Raindrops tap on the roof of the great hall. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Occasionally, a bright light flickers through the openings under the ceiling.
The thunderstorm fades at last, but the air continues to weigh heavily in the great hall. Most of the Frenchmen sit at the tables and pass the time playing board games they brought from their homeland.
The wealhstod sits opposite me and rubs his forehead while he strains to look at the Merelle board.
I stretch my legs, which are stiff from sitting, and wrinkle my nose. The stench of pig dung still clings to my shoes. If I catch whoever shovelled that stuff into them while I was asleep! The smell will remind me for days to come that I am not wanted on this manor. The things they have tried! Dragged me into the woods, pushed me into the river, stole my scramasax and damaged the weapon stands with it. If it hadn’t been for Thibault, I’m sure Lord Geoffrey would have thought of a different punishment for me rather than simply have me mend everything. Compared with that, pig dung in my shoes is almost a reward. If only I knew who slipped it in there!
“Are you dreaming of a beautiful woman, Oswulf?” asks Walchelin with raised eyebrows.
“What? No. I was just thinking about something.”
“I noticed that. Your turn!” He points to the pieces between us.
There is a rumbling at the front door. “Fiz a putein!”
Thibault and the squires, with whom he had ridden out to go hunting, stagger in. Their clothes cling to their bodies like a wet sack. The youths approach and peel themselves out of their dripping tunics. They look like five puppies thrown into a trough of water. I almost feel sorry even for Roul when I see him like this.
The lisping Frenchman summons two servants, who light a fire and hang up the soaked clothes to dry. A young maidservant brings linen cloths and hands one to Jehan. Her cheeks glow red as her gaze follows his every move while he rubs his wet body dry.
Roul snatches a cloth from her hand. “What are you standing there staring at? Don’t you have any work to do in the kitchen?”
Jehan laughs. “I assume naked men are a more pleasing sight than dead animals in the kitchen.” Grinning, he beckons the maidservant to rub his back dry.
Roul rolls his eyes. “Those bloody Engleis take every opportunity to avoid working. Pereçous.”
Eustace and Eudo giggle and whisper, like on the battleground. Jeannot is stuck in his linen shirt, which clings to him like a second skin. He looks to the older squires for help, but they don’t pay any attention.
I walk over to him, grateful that I have a reason to get up from my seat. I hate idling around, even though Roul has just loudly denied that to my people. “I’ll help you, Jeannot,” I say in French, feeling rather proud that I master the language enough to hold easy conversations with my pupils and Frenchmen like Frederic. Most importantly, however, I understand quite a lot, and it seems to me that some have become considerably more careful about what they say in my presence. They must be afraid that I will overhear their conversation and catch them talking about me or discussing things that are none of my business. Cenric is a good teacher, that’s for sure.
Jeannot’s little face lights up as I grab the sleeves of his linen shirt. “Merci, munsire.”
Roul throws the rest of his clothes at the servants and wraps the linen cloth around his hips. “Look, our Engleis should be working as a page rather than on the battleground.”
I hand one of the servants Jeannot’s tunic and linen shirt. “As long as I don’t have to serve you, it would certainly be an honourable job.”
Roul looks daggers at me. “You have no business among the Normans. You behave as if you were of the same rank as us.”
“I am of the same rank as you, Roul. My father was an English nobleman.”
He comes two steps closer, his thumbs tucked into the edge of the cloth around his hips and spits out to the side. “Don’t you ever dare sully my father’s name again by equating him with your father.”
“I would never compare my father to yours.”
Jeannot has meanwhile thrown the cloth over his back and is walking towards the fire. I sit down again at the table where Walchelin is waiting for me with pricked ears and raised eyebrows.
“Because you know he can’t stand up to the comparison.” Roul saunters up to our table. The thunderstorm seems to have made him even grumpier than usual. “But I see you are quite in demand at the manor house. Do we have so few Normans here that we must invite the Engleis to sit at the table with us and pass the time playing games?”
“This Engleis is a worthy opponent, Roul,” Walchelin replies. “He plays strategically well, and more often than not, he wins. What do you think? Is he in league with the goddess of fortune?”
Roul snorts. “You must mean with the Devil.”
“It is not for you to correct my words, Roul,” Walchelin says loudly enough for others to hear. “I mean what I said.”
Roul’s mouth turns into a thin line. I know from the practice lessons that he doesn’t like to be reprimanded, especially not in front of others. He props his hands on the table and looks me in the eye. “One day, your luck will run out, Engleis.”
With bulging veins on his neck and temples, he is standing in front of me like a hunting dog that wants to attack the game but is held back by the hunter. I wonder if he is behind the assaults.
“Then I hope that by then, I will have succeeded in making a good fighter out of you.”
Roul jumps up. “How dare you? Did you hear this Engleis insult our master of arms? Claims that he could make a fighter out of me! Ha! What am I now, after more than two years’ practice as a squire?” He leans towards me again. “Well, tell me! Tell everyone in this hall what you think of our master of arms! What has he made of me in these two years, if not a fighter?”
I wipe the droplets of spit from my face and clear my throat. “You haven’t been a squire long, Roul. You still have much to learn. Thibault is a very good weapons master, but even he can’t make a warhorse out of a donkey in two years.”
Walchelin stifles a grin.
Roul’s muscles tense. “You… you…”
I’m getting ready to jump.
A fist thunders on a table.
“Enough!” barks Lord Geoffrey, jumping up. “A Norman has better things to do than prate like a washerwoman. If you have complaints against the Engleis, take them to the master of arms. If not, spare me your whining and howling. Now, get out of my sight!”
Roul bends down to just in front of my face. “Don’t mess with a Norman,” he whispers. “That’s what your king tried to do, and you know who won, don’t you, Engleis?”
“Roul?” Walchelin’s question makes the young Frenchman look up. “If you do not leave this table immediately, I will have you thrown out. Your behaviour is unworthy of a Norman.”
The young man gives me one last venomous look before whirling around, snatching his damp clothes off the wooden trestles on which they lie to dry, and stomping away with long strides. Eustace and Eudo watch him leave and with a side glance towards me, put their heads together and start whispering. Jehan shakes his head, puts his arm around Jeannot and pulls him to the table. He grins as he sits down next to Walchelin.
“It’s almost half a year that you’ve been at the manor house,” growls the language master. “Even Roul should have got used to seeing you around here by now.”
I move one of the flat pieces along the outer line on the board. “Do you think Roul has anything to do with what happened?”
The wealhstod and Jehan exchange a glance. Sighing, he puts one of his pieces where two lines cross. “No one seems to have observed anything that could help us in this matter.”
“I doubt Roul has anything to do with it,” says Jehan. “He hates the Engleis and he gets angry easily, but he wouldn’t go that far. He doesn’t like secrecy. He likes to be the centre of attention. He would rather challenge you to a duel in front of spectators than stab you in the back.”
I run my thumb and forefinger over the ends of my moustache and stare at the Merelle board. “So it seems, and the Engleis at the manor house prefer to keep their mouths shut. They’d rather bite their tongues than get in trouble over a stranger by testifying against a Norman. Even if they did see something, they pretend they don’t know what you’re talking about. Same for the Normans. No one would accuse a fellow countryman of mistreating an Engleis. Life goes on as before, as if nothing had ever happened. May good fortune stand by me!”
Two hands gently squeeze my shoulders. “This is not the Engleis I fought in the last battle.”
I listen up. It’s as if I hear a second voice – my father’s, echoing the words of the master of arms. Turning round, I see my father’s kind but challenging gaze reflected in Thibault’s face.
“Where is the fighter I got to know and appreciate back then?” asks the master of arms. “Where is the proud son of a ðegn who defends the honour of Englaland and his home village against the overpowering enemy with a burning bucket, if necessary?”
The corner of my mouth twitches upwards. Strange what survivors of a battle remember for months.
Thibault sits down and looks at me. “I know it’s not easy for you to live at this manor house, Oswulf, and I beg your forgiveness for having put you in this position. But as master of arms and the one in charge of our squires, I would never have forgiven myself if I had not got you out of there alive. Many good men died in those battles, Engleis and Normans, so it is only fair that now and then one should escape with his life, even if it is with the help of the enemy. The times of war are over now. We must work together to bring this country back to where it was before all the battles. Getting along with people like Roul is not easy for us either. You have already earned some respect in the short time you’ve been here. Many looked down on you because you are Engleis and not much older than our squires. But you have a way with weapons that many here envy, though they would never admit it. You know how to share your gift with our squires. Look at the progress they’ve made: Eustace, who used to miss opponents with his spear unless they stood directly in front of him, can now hit targets further away with accuracy. Jeannot no longer backs away from the older squires’ blows but takes advantage of being smaller and more agile than them to deceive and take them by surprise with nimble movements. Eudo has learned that if you are more disciplined in combat, you can not only defend yourself better, but also with less effort. Roul finally has another serious opponent besides Jehan and has become much more persevering and tough.”
The master of arms falls silent. Frowning, Jehan holds out his hands as if begging. “What about me? Haven’t I learned anything?”
Sighing, Thibault shrugs his shoulders. “Jehan is Jehan. With Oswulf’s help, you could possibly be dubbed well before you are twenty-one years of age.”
“You underestimate, Oswulf, what you have achieved so far,” says Walchelin. “Have you not noticed that no Norman supported Roul in his accusations? Can you remember the noise they made the day you came to Wilburgfos and we introduced you to them? Look at them now! Not one of them complained about your sitting at the table. For months, no one has pressed the master of arms or Sire Geoffrey to chase you off the manor. Not everyone was on your side at first, and even now, many men still feel a decent reluctance towards you, but they have come to accept that you are here, and above all, they have learned to respect you for what you do. You are reliable, hardworking and carry out all your assignments impeccably. There is nothing we can find fault with.”
“Except, perhaps, that you should stop feeling sorry for yourself all the time,” Thibault adds. “Remember where you came from and what you do best, and act accordingly!”
* * *
“We English must stick together.” Stígandr’s head seems to disappear between his shoulders as he whispers these words to me behind his hand. His gaze wanders over the Frenchmen who have gathered their horses in the yard to go hunting.
I run my hand down the saddle girth to make sure it fits properly. “That sounds strange coming from a Norþmann who has spent years being paid to betray his English neighbours to their enemies.”
“Have you forgotten what the French did to your family and your home village? Now you would have the chance to take revenge on them. I could help you. They trust me. We could destroy them from within.”
Revenge.
For a moment, my heart catches fire for this thought. Revenge for Godgifu, my parents, my siblings. And for Ulfgar.
Stígandr leans further towards me. “Should their deaths really go unpunished? Can you live with the burden that they died and you didn’t even try to retaliate against the French for their deaths? Can you, huh?” He tugs at his chin beard.
Hatred, pain and the desire for vengeance fight in my chest as I watch him, wondering if the Fiend who seduces people does not have the horns and claws of a goat. “I tried, Stígandr. Ulfgar and I fought to the last to avenge them. Should I have thrown away the lives of my younger siblings like an old bone just to satisfy my thirst for revenge? If God had willed it, he would not have protected their lives until the French encircled me and demanded my life in exchange for theirs. I did my duty.” I swing the reins over the horse’s head and place them over the pommel of the saddle.
Stígandr looks around again and comes so close that we almost touch.
“Aren’t you surprised that more and more often, they take you along on their hunting trips? After all that has already happened to you at the manor house, you should be more careful! An accident while hunting can happen quickly – if you know what I mean.”
I attach the quiver with the arrows to my weapon belt and slide my bow onto my back. “Why don’t you ride along if you care so much about my life?”
Stígandr thrusts his lower jaw forward, looking like a disgruntled goat. “That stubborn Frenchman doesn’t want me to go hunting. He says I am a messenger and should see to delivering his messages.”
“So you’d like to come along, but Lord Geoffrey has forbidden it?” Inside, I am falling about laughing. If Stígandr’s looks could kill, we would now have one rider less amongst the hunters.
But the liege lord climbs into the saddle unconcerned. He couldn’t care less what we think of him anyway. He has no interest in his underlings as long as everything at his manor house runs smoothly. Only if things don’t go as usual is his interest aroused. Then God have mercy on the one who incurs the liege lord’s displeasure! Only recently, he had a maidservant whipped because she tripped and accidentally spilled wine on him.
I lower my head to hide my gloating from Stígandr. “I am sorry for you, Stígandr. Surely you spend enough time in the saddle on your errand rides. You should be grateful for a break.”
He snorts discontentedly. “Am I supposed to sit around in the manor house all day long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Lord Geoffrey will send you away again soon with a message.” I grab the stirrup and mount. “Do you know where you’re riding next yet?”
The expression on Stígandr’s face freezes. “Maybe your French friends will tell you on your ride. Unless something unexpected happens to you.”
He casts an evil glance at the liege lord and his men, turns round and slinks away like a lurking wolf.
“The French are not my friends,” I call after him half aloud.
Unless something unexpected happens to me. The certainty in his voice makes me frown. Does he know something I don’t? Am I coming along so they can get me out of the way? How will they do it? All the French nobles will ride with us, even Thibault and also the two oldest squires, Jehan and Roul. Who would harm me when there are so many witnesses? Wouldn’t it be easier to overpower me in a smaller group? I should not ride too far away from Thibault or the language master, because if there is anyone at all amongst the French who will protect my life, it will be one of these two. Outwardly, I try to dissemble, but my stomach is tingling. I let my eyes wander over my companions. Which one of them would want to kill me? Perhaps Stígandr only wanted to unsettle me, for being forbidden from coming along himself. Out of wounded pride. I shouldn’t worry about his words. So far, all assaults on me have taken place near the manor house. Nothing has ever happened while we were out on horseback. Until now. I grit my teeth. Everything has gone well so far, nothing will happen today either. Why should I worry about something that is beyond my control? Only children and women are afraid of unseen dangers and ghost tales. And if an incident does occur, I still have the bow, my scramasax and a fast, agile horse.
The hunt goes as expected. As the sun rises above the treetops, we pursue an enormous wild boar that searches in vain for a place to hide. My horse gallops through the bushes towards the low branches of a tree. I duck, my horse jumps to the side to dodge them. The next moment, something jerks me to the side with such force that my head barely misses one of the branches. The horse whinnies and rears. I squeeze my legs together to stay on, but I fall backwards, saddle and all. A hellish pain shoots through my head and shoulder as I crash to the ground. Everything goes black.
A flapping sound reaches my ears from far away. Something is slapping my cheek. My head is buzzing as if someone had hit it with the blunt end of an axe. Breathing is difficult. I gasp, although I don’t remember running.
“Oswulf?” I know this young voice, even though I cannot remember where from. A hand is touching my neck. “He’s alive!”
I hear footsteps and excited chatter. Who are these people? Where am I? What has happened? I struggle to open at least one eye. Someone is squatting in front of me, but the outline is blurred.
“What happened?” a second young voice asks.
“I don’t know,” the first voice answers. “The horse reared and he slid off.”
“I hope nothing is broken.” The second voice approaches my face. “Oswulf? Oswulf! Do you hear me?”
I blink. Something red shimmers in front of me. “Jehan?” I groan.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s me. You fell off your horse. Are you all right?”
I try to move, but my whole body is heavy as lead. A sharp pain stretches from my shoulder to my neck. My head seems to burst. I feel sick. My stomach clenches. I swallow several times.
“Let me through!” The order comes unmistakably from the master of arms. With well-aimed grips, he checks my head, neck and shoulder. “He’s lucky. Nothing seems to be broken. Can you move, Oswulf?”
I struggle to open my second eye and slowly recognise the face of Thibault, who is squatting in front of me. I gather all my strength and try to sit up. Thibault and Jehan put their arms under my head and back to lift my upper body. I groan like an old man as they pull me up gently to a sitting position. I swallow again, but something wants to get out. Just in time, Thibault pulls his arm away as I turn to the side and throw up.
“Bring a water pouch!” shouts Thibault.
Clumsily, I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. I feel as if a herd of cows has run me over. My skull is pounding. My vision is blurred. I try to sit up straight on my own. My left shoulder throbs. My arm feels like a sack of potatoes. I slowly open and close my fingers. All good.
The master of arms hands me the water pouch. “Here, drink! Then we’ll see if you can get up and ride.”
It takes a while before I can grasp the pouch, which keeps blurring before my eyes. In wise foresight, Thibault has already opened it so that I only have to put my lips to it and drink.
“He will have to ride bareback.” Roul approaches with the saddle on his arm. In one hand, he holds the girth. “It looks like someone cut the girth so it would break while he was riding.”
“What?” Jehan jumps up and looks at the girth. “Someone wanted Oswulf to have an accident?”
The two of them look at me. While I can see horror in Jehan’s face, Roul looks thoughtful.
Thibault stands up and examines the end of the strap. His gaze goes into the distance, where the other riders are continuing the hunt. “We didn’t assign the horses until just before the ride. Whoever cut the girth must have been there when we assigned them.”
“So, it was someone from the hunting group,” Roul says.
Even though I cannot see clearly yet, I notice his wide-open eyes. Is he really amazed? Could it not have been him who cut the girth? How else would he know to look at the saddle to find the reason for my fall? I gasp. My head feels like a squishy pumpkin. My legs tremble as I try to straighten them. I struggle to get up onto my knees. My head is spinning. I squeeze my eyes shut and hope to see everything clearly again when I open them. Where is my horse? I put one foot on the ground and try to stand, but I can’t. I hold out a hand. “I need help. Everything is spinning.”
“Wait!” says Jehan. “I’m coming.”
While he supports me, I rise bit by bit. My knees are as soft as barley mash, but with one arm on Jehan and the other on the tree, I stand up slowly. How I’m going to get through the ride back to Wilburgfos, I don’t know. My horse will have to walk all the way, for anything faster without a saddle will shake all my bones even more. But I’d rather sit and endure the pain with a piece of wood between my teeth than be laid over the horse’s back like half a pig being brought to the manor house for cooking.
“You checked the saddles just a short time ago, Oswulf,” says Thibault, and I wonder if I hear a slight reproach in his words. “Didn’t anything strike you about their condition then?”
I stop short of shaking my head, as it feels like it’s tearing my brain apart. “Nothing at all. The girths were all flawless, too.”
Thibault grumbles. “One of our own men! Can’t we even trust our countrymen anymore? If I find out who did this…!” His thick fingers open and close hastily.
I don’t want to think about what punishments he is coming up with for the offender. This time, my unknown foe has obviously gone too far. So far, his attacks have been limited to putting an Englishman in mortal danger or embarrassing him to other people. But deliberately damaging their property, a valuable saddle that is in constant use, is another matter and something the French cannot tolerate. This time, there will be consequences for the wrongdoer, and even if they only punish him for damaging the saddle, at least I will finally know who my secret adversary is. Then the game of hide and seek will be over.
Thibault casts a glance around. “I will find out who cut the girth. If anyone wants to tell me anything about it, they can do so when we have handed Oswulf over to the healer at the manor house. As for the saddle, whoever is found guilty will pay me the price of a new girth and the work on the saddle. Everything else will be decided by Sire Geoffrey.”
Everything else? What else is there to discuss that would require a decision from the liege lord?
In the meantime, the language master has also arrived and is leading my horse back on the reins. Fortunately, the animal is unharmed.
While Walchelin listens to Thibault’s explanations, Roul leads the horse to a tree stump, which I climb to get onto the horse’s back as easily as possible. I slide into place, groaning and moaning, and take the reins from Roul.
His gaze is thoughtful, his nose wrinkled. “I have nothing to do with it.”
Should I believe him? For the time being, there is nothing to prove that he has been involved in the incidents against me. Dogs that bark don’t bite. Roul is one who likes to bark, but whether he also has the courage to bite, I don’t know. “We’ll see,” I say.
“It wasn’t me, do you hear?” A furrow of anger appears on Roul’s forehead. His gaze wanders to the other three, who look at him silently. “Why are you looking at me like that? I didn’t do it!”
Maybe he really is innocent.
But who else could have done it? Apart from the grooms, only Frenchmen stood around the horses before we rode off. And Stígandr. Did he not say that something might happen to me? But how could he have cut the girth when I was standing beside him all the time? He must have done it earlier, before the grooms led the saddled horses out of the stables into the yard. Or was it one of the grooms? Did Stígandr promise him a reward for cutting the girth?
Thibault and Jehan get up on their horses. Roul looks lost amidst the silence of the others. How helpless he can be!
“Mount!” orders the master of arms and lifts himself into the saddle. “We must bring Oswulf back to the manor house. We will deal with the culprit later. This time, I will personally see to it that we find him.”
* * *
It was a long two weeks that I won’t miss. I couldn’t even hold the wooden practice weapons safely and was still staggering around like a drunk for days after my fall, so Thibault had ordered me to do work that was less dangerous for the bystanders and also for myself. Instead of teaching squires on the battleground, I therefore spent most of my time sitting in the armoury, thoroughly cleaning and mending all its contents. Even the saddles and bridles now shine as if Thibault had just bought them from the saddler. Today, I’m supposed to go back to the work I was brought here for. The bruise on my shoulder has healed enough for me to be able to hold the shield even against a blow from the stronger youths, and my legs obey me again as before.
With impatient steps, I go to the stables to check on the horses we need for today’s exercises with the spear. The young bay at the very front greets me with a neigh as I enter. Otherwise, it is quiet in here. Every now and again, there is a snort as one of the horses blows the dust out of its nostrils, or the grinding of their teeth as they chew hay. I look at them one after another, then take two out into the stable aisle and tie them there. As I am about to get the saddles, a rider is just arriving in the yard.
Traitor! I press my lips together, clench my fists and stomp out between the horses towards the rider.
“Oswulf! Good to see you safe and sound!” His voice trembles.
“You won’t escape me this time, Stígandr.” I pull out my scramasax and speed up.
He lets go of the horse and stumbles in the other direction. “Why are you drawing your sword? What are you up to?”
“Don’t try to fool me! You cut the girth that tore during the hunt a fortnight ago. Because of you, I fell off my horse and almost broke my neck.”
“What are you talking about?” Stígandr backs off without taking his eyes off me. “I didn’t even touch the saddle.”
“You liar! I’m going to get you this time.”
“You’re making a mistake.” He runs round a group of pigs and rushes towards the great hall. “Help! Help! Oswulf is trying to kill me!”
A few glances follow us as I continue to hurry after him. He disappears through the entrance to the great hall. I follow him. Stígandr bumps into a servant who falls over, cursing.
I try to avoid her and knock my thigh on the edge of a table. I flinch for a moment before I chase after the Norþmann again.
“Give up! Now, you will pay for your evil machinations!”
Like a rabbit fleeing from a fox, Stígandr tries to shake me off by turning corners through tables and benches. “This Englishman is mad! He wants to kill me! He’ll kill you all!”
I reach out to Stígandr. His tunic is only a finger’s length away from me. Leaping forward, I grab it and hold on to the fabric for dear life.
Stígandr tumbles backwards. “Help me! Help!”
We stumble and crash to the ground in a bundle. My scramasax slips out of my hand but remains within reach.
“I will kill you!”
I reach out for the short sword. As my fingers close around the hilt, I cry out. A foot presses my hand so hard to the ground that I can neither move it nor pick up the scramasax.
My gaze wanders upwards. Two ice-cold eyes stare at me.
Lord Geoffrey.
Two Frenchmen grab me by the arms and pull me up.
“He has gone mad!” shouts Stígandr as he stands up and points his finger at me. “He tried to kill me! He is a danger to us all!”
“He cut the girth of the saddle!” I shout at least as loudly as Stígandr. “He wanted me to break my neck. He told me himself before the hunt that something was going to happen to me. He is behind all the attacks on me.”
“I didn’t cut the girth! That’s a lie.”
“Then you told one of the grooms to do it for you!”
“I did not!” Stígandr sweeps the dirt off his tunic with both hands before continuing, more confused than angry. “Why would I do that?”
“Why? Why?”
Exactly, why? What would he gain by my being dead? It wouldn’t make any difference to him.
“Enough!” The liege lord glares at both of us. “You are here to work, not to fight. If I catch you doing it again, I’ll throw you off my manor. Now, get out of here!”
I shake off the arms that still hold me in an iron grip and pick up the scramasax without taking my eyes off Lord Geoffrey. More than his commanding tone, I am annoyed by the way he speaks of his manor. He’s the one who doesn’t belong here. He should be the one thrown out of the manor house. He is the trespasser who caused this dispute in the first place.
Stígandr adjusts his clothes and looks at me suspiciously. I put my scramasax back into its scabbard and turn round.
Thibault is standing in front of me and looking at me with raised eyebrows. “Oswulf, Oswulf. You’ll get yourself into a lot of trouble if you go on like this. And me too.”
“Forgive me, Thibault, but when I saw Stígandr arrive, I thought—”
“You thought wrong, Oswulf.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think as far as the girth is concerned, Stígandr is innocent.”
“There you go!” exclaims Stígandr. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along, but he won’t listen to me.”
“Who else would it have been?” I ask.
“I spoke to the grooms. One of them said that someone ordered him to cut the young bay’s girth.”
“Who?”
“He doesn’t know. He wasn’t allowed to turn around while the man was talking to him, so he didn’t see his face.”
“And the other grooms? Didn’t they see him?”
“Unfortunately, no. They were busy with the other horses.”
“But he might recognise him by his voice.” I’m begging with the Lord that he can.
“That will be difficult. The man only whispered the order to him – but the groom still noticed that he sounded strange somehow.”
“In what way?”
“The way he spoke sounded unusual. The servant wouldn’t answer me any more questions because the man threatened to kill him if he betrayed him. So, we don’t even know if he spoke Engleis or Norman. The grooms understand both languages well enough to take orders in them.”
I glance at Stígandr, who is listening attentively. Stígandr is Norse, but he speaks English like an Englishman. The groom must mean someone with an unusual pronunciation.
Or with a speech impediment.
“Do you have any idea who it might have been?”
“Not really, and I still don’t know why he wanted to kill me,” replies Thibault.
I frown. “Kill you? But why? He cut my horse’s girth, didn’t he?”
“The bay is still young and has not often been on a hunt. In fact, I wanted to ride him that day, but when I noticed how restless he was, I decided to swap my horse with yours. That way, the bay would still take part in the hunt, but not right at the front, where he could have been easily spooked and passed on his fretfulness to the other horses.”
My jaw drops. Someone wanted to kill the master of arms, the only Frenchman who can protect me. Someone who wants to get rid of me and whose assaults on me personally have all been unsuccessful so far. Who now resorts to other means to achieve his goal at any cost. Who could be so obsessed with his hatred of me, of the English people, that he would even risk the life of a Frenchman for it?
The master of arms growls. “As long as we only have the testimony of a groom who doesn’t dare say anything more, we can’t do much. From now on, we must be even more vigilant than before, Oswulf!”