Sworn Sword

Five

I stared at Eudo, scarce understanding what he was saying. It could not be true. I had been with Robert in the square at Dunholm only hours before. I had spoken to him. I had clasped his hand.

The pictures whirled through my mind. It seemed to me I was stuck in some terror of a dream, and I needed desperately to wake up, but of course I could not.

First Oswynn, and now Lord Robert. The man I had served half my lifetime: since I had first taken up arms in my youth. I remembered that look of unspoken despair on his face as he had sent me from the square at Dunholm. And I saw again those eyes, hollow and lost, as if he had somehow known that defeat was at hand, that his own end was near.

I would have liked to say that the words stuck in my throat, but that would have been false, for in truth no words existed for a moment like this. My mouth was dry, the air gone from my chest. I felt myself sit down upon the ground, though I did not recall having willed my body to do so. I expected tears to follow, but strangely they did not, nor could I summon them. Instead I just felt numb. It was too much to take in.

I had sworn my life to Lord Robert’s service. By solemn oath I had pledged both my sword and my shield in his defence. Still I remembered that spring morning at Commines many years ago: clear and warm it had been, with the blossom on the apple trees in the orchard and the smell of earth on the breeze. It was on that morning that I’d made my pledge and he had accepted me as one of his household knights: taken me, as he had taken Eudo and Wace not long before, into his conroi, his closest circle of men. And now that pledge lay in tatters; the oath that I had sworn to him was broken. I had not been there to protect him, and now he lay dead.

Wace’s head was buried in his hands, his face red, weeping, while Eudo sat upon a rock, staring in silence down at the ground. I could not recall having ever seen either of them like this before.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘What does it matter?’ Wace said, and amidst his tears there was anger in his eyes.

‘I want to know,’ I replied.

Eudo wiped a hand across his face. ‘I only saw from a distance,’ he said. ‘You remember I became separated from you?’

I did. In fact, the last I had seen of him was when we had cut down the thegn with the gilded sword. After that everything had been thrown into confusion. I no longer remembered who had been with me when we came to Wace’s aid, only that that was when the battle had turned against us.

‘I didn’t know where you were,’ Eudo went on, ‘but I heard the horns sounding the retreat from the square, saw our banners heading back towards the stronghold. The English were pressing up the hill; there was fighting in every street. I joined with another conroi and we tried to push through to rejoin the rest of the army, but the enemy were too many and it was all we could do to hold them back.’

He turned his head down towards the earth, his eyes closed. ‘I looked up to the fastness and saw the hawk banner being pushed back. The English had broken through the gates. They had Robert all but surrounded, with the mead-hall at his rear. He retreated inside — it was the only place left to go …’

He covered his face with his hands, and I saw him tremble.

‘What?’ I asked.

He glanced at Wace, and then at me, his eyes full of apology. ‘Then they set the torch to it. The building went up so quickly; he could not have got out.’ He bowed his head again. ‘After that I fled. Men were dying everywhere; the English had won. There was nothing left to fight for.’

That was when I recalled that I too had seen the mead-hall in flames, the blaze sweeping through its thatch, the smoke rising thick and black. I had not thought anything of it at the time; that Lord Robert could have been there had not crossed my mind. But then Eudo must have had better sight of it. He had seen it all happen, and yet been powerless to do anything to stop it.

How much longer we stayed there I did not know. Nothing more was said as each of us sat, heads turned down, lost in his own grief. Above, the skies were growing grey and dark. It looked as though more rain was to come.

‘Come on,’ Wace said eventually, rising. ‘Let’s get away from the path.’

We led Eudo with his mount back to where we had tied our horses. I gestured for him to go ahead of me and struggled on behind. My leg was agony to walk on: already it seemed worse than when I had woken.

‘You’re wounded,’ Eudo said, when he saw that I was limping. He glanced down at my calf, at my blood-stained braies and the crude bandage I had made.

‘It’s not bad,’ I said, grimacing despite myself. ‘I’ll be fine until we can get back to Eoferwic.’

I saw the doubt in his eyes, but he said nothing. We settled down behind the earth bank close to our horses. Eudo found some nuts and damp bread which he had in his cloak pocket and we shared them out. It was the only food any of us had.

‘We should shelter through the day, travel by night,’ Wace said, when we had all finished. ‘If the enemy are still marching, we’re less likely to be spotted that way.’

I nodded in agreement. With any luck we would be in Eoferwic within a couple of nights. I only hoped that my wound did not get any worse in that time.

After that, each of us took it in turns to keep watch while the others slept. Since I had already rested some that morning, I offered to go first, and neither Eudo nor Wace objected. My eyes stabbed with heaviness but I knew I could not sleep, for fear of what my dreams might bring.

I thought back to the day I had met Lord Robert, when he had been as old as I was now, and I was but a boy in my fourteenth summer. It had not been all that long since I had left the monastery — a few days at most — and I was travelling I did not know where, free but hungry, walking alone. All I knew was that I wanted never to return.

Already it had been a hot summer, I remembered, though it was still only June. I had not found a spring in more than a day and all the streams were dry to their beds. Where I could, I had kept to the woods, since there I was protected from the heat of the sun; but as evening drew on I suddenly came upon a winding river: a river I later learnt was the Cosnonis, which marked the boundary between Brittany and Normandy. Between its banks and the edge of the woods a number of tents had been erected around a campfire, beside which half a dozen men were practising with swords and shields, stepping deftly forward and back in time with every stroke, ducking and turning before thrusting again.

Their blades flashed brightly in the late sun; the scrape of steel against steel rang out as they clashed. I crouched behind a bush and for a while I simply watched them, almost forgetting my thirst and my empty stomach. I had never seen such a thing before. It was like a dance: each movement, each swing, each parry all carefully considered and yet it seemed at the same time instinctive.

Eventually, though, my hunger had got the better of me, and I realised that if these men meant to stay the night here, they must have food. I moved back amongst the trees, around the back of their camp. There were more men sitting by the fire, passing bread around and speaking in what sounded like French, a tongue which at that time I only half knew. All had beards and wore their hair long, which took me aback a little, having spent so long in the company of monks, with their tonsured heads and clean-shaven chins. One of them was dressed in a mail coat, polished and gleaming, and had silver rings on his fingers. He must be their lord, I thought. His shield he had across his knees, using it like a table from which to eat; on its white face was painted a black hawk.

Had I been thinking more clearly, I would have understood that these were fighting men — men I would do well not to cross. But at that moment my stomach was all that I cared about, as the smell of roasting meat drifted on the breeze. And so, taking care not to stumble or to tread on any twigs, I carried on. One tent on the other side of the camp stood slightly further back from the rest, and I chose this as my target.

Closer to the river, a handful of boys were running at each other with wooden swords and wicker shields. They looked to be the same age as me, or perhaps a little older — it was difficult to tell from so far away. One, taller than the others, seemed to be fending off two by himself. I paid them no mind; they seemed too involved in what they were doing to notice me. Keeping low, watching to make sure that none of the men by the fire had seen me, I made my way out of the cover of the trees, towards the tent. It was made from several hides stitched together and stretched over wooden poles, and was probably large enough to fit two men comfortably. Leather ties hung from the flaps that made the opening, but they were not fastened and so I slipped inside.

The heat was the first thing that struck me; the second was the darkness. I fumbled about while my eyes adjusted, searching for something that I might be able to eat or drink. Linen blankets were laid out over the grass; a rolled-up tunic made for a pillow at one end. Beside the tunic lay a pouch with some silver coins inside. I pocketed a few, thinking that they might be useful later, before in the corner I spied a leather bottle. Without thinking I removed the stopper and began to gulp it down, and straightaway began to splutter, sending scarlet droplets everywhere. Instead of water I had found wine, and far stronger wine than any I had ever tasted.

I replaced the stopper and hurriedly put the bottle back where I had found it, hoping I had not made too much noise. There was nothing else of use here in any case; I would have to try another tent. I turned to go, but at that moment the flaps were pulled aside and the evening light flooded in. A dark figure stood before me. The sun was behind him, dazzling me with its brilliance, and I shielded my eyes. It was the tall boy I had seen by the river.

‘Who are you?’ he said in French, his eyes narrowing. His hair was dark, cut short on the top and shaved at the back like mine. He had thin lips and a keen stare.

I was still on my hands and knees. I looked up at him, too fearful to say anything. My mind was whirling: what would these men do to me now that they had caught me?

‘Folcard!’ the boy called in the direction, I guessed, of the men at the campfire. ‘There’s a thief in your-’

He had not the time to finish, for I was scrambling to my feet, my head down like a bull’s as I barrelled into his lower half. He went down, and I was half running, half stumbling past, seeing the safety of the woods before me, when all of a sudden I felt him grab first my tunic and then my leg. I heard cloth rip and found myself falling too. The wind was knocked from my chest as I hit the ground. I struggled to get free, flailing my leg, trying to kick him away, but he held on, and then somehow he was on top of me, one hand pressed down on my collarbone, the other raised high.

I saw the blow coming and turned my head to one side. His hand connected with the side of my face and I felt the impact jar through my jaw. He sat back, getting ready to deliver another strike, but I rose up, grabbing him around the waist and wrestling him from me. He lashed out, missing my head, and I slammed my fist into his nose. He reeled back, crying out as he put a hand to his face. Blood, thick and dark, dripped through his fingers.

I had never struck anyone before, let alone drawn blood. I stared at him, not knowing what to do. My heart was beating fast; a rush of excitement came over me. Then I heard voices and looked up. The men from the fire were running towards me, some with swords drawn. Their legs were longer than mine and I knew that for all my speed, I could not outrun them. I stood in my torn tunic, frozen to the spot as they approached and began to spread out, surrounding me.

‘You,’ said the one I had taken for their lord. ‘What’s your name, boy?’

His voice was deep, his face stern. He was not all that tall, but there was something about his manner that nevertheless commanded respect.

‘My name is Tancred,’ I replied nervously. The words felt awkward on my tongue. My name was French, given to me by my mother, but I did not speak the language much. Some of the brothers in the monastery had spoken it, but not as much as they had Breton and Latin: tongues which I knew far more readily.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Dinant,’ I said. I looked around the rest of the men. All of them had scabbards at their sides, and most were wearing leather jerkins, though a few had mail like their lord. They were all different sizes: some short and squat, arms folded in front of their chests; others slim and long-limbed, with piercing stares that I did my best to avoid.

‘You have a family, a father or mother?’ I heard the lord say.

I turned back to face him, shaking my head. My mother had died giving birth to the girl who would have been my sister. Not much later my father had followed her from this world after a feud with another man. He had not been anyone of great standing, just a minor lord with some lands near to Dinant. Neither was my uncle, his older brother, who took me in after his death. He had his own sons to provide for, and I was nothing but another mouth to feed. And so, as soon as they would take me, he gave me up to the monastery, where I had lived until just a few days before.

The lord raised his thick eyebrows but did not enquire further, regarding me without emotion. ‘You fight well,’ he said, and gestured towards the boy. ‘Eudo has been training with me for a year and more, and still you managed to best him.’

I glanced at the one he had called Eudo, who was standing hunched over, feeling his nose, cursing and then cursing some more. He drew a grimy sleeve across his face and it came away scarlet. He did not meet my eyes.

‘How old are you?’ the lord asked.

‘This is my fourteenth summer,’ I replied, trying to work out why he was so interested in whether I had a family, or how well I could fight, or how many I was in years.

‘Enough of these questions,’ one of the other men said. He was perhaps the shortest of them, and had a large chin and eyes that seemed set too close together. ‘He was in my tent. He’s a thief and he should be punished.’

‘Were you stealing, Tancred?’ the lord asked.

‘I was hungry,’ I said, turning my head down towards the ground. ‘I was looking only for food, and something to drink.’ Then I remembered the coins I had taken, and slowly removed them from my pocket, holding them out in an open palm. ‘And these,’ I added.

One of the others laughed. ‘He has nerve, I’ll grant him that.’

‘You son of a whore,’ the short one said. His face had gone a bright red. He advanced out of the ring they had formed around me, grabbing me by the wrist and snatching the silver from my hand.

‘Temper, Folcard,’ the lord warned him.

‘I should slit your throat right now, you little bastard,’ Folcard said. I stepped back quickly as his free hand went to his sword-belt; his other held fast to my wrist.

‘No one will be slitting any throats,’ the lord called out to him. ‘Least of all the boy’s.’

Folcard snarled at me, baring two uneven rows of yellowed teeth, then drew back, watching me closely. ‘Then what are we going to do with him?’ he demanded.

The lord stroked his beard as if in consideration, then approached slowly, his mail chinking with each step. ‘Have you ever used a knife before?’ he asked me. ‘For fighting with, I mean, not for eating,’ he added sternly, when he saw what I was about to answer.

‘No, lord,’ I said.

He unbuckled a sheath from his belt. It was about the same length as my forearm, or a little longer. He held it out to me. ‘Take this,’ he said.

There was a murmur from the rest of his men, of discontent perhaps, or simply surprise. I was not paying them any attention, however, as I took the sheath in both hands, feeling its weight, turning it over. It was wrapped around with thin copper bands, off which the sun glinted.

I looked questioningly up at the lord. Did he mean to give it to me, or was this part of some test?

He nodded and gestured towards the hilt. Tentatively I curled my fingers around it and pulled. It slid out smoothly. Even to me, who knew nothing of weapons, it seemed a beautiful thing. Its edge was so thin I could barely make it out, the steel polished so clear I could see my own face in its reflection.

‘It is yours, Tancred, if you wish to join me,’ the lord said. He extended his hand. ‘My name is Robert de Commines.’