The Splintered Kingdom

Three

Nothing more was heard or seen of the Welsh in the days that followed. Each morning?dda and I saddled horses and headed off into the country about Earnford, searching for signs of them: for burnt-out campfires, or tracks where a scouting-band might have passed, or anything else that would have suggested they had been roaming nearby. What I planned to do if we ever found anything I didn’t know, but at the very least it made me feel as though I was making myself useful.

Even after a year I hadn’t grown entirely comfortable with the duties that came with being a lord, as Father Erchembald knew well. I was much happier in the saddle, with my scabbard and knife-sheath buckled to my belt and my shield resting upon my back. It was how I had spent most of the past thirteen years, and it was how I meant to spend the next thirteen at least. Some lords, once they had acquired manors and wealth and servants and retainers, forgot how to wield a blade or lead the charge. Instead they grew fat on rich food and ale, barely leaving their halls or seeing anything of the world beyond the bounds of their estates. I was determined not to follow that path, and that was why, day after day, I rose at the break of dawn, donned my helmet and jerkin of leather, and rode out into the wilds.

Yet for all the time we spent scouring those same hills, those same woods, we never saw any sign of the enemy. Clearly Rhiwallon, their so-called king, must have thought the better of sending another expedition against us. Perhaps by now he’d heard the tale of how I had dealt with the last raiding-band, or perhaps not. Either way, he had made the right choice, for I’d resolved that the next time he thought to threaten my manor, I would not be so forgiving. Next time I would not leave even one man alive. I told?dda as much as we were riding back from one of our morning expeditions.

‘And if you’re not here, lord, what then?’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, frowning, for it seemed to me there was a barb hidden in his words.

‘When you and your men are called away to serve your king, to join his wars, who will defend us?’

In the years since the invasion I had grown to trust few Englishmen.?dda was one of those that I had taken a liking to, and I confess that I was taken aback by his tone. The stableman was a solemn and private character who rarely showed much cheer, but this was the first time I could remember that he had challenged me so openly.

He was around ten years older than me, I reckoned, though he had long since lost count. His skin was weathered from many seasons spent in the sun, the wind and the rain, and he had the look of one who had witnessed many hardships. In fact he might once have been a warrior, for while he was not especially tall he was ideally built for the shield-wall, with broad shoulders and powerful forearms that I imagined could once have sent many foemen to their graves.

‘You could defend them,’ I said. From the little I had seen, he was a capable fighter, if not an exceptional one. He was at ease in armour and helmet, and proficient, too, with both the spear and the long style of knife called the seax that the English favoured, which was more than most men could claim.

‘You would abandon us,’?dda said.

I bridled at his directness, but managed to hold my temper and instead cast him a warning glare. ‘If the summons comes for me to fight, then I have no choice but to go. You know that.’

His one good eye bored into me defiantly, but I held his gaze and eventually he turned away.

‘You fought well the other day,’ I said, and again I spoke honestly. He had killed more than his share of Welshmen that evening. ‘If it came to it, the villagers would follow you.’

Indeed he commanded a strange sort of respect among the peasants of Earnford, partly on account of his missing eye and disfigured face, which seemed to intrigue and intimidate them in equal measure. But he was also single-minded and forever had an air of determination about him that inspired confidence, much as they feared him.

‘They would not follow a cripple,’?dda said. ‘They scorn me.’

‘They would if I told them to. Who else could lead them as well as you?’

The Englishman gave a snort of derision. ‘Those days are behind me, lord.’

I regarded him for a moment, wondering what he meant. If he had led men into battle before, it was the first he had told me about it, though it would not surprise me if he had. Perhaps that was how he had come to lose his eye, too; so far as I knew he had never let the whole story be known, and no one had ever dared to ask. Nor was I to find out then, either, since he did not speak after that, but instead spent every mile of the journey back home in silence, as if he had already told me too much.

For the first time in a while, then, life in Earnford began to return to something like normal, until the memory of the Welsh raids seemed as distant as a dream. The villagers took care of their animals and tended their crops, which were growing taller by the week; it would not be all that long until the harvest. A week before midsummer, a pedlar came by way of the bumpy tracks from Leomynster and Hereford. With him he brought his tired, grey mule and a shaky cart decorated with streamers of cloth in scarlet and green. As usual it came laden with more than it seemed it should be able to bear: timber planks, fishhooks, iron cooking-pots, flasks of oil, stout candles and other useful things, as well as jars of honey and spices, casks of wine, pots of ointment and herbs and other remedies, which he said would cure all manner of complaints.

The pedlar’s name was Byrhtwald and he was well known both to me and to the people of Earnford, for he had visited the manor many times in the past year. As well as the various goods he brought on his cart and in his pack, he often carried smaller trinkets on his person, among which this time was a bronze pendant inlaid with a golden cross, which hung by a leather thong around his neck.

‘This?’ he said, when I asked him what it was. He looped the string over his head and held it out to me. ‘I bought it some years ago from a Flemish merchant who acquired it on pilgrimage in the Holy Land. I like to think it has given me protection on my many travels.’

Carefully I undid the catch and opened the two halves of the pendant. Into my palm fell a bundle of cloth little larger than an acorn, with some kind of hard object inside. A thin strip of parchment was attached to the cloth, which was finely woven and might even have been silk, and on it in tiny letters something had been written, though the script was difficult to read.

The question had just formed in my mind when Byrhtwald answered it: ‘The toe-bone of St Ignatius.’

I had no idea who that was or when he had lived, so I sent one of my servants to find Father Erchembald, who had more knowledge on such matters.

‘Bishop Ignatius of Antioch,’ he murmured to me when the relic-bundle was shown to him. Awe-stricken, he turned it over slowly in his hand, squinting at the tiny writing. ‘He was blessed as a child by Christ, and later martyred by the pagan emperor of Rome, who had him fed to lions, as I recall. He was among the holiest of holy men.’ He eyed Byrhtwald closely. ‘How much do you want for it?’

‘Surely you’re not asking me to part with so treasured a possession?’ the pedlar asked. ‘I have borne St Ignatius with me everywhere I go for seven years and more.’

‘Spare us,’ I said. He wouldn’t have allowed myself or the priest to examine it so closely if he had no intention of selling it. Nor had I seen him wearing the pendant in all the times he had come to Earnford before now, which suggested, despite his story about the Flemish merchant, that it had come into his possession recently. ‘How much?’

‘Two pounds of silver are all I ask for.’

‘Two whole pounds?’ I repeated. A good riding horse would cost as much, and in fact probably less. ‘For all I know this could be nothing but a sheep-bone.’

Byrhtwald looked affronted. ‘Have I ever cheated you before, lord?’

That was no answer, and both of us knew it. But I supposed he had been honest in all the dealings I’d had with him thus far, and so perhaps he spoke truthfully this time as well. I turned away to confer again with the priest.

‘Tancred,’ said Erchembald, keeping his voice low in an effort to contain his obvious excitement, ‘a relic this ancient would have tremendous power. And to think that the saint was touched by Christ Himself.’ He paused. ‘Our friend might not know how much this is truly worth.’

I had to suppress a laugh. ‘I’ll wager he knows exactly what it’s worth.’ Although if Byrhtwald were sincere about its provenance, then the protection such an object would lend whoever possessed it would be more than worth the cost.

I opened the coin-purse which hung from my belt. ‘I’ll give you half a pound,’ I said to the trader.

‘Half a pound? You would rob me and let me and my poor wife and children starve!’

‘The last time we met, you told me your wife was dead.’

His cheeks turned red. ‘She recovered,’ he mumbled.

‘She recovered?’

‘Thanks to St Ignatius!’ he said, and looked pleased with himself for having thought of this answer. ‘It turned out she had only fallen into the deepest of sleeps, brought on by her ravaging illness. All of us thought her dead, but on the day that she was to be buried she miraculously awoke, thanks to the blessed saint’s favour.’

That he was lying was clear, but exactly which parts of his tale were false and which were true I could not say. Still, I admired his nerve and his quick mind. As always I found myself entertained by him, even as he frustrated me.

‘Two-thirds,’ I said. ‘No more.’

He hesitated as if considering, and then smiled, holding up his hands to show that I had beaten him. ‘Two-thirds,’ he conceded. ‘Provided that I can have a bed in your hall tonight, a warm meal and a flagon of your best ale.’

That seemed only fair, and so we settled it, weighing up the amount both on his scales and on the ones kept by the priest in his house until we could agree on the correct measure. Thus the toe-bone of the martyr St Ignatius belonged to me. If Byrhtwald had got less than he had hoped for, he did not seem overly disappointed. He tore into that evening’s meal and drank until he could barely stand. At the same time Father Erchembald remained convinced that we had secured a good price, and so everyone was happy.

As well as his wares, Byrhtwald often brought news of happenings elsewhere in the kingdom, and so far as I could tell he was usually reliable. He shared what knowledge he had the following morning while we broke our fast. Considering how much ale had vanished down his throat the night before, he seemed little the worse for wear. Certainly his appetite hadn’t diminished; the way he stuffed the bread into his mouth, one would have thought he hadn’t eaten in days.

‘They say’, he said in between mouthfuls, ‘that Wild Eadric is once more on the warpath.’

He looked at me meaningfully, as if expecting me to know who that was, and then took a gulp of goat’s milk from his cup. That was the first I had heard of any man of that name.

‘Who is he?’ I asked.

Byrhtwald spluttered. ‘You’ve never heard of him?’ White droplets dribbled down his chin, running into his beard. ‘Eadric, whom they call se wilda, the Wild One?’

‘Should I have?’

‘He was one of the leading English thegns who held land in these parts under the old king. A formidable man and a vengeful one too, or so I’m told by those who have met him; I’ve never had the pleasure myself. He raised an army in rebellion against King Guillaume three years ago, led his men along the March south of here, ravaging much of the country before he was met in battle at the crossing-point at Hereford and driven into exile.’

That would have been the year one thousand and sixty-seven: the first after we had landed upon these shores. There had been a host of small risings that summer: too many for me to recall them all. Most had been crushed almost as soon as they had begun, the leaders put to the sword and their followers made to submit. Guillaume fitz Osbern was the one who had quelled them; the king’s closest friend and adviser, he had been left to govern the realm while the king himself had returned to Normandy.

‘Where did this Eadric go?’ I asked.

‘Across the dyke. They say he joined the Welshmen, that he swore his oath to the brother-kings Bleddyn of Gwynedd and Rhiwallon of Powys. Nothing has been heard of him in the last three years.’

‘Until now,’ I said.

‘That’s right.’

I waited in case the pedlar willingly divulged any more, but he did not. Knowing what he wanted, I called for someone to fetch my coin-pouch from my chamber.

As soon as a silver penny had made its way into his palm, he went on: ‘The rumour is that they plan to march this summer. Together they’re said to be raising an army larger even than the one the?theling led against Eoferwic last year. An army thousands strong.’

At that I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘The Welsh are nothing more than raiders and sheep-stealers. They couldn’t raise an army worth the name.’

‘Nonetheless, it is happening. I will tell you something else as well, and I offer this freely, because we are friends and because you will no doubt learn it soon enough anyway. Eadric is looking for you.’

‘For me?’

‘From what I hear, the?theling has been offering a handsome gift of silver and gold for the man who delivers you to him. It seems he bears a grudge against you, for some reason I do not fully understand, but which perhaps you do.’

He looked at me quizzically. I suspected he had some idea why, and merely wanted confirmation. But this was a game that two could play at, and I had no more intention of giving out free information than he had.

‘Tell me what you think.’

‘Very well,’ he said, shrugging as though it were of little consequence. ‘This is why I think he wants you. It’s said you’re the man who won the gates at Eoferwic, who led the charge against the?theling, who fought him in single combat upon the bridge, who shed his blood and almost killed him.’

He paused, perhaps waiting for me to agree. In its essentials the story was true, although the details had grown somewhat exaggerated in the weeks following the battle. I had not taken the gates on my own, but with my sworn brothers Eudo and Wace by my side and others too. And while I had crossed swords with Eadgar and even wounded him, it was folly and battle-rage that had driven me to fight him. I was the one who had nearly been killed, not him. Were it not for the help of my friends, I would probably not be here now, and the tales would be very different.

‘Now,’ Byrhtwald went on, ‘perhaps I am mistaken, and they speak of a different Tancred entirely, though yours is not such a common name that that seems likely to me.’

There was no use denying it any longer. ‘You know you’re right.’

He shook his head sadly and bit his lip. ‘Nevertheless, it shames me that I did not make the connection sooner. For some reason I imagined that a man of such feats would be taller.’

‘Taller?’ No one would have described me as towering, but I was hardly short.

‘I jest,’ the Englishman said. ‘But let us speak seriously for a moment, lord. Your fame goes before you. Your name is whispered in the halls of the north; the?theling himself trembles at its sound. He remembers only too well how you embarrassed him before, and he punishes most cruelly any who dare speak of you in his presence. That is why he has offered this prize for your capture. Wild Eadric is not the only one seeking it, but he is the one you should fear.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Only that he is a powerful man, and dangerous too, especially to those who get on the wrong side of him. He is more cunning than you know, and unrelenting in pursuit of his ends. Do not think to underestimate him, especially now that he has the Welshmen as his allies.’

‘If the Welsh really were planning an attack as you say, I would know of it already,’ I said. ‘The summons would have come for me, and we would at this moment be mustering our own army to fight them.’

‘Ignore me if you wish, for I am only the bearer of news. Whether you choose to heed it or not is none of my concern. But let it be known that I have never sold you an untruth.’

I wasn’t so sure of that, and I was even less convinced by his rumours of a Welsh host gathering. Nevertheless I kept quiet, and talk soon moved on to other things. Of the rebels in the north or the Danes across the sea, Byrhtwald had nothing to relate. That worried me, for the less we heard, the more I began to wonder if Serlo had been right: if perhaps the enemy were biding their time as they gathered their forces for a bigger assault. Something was afoot, even if we did not yet know what.

Until the enemy showed themselves, though, we could do nothing. Nothing except wait, and that was the part of the warrior’s life I had always liked least. In the heat of the melee, with the clash of blades all around, the crash of shield-bosses ringing in one’s ears, there was no time for fear or doubt, but the hours and days before a battle were when those things crept into one’s mind. Every man who made his living by the sword felt the same, no matter how seasoned he was, how many campaigns he had fought or how many men he had killed. With every day that went by I grew ever more restless.

As it happened we didn’t have long to wait. By then just over a month had passed since the Welsh raid, though somehow it felt longer. Already the crops were growing tall in the fields, ripening under the summer sun, while new houses of wattle and cob were being built not far from where the old ones had been razed.

On the day that the news came, Pons and Turold had gone scouting with?dda while I remained in Earnford, hearing the villagers’ grievances with one another and passing judgment. One of the swineherd’s boars had escaped its pen, knocked over his neighbour’s water-butt and uprooted half the vegetables in the garden behind his cottage, and for that he was to pay two piglets to the injured party. Gode the miller’s wife had been caught collecting armfuls of sticks and fallen timber from the woods without my permission, and she was forced to surrender the lot as well as give me three sacks of her finest flour. Since Lyfing’s death she and her husband, Nothmund, had been hard worked, having added their son’s share of the burden to their own. She had never been able to bear another child, for reasons that neither they nor Father Erchembald, who knew something of the various ailments that afflicted people, could fathom. Lyfing’s death had left them distraught and tired and desperate, especially as the dry weather continued and the river ran low, which meant that there were days when the flow was not enough to turn the mill-wheel. But none of that excused what she had done, and so justice had to be dispensed.

In the usual course of affairs much of this would have been left to my steward, Alberic, except that he had fled my service in the week before Easter. A boor of a man whom I had never taken to, he was guilty of having while drunk begun a brawl with one of the village men whose daughter he’d taken a fancy to. After beating the father to the ground and leaving him for dead, Alberic took one of my best stallions and as much silver as he could carry, riding away before anyone could stop him. That was the last that anyone had seen of him. We’d sent word out to the towns and markets nearby seeking his arrest, but he had never been caught. As a result his lands became forfeit to me and his tearful wife was forced to take another husband, but I had not yet found anyone to replace him as steward. And so the business of the manorial court was left to me.

It was late that afternoon when the horsemen, some two dozen or so in number, were first spotted in the distance. Their banner was divided into alternating stripes of black and yellow, and the yellow was trimmed with golden thread that caught the light. Those colours I knew well, for not so long ago I had fought under them myself. They were the colours of the Malet family, and of Robert, my lord. He was rarely seen in these parts; most of his estates lay on the other side of this island, in the shire of Suthfolc, and most of his time was spent there or else in Normandy, at his family home of Graville. Which meant that it was something of a surprise to find the black and gold flying there in the valley of Earnford that summer’s evening.

Straightaway I sent word for Serlo and at the same time called for my sword, which was shortly brought to me by one of the twins, Snocca and Cnebba, boys of around fourteen who worked with?dda in the stables. Even after a year I found I could not always tell them apart. Whichever one it was, I thanked him as I buckled the belt around my waist. I’d had a new blade forged some months ago from the best steel that I could afford, with two blood-red gems adorning the hilt, and a scabbard to go with it: one that reflected my new-found standing. Reinforced with bands of copper, which were inlaid with lines of silver in twisting plant-like designs, it showed that I had wealth to spend, gold to give to men who would follow me. It was that same promise of riches that had drawn my three knights to my service in the first place.

I could see Robert himself now, riding at the head of the conroi, flanked on either side by a dozen knights, with his banner-bearer alongside him. Unlike his knights, who all wore helmets and coifs, his head was bare, and I could see his face clearly: his angular features, his high brow, his prominent nose. Beneath his hauberk he was dressed all in black from his tunic to his trews: an affectation which he considered fashionable but which I found a little odd, though of course I would never say so openly.

They made their way past the mill and the fish-weirs and the hay-meadows, following the cart-track that led to the ford, then past the church. Field labourers looked on as the column of horsemen rode in single file, along the baulks that marked the divisions between the furlongs, up the slope towards the hall. With Serlo at my side I strode down the path to greet them.

Robert grinned broadly as he saw me. ‘Tancred,’ he said as they drew to a halt and he swung down from his saddle. ‘It’s good to see you. It has been too long.’

‘It has, lord,’ I replied, and found that I was grinning too. It was several months since I had seen him: not since the winter, in fact, when he had come here after attending the king’s Christmas court at Glowecestre.

He was then in his twenty-seventh summer, the same age as myself. He embraced me like a brother, and brothers we were, if not in blood then in arms, for the previous year we had ridden and fought alongside one another in the great battle against the?theling, and had survived.

‘You should have sent word ahead,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you were visiting these parts.’

His smile faded, and all of a sudden his face bore a grim expression. ‘You haven’t heard the news, then?’

I frowned as the thought crossed my mind: had the pedlar Byrhtwald been right after all?

‘What news, lord?’

‘Come,’ Robert said. ‘Let us not discuss it here. We’ve been in the saddle since before dawn. Let us eat and drink first, and then we’ll talk.’

I held his gaze for a moment, searching for some clue in his expression, but none was forthcoming.

‘Of course.’

The villagers had come in from the fields to see what was happening. Amongst the crowd I caught sight of Snocca and his brother, and I signalled for them to show Robert’s men to the paddock beyond the hall where their mounts could graze. They were a diverse lot: some of them fresh-faced and eager for plunder and glory; others more weathered, with scars upon their faces marking their years of service. More than a few I recognised from the battle at Eoferwic, and some I had even led in the charge, though I did not know all of their names. But I did recall young Urse, he of the ruddy face and wide nostrils that always put me in mind of a pig’s snout, as well as Ansculf, the captain of Robert’s household knights. Neither ever had much liking for me, though I had no particular quarrel with them. Both regarded me with cold expressions as they rode past.

If truth be told, there was something magnificent in seeing so many warriors in gleaming mail, so many men of the sword gathered in Earnford, and the villagers clearly shared that feeling. In the faces of the onlookers could be read a mixture of curiosity and apprehension and awe.

‘You are a fortunate man, Tancred,’ Robert said, breaking into my thoughts.

‘How so, lord?’

Our boots squelched in the soft earth. Above the distant woods a pair of kites circled.

‘To have been spared so far the unrest and bloodshed that plagues the rest of the realm,’ he said. ‘I envy you.’

I gave him a wry look. If he thought that we didn’t have our own troubles here, then he was sorely mistaken.

Either he didn’t notice, though, or else he ignored me, for he went on, shaking his head: ‘It amazes me that nearly four years have passed since we came across the Narrow Sea, since the usurper was killed at H?stinges, and still it seems not a month goes by without risings in one part of the kingdom or another.’

His father, Guillaume Malet, had said something similar, I remembered, when I had entered his service last year. For a moment as I looked at Robert it almost seemed as if I were back there in the vicomte’s palace, and I felt the same sudden sense of foreboding.

‘This is nothing new, lord.’

‘Perhaps not, but it is unsettling,’ Robert replied, and his expression was still grim. ‘Every week we hear of Normans being waylaid on the road or murdered in their halls out in the shires. Tales come to us of bands of armed men gathering in the woods and the marshlands, numbering in their scores and their hundreds, building strongholds as they prepare to rise against us, to drive us from this island for good.’

‘And you believe those rumours?’ I asked, meaning it as a jibe. Robert did not rise to it.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Still, can we afford to ignore them? If we pay them no heed and they turn out to be right, then we stand to lose everything we have fought so hard to gain.’

Of course the stories that had reached him would have grown greatly embellished in the telling and the retelling. All the same, I knew just as well as he that buried among the roots of each of those tales would be a seed of something that resembled the truth.

For a moment silence passed between us, and then I asked: ‘What about the?theling? Has there been any word of him?’

‘Not yet,’ Robert said. ‘He continues to hide in the wilds of the north, though no one knows where.’

From that at least I drew some relief, though it was slight. Eadgar?theling was the only figure I could see who was capable of rallying the disparate noble families of Northumbria and uniting them in rebellion against us. The last surviving heir in the old English royal line, he had tried to claim the crown twice already: once in the wake of the defeat at H?stinges, though he’d lacked the support of the earls and had been forced to submit to King Guillaume; and again last year, when with the aid of the northerners and a host of swords-for-hire from abroad he had tried to take Eoferwic. Already his followers proclaimed him king, and not just of Northumbria but of the whole of England.

But as long the?theling stayed in the north, it seemed to me that the kingdom was in little danger. For no one else had either the reputation or the standing to lead the size of army which would be needed to defeat us. The last who had come near to doing so had been Harold Godwineson, and at H?stinges he had nearly succeeded, despite what the poets who have written songs about that battle would have one believe. Since his death there had been only Eadgar, and unless and until he marched, all the rumours Robert had heard would remain just that: rumours.

We passed beneath the gatehouse and came to the hall. I let Robert enter first and followed behind him. There were no window-slits of horn to let in the light, and the hearth-fire would not be lit until much later, so it took my eyes some time to adjust to the gloom after the brightness of outside. Along one side stood a long oak table and benches which could be brought out for meals or the rare occasions when we had guests. On the walls were hangings to keep out the draughts, though these were no lavish embroideries depicting scenes from folklore, of battle or of the hunt, with warriors and ships and fantastic beasts, for such things were beyond my means, but rather plain cloths of scarlet and green.

Robert cast his gaze about the hall. ‘You have a fine place here,’ he said. His tone held genuine appreciation, although compared with the kind of living he was no doubt accustomed to, mine must seem like a modest existence. But what need had I for expensive wall-decorations, for jewelled chalices, silver plates or gilded candlesticks? Such things were, after all, only baubles, and did not by themselves lend a man any more status or influence. And something Father Erchembald had said came back to me: what mattered in the end was that I had around me men I could trust, sworn to my service. Men who would follow me into the heart of battle, into the gravest of peril. Their oaths were worth more than gold or silver or any number of precious stones.

‘Tancred,’ came a voice, and I turned. Serlo had not come in with us but had paused out in the yard and was looking back out through the gates, down the slope towards the fields and the cottages, his expression one of concern.

At that moment I heard shouts from outside, followed by cries of distress. I glanced at Robert, who looked as confused as I was, and we hurried out.

There was some sort of commotion, though at first as I gazed out into the low sun I could not see what was happening. But then I spotted Pons and Turold close by the sheepfolds. They were on foot, their arms beneath the shoulders of a third man whose weight they were bearing between them as they staggered forward. Pons called for help, and some of the villagers rushed towards them, taking the burden and helping to lay the man down upon a heap of straw.

I broke into a run across the yard, out towards the swelling crowd, pushing my way through until I stood over the man and could see his face more clearly. Even then it took me a moment to recognise him, so dirtied were his features. His tunic was bloodied and there was an arrowhead lodged in his side, while his face and his beard streamed with blood that even now he was coughing up. Then I saw his burnt face and the black scar where his left eye should have been.

It was Aedda.