Eventually the flames in the hearth began to dwindle, and I could feel the cold of the night seeping back into the hall. Before too long the others were starting to yawn; first Godefroi and then Radulf retired upstairs, where there were private rooms enough for all of us. Clearly the nuns were used to receiving guests, and large numbers of them as well.
Philippe followed soon afterwards, leaving only myself, Wace and Eudo. There was Burginda too, still sitting on her stool by the fire. Now, though, her chin was resting against her slowly rising and falling chest, and I could hear her steady, sighing breaths.
‘The usurper’s wife,’ Wace muttered. ‘Why would Malet want to send a message to her?’
‘I’ve been trying to work that out myself,’ I said, keeping my voice down so as not to disturb the sleeping nun. ‘At first I wondered if she might have been his lover, though Ælfwold denied it.’
Eudo looked at me in astonishment. ‘You asked him if they were lovers?’
‘It wasn’t the wisest thing I have ever said, I know.’
‘I’ll admit I’d been thinking it too,’ Wace said.
‘To actually say it, though,’ Eudo pointed out, ‘and to the vicomte’s own chaplain—’
‘But why else would he go to such trouble?’ Wace cut him off. ‘To send men all this way when Eoferwic lies under siege, and to risk his own chaplain as well?’
I nodded. ‘What message would be so important that he needs to send it now?’
‘There is another possibility, of course,’ said Wace, glancing at the nun and then at the stairway, as if one of the others might suddenly appear. ‘Though I hesitate to say it when there’s the smallest chance that someone could be listening.’
I met Wace’s eyes, steely grey, across the table. The same thought had crossed my mind, but I had dismissed it just as soon as it appeared, for I didn’t want to believe it. Could Malet be involved in some sort of conspiracy with Harold’s wife?
‘We can’t know that,’ I said to Wace. ‘There is no proof, only supposition.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘That’s why I didn’t want to say anything.’
‘What?’ asked Eudo.
I glanced at Wace, wondering which one of us should say it. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice to almost a whisper: ‘Malet might be a traitor.’
Eudo frowned. ‘A traitor?’ he said, too loudly for my liking.
I waved him quiet and leant closer. ‘There’s one more thing which might be important,’ I said, and stopped suddenly, unsure whether to go on. But they were watching me expectantly; they would know that I was hiding something if I didn’t say it, and I needed their trust above all else.
‘What is it?’ said Wace.
I tried to recall everything Ælfwold had told me on the ship. ‘In the years before the invasion it seems that Malet was a great friend of Harold Godwineson,’ I said. ‘He was granted land on these shores by the old king, Eadward, and used to spend much of his time in this country. That is, until the king died and Harold stole the crown, when he returned to Normandy to join Duke Guillaume.’
‘He knew the usurper?’ asked Wace.
‘And of course he’s half-English as well,’ Eudo murmured.
‘So now he sends word to Harold’s widow,’ Wace said. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It may mean nothing,’ I said. ‘For one thing, it seems that their friendship was broken when Harold assumed the kingship. Whatever sympathies Malet once had with the English, they were buried when he fought at Hæstinges.’
‘Though even now he fills his household with Englishmen,’ Eudo pointed out. ‘Ælfwold and Wigod, and no doubt there are others too.’
This was true, and it was yet another part of the riddle. But an even bigger question hung in my mind: why would Ælfwold have revealed all this to me if he knew that his lord was a traitor? It didn’t make sense. None of this did.
‘If we knew what the message was, then we would know for sure,’ I said. ‘But the priest won’t say.’
‘He must have a letter on his person, or in his room,’ Eudo said.
‘Unless he carries the message in his head alone,’ Wace put in. ‘If so, we have no way of finding out.’
Then all of a sudden I remembered the scroll he had dropped that day we had left Lundene, how abruptly his manner had changed when I picked it up. ‘No,’ I said. ‘There is a letter.’
‘You’re sure?’ Wace asked.
The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced. What else could it be? ‘I saw him drop it on our way here.’
‘If we could only look at it before he delivers it to this Eadgyth,’ Eudo said.
‘He wouldn’t leave it unguarded, I’m sure,’ Wace said.
‘But would you recognise it if you saw it?’ asked Eudo.
‘Probably,’ I said, picturing it in my mind, with its rough edges and the leather cord tied around it. Otherwise there had been nothing especially distinctive about it. ‘Why?’
‘He’s likely to be asleep by now,’ Eudo said, keeping his voice low. ‘We need only slip into his room and find it—’
‘You’d have us steal it?’ I asked. Angry as I was with Ælfwold, the thought filled me with distaste. Malet had placed his confidence in me, after all. I had sworn an oath to him, an oath to which God had been witness, and as such was not to be treated lightly.
Eudo shrugged.
‘What if we’re wrong about the priest, about Malet and everything?’ For if we did as he suggested, and our suspicions turned out to be false, then I’d be breaking that confidence – breaking that oath. ‘No, there must be another way.’
‘Do the others know about Eadgyth, do you think?’ Wace asked. ‘Godefroi, Radulf and Philippe, I mean. Did you see if they reacted to her name?’
‘I wasn’t watching them,’ I admitted.
‘Neither was I,’ said Eudo.
‘I wonder,’ Wace said. ‘If they’ve served Malet for some time, it’s possible they already know who she is, and of his connection to her. And if they know that, they might also have some idea what this message is about.’
‘It’s possible,’ I agreed. ‘But remember in Lundene they wanted only to get back on the road to Eoferwic. If they’d known that coming to Wiltune was in any way important, they wouldn’t have said that.’
‘That’s true,’ Eudo said. ‘It was the chaplain who reminded them that we had this task to fulfil first.’
‘And I,’ I said.
‘And you,’ he added, with a smile. ‘You and your sense of duty.’
Another time I might have laughed, but I didn’t feel in good humour that night. A log shifted in the hearth and Burginda gave a snort as she moved on her stool; I saw her eyelids flutter as, with a great intake of breath, she began to stir.
‘I just hope things become clear soon,’ I said.
Twenty-six
WILTUNE BY DARK
lay silent and still. I stood leaning on one of the fenceposts outside the guest-hall. A thin sliver of moon protruded from behind wisps of cloud; the stars in their hundreds were scattered like seeds in a pale band across the sky.
The only other light came from the nuns’ dormitory, where a faint glow framed the doorway. It was another of the precepts that St Benedict had laid down in his Rule: that a fire be kept burning in the dormitory throughout the night, a symbol of the eternal light of our Lord. And to those who neglected their duty – who fell asleep when it was their turn to watch the hearth, and so allowed the flames to dwindle and die – were dealt the harshest punishments, as I knew only too well.
Still I recalled that frosty winter’s morning as I stood before the two of them: the circator with his lantern, who was the one who had found me, and beside him the prior, his face dark as he delivered his words of condemnation. Still I could picture the crowd of monks gathering around, witnesses to my failure. And I remembered my own desperate pleas to mercy and to God as they struck and struck again, each time harder than the last, bringing their hazel rods to bear upon my exposed back – pain of a kind I had never before known – until at last I was left trembling, bloody and alone upon the hard earth.
It was not the first time I had been beaten for my sins, but I was determined it would be the last. And so I fled.
Of course I had to wait for the right opportunity. For the next day and night I was watched carefully, in case I made any more
mistakes for which they could punish me, and so I had to bide my time. But on the following night, under the light of the full moon, I took my chance, treading lightly as I passed the other monks in their beds, making my way quickly across the yard, past the smith’s workshop and the stables, hoping to avoid the circator as he made his nightly rounds. The gatehouse I knew was guarded; instead I made for the northern wall and the gnarled old tree that grew beside it – an oak which, it was rumoured, had stood there ever since the monastery was founded, two hundred years before.
I had reached the infirmary when I heard voices close by. I ducked around its corner, my heart pounding. Lantern-light glowed softly upon the ground, and I held my breath, determined not to be heard. The gruff tones of the circator carried across the yard as he conversed with one of the other monks, whose voice I did not recognise. The light grew brighter; they were coming closer.
What I should have done was wait until they had passed, and probably they wouldn’t have noticed me. Instead I panicked. Thinking that they would find me and all would be lost, I decided to run.
Almost straightaway I heard cries behind me, demanding to know why I was about so late, but I didn’t stop as I made for the old oak and quickly began to climb. I heard their feet running across the grass as I slid along one of the branches and scrambled over the wall, the stone grazing my palms and my knees as I dropped down the other side. And then I ran, down the hillside, towards the river and the town of Dinant below. They tried to come after me, of course, but I was fast and a boy of just thirteen years is easy to lose in the shadows, and before long their shouts had faded to nothing. As soon as I had made it into the woods, I collapsed. All my strength was gone and I was half-starved besides, but I knew at last that I had done it: I knew that I would never have to go back there.
A few days later, I met Robert de Commines, and my life’s path was set.
This story I had told to few others. Of those who were still alive, none but Eudo and Wace knew it. Yet even when I considered everything that had happened, still a part of me felt ashamed for having left, for having forsaken that life, and I did not know why.
From far off came the sounds of cattle: one long, doleful cry that was answered by another, and then a third and a fourth, carrying clear across the convent. I was aware of Burginda behind me, watching me from the doorway. When she saw me putting on my cloak earlier, she’d tried to stop me from going out. Perhaps she thought I was planning on paying a visit to one of the younger nuns – although if I had, there was little she could have done to prevent it. But that was not why I had come out here. My mind was filled with so many different thoughts, like a hundred skeins of yarn, all twisted together, and I needed the space to tease them out.
Still, I did not blame her. Countless were the stories I had heard of nuns taken against their will, by men who had lusted after them before they’d taken their vows. Often such men would arrive at a convent feigning injury or some other affliction to gain entry; sometimes they would come alone, sometimes in bands. The details changed from tale to tale, but in each one they wasted no time in showing their true purpose once they were inside: marching straight to the chapter house, or wherever else the nuns might be gathered at that time of day, and then stealing away just as quickly.
And so I didn’t resent Burginda for continuing to watch over me, though I did my best to ignore her. My thoughts, however, were not of any of the nuns here, but of Oswynn, and the dreams I’d had the other night. It troubled me, the way her face had been hidden from me; as if my memory of her were already fading.
I heard raised voices behind me. Over my shoulder I saw Wace trying to get by the nun, who was standing in his path.
‘Let me past,’ Wace said, and even in this faint light I could see the tiredness in his eyes.
I straightened and turned back towards the door. Burginda glanced at me, then back at Wace, before grudgingly moving aside, no doubt deciding that two of us was more than she could deal with.
‘I thought you were asleep,’ I said to him. I had waited until both he and Eudo had gone upstairs before venturing out, and had not expected to see either of them again until the morning.
‘I came down for a piss,’ he said. ‘What are you doing out?’
‘Thinking,’ I said, and looked away again, towards the main part of the convent and the three dark towers of the abbey church, like giant pillars holding up the great vault of the heavens. ‘Until today I hadn’t set foot inside a monastery since I was thirteen. Being here brings so much from that time back to my mind.’
Wace said nothing. How much of this did he understand?
‘I was just seven years old when my uncle gave me up to the monks,’ I went on. ‘He was the only family I had left, after my father’s death.’ Of course I had told Wace all this before, though it would have been long ago, and whether he would remember, I did not know. At any rate he did not stop me.
‘It was probably the kindest thing he could do for you,’ he said.
‘Probably,’ I agreed. ‘Though it did not seem that way at the time.’
‘Nor after what happened later, I’m sure.’
I nodded. ‘You know the rest.’
‘Why do you mention it now?’
‘I’ve been thinking how much our lives are shaped by events beyond our control. My father’s death, and everything that followed. What happened at Dunholm, and where that has brought us now.’
‘What of it?’
‘Is all of it just chance?’ I asked, and I could hear the bitterness in my own voice. ‘Or have all these things happened because that is God’s will?’
He shot me an admonishing look. ‘We must believe that it is,’ he said. ‘Otherwise what meaning is there to anything?’
I fingered the cross that hung around my neck. I knew that he was right. For everything on this earth there was a purpose ordained by God, difficult though it might be to comprehend what that was. From that at least I knew I ought to draw some comfort: the thought that He had a design for me, in spite of all that had happened.