before halls and castles and towns were put to the torch, just as at Dunholm; before Normans in their hundreds were slaughtered across the land.
‘How do we stop him?’ I asked the vicomte. In ten days the priest could already have travelled far. So far that we might never find him, I realised with sinking heart.
The vicomte began to pace about. ‘Have you heard of a place called Waltham?’
‘Waltham?’ I repeated. The name was not familiar. ‘No, lord.’
‘It lies half a day to the north of Lundene, not far from the Roman road,’ Malet said. ‘There is a minster church there — Harold’s own foundation. That is where I had him buried; that is where Aelfwold will have gone. I want the three of you to ride there as swiftly as you are able. If he is still there, you must apprehend him and bring him to me. I will give you the fastest horses from my stables. Ride them to exhaustion if you have to; exchange them for fresh animals when you can, or else purchase new ones. The cost is not important. Do you still have the silver I gave you?’
‘Some, yes.’ The coin-pouch lay back at the camp, along with our packs and our tents and all the rest of our belongings.
‘I will give you more,’ Malet said. ‘Do you understand what I am asking?’
‘Yes, lord,’ I replied.
‘Then there is not a moment we can lose,’ Malet said. ‘I am relying on you all.’
Thirty-seven
We rode hard, rising before dawn and travelling long into the nights, stopping only when we could no longer keep our eyes open, and even then not for long. For every hour that went by I knew that Aelfwold could be getting ever further away, and so we pressed on, pushing our horses as far and as fast as they could manage.
Hooves pounded in constant rhythm as hills and forest, marsh and plains flew past. The skies were heavy with cloud, threatening rain which never came, while all the time the icy wind gusted at our backs. My eyes burnt with pain and every part of my body was clamouring for rest, but determination kept me awake, kept me going, until around noon on the fourth day, we arrived at Waltham.
It was a small village, set upon a hill above a brown, winding river. On the eastern side, looking down upon the valley, stood the minster in whitewashed stone: not quite as large nor as grand as the church at Wiltune, but then we had not come to admire its splendour or the tranquillity of its surroundings. At that time of day the gates to the minster precinct were open, and we rode up to them, where a greying, hunchbacked man leant heavily upon an oaken staff.
‘Stop there,’ he called out in our tongue, clearly recognising us for Frenchmen. He hobbled towards us, obstructing our path. ‘What’s your business here?’
‘We’ve come on the orders of the vicomte of the shire of Eoferwic, Guillaume Malet,’ I said. ‘We’re searching for a traitor. We think he might be here.’
‘More of Malet’s men?’ he asked, his brow wrinkling as he eyed us suspiciously. ‘You’re not the ones who were here last night.’
I felt my sword-arm tense. ‘What do you mean? Who was here last night?’
‘Three of them there were: one a priest, the others men of the sword like yourselves. They left this morning, not long before dawn.’
After everything, then, we were too late. We had missed Aelfwold by less than a day. ‘Where did they go?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You would have to ask Dean Wulfwin. There was some commotion, I can tell you that.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Men rushing about in the middle of the night, all manner of crashing in the church, as if the last days of this world were upon us-’
‘Where is this Wulfwin?’ Wace said, interrupting him. ‘We need to see him now.’
‘He is in his hall at the moment, meeting with the rest of the canons, but if you would kindly wait I’m sure he will see you presently.’
‘This matter won’t wait,’ I said. ‘Stand aside.’
‘My lords,’ he said, drawing himself as tall as he could manage, which with his bent back was not all that much. ‘This is a place of God. You cannot just come here and demand to be let in.’
‘If you don’t let us past,’ Eudo said, ‘you will have our swords to answer to.’
‘Lord!’ the man protested, his face turning pale. I fixed my eyes upon him, edging my horse forward. He began to step backwards, clinging to his staff, watching me as the animal snorted clouds of mist into his face.
‘Let us past,’ I said.
I saw the lump in his throat as he swallowed, and then at last he shuffled to one side. I did not wait a moment longer, spurring my mount on, past the hunchback, into the church precinct. We had no time to spare; as long as there remained the slightest chance of catching Aelfwold, we had to do whatever we could.
‘Come on,’ I called over my shoulder, and Wace and Eudo followed, leaving the gate guard shouting his protests to our backs. I knew that to enter such a place armed was a grievous sin, but we were here for a greater purpose and I trusted that, when all was done, God would forgive us.
A cluster of some dozen high-gabled houses stood to the south of the church, with smoke rising from their thatch. They were surrounded by fields, where men and boys were sowing seed, or else tending to sheep and cattle. All stopped and stared at us as we passed: no doubt knights were a rare sight in the minster grounds.
One house was set apart from the rest. Standing on the northern side of the precinct, it was joined to the church by means of a cloister, and I guessed that this was where the dean lived. The recent rains had left the ground sodden, and the fishpool by the hall had flooded. We left our horses beside it and entered the cloister through a narrow archway. A row of stone pillars, painted white and red and yellow, ran all around, while in the middle a yew spread out its branches.
As we neared the door to the dean’s hall, I began to make out a voice, intoning some words in Latin. It sounded like scripture, though I did not recognise the verse.
‘This must be it,’ I said to Wace and Eudo as we arrived before the doors. They were not barred or locked, and I flung them open. Both met the stone walls at the same time, sending a double crash resounding through the candlelit chamber.
At the far end a bald, round-faced man stood behind a lectern, with a thick-bound gospel book set upon it, its leaves open. His cheeks were ruddy, and his ears stuck out from the side of his head, and for some reason I thought he looked familiar, though I could not place him exactly.
He had stopped reading and his mouth hung agape. Another twelve canons, all of them dressed in black robes, sat upon wooden benches around the edge of the room. All looked up; a couple of them rose and were quickly seated again when they saw our mail and the scabbards swinging from our belts.
‘Dean Wulfwin?’ I asked.
‘I–I am Wulfwin,’ the man at the end said, his voice trembling as he stepped back from the gospel book. ‘Who are you? What is going on?’
And suddenly I remembered where I knew him from. He was the priest I had seen in Lundene, that night I had been attacked — so long ago, it seemed, that until this moment it had all but faded from my mind. The bald head, the red cheeks, the prominent ears: it all came back to me now, as clear as if I were standing there still.
Which meant that the one he had been speaking with had to have been Aelfwold. Nothing else made sense; it was too much of a coincidence otherwise. I saw now how stupid I had been. If I had but trusted my own eyes, rather than let myself be tricked by him, then we might have saved ourselves all this trouble. But of course I hadn’t known then everything we did now about Eadgyth and Harold. I only hoped that it was not too late to make amends.
I stared at the dean. ‘You,’ I said. ‘You were in Lundene four weeks ago.’
Perhaps he was too afraid, or perhaps he simply had no answer to that, for he did not speak.
I advanced across the tiled floor towards him. ‘Do you deny it?’
‘H-h-how …’ Wulfwin began, faltering over his words as he stepped away. ‘How did you know that?’
‘I saw you by St Eadmund’s church. You were speaking with the priest Aelfwold, conspiring with him against
