Authors: Emily Murdoch
Matilda sighed. “You are right, of course.” She moved forward, and then in an elegant movement, knelt by the woman who had attempted to follow most of the conversation, but was having difficulty keeping conscious.
“My lady Catheryn, I sympathise,” Matilda reached out an arm to comfort Catheryn, who looked up at her with wide eyes. “But you are too precious to lose. Do not fear – we will not leave you here with this repugnant man.” She cast a look over her shoulder at Geffrei.
“I know a lady who has children, like you do, and who will be a much better carer for you. Her name is Adeliza. Adeliza de Tosny, wife of William FitzOsbern.”
The rain was falling steadily, as it had been for the last three days. Anything that had started out dry was now drenched, and many of the men felt that they would never be dry again. They cursed against the English weather, and longed for home.
The tents sagged under the weight of all the water, and small boys, wet to their skins, were going around the encampment attempting to remove the water from the tents into buckets. The task had at first seemed a fun one, but as each day dawned to further rain, they now bitterly regretted volunteering.
A man sat at a tent opening, looking out at the clouds that showed no sign of moving. His hair was dark, but smatterings of grey threatened to start to overtake his temples. His plain and simple clothes belied their price, and the sword by his side showed he was a knight.
William FitzOsbern sighed. He shut his eyes against the water splattering down onto his shoulder, and thought of home.
“Fitz?”
Forced to open his eyes, he saw a small man, dressed in the regalia of a bishop. Odo of Bayeux.
“My lord Odo,” Fitz rose to greet the man who had been left in charge of England whilst the King was visiting his family back in Normandy. “How goes your day?”
Odo spat on the ground, his hair plastered to his face. “The same as it always does in this God-forsaken country. Can I come in?”
Fitz bowed his assent, and moved so that Odo could pass him and enter the shelter of the tent, small as it was.
“It does not feel that there is much to do, in truth,” Odo continued, lowering himself gingerly onto a stool in Fitz’s tent. “I hope I don’t get this too wet,” he added, looking up at Fitz.
The owner of the stool shrugged. “Nothing will stay dry forever. Not in this weather.”
Odo barked a laugh. “You wish to be in Normandy?”
“I wish to be anywhere,” Fitz emphasised, “but here.”
He sat back down on the chair that had been his resting place when Odo arrived, turning it first so that he could face his guest.
“I appreciate that you have stayed.” Odo’s voice was more serious now. “I need good men here while our king is away. Strong men. Men that can be respected as well as liked.”
Fitz looked at the King’s half-brother, and smiled to himself. Odo was determined to prove himself, everyone knew that. He should never have joined the Church, but it had to be. His father had been determined to have at least one son gain power within a cathedral, and so Odo had had no real choice. But his bishop’s robes had not prevented him from riding out in the battles that had won England for their own.
Fitz’s eyes darkened as he remembered the day that they had landed. The foreign beaches, and the villages of people who had no idea that they were coming…
“…don’t you think?”
Odo’s voice brought Fitz back to where he was. Ashamed of his lack of attention, Fitz shook his head slightly, trying to regain his concentration.
“Back in Normandy?” Odo smiled again. “We shall have to send you back, at this rate, if you cannot keep your mind attentive to the job at hand.”
“No, my lord Odo,” Fitz said hastily. “I am perfectly content here. I am honoured to protect England with you for our king.”
Odo’s glance took in the tired eyes and sore leg that Fitz had been attempting to hide from his men for some time.
“It is an honour,” Fitz repeated himself, and caught the eye of Odo once more. The two men smiled at each other.
“It is indeed,” Odo conceded.
There was a moment of silence between them, broken only by the continuing pattering of rain.
“I have a favour to ask of you,” Odo spoke abruptly, looking over at his companion. “I have to be honest with you, and tell you that it is not a pleasant one, and it is a task that I would rather not do myself.”
Fitz smiled, in spite of himself. “You are not making the task seem any more enjoyable, my lord.”
Odo’s barking laugh sounded again. “You are right of course – but I think it right that I do not give you fair warning. You may decide to delegate it to another man.”
Fitz shrugged. “I may, I may not. What do you require of me?”
It was Odo’s hesitation that caused Fitz’s first real concern. Odo was a man who had ridden screaming into battle with only a mace to protect him. He had managed to persuade forty Norman lords to follow William to England in the first place. If there was something to be done that he did not like, it was almost certainly dangerous, foolish, or both.
“I need a message taken,” Odo said reluctantly. “It is quite a simple one, but could be disastrous if it fell into the hands of our enemies.”
Odo did not say who the enemies were, but they both knew. The English: every man, woman and child within this country was against them, despite the invasion taking place almost a year ago now. There were still very few people who openly welcomed the Normans, and not even they could all be trusted.
It was a perilous time to be a Norman in England.
“And where does this message need to be taken?” Fitz asked.
Odo would not look at Fitz when he spoke. “London.”
“London?” Fitz could not believe it. “You want me to take a message that would be victory in our enemies’ hands to London?”
“I know what I ask seems foolishness,” Odo spoke in haste, “but –”
“Foolishness? Nay, call it what it is – madness! I am a FitzOsbern, not a servant to carry around messages. Is there not another with time to take on such a task?”
“There is none that I would trust more to complete this favour than you.”
Fitz stopped. He looked at the man who was attempting to prevent a country from falling apart. The weight of it was showing in his eyes, and in the way that his hands curled in his lap.
“There is none,” he repeated, “but you. Will you take this burden from me?”
Fitz breathed out heavily. “We are in Canterbury now. How many days’ travel is it from here to London?”
“Three days. Two, depending on the horse. One if you decide to ride like the devil is chasing you.”
“Which he may be.” Fitz smiled. “My lord Odo, why have you asked me to do this?”
Odo swept an arm across himself as he spoke. “Fitz, you know why.”
“My lord,” Fitz looked confused, “there are many men here that would be honoured to do this for you.”
“And yet,” Odo said thoughtfully, “there are few men here that have mastered the heathen tongue.”
“I suppose,” Fitz said slowly, “that I have. And yet Anglo-Saxon is not a difficult language to comprehend.”
“You joke, surely!” Odo looked amazed. “The very sound of it confuses me, and I know very few that have even managed to remember a few phrases. Your skill with languages must be prodigious.”
Fitz shrugged. “My aptitude is no surprise. It is always useful to speak one’s enemy’s language.”
“And it is why you are so highly valued by the King, and by myself. There are few who can converse so well with the savages of this isle.”
Fitz coloured slightly. “I am not accustomed to being so highly praised, my lord.”
“You will need to become so – I think you have a long and prosperous career ahead of you.”
Fitz looked at the man opposite him. “I will take this burden from you.”
Odo visibly relaxed. “I knew that you would. Your reward will be waiting for you here when you return.”
“Make it sunshine!” Fitz rose, and his guest followed his lead. The two men stood side by side at the entrance of the tent. The rain that had been falling slowly was now pelting into the ground, churning up the mud that had barely had time to dry.
Odo turned to his companion. “Be safe.”
“I always am.”
“When do you intend to leave?”
Fitz peered out of the tent. “If I wait for the rain to stop, I might never leave. First light tomorrow, I shall be away.”
Odo clapped Fitz on the back. “God speed, my friend.”
*
Fitz knew that the journey to London the next day was not going to be pleasant. Even if he ignored the fact that he would almost certainly have to undertake the journey whilst soaking wet, the roads – if you could call them roads – were now filled with bandits, men who had barely survived the invasion and were now determined to wreak vengeance on any man who even partially resembled a Norman. They were not very discerning.
Pulling his cloak tightly around his shoulders, Fitz left his tent. A young man, tall and with a head covered in black hair, quickly ran up to him.
“My lord?”
“Ah, Marmion,” Fitz nodded. The young man was of a good family, but his father had died in the invasion. He was the younger son, and had needed a man to take charge of him – and as Fitz had no squire, he had taken him on. Marmion was vicious only when he needed to be, and a gentle spirit off the battle field. Just what a Norman should be. Moreover, he was one of the best horse riders Fitz had ever seen, and he hoped that before too long, Marmion would be able to teach him.
“You are going, my lord?” Marmion’s deep voice was full of concern. “The roads are dangerous.”
“This is a favour for… a very great friend.”
Marmion understood immediately what Fitz meant. “Well then,” he said with a lazy smile, “I hope your friend has a lot of gold to reward you with when you return home!”
Fitz chuckled. “I think we can safely say that there is more than enough that my friend can do for me.”
The two men smiled at each other, but Marmion’s smile was the one that disappeared first.
“You will be careful.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“I will,” said Fitz reassuringly. “You’ll be making hot baths for me again in no time.”
Fitz turned to walk away, but Marmion put a hand on his arm.
“You cannot think of going now!”
Fitz shook his head. “I need to visit the city for a few items I will need on my journey.”
“Let me go,” Marmion said. “I can easily gather for you whatever you need.”
“I know,” said Fitz. “But I have not seen Canterbury, and I have heard it is quite beautiful. I will not be long. Ready a horse for me – I shall be leaving early tomorrow morning.”
Marmion bowed his head, and walked away.
Fitz walked along the corridor created by the mass of men, standing on both sides in the doorways of their tents. Almost one hundred men were camping here on the grounds of St Augustine’s Abbey – one of the largest areas in Canterbury where the locals would refuse to bring their weapons. Their reverence for the holy ground was not felt by the Normans; every man that Fitz passed carried a sword, and their hands never ventured too far from the hilt. The Normans had become accustomed to living in fear for their lives.
As Fitz entered the city, the sounds of traders and hawkers began to reach his ears. Even in this terrible weather, money must be spent.
“The best lace, the best lace that money can buy!”
“Get them hot, get them here, get them now…”
“…and I dare you to find better!”
Fitz smiled as he heard the babble of voices. It was almost second nature to him now, streaming out the Norman from the Anglo-Saxon, but he still struggled with some words within the Anglo-Saxon tongue. It was so different from anything he had ever encountered; just like this wild island where rain almost always fell.
As he walked, some traders carefully approached him in broken Norman.
“Lord, lord see these, see these, lord…”
Fitz waved them aside with a quick sweep of his hand, and was amazed to see them melt back into the general bustle of the street. He turned, and saw that the men were hurriedly talking amongst themselves, trying desperately not to attract his notice. He caught something of what they were saying.
“…go back to his own country…”
Fitz sighed, and continued back along the main street within Canterbury. If only he could return home to Normandy.
The rain had subsided to a drizzle, but Fitz was still struggling to ignore it. His feet slipped on the wet stones of the street, and he muttered an obscenity under his breath. The last thing he needed now was an injury that would prevent him from fulfilling his promise to Odo.
Several of the shop fronts that he passed were boarded up, and a couple seemed empty, abandoned. Fitz poked his head into one. The door was unlocked, and the ribbons and silks that were laid across the shelves were covered with a thick layer of dust.
“My lord?”
A small child was peering in at the doorway, staring with wild, frightened eyes at the man in Norman armour standing in an Anglo-Saxon shop.
Fitz smiled at the child, although he wasn’t quite sure whether it was a girl or a boy.
“Hello,” he said softly in Anglo-Saxon. “My name is Fitz. What’s yours?”
The child hesitated, clearly unsure how this strange man could look so odd and foreign but with familiar and safe words pouring from his mouth.
Fitz’s smile broadened. “Is this your shop?”
The child shook its head slowly. “It is the shop of Cyneric.”