Sworn Sword (51 page)

‘He will be proud of you,’ I went on. ‘Of everything you have done for him.’

He clenched his teeth, and his hand fell to his wound once more, leaving his face marked with crimson streaks. The blood was flowing freely now, too much of it to be staunched. If the blow had been less deep, perhaps, or if it had struck his side rather than his chest … It was pointless to think that way, I knew, for nothing could change what was already done. But I could not help it. The same could have happened to me and yet I had survived. Why had I been spared but Radulf had not?

I felt moisture forming in the corners of my eyes, despite myself, and did my best to fight it back. Ever since we had first met I had thought him hot-headed, arrogant at the best of times, quick to take insult. Yet instead of goading him I might have tried harder to earn his trust, to gain his respect. And so in part at least I was responsible for him, and for what had happened.

‘You did well,’ I said again. ‘And I am sorry. For everything.’

His eyelids opened, just a fraction, enough that he could look at me, and I hoped that he had heard. The colour had all but drained from his face, and his chest was barely moving, his breathing growing ever lighter, no longer misting in the morning air.

‘Go with God, Radulf,’ I told him.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, and I leant closer, straining to hear him above the roar of victory that was all around. Whatever he meant to say, though, he never had a chance to utter, as in one long sigh his final breath fled his lips. His eyes closed once more, and slowly he sank backwards, into the trunk of the tree, his head rolling to one side, his cheek falling against his shoulder.

‘Go with God,’ I murmured again. But I knew that his soul had already fled this world, and he could hear me no longer.

Philippe found us not long after, and we left him together with Godefroi to stand vigil over Radulf. I did not know how long they
had known him, or how well, but both seemed to take his death hard, and I thought it better to let them grieve by themselves while we sought out the vicomte. And someone had to stay with him, since now that the battle was over the time had come for plunder, and with his mail and helm and sword, the body of a knight held much that was of worth.

I rode with Wace and Eudo towards the minster, leaving the king and his assembled lords behind us. There was still no sign of Malet or his son, and I was beginning to grow worried when we turned up towards the market square and saw the black and gold flying before us. The vicomte was there, dressed in mail, though he had removed his helmet. Gilbert de Gand stood beside him, with the red fox upon his flag, and accompanying them both were some forty of their knights. Their spearpoints shone bright in the sun; their pennons were limp rags, soiled with the blood of the enemy.

We left our horses and made our way through the crowd. I was about to call out when I saw Malet embracing another man of around the same height: a man dressed all in black with a gilded scabbard on his sword-belt. Robert. Of course as far as the vicomte could have known, his son had been in Normandy all this while. How long must it have been since they had last seen one another?

I waited, not wanting to interrupt, but at last they stepped back, and Robert saw us. A grin broke across his face as he beckoned us over.

‘This is the man who saved my life,’ he said to his father. He was nursing his forearm where it had been wounded, I noticed; the cloth was bound tightly around it still. ‘One of your knights, I believe. Tancred a Dinant. A fine warrior.’

Malet smiled. He looked somehow older than I remembered, his grey hair flecked with white, his face more gaunt, and I wondered what toll the siege had exacted upon him.

‘Indeed he is,’ he said, and extended a hand. ‘It’s been some time, Tancred.’

I took it, smiling back. His grip, at least, was as firm as always. ‘It’s good to see you too, my lord.’

‘And Wace and Eudo as well, I see.’ He smiled. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Radulf is dead, lord,’ I said, bowing my head. ‘He was injured in the battle; he died of his wounds. Philippe and Godefroi are with him now.’

‘He fought bravely?’

‘He did,’ Wace said. ‘I was with him. He sent many of the enemy to their deaths.’

Malet nodded, his expression sombre. ‘He was a good man, loyal and determined. His death is regrettable, but he will not be forgotten.’

‘No, lord.’

‘Come,’ said Robert. ‘We will grieve for him in time, just as we’ll mourn all those who have fallen. But this is an hour for rejoicing. Eoferwic is ours. The rebels are defeated—’

‘Not defeated,’ I interrupted him. For all the scores upon scores of Englishmen that had been slain, I remembered the hundreds more that had filled the decks of their ships, that had managed to get away. I turned to face Malet. ‘Eadgar managed to escape, lord. It was my fault. I had the chance to kill him, and I failed.’

‘You wounded him,’ Eudo said. ‘You did more than any other man could manage.’

I shook my head. If my blow had struck him full in the face, rather than upon his cheek-plate, it might at least have dazed him enough that I could have cut him down. But it had not, and instead he lived.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Malet said. ‘What’s done is done and cannot now be changed. And Robert is right. Whatever battles there may be to come, it is this victory we must celebrate.’

‘Lord,’ someone called, and I turned to see Ansculf riding towards us, the black-and-gold banner raised in the three fingers of his shield-hand, a grin upon his face. Behind him rode the rest of Robert’s conroi, their mail and their shields spattered with crimson.

‘My men are waiting for me,’ said Robert as he turned his horse about. ‘No doubt we will meet again later.’

I watched as he mounted up and rode to join them, taking the
banner from Ansculf, lifting it to the sky as his horse reared up, before he and his conroi galloped down the street.

‘I hear my wife and daughter are safe in Lundene,’ Malet said once he had gone.

‘They are,’ I said.

‘That is good to hear. And my message has been delivered to Wiltune, as I instructed?’

I glanced at Eudo and Wace, unsure what to say. He had been bound to ask at some point, though I had hoped he wouldn’t. But I could not lie to this man, to whom I had sworn my oath.

‘Lord,’ I said, lowering my voice as I drew closer. There were men all about us who might overhear, and I was sure Malet did not intend this for their ears. ‘We saw your letter. We know about Eadgyth, your friendship with Harold, and the business with his body.’

If anything I had expected Malet to turn to rage, but instead his face seemed to go pale. Perhaps like us he was simply weary after the siege and the battle; the fire had gone out of him and he had not the will to be angry.

‘You know?’ he asked. His gaze fell on each of us in turn. ‘I suppose it was always possible that you might find out. Ælfwold told you, I presume.’

‘Not willingly, lord, but yes,’ I said.

Malet glanced about. ‘We can’t talk of this here, surrounded by so many people. Come with me, back to the castle.’

We passed through the bailey, past the tents and burnt-out campfires. There were men guarding the gates, but if they thought it strange to see their lord returning so soon, they did not question it.

Malet led us to the tower, to the same chamber where he had first spoken to me of his task all those weeks ago. It was much as I had remembered it: there was the same writing-desk, the same curtain hanging across the room, the same rug upon the floor.

‘I would ask you to sit as well, but this is the only stool I have,’ Malet said as he sat down. ‘You will forgive me, I am sure.’

None of us spoke, waiting as we were for him to begin, though he seemed in no rush to do so. An iron poker hung beside the
hearth and he picked it up, prodding at the burnt logs in the fireplace. There were still some embers amidst the ash, and a faint tendril of smoke curled upwards as he disturbed them, but it was cold in the chamber nonetheless.

Eventually he turned back to us. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You have read my letter to Eadgyth.’

I did not answer. He already knew that we had. There was nothing else to add.

‘You cannot let this be known to anyone,’ he said, a fearful look in his eyes. ‘If the king were to find out that I had told her …’

He did not finish, but bowed his head as he wrung his hands. His lips moved without sound, and I wondered if he were whispering a prayer. The morning sun shone in through the window, causing the sweat upon his brow to glisten.

‘You must understand why I did what I did,’ he said. ‘When I wrote that letter – when you swore to undertake this task for me – I did not think that Eoferwic would hold. And if the enemy managed to take the castle, I did not know whether I would survive.’

He had said something similar that evening when I had given my oath to him. Indeed I recalled how struck I had been by his honesty, how he had seemed almost resigned to the fact that his fate was bound with that of the city: that if Eoferwic were to fall to the English, then so too would he. But I did not see what that had to do with the business at hand.

Nor, it seemed, was I alone. ‘What do you mean, lord?’ asked Wace.

‘I was the only one who knew the truth,’ Malet said. ‘Were I to have been killed, all knowledge of Harold’s resting place would have been lost.’ He sighed deeply, and there was a hint of sadness in his tone. ‘I was only doing what in my mind was right. Eadgyth always saw me as having betrayed her husband, having betrayed our friendship. I thought that by doing this I might somehow atone for that – for all the hurt I had caused her.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. Not for the first time, I thought.

‘All she wanted was to mourn her husband properly,’ he went on. ‘I have lost count of the number of times she has sent letters to
me, demanding to know where he was buried, and of the number of times I have sent word back, saying that I did not know. But when I heard that the English army was marching on Eoferwic, I knew I might not have another chance. The guilt upon my conscience was too great to bear.’ He looked up from the floor, towards us. ‘And that is why I had to tell her.’

‘Tell her what?’ I asked. He was not making sense.

Malet stared at me as if I were witless. ‘Where Harold’s body lies, of course.’

I glanced at Eudo and Wace, and they back at me, and I saw that they were thinking the same. For something was not right. I recalled Malet’s message to Eadgyth: those two simple words.
Tutus est
. I had held the parchment in my hands, traced the inky forms of the letters with my own finger. There had been no clue there as to Harold’s resting place, unless somehow those words held some other, hidden meaning – one that we had not worked out.

‘But you wrote that it was safe, nothing more,’ said Eudo.

Malet’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I saw the letter, lord,’ I said. ‘
Tutus est
. There was nothing else on that scroll.’

‘But that is not what I wrote.’ The vicomte stood to face us now, and there was colour in his cheeks again as a puzzled look came across his face.

‘I saw the letter.’ My blood was still hot from the battle, but I tried not to show my frustration. ‘Your seal was on it, lord.’

‘I did not write those words,’ Malet insisted. ‘That was not the message I sent.’

‘But if you didn’t write them, then who did?’ Wace asked.

So far as I could see, there was but one person who could have seen that scroll, apart from myself and Eadgyth. Indeed I remembered his anger when I let slip that I’d read it. He would not have reacted like that unless he himself had also known. Unless he himself were the one who had written those words. A shiver came over me.

‘It was Ælfwold,’ I said.

‘The priest?’ Eudo asked.

‘He must have changed the letter.’ It was not difficult: all it needed
was for the original ink to be scraped away with a knife, which if done well meant that the parchment could then be used afresh. I had sometimes watched Brother Raimond doing it in the scriptorium, when I had been growing up in the monastery. More difficult would have been forging Malet’s writing well enough to trick Eadgyth, and yet I did not doubt that the chaplain could have done it, for who else would be more familiar with the vicomte’s hand?

‘No,’ Malet said, shaking his head. ‘It is not possible. I know Ælfwold. He has given me and my family many years of loyal service. He would never do such a thing.’

‘There is no one else it could be, lord,’ I said. I felt almost sorry for him, discovering that someone whom he had trusted so closely, and for so long, could have deceived him thus. But I knew that this time I was right.

Malet turned away from us, towards the hearth, his fists clenched so tight I could see the whites of his knuckles. I had not known him to lose his temper before, but he did so now as he swore, over and over and over, before burying his face in his palms.

‘Do you realise what this means?’ he said. ‘It means that he knows. Ælfwold knows where Harold’s body lies.’

‘But what good will that do him?’ Wace asked.

‘It depends what he means to do,’ Malet replied. ‘He wouldn’t have acted without some purpose in mind, of that I’m sure.’

Silence filled the chamber. I thought back to that night we had burst in on Ælfwold, trying to remember what he had told us. There was only one reason that I could think of why the priest would do this.

‘He means to take Harold’s relics for himself,’ I said. ‘To establish them elsewhere and make him a saint, a martyr to the English.’

‘To start a rebellion of his own,’ Malet said, so softly it was almost a whisper. He stared at me, as if he did not believe it could be true. But I did not see that there was any other explanation.

‘How long ago did you leave Lundene?’ Malet asked.

I counted back in my mind. We had spent four days riding to catch the king’s army, and another six on the march before the attack on Eoferwic. ‘Ten days,’ I said.

‘Then that is ten days in which he could already have carried out
his plan.’ He spoke quietly, his face reddening. ‘If you’re right and Ælfwold succeeds, this will be the ruin of me. He must be stopped.’