‘My name is Tancred a Dinant,’ I said, drawing myself up to my full height as I came eye to eye with him, ‘once knight of Robert de Commines, the rightful Earl of Northumbria.’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw his huscarls’ hands reach towards their sword-hilts, but I was not about to back down. Eadgar held up a hand to stop them as he stepped towards me. He was within arm’s reach now, close enough that I could see his yellow teeth, his wide nostrils; close enough that his stench, foul like fresh horse-shit, filled my nose.
‘Robert was a coward,’ Eadgar said. ‘He didn’t deserve to live.’
‘I ought to slit your throat right now for what you did.’ I jabbed a finger towards his breast.
He wrenched it away. ‘Touch me again,’ he growled, and I felt the heat of his breath upon my face, ‘and it will be your throat that’s slit, not mine.’
It was the wrong thing for him to say, for in my anger I took his words as a challenge. Before I could think better of it I raised my hands and, with all the strength I could muster, shoved him back. He staggered under the weight of his mail, struggling to keep his footing, until he came crashing down, landing on his backside in the mud.
‘You bastard,’ Eadgar said as he got to his feet, and I saw the hatred in his dark eyes. Straightaway he drew his blade, and I drew mine. His four huscarls, shields raised and spears outstretched, rushed to protect him.
I let out a laugh. ‘Are you so afraid of one man that you hide behind four of your own?’ I asked, shouting so that the rest of his retinue could hear me. ‘You’re the coward, not Lord Robert!’
‘Enough,’ I heard the vicomte shout. ‘Tancred, put your sword away.’
But the rest of our men were behind me now: jeering, throwing insults at the ætheling, and I paid Malet no attention. ‘I will come for you,’ I went on, ‘and when I do, I’ll tear out your throat and sever your head, slice open your stomach and leave your corpse for the crows to feed on. I will come for you, Eadgar, and I will kill you!’
‘Tancred,’ Malet said again, more sharply this time. ‘We’re here to talk, not to fight.’
I was breathing hard, I realised, and beneath my mail my arms were running with sweat. I watched the ætheling, but he clearly had no more words for me, since he remained tight-lipped. Slowly his men lowered their spears, and he sheathed his sword, and only then did my anger begin to subside. I spat on the ground before at last I turned and slid my own blade back into its scabbard.
‘That was foolish,’ Ælfwold said, as I made my way back. ‘You could have been killed.’
‘Just be glad that I wasn’t, then,’ I snapped. The battle-anger still lingered and I was in no mood to argue with him.
‘You should keep your dog on a tighter leash, Guillaume,’ the ætheling called. ‘Otherwise sooner or later he will try to bite you too.’
‘I will deal with my men how I choose,’ the vicomte replied. ‘Now, tell me what it is you’ve come to say.’
Eadgar glared at me a while longer, but I was not to be moved. ‘As you wish,’ he said to Malet. ‘I know that neither of us wants a battle, and so I bring you this offer: surrender the city to me this evening and I will allow you and all your host safe passage as far as the Humbre.’
Of course Eadgar knew that assaulting a city was no easy undertaking, and that even if he succeeded, he would probably lose many hundreds of men in doing so. And so he presented Malet with a choice: either to stay and fight and risk his life; or else retreat in dishonour, leaving Eoferwic to the rebels, and thus invite the king’s wrath. I didn’t know which was worse.
‘And if I refuse your terms?’ Malet said.
‘Then we will take the town by force,’ the ætheling replied, ‘and I shall look forward to killing you personally and taking my pleasure from your womenfolk.’
‘My lord—’ Gilbert began, but the vicomte raised a hand to silence him.
‘You think you will take Eoferwic with this rabble?’ he asked the ætheling, gesturing towards the purple-and-yellow banner and the men gathered beneath it.
‘I have near four thousand men encamped to the north of here, each one of them hungry for battle,’ Eadgar said.
Malet frowned. ‘And yet I see barely one hundred here.’
‘Mock me if you wish, but I’ve seen your scouts watching us. You know I speak the truth.’
The vicomte held his gaze. The wind was up, whistling across the marshes and the plains, while around us banner-cloth flapped. Otherwise there was silence.
‘Do I have an answer, then?’ Eadgar asked.
Malet looked up towards the sky, taking a deep breath. He closed his eyes – searching for guidance from God, perhaps – until, after a final glance at the ætheling, he turned his back and made for his horse.
‘You are a fool, Guillaume,’ Eadgar called as the rest of us followed and mounted up. ‘I will show you no mercy! Do you hear me? No mercy!’
But the vicomte did not reply as we rode away, back towards the city gates. Instead he was staring out into the distance, towards the west, as the last glimmer of sun descended below the horizon. And I felt a chill come over me. For in his eyes was a look I recognised: the same one that I had seen in Lord Robert’s that night at Dunholm.
A look of despair, as if he already knew his fate.
Twelve
THAT NIGHT I
dreamt of Oswynn.
She was with me still, as beautiful as ever, her black hair whipping behind her in the wind, laughing wildly. All about us the land glowed beneath the summer sun as we rode across pastureland, through fields grown thick with wheat. Behind us lay the town of Waerwic, which was where I had first met her, though we would not be returning there. How long we had been riding neither of us knew, when we came upon a forest glade, far from anyone who might disturb us. We left our horses, and there under the shade of the trees we lay down in each other’s embrace, and I was caressing her cheeks, her neck, her pale breasts before—
I woke sharply to the sound of my name, finding myself in my room once more. Malet’s house, I remembered. It was still dark; a faint half-light shone in through the window. A stout figure stood over me, clad in dark robes and a thick cloak. A green pebble hung around his neck and he carried in his hand a small lantern. The flickering flame lit up his face.
‘Ælfwold?’ I asked.
‘Dress quickly,’ the chaplain said.
I sat up, trying to hold on to the forest, to Oswynn, the smell of her skin, the heat of that summer’s day, even as they slipped away from me. A cold draught blew in through the open door. I had kept my shirt on during the night, but it was only thin and the air was like ice upon my skin.
‘It’s early,’ I said, which was obvious, but my mind was still clouded with sleep and those were the first words that came upon my tongue.
‘So it is, my friend,’ the priest answered. ‘We must be up.’
Outside I could hear men shouting, horses whinnying. For an instant the chamber was bathed in an orange glow as a torch flashed past the window, then darkness took hold once again.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked.
‘They’re coming,’ Ælfwold said. ‘We must make for the wharves without delay.’
‘The English are marching?’
The chaplain frowned. ‘The rebels,’ he corrected me. ‘Their army has been seen approaching from the north.’ He set the lantern down upon the floor. ‘I shall be waiting in the hall.’
He hurried out. I threw off the blanket which lay over me and got to my feet, tugging my tunic on over my shirt, pulling on and lacing up my braies, donning my mail and fastening my cloak about me. My knife lay beside the bed, and I buckled it upon my belt – on my right side this time, for the sword the vicomte had given me was now on my left. Again I could hear shouting, and the fall of hooves in the yard. I glanced about the room to make sure there was nothing else, but there was not. Soberly I realised then that I was carrying with me everything I owned.
Ælfwold was waiting for me in the hall, just as he said he would be. He was dressed not in his usual priestly robes but in what looked more like travelling clothes: a green tunic and brown trews, with a loose reddish-brown cloak in the English style, clasped at the right shoulder with an intricate silver brooch.
‘You are ready?’ the priest asked. ‘Whatever you need you must bring now, for we cannot return later.’
‘I’m ready,’ I said. I checked beneath my cloak for the coin-pouch that the vicomte had entrusted to me; it was still there. ‘Has word been sent to Eudo and Wace?’
‘A messenger has been sent,’ he answered as we made our way to the great doors, which lay open. ‘They’ll be meeting us at the ship.’
Outside the courtyard lay shrouded in mist, lit only by torchlight and, far to the east, the faint grey light that marked the approach of dawn. Frost crunched beneath my feet; the ground was hard and the puddles had turned to ice. The chaplain led me towards a group
of knights – three in all – who were standing beside their horses, rubbing their hands to warm them. All looked up as we approached. Two of them I did not recognise but one I did, for he was one of those who had been with Malet the day before: short but firmly set, with a nose that seemed too large for his face.
‘These are the men who will be accompanying us,’ Ælfwold told me, then to the others said, ‘This is Tancred, whom Lord Guillaume has assigned to lead you.’
I held out my hand and clasped each of theirs in turn, struck by how young they all seemed. I was never very good at judging ages, but I guessed that they were easily three or four years younger than myself.
‘I thought there were to be six of us,’ said the one with the large nose. His voice was deep, with a slight rasp that put me in mind of a dog’s bark.
‘The other two will be meeting us at the ship,’ Ælfwold said as half a dozen mounted men galloped past us, lances in hand, towards the gates. ‘Now we await only the ladies Elise and Beatrice.’
We did not need to wait long, however, for at that moment I saw them riding towards us from the stables: Beatrice, her slender frame wrapped in a thick black cloak trimmed with fur; and beside her a woman who could only be her mother, Malet’s wife. Rounder than her daughter, she rode with a straight back, and her face was stern, with a piercing gaze not unlike her husband’s.
‘My ladies,’ the chaplain said as they checked their horses before us.
‘Father Ælfwold,’ Elise said, before she turned to me. ‘You are the one my husband has chosen to escort us to Lundene?’ she asked. Her voice was even – much like her daughter’s, in fact – and I saw that despite her stern countenance she was not unattractive for her age.
‘I am, my lady,’ I replied, and bowed. ‘My name is Tancred.’
‘Forgive me,’ the chaplain said, interrupting, ‘but we must make haste. There will be time enough for introductions once we’ve sailed.’
A stable-hand had arrived as we were speaking, leading two
horses, one of which must have belonged to the chaplain, for he now took its reins, while the other was the mare I had borrowed the day before.
‘Very well,’ said the lady Elise. ‘We shall speak further later, I am sure.’
I took the mare’s reins from the stable-hand. She was already saddled and so I mounted up and rode to the head of the party. I met Beatrice’s eyes briefly as I passed – wide and full of fear – before she turned away again.
I pointed to the large-nosed man. ‘You,’ I said. ‘What’s your name?’
He regarded me with a defiant look. ‘Radulf,’ he said, as he settled himself in the saddle.
‘I saw you with the vicomte yesterday, up at the marketplace by the minster church.’
‘That’s right,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘What of it?’
I would be lying if I said that his hostility did not irk me, though at the same time I was not surprised by it. Probably he was used to leading, and so resented my being placed in charge.
‘Take the rearguard,’ I said, ignoring his question, and likewise ignoring the angry look that he returned. My eyes fell upon one of his companions: a thickset man who it seemed had not shaved in some time. ‘And you,’ I said. ‘What do they call you?’
‘Godefroi,’ he said. ‘Godefroi fitz Alain.’
‘Go with him.’
They turned – the one named Radulf somewhat grudgingly – and rode to the back of the column, leaving just one. From his face I judged him to be the youngest of the three, even though he was taller than the rest – taller even than myself, I thought, though I was near six feet in height. He bore a solemn expression, but I sensed an eagerness behind those eyes.
I raised my eyebrows at him, and he understood the question even before it left my tongue. ‘Philippe d’Orbec,’ he replied.
‘You stay with me,’ I said.
A thin rain was beginning to fall, spitting down out of a still-dark sky. I glanced back over my shoulder to make sure that the
rest were gathered as they should be. The chaplain was immediately behind me, just in front of the two ladies.
‘We need to go now,’ he said. ‘The ship will be waiting for us.’
Far in the distance I was able to make out the faint beat that was the battle-thunder. I could not yet see them over the palisade, but I hardly needed to, to know that the rebels were on their way.
I kicked my spurs into my mount’s flank, forgetting that it was not Rollo I was riding. The mare reared up, and I tugged hard on the reins to keep her under control as she came down, thrashing her head from side to side. I rubbed her neck in reassurance, then waved for the rest to follow as we rode out through the great oak gates into the city.
We were not the only ones on the streets that morning. It was not yet light, but already there were men everywhere, running with torches and lanterns. Some were Frenchmen like us, but still more of them were English, and they had clearly heard the news of their countrymen’s approach too, for they had come out with all manner of blades: seaxes and meat-cleavers, spears and axes. The air was filled with their cries.
We followed the street as it curved down towards the river, but as the crowds grew thicker, my mount’s steps became shorter and I knew she was growing uneasy. I stroked her side to calm her. She was no warhorse, no destrier; she was not battle-trained, nor used to such crowds. Nor, I was sure, were the horses belonging to the priest and the two ladies.