that your lord may be conspiring with her.’
‘Conspiring?’ Wigod said. ‘No. That isn’t possible. He is a loyal servant of the king.’
‘And yet we know he was once a good friend of Harold,’ I said.
‘That was a long time ago.’ I saw that there was sweat upon his brow, and his face had turned a shade of pink.
‘So you knew of this?’
‘It was never any secret,’ he protested. ‘In the years before he took the crown, Harold and his wife often stayed in this house when they came to Lundene. But he’s dead now, and Eadgyth I haven’t seen in years — I didn’t even know she was still alive.’
‘But Aelfwold did,’ I said. ‘He has met with her more than once, to pass on messages from your lord.’
‘I know nothing of that, I swear,’ Wigod said.
I had been given no reason to disbelieve the steward’s word before now, and so perhaps he was telling the truth. I tried a different approach. ‘Do you know anything about the promises Malet made to her?’ I asked.
‘Promises?’
There was no time to explain everything; I could not be too long in case suspicions were raised. In any case, it was becoming clear to me that the steward knew nothing of Malet’s business with Eadgyth. In one sense that was a good thing, for at least then I could rely on him to give me honest answers.
‘Tell me what this says.’
‘I cannot-’
‘We need to know, Wigod,’ I said. ‘And one way or another, I will find out.’ I rested my right hand upon my sword-hilt, so that he could see and understand my meaning. I’d hoped that he might offer his help freely, for I did not like resorting to threats, particularly to a man with whom I had no quarrel. But I knew that this was the only way.
For a moment he did nothing but stand there, his mouth agape. In shock, no doubt. But then he returned to the parchment, rolling it out across the table, for it had become creased again.
He cleared his throat and began, ‘“To Guillaume Malet, vicomte of Eoferwic-”’
‘I know that part,’ I said impatiently. ‘What comes next?’
‘Of course,’ he said, and I saw the lump in his throat as he swallowed. His trembling finger traced along the lines as he read, pausing at times, I assumed, so he could work out the right French word. ‘“Every day I live I am consumed by grief. I cannot escape it, nor can I overcome it. In over two years while I have been here at Wiltune, you have given me nothing but false promises and false hope. I send this letter to beseech you, in the name of Christ our Lord and in the memory of the bonds of friendship which used to hold between us, to tell me where the body can be found-”’
I frowned. ‘The body?’
‘That’s what it says,’ Wigod replied. He carried on reading: ‘“His blood is on your hands. I know the guilt that plagues you, and perhaps you are content to bear that. But I cannot live for ever without knowing. Otherwise, if you are unwilling to grant me this, then there is nothing more for me in this world, and my blood will be on your hands also.”’
He stopped. ‘That’s all,’ he said, as he looked up at me.
It sounded more like a plea for help than anything else, and a desperate one at that. But what did she mean about a body, and the blood that was on Malet’s hands? Were the two things connected in some way; was he somehow responsible for someone’s death? And how did his own message to her —
‘You will say nothing of this to anyone,’ I told the steward.
‘No,’ he said. His face had gone pale.
‘Now, we ought to return to the others.’ He nodded but did not move, and I placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I will find out what all this means, Wigod,’ I said. ‘I swear it.’
I did my best to sound confident, even though each time that we had sought answers so far, we had only found more questions. Yet I sensed that we were growing closer; that soon we would know. There was just one thing that we needed to do first.
We waited until that night to speak to the priest, when we could be sure that he was alone and that no one would interrupt us. The house was silent: Radulf, Godefroi and Philippe were asleep downstairs in the hall, while the ladies had long since retired to their chambers — almost as soon as they had returned, in fact, so I had not yet even seen them. It was probably a good thing, since I didn’t think I could face them now, knowing what I did about Malet. If we were right and he was a traitor, how was I to tell them?
It was a blustery night; outside the wind was howling, the rain pattering upon the yard. We stood on the up- floor outside the door to the chaplain’s room: Wace, Eudo and myself, swords by our sides. It was so dark that I could barely make out their faces, though each was standing not an arm’s length away from me. Their lips were set and they did not speak. Neither of them wanted to do this, and nor in truth did I, but we did not have much choice.
I nodded to them and placed my hand on the handle. There was no lock on this door so far as I could see, and if there was any bolt on the inside, it had not been fastened, for the door opened easily and without a sound.
The room was small and sparsely furnished, not at all like the one in the guest house at Wiltune, which had been more akin to a royal bedchamber. Aelfwold lay asleep on his bed, his blankets twisted about him, his face pressed downwards into a pillow filled with straw. I entered slowly, taking care not to make too much noise. The walls were thin, and I didn’t want to disturb the others in the house. Wigod’s room was next to this one, and on the other side of that were the Malet family chambers.
I shook Aelfwold by the shoulder; he grunted and tried to roll on to his side, clutching at the blanket, but I wrenched it away. Beneath it he was dressed only in his undershirt.
‘Wake up,’ I said, shaking him again, more roughly this time.
He rolled back, hand still flailing for the blanket, and this time his eyes opened. ‘Tancred,’ he said, bleary- eyed and blinking. He looked up at Eudo and Wace, who were standing beside me. ‘What’s happening?’
‘We know,’ I said. ‘About your lord and Eadgyth, and the promises he made to her.’
‘What?’ he asked, sitting up abruptly, glancing about at the three of us. ‘What is this?’
‘What promises did he make, Aelfwold?’
‘Why should I tell you?’ he retorted, and began to get up. ‘I will not stand for this-’
‘Stay where you are,’ Eudo said, and I heard the scrape of steel as he drew his sword, pointing the tip towards the priest’s throat. ‘Otherwise I swear my blade will meet your neck.’
‘You would not dare,’ Aelfwold said, but he quickly sat back down as Eudo edged closer to him. ‘I am a man of God; you kill me and your souls will burn for all eternity.’
I had not forgotten that, but then I had no desire to kill him. All I wanted was to frighten him enough that he would tell us what we needed to know.
‘What do you know about a body?’ I asked.
His face turned red. ‘Who told you about that?’
I drew Eadgyth’s letter out of my cloak pocket and tossed it to him. He caught it in his lap, unfolded it and, squinting closely, began to read.
‘This is treachery,’ he said after a moment. ‘You swore an oath to the vicomte. You have no right to be meddling in his business, to betray his trust!’
‘It is no more treacherous than what Malet has been doing,’ Wace said. ‘Conspiring with the widow of the usurper.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Aelfwold, growing angry all of a sudden. ‘Lord Guillaume is no traitor. He will hear of this, I swear. He will hear of your disloyalty-’
‘Don’t play games with us,’ I said. I was fast losing patience with him. ‘What does she mean when she says Malet has blood on his hands? Whose is this body?’
‘This is not your concern!’
‘Tell us,’ Eudo said as he advanced further, the point of his blade lightly touching the skin on the Englishman’s neck, ‘or I
I almost shot him a glance, but then thought better of it as Aelfwold stiffened and fell suddenly silent. If the
