of the blade one last time, then I set it down upon the paved floor and turned the sword in my wrist, examining its edge. It gleamed in the firelight, keen enough to slice through flesh and even bone. Lightly I put my fingertip to its point, just to test its sharpness for myself. At first it was like touching ice, but then I felt warm liquid oozing forth and I lifted away, watching the blood run down and drip once, twice on to the floor. There was no pain.

  I wiped my finger on the leg of my braies and sucked at it to clear away the rest of the blood, then held the flat of the weapon up to the fire. The dim light showed up well the pattern in the metal where the swordsmith had twisted and welded togethe
r the iron rods from which the blade was fashioned. Swirls and lines ran the length of the blade, decorating the fuller, the narrow channel which ran down the blade’s centre, into which, I saw for the first time, some words had been inlaid. ‘VVLFRIDVS ME FECIT’, it read, in what appeared to be silver. Wulfrid made me. I turned the sword over, to see if the reverse bore a similar legend. Often the swordsmith would inscribe, as well as his own name, a phrase from the Bible or the readings for Mass, ‘IN NOMINE DOMINI’ or something similar. And more often than not it would be misspelt, but then those who made the engravings were not men of letters. But there was no inscription here, only a single small cross roughly halfway up.

  How I longed to find such words then, and the small solace that they might provide. I could have talked to Aelfwold, I supposed, but ever since that night in the woods it seemed he had grown more distant. Nor did I like the fact that he was withholding information from me, whom his lord had placed in charge of this party. Though I could not force him to tell me, it troubled me that he could not entrust me with such things. For how then could I trust him enough to speak about matters so close to my soul?

  Even if I did, however, I knew he would not understand, not truly. Priests never could.

  I picked the scabbard up off the rushes beside me and slid the sword back into it, glancing back over my shoulder to make sure that I hadn’t woken any of the others. All were soundly asleep. Even Eudo, after hearing the news from Eoferwic, had decided he was no longer in the mood to see Censwith that night and was now snoring gently.

  I removed the chain that held the little silver cross from around my neck and sat for a while, staring at the tarnished metal shining in the firelight. I’d had it so long that I no longer knew exactly when or where I had acquired it. All I remembered was the bearded face of the man I had taken it from, with his broken nose, his eyes and mouth wide open in death, and the sounds of slaughter ringing out across the field of battle. It had failed to protect that man from his fate; why I thought it might aid me I had no idea. True, it had served me well enough thus far, but for how much longer?

  I had come close to death at Dunholm, and again in the days after; I had the scars to prove it. Had it not been for the help of my friends, I would now be dead and — the thought made me cold — most likely gone to hell. For though I’d tried in my own way to serve the Lord as best I could, I knew that it might yet not be enough. Not after the life I had fled so long ago. The life that perhaps I was running from still.

  Ever since I’d met Lord Robert all I had wanted was to bear arms, to be a warrior, and indeed I wanted it even now. It had been my life for a decade and more, in which time I had followed the hawk banner across the breadth of Christendom, from Normandy as far south as Italy and Sicily, and for the past two years in England. I had ridden to battle in summer and in winter, under scorching sun and the cold light of the moon. I had killed more men than I had ever cared to count, each one of them an enemy of my lord, each one of them an enemy of Christ. But it was half my lifetime since I had been called to that task. Was Dunholm the sign that I was being called back?

  The walls felt close around me and I found my palms damp with sweat. I needed space, and to feel the chill of the night air. I replaced the chain around my neck, rose from my stool and fastened my sword-belt to my waist. Even in Lundene, one could never be too careful in these times, especially after dark. I stepped between the sleeping forms of the other men, across the rushes to where I had made my own bed on the floor. I lifted my cloak and shrugged it on, then made for the door.

  Outside it was snowing, a few light flakes which melted the instant they touched my skin. There was no wind to speak of and they fell gently through the air, spiralling, dancing about each other.

  A small timber bridge spanned the black waters of the Walebroc, but it was too chill to be standing in one place, and so I did not stop there. Instead I walked on down WAeclinga strAet, towards the river Temes, letting my feet take me where they would. The ground lay hard beneath them. Where during the day mud had lain thick and soft across the road, now it was solid; where water had pooled in its many ruts and holes, now there was ice. Already the snow was beginning to settle: a white dusting across the thatch of the houses and on the branches of the trees. The street was silent, as empty of people as the skies were of stars. The moon was new, too, and I regretted not having brought a torch, but then I wouldn’t be going far.

  I came to the end of WAeclinga strAet and gazed down towards the bridge, its tall stone piers rising out of the water, defying the current. Across the swollen blackness of the river there was firelight still. While Lundene slept, Sudwerca plied its trade.

  Turning, I began the climb up the road towards St Aethelburg’s convent and the Bisceopesgeat, both buildings hidden from sight by the snow, which was starting to fall more heavily, swirling about me in great clouds. I crunched my way over the frozen surface of a puddle, not realising how deep it was. I cursed as icy water gushed into my boots and the hem of my trews stuck, soaked, to my skin.

  I shivered and trudged onwards, up the hill in the direction of the church dedicated to the martyr St Eadmund, who had been king in these parts in the days when England was more than one kingdom, who was brutally slain by the Danes raiding his lands. So I recalled from my studies, at least: I could picture in my mind the richly decorated leaves of parchment, and my own trembling hand as I copied out the letters by candlelight, inscribing them upon my wax tablet. And I could see all too plainly the stern face of Brother Raimond watching over me, waiting for me to err. How easily such things came back to me, even after so many years.

  Of course, in King Eadmund’s time, the Danes were still pagans and enemies of the English. Now they claimed to be Christians and the two peoples were sometimes hard to tell apart, so alike were their customs and their tongues, so completely had they interbred in the years since. But though they might have changed their faith, they had not yet changed their warlike ways. Indeed, if the stories from Denmark were true, we would have to contend with them yet for the right to possess England.

  The stone tower of the church rose over the houses on my left, lit by a flickering orange glow. A glow like torchlight. I stopped, surprised, for torches meant people, and I had not expected to find anyone else out in the city this night — especially not at this hour.

  There were voices, too. I moved into the shadows, close by the houses. Two roads met here: the first going down from Bisceopesgeat to the bridge; the second running in the same direction as the river. I edged closer to the corner, where, abutting the wall of the house, was piled a great mound of manure.

  There were two of them, standing under the branches of an old oak tree by the eastern end of the church, about fifty paces from me. One was a priest, if the black robes he wore were any indication. He was short of stature, with a round face and ears that stuck out from the side of his bald head. Even in the dim light I could make out the ruddy complexion of his cheeks. Beside him a grey horse stood patiently, waiting.

  The other man had his back to me, but from the manner of his dress and the length of his hair I knew him instantly for an Englishman, and not just any Englishman.

  Aelfwold.

  I could not see his face but I was sure it was him. It was there in his stance, the broadness of his shoulders, the grey of his hair. But I had been in the hall, close to the door, all night. How could he have gone out without me noticing? Unless there was a back entrance to the house out of which he might have slipped, though I had not seen one.

  Aelfwold handed the priest a leather pouch, about the same size as the one he used to carry his coin. I tried to make out what they were saying, but could not. Then I heard hooves and the clink of mail, and I shrank back, crouching low behind the mound. The stink of shit filled my nose as a knight rode up to the priest.

  ‘Dominus tecum in itinere,’ Aelfwold said to the priest, who was mounting up, and then he nodded to the knight.

  I retreated as far as I could back
into the shadows, watching them as the knight and the bald-headed man rode not ten paces in front of me, turning up towards the Bisceopesgeat. I looked back towards the church, to where Aelfwold had been standing, and saw him hurrying away from me, up the road. I rose, meaning to follow him-

  Cold steel pressed against my neck.

  ‘Say a word and I will kill you,’ a voice said from behind me.

  I felt warm breath on the side of my face. All I could see was the blade and the hand holding it. I tried to turn my head but straightaway the knife was drawn closer and I swallowed, feeling the sharp edge press against my skin.

  ‘Don’t turn around.’ The voice was gruff and spoke with a tone of conviction, and I knew he meant what he said. ‘Take off your sword.’ He spoke French well, I noticed, without any accent that I could discern. ‘Slowly,’ he added.

  I did as I was asked, undoing the iron buckle and letting the sword-belt fall to the ground beside me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him extend a foot, using his heel to kick the scabbard back towards him.

  ‘Now, on your knees.’

  I did not move, trying to work out how I might escape. Who was this man?

  The blade pressed tighter. ‘On your knees,’ the voice repeated.

  I had little choice, I realised, and so did as he said. The ground here was still soft, and the water standing on its surface made it slightly slippery. The knife remained at my neck; a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Fulcher,’ I said, after a moment’s hesitation. I only hoped it was not a moment too long. ‘Fulcher fitz Jean.’ I was not going to give him my real name, and my old friend’s was the first that came into my head.

  ‘Whom do you serve?’

  My mind raced. I did not dare mention Malet’s name after lying about my own. ‘Ivo de Sartilly,’ I said. ‘The lord of Suthferebi,’ I added, as if to bear it out.