‘I don’t see how Malet can be a traitor,’ I said. ‘Whatever pledges he might have made to her once, it’s clear that they mean nothing to him now.’
At the very least his message hadn’t given her the answer she wanted. What was it, then, that she believed she deserved to be told?
‘Still,’ Wace said, ‘as long as they continue to pass secret letters between each other, how can we be sure?’
‘There is one way,’ Eudo replied, and he pointed to the letter in my hand. ‘We have to open it.’
Wace nodded. ‘It’s the only way we can know for certain.’
‘That’s what we thought about Malet’s letter,’ I said. ‘And we’re no closer after that.’
It struck me as unusual, too, that Eadgyth would leave any important message in our hands, if she had any reason to worry it might be intercepted before it reached Malet. I’d made no assurances to her — as if I would to the widow of our enemy. And so whatever words were contained within this scroll, it seemed unlikely that they would tell us what we wanted to know.
But all the same I knew that Wace and Eudo were right. It was not the hardest decision I’d ever had to make.
‘I need light,’ I said. There were no windows in the mill-room, nor had we brought any torch or lantern, in case we should be seen. But I could hardly read in the darkness.
The moon was behind a cloud, but it was enough to see by as I stood in the doorway, with the other two gazing over my shoulder. I ran my finger over the seal, which I now saw bore the imprint of a dragon, or some other large winged beast, with the words ‘HAROLDVS REX’ around its edge. King Harold. Another mark left by the usurper. But Harold was long dead, and Eadgyth must surely possess a seal of her own. Why would she use his?
I pressed it between my fingers; it broke easily. I unfurled the parchment, and in the moonlight I saw neat lines of carefully rendered script, only this time it was not in Latin. Some of the letters I did not even recognise.
‘What does it say?’ Wace asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Whatever tongue it’s written in, it’s not one that I know.’
Latin was the one language in which I was lettered; even French and Breton I knew only how to speak, not read. I glanced down the sheet, hoping to find a word I might know. In the greeting on the first line was Malet’s name, as I might have expected; a little further down I found Harold’s, but otherwise there was nothing.
Of course it might be in English, I realised. That would make sense, since it was Eadgyth’s first tongue. And though I had never heard him speak it, it seemed likely that Malet knew it too, given his parentage and the many years he had spent in England.
My eyes passed over a phrase from the middle of the letter. ‘Ic gecnawe thone gylt the the geswencth, and hit m?g geweorthan thAet thu thone tholian wille,’ I said slowly, trying to pronounce the strange words. The writing was not as clear as the gospel books I had read when I was younger; the letters were smaller and harder to distinguish. I turned to Eudo. ‘Do you know what that means?’
He shrugged. If it was English, I was evidently saying it wrongly.
‘Is there anything at all you can make out?’ Wace asked.
‘Nothing of any use,’ I said. ‘Malet is mentioned, and Harold as well. That’s as much as I can tell.’
‘There’s one man at least who might be able to tell us what it says,’ Eudo said.
‘Aelfwold,’ I said grimly. Above all else one thing was becoming clear: sooner or later we had to speak with him. Short of Malet himself, who was two hundred miles away in Eoferwic, only he could have any idea of what all this meant. He had been to see Eadgyth before on this or similar business; we already knew that. And there was no one who was closer to the vicomte. If we were to find out what was really happening, he was the one we had to confront.
The only question was when.
We rode out from Wiltune at first light. Abbess Cynehild was there, stern-faced as ever, with half a dozen other nuns as well, huddled in their habits. Among them was Burginda, as well as the fair-haired girl who had met us in the abbess’s house on our arrival. Eadgyth, though, was not there. Was that her choice, I wondered, or had the abbess told her to stay away?
Our horses and weapons were brought to us without a word, and it was likewise in silence that we mounted up. It was good to have my sword by my side once more — not that I thought we were at any risk in the convent, but I was so used to its presence that without it I couldn’t help but feel vulnerable.
I was relieved to be leaving Wiltune behind us, even though that meant another three days on the road, for at least we could be our own masters, rather than bound to the strictures of the nunnery and its abbess. Yet I was content to let Aelfwold continue to take charge for now, to let him make the decisions and for us to appear the servants, since perhaps then he would not suspect what was to come. For I knew that everything would change when we reached Lundene.
As it had on our way to Wiltune, the rain continued to fall, bitter and unrelenting, each day coming down heavier than it had on the last. Down in the valleys the winterbournes were in full flow; some of the larger rivers had overspilled their banks and the fields all about lay in flood. In one place the waters had risen so high that it was impossible for us to cross, and we had to ride more than a mile upstream to find the next fording point before we could join the road again.
Our only respite came when we stopped for the night, but even then we kept hearing stories of fresh risings nearby. Norman traders had been set upon in the market at Reddinges; at Oxeneford a whole ship’s crew had been killed in a tavern brawl when their Flemish speech was mistaken for French. And so shortly before Stanes we left the old road, deciding it was better instead to strike out across country and approach Lundene from the south, rather than risk running into trouble on the road. Even then we kept our hands by our sword-hilts. The paths that we followed were not the best travelled: the kind of way often frequented by robbers, who would lie in wait to ambush the unprepared. But if there were any, we did not see them, and it was past noon on the third day of March when the city came into sight, clinging to the northern shores of the grey Temes.
Of the encampment that had stood on the hill above Westmynstre, there was now not a single banner or tent to be seen. The king and his army were marching, just as we’d learnt in the alehouses and from other travellers we had passed on the way. They could not have been gone long, though, and I hoped we’d be able to catch them before they reached Eoferwic.
Wigod greeted us warmly on our arrival at Malet’s house. Elise and Beatrice had gone to visit friends across the city and so weren’t there, but the boy Osric was and he took the horses to the stables. I sent Malet’s three men to help him, and gave the signal to Eudo and Wace, who accompanied the priest inside, while I went with the steward to fetch some food and drink.
The kitchens were modest in size, but then this was only a townhouse, not a great palace such as the one the vicomte had at Eoferwic. In the corner stood two large barrels; Wigod wrested the lid from one of them and filled a pitcher from it. Against the walls were long tables with pots filled with some kind of stew, while at one end of the room was a great fireplace with a spit over it, on which some kind of meat was roasting. My stomach rumbled, but it would have to wait a little longer.
‘Your journey was pleasant, I hope,’ Wigod said.
‘Not particularly,’ I replied. ‘It was cold and wet. It rained all the way.’
He grinned. ‘You’ll be glad of some food inside you, then. Here, help me with these.’ He pointed to some clay cups which rested on one of the tables.
I looked around to make sure that we were alone. ‘You know your letters, don’t you, Wigod?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ he said as he rested the pitcher upon one of the tables. ‘Why?’
Being the steward of Malet’s house I’d thought he must have to, if only to be able to receive his lord’s writ when the vicomte was away from Lundene.
<
br /> ‘I have something I thought you might be able to read for me,’ I said, producing Eadgyth’s letter from my cloak pocket. I had folded it to make it easier to carry, and opened it out before handing it to him. ‘It’s written in English, or so I think.’
He looked at me quizzically, and I suppose it was an odd request to make. But he took the parchment nonetheless, laying it out on the table where the light from the fire played across it.
‘It is English,’ he said. He frowned, then slowly began to read: ‘“To Guillaume Malet, vicomte of Eoferwic and lord of Graville across the sea, Lady Eadgyth, wife and widow to Harold Godwineson, rightful king of the English, sends her greetings-”’ He broke off and drew back, turning away from the table. ‘I cannot be reading this, Tancred. This is meant for my lord, not for me. If he were to discover I had been doing this, he would expel me from his service, or worse.’
‘I was the one who broke the seal,’ I said. ‘I will carry the blame, if anyone.’
‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.
‘At Wiltune,’ I said. ‘From Lady Eadgyth herself. She was the one that Aelfwold was sent to meet. We think that your lord may be conspiring with her.’
‘Conspiring?’ Wigod said. ‘No. That isn’t possible. He is a loyal servant of the king.’
‘And yet we know he was once a good friend of Harold,’ I said.
‘That was a long time ago.’ I saw that there was sweat upon his brow, and his face had turned a shade of pink.
‘So you knew of this?’
‘It was never any secret,’ he protested. ‘In the years before he took the crown, Harold and his wife often stayed in this house when they came to Lundene. But he’s dead now, and Eadgyth I haven’t seen in years — I didn’t even know she was still alive.’
‘But Aelfwold did,’ I said. ‘He has met with her more than once, to pass on messages from your lord.’
‘I know nothing of that, I swear,’ Wigod said.
I had been given no reason to disbelieve the steward’s word before now, and so perhaps he was telling the truth. I tried a different approach. ‘Do you know anything about the promises Malet made to her?’ I asked.
‘Promises?’
There was no time to explain everything; I could not be too long in case suspicions were raised. In any case, it was becoming clear to me that the steward knew nothing of Malet’s business with Eadgyth. In one sense that was a good thing, for at least then I could rely on him to give me honest answers.
‘Tell me what this says.’
‘I cannot-’
‘We need to know, Wigod,’ I said. ‘And one way or another, I will find out.’ I rested my right hand upon my sword-hilt, so that he could see and understand my meaning. I’d hoped that he might offer his help freely, for I did not like resorting to threats, particularly to a man with whom I had no quarrel. But I knew that this was the only way.
For a moment he did nothing but stand there, his mouth agape. In shock, no doubt. But then he returned to the parchment, rolling it out across the table, for it had become creased again.
He cleared his throat and began, ‘“To Guillaume Malet, vicomte of Eoferwic-”’
‘I know that part,’ I said impatiently. ‘What comes next?’
‘Of course,’ he said, and I saw the lump in his throat as he swallowed. His trembling finger traced along the lines as he read, pausing at times, I assumed, so he could work out the right French word. ‘“Every day I live I am consumed by grief. I cannot escape it, nor can I overcome it. In over two years while I have been here at Wiltune, you have given me nothing but false promises and false hope. I send this letter to beseech you, in the name of Christ our Lord and in the memory of the bonds of friendship which used to hold between us, to tell me where the body can be found-”’
I frowned. ‘The body?’
‘That’s what it says,’ Wigod replied. He carried on reading: ‘“His blood is on your hands. I know the guilt that plagues you, and perhaps you are content to bear that. But I cannot live for ever without knowing. Otherwise, if you are unwilling to grant me this, then there is nothing more for me in this world, and my blood will be on your hands also.”’
He stopped. ‘That’s all,’ he said, as he looked up at me.
It sounded more like a plea for help than anything else, and a desperate one at that. But what did she mean about a body, and the blood that was on Malet’s hands? Were the two things connected in some way; was he somehow responsible for someone’s death? And how did his own message to her — tutus est — fit with that?
‘You will say nothing of this to anyone,’ I told the steward.
‘No,’ he said. His face had gone pale.
‘Now, we ought to return to the others.’ He nodded but did not move, and I placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I will find out what all this means, Wigod,’ I said. ‘I swear it.’
I did my best to sound confident, even though each time that we had sought answers so far, we had only found more questions. Yet I sensed that we were growing closer; that soon we would know. There was just one thing that we needed to do first.
We waited until that night to speak to the priest, when we could be sure that he was alone and that no one would interrupt us. The house was silent: Radulf, Godefroi and Philippe were asleep downstairs in the hall, while the ladies had long since retired to their chambers — almost as soon as they had returned, in fact, so I had not yet even seen them. It was probably a good thing, since I didn’t think I could face them now, knowing what I did about Malet. If we were right and he was a traitor, how was I to tell them?
It was a blustery night; outside the wind was howling, the rain pattering upon the yard. We stood on the up-floor outside the door to the chaplain’s room: Wace, Eudo and myself, swords by our sides. It was so dark that I could barely make out their faces, though each was standing not an arm’s length away from me. Their lips were set and they did not speak. Neither of them wanted to do this, and nor in truth did I, but we did not have much choice.
I nodded to them and placed my hand on the handle. There was no lock on this door so far as I could see, and if there was any bolt on the inside, it had not been fastened, for the door opened easily and without a sound.
The room was small and sparsely furnished, not at all like the one in the guest house at Wiltune, which had been more akin to a royal bedchamber. Aelfwold lay asleep on his bed, his blankets twisted about him, his face pressed downwards into a pillow filled with straw. I entered slowly, taking care not to make too much noise. The walls were thin, and I didn’t want to disturb the others in the house. Wigod’s room was next to this one, and on the other side of that were the Malet family chambers.
I shook Aelfwold by the shoulder; he grunted and tried to roll on to his side, clutching at the blanket, but I wrenched it away. Beneath it he was dressed only in his undershirt.
‘Wake up,’ I said, shaking him again, more roughly this time.
He rolled back, hand still flailing for the blanket, and this time his eyes opened. ‘Tancred,’ he said, bleary-eyed and blinking. He looked up at Eudo and Wace, who were standing beside me. ‘What’s happening?’
‘We know,’ I said. ‘About your lord and Eadgyth, and the promises he made to her.’
‘What?’ he asked, sitting up abruptly, glancing about at the three of us. ‘What is this?’
‘What promises did he make, Aelfwold?’
‘Why should I tell you?’ he retorted, and began to get up. ‘I will not stand for this-’
‘Stay where you are,’ Eudo said, and I heard the scrape of steel as he drew his sword, pointing the tip towards the priest’s throat. ‘Otherwise I swear my blade will meet your neck.’
‘You would not dare,’ Aelfwold said, but he quickly sat back down as Eudo edged closer to him. ‘I am a man of God; you kill me and your souls will burn for all eternity.’
I had not forgotten that, but then I had no desire to kill him. All I wanted was to frighten him enough that he w
ould tell us what we needed to know.
‘What do you know about a body?’ I asked.
His face turned red. ‘Who told you about that?’
I drew Eadgyth’s letter out of my cloak pocket and tossed it to him. He caught it in his lap, unfolded it and, squinting closely, began to read.
‘This is treachery,’ he said after a moment. ‘You swore an oath to the vicomte. You have no right to be meddling in his business, to betray his trust!’
‘It is no more treacherous than what Malet has been doing,’ Wace said. ‘Conspiring with the widow of the usurper.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Aelfwold, growing angry all of a sudden. ‘Lord Guillaume is no traitor. He will hear of this, I swear. He will hear of your disloyalty-’
‘Don’t play games with us,’ I said. I was fast losing patience with him. ‘What does she mean when she says Malet has blood on his hands? Whose is this body?’
‘This is not your concern!’
‘Tell us,’ Eudo said as he advanced further, the point of his blade lightly touching the skin on the Englishman’s neck, ‘or I will kill you.’
I almost shot him a glance, but then thought better of it as Aelfwold stiffened and fell suddenly silent. If the chaplain had doubted our resolve before, he surely did not now.
‘Whose is the body?’ I asked again.
Outside the wind continued to howl; it rattled the shutters and rustled the thatch. I stepped towards the priest, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet; he tried to edge away but I reached forward and grabbed him by the collar of his undershirt. He stared back at me for what seemed an eternity, trembling in my grip, and I saw the fear in his eyes.
‘It belongs …’ he said, his voice starting to quiver. He broke off, and even in the dim light I saw drops of sweat forming upon his brow.
‘To whom?’ I demanded.
‘It belongs’, he said, speaking slowly, ‘to the man who, three years ago, would have been king. To the oath-breaker and usurper, Harold Godwineson.’
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