Sworn Sword (30 page)

I walked on my own, crunching my way down Wæclinga stræt, retaking my steps from the night before. I had left the others at the house, including Ælfwold, who protested when he caught me slipping out unannounced. It was too cold to be out, he said; far better that I stayed inside, where the fire was warm and I could take the time to recover. But save for the scrape I had taken during the fight I was feeling fine, and in any case I was in no mind to listen to the chaplain. I needed the time to think.

What men of the church employed knights to serve as their personal guards? The one I’d thought looked like Ælfwold was English: that much had been clear from his appearance. As for the priest in the black robes, I could not be sure, although if he was from Normandy then it was more likely that he was the one who had hired them, for few Frenchmen I knew would choose to serve an English lord.

Then again, these were no doubt men who made their living through selling their swords, without thought or scruple. Many such had at one time been oath-breakers, little better than murderers, since by severing those ties – the only things that bound people together – they
had defied the natural order. Such men never questioned whom they served or for what purpose, so long as they were rewarded well – and that made them dangerous.

I stopped by the little wooden bridge that crossed the brook. Ice had formed around some of the larger rocks and the ducks were huddled together by its edge. Some had their heads tucked under their wings; others dipped the tips of their beaks into the fast-flowing water, as if testing it. None dared swim.

A bitter wind gusted from the east, piercing through my cloak. I pressed on, into the wind. Across the Temes, the land was a single field of white stretching from east to west, broken only by the cluster of houses that was Sudwerca, and by the woods that lined the distant horizon. In all the years I had spent growing up around Dinant, I had never seen snow like this; only since coming over to England had I known weather so cold.

I wasn’t the first to be out that day. Already the street bore the marks where feet and wheels had pressed, though they were few. Smoke rose thickly from the chimneys of every house; most of the townsmen would still be inside by their fires, for the sun was just rising. Only when I came near St Eadmund’s church again did people come into sight. Two boys drove a herd of pigs up the hill, poking them with sticks to keep them from stopping to dig in the snow. Further up, a man led a team of oxen hitched to a cart, the wheels of which wobbled violently as it trundled on. And there, waiting by the corner from where I had watched the two churchmen last night, were five men on horseback. Four of them were mailed and had spears in their hands, but the other wore a deerskin cloak covering a loose tunic with long, bunched sleeves. He was speaking with a decrepit woman who was clearly in some distress, since she was waving her arms violently, though for what reason I could not discern.

I paid them no more attention, for a glint of metal had caught my eye from the bottom of a rut, where a passing cart had carved its tracks. It was roughly where I remembered, to one side of the street. I rushed over and knelt down on the packed snow, clawing it away with my bare hands to reveal the whole length
of the shining blade and the legend inscribed thereon: ‘
VVLFRIDVS ME FECIT
’.

I lifted it free with both hands, then with my glove wiped the dirt off its underside as I examined it closely for signs of damage. It appeared to be in good condition, despite obviously having been run over. Snowmelt ran down the steel, causing it to gleam in the new day’s light.

I heard a shriek and looked up to see the woman pointing a finger at me. ‘
Hwæt la!
’ she screamed, and she glanced up at the five men on horseback. ‘
Hwæt la!
’

The men rode at a trot towards me; were they friends of those I had seen last night? I stood where I was, sword in hand, uncertain whether to run or to fight. I was on foot and there was no way I could get away from them even if I had wanted to. And five was more than I could hope to fight on my own. Two I might have handled, and on a good day even three – if I were less tired, perhaps, and luck were on my side.

‘You,’ said one of those in mail as he slowed to a halt. A red pennon was attached to his spear and I took him for their leader. His face was pockmarked, his chin covered with a sparse stubble. ‘Who are you?’

The other three knights formed a half-circle around me, spears couched and ready under their arms. The other man, the one with the deerskin cloak, kept back, alongside the woman. He was dressed like an Englishman, his cloak clasped at the shoulder with a silver brooch, though his hair was cut short in the Norman style, and I guessed that he was an interpreter of sorts.

I thought about lying again, but something about their demeanour told me that would not be a good idea. ‘Tancred,’ I said stiffly. ‘A knight in the employ of the vicomte of Eoferwic, Lord Guillaume Malet.’

‘Malet?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘And what is a knight of his doing so far south, in Lundene? A deserter, are you?’

I was about to reply that if I were, I was hardly likely to tell him that, but thought the better of it. ‘I’m here with the vicomte’s chaplain.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘For what reason?’

It seemed clear that these men were not here to finish me off, or they would surely have done so already, and I was growing tired of his questions.

‘Why should I tell you?’

A crowd was beginning to gather – of those men and women who were about at such an hour, at least. There were no more than a dozen of them, all standing at a respectful distance, I noted, for no doubt they had spotted that these men held swords.

The pock-faced knight drew himself up in his saddle and gestured towards the woman standing with the interpreter behind him. ‘This peasant claims that she saw you here last night. Do you deny this?’

I said nothing. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that I might have been seen.

‘She swears that she saw you fighting,’ he went on. ‘Here, on this street, with another knight. Is this true?’

‘I was attacked,’ I burst out, which on reflection was not the wisest thing to say, for straightaway I knew he would take that as an admission of guilt, but I had committed myself and had no choice but to press on. ‘I was defending myself.’

He lifted his head slightly, so that he looked at me along the length of his nose. A faint smile spread across his face. ‘Do you know’, he asked, ‘what the penalty is for bearing arms against another in the king’s own city?’

‘Tell me.’

‘The penalty …’ he said slowly, as if to ensure that I did not miss a word, ‘is no less than the forfeiture of your sword-hand.’

I swallowed, and wondered whether this was the time to run. I knew it would be a useless gesture, though: they were mounted and would easily catch me, and it would only reinforce my guilt in their eyes.

‘Give me your sword,’ Pock-face growled.

I held it by the steel and carefully, so as not to cut myself, held it up to him, hilt first.

He looked questioningly down at me as he took it. ‘You carry a naked blade in the streets,’ he said.

‘My scabbard is there,’ I said, and I pointed to the patch of snow which now covered the place where I remembered dropping it.

He looked where I was pointing, and then back at me. The contempt in his eyes was clear.

‘It’s the truth,’ I insisted. ‘Everything I have said is the truth.’

‘You will come with us,’ he said. He gave the signal to two of his men, who swung down from their saddles and grabbed me roughly by the shoulders. I tried to shake them off but they held firm, twisting my arms behind my back.

‘Malet will hear of this,’ I said through gritted teeth as they began to march me up the street. ‘He will have
your
sword-hands, I swear it.’

‘Wait!’ a voice called.

The knights stopped. I turned my head, though my shoulders were held. The voice had come from amongst the crowd.

The circle of onlookers parted as a man, dressed in a fine-looking cloak of black wool, rode forward. His face was angular, his nose prominent; he looked about the same age as myself or a little older. I had the feeling that I had seen him before, but I could not place when or where. He sat tall in the saddle as he came towards us. From his belt hung a scabbard, decorated along its length with scarlet gemstones, with an intricate design of golden lines weaving between and around each one.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked me, his voice stern. Behind him rode a man of more modest dress – a servant, I presumed. He was thin, with a large boil on the side of his neck and skin so pale that I wondered if he hadn’t ventured outside of doors in some while.

‘Lord,’ said Pock-face. ‘If you will forgive us, we are taking this man to the town-reeve. He is not to be spoken to—’

‘My name is Tancred a Dinant, lord,’ I interrupted him.

The man fixed his eyes upon me, though not in an unfriendly manner. ‘You know my father?’

‘Your father?’ I said, before realising how it was that I recognised his face. Indeed now that I saw it, the resemblance was clear, not just in his angular features but also in his high brow and the slope of his shoulders.

‘Guillaume Malet, seigneur of Graville across the sea. You know him?’

‘I am a knight in his service, lord.’ As far as I could recall, the vicomte had made no mention of any son. Of course that by itself meant little, for why should he have done so?

‘My lord,’ said the pock-faced one, a note of despair in his voice. ‘If I may say, this is not the time to be making idle conversation. We are—’

‘What business do you have with him?’ asked the man who called himself Malet’s son.

‘He is accused of bearing arms in anger against a fellow Frenchman.’

‘You have witnesses to this?’

‘We have one, lord,’ said another of the knights, a portly and rough-kempt man who looked too large for his mount. He pointed towards the aged woman; she shrank back into the crowd.

‘One witness,’ Malet’s son said. ‘But she is English, and a woman at that.’

‘Others can always be found,’ Pock-face replied mildly. ‘This is not a matter to be dismissed lightly.’

Malet’s son turned to me. ‘And what do you say? Did you bear arms against a countryman?’

I hesitated, tempted this time to deny the accusation outright, so that he might be more inclined to help me. But if I did that, then the others would see that I had openly perjured myself – an offence which was potentially as bad, if not worse than a breach of the peace.

‘I was attacked, lord,’ I said, repeating exactly what I had said before. ‘I was only defending myself.’

He nodded slowly, and I felt my heart sink; that surely had been the wrong answer to give. He looked at his manservant, who merely blinked and shrugged in return. ‘Have you considered that he may be speaking the truth?’ he asked at last.

‘Whether he is or not,’ said Pock-face, ‘he was seen using weapons in the king’s own city!’

‘And where is the man he was seen with? He can speak for himself, I presume.’

The knight opened his mouth, but then fell silent, instead glancing about the rest of his men.

‘Well? Where is he?’

‘My lord, he is not—’

‘So,’ said Malet’s son, his voice suddenly harsh, ‘neither do you have true witnesses to this event, nor, as far as I can see, was harm done to anyone present here.’ He turned to the men flanking me. ‘Release him.’

‘You cannot do this,’ said Pock-face.

Malet’s son glared at him. ‘I will do what I wish, or else I will go to your lord, the town-reeve, and inform him of your insolence. Now release him,’ he repeated with greater force. ‘I’ll deal with him myself.’

Pock-face said nothing as he stood still as stone, his face reddening. Eventually he waved an arm and his two men lifted their hands from me, before remounting their horses. I glared at each of them as I rubbed my forearm, easing the pain where they had twisted it.

‘Give him back his sword,’ Malet’s son said.

Pock-face’s eyes were seething as he tossed it down. It landed in the snow; I bent down to pick it up and watched as the five men began to ride off back up the street, in the direction of the markets at Ceap.

Pock-face was the last to leave. ‘The reeve will know of this,’ he called.

‘As well he might. And when you tell him, make sure to mention the name of Robert Malet. If he pleases, he may take the matter up with me.’

Pock-face snarled and then dug his heels in, riding back to join his men. The crowd had swelled in numbers since last I saw; several dozen had now come out of their houses to watch.

‘Go,’ Robert said to them, waving an arm at the same time to send them away. He leant down from his mount to speak to me. ‘I’ll seek an explanation for all of this in due course. For now, however, we should return to my father’s house.’ He glanced about. ‘You have brought a horse with you?’

‘No, lord,’ I replied.

‘Then, Tancred a Dinant, we shall walk.’ He swung down from his saddle, and then signalled for his manservant to do the same as he patted his mount on the neck and took up the reins.

I nodded, not knowing what more to say. For I now owed debts to two members of the Malet house, and neither, I sensed, would be easily paid.

Twenty-one

THE SUN WAS
creeping above the marshlands to the east, shrugging off its veil of wispy cloud, tingeing the eastern skies yellow. Beneath it, Lundene was waking.

Already the streets were growing busier: there were women carrying wooden pails; men with firewood under their arms. A group of children shrieked as they ran after each other with clods of snow in their hands, almost colliding with two burly men carrying large sacks over their shoulders. Down on the river, some of the smaller craft were putting to sail, making their way out towards the estuary and the sea beyond.

My sword-belt was buckled on my waist once more, and I was glad to feel my scabbard by my side. Malet’s son walked alongside me, reins in hand, his manservant trailing close behind with his own horse.