Sworn Sword (43 page)

I remained silent. Beside me, Eudo sheathed his sword.

‘What about the other three?’ Ælfwold asked. ‘Have they had a part in this too?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘They haven’t.’

‘Perhaps that is as well.’ The chaplain sighed. ‘Now, I’ve told you all that I know. You have what you wanted. Leave me, please.’

He closed his eyes as if in silent prayer. This was the man who had done so much for me after my injury at Dunholm. What had happened to our friendship to cause it to sour so quickly – to sow such distrust, such enmity?

I nodded to Wace and Eudo and we went, closing the door as he sat down upon the bed, his head bowed, hands clasped before him. We had what we had come for, which meant that we could now return to Eoferwic in good conscience. After everything, Malet was to be trusted.

And yet despite that, for some reason I could not help but feel uneasy, though at what I could not say exactly. Something in what the priest had said, perhaps: something that did not quite make sense. I no longer knew what to think. So far all my suspicions had been misplaced. We had held Ælfwold at sword-point; we had got all that we could from him. What else was there?

In any case we had other concerns now. The rebels awaited us in Eoferwic, and whether we fought for Malet, or in the name of Normandy or out of vengeance for Lord Robert, what was important was that we were there. For the army of King Guillaume was marching, and I meant to be with it when it struck.

We gathered at the stables the next morning as soon as we had broken our fast. Ælfwold was not to be seen, which I took to mean that he wouldn’t be coming with us. In truth I was glad, for I had seen far more of him this past week than I would have wished, and my patience with him was all but spent.

Each of us took two mounts. Wigod had supplied us with destriers from Malet’s own stables, and others he had managed to purchase while we had been away. He had a good eye for horseflesh, it turned out, for each one of them was in fine condition, strong and spirited as a knight’s mount needed to be. As the leader of our small conroi, I assumed first choice – a brown with powerful hindquarters and a white diamond on his forehead – leaving the other knights to decide between themselves.

I knew, though, that if we rode these horses north they would not be fresh when we needed them for the fighting, and so instead we saddled the rounceys we had bought in Suthferebi: the same ones that had also borne us to Wiltune and back. It meant we’d have twice the work, since we were not travelling in our lord’s company and didn’t have the retinue of servants who would usually care for the animals, but we had little choice.

I was leading my horses out into the yard when I spied Beatrice watching us from one of the windows on the up-floor. It was the first time I had seen either of the ladies since we had returned from Wiltune. Her eyes met mine, and she signalled to me, or so I thought, but it was only for a moment, for then she turned and was gone.

‘I should go and tell the ladies we’re to be on our way,’ I said, leaving the others to see to the horses.

‘Don’t be long,’ Wace called after me. ‘We need to leave soon if we’re to make best use of the day.’

There was no one in the hall. Wigod and Osric I knew were in the kitchens, mustering provisions for us to take on the road. I had seen little of the steward that morning; he had hardly spoken to me and in fact seemed to be avoiding me. I could hardly blame him for that.

‘Your lord is a good man,’ I had assured him when I’d met him in the yard earlier. ‘I know it.’

I didn’t feel that I could tell him yet what we had learnt. It was too soon, and still these doubts kept coming into my mind. There was something that we had overlooked, I was sure, though again I could not work out what.

‘There is an explanation for all of this,’ I told the steward. ‘Whatever it is, I will find it.’

‘I trust that you will,’ he’d replied solemnly before hurrying away.

I ventured now up the stairs, towards the family chambers, which were at the far end of the up-floor. The door was fitted with a sturdy iron lock, while at either end of the lintel above it were carved the shapes of flowers with wide petals.

I knocked on the door; Beatrice opened it. Her face was drawn, as if she had not slept well. Her hair fell loosely across her shoulders, which took me slightly by surprise, but then she was in her own house, in her own chambers, where she had no need to keep it covered.

‘Come in,’ she said.

I remembered the last time we were together – the kiss she had laid upon my cheek – and suddenly I felt the same shiver running through me.

I tried to put it from my mind as I entered, finding myself in a small anteroom. A light breeze blew in through open shutters, and I could hear the rest of the men talking down in the yard. On one wall hung bright tapestries depicting a hunt in progress: men on horseback pursuing a tusked boar, with dogs running beside them, while other men waited with bows raised and arrows notched, waiting for the moment to let loose their fingers. An embroidered rug lay on the floor; at the other end of the chamber were two chairs, positioned either side of carved double doors.

‘Is your mother here?’ I asked.

‘She is still abed,’ Beatrice replied, glancing towards the doors. ‘She worries for my father.’

‘As do we all, my lady.’ I did not like to think what she might say if she knew I had been accusing him first of consorting with Harold’s widow, then of conspiring against the king.

‘She has had stomach pains for several days. Since Robert left she has been hardly sleeping at night, and she is eating less and less during the day. Some days she barely goes beyond her room.’

‘I’m sure Ælfwold will care for her, now that he’s here.’ The words did not come easily, and I had to force them out. I was no longer sure of anything when it came to the priest.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?’

‘Almost all my life,’ she replied. ‘He came into my father’s service when I was very young.’

‘How young?’

‘Five, perhaps six summers old,’ she said. ‘No more than that. Why?’

‘What do you remember of him from then?’

She frowned at the question. ‘I don’t see what—’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘I’d like to know.’

For a moment she hesitated, her brown eyes searching, but then she bowed her head. ‘He often took care of me when I was small and my father was away on campaign,’ she said. ‘He liked to teach me things: how to speak English, to read Latin, to play chess. Even when I was older he was always ready to listen when I had something to say, always watching over me.’

‘You trust him, then?’ I asked.

She stared at me as if I were mad. ‘There are few whom I trust more,’ she retorted. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because he is English.’

‘As are many of my father’s men,’ she snapped, her voice rising. ‘And his own mother too; you must know that.’ She continued to stare, but I said nothing, and eventually she turned away, towards the open window, looking out over the yard and the men and horses below. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, catching
the light like threads of gold; her breasts rose and fell as she sighed.

‘I see you’re leaving again,’ she said.

‘We have to go if we’re to meet with the king’s army before it reaches Eoferwic.’

She drew away from the window, turning to face me again. ‘You must promise that you will do all you can to aid my brother, and to rescue my father.’

‘My lady, of course—’

‘Listen to me,’ she said sharply, cutting me off. Her cheeks flushed red, but she held my gaze as I watched her, waiting for her to go on. ‘Robert is brave but he can also be foolhardy. He is a good horseman but he has few battles behind him. He will need your help. I want you to see that no harm comes to him.’

I wanted to explain to her that in the confusion of battle, with the enemy all around, it was impossible to keep watch over others. If her brother could not hold his own, there was little I could do to help him. But she would not understand that.

‘I will try, my lady,’ I said instead.

She did not look altogether pleased with that, but it was all the answer I was going to give her.

‘In Eoferwic my father asked you to give us your protection,’ she said. ‘Now I ask that you do the same for him, and for Robert. I have seen with my own eyes your skill at arms. And I have heard from my father how you fought at Hæstinges, how you saved your lord’s life there. I want you to serve them with the same conviction and honour as you served him.’

Honour, I thought bitterly. After what had happened these last few days, I had little enough of that left.

She was gazing at me expectantly. There was something of her father in that look, I thought: a confidence in the way she bore herself; a strength of will that I admired even as it frustrated me.

‘Will you swear it?’ she asked.

‘What?’ The question caught me by surprise and it took me a moment to recover my wits. ‘My lady, I gave an oath to your father – an oath made upon the cross. I will do everything I can—’

‘I want you to swear it to me,’ she said. She came closer, holding out her right hand, slender and pale, towards me. Around her wrist a silver band shone in the light from the window.

‘There is no need,’ I protested.

‘Swear it to me, Tancred a Dinant.’

I stared at her, trying to work out whether she was speaking seriously. But her eyes were steady, unflinching, as she drew herself to her full height before me.

Still she held out her hand, and I took her palm in mine. Her skin was soft and warm against mine, her fingers slender, her touch light. My heart quickened as I knelt down before her, clasping my other hand loosely over the back of hers.

‘By solemn oath I swear that I will do my utmost to aid your father, and to bring him and your brother back safe to you.’

I looked up, waiting for her to say something, holding her hand between mine, our gazes locked together. I could feel the blood coursing through my veins, throbbing behind my eyes, which were suddenly hot, and growing hotter still for every beat of my heart. Soon I would have to look away, I thought, but I could not, for those eyes kept drawing me in, closer, closer.

Slowly I rose to my feet, reaching up to her temple, brushing her hair, like threads of silk, behind her ear. Her cheeks, usually milky-pale, were flushed pink, but she did not shy away at my touch, did not turn her eyes from me, and though she opened her mouth she made no protest. I could feel her breath, light but warm, upon my face, and suddenly my hand was sliding from her temple, running down the side of her neck, to the small of her back, feeling the curves of her body, so new and unfamiliar, and I was holding her to me as she placed her arms upon my hips, reached around to my back.

I leant towards her, and then at last our lips touched: softly, hesitantly at first; but the kiss quickly grew in intensity as I felt her breasts press against my chest and I held her tighter—

She broke off, wresting herself free of my embrace, twisting away. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t.’ She turned towards the wall, towards the tapestry, and I couldn’t see her face, only her hair trailing across her shoulders and her back.

My heart was beating fast, my throat dry, and I swallowed. ‘Beatrice,’ I said, resting my hand upon her shoulder. It was the first time that I had called her by her name.

She shook my hand off. ‘Go,’ she said, her voice raised as if in anger, though I wasn’t sure what she could be angry about. She did not look at me.

‘My lady—’

‘Go,’ she repeated, more forcefully this time, and this time I did as she asked, retreating across the chamber, watching her back, feeling an emptiness inside me, and I wished for her to turn, but she did not.

I closed the door behind me and, as I did so, I found myself determined that it would not be the last time I saw her. That whatever happened at Eoferwic, I would make it back alive.

Thirty-one

THE SKIES WERE
still heavy as we began our northwards journey. I did not see Beatrice again, and when I glanced towards the shutters on the up-floor as we left, they were all closed.

Just as we were readying to go, Wigod presented us with a bundle of cloth wrapped around a spear. It was mostly black, but as I unfurled it I saw that it had also stripes of yellow decorated with golden trim at regular intervals along its length.

‘Lord Guillaume’s banner,’ the steward said. ‘Take it. Use it. Bring it safely to him.’

‘We will,’ I replied. ‘And when you see Ælfwold, tell him we’re sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘Just tell him,’ I said. ‘He’ll know what we mean.’

With that we had ridden away, leaving Malet’s house behind us and climbing up the hill towards the Bisceopesgeat. We passed the place where I had been attacked that night, and the church of St Eadmund where I had seen the man I’d thought was the chaplain. Already it seemed so long ago, even though it was only a little over a week; the memory was growing hazy, as if I had but dreamt it. But all that was behind me now, I reminded myself, and so, soon, was the city itself.

It took us four full days to catch the king’s army, by which time we had put, I thought, around a hundred miles between ourselves and Lundene. In every town we passed through, we heard stories of trouble out in the shires, of halls being burnt, of peasants rising against their lords. News of the northern rebellion was commonplace now, and everywhere the English were becoming restless, their
confidence growing as they heard of their kinsmen’s successes at Eoferwic.

The sun was dipping below the trees on the horizon when finally we came to the top of a ridge somewhere north of Stanford, and there looked down across the valley before us, and a sea of tents. There were hundreds of them arrayed there on the plain – not since the night before the great battle at Hæstinges had I seen so many men together in one place.

Truly it was a sight to behold. The wind was rising and by each fire flew the banner of the lord who camped there. Some had animals or fantastic beasts embroidered upon them – I saw amongst them boars and wolves, eagles and dragons – while others were simply divided into stripes with their owner’s colours. And at the centre of the camp, by the tall pavilion that was the king’s own tent, flew the largest banner of them all: the glistening gold embroidered on scarlet field that was the lion of Normandy.