I was placing my flask in my saddlebag while beside me the chaplain mounted up, when I saw something drop from his cloak pocket. He did not seem to notice as he began slowly to make his way back towards the path, following the others who were laughing between themselves.
‘Ælfwold,’ I called, raising my hand to catch his attention.
It was a parchment scroll, about the same length as the distance from my elbow to my wrist, tightly bound with a simple leather thong. I crouched down and picked it up from where it lay on the grass. It felt crisp and new, although the parchment was not the best: the surface was not even but grainy, while the sides were rough where the sheet had been cut from the edge of the animal’s skin.
The chaplain turned the mare about and rode back over towards me, a frown upon his face all of a sudden. ‘Give that to me,’ he said.
I held the scroll out to him; he reached down and took it carefully, watching me all the time as he replaced it inside his cloak.
‘What is it?’ I asked him.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing important, at least.’ He gave a smile, though I could not detect any humour behind it. ‘Thank you, Tancred.’
He turned and started to ride away. I stood there for a moment, puzzled by the change in his manner.
‘Are you coming?’ Wace called from the road.
I looked up, blinking as the glare of the sun struck my eyes. There was something important about that scroll: that much was clear, at least. And I couldn’t help but connect it with this mission of his, this journey to Wiltune and Eadgyth. But what reason would Malet have for sending to a nun in any case, and to an English nun at that?
‘I’m coming,’ I muttered, mounting up at last.
Like Earninga stræt, this was one of the ancient roads, and made for easy riding, which meant that we covered many miles that day. Nevertheless, the sun was growing low and bright in the sky ahead of us by the time we arrived at the Temes again. The river was
narrower here than when we had last seen it back near Lundene, but the waters were high and the current fast, swelled by the snowmelt running down from the hills. A stone bridge traversed it; on the other side a scattering of houses nestled beside a small timber church, while amidst the reeds at the water’s edge a number of small rowing boats had been drawn up on to the shore.
‘Stanes,’ Ælfwold said, when I asked him the name of the place. ‘Over on the other side lies Wessex, the ancient heartland of the English kings.’
‘Wessex,’ I murmured to myself. How far we had come, I thought: from Northumbria to here, the southernmost province which made up the kingdom of England. It had belonged once to the usurper Harold, before he had seized the crown. Now it lay under the charge of Guillaume fitz Osbern, who was one of the realm’s leading noblemen, alongside Malet – and Robert de Commines, I thought, before I remembered.
We had come upon many other villages that day. Some were larger, some were smaller, but all were alike in character, inhabited by gaunt and sullen peasants who spat on the ground as we passed by. I wondered whether they had heard of events in the north, and what that might mean to them. Of course it might not concern them at all; Eoferwic was two hundred miles and more from here. In any case, they could spit and stare as much as they wanted. I knew they would not harm us, for we had horses and mail and swords, and they did not.
That night we spent in our tents, a short way off the road. It was a fitful sleep, though, for I dreamt again of Oswynn, except that her face was shrouded in darkness, and every time I tried to come near her, she melted away into nothing. More than once I woke to find myself breathing hard, sweat running from my forehead, and though I managed to return to sleep each time, it was always to the same dream. When morning came I felt as if I had hardly rested.
The hills lay thick with the night’s frost, and for some time after we resumed our journey we travelled through a landscape glistening white as the fields of heaven. Soon, however, the rime began to
melt, the clouds passed in front of the sun, and as the horses settled into their rhythm, so the day wore on. Hour after hour we passed fields and farms nestled amidst gently sloping hills, and it struck me that the country here was not so different from that in Normandy or Flanders. More than once I found myself gazing out across a certain valley or forest, only to be reminded of somewhere I had known in my youth, and for a moment I could imagine myself there once again. But of course it was never quite the same; most times we only had to go on over the next rise or merely beyond the next tree before its appearance suddenly changed and the feeling faded.
Close to midday the road climbed a steep hill, at the top of which we came upon crumbling stone walls and what looked as if it had once been a gatehouse. Its arch had long since collapsed; great blocks of lichen-covered stone, dressed and evenly shaped, littered the side of the way. As we passed within the gates I saw the remains where more buildings had once stood: neat rectangles and half-circles of stone foundations, many with trees and bushes growing in their midst. The air was almost still, the skies filled with shadows as rainclouds loomed overhead. Aside from the seven of us, there was no one.
‘
Ythde swa thisne eardgeard
,’ Ælfwold intoned as he looked about, ‘
ælda scyppend, oththæt burgwara breahtma lease, eald enta geweorc idlu stodon
.’
‘Thus He, the creator of men, destroyed this city,’ said Eudo, ‘until, deprived of the sound of its inhabitants, the ancient work of giants stood empty.’
I stared at him in surprise, not just since it was the most I had heard him say in a good many hours, but also because I hadn’t known he could translate English so readily.
Ælfwold nodded solemnly. ‘You are near enough. It is from a poem,’ he explained to us. ‘A poem of great sadness and loss, about things which were, but are no more.’
I dismounted, leaving my horse while I walked between the ruins of what must at one time have been houses. Not that there was any sign of those who had lived here; it was probably centuries
since they had done so, and all their possessions would have long ago turned to dust.
Shards of slate were strewn across the grass, grey against green, but nestled among them I caught the tiniest glimpse of dull red. I crouched down to get a closer look. It was a stone, cut into a rough cube not much wider than my thumbnail: much like the dice that Radulf owned. I prised it out from the mud and turned its rounded edges between my forefinger and thumb, wiping the dirt from its surface, searching for any hint of markings, though I could see none. One face was smooth, but the rest were rough, encrusted with flakes of something like mortar, which crumbled away at my touch.
Another of the stones caught my eye, less than an arm’s length away from where the first had lain, and I picked it up. It was identical both in size and in shape, although this one was black rather than red. I turned the two of them carefully in my fingers, wondering what they could have been used for.
‘This place, I believe, is what we know in the English tongue as Silcestre, but which the Romans used to call Calleva,’ Ælfwold said. ‘In its time it was a great city; since its fall, however, none have dared live here nor attempt to rebuild it.’
I tossed the two stones back on to the ground and stood back up. ‘Why would God punish them?’ I asked. ‘I thought the Romans were a Christian people.’ Though it was a long time since I had been at my studies, I was certain of that much.
‘They were,’ said Ælfwold, unblinking and unsmiling. ‘But they were also a sinful race, proud and weak in morals, who spent more of their time in pleasure than they did pursuing God’s work. Too concerned with preserving their worldly wealth, they cared little for the future of their souls.’ He gestured all around him at the shattered stones, the broken tiles, the empty town. ‘What you see is the result of His retribution: a warning to all men not to follow the same example.’
For a while no one said anything. The wind began to gust and I felt a drop of water strike the back of my neck, trickling down my spine and causing me to shiver. Overhead, the skies were
darkening still further; around us the ground pattered as the rain began to fall.
‘We should find shelter,’ Wace said.
‘A good idea,’ I replied.
The most substantial remains were of a larger building a little to the south, and it was there that we led our animals. There was nothing to which we could tether them, but they were unlikely to roam far, so we left them to graze upon the grass. We huddled down within the walls, which rose here as far as waist-height, offering some protection at least from the chill of the wind at it swept amidst the shattered stonework. There was no roof to keep out the rain, however; instead we sat with the hoods of our cloaks up, eating in silence.
We could have set up our tents, but it would have taken some while, and I did not want us to tarry here any longer than we had to. At one point I imagined I heard a whisper – some words spoken, though I could not make them out – and thought that the ghosts of those who had lived here were trying to speak to us, before dismissing the idea. Such things existed only in the minds of children and the mad, and I was neither of those.
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 Ælfwold 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,’ Ælfwold 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.