Sworn Sword

Thirty-six

I found Eudo and together we made our way back towards the bridge and the rest of the army. The sun had risen above the houses, above the mist, but I could not feel its warmth.

In the streets men were slapping each other upon the back, cheering, revelling in our rout of the rebels, in our capture of the city. Some, exhausted from the fighting, had collapsed upon the ground amidst the wounded and the slain. Others were grieving, offering prayers for their fallen comrades. A great press of men was gathered around the lion banner, and I sat tall in the saddle, straining my neck to see over their heads as we came closer.

‘Normandy,’ they chanted. ‘King Guillaume!’

In the centre, under the golden lion, was the king himself, and before him knelt his namesake Fitz Osbern. Some of the other lords were there as well with their banners, but I could not see Robert or any of his men, and I only hoped that he had not been so foolish as to return to the fray.

‘This way,’ I said to Eudo as I tried to move around the edge of the crowd, retracing our path up the main street, up the rise. My shoulder throbbed with pain, though the bleeding had stopped. I was lucky, for Eadgar’s blade had not penetrated all that deep, and yet had he struck me a fraction lower he might have found my heart. I shivered at the thought.

Most of the rebels who remained were fleeing through the side streets. A few fought on, but in vain, and they did not last long as, outnumbered, they were cut down or run through. One lay on his back, still alive, coughing up blood, shouting out in his own tongue for help that would not come, until a knife was drawn across his throat and he fell silent.

And then I spotted Wace. He was kneeling on the ground, his shield with its familiar black hawk resting against the trunk of a tall elm. He saw us and waved us over, a look of concern upon his face. Beside him was Godefroi, though it was from his build that I recognised him rather than his face, which was turned away from us, towards the ground and another man lying there.

My first thought was that it was Robert, and sickness swelled in my stomach as again I remembered the oath I had sworn to Beatrice. But none of his knights were there, and as we rode closer I saw that it was not him, but Radulf.

He lay unmoving upon his back, his head resting against the roots of the tree, facing the sky. His face was plastered with mud, and there was a bright gash along the line of his cheekbone. But I could see his chest slowly rising and falling; he was alive.

Hastily I dismounted and knelt down beside him. Godefroi was murmuring a prayer. Radulf’s hand was pressed against the lower part of his chest. Blood covered his fingers, stained his tunic and indeed was coming still. In all the years I had been campaigning I had seen many injuries, some worse than others, and I knew at once that this one was bad. Whatever had struck him had gouged deep into the flesh, perhaps piercing the gut: a spear most likely, to judge by the roundness and the depth of the wound, though it did not matter now.

‘Radulf,’ I said, and swallowed. I did not know what to say. ‘I’m sorry.’

He turned his head to the side, not wishing to look at me. ‘What do you care?’ His voice was weak, hardly more than a whisper, but there was bitterness in it. ‘You always hated me.’

I was about to say that it wasn’t true, but I knew that he would not believe me. In any case this was not the time for arguments. ‘You fought well,’ I said instead.

‘How would you know? You weren’t even there.’ He began to laugh, a thick rasp that was as painful to hear as no doubt it was for him to make. It descended into a cough, and then his whole body was shaking as he began to choke, and there was blood in his mouth, blood spilling on to the ground.

‘Here, sit up,’ Godefroi said. ‘Tancred, help me.’

He took hold of one of Radulf’s arms, and I the other, and together we dragged him closer to the tree, so that his back rested against the trunk. He shut his eyes and almost succeeded in biting back a yell, but not quite. I felt a stab of guilt, but at the same time knew that nothing we could do for him now would take that pain away.

Godefroi produced a wineskin from beside him and took out the stopper. He lifted the flask to Radulf’s lips and he gulped at it, spluttering, groaning with every swallow. A flash of mail caught my eye and I turned to find a conroi of horsemen riding past. They were laughing, punching each other on the shoulder, raising their pennons to the sky.

‘Normandy!’ they shouted, all together. They sounded drunk, and perhaps they were, if not yet on ale and wine then certainly on the thrill of battle, on English blood.

‘Can you hear that?’ I asked. ‘That’s the sound of victory. The enemy have fled. The city is ours.’

‘It is?’ Radulf said. He had finished drinking and his eyes were closed once more, his breathing all of a sudden becoming shallower. He was not long for this life.

‘It’s true,’ Godefroi put in. ‘We showed them slaughter such as they had never seen.’

Radulf nodded, and there was for a moment a trace of a smile upon his lips, so slight as to be barely noticeable, but it quickly vanished as his face contorted in pain again.

‘Where’s Lord Guillaume?’ he croaked.

I hadn’t yet seen the vicomte; indeed in the midst of the battle and everything else I had almost forgotten that he was the reason we were here. I glanced at Godefroi, who looked blankly back at me, then at Wace and Eudo, who offered only a shrug.

‘He’ll be here,’ I said. ‘You served him well.’

Radulf nodded again, more vigorously, and now at last the tears began to flow, streaming down his cheeks as his breath came in stutters. He raised his bloodied hand to his face, as if trying to hide his sobs from us: his palm covering his mouth, his fingers splayed in front of his eyes.

‘He will be proud of you,’ I went on. ‘Of everything you have done for him.’

He clenched his teeth, and his hand fell to his wound once more, leaving his face marked with crimson streaks. The blood was flowing freely now, too much of it to be staunched. If the blow had been less deep, perhaps, or if it had struck his side rather than his chest … It was pointless to think that way, I knew, for nothing could change what was already done. But I could not help it. The same could have happened to me and yet I had survived. Why had I been spared but Radulf had not?

I felt moisture forming in the corners of my eyes, despite myself, and did my best to fight it back. Ever since we had first met I had thought him hot-headed, arrogant at the best of times, quick to take insult. Yet instead of goading him I might have tried harder to earn his trust, to gain his respect. And so in part at least I was responsible for him, and for what had happened.

‘You did well,’ I said again. ‘And I am sorry. For everything.’

His eyelids opened, just a fraction, enough that he could look at me, and I hoped that he had heard. The colour had all but drained from his face, and his chest was barely moving, his breathing growing ever lighter, no longer misting in the morning air.

‘Go with God, Radulf,’ I told him.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, and I leant closer, straining to hear him above the roar of victory that was all around. Whatever he meant to say, though, he never had a chance to utter, as in one long sigh his final breath fled his lips. His eyes closed once more, and slowly he sank backwards, into the trunk of the tree, his head rolling to one side, his cheek falling against his shoulder.

‘Go with God,’ I murmured again. But I knew that his soul had already fled this world, and he could hear me no longer.

Philippe found us not long after, and we left him together with Godefroi to stand vigil over Radulf. I did not know how long they had known him, or how well, but both seemed to take his death hard, and I thought it better to let them grieve by themselves while we sought out the vicomte. And someone had to stay with him, since now that the battle was over the time had come for plunder, and with his mail and helm and sword, the body of a knight held much that was of worth.

I rode with Wace and Eudo towards the minster, leaving the king and his assembled lords behind us. There was still no sign of Malet or his son, and I was beginning to grow worried when we turned up towards the market square and saw the black and gold flying before us. The vicomte was there, dressed in mail, though he had removed his helmet. Gilbert de Gand stood beside him, with the red fox upon his flag, and accompanying them both were some forty of their knights. Their spearpoints shone bright in the sun; their pennons were limp rags, soiled with the blood of the enemy.

We left our horses and made our way through the crowd. I was about to call out when I saw Malet embracing another man of around the same height: a man dressed all in black with a gilded scabbard on his sword-belt. Robert. Of course as far as the vicomte could have known, his son had been in Normandy all this while. How long must it have been since they had last seen one another?

I waited, not wanting to interrupt, but at last they stepped back, and Robert saw us. A grin broke across his face as he beckoned us over.

‘This is the man who saved my life,’ he said to his father. He was nursing his forearm where it had been wounded, I noticed; the cloth was bound tightly around it still. ‘One of your knights, I believe. Tancred a Dinant. A fine warrior.’

Malet smiled. He looked somehow older than I remembered, his grey hair flecked with white, his face more gaunt, and I wondered what toll the siege had exacted upon him.

‘Indeed he is,’ he said, and extended a hand. ‘It’s been some time, Tancred.’

I took it, smiling back. His grip, at least, was as firm as always. ‘It’s good to see you too, my lord.’

‘And Wace and Eudo as well, I see.’ He smiled. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Radulf is dead, lord,’ I said, bowing my head. ‘He was injured in the battle; he died of his wounds. Philippe and Godefroi are with him now.’

‘He fought bravely?’

‘He did,’ Wace said. ‘I was with him. He sent many of the enemy to their deaths.’

Malet nodded, his expression sombre. ‘He was a good man, loyal and determined. His death is regrettable, but he will not be forgotten.’

‘No, lord.’

‘Come,’ said Robert. ‘We will grieve for him in time, just as we’ll mourn all those who have fallen. But this is an hour for rejoicing. Eoferwic is ours. The rebels are defeated-’

‘Not defeated,’ I interrupted him. For all the scores upon scores of Englishmen that had been slain, I remembered the hundreds more that had filled the decks of their ships, that had managed to get away. I turned to face Malet. ‘Eadgar managed to escape, lord. It was my fault. I had the chance to kill him, and I failed.’

‘You wounded him,’ Eudo said. ‘You did more than any other man could manage.’

I shook my head. If my blow had struck him full in the face, rather than upon his cheek-plate, it might at least have dazed him enough that I could have cut him down. But it had not, and instead he lived.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Malet said. ‘What’s done is done and cannot now be changed. And Robert is right. Whatever battles there may be to come, it is this victory we must celebrate.’

‘Lord,’ someone called, and I turned to see Ansculf riding towards us, the black-and-gold banner raised in the three fingers of his shield-hand, a grin upon his face. Behind him rode the rest of Robert’s conroi, their mail and their shields spattered with crimson.

‘My men are waiting for me,’ said Robert as he turned his horse about. ‘No doubt we will meet again later.’

I watched as he mounted up and rode to join them, taking the banner from Ansculf, lifting it to the sky as his horse reared up, before he and his conroi galloped down the street.

‘I hear my wife and daughter are safe in Lundene,’ Malet said once he had gone.

‘They are,’ I said.

‘That is good to hear. And my message has been delivered to Wiltune, as I instructed?’

I glanced at Eudo and Wace, unsure what to say. He had been bound to ask at some point, though I had hoped he wouldn’t. But I could not lie to this man, to whom I had sworn my oath.

‘Lord,’ I said, lowering my voice as I drew closer. There were men all about us who might overhear, and I was sure Malet did not intend this for their ears. ‘We saw your letter. We know about Eadgyth, your friendship with Harold, and the business with his body.’

If anything I had expected Malet to turn to rage, but instead his face seemed to go pale. Perhaps like us he was simply weary after the siege and the battle; the fire had gone out of him and he had not the will to be angry.

‘You know?’ he asked. His gaze fell on each of us in turn. ‘I suppose it was always possible that you might find out. Aelfwold told you, I presume.’

‘Not willingly, lord, but yes,’ I said.

Malet glanced about. ‘We can’t talk of this here, surrounded by so many people. Come with me, back to the castle.’

We passed through the bailey, past the tents and burnt-out campfires. There were men guarding the gates, but if they thought it strange to see their lord returning so soon, they did not question it.

Malet led us to the tower, to the same chamber where he had first spoken to me of his task all those weeks ago. It was much as I had remembered it: there was the same writing-desk, the same curtain hanging across the room, the same rug upon the floor.

‘I would ask you to sit as well, but this is the only stool I have,’ Malet said as he sat down. ‘You will forgive me, I am sure.’

None of us spoke, waiting as we were for him to begin, though he seemed in no rush to do so. An iron poker hung beside the hearth and he picked it up, prodding at the burnt logs in the fireplace. There were still some embers amidst the ash, and a faint tendril of smoke curled upwards as he disturbed them, but it was cold in the chamber nonetheless.

Eventually he turned back to us. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You have read my letter to Eadgyth.’

I did not answer. He already knew that we had. There was nothing else to add.

‘You cannot let this be known to anyone,’ he said, a fearful look in his eyes. ‘If the king were to find out that I had told her …’

He did not finish, but bowed his head as he wrung his hands. His lips moved without sound, and I wondered if he were whispering a prayer. The morning sun shone in through the window, causing the sweat upon his brow to glisten.

‘You must understand why I did what I did,’ he said. ‘When I wrote that letter — when you swore to undertake this task for me — I did not think that Eoferwic would hold. And if the enemy managed to take the castle, I did not know whether I would survive.’

He had said something similar that evening when I had given my oath to him. Indeed I recalled how struck I had been by his honesty, how he had seemed almost resigned to the fact that his fate was bound with that of the city: that if Eoferwic were to fall to the English, then so too would he. But I did not see what that had to do with the business at hand.

Nor, it seemed, was I alone. ‘What do you mean, lord?’ asked Wace.

‘I was the only one who knew the truth,’ Malet said. ‘Were I to have been killed, all knowledge of Harold’s resting place would have been lost.’ He sighed deeply, and there was a hint of sadness in his tone. ‘I was only doing what in my mind was right. Eadgyth always saw me as having betrayed her husband, having betrayed our friendship. I thought that by doing this I might somehow atone for that — for all the hurt I had caused her.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. Not for the first time, I thought.

‘All she wanted was to mourn her husband properly,’ he went on. ‘I have lost count of the number of times she has sent letters to me, demanding to know where he was buried, and of the number of times I have sent word back, saying that I did not know. But when I heard that the English army was marching on Eoferwic, I knew I might not have another chance. The guilt upon my conscience was too great to bear.’ He looked up from the floor, towards us. ‘And that is why I had to tell her.’

‘Tell her what?’ I asked. He was not making sense.

Malet stared at me as if I were witless. ‘Where Harold’s body lies, of course.’

I glanced at Eudo and Wace, and they back at me, and I saw that they were thinking the same. For something was not right. I recalled Malet’s message to Eadgyth: those two simple words. Tutus est. I had held the parchment in my hands, traced the inky forms of the letters with my own finger. There had been no clue there as to Harold’s resting place, unless somehow those words held some other, hidden meaning — one that we had not worked out.

‘But you wrote that it was safe, nothing more,’ said Eudo.

Malet’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I saw the letter, lord,’ I said. ‘Tutus est. There was nothing else on that scroll.’

‘But that is not what I wrote.’ The vicomte stood to face us now, and there was colour in his cheeks again as a puzzled look came across his face.

‘I saw the letter.’ My blood was still hot from the battle, but I tried not to show my frustration. ‘Your seal was on it, lord.’

‘I did not write those words,’ Malet insisted. ‘That was not the message I sent.’

‘But if you didn’t write them, then who did?’ Wace asked.

So far as I could see, there was but one person who could have seen that scroll, apart from myself and Eadgyth. Indeed I remembered his anger when I let slip that I’d read it. He would not have reacted like that unless he himself had also known. Unless he himself were the one who had written those words. A shiver came over me.

‘It was Aelfwold,’ I said.

‘The priest?’ Eudo asked.

‘He must have changed the letter.’ It was not difficult: all it needed was for the original ink to be scraped away with a knife, which if done well meant that the parchment could then be used afresh. I had sometimes watched Brother Raimond doing it in the scriptorium, when I had been growing up in the monastery. More difficult would have been forging Malet’s writing well enough to trick Eadgyth, and yet I did not doubt that the chaplain could have done it, for who else would be more familiar with the vicomte’s hand?

‘No,’ Malet said, shaking his head. ‘It is not possible. I know Aelfwold. He has given me and my family many years of loyal service. He would never do such a thing.’

‘There is no one else it could be, lord,’ I said. I felt almost sorry for him, discovering that someone whom he had trusted so closely, and for so long, could have deceived him thus. But I knew that this time I was right.

Malet turned away from us, towards the hearth, his fists clenched so tight I could see the whites of his knuckles. I had not known him to lose his temper before, but he did so now as he swore, over and over and over, before burying his face in his palms.

‘Do you realise what this means?’ he said. ‘It means that he knows. Aelfwold knows where Harold’s body lies.’

‘But what good will that do him?’ Wace asked.

‘It depends what he means to do,’ Malet replied. ‘He wouldn’t have acted without some purpose in mind, of that I’m sure.’

Silence filled the chamber. I thought back to that night we had burst in on Aelfwold, trying to remember what he had told us. There was only one reason that I could think of why the priest would do this.

‘He means to take Harold’s relics for himself,’ I said. ‘To establish them elsewhere and make him a saint, a martyr to the English.’

‘To start a rebellion of his own,’ Malet said, so softly it was almost a whisper. He stared at me, as if he did not believe it could be true. But I did not see that there was any other explanation.

‘How long ago did you leave Lundene?’ Malet asked.

I counted back in my mind. We had spent four days riding to catch the king’s army, and another six on the march before the attack on Eoferwic. ‘Ten days,’ I said.

‘Then that is ten days in which he could already have carried out his plan.’ He spoke quietly, his face reddening. ‘If you’re right and Aelfwold succeeds, this will be the ruin of me. He must be stopped.’

Not only the ruin of Malet, I thought, but of everything we had fought for since first we had sailed from Normandy more than two years before. For there were many among the English who had no love for Eadgar Aetheling and yet would march in Harold’s name: men who if called upon would not hesitate in fighting under his old banner. If we let Aelfwold get away, it would not be long before the whole kingdom from Wessex to Northumbria was rising: before in every village men laid down their hoes, left their ploughs and their oxen to march against us; before halls and castles and towns were put to the torch, just as at Dunholm; before Normans in their hundreds were slaughtered across the land.

‘How do we stop him?’ I asked the vicomte. In ten days the priest could already have travelled far. So far that we might never find him, I realised with sinking heart.

The vicomte began to pace about. ‘Have you heard of a place called Waltham?’

‘Waltham?’ I repeated. The name was not familiar. ‘No, lord.’

‘It lies half a day to the north of Lundene, not far from the Roman road,’ Malet said. ‘There is a minster church there — Harold’s own foundation. That is where I had him buried; that is where Aelfwold will have gone. I want the three of you to ride there as swiftly as you are able. If he is still there, you must apprehend him and bring him to me. I will give you the fastest horses from my stables. Ride them to exhaustion if you have to; exchange them for fresh animals when you can, or else purchase new ones. The cost is not important. Do you still have the silver I gave you?’

‘Some, yes.’ The coin-pouch lay back at the camp, along with our packs and our tents and all the rest of our belongings.

‘I will give you more,’ Malet said. ‘Do you understand what I am asking?’

‘Yes, lord,’ I replied.

‘Then there is not a moment we can lose,’ Malet said. ‘I am relying on you all.’