Sworn Sword

Eight

Eudo and Wace came to see me the next morning, and never had I been more glad to see them. We did not talk of the battle or of Lord Robert, for there was little more to say, though I could see from the looks in their eyes that it was in their minds as much as it was in mine.

I learnt from them that Rollo had not survived the journey. They had stopped briefly at dusk to let the horses rest, but when they made to leave, he had not got up.

‘The battle must have all but exhausted him,’ Eudo said. ‘When we saw that he wasn’t going to live, we decided it was better to end his suffering ourselves. I’m sorry.’

Perhaps my heart was already so filled with grief that there was no room for any more, but for some reason I felt no sadness, only regret. I had been given Rollo in the weeks after the battle at H?stinges, at the same time that I was entrusted with a conroi of my own to command. He had been with me almost as long as we had been in England, seen me through two years and more of campaigning. In all my years I had known no better mount than him; strong yet at the same time quick, steady and obedient. And now he too was gone.

I changed the subject. ‘The vicomte came to see me yesterday. His chaplain too, a man named?lfwold.’

‘The Englishman,’ Eudo said with a look of distaste.

‘You’ve met him, then?’ I asked.

‘He was the one who received us when we brought you in,’ Wace replied. ‘Malet has more than a few Englishmen in his household. He’s half-English himself, you know.’

‘Half-English?’ I said, disbelieving. When I had met him there’d been nothing in his appearance or his speech to suggest that he was anything but Norman.

‘It’s said that his mother was of noble Mercian stock, though no one seems to know for certain,’ Wace said. ‘I gather he doesn’t speak of it much.’

I was not surprised; it was not something that many would readily admit to.

‘His loyalty to the king is not in question, you understand,’ Wace went on. ‘He fought alongside him at H?stinges, and fought well at that. But his parentage means that he also has the trust of many of the English thegns.’

‘Which is no doubt part of the reason he was made vicomte here,’ I said. Whereas the south of the kingdom was now firmly under the control of Norman lords, much of the north was still in the hands of the same men who had held it under the usurper three years ago. As a result, whoever held Eoferwic needed to be able to treat with them. ‘How do you know so much, in any case?’ I asked.

‘Malet was at the king’s Easter council last year, when I was there with Lord Robert,’ Wace said. ‘All this I learnt from speaking with some of his men.’

However he had obtained it, it was useful knowledge to have, and I was grateful, just as I was for the news that they brought from outside. It seemed that there were rumours of risings in the very south of the kingdom, stories too of certain lords who had fled back to Normandy. Among them were Hugues de Grandmesnil, who had been the vicomte in Wincestre, and his brother by marriage, Hunfrid de Tilleul, the castellan at H?stinges: some of the most prominent men in that part of England.

‘I didn’t realise there was so much unrest in the south,’ I said. It was only a matter of weeks since we had left Lundene with Lord Robert, and there had been little trouble then. I wondered if these risings were what Malet meant when he had spoken the previous afternoon of bands of Englishmen, of Normans being killed.

‘Even here in Eoferwic there is disquiet,’ Wace said. ‘You can see it in the way the townsmen stare at you when you ride past. They resent us, and they’re no longer afraid to show it.’

‘Only yesterday evening a fight broke out down by the wharves,’ Eudo put in. ‘Some of the castellan’s knights were set upon by a group of Englishmen; I saw it happen from the bridge. It was a complete slaughter. They rode them down, killed half a dozen before the rest ran away.’

For knights to be attacked so openly meant that things were even worse than I had realised. No doubt the townsmen had learnt that a thousand Frenchmen and more had been killed at Dunholm, and now thought that they had less to fear from us. But that could not account for those risings in the south, for it was still only a week since the battle — too soon for them to have heard, and for us to have heard back. News often travelled quickly, but not that quickly.

‘What will you do now?’ I asked them. ‘Now that Lord Robert’s dead, I mean.’

They glanced at each other, and I sensed that they had not given it much consideration. Of course had Robert had a son through lawful union, I would not have needed ask the question, for then we would simply have returned to Commines and sworn our swords to him. But he had fathered only bastards, and though that in itself did not mean they couldn’t inherit, none of them were of an age to take control of his manors, which would now revert to King Guillaume.

‘Probably we’ll try to find a new lord here,’ Wace said. ‘Otherwise we’ll return to Lundene, maybe from there even go back to Normandy.’

‘At any rate,’ Eudo said, ‘we won’t do anything until your leg is healed and you’re well once more.’

I wondered whether I should mention the offer the vicomte had made of taking me into his service, but decided against it. Though he had been generous with his praise, I was not sure that I wanted to remain in Northumbria, given what had happened in recent days. And I did not know if his offer would extend to my comrades as well — certainly he had not mentioned them when he had spoken to me. I would be reluctant to part with them, whom I had known for so long.

‘You know that I’m in your debt,’ I said. ‘If it hadn’t been for you …’

I did not finish the thought, for in truth I didn’t like to think what might have happened. Almost certainly I would not be alive to speak to them now.

‘We only did what we had to do,’ Eudo said. ‘We could hardly have left you there.’

‘Even so,’ I said, ‘I owe you my thanks.’

Wace put a hand on my shoulder. ‘We’re at the alehouse at the top of the street the townsmen call the Kopparigat. Come and find us once your leg is healed.’

‘Once the priest lets you out,’ Eudo added, with a grin.

They left after that, though I was not alone for long, as soon?lfwold came to see me, this time with a fresh poultice to place over my calf. He was pleased, for the irons had worked even better than he had hoped: the cut had closed up completely and there was no sign of any pus. I would forever bear the scar, he told me, but that could not be helped. It would only add to those I already had from battles past: upon my arm, down my side, across my shoulder-blade, although admittedly none of those were as severe as this one.

Later that same day I was visited by a monk. The hair around his tonsure was short and grey, his habit dirtied with mud, and he smelt of cattle dung. He brought with him a glass jar, which he handed to me without a word. I asked him what it was for, but he stared blankly back at me; clearly he did not speak French. But if nothing else he must have understood my puzzlement, for he held one hand down in front of his crotch, extending his forefinger, while with the other he pointed to the jar I was holding.

I tried to sit up, realising what he meant for me to do. My head was still heavy and my limbs weak from the fever, but the monk made no attempt to help me, instead merely gazing out of the window. At last I managed to perch on the edge of the bed, and with my back to the monk, I filled the jar.

He took it once I’d finished, lifting the golden liquid to the light and swirling it about, muttering some words that I did not understand as he examined it. He sniffed at the jar in disdain, and then put the rim to his mouth. I watched in disgust as he sipped at it, and he must have seen my expression for he gave me a quizzical look before walking out, nodding thoughtfully, still muttering to himself.

When the chaplain came to see me that evening, I asked him what the monk had been looking for.

‘If the urine is dark and cloudy,’?lfwold explained, ‘it shows that there is more healing work to be done. But if it appears pale and clear, does not smell stale, and most importantly is sweet upon the tongue, it is a positive sign of good health. Is this not common wisdom where you are from?’

Perhaps it was, though I did not know it. It was not something the infirmarian had ever taught me at the monastery, and, to tell the truth, I was glad for it. But?lfwold wouldn’t allow me to venture out until the monk was satisfied that my waters were sufficiently clear, and so for the next few days I was kept confined to my chamber.

Whenever he could, the chaplain would sit with me and tell me the news from outside, little though there was. He made no mention of any further disturbances in the city, nor anything of the Northumbrians marching south, and I began to wonder if perhaps Malet’s concerns were misplaced. At other times the priest would bring with him a squared board on which to play chess, and also a game like it called t?fl, which I knew the English were fond of, and which he took great pleasure in teaching me. But most of the time I had nothing to do but sit, lost in my own thoughts as I faced the same four walls from morning until night.

As the days passed, however, gradually I recovered my strength, finding my appetite once more. My head began to feel clearer, less heavy, and I found that I was spending less time asleep. By the fifth day since I first woke in that narrow bed my leg had healed enough that I was able to stand, if somewhat unsteadily, and even — with the chaplain’s help — walk about the room. It still gave me trouble, but the priest assured me that the earlier I started to put my weight on it, the faster it would get better. And he was right, for it was but another two days before my piss was finally clear and he judged me well enough to venture out. I couldn’t walk far without stopping to give my leg respite, but simply going beyond the door was a relief; so far I had seen nothing of the world beyond my chamber, not even the rest of Malet’s house.

‘This was once the residence of the Earls of Northumbria,’ the chaplain told me as he led me into the great hall, ‘built in the days when Eoferwic fell under their dominion. No finer palace stands in all of England, save perhaps for that at Westmynstre.’

Indeed it was a place worthy of a vicomte. The hall was easily forty paces in length and perhaps more, with a gallery running around the edge, from which were hung round shields painted in many colours: vermilion and yellow, green and azure. The sun shone in through four high windows, casting wide triangles upon the floor. In the centre stood a table long enough to seat thirty lords, with room for some of their retainers as well, while at the far end was a great stone hearth, over which was set a black cauldron, though it was still too early for the fire to be lit.

I paced about, taking in the sight. Even Lord Robert had not had a hall such as this. The chaplain was right to compare it with Westmynstre, for it could have belonged to the king himself. And perhaps at times kings had sat here, surrounded by their court.

My gaze fell upon an embroidery hanging on the wall, depicting scenes from a battle, though which battle it was meant to be, I could not tell. There were groups of horsemen charging with lances couched under their arms, while facing them was a line of foot-soldiers, their shields raised and spears set. But they were not what most drew my attention, for just beyond them I saw a lone figure standing atop a mound. His sword was raised in front of him, pointing towards the sky; to either side, strewn across the hillock, were the corpses of a dozen mailed men. I had never seen needlework so fine, nor images so detailed as these.

And then above the knight’s head I noticed, stitched in rounded, uneven letters, a legend in Latin: ‘HIC MILES INVICTUS SUPERBE STAT’. It was a long time since I had last been at my studies: since I had last felt Brother Raimond’s hand striking my cheek for forgetting my declensions or mistranslating a passage. But the aged librarian was not watching over me now, and in any case it was not a difficult sentence.

‘“Here stands proudly the undefeated knight”,’ I murmured. I traced my fingers across the raised forms of the letters, wondering how long it would have taken to stitch even that one sentence; how many months had been spent in all upon this embroidery; how many nuns must have laboured together with needle and thread. Malet was wealthy indeed if he could afford such a piece.

‘You know your letters,’ said?lfwold, with some surprise. Few men of the sword were able to read or write. Neither Eudo nor Wace could; in fact of all the knights in Lord Robert’s household it was possible that I was the only literate one.

‘As a child I spent some years in a monastery,’ I replied. ‘That was before I left and joined Lord Robert.’

‘How old were you when you left?’

I hesitated. I had told few people anything about my time in the monastery at Dinant; the only ones who knew were those who were closest to me. They had not been the happiest of years, all told, and I did not much like to think of them. Yet even so, they had probably been happier times than these were now.

‘The summer when I fled was my fourteenth,’ I said quietly.

‘You fled?’

I turned away, back towards the image of the knight. Already I had said more than I had meant to.

‘Forgive me,’?lfwold said. ‘I do not mean to pry. It is none of my concern, I am sure. Though I do not blame you, for I have never much liked monasteries, still less monks themselves. I have always considered it better to spread God’s message in the world, rather than to while away one’s days in cloistered contemplation. One can so easily become lost in one’s own mind, and so fail to see the glory around us. It’s why I chose to become a priest rather than take the vows, all those years ago-’

‘Father?lfwold!’

The voice carried sharp and clear across the hall. I looked up to see a young woman stepping lightly towards us. She wore a winter cloak trimmed with fur over a blue woollen dress. Her head was covered by a wimple, but a few strands of hair trailed loose from beneath it, like threads of spun gold.

‘Father?lfwold,’ she said, in an even, mannered voice. ‘It’s good to see you.’

The chaplain smiled. ‘And you, my lady. You are going out, or have already been?’

‘I’ve just returned from the market.’ She looked at me then, as if I had only just appeared and she was noticing me for the first time. ‘Who is this?’

She had delicate features, coupled with pale cheeks and large eyes that glistened in the light, and I guessed that she was not much older than twenty summers, and probably even younger than that. In truth I often found it difficult to judge: when I had first seen Oswynn, I had thought her older than she was; there had been a wildness about her that made her seem beyond her years. It was only much later that I learnt she had but sixteen summers behind her, although it made little difference to me, for I had already found out she was experienced.

‘My name is Tancred a Dinant, my lady,’ I said. ‘Once knight of Earl Robert de Commines.’

‘He is presently under my care,’?lfwold explained. ‘He was at the battle at Dunholm, where he took an injury to his leg. Your father is giving him shelter until he recovers.’

‘I see,’ she said, though I was not entirely sure that she did, for she seemed to be taking little interest in what he was saying. Instead she was looking me up and down in the same disinterested manner as one might appraise a horse, until at last her eyes, tawny-brown, met mine, and then I thought I saw a flicker of a smile cross her face.

She was, it had to be said, attractive. Not in the obvious ways, perhaps, for she had less meat on her than I usually considered desirable in a woman, but attractive nonetheless: slender, with a narrow waist and full hips.

Her gaze lingered upon me a moment longer before she turned back to the priest. ‘Is my father about?’ she asked.

And then I understood: this was Malet’s daughter. I ought to have realised it sooner, firstly from the rich manner in which she was dressed, and also from the way the chaplain had addressed her.

‘I’m afraid he isn’t,’?lfwold said. ‘He has gone to meet with the archbishop at the minster. So far as I know he means to be back by noon.’

‘Very well,’ she said, withdrawing a couple of steps. ‘I’ll seek him out when he returns.’ She glanced once more at each of us, then without another word she hustled away, lifting her skirts so that they did not drag through the dirty rushes, though not so much that she risked baring any skin.

‘She’s the vicomte’s daughter?’ I asked as I watched her depart.

‘Beatrice Malet,’ the chaplain said in an admonishing tone. ‘And you would be wise not to ask any further of her.’ He frowned, and I saw there was a warning aspect to his gaze.

I felt the heat rise up my cheeks, and began to protest: ‘Father-’

‘I’ve seen that look before,’ he said, and he kept his voice low. ‘You wouldn’t be the first to take an interest in her.’

I stared back at him, offended that he should even suggest such a thing. That Beatrice was pleasing to the eye could not be denied, but that was true of so many women. And in any case, compared to Oswynn she was altogether plain. Oswynn, with her hair loose and unkempt, black as the night itself. Oswynn, who had travelled with me everywhere, who had been afraid of nothing and no one. Often in the last few days I had found myself thinking of our time together, short though it had been. Hardly six months had passed since we had met for the first time under the summer sun, and now, in the silence and the stillness of winter, she lay dead.

‘Come,’ the priest said with a sigh as he made for the door at the end of the hall. ‘It is already forgotten. There’s still much I have to show you.’

He led me outside to the courtyard, where the sun was high and bright, though there were dark clouds gathering in the north, and I guessed there was rain to come. Chill air rushed over me and I breathed deeply of it, drinking it in as if it were ale, until I could feel it reaching my head. I had not been out of doors in so long that I had almost forgotten what it was like. Indeed it was as if everything had become new to me again, and at the same time somehow more real: the smell of smoke wafting upon the breeze; the songs of thrushes perched atop the thatch. Things that before I would scarcely have noticed, but of which I was suddenly now aware.

A banner fluttered from the gable of the hall, divided into alternate stripes of black and yellow, with gold threads woven into the latter so that it caught the light. Malet’s colours, I presumed.

The hall and yard were ringed by earth ramparts and a high palisade, and beyond them lay the city of Eoferwic: rows upon rows of thatched rooftops, with only the minster church and the mound and timber tower of the castle rising above them. To the south, sparkling beneath the late-morning sun, ran the river. A few ships were out, their sails filled as they skimmed high over the waters. Most of them looked like simple fishermen’s boats, but one stood out. Larger than the rest, she had a narrow beam and high sides which came to a sharp point at the prow. She was a longship, built for speed, for war. To whom she belonged, though, I could not tell, for her mast and sail had been taken down. A slow, regular drumbeat carried across the waters, signalling every stroke, keeping the oarsmen in time.

‘Follow me,’?lfwold said. ‘You must see the chapel.’

I glanced towards him as he began making his way towards the stone building across the yard. In truth, though, I was not paying him much attention, for it seemed that there was some commotion near the gates. One group of men had lifted the bar that held them in place, while others were rushing now to open them.

The blast of a war-horn rang out, and then the gates swung open and a conroi of horsemen rode hard into the courtyard, two abreast, hooves thundering, each rider mailed and helmeted. Their lord or captain rode in front, carrying a pennon on his lance, though I did not recognise the design, which comprised four segments in blue and green.

‘Whose men are they?’ I asked?lfwold, who had turned back and now stood beside me, his brow furrowed as he looked on in concern.

‘They’re the castellan’s,’ he said. ‘But they’re back early. He was supposed to be leading them on a scouting expedition north of the city this morning.’ He began to walk faster, and I followed behind as quickly as I could, wincing at each and every step.

Already a full score of knights had passed through the gates, and still more were following. Around them a crowd was beginning to form, of servants, kitchen-girls and stable-hands.

‘Where is Malet?’ the one with the pennon roared at them as he untied his chin-strap, letting his helmet fall to the ground. ‘Find me the vicomte now!’

‘What’s happened?’ the chaplain asked. ‘Is Lord Richard with you?’

The knight turned to look down at?lfwold, and all of a sudden his expression instantly turned to anger. ‘It was your kind who did this, Englishman!’

He levelled his lance at the priest’s throat, just above the green stone that hung around his neck.?lfwold stepped back slowly, his face going pale. The knight followed him, keeping the point of his weapon steady at the priest’s neck. ‘Tell me why I should spare your life,’ he said, half choking, as his cheeks streamed with tears. ‘Tell me!’

‘Because he is a priest,’ I called out as I drew my knife and rushed to?lfwold’s side. ‘You kill him and your soul will be damned for ever.’

‘He’s one of them!’ The knight spoke through gritted teeth, the lance quivering in his hand, and I thought that he was about to strike, but then the tears overcame him. His fingers loosened and the lance fell to the ground, into a puddle. The blue-and-green cloth lay crumpled and wet.

A shout came from close by the gates, quickly followed by a cry from one of the kitchen-girls. I looked up, and then I saw the last two men to have arrived. They were bearing a body between them. It took me but a moment to realise whose it was.

Beside me the chaplain made the sign of the cross. He was still white in colour: not yet recovered, it seemed, from his fright. He closed his eyes, uttering a prayer in Latin.

First it had been Robert, murdered at Dunholm. Now too the castellan of Eoferwic, Lord Richard, lay dead.