Sworn Sword c-1 Page 7

  And then without warning the pain rushed up on me, and I was on the ground, clutching at my leg, staring at the blood that was gushing forth. One of the enemy stood over me, grinning. He raised his spear high, ready to thrust down, to make the finishing blow. I stared back up at him despairingly as I tried to move, and found that I could not.

  He gave a laugh of disdain, booming and hollow, before finally the steel point stabbed down and darkness engulfed me.

  Seven

  The sun was in my eyes when next I woke, so bright that for the briefest moment I wondered if I had died and if this were heaven. But as I blinked the moisture from my eyes, raising a hand to shield them from the light, slowly the world came into view.

  I found myself lying upon a narrow bed in a chamber barely larger than a horse’s stall. There was a single glass slit for a window, and the light was shining straight in, glaring off the whitewashed plaster. I must have slept a long time, for the sun was high, but even so I still felt tired. A fire crackled in the small hearth. Two stools stood beside the bed, and on top of one was a wooden cup. The rest of the room was empty; there was no sign of my mail or shield, or even of my cloak or shoes.

  I did not recognise this place. The last I remembered, it had been night and we were riding along the old road, making for Eoferwic. I had collapsed, fallen from the saddle; Wace had gone away and then returned. But what had happened after that I did not know. I tried to think back, but it was like chasing shadows in the night: no sooner did an image come to mind than it slipped away again, melting back into darkness.

  Only the battle came back to me clearly: the one thing I would rather have forgotten. Even as I lay there I could almost feel the thunder of hooves beneath me; I could see myself leading the charge as we drove into the English line. And I remembered the moment I had been struck, the flash of heat down my lower leg as the flesh was torn open.

  My leg. Apart from a dull ache I could hardly feel it now. But my head was thumping, my limbs numb with tiredness, my mouth dry. I coughed. A strange taste lingered upon my tongue — like leather, I thought, although how I could tell that I was not sure, since to my knowledge I had never eaten any.

  I struggled against the sheets that were wrapped around me, trying to shake off the heavy woollen blanket spread across them. My bare skin brushed against the cloth; my clothes had been taken from me along with everything else. I felt for my cross, thinking they might have taken that as well, but thankfully it was still there.

  I reached out for the cup, managing to get a fingertip to it, not enough to grasp it fully, and it fell with a clatter to the floor, spilling its contents across the stone flags. I cursed under my breath, and slid back under the sheets.

  Sleep came once more, and it must have been at least another hour before I surfaced. The room was still bright, but the sun had moved, no longer shining in my face, and I could see that the door lay open.

  A man was standing there, watching me. He was stoutly built, and clearly used to comfortable living. His hair, brown but greying, straggled across his shoulders, but he was otherwise clean-shaven. He wore the loose-fitting robes of a priest over brown trews; on a leather thong around his neck hung a green stone, polished and sparkling in the sun. His face was weathered, and there were more than a few wrinkles around his eyes; he was in his middle years at least, even if he couldn’t yet be described as old.

  ‘Ah, I see you are awake,’ he said with a smile. He glanced down, saw the cup lying on the floor. ‘I will fetch some wine for you.’

  I said nothing, and he disappeared from sight once more. From the accent in his voice I could tell that he was English. And yet he had spoken to me in French. My mind whirled. Had I fallen into the hands of the enemy? But if so, why would they have let me live, still less try to talk with me?

  The Englishman soon returned, bearing a flagon down the side of which rolled a single red droplet. ‘It is a great relief to see you awake and well,’ he said before I had a chance to speak. ‘In truth we didn’t know whether you would survive. The Lord be praised that you have.’

  ‘The Lord be praised indeed,’ I said. It came out as a rasp, and I coughed, wincing at the rawness of my throat.

  He set the flagon down upon one of the stools, and sat down on the other as he picked up the cup I had knocked over. He poured wine into it and passed it to me with pudgy fingers.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Drink.’

  I took the cup in one hand, taking care not to spill any, and lifted it to my lips, letting the sweet taste of the liquid roll over my tongue. I swallowed; it slid coolly down.

  The priest was watching me carefully, and I suddenly wondered if the wine had in fact been poisoned. But surely if they had planned to kill me, they would have done so before now.

  ‘Where am I?’ I asked. My throat still hurt, though now less than before. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Forgive my rudeness. My name is?lfwold.’ He extended a hand towards me.

  I glanced at it, but did not take it. ‘You’re English.’

  If he took any offence at the accusation, he did not show it. ‘I am, yes,’ he said. ‘Although it may interest you to know that my lord the vicomte is not.’

  ‘The vicomte?’ He’d used the French word, I noticed, rather than the English, which would have been scirgerefa, or shire-reeve: the man charged by the king with the government of a province and everything that entailed, from the collection of dues to the maintenance of law and even the raising of armies. ‘You mean Guillaume Malet?’

  The priest smiled. ‘Guillaume surnamed Malet, seigneur of Graville-Sainte-Honorine across the sea and vicomte of the shire of Eoferwic. I am honoured to serve him as chaplain.’ He gestured around at the chamber. ‘This is his house.’

  I took a deep breath as a wave of relief broke over me. We had made it; somehow we had made it. ‘This is Eoferwic, then?’

  ‘It is,’ he replied evenly, without so much as a flicker of impatience. ‘Considering everything that has happened, you have been tremendously fortunate. God’s favour shines upon you, Tancred a Dinant.’

  I turned my gaze away, towards the floor. I did not feel fortunate.

  ‘We have all of course heard the story of what happened at Dunholm,’ the chaplain went on. ‘You should know that so far those returned from the expedition number fewer than three hundred, many of them knights like yourself.’

  Fewer than three hundred, out of the army of two thousand that had marched from Lundene only a few weeks before. How was it possible to have lost so many, and all in one night? ‘I don’t believe it,’ I said.

  ‘Nonetheless, it is true,’ the chaplain said, his countenance grim. ‘By all accounts it was a massacre. You and your companions did well to escape with your lives.’

  ‘My companions?’ I asked. ‘You mean Eudo and Wace are here?’

  ‘I didn’t learn their names, but if they are the same two who brought you in, then yes, I believe they are staying in one of the alehouses in the city. They were both here for a short while yesterday.’

  Yesterday, I thought, but my mind was blank. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Since it is now the third day of February …’ He paused as if in thought, fingering the green stone around his neck. ‘… I believe three days and nights in all. Most of that time you have spent either unconscious or sleeping, and burning with ague besides, so hot that at times we feared for your life. On the few occasions that you did appear to wake, you were far from lucid.’ His eyes were solemn as he looked at me. ‘To have suffered such an injury, endured a journey of more than fifty miles, and then still live at the end of it all — well, that is something of a miracle. You are a resilient man, Tancred. You must thank your companions when next you see them, for they have done you a great service. You are blessed to have friends as loyal as they.’

  ‘I will thank them,’ I said. Indeed it sounded as though I owed them my life; I hadn’t realised until then how badly I must have been aff
licted. Three days I had been here, and yet I remembered nothing of it.

  ‘Will you send word?’ I asked. ‘I would like to see them.’

  ?lfwold nodded. ‘I will do my best to find out where they are staying, and despatch a messenger as soon as I can manage. Of course my lord would very much like to meet you too. He has heard a great deal about you, and I know he is interested in obtaining your service.’

  I swallowed and looked away. I could not think of taking a new lord yet; Robert’s death still weighed heavy upon my heart. Under him I had led a full conroi of knights: men who knew and trusted me, who would follow my every instruction without fail. He had given me mail and sword and shield, had helped to make me who I was. But now that life was gone, stolen from me, and I did not know what to do.

  For without a lord a man was nothing. There were some who tried to make their way alone, swearing oaths to none but themselves, but they were few and held in ill regard besides. Often they travelled in bands, selling their swords to anyone willing to pay good silver, and often they did well for themselves. They were among the lowest class of men, for most had no honour, no scruple, no loyalty except to their purses. I had no desire to become one of them, but I had been with Robert for so long that I was not sure whether I could bring myself to serve another lord, or at least not so soon.

  And at the same time I was confused, for if Guillaume Malet had heard so much about me, he must surely know that I had led my men to their deaths at Dunholm; that I had failed to protect Robert at the one time when it truly mattered. What interest could he have in me?

  ‘I am sorry,’ the chaplain said, obviously sensing my discomfort. ‘I understand it is yet early to be speaking of such things. I know that you’ve suffered a great deal of late. I ought not to interrupt your rest any further.’ He raised himself from the stool.

  ‘What of the wound itself?’ I asked him before he could leave. I felt my calf throbbing; it seemed tight, as though there was something resting upon the skin, tied to it, perhaps. Something moist and heavy, weighing my leg down so much that I found it hard to move it.

  ‘We used the irons on it, of course, and after that applied a poultice of herbs. Again you were fortunate, for the cut, though long, was not deep.’

  ‘How long before it’s healed?’

  ‘It’s hard to know for certain,’ he said. ‘But you have shown yourself to be strong so far. Given rest, and provided the wound is kept clean, I should think it will not be long. I imagine you could be walking on it within a week or two. Keep praying and God will see to it; that is the best advice I can offer.’

  ‘Thank you, father,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll see that food and drink is brought to you. It is wise to build up your strength, after all.’ The priest made to leave, his long vestments trailing across the floor. He reached the door and paused. ‘There are servants about; if there is anything else you might require, you need only call. I’ll inform my lord that you are awake. I hope that he will see you later.’

  I nodded and he smiled again, just briefly, before he left, closing the door behind him.

  As promised, a jug of beer was soon brought and placed beside my bed, followed shortly by some bread and cheese, apples and berries. One servant-boy helped me to sit up, placing a straw-filled pillow behind my back, while another brought some wood for the fire, which was beginning to dwindle. I ate as much as I could, but in truth I was not all that hungry, and when the same two returned later to bear away the dishes I had used, there was still most of it left.

  I wondered about the chaplain,?lfwold, and why he would choose to serve a French lord such as Malet. I thought of those English lords who had submitted to King Guillaume in the months after our victory at H?stinges, many of whom remained in possession of their lands even now. Their oaths, though, had not been willingly given, but rather forced upon them, and more than two years later there remained much mistrust on both sides.

  This priest, on the other hand, had said he was proud to serve the vicomte, and when he had spoken about what had taken place at Dunholm, it seemed to me that it was with genuine regret. Since we had first arrived on these shores, no Englishman I had met had ever regarded us with anything less than enmity. Why he should be any different, I could not understand.

  I lay back for a while, listening to the sounds that I could hear beyond the window: the shouts of men practising at arms; the whinnying of horses; further off, the steady hammering of iron upon iron that was surely a blacksmith at work. Though I still felt weak, I was no longer gripped with tiredness as I had been before. As my head cleared, I sat up and spent some time in prayer, giving my thanks to God for having saved me, asking that He save the souls of those I had lost. It was a long while since I had last prayed properly, and I hoped that He would hear me.

  It was growing late in the afternoon when I heard a knock upon the door. Even before I could answer, a man entered.

  It wasn’t the priest, for this man was lean and tall — as tall as myself, perhaps, although without being able to stand opposite him it was difficult to tell. His hair, cut short in the French fashion, was a dark grey in colour, his face angular, with thick eyebrows and a scar — albeit one long-healed — down his right cheek. He was dressed in a scarlet tunic, embroidered with golden thread around the neck and cuffs. Silver rings adorned two of the fingers on his left hand. He was evidently a man of some wealth, and I wondered if this were in fact the vicomte himself.

  ‘Tancred a Dinant,’ he said. His voice was deep but not harsh; nevertheless its tone was that of one used to authority.

  ‘My lord,’ I answered, and lowered my head. It was the closest to a bow that I could manage while seated.

  ‘My name is Guillaume Malet. I am sure you will have heard of me.’

  I couldn’t tell if that last remark was intended to be ironic or not, but there was no sign of humour in his face.

  ‘I’m honoured to meet you,’ I said. In my time with Lord Robert I had grown well used to dealing with men of standing. As one of the men closest to the king, he was often required at court, and many were the times that either I or Wace had accompanied him with our conrois to Westmynstre.

  ‘Similarly,’ Malet said. ‘Your reputation as a man of the sword is well known to me.’

  He sat down on one of the stools at my bedside and held out a hand. I clasped it in my own. His grip was firm, and I noticed there were calluses on his palm, which struck me as unusual for a man of his status.

  ‘I knew Robert de Commines,’ he said as he released his hold. ‘I have been praying a great deal for his soul since I heard the news. His loss will be felt most keenly by all of us. He was a good man — something that seems to be increasingly rare these days.’

  I felt moisture forming in the corners of my eyes, but fought it back. ‘Yes, lord.’ I did not know what else to say.

  ‘As I’m sure my chaplain?lfwold has said, we have heard all about what happened at Dunholm. To lose so many men in one night is without precedent.’

  ‘The enemy came upon us by surprise, in such numbers that we had no hope of defending the town.’ Though if we had retreated to the fastness and rallied our forces as I had argued, perhaps we could have prevailed.

  ‘Nevertheless, there are those who would say that the earl should have been better prepared. That he was over-confident. He gave permission for his army to go raiding the town; he let them get drunk even though he suspected the enemy were still about.’

  I hesitated, surprised at how much Malet knew about events. But then he would already have heard from all those who had returned — from Eudo and Wace and other knights besides, from all the noblemen who had served under Lord Robert.

  ‘Everything he did, he did with the counsel and support of the other lords,’ I said. I knew because I had been there with him in the mead-hall as the discussions had taken place. It was shortly after that meeting that I had been sent out with Eudo and the others to scout the hills.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Malet said
, ‘although with Robert dead it has become highly convenient for them to place all the blame on him.’

  I remained silent, as his words worked their way through my mind. There were many among those other lords whom I had disliked, but none I had thought capable of deceit of this kind. It amounted to nothing less than a betrayal of Robert.

  ‘And then,’ Malet continued, ‘there are others who would question how it came to be that Earl Robert’s two most trusted men managed to survive, when he himself did not.’ He raised an eyebrow.

  He was suggesting that Wace and I had deliberately abandoned our lord to save ourselves. I felt a rush of anger such as I had not felt since the battle, but held it back. I couldn’t afford to lose my temper before a man of such influence as the vicomte, especially given the generosity he had shown me by sheltering me in his own house.

  ‘Do you question it, lord?’ I asked instead, holding his gaze.

  The corners of his mouth turned up in a faint smile. ‘Rest assured I do not,’ he said. Then his expression became serious once more, his lips firmly set. ‘Robert trusted few men, but those he did, he always held in high regard. He knew how to win their respect and loyalty, and I have no doubt that you did all you could for him. Nevertheless, there are many who may think otherwise, and who will consider twice before taking you into their employ.’

  ‘My lord,’ I said. ‘It’s less than a week since his death-’

  ‘Earl Robert spoke highly of you,’ he cut me off, as if he had not heard me speak. ‘Indeed I have heard much of your prowess, Tancred. I know that you saved his life, and more than once. You gave him your horse at H?stinges after his was killed beneath him. You were the one who pulled him from the melee when he became surrounded.’