was the first glimmer of dawn, but already the skies were noticeably brighter.
We were barely a dozen boat-lengths out from the shore when Godric, speaking more quietly, began again: ‘My uncle-’
‘I heard what you said,’ I interrupted him, before he could go on. If he had any sense at all he’d have realised it was far better for him to shut his mouth and not to provoke us further.
‘But, lord-’
He broke off as I grabbed the collar of his tunic. ‘Tell me, then,’ I said. ‘Who is this uncle of yours, who’s so wealthy that he can afford to waste good silver for your sake?’
Obviously he had something he wished to tell me, and I wasn’t prepared to have him chirping all the way back to Brandune. Neither did I want to have to make good on my promise, since if I killed him this entire expedition would have been for nothing.
His mouth opened but his tongue must have been frozen, for no sound came out. There was fear in his eyes, and I realised then just how short was the distance he’d travelled along the sword-path. This was no warrior. Certainly I would not trust him to stand in any shield-wall. I wondered if his sword had ever run with the blood of his foes, or if he had ever unsheathed it outside the training yard before tonight.
‘Tell me,’ I repeated. ‘Who is he?’
I saw the lump form in Godric’s throat as he swallowed. My patience was fast running out. Eventually he managed to compose himself enough to speak, although the words that emerged from his lips were not at all what I’d been expecting.
‘My uncle, lord,’ he said, ‘is Earl Morcar.’
Six
He’s Morcar’s nephew?’ Robert asked later that morning, once we’d brought Godric to his hall and told him everything that had happened that night.
‘So he claims,’ I replied.
Already it all seemed an age ago. The thrill of the fight had long faded, and tiredness was beginning at last to catch up with me. My limbs felt like lead, fatigue clawed at my eyes, and I wanted nothing more than to find some quiet spot in which to lay myself down and sleep.
Robert fixed his gaze upon the Englishman, who sat on a stool beside the smoking hearth-fire, his hands bound with rope in front of him, his flaxen hair plastered to his skull. Since leaving Litelport behind us he’d uttered barely a word, except occasionally to murmur what sounded like a prayer, but he spoke now.
‘It is the truth, lords,’ he protested. ‘Upon my life, with God and all the saints as my witnesses, I swear it!’
To some men lying came naturally, while others learnt the art through years of practice. Nonetheless, to spew falsehoods when one’s very life was at stake was a skill that few possessed, and required no small amount of nerve, too. Perhaps I was wrong about the Englishman, but I doubted he was so daring, and for that reason alone I was inclined to believe him.
‘If you want to change your mind, you’d be wise to do so now, before you meet the king,’ Wace warned him.
‘Yes,’ Eudo added. ‘If he finds out you’ve lied to him, he won’t be best pleased.’
That silenced Godric, who no doubt had heard of King Guillaume’s unpredictable temper, and knew all about the fits of rage to which he was rumoured to be prone. It was often said that no man ever crossed him twice and lived, for while the king was sometimes prepared to overlook a first offence, he was rarely so forgiving the second time. By taking up arms in rebellion, Godric had committed his first transgression. Already, then, his fate rested on a knife’s edge.
The drapes across the hall’s entrance parted, allowing in a sudden burst of sunlight: something we had seen little of in recent days. Through the parting stepped a pale-faced, dung-reeking lad of perhaps twelve or thirteen, whom Robert had sent to the royal hall with news of our prisoner. He stood, panting heavily as if he had just run all the way to Cantebrigia and back.
‘You bring news?’ Robert asked him.
The boy nodded. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said in between breaths. ‘I returned as quickly as I could.’
‘Well, what is it? Did you give the message as I instructed?’
‘I did, lord.’
‘And?’
‘He is on his way, lord. The king’s steward told me himself.’
Robert nodded and dismissed the boy, who looked relieved that his questioning was finished, and that he wasn’t about to be sent with any more messages for the royal household. The officials of the palace were powerful men, useful to have as allies but dangerous to have as enemies, not just because they had the king’s ear but also because their orders carried his authority. They were respected by lords both petty and distinguished, and the boy had shown determination to have secured the attention of the royal steward.
In honesty, I wasn’t much looking forward to facing the king either. For much as I admired the will that had brought us here to England, and as great as his achievement was in winning this kingdom, nevertheless I feared him, as did many men in those days, both French and English alike. Although few had seen it with their own eyes, we had all heard the stories of how he and his raiding-bands had gone into the north last winter. We had heard how they’d harried the land and its people and despoiled both town and country, burnt storehouses newly filled with the autumn’s harvest, slaughtered sheep and cattle in the fields where they grazed, put entire families to the sword, from hobbling greybeards to the youngest babes in arms, and left the meadows to run with blood as they spread fire and ruin, all in the name of retribution for the Northumbrian uprisings. It was, of course, a long-spoken truth that wars were fought with rape and pillage as much as they were with sword and shield, but the ferocity of his vengeance on this occasion sowed great alarm among his followers, and I was glad to have had no part of it. That one act revealed an aspect to King Guillaume that had rarely shown itself before, but which with each passing day became clearer as this campaign dragged on, as his desperation deepened and his mood grew ever more foul.
And so it wasn’t just Godric who was nervous as we awaited the king. Fortunately it wasn’t long before he arrived. I had barely enough time to slake my thirst from the ale-barrel Robert kept in the hall and give a yawn before I made out the sound of hoofbeats in the yard outside, shortly followed by someone bellowing: ‘Make way! Make way for your king!’
He was here.
‘Get up,’ Wace said to Godric, but the Englishman seemed frozen to the stool, for he did not move, and my friend had to take his arms and bodily haul him up before he would stand. Even then the boy’s feet seemed hardly able to support his weight, and at any moment I thought he would spew.
Wace shoved him in the back to start him moving, and we followed Robert out, pushing aside the linen drapes and ducking beneath the low lintel of the doorway before emerging into the heat of the mid-morning sun. For a moment I was blinded by the brightness, although I noticed dark clouds approaching, threatening rain. As if we hadn’t had enough of it in recent weeks. Raising a hand to shield my eyes, I made out a conroi of some fifteen horsemen, most decked out in hauberks freshly polished, their features masked beneath helmets inlaid with swirling designs in gold and silver, their shoulders draped with the blood-red ceremonial cloaks, embroidered at the hems with golden thread, which marked them out as knights of the royal household.
At the head of them was the king himself. I had met him only once before, but his was not a face that one forgot easily, for it was drawn and entirely lacking in humour, with heavy brows above keen eyes that missed nothing: eyes that seemed to look into one’s very soul. He was around forty-four in years if I recalled rightly, only a handful of summers younger than Malet, but had lost none of his youthful vigour or his passion for the pursuit of war. Tall and set like an ox, he possessed stout arms that were the mark of long hours spent in the training yard, where he was said to practise daily at both stake and quintain, and in mock combat with his trusted hearth- troops.
‘Kneel,’ I hissed at the Englishman. Thankfully he needed no second telling, but did as he was bid without
