Sworn Sword c-1

by James Aitcheson

  We passed through the bailey, past the tents and burnt-out campfires. There were men guarding the gates, but if they thought it strange to see their lord returning so soon, they did not question it.

  Malet led us to the tower, to the same chamber where he had first spoken to me of his task all those weeks ago. It was much as I had remembered it: there was the same writing-desk, the same curtain hanging across the room, the same rug upon the floor.

  ‘I would ask you to sit as well, but this is the only stool I have,’ Malet said as he sat down. ‘You will forgive me, I am sure.’

  None of us spoke, waiting as we were for him to begin, though he seemed in no rush to do so. An iron poker hung beside the hearth and he picked it up, prodding at the burnt logs in the fireplace. There were still some embers amidst the ash, and a faint tendril of smoke curled upwards as he disturbed them, but it was cold in the chamber nonetheless.

  Eventually he turned back to us. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You have read my letter to Eadgyth.’

  I did not answer. He already knew that we had. There was nothing else to add.

  ‘You cannot let this be known to anyone,’ he said, a fearful look in his eyes. ‘If the king were to find out that I had told her …’

  He did not finish, but bowed his head as he wrung his hands. His lips moved without sound, and I wondered if he were whispering a prayer. The morning sun shone in through the window, causing the sweat upon his brow to glisten.

  ‘You must understand why I did what I did,’ he said. ‘When I wrote that letter — when you swore to undertake this task for me — I did not think that Eoferwic would hold. And if the enemy managed to take the castle, I did not know whether I would survive.’

  He had said something similar that evening when I had given my oath to him. Indeed I recalled how struck I had been by his honesty, how he had seemed almost resigned to the fact that his fate was bound with that of the city: that if Eoferwic were to fall to the English, then so too would he. But I did not see what that had to do with the business at hand.

  Nor, it seemed, was I alone. ‘What do you mean, lord?’ asked Wace.

  ‘I was the only one who knew the truth,’ Malet said. ‘Were I to have been killed, all knowledge of Harold’s resting place would have been lost.’ He sighed deeply, and there was a hint of sadness in his tone. ‘I was only doing what in my mind was right. Eadgyth always saw me as having betrayed her husband, having betrayed our friendship. I thought that by doing this I might somehow atone for that — for all the hurt I had caused her.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. Not for the first time, I thought.

  ‘All she wanted was to mourn her husband properly,’ he went on. ‘I have lost count of the number of times she has sent letters to me, demanding to know where he was buried, and of the number of times I have sent word back, saying that I did not know. But when I heard that the English army was marching on Eoferwic, I knew I might not have another chance. The guilt upon my conscience was too great to bear.’ He looked up from the floor, towards us. ‘And that is why I had to tell her.’

  ‘Tell her what?’ I asked. He was not making sense.

  Malet stared at me as if I were witless. ‘Where Harold’s body lies, of course.’

  I glanced at Eudo and Wace, and they back at me, and I saw that they were thinking the same. For something was not right. I recalled Malet’s message to Eadgyth: those two simple words. Tutus est. I had held the parchment in my hands, traced the inky forms of the letters with my own finger. There had been no clue there as to Harold’s resting place, unless somehow those words held some other, hidden meaning — one that we had not worked out.

  ‘But you wrote that it was safe, nothing more,’ said Eudo.

  Malet’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I saw the letter, lord,’ I said. ‘Tutus est. There was nothing else on that scroll.’

  ‘But that is not what I wrote.’ The vicomte stood to face us now, and there was colour in his cheeks again as a puzzled look came across his face.

  ‘I saw the letter.’ My blood was still hot from the battle, but I tried not to show my frustration. ‘Your seal was on it, lord.’

  ‘I did not write those words,’ Malet insisted. ‘That was not the message I sent.’

  ‘But if you didn’t write them, then who did?’ Wace asked.

  So far as I could see, there was but one person who could have seen that scroll, apart from myself and Eadgyth. Indeed I remembered his anger when I let slip that I’d read it. He would not have reacted like that unless he himself had also known. Unless he himself were the one who had written those words. A shiver came over me.

  ‘It was Aelfwold,’ I said.

  ‘The priest?’ Eudo asked.

  ‘He must have changed the letter.’ It was not difficult: all it needed was for the original ink to be scraped away with a knife, which if done well meant that the parchment could then be used afresh. I had sometimes watched Brother Raimond doing it in the scriptorium, when I had been growing up in the monastery. More difficult would have been forging Malet’s writing well enough to trick Eadgyth, and yet I did not doubt that the chaplain could have done it, for who else would be more familiar with the vicomte’s hand?

  ‘No,’ Malet said, shaking his head. ‘It is not possible. I know Aelfwold. He has given me and my family many years of loyal service. He would never do such a thing.’

  ‘There is no one else it could be, lord,’ I said. I felt almost sorry for him, discovering that someone whom he had trusted so closely, and for so long, could have deceived him thus. But I knew that this time I was right.

  Malet turned away from us, towards the hearth, his fists clenched so tight I could see the whites of his knuckles. I had not known him to lose his temper before, but he did so now as he swore, over and over and over, before burying his face in his palms.

  ‘Do you realise what this means?’ he said. ‘It means that he knows. Aelfwold knows where Harold’s body lies.’

  ‘But what good will that do him?’ Wace asked.

  ‘It depends what he means to do,’ Malet replied. ‘He wouldn’t have acted without some purpose in mind, of that I’m sure.’

  Silence filled the chamber. I thought back to that night we had burst in on Aelfwold, trying to remember what he had told us. There was only one reason that I could think of why the priest would do this.

  ‘He means to take Harold’s relics for himself,’ I said. ‘To establish them elsewhere and make him a saint, a martyr to the English.’

  ‘To start a rebellion of his own,’ Malet said, so softly it was almost a whisper. He stared at me, as if he did not believe it could be true. But I did not see that there was any other explanation.

  ‘How long ago did you leave Lundene?’ Malet asked.

  I counted back in my mind. We had spent four days riding to catch the king’s army, and another six on the march before the attack on Eoferwic. ‘Ten days,’ I said.

  ‘Then that is ten days in which he could already have carried out his plan.’ He spoke quietly, his face reddening. ‘If you’re right and Aelfwold succeeds, this will be the ruin of me. He must be stopped.’

  Not only the ruin of Malet, I thought, but of everything we had fought for since first we had sailed from Normandy more than two years before. For there were many among the English who had no love for Eadgar Aetheling and yet would march in Harold’s name: men who if called upon would not hesitate in fighting under his old banner. If we let Aelfwold get away, it would not be long before the whole kingdom from Wessex to Northumbria was rising: before in every village men laid down their hoes, left their ploughs and their oxen to march against us; 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.

&
nbsp; 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 the vicomte of Eoferwic, Guillaume Malet, and against the king.’

  A murmur rose up amongst the assembled canons, who until then had been silent, and out of the corner of my eye I saw them exchanging glances with one
another. They did not concern me; I was interested only in finding the truth.

  ‘No,’ the dean said as he backed against the wall. ‘It’s not true. I would n-never speak against the king, I swear!’

  ‘The dean is a loyal servant of King Guillaume,’ another of the canons spoke up. ‘You have no right to come in here and address him in this way, to accuse him of such things.’

  I turned to the one who had spoken: a wiry man not much older than myself. He shrank back under my stare. ‘We won’t leave until we have the answers we’re looking for,’ I said, and then to the rest of them: ‘Go. We will speak with the dean alone.’

  He glanced at me, then at Eudo and Wace, whose hands rested upon their sword-hilts in warning.

  ‘Go, Aethelric,’ Wulfwin said. ‘The Lord will protect me.’

  The man called Aethelric hesitated, but at last his better judgement prevailed and he signalled to the rest of the canons. I watched as they filed out of the chamber. Wace closed the doors after the last had left and then set the bar across. I thought it unlikely that any of them would try to disturb us, especially since they knew we all carried swords, but I did not like to have to resort to such threats if I could help it.

  Throughout all of this the dean had not moved, as if his feet had somehow taken root where he stood. He watched me with wide eyes as I marched up to him.

  ‘Tell me, then,’ I said. ‘If you weren’t conspiring, what were you doing?’

  ‘I w-was only receiving the instructions that Malet had sent me, through his chaplain, Aelfwold. He wanted Harold’s relics removed to another place of his choosing.’

  ‘He wanted them moved?’ Eudo asked, but I waved him quiet. I would take care of this.

  ‘P-please,’ the dean said. ‘I have merely been doing as the vicomte asked. I swear I have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Where is the usurper’s body now?’ I said. ‘Is it still here?’

  Wulfwin shook his head. ‘They took it. The chaplain and two of Malet’s knights came for it last night. I had to arrange for the high altar to be moved, the church floor to be pulled up. The coffin was buried beneath it-’