‘I want nothing more,’ I said, and surprised myself with how honestly I meant it.
‘I have already made up my mind, so there is no use in disputing with me. Do you see the chest in the corner?’
An ironbound box stood up against one wall. Wondering what sort of gift he had in mind, I went to it.
‘In here, lord?’
He nodded weakly. ‘Open it.’
I flicked open the catches and then, finding that it wasn’t locked, lifted the lid.
Inside, lying atop stacks of dry, crinkled parchment, was a curved drinking horn, one of the largest I had ever seen, as long as my arm and more than a hand’s span in breadth at its rim. Silver binding ran around the rim, on which were engraved a fleet of dragon-prowed ships with sails billowing and decks filled with close-packed warriors. Another band ran around the middle on which was depicted a hunting scene, while the point was ornamented with a bird cast in gold.
‘Made from the horn of an urus,’ Malet said.
I’d never heard of such a beast. ‘An urus?’
‘A creature like a bull, only much larger, which I am told is found in lands far to the east of here. This was a gift from my father on the day I came of age. I have not had much use for it of late; there has been precious little to celebrate in recent months. Now I want you to have it.’
‘Lord,’ I protested as I lifted it up, hefting it in my hands and feeling its weight. It was a heavy thing, far heavier than it looked, and polished smooth so that, even in the soft candlelight, it gleamed. ‘This is too much.’
‘It is less than you deserve.’
‘What about Robert?’ I asked. ‘Won’t he-?’
I was about to say that as a father’s gift to his son, surely it was only right that it should be passed in turn to his heir.
Malet must have guessed what I was thinking. ‘He will not mind. He has always said it is too gaudy for his liking, and he cares little for drinking, as you know. You will appreciate it more than he will. Please, take it now, with my blessing.’
It was indeed a beautiful thing, more valuable, I didn’t doubt, than any other possession of mine save my sword and my mail, my helmet and my horses.
‘Thank you,’ I said, although the words seemed insufficient to express my gratitude.
‘I trust you will take care of it, and I wish you luck in all your undertakings. God be with you always, Tancred.’
‘And with you, my lord,’ I replied.
‘As for that,’ he murmured softly, a note of melancholy in his voice, ‘we shall soon see. We shall soon see.’
His eyes closed once more. Before long his breathing had grown heavy and I knew for certain this time that he was asleep. A strange feeling overcame me as I left that chamber, the drinking horn in hand, and closed the door behind me, knowing it was to be the last time I saw Guillaume Malet, the man to whom, though I had not always cared to admit it, I owed so much.
Again that night I could not rest, and again I was not alone. Even as Pons and Serlo joined in the celebrations of those who had returned to camp, and Godric returned to his uncle Morcar on the Isle, I waited with Eudo and Wace and several of Malet’s other vassals, some of whom I knew by name and others I didn’t, in the yard outside the hall, where we warmed ourselves beside a charcoal brazier.
Once in a while Robert would come out from the hall with furrowed brow to tell us how his father was faring. His strength was failing fast, he said; with every hour the life was going out of him. His breath was growing shallower, his pulse was weakening and he grew ever colder. The leech-doctors who had seen him did not think he would last until dawn. Already Dudo had heard his final confession and given him the sacrament. It would not be long.
‘We’ll wait, lord,’ I promised.
And so we did. Even though we were all bone-weary from the battle and from the lack of sleep the previous night, we nevertheless stayed awake, hardly speaking a word, even as from outside the guardhouse the joyous cries and music of the revellers floated upon the breeze. A dog barked somewhere and mice rustled the hall’s thatch. We watched as cloud veiled the stars and we watched as the skies cleared again. We watched sparks from the brazier rise with the twisting smoke and dance around one another, flaring brightly for the briefest of instants before they vanished and became one with the blackness.
Hours more passed, until eventually, in the grey half-light that comes before dawn, Robert emerged from the hall once more. He didn’t speak, nor did he have to, for straightaway we saw in his eyes the news that we had all been expecting.
Guillaume Malet, his father, had passed away.
Fourteen
The following morning, King Guillaume came to make arrangements with Robert for the payment of the relief that would permit him to inherit his father’s barony, as well as to give his sympathies to him, Elise and Beatrice, though such gestures seemed to me rather false-hearted after the lengths he had gone to previously to strip Malet of his honour and his dignity. But he did at least give Robert leave to accompany his father’s body on its final journey to Heia, which was the family’s chief estate in England and was where he was to be buried.
All this took place in the yard of the guardhouse at Alrehetha. Accompanying the king and his retinue were Earl Morcar, grinning like a fool now that his title had been restored to him, his nephew Godric, and the clerk Atselin, who followed his master like a shadow. Whilst the king and Robert conversed, he watched me with hard eyes, as if puzzled how it was that I was still alive. I hadn’t forgotten that he was the one who suggested we should lead the attack across the bridge. If I’d disliked him before, I despised him even more now, and was surprised that he so much as dared to show his face in my presence.
So intent was I on out-staring Atselin that at first I didn’t hear the king calling myself and Wace forward, and only awoke from my thoughts when Serlo nudged me in the ribs. Fortunately the king didn’t seem to notice. For once he was in a good humour, and I supposed he had every right to be.
‘Robert tells me that you pursued Hereward and met him in battle,’ he said, glancing between the two of us.
‘We did, lord,’ Wace said.
‘And killed him, too, or so I hear.’
‘That wasn’t our doing, my king,’ I said.
He frowned. ‘Then whose was it?’
I nodded in Godric’s direction. ‘That’s the man who slew Hereward.’
The boy reddened as all eyes fell upon him, and he cast his gaze down, as if embarrassed. But he had no reason to be. He had done what I and countless of my fellow knights could not manage.
‘Godric?’ Morcar asked, perplexed. His grin had vanished. ‘My nephew killed Hereward?’
‘I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes,’ I said. ‘Hasn’t he told you?’
‘Godric barely knows which end of a sword is the killing one, let alone how to use it,’ Morcar said, and gave his nephew a cuff around the ear. ‘Look at him. He is as timid as a pup and as wet as a fish. He could no more have killed Hereward than he could have built the abbey at Elyg with his bare hands. In any case, what was he doing with you?’
‘The Breton lies,’ Atselin put in. He turned to face the king, whose smile had vanished. ‘He seeks to take advantage of your beneficence, and in doing so to mock you, lord.’
‘It is the truth,’ I insisted.
‘So you are always saying,’ he retorted. ‘But I have it otherwise. I heard tell that it was a bowman by the name of Hamo who struck the killing blow.’
‘Hamo?’ I asked.
