Sworn Sword c-1 Read online

  Sunlight burst in as the door was flung open. An Englishman in his middle years stood there, red-faced and panting for breath, hair hanging across his face, shouting something I could not understand. The two young men in the corner got to their feet, while the one with the white hair woke with a start, sending his cup to the floor. The tavern-keeper called to the serving-girl, who hurried towards the back of the room.

  I rose, too quickly as it turned out, and winced as I felt a twinge in my calf. Beside me, Eudo raised his hands in a calming gesture as he said something to them in their own tongue.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  From outside came the sound of French voices shouting to one another, followed by a rush of feet, the pounding of hooves.

  And then I heard it, faintly at first, as though it were yet some way off, but growing steadily louder: a single word, chanted over and over.

  Ut. Ut. Ut. Ut.

  I glanced at the others; they met my eyes, and I saw that they had heard it also. I reached to my knife-hilt at the same time as I saw Eudo touch the pommel of his sword.

  ‘Come on,’ said Wace. He was closest to the door, and I followed him, with Eudo behind me. The Englishman who was standing there made no attempt to stop us, but when he saw that we were coming towards him, he ran back out into the street.

  The Kopparigat was thronged with townsmen and their wives, most of whom were rushing down the hill, herding their children and their animals before them. A dog began to bark, and its call was taken up by another some way further down the road. In the distance, the wail of an infant pierced the air.

  Whatever the reason for the disturbance, I knew it could not be good. Had the rebels arrived already; was the city under siege? But if so, why would their own kinsmen be running?

  ‘This way,’ Wace said, starting into a run towards the top of the hill, where the Kopparigat met the city’s main street. I followed, my calf stabbing with pain, as if with every step there were half a dozen arrows driving into it, but I ignored it, pressing on through the rush of bodies, into the biting wind. A boy no higher than my waist ran into my good leg and fell backwards on to the street. He burst into tears and his mother gave a shout as she ran to pick him up. There were mud stains upon her skirts; the hood of her cloak had fallen from her head and her hair was in disarray. She glanced up at me, and I glimpsed the fright in her eyes before she took off again down the hill.

  The chanting grew louder as we reached the top of the Kopparigat. To the right the road ran down towards the river, but it was from the left, the direction of the market and the minster, that the noise was coming. Some way ahead rode mailed men on horseback, their mounts’ hooves spraying up droplets of mud on either side. Pennons flew from upright lances, pennons in red and blue and white and green, and I thought, though I could not be sure, that amongst them I glimpsed one in black and gold: Malet’s colours.

  There came a shout from behind, and I turned just in time to see half a dozen Englishmen with weapons drawn, advancing upon us from out of the crowd. They were young, perhaps five years younger than us, but all were sturdily built. Each of them carried a knife so long that it was almost a sword: what they in their tongue would call a seax.

  ‘Wace!’ I called, as I drew my knife from its sheath. ‘Eudo!’

  They turned and drew their swords, as the Englishmen came at us. None of them wore mail, nor any armour of any kind, but then neither did we, and they were six against our three.

  ‘Stay close,’ Wace said, holding his sword out before him.

  Two of them rushed at me: one tall and lean; the other short, with arms like a blacksmith’s. The short one came at me first, slashing wildly with his seax. I parried the blow: steel scraped against steel, but there was great strength in those arms, and suddenly I was being forced back. In the corner of my eye I saw the tall man rushing forwards, and I knew I had to do something before he reached me too.

  I raised my knee into the short one’s groin. He doubled over, shouting out in agony, and I smashed my hilt down over the back of his head. He collapsed, and then I was turning as the other ran at me, his blade flashing in the sunlight, half blinding me with its brightness. He thrust towards my chest and I tried to duck to one side, but the street was slick with mud and for a moment I lost my footing. I recovered just in time, raising my blade to meet his.

  Sweat rolled off my brow, stinging my eyes, and for a moment I was blind as he thrust again. This time, though, he had gone too far through the stroke, and as he struggled to bring his seax back, I saw my chance. I lunged forward, hoping to drive my knife deep into the Englishman’s belly, but only managed to strike his side. It was enough. The blade tore through his tunic, piercing the skin, and he roared in anguish. His hands flew to the wound, his seax falling from his grasp.

  The rest of his friends had fled, all but the one I had knocked out, and another who lay on the ground between Eudo and Wace, writhing and yelling, clutching at his arm. I turned back to face the Englishman, raising my knife before me as I stepped towards him. His face, so full of anger only moments before, now held only fear as he stared at my blade, and then suddenly he turned and ran, down towards the river.

  He disappeared into the crowd’s midst, and I glanced at Wace and Eudo, who had already put away their swords. Neither looked as though he had been hurt.

  Eudo gestured at the short one I had struck over the head, who lay on his side, unmoving. ‘Is he dead?’

  I kicked him in the side. He did not move, but then I saw his chest rising and falling. ‘He’ll wake before long,’ I said.

  We started off up the street. The knights I had seen earlier had disappeared, but as we approached the marketplace and turned to the right, up towards the minster, their pennons came into sight again, quivering in the breeze. There were at least fifty of them, perhaps as many as seventy, with more riding to join them even as we approached. And facing them on the other side of the marketplace, with the minster church behind them, was a horde of Englishmen, so many that I could not count them, all shouting out with one voice.

  There were men young and old, some with spears and seaxes, while others had only spades or pitchforks, and I saw more than one axe-blade, of the kind that could fell a horse with a single blow. A few were carrying round shields, and they were crashing their weapons against them in an unearthly din, like the battle-thunder I had heard at H?stinges and at Dunholm, but somehow even wilder. For they were not beating all at once or even at the same speed, but, it seemed, simply trying to make as great a sound as possible.

  ‘Ut!’ they roared. ‘Ut!’

  At first I thought this was the rebels’ army, come to take the city, but these did not look like men trained to war. There was not one mail hauberk between them, and only a few helmets. If they had a leader, I could not see him. These were not warriors, I realised, but the townsmen of Eoferwic, come together to stand against us.

  Already some of the horses on our side were shaking their heads, fidgeting where they stood, but their riders kept them steady. I looked amidst the pennons for the black and gold I had spotted before, but I must have been mistaken, for I could not see Malet there. Instead, at the head of the conroi, flying from the end of one of the lances, I saw the red fox upon a yellow field that was the emblem of Gilbert de Gand. Even at such a distance and with his helmet on, I knew from his long chin and gaunt appearance that it was him. He rode up and down in front of the men, shouting at them to keep their lines: a deep-throated roar that belied his slight frame.

  We made our way through the lines of horsemen, the press of bodies, towards the front, and then Gilbert saw us. At first he must have wondered who we were, for he came riding to challenge us, but then, as he approached, a look of recognition came across his face, followed by one of anger. He slowed before us and his mount whickered, plumes of mist erupting from its nostrils.

  ‘You,’ Gilbert said, his small eyes narrowing as he looked down
at me. ‘You’re Earl Robert’s man. The Breton, Tancred a Dinant.’

  ‘Lord Gilbert,’ I replied, just as flatly.

  He glanced at the others, standing beside me. ‘Wace de Douvres and Eudo de Ryes.’ He spoke their names slowly, and it was not hard to make out the contempt in his voice. ‘Have you come just to run from this fight, as you did at Dunholm?’

  ‘We want to help, lord,’ said Wace, with far greater respect than I might have expected from him. Usually he was never one to hide his contempt of those he didn’t like; his bluntness had often got him into trouble over the years. But this was no time for petty quarrels.

  ‘I don’t need help from you,’ Gilbert answered, his cheeks flushing red. He spat upon the ground. ‘I don’t need help from any of Robert’s men. Take your swords elsewhere.’

  A great cry rose up from the English, and Gilbert’s head whipped around. ‘Stand firm,’ he called to the men in front of us. ‘Don’t let them through!’ He glared at us again but did not say anything more before galloping back to the rest of his knights.

  Through the ranks of horsemen I could see little of the enemy, but I didn’t have to, to know that they were coming. In front of us some of the knights, over-eager for battle, raised their lances aloft and spurred their horses forward.

  ‘Hold the line!’ I heard Gilbert shout. But it was already too late, as all about him his knights broke ranks, and what just moments before had been an ordered battle-line descended into confusion. The screams of the dying filled the morning as English and Normans ran amongst each other.

  Some of the townsmen had broken through, their weapons raised high. One came my way, his seax drawn as he screamed some battle-cry. I lifted my knife and parried his thrust, forcing the blade down as I clenched my free hand into a fist and smashed it into his jaw. His head wrenched back, his lower lip streaming with crimson, and as he struggled to regain his balance I followed through, stabbing my knife into his chest. He went down, the blood from his wound pooling and mixing with the dirt at my feet.

  A spear belonging to one of the corpses lay in the mud. I snatched it up, passing my knife into my left hand as another Englishman came forward. He was as wide as he was tall, or so it seemed, but despite his size he was fast, deftly stepping to one side as I drove the spear towards his belly, before ramming his shield into my chest.

  I stumbled backwards, but the weight was on my injured leg and suddenly I found myself falling. My back slammed into the hard earth and the taste of blood was in my mouth as the Englishman towered above me, raising his axe, and I knew I had to get away, but my limbs would not move. He lifted the blade above his head and I froze-

  There was a flash of steel from behind him. Suddenly his eyes glazed over and the axe tumbled from his grasp as he collapsed forward. I came to my senses, rolling to the side as his large frame crashed on to the ground beside me. A bright gash decorated the back of his head where his skull had been shattered. I looked up, saw the sinewy frame of Eudo, who was grinning with the joy of battle. I did my best to smile back as I scrambled to my feet, spitting the dirt from my mouth. I knew how close that blade had come.

  ‘Hold the line!’ Gilbert yelled again, and this time his knights heard him, wheeling away from the slaughter to rally beneath the fox banner. We had lost perhaps a dozen men, I judged, though the enemy had lost far more. Those who faced us now had to make their way over the bodies of their fallen kinsmen first, but their anger appeared undiminished, for still they came. I gripped the hilt of my knife tightly.

  From the direction of the minster I glimpsed a glint of golden thread in the noonday sun, and suddenly above the cries of all those fighting and dying came a single long note, deep but piercing, like the cry of some monstrous animal. The sound of a war-horn. A conroi came into sight, two dozen knights or perhaps even more: through the midst of so many men it was difficult to see.

  ‘For Normandy!’ they cried.

  At their head, beneath the black and the gold that were his colours, rode the vicomte himself, his red helmet-tail flying behind him. He lowered his lance, couching it under his arm, as his horse started into a gallop and the horn blew again. Some of the enemy, realising the danger at their rear, began to turn to face them, but they were few. The rest saw their attackers coming from both sides and straightaway took to flight, making for the small alleys that branched off from the marketplace.

  ‘Kill them!’ Gilbert shouted to his knights as he raised his sword aloft. But the townspeople were already running and our men had little enthusiasm for the chase. Had this been the rebel army, I was sure they would not have hesitated, but it was not, and that made all the difference, since these were but peasants, and there was little glory to be had in killing them.

  Corpses were strewn across the street, their shields and their weapons beside them. I was reminded of that night at Dunholm, except that this time most of the fallen were their men, not ours. Eudo wiped his blade across the tunic of a dead Englishman, smearing more blood over his back to accompany the wound that ran across his shoulders. I let the spear I had taken drop to the ground and returned my knife to its sheath.

  After the rush and the noise of the battle, all was suddenly quiet, save for the bells of the minster church in the distance, their soft chimes carrying clearly to us as they rang for midday.

  ‘That was some fighting,’ Wace said with a grin as he placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Especially for a man who’s hardly picked up a blade in two weeks.’

  I smiled back, though only weakly. The fight had drained more of my strength than I would have liked, and I could not shake from my mind how easily the fear had overcome me, nor how nearly I had succumbed to it.

  On the other side of the marketplace, Malet passed his lance with its black-and-gold pennon to one of his knights. It was the first time that I had seen him equipped for battle, in mail and helmet and with a sword at his belt, though I had heard many tales of his prowess on the field at H?stinges: how he had rallied the duke’s men when they had all thought him dead; how he had led the counter-charge into the English lines and with his own hand slain one of the usurper’s brothers.

  Gilbert shouted at his men to get out of his way as he threaded his way through their lines. He glared at the three of us as he passed, but this time he had no words for us. He rode to greet Malet and, still mounted, the two clasped hands and exchanged a few words, although I could not make out what they were saying. Then Gilbert raised his lance with its red fox pennon, signalled to the rest of his men and rode off, up the street that led to the minster, leaving Malet with his conroi.

  ‘Should we follow him?’ Eudo asked.

  I did not answer, for even as the spearmen were beginning to march I saw Malet riding towards us, keeping his mount to a walk as he made his way over the corpses of those who had fallen. On each flank rode one of his knights: to his left, a stocky man with a bulbous nose that was only part hidden by his nasal-guard, while the one on his right appeared not much more than a boy. If he was a knight proper, as opposed to one still in training, then probably he had only recently sworn his oath.

  The vicomte untied his helmet’s chin-strap and passed it to the younger of the two knights. He glanced at the English corpses that lay around us, then at each of us in turn, a grave look upon his face.

  ‘Eoferwic is growing restless,’ he said. ‘The townspeople are becoming bolder.’

  Behind him I heard cries of distress, and saw a woman running towards one of the bodies, throwing back her hood and clutching at her hair as she fell to her knees beside it. The wind buffeted at her dress as she leant forward, resting her head upon the chest of the dead man. Tears poured down her face.

  I turned my eyes away from her, back to Malet. ‘Yes, lord,’ I replied. What had brought him to meet us, I wondered; did he mean to have our answers now?

  ‘You have fought well,’ he said, not just to me but to all three of us, it seemed, as he looked down at the corpses which lay around us. He turned to Eudo and Wace
. ‘Tancred has told you of the task I have in mind?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Wace said.

  ‘Naturally I’ll see that you are well paid, if you choose to do this for me. Of that you can be certain.’ He turned back to me. ‘I would see you again later this afternoon, Tancred. Come to the chapel in the castle bailey when the monastery bells ring for vespers. I will meet you there.’

  He did not give me a chance to reply as he tugged on the reins and pressed his heels into his horse’s flank; it harrumphed and started forward. He called to the rest of his conroi and together they rode away, in the direction of the castle.

  I turned back to the others. ‘Will you join me?’

  Wace shrugged and glanced at Eudo. ‘You said it yourself,’ he said. ‘What else is there for us here?’

  Eudo nodded in agreement. ‘We’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘And maybe after we’ve done everything for Malet, then we can go back to Normandy, or Italy, and take service there.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, smiling at the thought. It was nearly three years since we had last set foot in Normandy, and five since we were in Italy, though I was sure there would be many there who would yet remember the name of Robert de Commines, and who would happily receive us into their households.

  But all that lay far in the future, for first we had to do this for Malet. And before everything else there was one task more difficult still: one that filled me with unease. I would have to give my oath to him.

  Eleven

  The bells had just finished pealing, and the low edge of the sun was almost touching the rooftops to the west by the time I rode into the bailey. The heavens blazed with golden light, but there were dark clouds overhead and I felt a few drops of rain as I arrived at the chapel.

  Men sat around their fires, sharing flasks of ale or wine, or else honing their blades. A few I thought I recognised from the fight in the marketplace, although I could not be sure. From beyond the walls came the calls of geese, moments before I saw them lifting above the palisade, their wings beating hard as they swooped around the bailey’s southern gate then headed towards the sun.