Sworn Sword (38 page)

‘And He has brought me here,’ I murmured. I looked up again across the orchard and towards the bell-tower, and hesitated, unsure whether I should say what I was about to. ‘I’ve been wondering,’ I said. ‘Wondering what it would be like to go back.’

‘You would give up your sword?’ he asked, with a wry smile. ‘You’d take the vows?’

He sounded like Radulf had only a few hours ago, I thought. It was a mistake to have mentioned it. ‘Someday, perhaps,’ I said, trying not to let my irritation show. ‘Not for many years, but someday, yes.’

The smile faded from his face. Maybe he had not known at first how seriously I was speaking, but now understood. I often found it hard with Wace to tell what he was thinking, and it was rare that he let anyone, even those closest to him, know his true feelings.

‘I’ve been wondering as well,’ he said after a while. He glanced behind him at Burginda, who was only a dozen paces away from us, and spoke more softly. ‘About Malet and everything that we spoke of earlier. And I know that whatever friendship he might once have had with Harold Godwineson, he can’t be a traitor.’

‘What makes you say that?’ I asked.

‘Because if he were, he wouldn’t at this moment be under siege by an English army in Eoferwic.’

Indeed in the midst of all our excitement earlier we had forgotten that. Of course it made no sense for Malet to be engaged in any kind of plot with Eadgyth when he himself was threatened by her own countrymen in Northumbria – when his own life was in peril. Had we been trying to make connections where there were none, where in fact there was a perfectly ordinary explanation?

Even if that were true, I could not help but still feel uneasy. There were so many things that we didn’t yet understand.

‘Have you spoken to Eudo?’ I asked.

‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘I wonder if we owe the chaplain an apology.’

‘Perhaps.’ After what Ælfwold had said last night, the idea was not a welcome one.

‘He’s not our enemy.’

‘How do we know that?’ I asked, and when I saw that Wace had no answer, said, ‘The longer we travel in his company, the less I trust him.’

I was thinking of that night in Lundene, in the street outside
St Eadmund’s church. At the time I had been so sure that it was him; it was only later that I convinced myself I had been mistaken. But now I had seen how much the priest was hiding from us, I wondered if perhaps he had been lying about what he had been doing that night as well. What if my instincts had been right, and if they were, what did that mean? What did any of it mean?

‘All we can do is what Malet has asked of us,’ Wace said. ‘After this, after we’ve driven the English from Eoferwic, any obligation we might have to him will be over. We’ll be free to do what we want, and what Malet does then is his concern, not ours.’

‘
If
we drive them from Eoferwic,’ I muttered. I closed my eyes; my mind was full of possibilities and half-formed thoughts. Never had I been so completely uncertain of my life: not just of the business with Ælfwold and Malet, but also of what I was doing here, of where I was headed.

Sometimes I thought that if I could only wake myself from this dream then I’d find myself back in Northumbria, with Oswynn and Lord Robert and all the others, with everything just as it had been before. I felt like a ship cast adrift on the open sea, subject to the whims of the tide and the wind, riding each and every storm while always clinging to the hope that I would soon find a safe haven. A hope that seemed to be growing fainter by the day.

‘Let’s see what happens when Eadgyth arrives,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll know what to do.’

Wace placed a hand briefly on my shoulder before he walked away, around the side of the hall.

I stood there a moment longer, gazing out across towards the dormitory and the thin tendrils of smoke rising from its chimney to the stars. Soon, however, the silence was broken by the sound of bells pealing out, this time for matins, I realised. I had not known it was so late.

I returned inside, back to my room. Shortly I heard footsteps on the stairs and on the landing beyond my door: Wace returning, I thought. The creak of hinges followed and then all was still. I shrugged off my cloak and lay down on the bed. The straw mattress
was hard and offered little in the way of comfort, no matter how I positioned myself, and after several attempts, at last I stopped trying and sat up instead.

In the darkness I held my head in my hands as I mulled over everything. Amidst all the uncertainty, one thing was becoming ever clearer: I could not carry on not knowing the truth. Above all my conscience would not allow me to serve a man who was a traitor to his king and to his people. If there was some conspiracy between Malet and Harold’s widow, I had to know. Despite what I had said to Wace, I knew there was no guarantee that we would have any answers even when she arrived. I could wait no longer.

And suddenly I knew what I had to do.

The bells had stopped ringing some time ago; if anyone in the house had been woken by them, they would surely now be settled again. I stood up and went to the door, opening it just enough to be able to look out on to the landing. A faint orange glow played across the stairs from the hearth-fire in the hall below.

For a moment I wondered again: what if we were wrong? But I knew that if I carried on thinking in that vein, then I would lose this chance. There was no other way. We had to know.

The landing ran almost the whole length of the up-floor. At the far end, furthest from the stairs, was the chamber in which Ælfwold was staying. Barefoot, I slipped out of the door, closing it gently behind me; the last thing I wanted was to wake anyone else. There was little wind that night, or anything else which might have helped mask my movements. The only noise I could hear was that of mice rustling in the thatch.

Breathing as lightly as I could, I made my way along the corridor, keeping close to the right-hand side: the outer wall of the house, where the boards were less likely to creak. A little way further along, I could hear snoring, and saw that the door to one of the other knights’ rooms lay open. It was Philippe, his lanky frame stretched out, one arm hanging off the side of the mattress. A copper candlestick stood on the floor, the wax itself almost burnt down. He stirred, muttering to himself, though not in any words
that made sense. I froze, thinking that he might have heard me, but thankfully he did not wake.

The next room belonged to the chaplain. This would be the main guest chamber, south-facing: usually reserved for visitors of the highest honour. Ours were mere retainers’ quarters by comparison. For we were just knights, I thought grimly. Nothing more than servants.

The door was sturdily built, with a great iron lock and handle. I pressed an ear up against the wood, stilling my breath as I tried to make out any sound of movement within, but all was quiet. I gripped the handle, hoping that it didn’t turn out to be locked. The iron felt cold against my palm, which I now realised was sweating. I gritted my teeth and pushed: gently at first, gradually putting more force behind it, until I felt it begin to grind open—

I stopped, my heart beating fast as I waited for a sound, though what I was expecting I did not know. A rush of feet towards the door, perhaps; the chaplain’s voice? I heard none of that, only silence.

There was the slightest crack between the door and the frame, and I peered into it, into the darkness. No candle or lantern was lit, and it took some time before I could make out any forms, but then I saw the windows on the far side, with the moonlight filtering through the shutters, the hangings upon the wall. And Ælfwold himself, a woollen blanket wrapped around him as he lay on the great bed, his paunch rising and falling in steady rhythm.

Again I pushed. The door met with some resistance as it grated against the floor, but I could not let it make a noise and so I had to move it slowly, all the time fearing that one of the others would come upon me and wonder what I was doing there.

Eventually the gap was wide enough that I was able to squeeze through sideways, pressing my back against the frame and ducking my head; the doorway had been built for men much shorter than I.

Then at last I was inside. Still the chaplain did not rouse, nor make any sound at all. I closed the door behind me; I didn’t want anyone to see it lying ajar and think that there was something amiss.

I glanced about, taking in the whole of the chamber. The bed itself took up a large part of it: about six feet wide and almost as long, it was made for lords, with posts of a dark-coloured wood, intricately carved in a plant-like design, with leaves and stems and flowers all interwoven. In one corner of the room lay a small hearth; grey ash filled the grate. Another door led from this chamber, no doubt through to a private garderobe. Beneath the shuttered windows on the far side of the room stood a writing-desk, and there I saw what it was I had come for.

It was as I remembered it: the same size, with the same rough edges and bound with the same piece of leather. Lightly I stepped across to it, avoiding the chaplain’s saddlebag, which he had left at the foot of the bed, looking about to make sure that I was not confusing it with any other scroll that he might have had with him. I could see none. A single white goose-quill protruded from a wooden stand, beside a small dish filled with ink. Otherwise there was nothing on the desk. This had to be it.

I heard a low grunt and cast a glance over my shoulder as the priest twisted in his blanket. For a moment I thought he was about to open his eyes, but he did not; he settled facing the opposite direction, towards the door.

My heartbeat seemed to resound through my whole body; I could feel it thumping in my hands, my feet, my ears. When was the last time I had done something so reckless? But I wasn’t going to leave until I had what I’d come for.

I picked the vellum up, holding its ends between my palms, feeling its lightness, its dry crispness. This was it.

I swallowed. I hadn’t planned this far. Did I dare take it with me and return it later, or should I read it now? There was enough light here – as long as the moon did not go behind another cloud, at least – but the longer I stayed, the more of a risk I was taking. But at the same time, if I took it away, I had to be sure that I could get it back before the chaplain noticed. Which meant I would have to do all of this again.

I gave another glance towards the chaplain, but he appeared soundly asleep. Breathing slowly, I started to untie the leather string.
It was fastened with a simple knot, and once I had worked free one strand, the rest came easily. Then, holding my breath, I began to unroll it.

And felt a lurch of despair in my stomach. For where I was expecting to find line after line of delicately scripted black letters, there was nothing. At the bottom of the page was Malet’s seal in red wax – a delicately scripted initial ‘M’, with vines climbing and weaving between its legs – but above it, nothing.

Perhaps the chaplain had switched the scroll with another – but why would he have done that? Or else the one I was after was in this room somewhere. Yet it looked every bit the same; it had to be the one.

I squinted at the page, angling it into the faint slats of moonlight shining through the shutter, and as I unfurled the final few inches, a rush of excitement came over me. I saw two simple words, written in Latin, in a shaky hand: one that I presumed must have been Malet’s own, for no scribe could have prided himself on such work.

‘Tutus est.’

That was all it said. I read it again, to make sure that I had understood it all, even turning it over to see if there was anything on the other side that I had missed. There wasn’t. Those two words were all there were.

Tutus est. It is safe
. But what did it mean? Perhaps he was writing about Eoferwic, but why then didn’t he mention the city by name, and in any case how could he be so sure that it was safe?

The priest sighed deeply as he turned again, startling me. His face was pressed against the mattress, his grey hair hanging limp across his eyes. His body lay contorted like a hunchback’s as he mumbled some words in English, his brow creased as if he were deep in concentration. Then he settled again, his breathing slow and even as before.

I kept as still as I could, watching him until I was satisfied that he was indeed asleep. But there was no advantage to be had in staying here any longer. I had what I wanted, even if I didn’t yet understand it.

I rolled the vellum back into a scroll, tying it in the same way
as it had been before, or as close to it as I could manage, then I replaced it as I had found it. An owl began to hoot outside and I took that as my sign to leave. I remembered Ælfwold’s pack lying on the floor and took care to step around it.

At the door I paused, checking that I hadn’t left anything behind that might later betray that I had been here. Then, shutting it slowly behind me, I made my way across the landing, back to my room.

Twenty-seven

I AWOKE LATE
the next morning – later than I had done in a long while, in fact, for when I opened the shutters, the morning light spilt in and I saw that the sun was already high. I dressed as quickly as I could, tugging my tunic on over my shirt before pulling on my braies and heading down to the hall.

The others were gathered around the table, and they greeted me as I made my way over to them. More food had been brought to us: small loaves of bread and cheeses; as well as eels, salted and dried, perhaps caught from the river by the nuns themselves. It was a generous provision for guests, particularly since during these winter months they themselves would receive nothing until after the noon service.

I was about to sit down to eat, when I realised that the priest was not there.

‘Where’s Ælfwold?’ I asked, looking about to make sure I had not missed him. Unless he was still abed, though at this hour that seemed unlikely.

‘He went to speak with Eadgyth,’ Wace said. ‘She returned from Wincestre this morning, apparently. One of the nuns came to fetch him.’

At last she was here, then: the woman we had come all this way to see. ‘When was this?’