‘Larboard, lift oars—’ Eudo shouted, before he was interrupted by a series of loud cracks near the front of the ship. I looked over my shoulder, saw the first half-dozen or more oars sheared through, blades missing from their ends. We had struck something, though what it was I could not see. Another roar went up from the men massed in the enemy’s bows, and they raised axes and swords to the sky. Their leading ship surged forward, less than a length behind us, so close now that I could see the emblems on their shields. A spear sailed through the air, hurled by a tall Englishman; next to me Radulf caught it on his shield and deflected it aside, into the water.
I drew my sword. ‘Shield-wall,’ I said to the knights. ‘Keep close and don’t let anything through.’ I overlapped my shield with that of Philippe to my right; on my left, Godefroi did the same. I would soon see how well they could fight.
‘Larboard oars, pull!’ Eudo said.
A rock passed by the stern, the length of three men and the width of one, surrounded by a floating mass of broken beams, and straightaway I knew that this was what we had hit. But so close were the enemy following that as we left it in our wake, I realised that the steersman of the ship behind could not have seen it.
A cry went up from the men in their bows, but it was too late, and they struck it full on, the prow heaving up, the rock slicing into the boat’s underside, tearing timbers into savage splinters. Men fell backwards, or were pitched over the side, plunging into the water, thrashing about to keep their heads above the surface, struggling to free themselves from their mail hauberks, which were dragging them down. Their ship ground to a halt, pitched over to one side with its larboard gunwale high, a rent along the length of its hull.
Some of the oarsmen leapt overboard, trying to push it free from the rock, while those nearer the stern began to back-paddle. Behind it, the second ship drew up, the channel too narrow to allow it past. Angry shouts filled the air.
‘Break,’ I told the others in the shield-wall. Arrows continued to spit down from the sky, but I sensed they were loosed out of frustration rather than with any aim in mind, and they sailed high, far to larboard as the
Wyvern
steered right, following the channel. Stroke by stroke we pulled away, opening the range as they laboured to free their stricken vessel.
‘Row,’ Eudo shouted from amidships. ‘No flagging, no slacking! Pull! Pull!’
The enemy receded into the distance, their ships continuing to dwindle until at last they disappeared into the night. Gradually the pace slowed and I began to breathe more easily as their shouts faded away to nothing, until all I could hear was the gentle creak of our own oars in their rowlocks, the splash of the blades as they entered the water, the slow beat of Eudo’s hand upon the drum. The men looked spent, hardly able to lift the blades any longer, their backs hunched over, their arms almost limp with exhaustion.
Wace made his way to the bows, where he lifted the deck-planks and gave his hand first to Elise, then to Beatrice, as he helped them climb out from the hold. I noticed the flighted end of an arrow jutting out from one of the timbers; it was as well they had been hidden, or that same arrow could have struck one of them.
I stepped over to the shipmaster and slapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘We owe you our thanks,’ I said, offering my hand.
Aubert took it wearily, his palms chafed and raw. ‘I don’t need thanks,’ he said between breaths. ‘Let’s just hope we don’t meet any more of the enemy tonight.’
I nodded. In front of us the channel was widening once more; the open river was almost upon us. If our luck held then by morning we would be in Alchebarge.
Fifteen
DARKNESS SETTLED AROUND
us as
Wyvern
’s prow carved its way from the shore out towards the midstream. Aubert left the tiller and strode along the length of the ship, giving the order to ship oars. Eudo ceased beating the drum and the long poles were slowly hauled aboard, dripping water on to the deck. All else was still. What breeze there had been had now died completely, and the clouds hung low, bathed in the glow of the moon and the stars. For the first time in what seemed like hours, silence filled the air as we drifted on the current.
I untied the strap under my chin and removed my helmet, setting it down on the deck by my feet. I glanced towards my fellow knights and saw the relief in their eyes. At the same time, though, I could sense a frustration in them, a frustration that had I been the same age I would surely have felt too. For there were few things worse for a young warrior hungry for battle than to be denied the chance to test one’s sword-arm, to prove oneself. Death was not something one even considered, though that seemed to me due less to the arrogance of youth than to an innocence of the true nature of battle. Many were the times I had seen such men charge happily to their deaths. More than once I had come close to doing the same. The fact that I had held myself back was – above all else, above skill at arms or bravery or strength – the reason why after all these years I was still alive, when so many others I had known were not.
I gazed past the stern into the night, searching upstream for any sign of the enemy, but there was none. Indeed I could barely make out the line of the shore, lost as it was in the mist. But in truth I didn’t expect them to continue the pursuit; the last light of day was
gone and they could not hope to find us by night. We were out of danger, for the present at least.
Wace returned, having already divested himself of his mail, though he was still wearing his scabbard. He stood beside me, arms folded as he leant on the gunwale, soon joined by Eudo.
‘Malet will need God on his side if he’s to defend Eoferwic,’ Wace said.
‘He was on our side tonight,’ I pointed out.
Eudo grinned at me. ‘Because we have Ælfwold with us.’
It was a weak attempt at a jest and I did not smile. I was thinking of the twelve English ships I had counted, and my heart sank as I realised that each one might carry as many as fifty Englishmen, and even if only half of those were fighting men, it meant that Eadgar would have another three hundred spears under his banner. Together with those already besieging Eoferwic it made for a considerable host, several times larger than that which Malet had left to him. Wace was right: the vicomte would need God’s help.
‘He’ll hold out in the castle even if the city falls,’ I said.
‘But for how long?’ Wace asked.
‘For as long as he needs to.’ Otherwise the whole of Northumbria, from Dunholm to Eoferwic, would lie in the hands of the English rebels.
Wace gave me a wry look but said nothing.
‘No doubt we’ll hear soon enough,’ I said. It did not warrant dwelling upon. Our task was to see Malet’s womenfolk safely to Lundene; all we could do was carry that out.
I turned away from the river, towards the oarsmen, exhausted after the chase. Some sat bent forwards, hands on their heads, heads bowed low between their legs. Others lay collapsed across their ship-chests, on their backs or on their sides, breathing deeply of the night air. One of the younger men leant over the side, spewing forth a long stream of vomit, some of which dribbled down into his beard and on to his tunic.
A dozen or so had crowded beside the man who had been killed, those behind peering over the shoulders of those in front. The shipmaster himself was there, and he murmured a few words before
standing and making his way back towards the bow. It took two of the men to lift the youth’s body: one taking the legs, the other the shoulders. Together they followed the shipmaster, who lifted away some of the deck-planks, revealing the hold space where Elise and Beatrice had hidden. He motioned the two men forward and gently they lowered the body into the gap. They stood there a while, not speaking, just looking down upon him, until the shipmaster lay a sheet of spare black sailcloth over him and replaced the boards.
‘We’ll pay our dues to him properly when we reach Alchebarge,’ he said.
The others nodded and returned to the rest of their companions. Too tired even for tears, I thought, or simply numbed by the tide of emotions. Exhilarated by the victory, at having themselves evaded death, yet at the same time grief-stricken for their fallen friend. I knew such feelings well.
Aubert returned to the tiller and sat down. I went and placed a hand on his shoulder in sympathy.
‘He had only been with me since last summer,’ the shipmaster said, and swallowed. ‘Strong lad, he was. Always eager.’
I wanted to say something, but in truth there was nothing more to add. Privately I couldn’t help but think that we had been lucky to lose only one man; it could so easily have been worse.
Aubert rose, shrugging off my hand. I looked up as Lady Elise hustled her way along the length of the ship, her daughter and the chaplain close behind. The ladies’ skirts were raised above their ankles, prompting stares from more than one of the rowers as they picked their way between them. The embarrassment on Beatrice’s face was clear but she held her head high and tried to ignore them, almost tripping over one of the cross-beams in so doing. Elise paid them no attention; her face was a shade somewhere between distress and anger.
‘My lady,’ I said. ‘You look troubled.’
‘We must send word to my husband.’ Her dress was damp; a few strands of grey hair had come loose from beneath her wimple to fall across her face. ‘An English fleet sails towards Eoferwic. We must warn him.’
‘There is nothing we can do,’ I said. ‘The river is closed to us, and no message that we might send overland will reach Eoferwic before them.’
She turned to the shipmaster. ‘And what do you say?’
‘He’s right,’ Aubert replied. ‘The enemy will be rowing against the current, but if they travel through the night they’ll be there by dawn. Given horses and open country, we might get word through in time, but not on foot and across these marshes.’
‘We must do something,’ she protested.
‘There is nothing we can do,’ I repeated, my ire rising. Why could this woman not understand this? ‘I swore an oath to your husband – an oath that I would protect you and your daughter. That is what I intend to do.’
I looked for support from Aubert, who nodded in agreement. ‘We have no choice. The best we can do is to get to Alchebarge as soon as possible.’
‘And leave my husband in mortal danger?’ the lady Elise said, on the verge of tears. She clasped her daughter’s hand tightly. ‘How are we to live with such uncertainty?’
I felt myself tensing, my patience nearly ground down. We had only narrowly escaped danger ourselves; I was tired and not much given to being harassed with questions that didn’t have answers.
‘These are uncertain times,’ I said sharply. ‘Not just for you, but for all of us.’
Ælfwold, standing behind the two ladies, fixed me with a stern look. Elise remained where she was, looking at me, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, lips pursed and shaking her head. But I had said only what needed to be said.
‘My lady,’ the chaplain said, at last turning his eyes from me, ‘Lord Guillaume is a thoroughly capable man. I am sure that with or without our help, he will succeed.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now, it is growing late and the road to Lundene will be long. We should try to sleep.’
‘A wise idea,’ I said, unmoved. It had indeed been a long day. Had anyone tried to tell me then that it was only the night before that the rebel army had arrived outside Eoferwic’s gates, only the night
before that we had gone to meet the ætheling, I would not have believed them. ‘We have a good few days’ travel ahead of us. Best to rest now while you have the chance.’
Still Elise looked at me, her lip trembling, and she did not move until Ælfwold said softly, ‘My ladies,’ and she spun away, hoisting her skirts once again. Beatrice waited a moment longer, her plaintive eyes unblinking, holding my gaze, then she too turned to follow her mother towards the bow.
‘That was harsh,’ the chaplain said when they were out of earshot.
‘What would you have me say?’ I asked. That all would be well, perhaps, that Malet would come through unharmed? But I could not know that and they would not have believed me even had I told them so.
‘They aren’t used to this,’ Aubert put in. ‘Some comfort is what they need.’
‘Even if that comfort is false?’ I didn’t mean to hurt them, but neither could I bring myself to say anything that was less than honest.
‘At the very least I would expect you to extend them your courtesy,’ Ælfwold said. ‘To show some politeness.’
I looked away, out across the river, shaking my head.
‘Tancred,’ the priest said, and there was a note of warning in his voice. ‘Remember what Lord Guillaume has done for you, and consider what he would like you to do in return for his womenfolk. You don’t have to enjoy their company, only offer them the respect they deserve and not antagonise them.’
‘I’ll try, father,’ I said, though more to please him than because I truly meant it.
‘That’s all I ask,’ said Ælfwold. ‘Now, I intend to get some rest. I bid you a good night.’ He went to join the two ladies again, helping them as they spread blankets upon the deck and settled down.
Aubert still watched me, a disapproving look in his eyes, but I’d heard enough words of reproach already, and I wasn’t about to listen to any more.
‘What?’ I said.
He did not reply, but instead picked up a sack lying close to the
tiller, reaching into it and tossing small loaves down to each of the rowers as he walked the length of the ship. ‘Eat,’ he said to them. ‘Eat and gather your strength, for soon we row on.’
A concerted groan went up from the men.
‘That’s right,’ he said, raising his voice above their shouts. ‘The enemy might be behind us but there’s still some way to Alchebarge.’
‘Aubert,’ said one, older, more grizzled than the rest. ‘Most of us have been rowing ever since we left Eoferwic. We can’t go much further tonight.’
The shipmaster turned, stony-faced, towards him, then he cast his gaze up and down the length of the ship, surveying the rest of the men. ‘The more progress we make tonight, the less we have to do tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘And if there are any more English ships downriver, it’s better that we pass them under the cover of darkness while their crews might be sleeping, than when it’s light and they’re fresh.’