Even so, to shelter as we were doing within the houses of the dead made me uneasy. I was glad when all had finished and we were back in the saddle, and finally we left that place of ruin, that city of the condemned, that symbol of God’s vengeance.
Twenty-three
The rain fell throughout the rest of the day, sweeping in from the south and the west, driven by a gusting wind which only grew stronger as the afternoon went on. Greyness hung like a sheet across the sky, the cloud veiling the tops of the hills in the distance. By the time we stopped for the night, in a village nestled at the bottom of a valley, known to the local folk as Ovretune, my cloak was soaked through and my tunic clinging to my skin.
Much to our relief there was already a fire roaring in the alehouse when we arrived. We huddled around it, warming our fingers by the flames while platters of smoked trout and boiled vegetables and pitchers of wine were brought out to us by the innkeeper’s wife. She was a thin woman, about the same age as Lady Elise, with chestnut-brown hair and a timid demeanour. Perhaps it was because she recognised most of us for Frenchmen and knights, or perhaps she was merely uneasy around strangers, but she kept her head bowed whenever she approached, as if the slightest glance might incur our wrath.
She reminded me in a way of my mother, the little that I could recall of her at least. It was not that they looked alike; as much as I tried, I could never picture my mother clearly. But I did remember the manner with which she carried herself — quiet and humble, and somehow always afraid — and as I watched this woman now, I felt that I could almost see her again, though it was near twenty years since I had known her.
We ate in silence, content simply to be indoors at last and to have food in our bellies. Gradually the common room filled with men, many of whom seemed to have come straight from the fields, their trews and tunics caked with mud. They kept to small groups, huddled over their cups, occasionally turning their heads in our direction as they muttered to one another in their own tongue. I’d become so used to the company of Aelfwold in recent weeks that it was strange to see such men speaking without a single word of French. I was suddenly aware that we were the only ones in the room who were not English. My fingertips brushed against the cold hilt of my sword beneath my cloak; I pulled them away quickly. I did not want to have to use it tonight.
I turned my attention back to our table. ‘All being well, we ought to reach Wiltune by sunset tomorrow,’ Aelfwold said.
‘How long will it take you to deliver your message?’ Wace asked.
‘Not long. I’d hope that we can be on our way the following morning.’
A roar erupted from across the room and I turned abruptly as a group of Englishmen slammed their cups down upon the table in front of them. One of them, a heavy-set man about the same age as myself, began to splutter, droplets spraying from his mouth, until a friend slapped him on the back. Red-faced and blinking as if in surprise, he wiped a sleeve over his dark moustache before joining the rest in their laughter. After a moment he noticed me watching and I returned to my wine.
‘I need a piss,’ Eudo announced to no one in particular. He stood up, resting a hand on the table to steady himself, and made, half stumbling, for the door. I didn’t think he had drunk so much, but when I went to pour myself a fresh cup, I found the pitcher all but empty, with only the dregs left.
‘How many cups has he had?’ I asked.
Radulf pointed to the pitcher. ‘Has he finished it?’
‘We’ll have to get another,’ Philippe said as he looked about for the innkeeper.
‘Maybe if we wait for him to return, he’ll pay for it,’ Godefroi added, grinning slyly.
I glanced at Wace, but he only shrugged. ‘I should make sure he’s all right,’ I said, standing and wrapping my cloak around me. It was still damp, despite having been hanging beside the fire, but it was better than nothing.
The chill of the air struck me as I opened the door. It was still raining, though more lightly than before. I raised my hood over my head, gritted my teeth and ventured out. The ground was slick with mud, and I took care where I trod. Water dripped from the thatch; all about large puddles gleamed in the light from the doorway.
I found Eudo by the stables around the side of the alehouse. He had one arm extended in front of him, propping himself against the wall; even above the sound of the rain I could make out the steady trickle of water on to the sodden ground.
‘Eudo,’ I said.
He kept his back to me. ‘What do you want?’
I shivered as the wind gusted again, its icy fingers grasping at my skin even through my cloak. ‘I want to talk.’
He made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and I saw him fiddling with the laces on his braies before at last he turned. His face lay in shadow; there was no moon and the only light came from inside the alehouse.
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ he slurred as he began to trudge unsteadily through the mud towards me.
‘How much have you drunk?’ I asked.
‘What does it matter to you?’ He wasn’t wearing his cloak, I noticed. He stumbled forward, his dark hair damp and matted against his head, trying to make his way around me, but I stood in his path. ‘Let me past.’ His breath stank of wine.
‘You’ve had enough,’ I said.
‘I’ll do what I want,’ he said with a snort. ‘You’re not my keeper.’
‘You’ve been like this ever since Lundene,’ I said, watching him carefully. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You pretend to be interested but I know you don’t care.’
I felt myself tense. Whatever it was I had done, it had clearly upset him far more than I had thought. ‘That’s not true,’ I said.
‘I know you — don’t think that I don’t. I’ve known you longer than anyone. When you disappear in the middle of the night like you did in Lundene, I know there’s something not right. I know when there are things you’re not telling us.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ I asked, trying to keep the anger from my voice. Of course he was right; I hadn’t told any of them the whole story about that night. But how could he have guessed that?
He shook his head, his mouth set in disgust. ‘You’ve changed. Since Dunholm you’ve kept more and more to yourself. You talk to the priest but never tell us anything. You never tell me anything.’ He pointed at his chest and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I’ve been your friend for all these years. After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me enough-’
‘Do you think I’ve found it easy since Dunholm?’ I burst out.
He glared at me. ‘You think it’s been any easier for me or for Wace? We were all there, all of us. Not just you.’
I’d opened my mouth when I stopped. So caught up had I been in my own grief that I had not understood how much Lord Robert’s death had affected him too.
‘What is it that you want?’ I said, more quietly. I could hear voices and the sound of footfalls upon the mud by the front of the alehouse, and I was wary of attracting too much attention.
‘I want to be in Eoferwic,’ he said. ‘I want to be killing the men who killed Lord Robert. Instead we’re here, wandering the whole damned kingdom after this priest, and I’m tired of it.’
I remained quiet for a moment as I thought of Eadgar, remembered the promise I had made to him outside Eoferwic’s walls. The promise that I would kill him. The fingers on my sword-hand itched even as I thought of it. And so I knew how Eudo felt. But I knew, too, that until we had fulfilled our service to the vicomte, vengeance would have to wait.
‘It’s our duty to Malet,’ I said.
‘No.’ He jabbed a finger at my face. ‘It’s your duty, Tancred. Wace and I never swore any oath to him. He’s promised to pay us and so we’re here, but we owe him nothing.’
I waited in case there was more to come, but there was not. The night was quiet; the rain had eased and was now little more than a steady drizzle.
‘Leave, then,
’ I said. ‘Take your horse and ride back to Eoferwic, or wherever you want to go. Take Wace with you. If it’s silver that you’re after, there’ll be plenty of lords willing to pay.’
He took a pace back. ‘No one’s leaving,’ he replied. ‘Maybe you think you don’t need our help at the moment, but you will. Just try to trust us from now on.’
He shouldered his way past, back towards the common room, and this time I didn’t attempt to stop or follow him. Probably he needed a while to gather himself, I decided. At the same time I didn’t want to see his face again so soon. I was angry with him, yes, but there was something else as well: something in what he’d said that had struck me, though I could not place it exactly.
I waited until he had gone back inside and then turned in the opposite direction, towards the stables. Within, my horse was gorging itself on a sack of grain which had been left hanging on the inside of the door, and which was now less than half full. I looked about for the stable-boy, but he was not to be seen. Cursing his carelessness, I lifted the sack down. If the horse overate then he was likely to develop colic, in which case I could well find myself having to find another mount come the morning, for this one would be dead.
I placed the sack on the ground outside the stall and rubbed his muzzle before bolting the door again and checking on the others, making sure that the stable-hand had not left any more feedbags out, but he had not. I would mention it to the innkeeper, and if the boy got a beating as a result, it was no less than he deserved.
I crossed the yard back towards the common room, which was even more full than it had been when I had left. Every one of the men who lived in this village must have come here, I thought, all of them reeking of wine and ale, sweat and dirt.
Eudo was sitting with the rest of the party by the fire. As I approached, the innkeeper’s wife was bringing them another two large pitchers of wine, each one full to the brim, to join the three which were already there. She set them down; Radulf held up a silver penny towards her, but as she held out her hand to receive it, he tossed it to the floor, where it fell amidst the rushes. A roar of laughter went up from Godefroi and Philippe, who began banging their fists on the table. The woman blushed deep red as she got on her knees to retrieve the coin.
Aelfwold rose suddenly. ‘You heartless … nithingas!’ he shouted at the knights. They looked back in confusion. I did not know what the word meant, but I had never before heard the chaplain speak so vehemently.
I rushed over and knelt down beside the woman. She tried to wave me away, speaking in English as she scrabbled around on the floor, and I saw her blink away a tear. In my mind I saw my mother weeping in much the same way.
‘Let me help,’ I said, but she did not seem to understand me, for she simply spoke more loudly as she began to sob. I spotted the penny resting next to the leg of the table, and picked it up to offer to her. She shook her head as water began to trickle down her cheeks, and got quickly to her feet.
‘HwAet gelimpth?’ a voice shouted from across the room. It was the innkeeper.
I stood and turned to the five knights. ‘Have you forgotten yourselves?’ I demanded, snatching up one of the wine-jugs and tipping its contents on to the floor, staining the rushes red.
‘What are you doing?’ Radulf asked, rising.
‘We paid for that!’ said Philippe.
‘You’ve had enough,’ I said, grabbing the next pitcher in line and doing the same. ‘All of you.’
‘Tancred-’ Radulf began.
I thumped the empty vessel down upon the table so hard that it shook, and glared back at him, then turned to Aelfwold. ‘I’m sorry, father,’ I said.
The chaplain’s cheeks were a bright scarlet, his face tight with anger. ‘I’m not the one in need of an apology,’ he said, and he pointed to the innkeeper, who was hustling over. He was a short man, but broad in the chest and well built for his size, with a large forehead and small eyes.
‘Ge bysmriath min wif,’ he said, sending spittle flying. He gestured towards his woman, who had scurried back to the other side of the room, and stared up at me, for I stood a whole head taller. ‘Ge bysmriath me!’
I stared back, uncertain what to do. I looked about for the chaplain, and saw him making his way through the crowd towards the stairs at the far side of the room.
‘Aelfwold!’ I called after him, but either he did not hear me or he chose to ignore me, for he did not turn around.
Hurriedly I reached for the coin-pouch at my belt, tipping a stream of the pennies out into my palm. I held them out towards the innkeeper, hoping it would be enough to placate him.
He looked first at them, then at me, and half spoke, half spat some more words in his tongue. But the sight of so much silver was enough to cool his temper; he snatched at the coins, almost as if he thought I might take them back if he didn’t accept straightaway. He grunted, whether in appreciation or as a warning I was not sure, and after a final glance at me he returned to his wife.
A few of the other Englishmen had turned to watch, but not many — only those who had been closest — and as I looked around at them they one by one returned to their drinks. For that I thanked God, for they looked like strong men, used to working hard in the fields. Full of ale as they were, it would not take much to incite them.
I turned to the rest of the knights. ‘Do you want to get us killed? Because that’s what’ll happen if the rest of this alehouse turns on us.’
‘It was but harmless fun,’ said Wace, who I had thought the most sober of them all.
I stared at him, scarce believing what I heard. ‘You think it amusing to mock an innocent peasant woman?’
‘We meant nothing by it,’ put in Radulf.
I spat on the floor. ‘There’ll be no more drinking tonight,’ I said. ‘I’m going to find the chaplain.’
Aelfwold had gone upstairs to his room. The door stood open, and I found him kneeling on the floor, his eyes closed and hands clasped as he murmured a prayer in Latin. I waited until he had finished, when he looked up and saw me standing beneath the door-frame. He rose as I entered.
‘Father,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry-’
‘You must keep better control of your men.’ His voice was surprisingly calm; his anger, it seemed, already diminished.
‘They are not my men,’ I said. Wace and Eudo were my comrades, it was true, but only Eudo had ever ridden in my conroi before. I thought of Dunholm and faces rose up like spectres in my mind: Gerard, Fulcher, Ivo, Ernost and Mauger. Those were my men — not this group that Malet had burdened me with.
‘Lord Guillaume has placed them under your command,’ the priest said simply. ‘Hence they are yours.’
‘They don’t respect me,’ I said.
‘Then you must make them respect you. Otherwise, sooner or later they will do someone real harm. The English are my people, Tancred. I will not stand them being treated in this way.’
‘What about the Aetheling and the Northumbrians in Eoferwic?’ I countered. ‘Are they not English too?’
‘They are rebels against the lawfully crowned king, and so enemies of our Lord.’ He spoke slowly, as if trying to contain his anger. ‘But this is Wessex; this is different. You cannot just allow your men to do what they will.’
‘What do you expect of me?’ I asked. ‘I can’t govern everything they do.’
What he must have thought of me then, I didn’t know. Doubtless he was coming to resent the way I was always challenging him. Perhaps he was even regretting Malet’s decision to put me in charge of this party in the first place.
‘You can teach them to restrain themselves,’ said Aelfwold.
‘They are trained warriors,’ I retorted, ‘not boys but men fully grown.’
‘Then perhaps they need reminding of that!’
So surprised was I by the force of his voice that I took a step back. And in any case, why was I defending the others? What they had done was wrong; I knew that and I had told them so. But I also saw that it was borne not
out of malice or lack of respect, as the chaplain seemed to assume, but rather out of frustration. And I remembered what Eudo had said to me only a little earlier, and suddenly I understood.
Like myself, these were indeed trained warriors. Their role on this earth was to fight, and if they could not do that, then they grew restless. Because instead of being where they felt they ought to be, on the march to Eoferwic, they found themselves deep in the English countryside, far from anywhere, without any real notion of what they were doing, let alone why. Like me, except that I alone had some idea, for I had the name that Malet’s son had given me-
‘Who is Eadgyth?’ I asked.
I hadn’t intended to mention her then, but I realised I would get no better opportunity than this.
The priest stopped still. Outside, the wind buffeted against the thatch; above our heads, the roof-timbers creaked. The sound of men laughing sounded through from the common room below.
‘How do you know that name?’ Aelfwold asked.
‘Who is she?’
‘It’s none of your concern.’
‘I know that she’s the one you’re meeting in Wiltune,’ I said, feeling my heart begin to pound. It was more a guess than a lie: despite what Robert had said, I could not know for sure, though the chaplain’s reaction suggested that I was right.
He stared at me, blinking, but said nothing.
‘Do you deny it?’ I asked.
‘Who told you that name?’
I thought it unwise to mention Robert, and so changed tack. ‘Is she a lover of Malet’s?’ I demanded. I was on unsteadier ground now, but my blood was rising and I wanted to press the advantage as long as I held it. Had she fled to the nunnery to escape him, perhaps?
‘You dare to insult my lord?’ he shouted. ‘The man to whom you swore an oath of service?’
I had half expected him to say something like that, and was not about to be deflected. ‘Is she?’ I said again.
‘Of course not!’
‘Then who is she?’
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