‘Besides, so long as Morcar keeps his promise, we will all make it through this alive.’
‘I still don’t trust him,’ Eudo muttered.
‘Neither do I,’ Robert replied. ‘But what choice do we have?’
To that none of us had any answer. For a while longer we stood in silence, looking out towards the enemy ramparts, and I wondered how we would make it through this battle. Eventually, however, Robert mounted and turned back towards the guardhouse where the smoke of blacksmiths’ furnaces billowed and our banners flew.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘We have only the rest of this day to prepare ourselves. We should make the most of the time that we have.’
Straightaway he turned to ride back across the bridge, his destrier’s hooves clattering upon the timber roadway, and he was closely followed by the others. The sun wasn’t lacking in warmth that morning, but nevertheless I still couldn’t rid myself of the chill, which by then had worked its way into every inch of my body. I gave one final glance at the marshes and the Isle, then swung myself up into the saddle and spurred Fyrheard into a canter so as to catch up with them.
After weeks of waiting and wondering and hoping and despairing, it was finally happening.
Nine
I remember that night so clearly. I remember every such night before a battle, for always there is a keenness in the air, a mixture of anticipation and dread, of restlessness and anguish that is never voiced but is shared amongst all present, and that, once experienced, is never forgotten. And yet that night was different, for in all the seasons since first I rode under my lord’s banner into the fray, never had I felt such trepidation as I did in those few hours.
Even long after the sun had set and the clash of arms had faded and the soft-spoken Latin of the priests giving absolution had ceased, I found myself unable to settle. I wasn’t alone. Despite having spent most of the day in the practice yard, and notwithstanding our drooping eyelids and our heavy limbs, still none of us could sleep. There was nothing more for us to do: our blades were sharpened; our helmets and hauberks polished until they gleamed; our destriers fed and groomed. And so we sat cross-legged, huddled in our cloaks beneath the stars, and watched our cooking-fire dwindle while we recounted stories of battles past, of women we had known, of the marvels we had seen on our travels, of things that had happened when we were young and still in training, of fine weapons and horses, of sword-brothers long since fallen, of the various dreams and desires to which we all clung; and we revelled as much in the listening as in the telling.
We were men of all ages: seasoned fighters like myself, my friends and the Malets’ other vassals; a few young warriors of Godric’s age or thereabouts. For some this would be their first battle, while others had long lost count. But we were all equals that night, for when morning arrived and we rode out across that bridge, our fates would be bound together. Only Lord Robert wasn’t there, having preferred to spend the night by his father’s bedside. Still Malet succeeded in clinging to life, albeit barely. He could no longer raise himself from his bed without help, let alone walk or ride even the most docile of horses, and so a covered cart had been found in which he and his chaplain had travelled from Brandune. I had caught a brief glimpse of him, but that had been enough. His pallor was as grey as ash, like a fire that was all but spent; the faintest of sparks remained in his eyes, which were now mere hollows. His face was gaunt, his wiry hair straggling past his chin. Soon there would be nothing left of him, I thought.
‘He is in such pain,’ Dudo said when I was finally able to accost him that afternoon, in between bouts in the practice yard, and to ask how the elder Malet fared. The chaplain was as slippery as a toad, with a manner so quiet that one sometimes failed to notice him, and a habit of slipping away unseen when one wanted to speak with him, only to reappear later unannounced. ‘Every day he grows worse, and he only makes it harder for himself, too.’
‘How so?’ I asked.
The priest regarded me with a contemptuous look. Probably he had come to share his master’s dislike for me. ‘He remains as determined as ever not to commend his soul unto God until the rebels have fallen and the whole of England is ours.’
‘He might be waiting some time,’ I said, not in a flippant way but seriously.
‘Indeed. Every day I pray that he will allow himself to be received into our Lord’s arms soon, rather than continue to suffer as he does. I do what I can for him, as do the physicians and wise women, when he allows them to see him, but I fear that all our infusions and remedies are powerless to offer him any succour.’
All this he said without blinking, his beady eyes fixed unnervingly upon me. Even though there was compassion in his words, I couldn’t hear it in his voice. He seemed to me an unlikely sort of man to take priestly orders, although equally there were many I’d known and fought alongside whom I had considered unlikely knights when first I’d met them.
‘I understand that he might not wish to see me,’ I said. ‘Perhaps, though, you could tell him something for me.’
Dudo said nothing, and I decided to take that for his assent.
‘Tell him that I have never wished any ill upon him or his family. Tell him that in all the time I’ve been sworn to him and his son, I have only ever sought to serve him loyally, and that I ask for his forgiveness before it is too late. Can you do that?’
I didn’t really see that I had done anything needing of forgiveness, but the rancour that he reserved for me weighed heavily on my mind. Despite everything that had passed between us, I still had a certain respect for him and in particular for his determination to see out this war. If I were to meet my end in the battle tomorrow, I would rather go to the grave having dispelled that enmity, or at the very least knowing that I, for my part, had tried.
‘I will tell him, but I cannot promise anything more,’ the priest said.
I supposed that was the most I would get from him, and so I sent the toad on his way. Hours had passed since then and still I’d heard nothing in reply, and that was another reason for my disquiet that night, as I wondered whether the priest had even passed on my message at all. In the meanwhile I partook of the ale and wine that the king had ordered distributed to raise our spirits ahead of the fighting to come, although I made sure not to quaff too heavily. I was experienced enough to know that to fill one’s belly with drink the evening before a battle is never wise, for there is nothing worse than having to don mail and helmet, raise shield and sword, to run and turn and twist when one’s mind is hazy, one’s skull is throbbing and one’s belly is churning and threatening to empty its contents at any moment. I have succumbed to that folly, but it is not something I would ever counsel.
Still, I understand why others do it. They do it to escape the fear: the fear that comes from anticipation, which is the part of a warrior’s life that I have always liked the least. For it is in those final hours, when the prospect of battle has become real and the time for hard spearwork is suddenly close at hand, that a man feels most alone, and when doubt and dread begin to creep into his thoughts. No matter how many foes he has laid low, or how long he has trodden the sword-path, he begins to question whether he is good enough, whether he can maintain the strength of will necessary to see him through, or whether, in fact, his time has come.
That was why we talked about the things we did: not out of boastfulness, although a few of the younger ones among Robert’s knights were only too eager to impress us with tales of their feats of arms and their various conquests, which seemed to grow wilder with every passing hour. Rather, we talked to distract ourselves and each other from the task at hand and, in so doing, to keep those fears from entering our hearts for a few more hours. After a while some of the others went to seek distraction in the arms of their women, and later they returned to join us by the fire, sidling up close to one another and sharing in the meagre warmth. We talked and we laughed and we ate and we drank and we talked some more, and when there was nothing left to say and our sides were hurting and we had each eaten and drunk all that we could stomach and the fire had all but died and silence reigned, Eudo brought out his flute from his pack. He put the beaked end to his lips, closed his eyes and, after a deep intake of breath, began to play.
At first I didn’t recognise the song, which started soft and slow, as Eudo’s fingers stepped gently and with
