Knights of the Hawk c-3

by James Aitcheson

  ‘It isn’t my fault that Eadgar still lives,’ I said. ‘Neither of those battles would have been won were it not for me.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps a better warrior would have seen that he finished his task.’

  Anger swelled inside me and I had to clench my teeth to hold my tongue.

  ‘Besides,’ Atselin went on, ‘what proof do I have that you did these things that you claim, and which others say of you? Why should I believe that it was you who fought Eadgar upon the bridge at Eoferwic, that you were the one who turned the tide of battle against the enemy? For that matter, how can I believe that you faced Hereward this day?’

  ‘You can believe it because it is the truth,’ I said, unable to hold my temper any longer. ‘I was there.’

  ‘So says every man with such a yarn to spin.’

  I leant over his desk and lowered my voice. ‘Don’t try my patience, monk. I could run my sword through your belly and gut you in an instant if I so wished.’

  ‘You would kill a man of God and choose eternal damnation?’

  ‘He would thank me for ridding the world of such a worthless rodent.’

  Atselin sighed, and it was a deep, weary sigh, as though he had heard many such threats in his time and was no longer troubled by them. He pointed at me with the feathered end of his quill. ‘I have met men like you before, Tancred of Earnford. I know your kind. Hot-tempered and wedded to your swords, you brag of your feats and wish others to praise you, to shower you in gold and write down songs of your brutish deeds so that they may pass into legend. It may surprise you to learn, then, that I have no interest in your boasts. I do not write songs. I am interested only in keeping the records for our lord king. So unless you have something truly important to tell me, trouble me no more with your wild tales.’

  My blood boiled in my veins, but I sensed that this was not a battle I was likely to win. Without a further word I stalked off, leaving him to his parchments and returning to Pons and Serlo, who were waiting while other officials from the king’s household, helped by a pair of stout knights, searched the carts. For each item on their list they counted out the number we had brought to make sure that it tallied with the number expected, that we had not been cheated in our purchases or that we ourselves had not taken the liberty of helping ourselves to any of the supplies. Goods were forever going missing in the camp, and while most men could be trusted, there were always some who wouldn’t hesitate to steal if they thought they could get away with it. And so we were forced to stand patiently and submit to their questions, in case they discovered something that required further explanation.

  Whenever my back was turned I felt Atselin’s eyes upon me. What right did he, a mere scribe and a keeper of rolls, have to question my sincerity? What right did he have to pour scorn upon my deeds, when without me the kingdom might have fallen to the enemy? After all, without a king to serve and chancery records to write, he was nothing. He owed me more than he could possibly realise.

  And yet the truth was that by that September, in the year one thousand and seventy-one, my standing was not as great as once it had been. After our victory in the great battle at Eoferwic I had been rewarded with a manor of my own, with enough wealth to attract men to my banner, and a reputation that had travelled before me. Now, however, I found myself all but destitute. My hard-earned silver was mostly spent, while my once-rich manor at Earnford had been burnt by the Welsh and half the folk who had lived there slain by their hands. We had done our best to rebuild it in the months since, but the winter had been hard and many more had perished through starvation or sickness, and the spring had brought unrelenting rains that led the river to overspill its banks and flood the pastures, and caused many of the newly built houses and barns to collapse. Now it was a place of sadness, where those who had survived toiled hard to produce enough food to keep themselves and their families fed, all the while surrounded by the memories of what had happened and of their fallen kinsfolk.

  My reputation, too, was dwindling. No longer did men respect me to the extent that they had even a year ago. Fame is fickle, and already the tales of my exploits had grown old; men had found other heroes worthy of their admiration. Nor was my current lord as highly regarded as once he had been. Like the man to whom I had sworn my first oath, he too was named Robert, although the two men were very different in character. Whereas the first had been like a father to me, this Robert was more like a brother, being similar in age to myself. He and his family had suffered greatly during the rebellions of the past couple of years. They had lost many good retainers, including several whom I had known, shared repast with and led in the charge. His father, Guillaume Malet, once a powerful man responsible for governing much of the north of the kingdom, had fallen from the king’s favour, been stripped of his position and made to forfeit many of his estates as a consequence of his failure to defend against the Northumbrian rebels and their Danish allies. The stain upon his character was a stain upon the entire Malet house. All of which meant that they had little now to offer by way of land or silver, even for the man who had risked his life to save theirs. I had rescued them from imprisonment at the hands of Eadgar and the Danes in Beferlic, and for that deed alone I deserved some form of recognition.

  So far, though, my only rewards had come in the form of promises, which appeared ever more empty with each day that went by. Meanwhile I remained shackled to their service by the oaths I had given them: bonds woven from words and yet stronger than words. Bonds of my own making, that I could not escape, only endure.

  Three

  The encampment sprawled around the manor at Brandune: a sea of tents and horse paddocks, fenced-off pens for sheep, swine and chickens, and training yards marked out with stakes. Countless campfires dotted what had been pastureland and hay-meadows, and around them men cooked whatever meagre provisions had been given them that day from the royal storehouses. The king had seized the main hall, a high-gabled, timber-built structure, for the use of himself and his own household, while the various lords who had been called upon to serve on this campaign had been left to squabble between themselves for the other houses in the village.

  At one time I imagined this would have been a prosperous place, untouched by the wars that had gripped the kingdom these past five years. But no longer. Where once had been pastures and paddocks, now there were only wide quagmires. Livestock had fouled the pens and barns, while outside the slaughtering sheds and on the banks of the Lyteluse carcasses of pigs and cattle had been abandoned, left to the flies and the carrion birds, which swarmed around them, feeding upon the flesh as if it were the most lavish of feasts. The recent rain had only made matters worse, causing latrine pits to overflow and making rivers of all that mud and filth. The passage of several thousand feet had done the rest, churning everything into a reeking sludge that clung to one’s shoes and caused wagons to become stuck, horses to lose their footing, and men to sicken and die from the poisonous vapours it gave off.

  Bordered on its western side by the marsh and on its eastern by an expanse of heathland thick with gorse, Brandune stood on a ridge of higher ground above the slow-flowing Lyteluse river, where rowing boats, punts and ferrycraft were moored. The low-gabled building that my lord had claimed for his own use lay on the very edge of the village, a good half a mile from the royal enclosure with its stables and gatehouse and surrounding stockade. Barely twenty paces in length and built of wattle and turf, it wasn’t much to look upon, although it was in better repair than some of the other houses. One of Robert’s household knights stood on guard outside the door, a spear in his hand to which was nailed a pennon in the Malet colours of black and gold. Around his shoulders was wrapped a thick winter cloak, though it was only late September. I didn’t know the man’s name but I recognised his face, and he recognised mine, and so he let me pass without challenge.

  Heavy drapes hung across the doorway to keep out the draughts. I pushed them aside to find Lord Robert holding council with some tw
o dozen or so of his vassals, who stood or sat on various stools, barrels and chests in a circle around him. They were men much like myself, minor barons who had sworn their swords to the Malets, and in return for loyal service had been rewarded with land. Most of those faces were unfamiliar to me, for they had only recently arrived from Normandy or else had been called from other far-flung parts of England to be here, but I spotted my long-serving comrades Wace and Eudo seated on the other side of the hearth, where a peat fire was gently smoking, the only source of light in that grim, dung-reeking hall. They nodded greetings to me but said nothing, for Robert was speaking. His back was turned as he paced around the room, addressing his barons, so he didn’t see me enter.

  ‘The banks have been strengthened and the roadway widened, with platforms for our bowmen and catapults to stand upon,’ he was saying. ‘If the enemy do send another band to try to destroy it, they’ll find themselves cut down under a hail of steel.’

  One of the barons, a rotund, red-faced man in his middle years, gave a snort as he swallowed a gulp of ale from a wooden cup. ‘That’s what we were told before. And we all remember what happened when we tried to cross that first bridge, as I’m sure you must also recall, lord.’

  ‘I lost four men,’ put in another, before Robert could answer. A tall man, he had thick brows that in the dim light made shadows of his eyes. ‘The king has lost his wits if he thinks we’re going to risk our necks pursuing the same strategy again.’

  I expected at least a murmur of protest, for no one ever besmirched the king’s name openly and in so light a manner, but there was none.

  ‘He is fixated on the idea of this bridge,’ Wace said. One of my oldest companions, he had a wise head upon his shoulders and was ever a source of shrewd advice, even if, as was often the case, he ended up being outspoken. ‘We would do better to attack by water from the north, where their defences are said to be weakest.’

  ‘The rebels have erected chains across the largest of the creeks surrounding the Isle,’ Robert replied. ‘And the smaller channels are too narrow and too shallow for anything but small punts and ferry-craft. It would take days to convey our entire army across that way, and in that time they would be able to throw up all manner of earthworks to obstruct us. Besides, think how many boats we’ll need for an army of four thousand men.’

  ‘Is that the king’s reasoning or your own?’ the ruddy-faced man asked, prompting laughter from a few of the other barons. Robert waited for it to subside before answering. More tolerant and mild-tempered than many men of noble birth I had known, it took a lot to stir him to anger.

  ‘It is the king’s reasoning, Guibert, but in this case I agree with him,’ Robert said.

  ‘You agree with the king?’ Guibert cried. He raised his cup aloft, sloshing ale over himself and the man sitting beside him. ‘This is indeed a rare occurrence!’

  Robert stiffened. ‘I think you’ve had enough to drink for one night,’ he said as calmly and as evenly as possible, but there was no mistaking the warning in his tone.

  ‘No,’ Guibert said. He got to his feet, not entirely steadily. Even as he recovered his balance he managed to spill yet more contents of his vessel over his comrades, but he seemed deaf to their protests as he jabbed a finger in Robert’s direction. ‘No longer will I blindly obey our bastard king’s every whim. I’ve had enough of these foul marshes, of bedding down night after night on ground that might at any moment slip away into the bogs. I’ve had enough of-’

  ‘You forget your place,’ Robert said, raising his voice as he spoke over Guibert. ‘Now, be seated and keep your tongue inside your head, unless you want me to cut it out.’

  The other barons were all calling for Guibert to sit down, but he wasn’t listening. ‘I will not be silenced,’ he shouted over the din. ‘Everyone here agrees with me, even if they are too afraid to say so. I speak for them as much as for myself.’

  A hush fell. The high-pitched calls of waterbirds down by the river pierced the air; from further off the sound of a lyre floated on the breeze, and voices singing a bawdy tune that seemed familiar, although the words were different to the ones that I remembered.

  ‘Well?’ Robert asked, his face reddening now as he looked about. ‘Is this true? You haven’t yet spoken, Eudo. What do you have to say?’

  Eudo shrugged, probably realising it made little difference what he said now. His feelings, like those of us all, had already been made plain. I had known him and Wace for many years, and he had always been the joker among the three of us, but the last few weeks had taken the edge off his humour, and his expression was sombre.

  ‘What the king has in mind is folly,’ Eudo said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We all think it. If another causeway is built and we try to attack across it as before, the outcome will be no different. Many of us will lose our lives, but what choice do we have, except to do as the king orders?’

  A murmur of accord rose up. Although outwardly Robert maintained the same calm expression as before, inside I imagined he must be seething at such open defiance. Surely, though, he saw the truth in what we were saying?

  ‘There is nothing more to be said.’ He shook his head, a grim expression on his face. ‘It doesn’t matter whether you agree or not. The king wishes it, and so it will be. We have our instructions and we will follow them. Do you understand?’

  No one answered, or at least not in words. A few of the men spat upon the ground, a clear measure of their discontent, for it was rare that men would disgrace themselves by insulting their lord with so vulgar a gesture. Others simply cast their gaze towards their feet, not daring to meet his eyes.

  ‘Very well,’ Robert said. ‘Go. We gather here tomorrow at midday. I expect to see you then.’

  I alone remained while the other barons filed past me, grumbling amongst themselves. A few, recognising me, spoke a curt word or two of greeting, although most simply ignored me. With the exception of Wace and Eudo, they had all served the Malets far longer than had I, some of them for twenty years and more. They had heard of my exploits and resented my closeness to Robert, and shunned my company. Nonetheless, I shared their sentiments. Of all the campaigns we had fought since arriving on English shores, this had been without a doubt the most gruelling. And still it went on.

  ‘You try to speak with him,’ Eudo said, shaking his head as he passed. His expression was hard, his mouth set firm, his eyes dark in the gloom of the hall. ‘See if you can make him see sense, and hopefully he can sway the king’s mind in turn.’

  ‘Robert will listen to you if he listens to anyone,’ Wace added, scratching at the battle-mark below his right eye, as he often did when he was frustrated or angry. An English spearman had given him that injury at Hæstinges, and ever since he had only been able to half open that eye, so that he forever seemed to be squinting, although it had done nothing to dull his sword-skills.

  As the hall emptied I approached the hearth, beside which Robert crouched. A chill had entered the chamber and I wished that, like the man standing guard outside, I had thought to fetch my cloak before coming here. The floor of rammed earth had turned to mud, there were holes in the roof through which water had dripped to form wide puddles, while up in the cobwebbed rafters a mouse scuttled. Its droppings were scattered around the bedrolls where Robert’s hearth-knights would sleep tonight. For once I was glad that I had my wind-battered tent to go back to.

  Robert looked up as I approached. ‘Tancred,’ he said, with some surprise. ‘I didn’t see you come in. When did you get here? You were expected back from Cantebrigia some hours ago.’

  I shot him a look, not only because Atselin had said much the same thing, but also because he was the one who had foisted this escort duty upon me in the first place. The king had made Robert responsible for assembling the parties of knights who were to accompany the supply wagons, and he in turn had passed that responsibility on to me. Whether that was because he trusted me more than his other vassals, or because he thought I would value the time sp
ent away from camp and thus meant it as a favour, I wasn’t sure.

  ‘We came back by a different route,’ I said, and went on to explain what had happened earlier that day, telling him how we had seen the smoke, how we had come across the burnt vill and found the priest close to death, how we had chased Hereward and his men to their boats and slain one of their number. I left out the last part of the story, about how the fear had gripped me, for even all these hours later I could not make sense of it. My instinct was to bury the memory deep inside my mind where it would not trouble me, but I could not, and still the Englishmen’s taunts rang in my ears. I wished I might have that moment over again so that I could ram my lance-head into Hereward’s throat, silence him and his companions and help bring an end to the rebels’ stand and to this godforsaken campaign.

  ‘Even if you had killed or captured him, it would have made little difference,’ Robert said, after I’d told of how he had escaped. ‘He is the least of the rebels’ leaders. If anyone holds command over that rabble, it is surely Morcar. He is the one who holds Hereward’s leash.’

  At that I couldn’t help but laugh. The notion that anyone could hold the leash of a man such as him seemed to me absurd. But Robert was right in one sense, for Morcar was indeed a formidable figure, and one who had caused us much trouble these last five years. Before the invasion he had held the earldom of Northumbria, and he and his elder brother Earl Eadwine of Mercia had been among the first of the English to see sense and lay down their arms following our victory at Hæstinges. As a reward they were received as esteemed guests at King Guillaume’s court, albeit deprived of their ranks, but a mere two summers later, hungry for greater influence, they had risen against him. Indeed, for a short while they had been successful, winning more than a thousand spears to their cause as they raided far and wide. More than half of those spears, however, were wielded by peasant farmers, who all dispersed to bring in their crops as soon as the harvest season arrived. After that their revolt quickly crumbled and once more they were forced to bend their knees before the king, seeking his pardon. Fortunately for them he was gracious enough to grant it, giving permission for both to return to their positions at court, and allowing them to keep their heads if not their landholdings.