Godefroi produced a wineskin from beside him and took out the stopper. He lifted the flask to Radulf’s lips and he gulped at it, spluttering, groaning with every swallow. A flash of mail caught my eye and I turned to find a conroi of horsemen riding past. They were laughing, punching each other on the shoulder, raising their pennons to the sky.
‘Normandy!’ they shouted, all together. They sounded drunk, and perhaps they were, if not yet on ale and wine then certainly on the thrill of battle, on English blood.
‘Can you hear that?’ I asked. ‘That’s the sound of victory. The enemy have fled. The city is ours.’
‘It is?’ Radulf said. He had finished drinking and his eyes were closed once more, his breathing all of a sudden becoming shallower. He was not long for this life.
‘It’s true,’ Godefroi put in. ‘We showed them slaughter such as they had never seen.’
Radulf nodded, and there was for a moment a trace of a smile upon his lips, so slight as to be barely noticeable, but it quickly vanished as his face contorted in pain again.
‘Where’s Lord Guillaume?’ he croaked.
I hadn’t yet seen the vicomte; indeed in the midst of the battle and everything else I had almost forgotten that he was the reason we were here. I glanced at Godefroi, who looked blankly back at me, then at Wace and Eudo, who offered only a shrug.
‘He’ll be here,’ I said. ‘You served him well.’
Radulf nodded again, more vigorously, and now at last the tears began to flow, streaming down his cheeks as his breath came in stutters. He raised his bloodied hand to his face, as if trying to hide his sobs from us: his palm covering his mouth, his fingers splayed in front of his eyes.
‘He will be proud of you,’ I went on. ‘Of everything you have done for him.’
He clenched his teeth, and his hand fell to his wound once more, leaving his face marked with crimson streaks. The blood was flowing freely now, too much of it to be staunched. If the blow had been less deep, perhaps, or if it had struck his side rather than his chest … It was pointless to think that way, I knew, for nothing could change what was already done. But I could not help it. The same could have happened to me and yet I had survived. Why had I been spared but Radulf had not?
I felt moisture forming in the corners of my eyes, despite myself, and did my best to fight it back. Ever since we had first met I had thought him hot-headed, arrogant at the best of times, quick to take insult. Yet instead of goading him I might have tried harder to earn his trust, to gain his respect. And so in part at least I was responsible for him, and for what had happened.
‘You did well,’ I said again. ‘And I am sorry. For everything.’
His eyelids opened, just a fraction, enough that he could look at me, and I hoped that he had heard. The colour had all but drained from his face, and his chest was barely moving, his breathing growing ever lighter, no longer misting in the morning air.
‘Go with God, Radulf,’ I told him.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, and I leant closer, straining to hear him above the roar of victory that was all around. Whatever he meant to say, though, he never had a chance to utter, as in one long sigh his final breath fled his lips. His eyes closed once more, and slowly he sank backwards, into the trunk of the tree, his head rolling to one side, his cheek falling against his shoulder.
‘Go with God,’ I murmured again. But I knew that his soul had already fled this world, and he could hear me no longer.
Philippe found us not long after, and we left him together with Godefroi to stand vigil over Radulf. I did not know how long they had known him, or how well, but both seemed to take his death hard, and I thought it better to let them grieve by themselves while we sought out the vicomte. And someone had to stay with him, since now that the battle was over the time had come for plunder, and with his mail and helm and sword, the body of a knight held much that was of worth.
I rode with Wace and Eudo towards the minster, leaving the king and his assembled lords behind us. There was still no sign of Malet or his son, and I was beginning to grow worried when we turned up towards the market square and saw the black and gold flying before us. The vicomte was there, dressed in mail, though he had removed his helmet. Gilbert de Gand stood beside him, with the red fox upon his flag, and accompanying them both were some forty of their knights. Their spearpoints shone bright in the sun; their pennons were limp rags, soiled with the blood of the enemy.
We left our horses and made our way through the crowd. I was about to call out when I saw Malet embracing another man of around the same height: a man dressed all in black with a gilded scabbard on his sword-belt. Robert. Of course as far as the vicomte could have known, his son had been in Normandy all this while. How long must it have been since they had last seen one another?
I waited, not wanting to interrupt, but at last they stepped back, and Robert saw us. A grin broke across his face as he beckoned us over.
‘This is the man who saved my life,’ he said to his father. He was nursing his forearm where it had been wounded, I noticed; the cloth was bound tightly around it still. ‘One of your knights, I believe. Tancred a Dinant. A fine warrior.’
Malet smiled. He looked somehow older than I remembered, his grey hair flecked with white, his face more gaunt, and I wondered what toll the siege had exacted upon him.
‘Indeed he is,’ he said, and extended a hand. ‘It’s been some time, Tancred.’
I took it, smiling back. His grip, at least, was as firm as always. ‘It’s good to see you too, my lord.’
‘And Wace and Eudo as well, I see.’ He smiled. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Radulf is dead, lord,’ I said, bowing my head. ‘He was injured in the battle; he died of his wounds. Philippe and Godefroi are with him now.’
‘He fought bravely?’
‘He did,’ Wace said. ‘I was with him. He sent many of the enemy to their deaths.’
Malet nodded, his expression sombre. ‘He was a good man, loyal and determined. His death is regrettable, but he will not be forgotten.’
‘No, lord.’
‘Come,’ said Robert. ‘We will grieve for him in time, just as we’ll mourn all those who have fallen. But this is an hour for rejoicing. Eoferwic is ours. The rebels are defeated-’
‘Not defeated,’ I interrupted him. For all the scores upon scores of Englishmen that had been slain, I remembered the hundreds more that had filled the decks of their ships, that had managed to get away. I turned to face Malet. ‘Eadgar managed to escape, lord. It was my fault. I had the chance to kill him, and I failed.’
‘You wounded him,’ Eudo said. ‘You did more than any other man could manage.’
I shook my head. If my blow had struck him full in the face, rather than upon his cheek-plate, it might at least have dazed him enough that I could have cut him down. But it had not, and instead he lived.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Malet said. ‘What’s done is done and cannot now be changed. And Robert is right. Whatever battles there may be to come, it is this victory we must celebrate.’
‘Lord,’ someone called, and I turned to see Ansculf riding towards us, the black-and-gold banner raised in the three fingers of his shield-hand, a grin upon his face. Behind him rode the rest of Robert’s conroi, their mail and their shields spattered with crimson.
‘My men are waiting for me,’ said Robert as he turned his horse about. ‘No doubt we will meet again later.’
I watched as he mounted up and rode to join them, taking the banner from Ansculf, lifting it to the sky as his horse reared up, before he and his conroi galloped down the street.
‘I hear my wife and daughter are safe in Lundene,’ Malet said once he had gone.
‘They are,’ I said.
‘That is good to hear. And my message has been delivered to Wiltune, as I instructed?’
I glanced at Eudo and Wace, unsure what to say. He had been bound to ask at some point, though I had hoped he wouldn’t. But I could not lie to this man, to whom I had sworn my oath.
‘Lord,’ I said, lowering my voice as I drew closer. There were men all about us who might overhear, and I was sure Malet did not intend this for their ears. ‘We saw your letter. We know about Eadgyth, your friendship with Harold, and the business with his body.’
If anything I had expected Malet to turn to rage, but instead his face seemed to go pale. Perhaps like us he
