The Splintered Kingdom

Twenty-one

I awoke with the sharp taste of blood in my mouth. My lips were parched and a dull ache pounded inside my skull. I was on the ground, lying on my side; my mail, helmet and shield were all gone, and even my shirt and shoes had been taken from me, so that I was dressed in only my braies. Stones dug into my side and I tried to raise myself up, but my hands and feet were bound tightly with rough rope that chafed and dug into my wrists and ankles, and I could not move them.

For a moment I lay confused, trying to take in my surroundings, or as much as I could see of them at least. Horses, some dozen or more, saddled for riding but hobbled to keep them from wandering far, by the edge of a copse or wood. A banner in pale yellow, with a blue lion emblem that I dimly recognised, though recalling to whom it belonged was like wading through mud, for my mind was still hazy.

Voices, speaking in what sounded like both English and Welsh, drifted on the faint breeze. I rolled over on to my other side and straightaway found myself staring into cold blue eyes. A man crouched beside me, watching me. His hair, like his moustache, was red and his face was pock-ridden and marked with scars where the flesh had not properly healed. His black-crested helm lay on the ground beside him.

And then I remembered.

‘You are awake.’ He spoke in French, with a heavy accent, though not so heavy as to be unintelligible.

My throat was dry and no words would come.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

‘Bleddyn,’ I managed to utter. A violent cough gripped my chest. ‘Bleddyn ap Cynfyn. The one they call King of Gwynedd.’

In his hand he clutched a leather thong on which was attached a bronze pendant that I recognised in an instant. Only then did I realise that my neck was bare. As well as the toe-bone of St Ignatius he had also taken my silver cross: the same one that had hung there for more years than I could remember, that I often kissed before battle, that had helped see me safely through countless struggles.

‘A fine object,’ Bleddyn said as he examined the pendant, opening it up and squinting at the writing on the strip of parchment within. Either his eyesight was not the best or else the elaborate script defeated him; he quickly shut it again and fastened the thong around his neck. ‘Alas your blessed saint seems to have forsaken you, Tancred.’

I swallowed to try to ease my throat. ‘How do you know my name?’

He smiled, allowing me a glimpse of his ivory-white teeth. ‘Who hasn’t heard of the great Tancred a Dinant, he of the hawk banner? I know many things about you, not least that you were there in the battle when my brother was murdered.’

Once more it seemed my reputation went before me. Gradually everything was returning to me. The path through the woods; how we’d had to turn back. The attack. If only we hadn’t strayed from the road, or instead had taken the longer route east by way of Deorbi. If only Robert hadn’t been so pig-headed, then perhaps I wouldn’t be here.

‘What about the others?’ I asked, at the same time wanting and not wanting to know the answer. ‘Are they dead?’

He hesitated as if unsure what to say, and I took that to mean that they had got away. If there was any relief to be had, I supposed that was it, so long as they were unharmed and they managed to reach Eoferwic safely.

‘We have what we came seeking, and that is all that matters,’ Bleddyn said. ‘Indeed I should thank you for making it so easy for us.’

‘Easy?’

‘We’d been following you since you left Amwythic, the place you call Scrobbesburh. When you pursued that trail into those woods, we knew God was with us.’

This had been no mere ill fortune, then, no chance encounter. That dust-cloud we had spotted must have belonged to their scouts. And we had gifted them the perfect opportunity to waylay us.

‘You were following us?’ I asked. They must have been informed that we would be passing this way. And I knew who was responsible. ‘This was Berengar’s doing, wasn’t it? Somehow he got word to you. He betrayed us.’

‘I do not know the man’s name,’ said Bleddyn.

To my ears that was as good as an admission. In the space of two days Berengar had first tried to kill me, and having failed at that he had then sold me to the enemy, probably for a handsome amount of silver. And not just me either, but Lord Robert and Beatrice too. I’d known he could be cold-hearted and vindictive, but never had I thought he would turn traitor. But if he’d hoped the enemy would do what he had been unable to, he had reckoned wrongly. For here I was still. Alive.

‘You could have killed me,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you?’

Bleddyn laughed. ‘A corpse is worth nothing to us. Eadric wishes you alive so that he can take you north to the one he calls king. The?theling will not pay otherwise.’

‘The?theling?’ And then I remembered the reward of gold and silver he had offered for the man who brought me to him. Byrhtwald had told me when he last came to the manor; it could only have been a few weeks ago and yet with everything that had taken place since, it seemed like a distant dream. As did Earnford itself: a dream that was receding further and further with every passing day.

‘He has sent word to say that already he is marching,’ Bleddyn said as he rose. ‘He will look forward to meeting you, I’m sure. I know that Eadric is.’

With that he left me, barking orders to his countrymen. Someone came to unbind my ankles, but I had no time to enjoy my legs’ newfound freedom as a spear-haft was jabbed hard into my ribs.

‘Kyuoda ti,’ said a burly Welshman reeking of piss, and I guessed that he wanted me to get up.

Still dazed and not feeling entirely steady, I rose to my knees, where I paused. The bonds around my ankles had been tied tightly; my feet were still tingling and stabbing with what felt like tiny pinpricks as the blood returned to them, and I wasn’t sure that they would support me if I put any weight on them.

‘Kyuoda ti,’ the man repeated, landing a sharp strike across my back. I winced and stifled a grunt. Deciding that it was better to show willing than to resist, I tried to get to my feet, stumbling at first but eventually managing.

No sooner had I done so than the spear-haft was once more thrust in my back. I took that as a sign to start walking, to God alone knew what fate.

We marched throughout the rest of that day, heading towards the west. From time to time Bleddyn’s men would goad me, hurling pebbles at my exposed back, while a few attempted curses in what smattering of French they possessed. I did my best to bear it all, gritting my teeth at every sting of pain, concentrating only on putting one foot before the other. My shoulders were burning beneath the sun, my brow was running with sweat and the back of my head still ached where I’d been struck.

It was long past dark by the time our journey came to an end at a small village with crumbling houses and a great hall that to my eyes more resembled a barn, and one that had seen better years at that. Others had arrived before us; to judge by the number of fires and tents, this was a sizeable marching-camp. How many miles we had travelled I couldn’t tell, but we were probably not too far from the dyke. For a while I’d held out the slender hope that Robert and the others would return for me: a hope that was steadily dwindling. Not that I blamed him if he didn’t. Whereas there had to be several hundred men here, we had ridden from Scrobbesburh’s gates with fewer than fifty, of whom half now lay dead, their bodies stripped of everything that was of value and forgotten by all but the carrion beasts. If Robert had any sense, then, he wouldn’t try to come after me. Whatever responsibility he had to me as his vassal, the duty of protection he had towards Beatrice was greater.

One guard on each flank, I was led through the camp. Welshmen and Englishmen alike jeered as I passed, recognising me for a hostage. Some spat at me and others threw clods of earth, though any who tried to come too close were driven away. While he had let his household warriors have their fun earlier, Bleddyn obviously did not want to see me too badly injured before I was delivered to Wild Eadric.

They took me to the hall, halting outside by the entrance to what at one time must have been a wine cellar. While one of my guards forced me to my knees on the damp ground, the other produced a key from a ring at his belt and opened up the trapdoor. Then, hauling me up by the arms, they threw me in. My hands were still tied behind my back, preventing me from breaking my fall. Their laughter rang in my ears as I tumbled down the hard stone steps, eventually landing with a splash in a cold puddle at the bottom. Swearing loudly, I tried to stand, but after so many hours of marching without food or water my feet were clumsy, and before I could do anything the trapdoor came down, shutting out what little light there had been, leaving me in darkness. Outside I could still hear the guards muttering to one another, their voices growing ever fainter as they moved away, until eventually I could hear them no more. I was alone.

Or so I thought. But then I heard what sounded like a low groan, coming from behind me.

‘Is there someone there?’ I called into the darkness. It was as black as pitch down here and I could see nothing, not even the walls or the ceiling or the floor beneath me. For all I knew this chamber could have been five paces across or five hundred. Somewhere, water fell in a steady drip-drip, but otherwise all I could hear was my own heart beating. As I listened more closely, however, I began to make out what sounded like breathing, faint but laboured, like a rasp being drawn slowly over coarse timber. A man rather than a woman, I thought, and plainly in some discomfort.

‘Are you all right?’ I called into the darkness.

He groaned again and then gave a great hacking cough. ‘Who’s there?’

Clearly his captors hadn’t shown him the same level of kindness that mine had. Deciding it could do no harm, I gave him my name.

‘Tancred? Is that truly you, lord?’

That was when I recognised his voice. ‘Byrhtwald?’

‘Yes, lord,’ he said weakly. ‘It’s me.’

‘What are you doing here?’

The Englishman did not answer at first, for at that moment he began to whimper. Not great heaving wails of agony but muffled, wretched sobs. Raising myself to my knees, I made my way in his direction, edging my way across the sodden floor towards him, wishing that my guards had freed my wrists or at least bound them in front of me rather than behind, so that I could feel where I was going. The air was filled with an overbearing putrid odour that made me think an animal had died down here, or possibly more than one.

‘They caught you,’ he said between sobs. His breath came in stutters. ‘Forgive me, lord. I did not mean for this to happen, for you to end up here. I would never of my own will betray you, I swear-’

‘Betray me?’ I asked. ‘What do you mean? What happened, Byrhtwald?’

It took a while before he could recover his composure enough to tell me, and even then events did not come out in their proper order, but gradually from what he said I was able to piece together the story of what had happened. A Welsh scouting-party had intercepted him soon after he’d left Scrobbesburh. Recognising him for a pedlar and one who dealt in secrets, they’d taken him captive, brought him to Bleddyn and forced him to tell everything he knew: the condition of the walls and the gatehouses; how well provisioned was the castle; what the mood was within our camp; how many men we had to defend the town; how many Earl Hugues had taken with him; the names of all the nobles who were left and who still supported Fitz Osbern. How long they had questioned him he could not say, but at some point he had let it slip that Robert Malet and I were planning to leave for Eoferwic the following day. Which was how Bleddyn came to be following us, and how I had ended up here.

‘Forgive me, lord,’ the Englishman said again. ‘They kept beating me until I had nothing more to give. I never meant for this to happen. It is all my fault, all my fault. .’

While he wept I sat in silence, cold and still, my eyes closed as a numb feeling spread through my body, working its way through my limbs and into my very bones. In a way I would have preferred it had my first suspicions been right and Berengar were the one responsible. To be betrayed by a hated rival was one thing, but to be given away by one I considered my friend was a far harder thing to swallow. Still, it would have been easy to lose my temper, to curse the Englishman and say that he shouldn’t have let himself fall into their hands. But what was the use in that? Nothing could undo what had already been done. We were here in this dank shit-hole, and somehow I had to think of a way that we might escape. That was all that mattered. Otherwise I would soon meet my fate at the hands of the man I had once sworn to kill. The same man who had murdered my lord and whose face had haunted my dreams for a year and more. I had no desire to see that happen.

Nor, if I were being truthful, could I lay any blame upon Byrhtwald for talking. A man will say and do anything if it means he might keep his life, and what he had suffered at their hands I couldn’t begin to imagine. Never in the short while I’d known him had he given anything away cheaply, whether goods or knowledge. To have got so much from him they must have worked him hard.

How long it was before either of us spoke again, I had no way of knowing. It might have been as much as an hour, and possibly more.

In the end it was Byrhtwald who broke the silence. ‘If only I hadn’t sold you that pendant. Perhaps if I hadn’t done that, the saint’s favour would still shine upon me and none of this would have happened.’ He gave a hollow laugh that quickly descended into a choke. ‘Do you still have it, lord?’

‘They took it from me,’ I said bitterly. ‘Bleddyn has it now, for all the good it will do him. St Ignatius never helped me.’

When I most needed his protection, where had he been?

The pedlar was quiet for a moment before saying, ‘I might as well tell you now, lord. Perhaps I should have spoken of it earlier, but I was ashamed. .’

‘Tell me what?’

‘My other sin. Those were never any sacred relics. What I sold you was nothing more than pig’s bone, the protection not of a saint but of an old sow. For that misdeed God now punishes me, by delivering me to my enemies.’

Pig’s bone. I’d long suspected the truth would be something like that, and still I’d fallen for the lie. Such a fool I had been. Yet even in the darkness, in the cold and the damp and the putrid stink that surrounded us, I laughed.

After a while spent feeling my way on my knees I found a patch of floor next to one of the walls that was a little firmer and drier, wide enough that a man could lie down. There I rested, or tried to at least. Every so often Byrhtwald would erupt into a series of coughs, waking me, and each time he sounded worse.

Eventually tiredness must have caught up with me, for I fell into a deep and dreamful sleep, finding myself back in the monastery at Dinant where I had spent so much of my youth, although somehow it was a different place to the one I had fled. A thick fog had settled everywhere, lending everything a grey and ghostly appearance. The ancient oak tree had gone and the walls were higher and somehow more forbidding, the cloister filled with looming shadows that, when I got closer, turned into the dark habits of monks, who gathered around, their cold gazes passing judgment upon me as if I were guilty of something, though what that might be I struggled to recall. I turned, hoping to escape, only to find the prior standing over me. In his hands he held a rod of birch.

‘For leaving us,’ he said. ‘For shirking your duties and turning your back upon the Lord our God.’

I wanted to protest, to tell him I had shirked no duties, that although the contemplative life was not for me, I had always remained a loyal servant of God. For some reason the words would not form and my tongue lay as if frozen in my head. The prior’s face was dark and drawn, lined with the marks of old age. From thin lips were issued two words, which he repeated over and over like an incantation while he lifted the rod: Deus vult. God wills it. Gradually the same chant was taken up by the rest of the brothers, whispered at first but steadily growing louder as they pressed so close that I could not move, until the words were ringing in my ears-

I woke to the sound of voices and the creak of hinges as the trapdoor opened. Daylight flooded in, so bright after hours spent in full darkness that I had to squint and raise a hand to shield my eyes while they adjusted. I was still trying to remember where this place was and how I had come to be here when men descended the steps. I was hauled to my feet once more and dragged, blinking, out into the open. Behind me I could hear Byrhtwald spluttering as they struggled to lift his limp form up the steps.

‘He needs water,’ I said to the guards flanking me. ‘Have some mercy; let him drink.’

Either they didn’t understand me, or they chose to ignore me. The pedlar looked worse than I had ever seen him. They had taken everything from him save for his braies, which were soaked through and marked with brown stains that were either mud or his own shit. Countless bruises and weals decorated his back and chest. He could barely stand without aid, but hunched forward like a man many years older, in danger it seemed of collapsing at any moment.

They led us to what I supposed had once been the stable-yard behind the hall, except that the buildings had long since fallen into disrepair and everything was overgrown with nettles and thistles. Half a dozen horsemen awaited us, with spears that carried pennons in the pale yellow and blue of the house of Cynfyn. There the guards made Byrhtwald get down on his knees, while one of the horsemen, a bald-headed man of solid build, dismounted. Handing his spear to a retainer, he drew a long sword with polished blade and gleaming edge.

And suddenly I understood why we were here.

‘No,’ I said, struggling against my captors, but their hands were firm upon my shoulders, holding me back. Hunger and thirst had weakened me and I was helpless to act. ‘You can’t do this!’

‘He is of no more use to us,’ said the one with the sword. ‘Now his life is forfeit.’

Byrhtwald looked up at me. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and I saw the great sadness that lay behind them. Like the bravest of warriors he was doing his best to hold his nerve and show courage in the face of death, but he trembled nonetheless.

‘Remember me, lord,’ he said.

The tears were in my eyes as they were in his. I had witnessed the blow that killed Turold and seen the twins Snocca and Cnebba cut down before my eyes. All three I had known well, far better than the pedlar, and yet for some reason the knowledge of what was about to happen troubled me much more than had any of their deaths.

They forced him to bow his head, exposing the back of his neck. The bald man stepped forward, laying the flat of the steel upon it before raising the weapon high. Eyes closed and taking deep breaths, Byrhtwald first muttered a prayer in his own tongue that I could not make out, before reciting the familiar words of the Paternoster.

‘Et ne nos inducas in tentationem,’ he said, drawing the words out as he realised that with each one he spoke his end grew nearer, ‘sed libera nos a malo.’ Behind his back his fists clenched and he let out one final sigh. ‘Amen.’

No sooner had he finished speaking than the blade came down.

It took three blows to remove Byrhtwald’s head from his shoulders. Either the man who did it was unused to wielding a sword or else he was unskilled in such killings. The first stroke missed and sliced into the Englishman’s shoulder instead, causing him to pitch forward, screaming in agony. As he writhed on the ground, his hands clutching the place where he had been wounded, the blade struck again. This time it did find his neck, in an instant slicing through his throat and his spine. That was the stroke that killed him, though it needed one more to sever the head entirely.

Thus it was done, and Byrhtwald my friend was gone.

‘He was nothing to you,’ I yelled at the Welshmen, spitting in the direction of the one who had killed him. ‘He was nothing to you. He didn’t have to die!’

But dead he was. With bloody fingers, the swordsman held Byrhtwald’s head up by the hair, displaying it proudly for all to see, before with a roar and a chorus of laughter and cheers from his comrades he hurled it over the walls of the yard.

And as he wiped the sword on a patch of grass, I recognised the smoke-like pattern of the steel and the two blood-red stones embedded in the hilt, and saw that it was my own blade that had spilt his blood, that had taken his life.

From the position of the sun I reckoned our route took us once more west and south, and that reckoning was proven right when later that day we crossed the dyke. Back into Wales, as if I hadn’t already seen enough of this godforsaken country.

Bleddyn and his raiding-band did not ride with us. Where they were headed I was not sure, though I could make a guess: Scrobbesburh. Instead I was escorted by the same six horsemen who had been at Byrhtwald’s killing.

‘Are you taking me to Eadric?’ I asked them some time later, when that place was long behind us.

‘Eadric?’ snorted the bald-headed one, whose name I had learnt was Dyfnwal. From the way he had assumed charge I guessed he must be their leader. ‘If he wants you, he’ll have to come and fetch you. And when he does he’d better bring with him a cart full of silver. He’s a fool if he thinks he’s getting you for nothing.’

This raised a snigger amongst the others.

‘Where are we going, then?’

But Dyfnwal had grown tired of my questions, and the only answer I got was the customary nudge between the shoulder-blades: the sign to shut up and keep moving. I was confused, since from what I had heard Eadric and the Welsh were firmly aligned, their alliance founded upon a common cause and cemented with mutual oaths. Perhaps their ties were looser than any of us had suspected. Certainly the way that these men spoke of Eadric suggested they had little liking for him.

Nor did Dyfnwal provide any more answers over the hours that followed. They did at least give me a small amount of bread and ale. In truth it did little to sate my hunger but it was better than nothing at all, and I accepted what was offered without complaint.

We marched on for the better part of two days, across valleys and over thickly wooded hills, never seeing another soul. They had not returned my shoes, which were probably on the feet of some other man by now. My ankles were nettle-stung, my bare soles swollen, in places cut and beginning to bleed, so that with every step came a fresh jolt of pain. I was beginning to wonder how much further we had to travel when I realised that I recognised the shape of these gently sloping hills, that I knew where we were.

And then as we crested one of those hills, in the distance I saw the place they were taking me to: a powerful stronghold ringed with high ramparts, along the top of which ran a sturdy stockade. The river lay on one side and it was girded on its other three flanks by a wide moat. As we grew closer I saw heads mounted on spears above the gatehouse: heads of what from their short hair and clean-shaven faces could only be Frenchmen. Nailed to the timbers were the tattered, blood-stained remains of the serpent flag that had once belonged to the brothers Maredudd and Ithel. Not so long ago they had dreamed of assaulting this fort, the ancient home of the men who had stolen their birthright, of claiming it for themselves and seeing that banner soar proudly in this valley. But no longer. And now I had returned, not at the head of an army but as a prisoner.

To Mathrafal.