from his fright. He closed his eyes, uttering a prayer in Latin.
First it had been Robert, murdered at Dunholm. Now too the castellan of Eoferwic, Lord Richard, lay dead.
Nine
The news of the castellan’s death cast a shadow over Malet’s house in the days that followed. I could see it in the anxious looks of the servants I met; I could hear it in the hushed tones they used in the corridors. Indeed I could almost feel a chill in the air when I walked between the hall and my chamber, as if there were a draught blowing in from somewhere, though that could well have been my imagination. Even?lfwold, when he came to see me, seemed more subdued than he had been before.
For the first few hours after the castellan’s men had returned there had been much confusion. A messenger was sent to the minster church to bear the news to Malet, who returned in due haste. That same afternoon he summoned all the Norman lords who were in Eoferwic to his hall, where they remained in private council for some hours. All I knew of it was what the chaplain later told me: that Malet was to assume the responsibilities of the castellan, taking all of Lord Richard’s remaining men under his command.
The enemy were advancing; of that there could be little doubt. Some of their raiding parties had crossed the Use upstream of the city, and by night the horizon shone bright with the fires of the villages they had torched. But though they were growing bolder, still they did not march on Eoferwic itself.
Perhaps they were hoping to draw us out, or perhaps they were waiting for something, although what that might be, no one knew. For their full host to gather, some said, in which case it made sense to try to attack them now. But Malet had forbidden any more expeditions, probably rightly, since we could not afford to lose any more men. We had no more than six or seven hundred in Eoferwic, and while word had been sent to the king in Lundene, there was no knowing how long it would take for reinforcements to reach us. And according to the reports that came back from our scouts, the enemy numbered between three and four thousand, which if true made theirs a larger host than any we had faced since H?stinges itself.
And so we waited for the English to come to us. All the while my leg was growing stronger, and I was spending less time indoors, and ever more in the yard outside, trading blows with Eudo and Wace as we trained at arms. My nights were filled with dreams of battle: of riding out to face the enemy, of killing those who had murdered my lord, had murdered Oswynn. If the enemy were coming, I wanted to be ready to fight them.
The chaplain didn’t approve, but by then I was well enough that I didn’t need his permission. In any case, it was over a fortnight since I had so much as held a sword in my hand — a fortnight in which my limbs had lost much of their strength. I knew that I could get better again only with practice, and so each afternoon I spent hour after hour with whoever would join me: perfecting my strokes, my parries and cuts, repeating the movements until they became instinctive once more.
It was close to sunset on one of those afternoons, when I was practising with two of Malet’s kitchen-boys, that I caught sight of Beatrice standing by the hall — watching me, or so it seemed. I was about to call to her, but at that moment the boys rushed at me, shouting and laughing as together they swung their wooden blades. One strike bounced off my shield; the other I fended off with my own cudgel, and then I was turning away, dancing out of reach so that their thrusts found only air.
What they might have lacked in skill, however, they made up for in enthusiasm. Again they came at me, and this time I stepped back, trying to give my sword-arm room, when the back of my legs struck against something hard. Thrown off balance, I staggered backwards, and I was still struggling to stay on my feet as the next onslaught came. I blocked the first blow, and the second, but the third struck me on the shoulder, sending me sprawling, and suddenly I found myself on my back facing the sky.
Dazed, not quite believing what had happened, I looked up and saw the two boys standing over me. The taller of the two, fair-haired and freckled, grinned and pointed his sword at my neck. ‘Do you yield?’
‘I yield,’ I said, laughing as I pushed his blade away and got to my feet. Not five yards from where I stood was a wooden feeding-trough: that was what I must have stumbled into. Though it could have been worse, I thought. I could have fallen in it.
I glanced towards the hall, where Beatrice still stood, and there was a smile upon her face. I tousled each boy’s hair in turn while I regained my breath, then wiped the sweat from my brow. ‘Keep practising and you’ll both make good knights one day,’ I told them.
They seemed pleased by that, and in truth they had fought well. So much in battle was a matter of luck, whether good or ill, but the best warriors were those who made the most of their luck, who took advantage of their enemies’ mistakes, and that was what these two had done. I left them to carry on by themselves as I made my way across the yard towards Beatrice.
‘Defeated by a couple of boys,’ she said as I approached. ‘You disappoint me.’
‘They show great promise,’ I replied. ‘Your father is fortunate to have such able young fighters in his household.’
I watched them as they finished marking out a duelling circle, and picked up their practice swords and wicker shields. They rushed together, exchanging blows before just as quickly backing away again, circling about, each searching for the all-important opening.
‘There are many who can wield a sword,’ Beatrice said. ‘Though from what I’ve heard, there are few who can match your prowess.’
‘If you believe that, then you couldn’t have seen me fall over that horse-trough.’ I spoke only half in jest. For all the hours I had spent in the practice yard of late, my sword-arm still felt slow, my body heavy. Nor was I nearly as steady on my feet as I would have liked, even without mail shirt and chausses to weigh me down.
She smiled gently as she tucked a wisp of hair beneath her hood. ‘I’ve heard much about you,’ she said. ‘My father told me how you fought in the great battle at H?stinges, how by your valour and your quick thinking you saved your lord’s life.’
At H?stinges, but not at Dunholm. ‘That was more than two years ago,’ I said. ‘A lot of things have changed since then.’
She paused a moment, then said, ‘You know that what happened to Earl Robert was not your fault.’
I frowned. How much exactly had her father told her? ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said, turning to walk away, though I didn’t know where.
Within a matter of heartbeats she had fallen into step beside me, hitching up the hem of her dress to stop it trailing in the dirt. ‘You can’t blame yourself for his death.’
‘Then whom should I blame?’ I asked as I rounded on her. Though slight of frame, she was fairly tall for a woman, only a head shorter than I, and we stood almost eye to eye as she held my stare. Certainly she was determined; in that respect she seemed much like her father.
‘It wasn’t just your lord whom you lost at Dunholm, was it?’ she asked after a while. ‘There was someone else. Someone dear to you.’
A picture of Oswynn rose to my mind, her hair falling to her round breasts, and I saw myself holding her, just as I had held her before I left her that night. The night that she had died. But how could Beatrice know, and why did she torment me with such questions?
‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it,’ she said quietly as she looked down.
‘No,’ I said, glaring at her. ‘You shouldn’t.’ I had no wish to talk about Dunholm, or about Lord Robert, or Oswynn, especially not to someone like her, who knew nothing about them.
‘I’m sorry. For what happened, I mean.’
‘I don’t need your pity.’ I made for the well that stood beside the forge, hoping that she would grow tired of hounding me. My throat was parched from the fight and I needed something to cool it. I found the bucket still half full, and I rolled up my sleeves and splashed some of the brown water into my face, gasping at how cold it was, sweet yet at the same time earthy. It trickled over my chin and neck, down the front of my tunic, like icy fingers playing across my chest.
‘My father thinks highly of you,’ Beatrice said from behind me.
I let out a sigh and turned, raising a hand to shield against the sun which was in my eyes. ‘Why do you
