For the ship, I saw, was turning against the tide, its oars heaving as it began to make its way back downstream. For a third time the orange light shone, but it was fainter than before.
‘You can’t get away,’ I said, and now at last he turned to face me. His eyes were wild, his face twisted in a mixture of despair and hatred, as though the Devil were inside him. I laid a hand upon my sword-hilt, ready.
‘England will never belong to you,’ he spat, and pointed a finger at me. ‘This is our land, our home — it is not yours!’
He was raving now, driven to madness by the realisation of his defeat. Slowly I advanced, keeping my eyes fixed upon him.
‘You will not take me,’ he said, shaking his head as he took a step back. ‘Kill me if you have to, but you will not take me.’ He was fewer than five paces from the edge now, and I wondered if he knew.
I lifted my hands away from my body, away from my sword. ‘I’m not going to kill you.’
The wind gusted again, pressing at my back, like icy hands laid upon my skin, digging into the flesh. The priest stepped backwards but the ground was muddy and he lost his footing, falling to his hands and knees. Behind him was nothing but air.
‘Aefwold!’ I cried. I started forward, holding out my hand towards him.
He clasped it, his palm cold but his grip strong. Too strong, I realised, as he wrenched me from my feet. I met the ground hard, the brink no more than an arm’s length away. My heart was pounding as I rolled on to my back and reached for my sword, but I was not quick enough. The priest flung himself at me, his face red, his cheeks streaming with tears.
He landed on top of me, his hands flying to my throat, and it was all I could do to swing my fist into the side of his head. The blow connected and he reeled back, and in that moment I saw my chance, throwing him off. I struggled to my feet, and he to his, wiping blood from his cheek.
Except that now I was the one with the cliff at my back. I pulled my blade free of its sheath, and held it before me in warning.
‘Stay back,’ I said.
But he was not listening. Screeching like some beast from the caverns of Hell, he charged.
Whether he hoped to catch me off guard and off balance, whether he planned to take us both over, I do not know, and never will. I recovered my wits just in time, waiting until he was almost upon me before dancing to one side, lifting my sword, turning and thrusting the blade out. A moment sooner and he would have seen what I was doing; a moment later and I would have been pitched, with him, on to the rocks below.
My sword flashed silver in the night, striking only air, but Aelfwold was coming so fast that it did not matter. He flew past me, past the point of my blade, and in a single moment his expression turned from rage to fear when he saw the cliff-edge before him and found that he could not stop.
His cloak billowed all about him as, screaming, he tumbled forward, disappearing from sight. Dropping my sword, I rushed to the edge, gazing down towards the rocks. The priest lay on his back, unmoving, his arms and legs spread wide.
‘Aelfwold,’ I called, but he did not reply.
His eyes were open, the whites glistening in what little light there was, but he did not see me. His mouth hung agape, his chest was still and he was no longer breathing. His forehead was spattered with blood, his hair matted where his skull had cracked.
The chaplain was dead.
Epilogue
The sun shone brightly upon Eoferwic. It was still early but the morning was warm, as Malet and I rode through a city blossoming with colour.
Hardly three weeks had passed since the battle, yet already traders were returning, farmers driving their livestock to market once more. Butchers’ and fishmongers’ stalls lined the streets, which were thronged with English and French alike. Everywhere the trees were in leaf, while in the fields the first green shoots were bursting above the soil. The scent of moist earth drifted on the breeze. After the long winter we had endured, it seemed that spring had at last arrived.
‘It was on a morning like this, some fifteen years ago, that I first saw this city,’ said Malet. ‘I find it remarkable how little it has changed, despite all the troubles of recent times.’
We were alone. I had left Eudo and Wace at the alehouse where we were staying; neither were up when the summons had arrived for me from the vicomte. Exactly why he had called for me he had not yet said.
‘My mother had died not long before,’ he went on. ‘I’d come to England to take up the estates she’d held here. It was only a few months later that I took a young priest into my household as my chaplain.’
‘Aelfwold,’ I said.
Malet’s face was grim. ‘I still find it hard to believe that he was capable of such deceit.’
With that I could only agree. We had told Malet everything when we returned to his hall the night before: everything from our arrival at Waltham and our meeting with Dean Wulfwin, to the fight upon the shore, the ship waiting out on the Temes, my struggle with Aelfwold by the cliff’s edge, and his eventual death. Through all of it Malet had hardly spoken as he sat, pensive and still.
We’d brought Harold’s coffin with us, which had proven no easy task. First we’d had to find a cart to carry it, and of course there’d been the matter of how to raise it from the barge, but with the help of some local folk and generous offerings of silver we had managed. It had taken us many days after that to return to Eoferwic; far longer than it should. But we hadn’t wanted to bring too much attention upon ourselves and so had tried to keep to country tracks, staying away from the old road as much as we could.
‘Where will you bury Harold now?’ I asked. ‘Will you return his body to Waltham?’
Before us a man was driving a flock of geese through the mud. We plodded behind them until he came to a pen at the side of the street and, aided by some of the other townsmen, herded them through its gate, out of our way.
‘Not Waltham, no,’ said Malet. ‘After this, I know I cannot rely on Wulfwin to keep such a secret safe.’
‘Where, then?’
He glared at me, as if in warning, but I held his gaze and he soon turned away. ‘I will find somewhere fitting,’ he answered quietly. ‘By the sea, perhaps, so that in death he may still watch over the shores he tried in life to protect.’
I wondered what he meant by that, whether he was speaking in jest. But he was not smiling and there was no humour in his eyes. He had told me as much as he was prepared to, and it was clear I would get nothing more from him.
For a while we rode on in silence. Pedlars approached us, trying to sell rolls of cloth, wooden pots and all manner of trinkets, but when they saw that we were ignoring them they quickly moved on.
‘What about Eadgyth?’ I asked, recalling the letter that Wigod had translated for me. ‘Will you send word to her now?’
Malet nodded. ‘I’m leaving for Wiltune tomorrow to meet with her in person. At the very least she deserves an explanation for all that has happened.’
‘You’ll tell her the truth?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Or else I will think of some other story to placate her,’ he said. ‘That the body was lost, or something similar. Perhaps it would be better that way.’
I shot him a glance, but said nothing. A group of children darted about our horses’ legs, chasing each other in some game I did not understand. I held the reins steady, slowing my mount to a halt until they had passed.
‘I suppose I should thank you and your companions for everything you have done in my service,’ Malet went on. ‘I wouldn’t have known of Aelfwold’s deceit had it not been for you.’
He did not look at me while he spoke. I sensed he was testing me, and not for the first time, I thought. By now of course he must have realised that it was only our own treachery that had led us to the answer. For if I hadn’t tried to read his letter in the first place, we could never have known the priest’s plan.
‘We did only what we thought was right, lord,’ I said, picking my words with care.
