him. Anger flared up inside me and I felt suddenly foolish. I had thought to accuse a priest, a man of God and the Church, who had helped me recover after my fever only three weeks before. The same priest who was chaplain and confessor to the man who was now my lord.
The hall fell silent but for the water bubbling on the hearth and the crackling of the logs beneath. I felt the eyes of the others upon me, and wondered what they must be thinking.
‘It’s nothing,’ I said again, more quietly this time. I sat down again on the stool beside the fire, tore off a corner of the bread and dipped it into the broth heating in one of the iron pots. ‘I just need to eat, and then to rest. We have another few days’ travel ahead of us.’
I took a bite of the bread. The broth it was soaked in tasted of heavily salted fish, and while it was not especially pleasant, neither was it distasteful. It was warm and that was all I cared about, though perhaps the heat of my anger had done something to dispel the chill, for I found that I had stopped shivering. I ladled some more into a wooden bowl which Osric had brought, and lifted it to my lips, sipping it slowly.
‘We should send word straightaway to the town-reeve,’ said Wigod. ‘We could bring a plea before the hundred court.’
‘On what grounds?’ the chaplain replied. ‘There was no injury, short of a mark to the cheek.’
‘Disturbing the king’s peace,’ Wace offered. ‘Isn’t that reason enough?’
‘It would do no good,’ said Aelfwold. ‘Without at least a name to attach blame to, there can be no case.’
The steward sighed. ‘You’re right. And the court here in Lundene isn’t due to sit for another two weeks.’
‘By which time we’ll have gone north with the king’s army,’ I said, defeated. I was no closer to knowing who any of those men were, and indeed it seemed had no way of finding out.
‘I’ll go to the reeve in the morning,’ Wigod said, obviously sensing my frustration. ‘For whatever that might be worth.’
The hall began to empty not long after that, and one by one the other knights fell back asleep, until once more I was the only one left awake. I sat by the fire for a while longer, drawing out the last of the cold, for it had worked itself deep into my bones. The two servants had brought in more wood from the store outside and I added it to the hearth, keeping the flames roaring until my skin had dried completely. Eventually I let the fire be and I lay on my back upon the rushes, gazing at the whorls and splinters in the timber planks that made up the ceiling. My body ached and my limbs clamoured for rest, but my mind was still awake as I fingered the cross at my neck. I saw the fight clearly in my mind: every stroke of my blade, every parry, every thrust. It was then that I remembered I had left my sword behind. I was not going to fetch it then, however; that could wait until the day.
I had thought when we arrived in Lundene that in some small way I would be returning home. Now, though, I wanted nothing more than to be away from here.
Not far off, bells began to chime, marking the beginning of the matins service at one of the monasteries nearby. It could not have been much longer until I did manage to sleep, for in my dreams they were chiming also, and I was there with the monks in their cold stone church, and I was twelve years old again.
We’d hoped to set off for Wiltune at first light, but the snow fell heavily that night, so heavily that in the morning it came halfway to my knee: a blanket across the whole city and the countryside beyond, making it impossible to travel.
I walked on my own, crunching my way down WAeclinga strAet, retaking my steps from the night before. I had left the others at the house, including Aelfwold, who protested when he caught me slipping out unannounced. It was too cold to be out, he said; far better that I stayed inside, where the fire was warm and I could take the time to recover. But save for the scrape I had taken during the fight I was feeling fine, and in any case I was in no mind to listen to the chaplain. I needed the time to think.
What men of the church employed knights to serve as their personal guards? The one I’d thought looked like Aelfwold was English: that much had been clear from his appearance. As for the priest in the black robes, I could not be sure, although if he was from Normandy then it was more likely that he was the one who had hired them, for few Frenchmen I knew would choose to serve an English lord.
Then again, these were no doubt men who made their living through selling their swords, without thought or scruple. Many such had at one time been oath-breakers, little better than murderers, since by severing those ties — the only things that bound people together — they had defied the natural order. Such men never questioned whom they served or for what purpose, so long as they were rewarded well — and that made them dangerous.
I stopped by the little wooden bridge that crossed the brook. Ice had formed around some of the larger rocks and the ducks were huddled together by its edge. Some had their heads tucked under their wings; others dipped the tips of their beaks into the fast-flowing water, as if testing it. None dared swim.
A bitter wind gusted from the east, piercing through my cloak. I pressed on, into the wind. Across the Temes, the land was a single field of white stretching from east to west, broken only by the cluster of houses that was Sudwerca, and by the woods that lined the distant horizon. In all the years I had spent growing up around Dinant, I had never seen snow like this; only since coming over to England had I known weather so cold.
I wasn’t the first to be out that day. Already the street bore the marks where feet and wheels had pressed, though they were few. Smoke rose thickly from the chimneys of every house; most of the townsmen would still be inside by their fires, for the sun was just rising. Only when I came near St Eadmund’s church again did people come into sight. Two boys drove a herd of pigs up the hill, poking them with sticks to keep them from stopping to dig in the snow. Further up, a man led a team of oxen hitched to a cart, the wheels of which wobbled violently as it trundled on. And there, waiting by the corner from where I had watched the two churchmen last night, were five men on horseback. Four of them were mailed and had spears in their hands, but the other wore a deerskin cloak covering a loose tunic with long, bunched sleeves. He was speaking with a decrepit woman who was clearly in some distress, since she was waving her arms violently, though for what reason I could not discern.
I paid them no more attention, for a glint of metal had caught my eye from the bottom of a rut, where a passing cart had carved its tracks. It was roughly where I remembered, to one side of the street. I rushed over and knelt down on the packed snow, clawing it away with my bare hands to reveal the whole length of the shining blade and the legend inscribed thereon: ‘VVLFRIDVS ME FECIT’.
I lifted it free with both hands, then with my glove wiped the dirt off its underside as I examined it closely for signs of damage. It appeared to be in good condition, despite obviously having been run over. Snowmelt ran down the steel, causing it to gleam in the new day’s light.
I heard a shriek and looked up to see the woman pointing a finger at me. ‘
The men rode at a trot towards me; were they friends of those I had seen last night? I stood where I was, sword in hand, uncertain whether to run or to fight. I was on foot and there was no way I could get away from them even if I had wanted to. And five was more than I could hope to fight on my own. Two I might have handled, and on a good day even three — if I were less tired, perhaps, and luck were on my side.
‘You,’ said one of those in mail as he slowed to a halt. A red pennon was attached to his spear and I took him for their leader. His face was pockmarked, his chin covered with a sparse stubble. ‘Who are you?’
The other three knights formed a half-circle around me, spears couched and ready under their arms. The other man, the one with the deerskin cloak, kept back, alongside the woman. He was dressed like an Englishman, his cloak clasped at the shoulder with a silver brooch, though his hair was cut short in the Norman style, and I guessed that he was an interpreter of sorts.
I thought about lying again, but something about their demeanour told me that would not be a good idea. ‘Tancred,’ I said stiffly. ‘A knight in the employ of the vicomte of Eoferwic, Lord Guillaume Malet.’
‘Malet?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘And what is a knight of his doing so far south, in Lundene? A deserter, are you?’
I was about to reply that if I were, I was hardly likely to tell him that, but thought the better of it. ‘I’m here with the vicomte’s chaplain.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘For what reason?’
It seemed clear that these men were not here to finish me off, or they would surely have done so already, and I was growing tired of his questions.
‘Why should I tell you?’
A crowd was beginning to gather — of those men and women who were about at such an hour, at least. There were no more than a dozen of them, all standing at a respectful distance, I noted, for no doubt they had
