Sworn Sword (32 page)

Soon I abandoned any hope of sleep, sitting instead by the table in the hall, attending to my sword. Its edge had been blunted again during the fight, and where my sword had clashed with that of my
opponent there were nicks in the blade. I tried to smooth them out as best I could with my whetstone, but he had struck hard and the steel was marked deep.

How long I sat there, sharpening the blade, entranced by the patterns in the metal, I did not know, before I heard the stairs creak and saw Robert descend.

‘My lord,’ I said.

‘Tancred,’ he replied. ‘I expected to see you with your comrades outside. I could hear them from the chambers upstairs.’ He gestured at the blade in my hands. ‘That’s a fine weapon.’

I placed it down on the table, the whetstone beside it. ‘Your father gave it to me when I entered his service,’ I said.

‘I remember I had one much like it when I was younger. Nowadays, I prefer a quicker blade.’ He drew his own from the gilded scabbard at his side and rehearsed a few cuts at the air. It was thinner than mine, and half a foot shorter too, with a more pronounced taper; in some ways it was more similar to the English seax in appearance. But I knew there would be no weight in such a weapon, weight one needed to batter down an enemy’s shield, to slice through leather and mail. His was a thrusting blade, ideal when it came to close fighting, but of little use when mounted. I hoped it was not the only sword he owned.

He sheathed it again and sat down. ‘Ælfwold tells me you’ll be leaving again tomorrow.’

‘For Wiltune,’ I said. ‘Your father has a message he wishes delivered there.’

His face bore a grim look. ‘That is most like him,’ he said, ‘sending his men on worthless errands even as the enemy presses at his gates. Do you know who this message is meant for?’

‘No, lord.’

‘Wiltune,’ he said, absently picking at a splinter on the table. ‘I can only think it must be for Eadgyth.’

‘Eadgyth?’ It was not a name I had heard before.

‘She is a nun at the convent there,’ Robert said, ‘although previously she was much more.’

This was altogether new to me. Until now I had learnt nothing
beyond what Malet had told me that day back at the castle. ‘What do you mean, lord?’

The splinter came free; he flicked it aside. ‘It matters not,’ he said, sighing. ‘What matters is that you return in time for the relief of Eoferwic.’

‘Of course,’ I said, unsure whether he had even heard the question, and wondering whether it would be rude to ask it a second time. The chaplain was evidently not going to tell me anything, or he would have done so already. Therefore if Robert had even a hint of what the message might concern, I needed to know from him. ‘My lord—’

‘My sister and mother were telling me how you looked after them on the way from Eoferwic,’ he said.

I felt myself tense. At least with Beatrice I felt that I had come to an understanding, but I did not expect Elise to have had anything favourable to say about me. ‘What did they say?’ I asked.

He must have sensed the wariness in my tone, for he laughed. ‘There is no reason to be worried,’ he said. ‘I am well used to their exaggerations. They might be my own blood, but they are still only women, and not much used to hardship. But they are here and they are unharmed, and that – as far as I am concerned – is all that counts. Again I thank you.’

‘I have no need of thanks, lord,’ I said, though not out of modesty. I was here because of the debt I owed his father; I wasn’t looking for reward.

‘There is one other thing I wanted to discuss with you,’ Robert said. ‘These men who attacked you last night – do you know why they did so?’

‘No, lord,’ I said. It was the truth, for I had nothing more than my suspicions.

Robert studied me carefully, much as I recalled his father doing. His eyes were hard, revealing nothing. ‘You didn’t recognise them?’ he asked. ‘They had no feud with you?’

I shook my head. ‘What difference does it make?’

‘It intrigues me, that’s all. For a knight to set upon a countryman in the streets, and without apparent reason, is more than unusual. But perhaps it’s a riddle that will have to remain unanswered.’

‘Yes, lord.’

He rose from his stool. ‘Take care, Tancred,’ he said. ‘In these times it is all too easy to make enemies. Be careful that you don’t make any more than you need.’

Twenty-two

THE SKIES WERE
only just growing light and a steady rain was falling as we gathered in the yard to prepare our mounts for the road. Ælfwold’s horse, a dappled grey mare, was already saddled, but there was no sign of the priest himself, and none of the others had seen him when I asked them.

‘I’ll go and find him,’ I said, trudging back towards the hall. The snow had all but melted, and the yard was thick with mud. Water pooled in every rut, every hollow, reflecting the leaden skies above.

The hour was yet early and the house was quiet, but I found Osric by the hearth, scraping out the ash from the previous night’s fire. He looked up as I entered, his hair sticking out in tufts from beneath his cap, his hands and face grey with dust.

‘Ælfwold,’ I said loudly. ‘
Preost
.’ It was one of the few English words I knew.

Osric merely blinked; obviously he hadn’t seen the chaplain either. I frowned. It was Ælfwold who had been most anxious to set off early.

I left the boy by the hearth as I made for the stairs at the far end of the hall. The chaplain’s door was the first on the landing at the top. I knocked upon it, but there was no answer, and when I pushed, it opened easily, without a sound.

He was not there. A wooden plate with bread half-eaten stood on the floor beside a cup of wine and small lantern; a woollen coverlet lay crumpled upon the bed. The shutters were open, letting in a chill draught, and I went to close them, my mail hauberk and chausses clinking as I did so. The room faced over the Walebroc, which ran beside the house, though its view was partly blocked by
the thick branches of the oak that stood outside the window: the kind of tree that in my youth I had loved to climb, with branches that were evenly spaced, and knots on its bark that made for good handholds.

‘Tancred,’ a voice came from behind me.

I turned with a start. Beatrice was standing in the doorway. I hadn’t even heard her approach.

‘My lady,’ I said. ‘You’re risen early.’

‘As soon as I heard you all outside I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep any longer,’ she replied.

‘We didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, waving her hand dismissively. ‘You’re looking for Ælfwold, I assume.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘He’s in the kitchens, fetching provisions for the road. Robert is with him, I think. He wanted to see you on your way.’

At least he had not gone far. The days were still short and so we had to make the best use of them. The sooner we left, the better.

‘Thank you,’ I said, closing over the shutters and making for the door. Beatrice didn’t move, but stood blocking my path.

‘I have to go, my lady,’ I said, and tried to edge past her, through the narrow doorway.

She placed her hand upon the sleeve of my hauberk. ‘Wait,’ she said, and I turned. ‘I never had a chance to thank you properly for the other night. For staying with me. For not leaving, even when I asked you to.’

I shrugged. ‘I could hardly have left you on your own, in the middle of the woods. I swore to your father that I would protect you, and I intend to honour that pledge.’

‘All the same,’ she said, reaching out, touching the back of my hand, intertwining her fingers with my own, ‘you should know that I’m grateful.’

I looked into her soft, smiling eyes. From down in the hall came Wace and Eudo’s voices – wondering where I was, no doubt. I heard the chaplain greet them, and Robert too.

‘They’re waiting for me,’ I said.

She did not say anything but lifted her other hand to my cheek, gently running her fingers along the cut. The skin was still tender, and I winced inwardly as it stung, but resisted the urge to pull away. Something like a shiver ran through me; I could feel my heart thumping despite myself. I tried not to think what the priest might say if he happened upon us now.

‘Be safe,’ she said, and before I could reply she leant towards me, standing up on her toes, pressing her lips to the spot where her hand had just been. It was the lightest of touches, but it lingered there, for how long I could not say, and when she drew back, I could feel the moisture that was left.

She squeezed my hand. ‘Take care, Tancred.’

My throat was dry and I swallowed, wondering what had just happened. ‘I will, my lady.’

My fingers slipped through hers as she let go, and then straightaway I was turning, my cheeks burning as I started down the stairs. After I had descended a few steps I paused to look back over my shoulder, but she had already gone.

Robert was there to see us leave, just as Beatrice had said. He had on the same black cloak he’d worn yesterday, this time with tunic and braies to match. His scabbard, with its red and gold decoration, was the only mark of colour on his person.

‘We hope to return within the week,’ Ælfwold told him.

Robert nodded as he looked from the chaplain to me, and then to Eudo and Wace, and the rest of his father’s knights. ‘I don’t know how long it will be before the king intends to march, but if I’m gone when you return, ride north on Earninga stræt and look for the black and gold. I have only twenty men with me; I’ll be glad of another six.’

‘We will, lord,’ I said, but at the same time felt my spirits sink. When I pictured it in my mind, I saw myself leading the charge, as I had at Dunholm and countless times before, but I no longer commanded a conroi of my own, I remembered; the only men under my authority were the five with me now. It was in numbers that the charge found its strength: in the weight of horse and mail
it could bring to bear upon the enemy. Which meant that we would have to fight under the banner of Robert Malet – and under his orders rather than my own.

‘We’ll be praying for your father’s safety,’ the chaplain said.

‘As will I, Ælfwold,’ Robert answered. ‘I wish you a safe journey.’

We bade him farewell and rode away, up the hill and away from the river. The road widened as we came upon the markets at Ceap, where the traders were setting up their stalls. Baskets lined the side of the street, some full of fish, no doubt fresh from the river; others held crabs, and they were even fresher, for many of them were still alive, clambering over each other in sideways fashion as they tried to escape. Further along, a man lifted wicker cages packed with scrawny chickens down from his cart. Merchants, recognising us for Frenchmen, called to us in our own tongue, trying to sell us rolls of Flemish wool-cloth, or flagons of Rhenish wine.

We rode on past them, towards the city’s western gates and beyond. The road followed the line of the Temes as it curved around to the south, towards Westmynstre church and the royal palace. A number of boats were moored there, from small barges to great longships. Among the latter I recognised
Mora
, King Guillaume’s own ship – the very one, indeed, in which he had sailed from Normandy during the invasion. There were few vessels known to be larger; at thirty-three benches she was longer even than
Wyvern
. Today she was at rest and sat high in the water, empty of all but a few men. Had she been out on the water I knew she would have been more impressive still. I could readily imagine her great sail, decorated in the king’s colours of red and yellow, billowing in the breeze.

On the higher ground beyond Westmynstre stood hundreds of tents, with banners of every hue flying high above: reds and greens, blues and whites. A wooden stockade had been erected on the slopes beneath the camp, forming an enclosure within which all the horses of the king’s host were gathered. How many men were encamped there, I could not say. Wigod had said that the king had eight hundred with him, and to judge by the number of tents and banners, that seemed about right. But even if all of those were fighting men,
which was doubtful, it did not look like an army that could take back Eoferwic.

I breathed deeply but said nothing, though I glanced at Wace and saw his expression, and knew that he was thinking the same.

The Temes wound away to the south and we found ourselves amidst recently ploughed fields and rolling hills covered in woodland. The country all about lay silent, save for the calls of birds in the distance, the creaking of branches in the wind, and the crunch of small stones under our horses’ hooves. Every so often we met other travellers: peasants driving their animals to market in Lundene; pedlars and merchants; a group of monks with brown hoods. The further from the city we travelled, however, the less we saw of such people, and the more we were alone.

My mind kept returning to my conversation with Robert and his mention of the nun, Eadgyth. She was once much more than just a nun, he had said. Did he mean that she and Malet had once been lovers? But even if that were so, why send to her now?

I was jolted from my thoughts by Eudo and Radulf laughing as they exchanged bawdy jokes. I glanced behind me, trying to catch Eudo’s eye, but he merely ignored me. He had hardly spoken to me since yesterday; in fact he had spent the rest of that day away from the house, probably across the bridge in Sudwerca, although he never told us. Only as we were breaking our fast did he at last come back. He gave no reason for his absence, and when he looked at me his eyes were hard, his mouth set firm, as if in disgust.

‘What’s wrong with Eudo?’ I asked Wace, when we stopped at noon.

‘Maybe you should ask him,’ he said.

I had no wish to start an argument, though. Whatever the reason for Eudo’s foul mood, I knew that it would soon pass: it usually did. And so I ignored him as the seven of us sat beneath the drooping arms of an old oak and ate what food Wigod had provided us with: bread and cheese and salted bacon. Ælfwold made sure we did not linger long, however, reminding us that we still had many miles to make, and so shortly after we had finished we returned to our horses.