Sworn Sword

Thirty-eight

The river wound south through the hills, a brown ribbon showing us the way. We did not stop, did not eat, did not speak, but pushed our horses ever harder, pressing our heels in, drawing all the speed that we could from their legs, and more besides.

We galloped across the hills, through fields recently ploughed, skirting woods and villages, all the time keeping the river in sight, watching for the barge that might be Aelfwold’s. But all we saw were small ferries and fishermen’s boats, and as the sun descended towards the west and the shadows lengthened, and still there was no sign, sickness grew in my stomach. In one town we tried to ask some of the peasants who lived there if they had seen anything, but their speech was not of a kind that Eudo could understand, and so we had no choice but to keep going.

Slowly the river grew wider, bounded on either side by wide flats of mud and reeds where waterbirds had made their nests. The sun sank beneath the horizon and the last light of day was upon us when, just a few miles away to the south, I glimpsed the river-mist settling over the broad, black waters of the Temes.

I glanced at Eudo and at Wace, and they back at me. Neither of them said anything; defeat was heavy in their eyes. We had failed.

We carried on nonetheless, to the top of the next rise: the last before the land fell away towards the water. From here we could look down upon the river as it wound its way through the mudflats out into the Temes. The tide was on its way in, slowly flooding across the marshes, working its way into the many inlets that lay along the shore. At our backs the wind was rising, howling through the woods and down the valley. Streaks of cloud, black as charcoal, were drawing across the sky. The light had all but gone, and with it, our hopes.

All I could think about was how we were to tell Malet what had happened, what his response would be. We had done our utmost, and yet even that had not been enough to stop Aelfwold.

‘What now?’ asked Wace after what seemed like an eternity.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. The wind gusted, buffeting my cheek. ‘I don’t know.’

I gazed out upon the Temes. For the first time I noticed there was a ship there, out in the midstream. It was yet some way off — a mile or so perhaps, barely visible through the river-mist — and heading upriver, but even so I could see that it was too big to be the barge that Wulfwin had spoken of. A trader, probably, from Normandy or Denmark, though it was late to still be out on the river, especially when there were ports further downstream where they might easily have put in for the night. I did not know how far exactly Lundene lay from here, but night was falling so fast that it seemed to me they had little chance of reaching the city before dark.

I watched it for a few moments. Certainly it seemed in no rush to make port this evening, for I saw that the vessel’s sail was furled. Instead it seemed to be drifting on the swell of the incoming tide, its oars hardly moving, almost as if it were waiting for something-

‘Look,’ Eudo said, pointing out towards the south. ‘Over there.’

I followed the direction of his finger, out to a sheltered cove perhaps a quarter of a mile away, close to the mudflats where our river joined the Temes. There, almost hidden behind a line of trees, was an orange light as might come from a campfire, around which were gathered several figures. I could not say how many and we were too far away to make out anything more, but I did not doubt that one of them was Aelfwold.

‘That’s him,’ I said. ‘It has to be.’

From thinking that all had been lost, suddenly my doubts fell away. My heart pounded and I tugged upon the reins, spurring my mount into a gallop one last time.

‘Come on,’ I shouted. I gritted my teeth, clutching the brases of my shield so tightly that my nails dug into my palm. A row of stunted, wind-blasted trees flashed past as the land fell away. Through the gaps in their branches I could see down towards the cove, where a low-sided barge had been drawn up on the stones. Beside it the campfire burnt brightly; a glint of mail caught my eye, but it was quickly lost amidst the trees.

I glanced out into the Temes, where the ship was closer than before. For it seemed to me that it was not there by accident, but was somehow connected with Aelfwold. And if so, that meant we had to get to him before they did. My blood was running hot, but even so I knew that the three of us could not fight a whole ship’s crew alone.

I willed my horse faster, cursing under my breath. At last the line of trees came to an end and we were racing down the slope towards the cove, past shrubs and rocks. A stream lay ahead and I splashed on through it. Water sprayed up and into my face, but I did not care. I heard the crunch of stones beneath my mount’s hooves as they pounded the ground; grass gave way to gravel as we arrived upon the beach. I looked up and there, directly ahead, lay the fire.

Men were running in all directions, scrambling to reach their spears and their knives. I was shouting, letting the battle-rage fill me. My sword slid cleanly from the scabbard and I flourished it high above my head, roaring to the sky as I did so.

‘For Malet,’ I called, and I heard Eudo and Wace doing the same as they drew alongside me: ‘For Malet!’

In front of the fire stood the two knights, the one short and the other tall, just as the dean at Waltham had said. Their swords were drawn, their shields held firm before them.

And then behind them, next to the barge itself, I saw the chaplain, Aelfwold. He did not move. His eyes were fixed upon us, his feet frozen to the ground as if in shock. As well he might be, for he could not have thought he would ever see us again, and yet here we were.

‘No mercy!’ I yelled as I crashed my sword into the shield of the tall knight. It struck the boss and slid harmlessly off its face, and I was riding onwards, turning as an Englishman rushed from the barge, screaming in his own tongue. He raised his axe above his head, but I had seen him coming and my blade was the quicker, slicing across his hand before he had finished the stroke, taking three of his fingers before finding his throat. Blood gushed forth as he fell first to his knees, clutching at his neck, then collapsed face down upon the ground.

But I could not pause even for a heartbeat as the tall knight came at me, raining blows upon my shield. Below the rim of his helmet, above his eye, I saw the scar that Wulfwin had spoken of, that I remembered from all those weeks ago.

His eyes met mine and a flicker of recognition crossed his face. ‘You’re the one who was there in Lundene,’ he said between breaths. ‘Fulcher fitz Jean.’

‘My name is Tancred,’ I spat back. ‘Tancred a Dinant.’ And I heaved my sword down towards his helmet, faster than he could raise his shield, and the steel rang out as it struck his nasal-guard. His head wrenched back under the force of the strike and he staggered backwards.

‘Bastard,’ he gasped, as a stream of crimson flowed from his nostrils, dripping on to his hauberk. ‘Bastard, bastard.’

All around us the bargemen were shouting. Most had at least a knife in their hands, but only a few were daring to attack us; the rest had seen the fury of our blades and were running up the beach for the cover of the trees. I looked for Aelfwold, but amidst the confusion I could not see him.

The knight with the scar howled as he charged again, the light of the fire reflected in his eyes, but he had let his anger overtake him and there was no skill in his assault. His strokes were wild, lacking in control and grace, and I fended them off with ease.

The fire was at my flank: twisting tongues of orange and yellow writhing up towards the sky. Flames danced upon my blade, reflected in the steel, and I concentrated all my strength in my sword-arm, bringing the full weight of the weapon to bear as I slashed towards his neck.

His shield was out of position, ready for the low strike to the thigh that no doubt he had been expecting, and instead he raised his blade to try to parry. For the briefest moment our blades clashed, but he could not match the force in my blow, and suddenly with a great shriek of steel his sword shattered, shearing clean through above the crossguard, leaving him with just the hilt in his hand.

A look of surprise mixed with fear came across his face, and now at last he tried to lift his shield, but it was too late. Already I was following through the stroke, cutting through the links of his mail into the flesh beneath, driving the point through his ribs, deep into his chest. I twisted it, thrusting it deeper, and he let out a gasp, his eyes glazing over; then as I wrenched it free his legs gave way and he toppled backwards into the fire. A cloud of sparks lifted up into the night, as the flames began to consume his body.

I wheeled about, searching for my next kill, but few of the enemy remained. Those who did were either turning to flee or were soon finished on Wace and Eudo’s swords; already the second knight lay dead upon the stones. Once more I looked out towards the Temes, looking for any sign of the ship. Now that we were on the beach I could not see it; the inlet was sheltered by two ridges of higher ground which blocked my view. But as soon as the ship rounded the first of those ridges, those aboard would see the light from the campfire, and when they did, all would be lost.

‘The fire,’ I shouted to Wace and Eudo. ‘Put it out! Put it out!’

My attention was elsewhere, as I had seen Aelfwold on the barge. He stared at me, his eyes wide, his face pale in the firelight, his countenance one of desperation. No longer was this the generous, kind-hearted man I had first met in Eoferwic, nor would he ever be again. Behind those eyes, I now knew, lay a mind capable of deceit and treachery of the highest order. An enemy of my lord.

I left my horse and ran towards him, vaulting over the side of the barge and on to the deck. The Englishman stood on the other side of a great iron-bound chest, more than six feet in length, and two in both width and depth.

A coffin, I realised, and not merely any coffin, but that of the usurper himself. Of Harold Godwineson, breaker of oaths and enemy of God. There was no inscription that I could see, but that was only to be expected, if he had been buried in secret, with the knowledge of just a few men.

‘It’s over, Aelfwold,’ I said. ‘We know all about your plan.’

He did not speak, nor take his eyes from me. With hardly a murmur of steel he drew a seax from a scabbard beneath his cloak, holding it before him in both hands, as if warning me not to come any closer.

‘You would fight me?’ I asked, more in surprise than in scorn. I had never seen the Englishman so much as handle a blade, let alone use one in anger, yet here he was, unafraid to stand before me.

The edge of his seax, polished and sharp, gleamed in what remained of the firelight. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Eudo and Wace stamping down on the flames, which were dwindling rapidly.

‘You will not have him,’ Aelfwold said, and there was hatred in his eyes. ‘He is my king!’

‘Harold was no king,’ I said as I began to advance, one step at a time, towards him. ‘He was a usurper and an oath-breaker.’

‘It is your bastard duke, Guillaume, who is the usurper,’ he spat back. He stepped away, keeping his distance, circling about the coffin. ‘He stole this realm by fire and sword, by murder and rape and pillage.’

‘That’s a lie-’ I began, my blood rising.

‘He wears the crown and sits upon the royal throne,’ Aelfwold went on, shouting me down, ‘but as long as the English refuse to submit to him — as long as we continue to fight — he shall never be king.’

‘Liar!’ I said as I leapt up on top of the coffin and lunged towards him.

Aelfwold swung his seax, but it was with the clumsiness of one unused to arms, and he succeeded only in cutting my cloak. My shield slammed into his chest, and the blade tumbled from his grasp as he fell on to his back.

Straightaway he was trying to get up, reaching out for his seax, which lay just beyond his fingers, but I was quicker, kicking it away before he could get hold of it. I levelled my sword at his throat.

He gazed up at me and swallowed, eyes flicking between me and the point of my blade just beyond his chin. ‘You wouldn’t dare kill me.’

‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.’

‘I am a priest,’ he said. ‘A man of God.’

Not so long ago I had spoken similar words in his defence. Yet now he threw them back at me, mocking me. My hand tightened around my sword-hilt, but somehow I managed to restrain myself.

‘You are no man of God,’ I said. ‘You are a traitor to your lord, to your king.’

‘My king is Harold-’

I kicked him hard in the side and he broke off. I didn’t have to listen to this. After everything, it seemed he was little different from all the other Englishmen we had been fighting since first we arrived upon these shores.

‘Malet trusted you,’ I said. ‘You betrayed him.’

‘No,’ he replied, almost spitting the words. ‘For two years and more I have stood by and done nothing while my kinsmen have suffered at your hands, been slaughtered on your swords. That was my only betrayal. All I wanted was to make that right.’

‘You broke your oath to him.’

‘Do you think I did so lightly?’ he countered. ‘Do you think it is so easy? Yes, I swore myself to him, and I gave him and his family my loyal service for as long as I was able. He is a good lord, a good man. But I have a duty more sacred than any oath, and that is to my people.’

He was trying to confuse me with his words, but I was not to be moved. ‘You are a traitor,’ I repeated, and pressed my blade closer to his neck, almost touching the skin.

Aelfwold stared at me, and I at him. ‘Kill me, then, if that’s what you’re here to do,’ he said.

‘Don’t tempt me.’ My skull was pounding, almost drowning out my thoughts. Of course Malet wanted him brought back to Eoferwic alive, but at the same time I realised how easy it would be for my sword to slip, for me to pierce the Englishman’s throat and leave him here to die. I could tell the vicomte that he had fought on to the last, that we had had no choice but to kill him, and he would have to accept our word, never knowing the truth.

All around us lay in darkness. The skies were black, lit only by a few stars, the moon hidden behind the cloud. The fire was out; across the ashes were laid two cloaks, dripping with water, and Wace and Eudo were stamping down upon them, stifling the last tendrils of smoke. And just in time, for as I glanced out upon the black reaches of the Temes, there, edging past the first of the two ridges of land, a shadow amongst shadows, came the high prow, the tall mast, the long hull of the ship.

The point of my blade quivered as I held it before Aefwold’s neck, held his fate in my own sword-hand.

‘That boat,’ I said. ‘It was supposed to meet with you, to take Harold’s body away, wasn’t it?’

He did not answer, but I knew from his silence that I was right. He was shivering, though whether from the cold or out of fear I could not tell. His eyes were wide, and I thought I saw tears forming in their corners.

And all of a sudden I realised that I could not do it. Despite his lies, despite his treachery, I could not bring myself to kill such a wretch of a man. I was holding my breath, I realised, and I let it out, at the same time sliding my bloodied sword back into its scabbard.

‘Tancred,’ Eudo said. He was pointing out into the river, towards the vessel. A point of orange light shone across the water, like the flame from a lantern. It lasted but a few heartbeats, and then was gone. A signal, I thought.

I turned back to face Aelfwold, about to open my mouth to speak, but at that moment he sprung at me, his face red and full of anger. He crashed into my middle, pressing at me with all his weight. Almost before I knew what was happening my feet were slipping on the wet deck, my ankle twisting, and I was falling. My back slammed into the wooden planks, the breath knocked from my chest.

But Aelfwold had no intention of finishing me, for already he was jumping down from the barge, running across the stones, making for higher ground. I rose to my feet, struggling under the weight of my mail. I loosened my arm from the straps of the shield, letting it fall to the deck as I leapt down and gave chase. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes, digging through the leather, into my soles. I heard Wace and Eudo shouting, but I did not know if they were behind me; all I cared about was catching the Englishman.

Already he had a start of some thirty paces and more as he scrambled up the grassy slope, through bushes, over outcrops of rock. Branches clattered against my helmet as I followed; thorns scratched my face and my hands. For a moment I lost him amidst a clump of trees, but I kept on going, and as I came out the other side I saw his cloak whipping in the wind.

He was running along the top of the ridge, towards the Temes, waving his arms at the same time as he yelled out in English — trying to catch the attention of those on the ship, I realised. Again the orange light came, glinting off the water, and again it disappeared, the signal unanswered.

‘Onbidath,’ Aelfwold screamed. ‘Onbidath!’ But the wind was blowing more strongly now, and whatever he was saying, it was surely lost.

I was gaining on him with every stride now, despite my mail and the scabbard hanging from my sword-belt. Not much further ahead, the ridge came to a sudden end; instead of a steady slope down to the river, there was a steep drop on to the rocks where the land had fallen away. The priest was trapped, and he knew it too as he came to a halt.

‘It’s finished,’ I said again, having to shout to make myself heard above the wind. ‘There’s no sense in fighting any longer.’

For the ship, I saw, was turning against the tide, its oars heaving as it began to make its way back downstream. For a third time the orange light shone, but it was fainter than before.

‘You can’t get away,’ I said, and now at last he turned to face me. His eyes were wild, his face twisted in a mixture of despair and hatred, as though the Devil were inside him. I laid a hand upon my sword-hilt, ready.

‘England will never belong to you,’ he spat, and pointed a finger at me. ‘This is our land, our home — it is not yours!’

He was raving now, driven to madness by the realisation of his defeat. Slowly I advanced, keeping my eyes fixed upon him.

‘You will not take me,’ he said, shaking his head as he took a step back. ‘Kill me if you have to, but you will not take me.’ He was fewer than five paces from the edge now, and I wondered if he knew.

I lifted my hands away from my body, away from my sword. ‘I’m not going to kill you.’

The wind gusted again, pressing at my back, like icy hands laid upon my skin, digging into the flesh. The priest stepped backwards but the ground was muddy and he lost his footing, falling to his hands and knees. Behind him was nothing but air.

‘Aefwold!’ I cried. I started forward, holding out my hand towards him.

He clasped it, his palm cold but his grip strong. Too strong, I realised, as he wrenched me from my feet. I met the ground hard, the brink no more than an arm’s length away. My heart was pounding as I rolled on to my back and reached for my sword, but I was not quick enough. The priest flung himself at me, his face red, his cheeks streaming with tears.

He landed on top of me, his hands flying to my throat, and it was all I could do to swing my fist into the side of his head. The blow connected and he reeled back, and in that moment I saw my chance, throwing him off. I struggled to my feet, and he to his, wiping blood from his cheek.

Except that now I was the one with the cliff at my back. I pulled my blade free of its sheath, and held it before me in warning.

‘Stay back,’ I said.

But he was not listening. Screeching like some beast from the caverns of Hell, he charged.

Whether he hoped to catch me off guard and off balance, whether he planned to take us both over, I do not know, and never will. I recovered my wits just in time, waiting until he was almost upon me before dancing to one side, lifting my sword, turning and thrusting the blade out. A moment sooner and he would have seen what I was doing; a moment later and I would have been pitched, with him, on to the rocks below.

My sword flashed silver in the night, striking only air, but Aelfwold was coming so fast that it did not matter. He flew past me, past the point of my blade, and in a single moment his expression turned from rage to fear when he saw the cliff-edge before him and found that he could not stop.

His cloak billowed all about him as, screaming, he tumbled forward, disappearing from sight. Dropping my sword, I rushed to the edge, gazing down towards the rocks. The priest lay on his back, unmoving, his arms and legs spread wide.

‘Aelfwold,’ I called, but he did not reply.

His eyes were open, the whites glistening in what little light there was, but he did not see me. His mouth hung agape, his chest was still and he was no longer breathing. His forehead was spattered with blood, his hair matted where his skull had cracked.

The chaplain was dead.