Sworn Sword (25 page)

‘They only need to get us as far as Lundene,’ Eudo pointed out. I had brought him to translate for me while Ælfwold stayed with the ladies back at the ship. ‘We can sell them there and recover their cost.’

‘We’ll never recover what he’s asking,’ I said, and I kept my voice low, though I did not know why, since the man could not understand me anyway. He wanted no less than four pounds of silver for the nine animals: a ridiculous amount, and more than Malet had given me for the whole journey.

‘I might be wrong. He speaks with a strange accent and I don’t understand all of his words.’

‘Tell him we’ll give him one-and-a-half pounds.’ That was a fair price, considering the animals’ condition.

Eudo talked at length with Ligulf, who made a face as if he were being insulted.

‘
Threo pund
,’ he said at last. His cheeks flushed red, although whether it was because he was angry or rather due to the mead I was not sure.

‘Three pounds,’ Eudo translated, a little unnecessarily, for though I knew little of the English tongue, I had understood that much.

‘
Threo pund
,’ Ligulf said again. His breath smelt stale as he strode up to me, waving his flagon in my face. Mead dripped from his beard on to his paunch.

I spat on the ground and made to walk away, but he hurried after me and in the end settled for taking just two pounds, which was still far too much for what they were worth, but it seemed the best price we were going to get. In any case Eudo was right: all they had to do was get us to Lundene.

I left him there to watch over our purchases while I rode down to the shore to gather the others and to say our farewells to the shipmaster. We were not far from where the Humbre emptied into the German Sea, and the smell of the ocean filled my nose. Several dozen figures had flocked around the ship, which I saw had been dragged high up the beach, over the wrack that covered the stones, above the tideline. There was no wharf at Suthferebi but rather a wide expanse of sand, pebbles and mud that separated land from river. Several other vessels were drawn up there, from the rowboats that probably belonged to fisherfolk, to others with high sides and broad beams, which I took to be the ferry craft that, Ælfwold told us, gave the place its name. But none of those was nearly as big as
Wyvern
, and clearly that was what had attracted the townspeople’s interest: they understood that a ship of her size meant wealth. Not that we had much to sell them; she was built for war rather than for carrying goods, and besides, we had left Eoferwic in such a hurry that we carried little beyond the provisions we needed.

Water dripped off the ship’s exposed hull, and as I rode closer I could see places where the keel and garboard strake had splintered when we had nearly run aground. The shipmaster was walking around the ship, inspecting each one of the planks that made up the hull. I left my horse to graze on the bank above the beach and strode down to meet him, feeling my boots sink into the gravel. The wind was blowing strongly now and the skies were turning grey. Drizzle hung in the air and I felt its cold moisture on my cheeks.

‘Aubert,’ I called.

He raised his head, saw me and beckoned me over.

‘Is there any lasting damage?’ I asked, slipping back into the Breton tongue. I knew that I might not have the chance to use it again for some time.

‘Just a few scrapes and scratches,’ he replied. Absently he ran his hand along one of the timbers and picked off a splinter. ‘She’ll still float.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘Aye, although it will be better still if we can get some good news from Eoferwic in the next few days.’

‘And if you don’t?’

‘If the signs are bad, we’ll sail down to Lundene,’ he said. ‘We might see you there.’

‘You might,’ I said, though in truth I wasn’t sure whether he would. Once we had been to Wiltune I didn’t know where we would be going.

He glanced up the beach, in the direction of the town, and nodded towards my mount, which was grazing upon the bank. ‘Are you leaving now?’

‘We are,’ I said. ‘The day is wearing on and we need to go soon if we’re to have any chance of reaching Lincolia tonight.’

He looked up towards the sun, which was obscured behind the thickening clouds to the south and west. ‘You’ll be doing well if you make it that far.’

I shrugged. ‘We can but try. Otherwise, we’ll find an alehouse to overnight in.’

‘Take care on the roads,’ Aubert said. ‘These have always been lawless parts in my experience, and most people here have little love for Frenchmen either, so be safe.’

‘And you too.’ I clasped his callused palm. ‘May we meet again soon.’

‘May we meet again soon,’ he replied, and smiled.

I saw Ælfwold speaking with a group of the townsmen not far off, and waved to catch his attention. He raised a hand in acknowledgement, made his apologies and broke off from his conversation, before calling to Wace and Radulf, Godefroi and Philippe, who were all standing with Elise.

Beatrice was not with them, but then I saw her down by the shoreline, away from the crowd. She was gazing out across the river to the north, her face falling into sharp shadow as the sun emerged briefly from behind a cloud. There was a keen wind blowing in from the sea; it tugged at her dress, and I wondered that she was not cold. I made my way across the beach towards her, the stones crunching beneath my feet.

She must have heard me, for she glanced over her shoulder, long enough to see that it was me, before turning back to face the river. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

‘We’re leaving,’ I said. ‘Gather your belongings.’ What she had said on the ship was still fresh in my mind and I was not inclined that morning to be deferential, even if she was the daughter of my lord.

She did not reply, though I knew she was listening. She had taken her shoes off and the waters lapped at her feet. Her long toes were pink with the cold, glistening wet where they protruded from beneath the hem of her skirt, which was likewise damp.

I picked up her shoes from where they lay, beside a gnarled log that must have washed up with the last tide, and held them out to her. ‘Put these on,’ I said.

She snatched them from my grasp and clutched them to her chest as she sat down upon the log, glaring at me all the while, before finally doing as I’d asked. I held out a hand to help her up, but she ignored it.

‘I can manage by myself,’ she said, almost spitting the words as she rose and hustled past me, following the others up the beach towards the town.

For a moment I watched her walk away, wondering why she was being so difficult. Inwardly I was dreading the thought of the week to come, for it would take that long for us to reach Lundene. Whether I could keep my temper with the ladies for that long I did not know.

I went to round up my horse, who was still grazing upon the bank, though he had wandered a short way downwind. As I climbed up into the saddle, I paused to gaze back down at the ship. Aubert saw me and waved one last time; I returned the gesture before at last pressing my spurs in.

We made good progress over the days that followed. Each morning we rose at first light, while each evening we stayed on the road until almost dark. Though the mounts we had purchased were not as strong as the warhorses with which I was familiar – they couldn’t be pushed too hard or too long – we were still, I reckoned, able to make between twenty and thirty miles each day.

We overnighted in alehouses to begin with, and there were many of them, since this was the old road from Lundene to the north of the kingdom. But while the innkeepers we met were happy enough to take our coin, I was wary of bringing too much attention upon ourselves. A party of just seven men and two women, with horses and silver to spare, would not go unnoticed. Everywhere we heard stories of Frenchmen being set upon out on the roads: merchants and knights and even monks killed not for what they carried but for who they were. Though I tried not to set much store by such rumours, it was not only my own safety that I had to consider, and so after a couple of nights we took to camping in the woods.

Elise did not like the idea of sleeping in the wild, and while the rest of us set up tents and built a fire, she complained loudly of the cold, the damp, the wolves that she had heard howling up in the hills. This was not how a vicomte’s wife should live, she said; her husband would not be happy when he came to hear how she
had been treated. She soon fell silent when I made it clear we wouldn’t be going any further, but as we set off the next day she began again, and when later that morning we stopped by a stream to refill our wineskins, I saw the irritation in the faces of the other knights. Only Wace seemed unperturbed, and Beatrice, who accepted everything with a quiet dignity that I could not help but admire. Even Ælfwold seemed to be growing weary, especially when Elise suggested that the priest was taking my side, at which point he spoke a few words in her ear. What he said I could not hear, but inwardly I gave my thanks to God, for thereafter she stayed quiet.

The next night we spent in a clearing a short way south of the town of Stanford. Ælfwold and the two ladies were already in their tents, though it had been dark but an hour or so. The rest of us were sitting around the fire, eating from our shields laid across our laps.

No one had said anything in a while, when Eudo delved into his pack and brought out a wooden pipe, about two hands’ spans in length and with half a dozen holes along its length. His flute, I realised, with some surprise; it was a long time since I had heard him play.

‘I thought you’d lost it months ago,’ I said.

‘I did,’ he answered. ‘Some bastard stole it from my pack around Christmas. I bought this one while we were in Eoferwic.’

He held it before him, closing his eyes as if trying to remember how to use it, then put the beaked end to his lips, breathed deeply, and began: softly at first but slowly building, lingering on every wistful note, until after a short while I began to recognise the song. It was one I remembered from our campaigns in Italy all those years ago, and as I listened and gazed into the fire I found myself there again: feeling the heat of the summer, riding across the sun-parched fields with their brown and withered crops, through olive groves and cypress thickets.

Eudo’s fingers danced over the holes as the music quickened, rising gracefully to a peak, where it trembled for a while, before settling down to a final pure note and fading away to nothing.

He lifted it from his lips and opened his eyes. ‘I ought to practise more,’ he said, flexing his fingers and laying it down beside him. ‘I haven’t played in a long while.’

If he hadn’t said so, though, I wouldn’t have been able to tell, so confident and sweet was his playing.

‘Give us another song,’ Wace said.

The fire was dwindling, I noticed, and most of the stack of branches we’d collected was gone.

‘I’ll go and find some more wood,’ I said, getting to my feet.

It had rained earlier that day and so there was little dry wood to be found anywhere, but eventually I’d gathered enough to keep the fire going, for a few hours at least. I began to make my way back, a bundle of damp sticks beneath my arm, when I thought I heard a voice amidst the trees, not far off.

I stopped. The night was still, and for a moment the only other sound I could hear was that of Eudo’s flute, this time playing a quicker song: one that was lighter and more playful. But then the voice came again, low and softly spoken. A woman’s voice, I realised, and as I came nearer I saw that it was Beatrice.

She was kneeling upon the ground, her head bowed and her hands clasped together in prayer. Her back was to me, the hood of her cloak drawn back to reveal her fair hair, which was bound in a tight braid at the back of her head. My footfalls sounded softly upon the sodden earth and she showed no sign of having heard me.

‘My lady,’ I said. ‘I thought you were abed.’

She looked up with a sharp intake of breath, her expression putting me in mind of a deer that has just heard the sound of the hunting-horn.

‘You startled me,’ she replied crossly, her lips tight.

‘It isn’t safe to be wandering the woods. You should be with the others.’ I glanced back towards the fire, wondering how they could have let her from their sight. I would speak with them later.

‘I’m not wandering,’ she said. ‘And I don’t need you to watch over me.’

She turned and again bowed her head, closing her eyes, hoping perhaps that if she ignored me, I would soon go away. As the faint
moonlight fell upon her face, however, I saw that her cheeks were wet, and I realised she had been crying.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

She said nothing, but she did not have to, for no sooner had the question left my lips than I already knew the answer. ‘You’re thinking about your father, aren’t you?’

She raised her hands to her face, as if hiding her tears from me. ‘Leave me,’ she said between sobs. ‘Please.’

But Ælfwold’s words from a few days ago were still fresh in my mind, and the sight of Beatrice on her knees and trembling was more than I could bear. Here was a chance to set things right.

I crouched beside her, setting down the firewood before gently resting my hand upon her shoulder. She flinched at my touch, though she did not try to get up, or to shake my hand away.

‘You don’t understand what it feels like,’ she said, ‘not knowing whether you will ever see someone again.’

Lord Robert, Oswynn, Gérard, Fulcher, Ivo, Ernost, Mauger: I would not see any of them again. Not in this life, at least. But I knew that wasn’t quite what she meant.

‘No,’ I said instead, ‘I don’t.’

I didn’t know what more I could add, nor did she speak, but I stayed there, until my legs began to ache and I felt my wound twinge and I sat down on the wet leaves instead. The damp seeped through the thin cloth of my braies, cold against my skin, but I did not care.

‘I barely knew my father,’ I said quietly, after a while. ‘Or my mother either. Both died when I was young.’

Almost twenty years ago, I realised. What would they think of me, were they here to see me? Would they recognise the man I had become?