The four stable-boys were already almost out of sight as they led the horses in the direction of the castle. But behind us, upon the bridge by the other end of the quay, the mist was beginning to clear and through it I saw the shadows of men as they ran, like ghosts in the gloom, bearing a forest of spears and axes.
‘Look at that,’ I murmured to the other knights.
There were dozens of them, perhaps even hundreds, roaring as they came, the light of their torches glinting upon the calm waters below. I felt my sword-hand itch again, and I wanted to ask Aubert to turn back, though I knew that I could not. Over the roofs of the houses between the castle and the minster I saw black smoke rising, and a glimmer of flames, and I heard, or thought I heard, men’s voices carrying on the wind: ‘For Normandy! For King Guillaume!’
Ælfwold bowed his head. His lips moved as if in prayer and I wondered what he was feeling. He was Malet’s man, and so far as I knew had been for some time, but even if he had no especial liking for the rebels or for Eadgar, they were still his kinsmen. Was he praying for them or for his lord?
‘Row, you sons of whores,’ Aubert shouted, beating harder on the skin of the drum. ‘Row, if you want to get paid!’
The oarsmen found their rhythm and the ship surged forward, cutting through the waters with all the sharpness and speed of a sword. Stroke followed stroke, and with each one the wharves, the storehouses, the whole city receded further into the mist. Somewhere in those streets, I thought, rode Malet with his conroi. In his hands rested the defence of Eoferwic.
We passed by the castle, its palisade and tower rising in shadow high above us, and we stood there, not speaking to one another but simply watching while it grew smaller and smaller, until the river turned away to the south and even that great edifice disappeared from sight. Slowly the shouts and the battle-thunder faded into nothing. Before long there was only the sound of the drum and the oars upon the water, and then at last we were alone.
Thirteen
THE BANKS SLID past in the evening mist. Low willow branches swung lazily in the breeze, bare save for a few yellow catkins: little pinpricks of colour amidst the gloom. The first signs of spring, perhaps.
The river was quiet, stately in its progress as it wound its way through the flat country. A fleet of ducks swam off our larboard side, watching closely with beady eyes as we overtook them. All that could be heard was the soft splash of oars against the water’s surface. How different it was from the crowded streets of the city; it was hard to believe it was just that morning that we had left. But night was nearly upon us again, and the darkening cloud hung low, threatening rain at any moment.
Beside me, Aubert pulled on the tiller as the river curved towards the west and the last light, and the Wyvern’s high prow carved a great arc through the calm water. On the right-hand bank a village came into sight, no more than a spire or two of smoke at first, but as we grew closer I was able to pick out firelight, and then a cluster of houses around a timber-and-thatch hall, a low rectangular shadow against the grey skies. I wondered who resided there: whether it was one of the few English thegns who still held land under King Guillaume, or – more likely – a new French-speaking lord.
‘Drachs,’ Aubert said to me as he pushed gently on the tiller. ‘South-east she runs from here, down to the Humbre.’
A chorus of laughter erupted from the other end of the ship, where Eudo and Wace were playing at dice with the other three from Malet’s household. They seemed like good men, from the little I had spoken to them, and I did not doubt their sword-arms, though whether they had the temperament for battle, I couldn’t yet be sure.
I’d joined them earlier, but soon found myself distracted, my mind wandering and confused. So much had happened so quickly and I needed the time to think. We had departed Eoferwic in such a rush and I still did not understand how I had come to be here, why Malet had chosen me for this task.
Up ahead, the river’s course bent sharply left: so sharply in fact that it appeared to come back almost on itself. Aubert shouted to his rowers, and those on the left-hand side shipped oars, taking a few moments to rest their arms, while those to steerboard quickened their pace. The ship surged forward, taking the bend in a wide curve, and as the river straightened out, the pace slowed and the larboard oarsmen once more resumed their stroke.
A gust rustled the reeds in the shallows and I caught a glimpse of shadows moving about on the right-hand bank. I watched, trying to make out more detail, but whatever it was, it remained hidden by the mist. A deer or some other animal, I thought.
Aubert steered us away, back towards the middle of the river where the flow was fastest. I looked to the sky, where the moon was up, its milky light shining diffusely through the low, bulbous clouds. There had been wind, but it had lessened as the day wore on and the black-and-gold sail was now furled, the mast taken down. But the Use was high after the recent rains and the current was strong, and so we had made good progress.
‘You’re from Dinant, then?’ the shipmaster asked, and I was taken by surprise, not because of the suddenness of the question, but because he’d said it in the Breton tongue. I had grown so used to speaking French in recent times that the words sounded almost foreign to my ears.
‘That’s right,’ I replied. Malet must have given him my name. ‘You’re from Brittany as well?’
Of course, just because he spoke the language did not mean he was a native – and I had not noticed any trace of an accent before now. The words felt unfamiliar as they left my tongue. Like the ocean on the turning tide: never really gone, only diminished, waiting for the moment when it would flood back once again.
‘From Aleth,’ he said. ‘Not far from you.’
I had never been there but I knew of it: a port some miles downstream from Dinant, where the river flowed out into the Narrow Sea.
‘It’s been a long time since I was there,’ he continued. ‘There or in Dinant, for that matter. Not since the time of the siege, anyway.’
At the mention of the siege I felt my chest tighten. The tale was five years old, and had been related to me long before. I’d heard how Conan, the Breton count, had refused to swear fealty to Normandy; how Duke Guillaume had invaded that summer and forced him back to the castle at Dinant; how the castle had been besieged and destruction wrought everywhere, until at last he submitted. But never before had I spoken to anyone who had seen it with his own eyes.
‘You were there?’
‘I was serving as steersman in Conan’s household. It was after the siege that I left his employ and Malet took me on.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Houses raided, half the town razed to the ground,’ Aubert said, his eyes vacant, staring off into the mist. ‘Women raped, men and children murdered in the streets. The stench of death everywhere: in the castle, in the streets. It was like nothing you have ever seen.’
‘I was at Hæstinges,’ I said, suddenly provoked. ‘I have seen thousands of men lose their lives in a single day, run through with sword and spear, trampled under the weight of the charge. You think I don’t know slaughter?’
I remembered my ears filling with the screams of my comrades. I remembered seeing the whole hillside awash with blood, and whether it was the enemy’s or whether it was ours, after a whole day of fighting it no longer mattered.
The shipmaster turned away. ‘You live by the sword,’ he said. ‘That’s different.’
A sense of guilt came over me, for I hadn’t meant to be harsh. It was more than any man should have to witness – any man, at least, whose living was not made as mine was.
‘He should have surrendered sooner,’ I said. Even in those days Guillaume of Normandy had a reputation as a fierce warlord, loyal to his allies but merciless against those he considered his enemies. Conan had been foolish to think that he could challenge him.
Aubert shook his head. ‘By then the war had sent him mad,’ he said. ‘Some days he did not even come out of his chambers. He refused to speak with
anyone, and he hardly ate, though he certainly drank.’ The shipmaster spat over the side into the river. ‘When he finally came to his senses, it was too late for the town.’
I shook my head. Even when I’d first heard the news, it was not the Normans I had been angry at – that, after all, was how wars were fought – but our own count, for inviting it upon Dinant, for betraying his people.
‘Still, the tides come and the tides go,’ said Aubert. ‘Five years is a long time. And we all fight for the same side now, don’t we?’
‘We do,’ I said quietly. Conan was dead – had been for some time – and any animosity there once might have been between Breton and Norman was long buried.
A drop of rain struck my cheek, heavy and cold. The last light of day was fading and already it felt colder as the river-mist closed in around us. The drops grew more frequent and I drew up the hood of my cloak to keep them out. Dark spots began to appear on the deck.
‘When do we put in for the night?’ I asked.
‘We’ll sail until dawn if we can. With luck we’ll have reached the Humbre by then, as long as there’s some moonlight and we can see our way. The river’s wide and deep enough here – not so many mudbanks to watch out for. Besides, I’ve travelled this river many times this past year. I know her curves like I do my wife’s.’ He flashed me a grin, and I saw that he was missing several of his top teeth. I tried to smile back, though in truth I did not feel at all cheered.
‘Row!’ Aubert barked at his oarsmen, for they had relaxed their pace while we had been talking. He picked up his drum once more and began to beat the time he wanted. ‘Stop slacking, you bastard Devil-sons! Row!’
I looked up as Ælfwold approached and sat down on a bundle of fleeces next to me.
‘How are the ladies faring?’ I asked him, glancing up towards the bows where Elise and her daughter stood watching the waters slide past.
‘As well as might be expected,’ the chaplain said, his tone somewhat subdued. ‘Our prayers are naturally all for the safe keeping of the vicomte.’
He withdrew a small loaf from inside his cloak and broke it in two, pieces of crust flaking off to settle on the wooden timbers, then he offered me one half. I took it with thanks and bit into it, feeling its coarse texture between my teeth. A piece of grit scraped the inside of my cheek and I used my tongue to work it towards the front of my mouth, before picking it out and flicking it overboard.
‘How long have you served him?’ I asked.
‘Many years,’ Ælfwold said, his brow wrinkling. ‘Thirteen, perhaps fourteen, or even more – I’ve long since lost count. Since he first came over from Normandy, at least.’
‘You mean he was in England before the invasion?’ Of course I remembered Wace telling me about Malet’s English mother, but I also knew he had fought at Hæstinges and so had assumed that he’d come over at the same time as the rest of us.
Ælfwold swallowed his mouthful, nodding.
One question had been on my mind all day; there would not be a better time to ask it than now. I lowered my voice. ‘What did Eadgar mean when he said that Malet used to be a friend of Harold Godwineson?’
The chaplain went pale as he cast his gaze down towards the deck.
‘It’s true, then?’ I asked, frowning. ‘He knew the usurper?’
Malet had been careful to keep that fact hidden. But then there were few men these days, English or French, who would readily admit to being close to the man who had stolen the crown. That the king held him in such regard in spite of it certainly marked him out.
‘Knew him, yes,’ Ælfwold said, speaking more solemnly now. ‘Even when I entered his employ I believe they were already well acquainted. Often they hunted together; as I remember, one summer he even accompanied Harold on pilgrimage to Rome—’
He broke off as a troubled expression came across his face. ‘You should know, though, that all that came to an end three years ago. For years he used to travel back and forth between Graville and his English estates. But when King Eadward died and Harold assumed the crown, he returned to Normandy to join the invasion.’
That two men who had been such great friends should so quickly have become enemies was strange. ‘What made Malet turn against Harold?’ I asked.
‘I confess there have been many occasions when I have been unable to understand my lord’s mind,’ the chaplain said. ‘This, I am afraid, was one of those. For certain he was opposed to Harold’s seizure of the crown, which he saw as both illegitimate and perfidious. All this happened, you understand, after Harold had sworn his oath to be Duke Guillaume’s vassal. But already before then their friendship was wearing thin. I remember them meeting many times in those years, and each time I recall a deepening frustration, perhaps even resentment, in my lord’s manner. To this day I have never found out what happened to cause such ill will.’
‘Did you go with him when he returned?’
‘To Normandy?’ Ælfwold asked, as if it were an absurd question, and I was taken aback by his tone. ‘No, I stayed on, helping to manage his estates this side of the sea.’
‘They weren’t confiscated by the usurper, then?’
‘No,’ the chaplain said. ‘Even then I think Harold still hoped the two of them could be reconciled, but for my lord it was too late.’ A note of regret seemed to enter his voice. ‘The damage had been wrought, and it could not be repaired.’
I fell silent. Harold had been an oath-breaker, a perjurer, an enemy of God; he’d had no right to the kingdom of England. But even so I couldn’t help but think: how hard must it have been to go back on so many years of friendship, as Malet had done?
‘He is a good lord,’ Ælfwold said, glancing back across the ship’s stern, and I imagined he was looking back towards Eoferwic, though it was of course many miles behind us now.
A loud groan came from the wooden platform at the bow of the ship; Eudo’s head was buried in his hands as the rest burst out laughing.
Wace cupped his hands around the pile of pebbles that lay in the middle of their circle and drew them towards his own. ‘Just be glad we’re not playing for silver,’ he said as he gave Eudo a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
The ladies turned their heads momentarily, before gazing back at the river. I had spoken little to them all day, save to ensure that they were comfortable, and had sufficient cloaks and blankets to keep themselves warm. At times I had brought them food and wine, though they had not seemed hungry.
I turned back to Ælfwold. ‘The rebels won’t take Eoferwic,’ I said. I tried to sound confident, though in truth I was not entirely convinced, for it was not just their army outside the walls that I was thinking of, but also the townsmen within. I didn’t doubt Malet’s ability, but I was not sure whether seven hundred men would be enough to hold the city.
‘The rebels are only the beginning of it,’ Ælfwold replied. ‘Even if they can be held off, come the summer we will have the Danes to fight, and what will happen then, none but God can know.’
‘If the Danes come at all,’ I pointed out.
‘They will come,’ he said. He met my gaze and I realised then how old he looked, and how tired were his eyes, not just with fatigue from the day’s events, it appeared to me, but from something more deeply set.
‘Pray with me, Tancred,’ he said. He knelt down on the deck, placing his hands together and closing his eyes.
I did the same, and as he began to intone the first words of the Paternoster, I joined in, reciting words practised over many years, ingrained, as it were, into my very soul: ‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum …’
As the phrases rolled off my tongue, my mind wandered, and I began to think about the journey ahead, about seeing the two women safely to Lundene, and our task beyond that. What was the message that the chaplain was carrying, I wondered, and why Wiltune?
‘Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen,’ I finished, and I opened my eyes.
Ælfwold was yawning. �
�Forgive me,’ he said. ‘It has been a long day and I am in need of rest.’
‘Of course,’ I said. The time for such questions would come, I decided. There was no pressing need to air them now, and we had many days’ travel ahead of us.
‘I should speak with the ladies Elise and Beatrice before I sleep,’ the chaplain said. ‘I bid you a good night.’
‘Good night, father.’
I watched him return, past Wace and Eudo and the others, to join the women at the bow. Leaving a husband and father behind to the mercy of unknown forces could not be an easy thing to do, and I had no desire to intrude upon them. We had tried to afford them space whenever we could, though there was precious little of that aboard a ship such as this. Better that Ælfwold was the one to speak with them; he knew them as I did not.
For a while I sat in silence, once again gazing out over the murky waters. To our steerboard side passed a mound, no more than thirty or forty paces in length, clustered with stubby, leafless trees. Another loomed up ahead, black and featureless against the moonlit waters, but Aubert’s face showed no sign of concern as he leant on the tiller, steering us around it. The river was steadily widening – had been ever since we passed Drachs – and was now easily three or four hundred paces in span, and perhaps much more. In the gloom it was hard to tell; where earlier I had been able to see shadows of the woods through the mist, now there were none as the surrounding land gave way to marshes.
I rose from the square oak chest I was sitting on and made my way along the length of the ship, between the two banks of oarsmen and around the mast, to the bow platform where the rest of the knights were still throwing dice.
Eudo looked up as I approached, and moved aside to make a space for me in the circle. ‘What’s the news?’
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