Sworn Sword (16 page)

I took a deep breath, felt my heart pounding in my chest. This was my last chance to consider before I had to make my decision. But already I knew what I was going to say.

‘I will do this for you, lord.’

Malet nodded. He had known that I would not refuse. ‘And your comrades?’ he asked. ‘Are they willing to accompany you?’

‘They will join me.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘You know, then, what I must ask of you.’

I did. I knelt down on the stone paving before the altar. A twinge ran through my leg where it had been wounded, but I tried not to show it. Malet stood before me. He lifted the silver cross with its blood-red stone. As he did so, the flame of the candle wavered, and I thought it might go out, but then it straightened. Was it an omen, I wondered, and if so, what did it mean?

‘In taking this oath,’ Malet said, ‘you swear that you are and will be subject to no lord but me. You bind yourself to my service, to the protection of myself and my kin, to do as I bid you. I, for my part, will invest you with everything you need to fulfil this task, and upon your return I promise to absolve you of all further obligation to me.’ He held out the cross, and his eyes bored into me. ‘Do you swear to become my man?’

I clasped my sweating palms around his own fingers, around the cross. My heart pounded in my chest. Why was I so nervous?

‘I swear by solemn oath,’ I said, meeting his gaze, ‘in the sight of Jesus Christ the Lord, my God, to serve you until my duty is done.’ I knew the words that were required. Long ago I had spoken almost the same thing before Robert, except that I had vowed to
serve him unto death. I had not thought then that I would ever have to give another man my oath. Nor had I known how hard it would be to do so.

I let go. My throat felt dry and I swallowed to moisten it. But it was done.

Malet replaced the cross on the altar before unbuckling his sword-belt. ‘I give you this blade,’ he said as he held the scabbard out to me in open palms. The leather was unadorned save for the steel chape at its point; the hilt was wrapped around with cord to aid one’s grip, the pommel a simple round disc.

I rose and took it from him, slowly, so as not to drop it. It felt heavy in my hands, but then it was the first time since the battle that I had held a sword, even one sheathed such as this. I fastened it upon my waist, adjusting the buckle until it fitted.

‘I will make sure you are provided with new mail, a shield and a helmet,’ the vicomte said. ‘Otherwise I intend for you to travel light. Come to the wharves at noon tomorrow. I will be there to bid you all safe journey.’

‘We’ll be travelling by ship?’ I asked, surprised. The usual route to Lundene was by land, not sea.

‘The roads around Eoferwic are growing ever more dangerous, and I do not wish to take any chances,’ Malet said. ‘My own ship,
Wyvern
, is to take you downriver until you meet the Humbre, where you’ll make landfall at one of my manors: a place called Alchebarge. There you can obtain horses before making south on the old road for a town called Lincolia, and thence on to Lundene. Ælfwold’s knowledge of the country is good; you may trust in him if ever you are unsure of the way.’

‘I understand,’ I said.

‘There is one more thing.’ He produced a leather pouch from within the folds of his cloak and handed it to me.

I took it, feeling its weight, the clink of metal inside. I undid the drawstring and upended the contents into my palm. A stream of silver coins spilt out, cold upon my skin, glinting in the candlelight.

‘There ought to be enough there to pay for provisions, inns for the night, and whatever else you might need on the way,’ Malet
said. ‘If, however, by the time you arrive in Lundene you should find yourself needing more, you have only to ask my steward, Wigod, and he will provide you with whatever else you require to get to Wiltune and back.’

Wigod. Yet another English name. I wondered how many more Englishmen the vicomte had in his service.

‘I trust that you will not fail me,’ the vicomte said, his blue eyes fixed upon me.

‘No, lord,’ I said. He had given me this responsibility, and my debt to him would not be paid until I had seen it through. ‘I will not fail you.’

He looked as if he were about to say something else, but at that moment the doors were flung open. I raised a hand to shield my eyes as bright light filled the chapel. The man who entered was dressed in mail, his helmet tucked under his arm. With his face in shadow and the sun behind him it took me a moment to recognise him, but as he hurried across the tiles towards us, I saw his long chin, his high brow. It was Gilbert de Gand.

‘Lord Guillaume,’ he said. Either he had not seen me or he did not care, but for once his arrogant air was gone, replaced by a troubled look.

‘What is it?’ Malet demanded.

‘There is a man outside wishing to see you. An envoy from the enemy. He arrived at the city gates not half an hour ago.’

‘An envoy? What does he want?’

‘It seems the rebels’ leader wishes to see you,’ Gilbert said. ‘To discuss terms.’

Malet fell silent. I thought of the doubts he had expressed to me only moments before, and wondered what was going through his mind. As difficult as our position was, he would not willingly surrender Eoferwic, surely? Gilbert was watching him carefully, waiting for a reply. I wondered if Malet had confided as much in him as he had in me.

‘Let me speak to this man,’ the vicomte said at last. He strode towards the chapel doors. ‘Where is he now?’

He did not have to look far. The envoy sat astride a brown
warhorse in the middle of the practice yard, where a crowd of knights and servants had gathered to watch. He was built like a bear and dressed like a warrior, with a helmet and a leather jerkin as well as a scabbard on his belt. If he was at all nervous at being surrounded by so many Frenchmen, he did not show it. In fact he seemed to be enjoying the attention, grinning widely and taking every insult thrown at him as if it were a mark of honour.

He bowed his head when he saw the vicomte. ‘Guillaume Malet, seigneur of Graville across the sea,’ he said, stumbling a little over the French words. ‘My lord sends you his greetings—’

‘Spare me the pleasantries,’ Malet cut him off. ‘Who is your lord?’

‘Eadgar,’ the envoy replied, loudly so that everyone in the bailey could hear, ‘son of Eadward, son of Eadmund, son of Æthelred, of the line of Cerdic.’

‘You mean Eadgar Ætheling?’ Malet asked.

The envoy nodded. ‘He would speak with you this very evening, if you are willing.’

The last surviving heir of the old English line, Eadgar was the only other figure around whom the enemy might have rallied after Hæstinges, his title
ætheling
meaning one who was of royal blood, or so at least Eudo had once told me. Until now, though, Eadgar had shown no hunger for rebellion; instead he chose to submit to King Guillaume soon after the battle and remained a prominent figure at court. It was only when whispers of plots against him were voiced last summer that he fled north into Scotland, but even then none had thought him capable of raising an army.

‘I would advise against this, lord,’ Gilbert said, his voice low. ‘We know how treacherous the Northumbrians are. These are the same savages who murdered Richard but four days ago.’

‘Even so,’ Malet said, ‘I would prefer to look upon the face of my enemy.’ But though he spoke confidently, his face was grim. He looked about, saw one of his servants and called for his sword and mail, and then to the Englishman said: ‘Tell your lord I will meet with him.’

‘This is unwise, Guillaume,’ Gilbert said, more loudly this time. ‘What if they plan another ambush?’

‘Then you will accompany me with fifty of your own knights to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

For a moment Gilbert looked as though he was about to protest, but he must have thought better of it, for he merely scowled and stalked off to his horse.

‘Come, Tancred,’ said the vicomte. ‘That is, if you wish to see the man who was responsible for Earl Robert’s death.’

‘Yes, lord,’ I replied, though the words came out more stiffly than I would have liked. I could feel my sword-arm tensing, but I tried to calm myself, difficult though that was, for Malet was watching me. As if testing me, I thought.

‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Let us hear what Eadgar has to say.’

The sun was already upon the horizon by the time we rode out from the city’s north-eastern gate. Almost every one of the Norman lords who resided in Eoferwic was there, each with a contingent of knights under his own banner, and at their head rode Malet.

The country around Eoferwic lay open in every direction: wide marshes rising to gentle slopes where sheep grazed. A few trees gave some cover, but they were sparse enough that an ambush was unlikely. Not that the enemy seemed to have any such intention, for no sooner had we left the city than I spied spearpoints and helmets glinting not half a mile away. Eadgar was already waiting for us.

‘There they are,’ murmured Ælfwold, who was riding beside me. The vicomte had brought him for counsel, although in truth I could not see what use the priest would be. This was surely a matter for men of the sword, not of the cloth.

In the low light it was hard to make out the enemy’s exact numbers, but I reckoned they had brought at least as many men as we had: some on horseback, others on foot, and all of them gathered under a purple-and-yellow banner – the colours, I supposed, of the ætheling himself.

Indeed I saw him now. He was a head taller than most of his men and wore a sturdy helmet, with plates at the side to protect his cheeks and a long nasal-guard rimmed with gleaming gold. Surrounding him were men in mail and helmets, armed with spears
and swords and long-handled axes, with his colours upon their shields. What the English would call
huscarlas
, I thought: his closest and most loyal retainers, his ablest fighters. Men who valued their lord’s life above even their own, who would fight to the last in his defence. How many of them had been there at Dunholm, I wondered; how many of my comrades had died on their blades?

We drew to a halt as Eadgar strode forward from his lines, flanked by four of his huscarls. Malet nodded to Ælfwold and myself, to Gilbert who was riding a short way behind and one of his knights, and we dismounted. The ætheling had taken off his gilded helmet and for the first time I saw his face. His eyes were dark and his lips thin, while his hair, the colour of straw, fell raggedly to his broad shoulders. He was said to be only seventeen in years, which made him hardly more than a boy, but he did not look it, for he was sturdily built, with arms like a smith’s, and there was a confidence in his manner that belied his age.

This, then, was the man who was responsible for what had happened at Dunholm. For the deaths of Lord Robert and Oswynn and all my comrades. My heart was pounding and beneath my helmet I felt sweat forming on my brow. How easy would it be, I wondered, to pull my blade from its scabbard, to take Eadgar by surprise and cut him down where he stood?

Yet even as the thought came to me, I knew I could never manage it without his huscarls reaching me first. Fighting peasants was one thing, but these were experienced warriors, and four men to my one. And vengeance was worth nothing if it cost me my life. I breathed deeply as I fixed my gaze upon the ætheling.

‘Guillaume Malet,’ he said as he approached. ‘We meet once again.’ His voice was gruff, though he spoke French well enough – not that that was any surprise, given the time he had spent at the king’s court.

‘I didn’t think it would be so soon,’ Malet answered. ‘I’d hoped that when you skulked away last year it would be the last we saw of your wretched hide.’

But Eadgar seemed not to hear as he nodded towards the contingent of knights Malet had brought with him. ‘A formidable host
indeed,’ he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone. Then his dark eyes settled upon Ælfwold and he frowned. ‘What’s an Englishman doing keeping company with these sons of whores? You should be with us.’

The priest blinked as if startled. ‘He – he is my lord,’ he managed to say, shrinking back under the stare of the ætheling, who was at least a head and a half taller than him.

‘Your lord? He is a Frenchman.’

‘I have served him faithfully for many years—’

Eadgar spat upon the ground. ‘No longer will I bend my knee before any foreigner. This is our kingdom, and I won’t rest until we have taken it back. Until we have driven every last Frenchman from these shores.’

‘England belongs to King Guillaume,’ Malet spoke up. ‘You know full well that the crown is his by right, bequeathed to him by his predecessor, your uncle King Eadward, and won with the blessing of the Pope. You swore to serve him loyally—’

‘And what would you know of loyalty?’ Eadgar interrupted him. ‘As I remember you used to be a close friend of Harold Godwineson. What happened to that friendship?’

I glanced at Malet, wondering if I had heard properly. What did Eadgar mean by calling him a friend of the usurper? The vicomte’s cheeks reddened, though whether from anger or embarrassment I could not tell.

Eadgar was smirking now, clearly enjoying his opponent’s unease. ‘Is it true that the scourge of the north, the great Guillaume Malet, has a soft heart? That he feels remorse for Harold’s death?’

‘Hold your tongue, ætheling, or else I will cut it out,’ said Gilbert. He rested his hand upon the pommel of his sword.

Eadgar ignored him as he advanced towards Malet. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did you feel the same sadness at the deaths of your own kinsmen? Did you shed a tear when you heard about Dunholm, when you heard how Robert de Commines burnt?’

At the mention of Robert I felt my blood rising, pounding in my ears, until all of a sudden the battle-rage was upon me and I could hold myself back no longer.

‘You murdered him,’ I said, striding forward. ‘You murdered him, just as you murdered Oswynn and all the others.’

‘Tancred,’ Malet said warningly, but the blood was running hot in my veins and I was not listening.

The smile faded from the ætheling’s face as he turned. ‘And who are you?’