“Why have they still not found the churl who did this? Had plenty of time, didn’t they?” Cenric shakes his head as he incessantly follows the circular line in the sand.
“I doubt they want to find the wrongdoer. Nothing happened to the master of arms, and what the groom told us applies to many men. They could all be guilty.” I toss aside the dry twig I’ve been breaking in half over and over. “It’s hopeless.”
“What did Lord Geoffrey say?”
“He announced that someone tried to kill the master of arms, that he will not tolerate such conspiracies against his men in his manor house and that the culprit will face severe punishment should anything happen to the master of arms as a result of such actions.”
“That’s it?” Cenric ruffles his blonde hair and continues marching in a circle. “He’s got a madman at the manor who thinks up a new ruse every month to put you in the ground, who has attacked the master of arms, and all he does about it is utter a threat? He’s not usually so squeamish. The other day, they caught a beggar stealing a loaf of bread from the kitchen. Had his right hand chopped off. For a single loaf of bread! As if his French friends didn’t have enough to eat! They’re enjoying themselves while we have to fight for every crumb. But we’re still lucky in Wilburgfos. A travelling merchant mentioned a terrible famine further north. Fields and fruit trees have been destroyed, villages burnt. Countless people dead. What the wolves and crows don’t eat is rotting in the open air. The sight and the stench are unbearable. The survivors can’t dig the graves as fast as people die from disease and weakness.” He stops, directs his gaze upwards and folds his hands. “May the Lord spare us this fate!”
Just as he did with my family and Ulfgar.
Cenric puts his hands behind his back and continues on his trail. “We must find a way to prove him guilty. Make him reveal himself.”
I laugh briefly. “How are you going to do that? Do you want to force him to surrender and tell Lord Geoffrey the truth?”
Cenric pauses again. “Do you have any idea who it could be?”
“I’m not entirely sure, but I noticed something.”
“And that would be?”
“The groom said the voice sounded unfamiliar.”
“Means little or nothing.”
“Think about what is unusual for a groom, the voice of someone who doesn’t often give him orders, who usually has nothing to do with him.” I look around to make sure no one is eavesdropping on us. “I questioned the groom again, and do you know what he said?”
“No, what?”
“The voice was not only unfamiliar, it sounded somehow eerie. He didn’t understand anything at first because the man was whispering, and his words sounded like the hissing of a snake. The groom already feared that Satan himself wanted to seduce him.”
Cenric looks at me with a wrinkled nose.
“Have you ever heard someone whisper with a lisp, Cenric?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Mostly, folk shout at me instead of whispering.”
“There is only one Frenchman who has a lisp, and that is Quentin de Lisieues, Roul’s uncle.”
* * *
The first autumn winds sweep across the fields. Barns and sheds are filled with the yields of the late harvest. The fruit trees are heavy with pears and apples, which the peasants gather in baskets to store for the winter. Every day, children roam the surrounding woods to fill their baskets with mushrooms and firewood. Or to squeal along with the pigs that they drive through the woods in search of acorns, beechnuts and chestnuts to fatten the animals.
Letting our legs dangle, Jehan, Jeannot and I sit on the bridge that crosses the Fors Bekkr not far from the convent of the Benedictine nuns. At our feet, the hemp-nettle lines with their hooks dance gently in the river, which today looks more like a pond than the raging torrent that so often thunders under the bridge in the rainy autumn weather. We have already caught two tench and an eel.
The thought of a piece of smoked eel in winter makes my mouth water. One thing is for sure, the French certainly know a thing or two about eating and preparing food, although I still prefer a good ale to their sour grape juice. At the same time, they praise me for the perseverance with which I endure all opposition and difficulties and have made myself useful – some even say indispensable – on the manor. I will never be a huscarl, but I share my knowledge with others as I used to do when I made bows and arrows with the children and taught the older ones how to use weapons. If only Godgifu were still alive… The days of war seem to be over at last. It would be a good time to raise children.
I wipe the thought away and let my eyes wander into the distance, wondering how my brothers and sister are doing.
Wigstan is about the same age as Jeannot, old enough to be a squire and to bear arms as Father would have wanted him to. But he can probably call himself lucky if he has found a good home and does not have to endure the insults and humiliations that lie behind me. Did they bring my brothers to the same manor house? What about Little Eda, only nine winters old? They probably put her in a convent. There are plenty of English servant girls, after all, but what they really need is young men to make up for the losses on the battlefields. Maybe I’ll at least see my brothers again one day.
On the path leading into Wilburgfos from the south, a group of horsemen emerges from the woods. Three armed men in battle dress and two women, sitting on their palfreys with billowing, ankle-length clothes and the hoods of their long cloaks pulled low over their faces. The dark fabric flutters in the wind, whose gusts pull individual dark strands out from under the hood. A single horse trots behind the group with an empty saddle.
“Look there, at the edge of the woods!” I say to the squires.
“Three warriors and two women,” says Jehan. “I wonder what brings them to Wilburgfos.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe they’re just passing through. Or they’re taking the girl to the convent.”
A cart appears, piled with sacks, boxes, baskets and chests.
I stand up and stroke my moustache thoughtfully. “That's quite a load, they must be on a long journey.”
When the group reaches us, the first rider tells the others to stop.
“Messires, dites mei,” he says addressing us, “what place is this?”
“You are in Wilburgfos, east of Eoforwic,” I reply.
The Frenchman pauses. “Everwic?”
“That’s what I meant. Everwic.”
I look more closely at the travellers. The men are all wearing armour and carrying swords and shields. Even the carter is armed. The women’s cloaks are made of dark blue woollen cloth, which is much finer than what most of the people at the manor house wear.
“We have been riding for more than three days and have come a long and dangerous way. We have been ambushed en route and have lost a man. Can you tell us where we can find a place to rest?”
“Our liege lord’s manor is not far upstream from here, munsire.” I indicate the direction with my head. Even from here, you can’t miss the palisade fence.
I turn back to the rider and glance at the other members of the group. Under one of the hoods, two large eyes regard me. My skin tingles as if a thousand ants were crawling on it. The girl hastily lowers her eyes, but I can still make out that she is smiling. Confused, I try to remember what I actually wanted to say. I look at the group's leader, but my memory is blank.
“Do you think we could stay there for a few nights?”
“Where?”
“In your master's manor.”
“I was just about to suggest that.”
I cast a sideways glance at the girl, who is secretly watching me from under the hood.
The woman next to her, perhaps the girl’s mother, looks at me with a mixture of haughtiness and suspicion. “We would be very much beholden to your liege, munsire, and would offer to repay his kindness, if at all possible.”
Her words have an unfamiliar sound. She speaks French, but there is something foreign in the way she speaks that I have not heard before in either Frenchmen or Englishmen. I resist an unexpected urge to lead the troop of riders to the manor. Instead, I stretch out my arm towards it. “Beyond the palisade, you will find the manor house. Cenhelm or Frederic the seneschal will receive you there and take you to Sire Geoffrey.”
The Frenchman nods deeply. “Jo vus en mercie, munsire. Aluns!”
The group starts to move. The woman nods at me with an imperious look. I catch a glimpse of the girl, who turns her head away when our eyes meet again. She rides past me, her gaze fixed firmly ahead, without turning round again. I continue to watch her for a long time. Jeannot’s voice is lost in the rattle of the cartwheels.
“Huh?” I turn to him.
“Do we keep fishing or should we go and follow them?” asks Jeannot, sitting on the bridge and letting the fishing line hang in the river.
A glance at our buckets tells me that I should not be standing around, staring after travellers, if we want to fill them all today. I sit down on the bridge again and throw out the line. “You’re right, Jeannot. The fish won’t jump into our buckets on their own.” Once more, I look back towards the manor, where the leader of the group is just passing through the gate of the palisade fence. “If Sire Geoffrey takes in the travellers, we will meet them again anyway.”
We return to the manor with buckets brim-full. Lady Edeva will be pleased with what we have fished out of the river for the kitchen and the larder – and even more so Father Leofric when he comes from Cattune to Wilburgfos later for the evening mass. He certainly enjoys a good piece of fish, not only on Fridays.
In my mind, I picture the small and gaunt priest with his black robe and dark crown of hair in which the first silvery strands are showing; an Englishman who, even under the French, continues to work on the salvation of the people of Cattune and the surrounding area on holy days, at baptisms and death ceremonies. Whenever there is a feast. I sigh. At times, I have the impression that his desire is more to fill his belly than to take care of his community, making him blind to the suffering and needs of his fellow human beings.
While Jehan and Jeannot carry the fish to the kitchen, I stow the lines in one of the sheds where tools for harvesting and fieldwork – as well as those for chopping, sawing, hammering and drilling – are also stored.
As I lock the door, Cenric is pulling a handcart full of logs across the yard. He stops and beckons me to him. Patches on his clothes and the tips of his hair are darkened from sweat.
“Wel gesund, leof Cenric,” I greet him.
He points to the huge cart near the stables. “Dear visitors from the southeast. Two noble women and three warriors. They must not go to bed hungry tonight, so my father has sent me to chop more wood.”
“Are they staying here?”
Cenric shrugs and starts moving again. “Looks like it.”
I walk next to him, although I was supposed to stop by the armoury. “How long are they staying?”
“Dunno. Judging by what they had on the cart, they packed enough for a longer stay.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Did you see them?”
“They passed us by when I was fishing with Jeannot and Jehan on the bridge near the monastery. I wasn’t sure whether Lord Geoffrey would agree to feed as many as six strangers.”
“You saw them and spoke to them?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Are the women pretty?”
“They were wearing long mantles with big hoods. How am I supposed to tell what they look like?”
“Just wondering.”
“I expect they will stay a few days then travel on to wherever their destination is.” Something inside me tightens at this thought. I slow my steps until I realise that we are already standing in front of the entrance to the great hall. What am I doing here anyway? “I should be in the armoury.” I turn round and make my way there.
“Wait, Oswulf!” Cenric looks around, then whispers, “Have you heard from Roul’s uncle?”
“As far as I know, he’s still with his elder brother at the family manor in Eastengla.” Besides, I couldn’t care less where he is, as long as he’s not here. “At the moment, they need him there more than we do in Wilburgfos. He may be an evil person who hates the English, but he’s not a bad fighter.”
Cenric looks at me for a long time. “Do you think they can win?” he asks quietly, and a glimmer of hope seems to flicker in his eyes.
He doesn’t dare say it out loud, but even so, I know who he means when he says ‘they’. Does he really still believe that the English can win against the French? That Hereward, with his English and Danish allies, can once again turn back time to when there were no Frenchmen in this land? For months, the last rebel fighter of our people has been hiding in the marshy area around Elig in Eastengla, making fools of the French. But they are relentlessly pursuing him. Eventually, they will find him and his men in the inhospitable terrain and wipe out the last resistance to the French ruler. It is idle to conjecture about the outcome of the battles. Come what may. Up here, in Wilburgfos, there is nothing we can do about it anyway, and the French are just as powerless in this respect as we English. At least this once. “We will know soon enough. Surely, Roul’s uncle will return to Wilburgfos for Christmas. He’s been away for weeks, and I doubt if Hereward and his men can withstand the French army for long. Danes and English fight for their own advantages. Their opponent is an army of highly skilled French riddan led by their king and a single, common goal.”
I can see from the look on Cenric’s face that he would have liked to hear a different answer, but it is only a matter of time before this attempt at resistance is also stifled by the French. The first months of the year made it clear what King Willelm is capable of in order to break our will for good. Even months later, people are still fleeing from the land up north, having barely escaped with their lives. Injured folks who narrowly escaped the wrath of the French. Starving families who can no longer cultivate their land, pillaged and laid to waste. Sick people, hoping to find a cure for their ailments somewhere. It is impossible to estimate how many fugitives reach the villages and towns south of the burnt areas in spite of hardship and misery, looking for food and work, or hoping for a release from their torments by healers, priests or the Lord himself.
Cenric kicks the sand, puffing a small cloud into the air. “At least there’ll be no further assaults on you until then. But what if Roul’s uncle comes back? Don’t you think he’ll keep trying to kill you?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Possibly. I have to be prepared for that.” He will hardly change his attitude towards the English as long as they keep rebelling against his king.
“Are you sure Stígandr really had nothing to do with it?”
“You can never be sure with Stígandr. He just goes with the tide and bows to whichever lord looks most promising. He serves everyone and no one.”
* * *
How gracefully she moves. As if she were floating above the ground. Reluctantly, I turn my gaze away from her and thoughtfully scrape along the ash sapling that lies in my hand and will one day become an arrow.
Meanwhile, Cenhelm and his men are noisily hammering the wooden boards over the charred hole in the roof of the armoury. I had noticed the rotten spots in the back part of the roof beams, where the arrows are stored, some time ago. However, we only found out what state the roof was really in two days ago, when a thunderstorm came. The beams might have withstood the storm longer, but the lightning that struck the rotten wood finished the old building off. It flared up like a torch of dry, thin twigs. We were lucky to put out the fire in time to save at least most of the armoury. The burning beams, however, fell on the arrows below and loosened weapons from their stands, which themselves destroyed even more arrows by tumbling on them.
Now, I am sitting with my pupils in a circle in front of the armoury. Each of us has a sharp knife in his hand. In front of us are string, arrowheads, feathers, glue and a pile of sticks, from which everyone takes what they need to make an arrow. Jeannot is there for the first time and keeps looking over at Jehan and Roul, who, with deft fingers, prepare one arrow after another in rapid succession. Eustace and Eudo are also slowly getting to grips with the individual steps, even though they confer in between about what comes next and how it could be done best and fastest.
For more than eight months now, I have been involved in teaching the squires. Although there were difficulties at first, even the most stubborn among them have realised now that I am neither a danger to them nor should they underestimate me in battle just because I am English. They would never admit it, but I am sure that Eustace, Eudo and especially Roul also appreciate my teaching. For a long time, they haven’t complained when the master of arms orders me to continue the exercises in his place.
I take a deep breath. Having been initially defeated and cast out, I finally seem to be finding my place in Wilburgfos, where what I know and can do has been earning me the reputation and honour I have always dreamed of. In battle, I serve my country, even if it is now ruled by someone other than the one I once fought for.
And who do I have to thank for that? I utter a brief hollow laugh. A Frenchman, of all people. What would Father say to that?
My gaze wanders across the yard. She’s standing next to the herb hut, searching through the contents of her basket, as if to make sure that she really hasn’t forgotten any of the herbs she needs. Again and again, she throws me a glance.
She’s looking at me. At me?
The corner of my mouth twitches. I watch as she turns again to the plants she has collected.
Solen. A beautiful name. Why does no one know where she and her mother come from and who the relative they are on their way to is? Everything about them is a big secret, or for some reason, they don’t want it to reach strangers’ ears. Perhaps, they are afraid of another assault in case it becomes known who they really are or where they are going. Would they not have been better off riding along with their armed guards a few weeks ago, who continued the journey northwards with a fully loaded cart? Lord Geoffrey would certainly have been pleased. His mood has worsened with every day that his guests linger. He probably slipped Father Leofric some delicacies from the kitchen to ask the Lord to rid him of the unwelcome company. But Solen and her mother have stayed. For the time being.
Her dark hair falls loosely over her shoulders, almost to her elbow. A shiny brooch flashes out from between the strands, holding her dark green cloak together on her left shoulder. From a distance, I cannot make out exactly what kind of brooch it is, but it has a peculiar shape that I've not seen before.
I glance at the feathers and the wooden stick, still unchanged in my hands, while the squires obediently go about their work and the pile of arrows grows steadily. Once more I look up. A smile is playing around the corners of her mouth. Hastily, she turns to the door and enters the hut to hand the herbs she collected to the two healers. She’s bound to become a good healer herself one day, if she—
Why am I staring at her all the time? Father Leofric is right. Women confuse men’s minds just by being there. They distract them from the truly important things in life. We need to replace the damaged arrows. What do I care who she is and what becomes of her? Her past and her future are none of my business. I should stop worrying about her. Once Roul’s uncle returns from his trip, I will have other things to worry about anyway. Besides, it is not so long ago since Godgifu…
I close my eyes and see her face in front of me. She’s smiling and looking at me with her clear eyes. I cannot simply forget her, pretend she never existed! With one last look at the closed door of the herb hut, I begin cutting the feathers in the middle.
“What do you think, Oswulf?” asks Roul. “Will my uncle be home soon?”
I frown. His uncle? As far as I’m concerned, he can be hacked to pieces by the front-line warriors of the rebellious English and end his miserable days as crow food. “I cannot tell you that, Roul. Until the messenger returns, we will have to wait for news. Why do you ask?” Still frowning, I regard the young man, who has so much changed for the better in the last few months. He is less choleric and condescending towards others and shows more prudence and foresight in battle. He also behaves more moderately towards me. For a long time, he fought against me with words because he failed to defeat me on the battleground. But he made no secret of his dislike for me and my fellow countrymen and always openly said what he thought. In contrast to many others who secretly wished me into hell behind my back. Most have come to terms with the fact that I came here to help the master of arms and am now highly favoured by many Frenchmen. But some have never forgiven me that my fate was different from theirs.
“If the rebels in Elig hold out against the Norman army, do you think they will eventually send us there, too?” Roul looks pensive rather than eager to make the journey to Eastengla to fight entrenched and ambushing hordes in the swamp.
“I’m sure the king will find enough skilled men there, Roul. He never goes into battle rashly and without a prospect of certain victory. I know that from experience.”
“How long do you think the fight will last down there?” asks Jehan.
My gaze wanders over the questioning faces of the five youths. “If you want a prophecy, you have to ask someone else. I may be Engleis, but I neither throw rune sticks in the air nor do I read the flight of birds to predict the future. Find a witch for that!”
The five laugh. Outwardly I smile, but secretly I wish that I could actually see into the future; that I knew what was in store for me once Quentin has come back. Roul knows nothing of his uncle’s conspiracies, at least not from Thibault, me and Cenric. The master of arms and I have agreed to keep him out of it, lest he do some foolish thing that could be dangerous. It’s enough that my own life is in danger. We don’t want to additionally put a squire’s one at risk through careless talk.
* * *
While the peasants are sowing the winter wheat on the bare fields, all the animals for which there is not enough fodder to bring them through the winter are slaughtered in Wilburgfos. Only the geese are spared and fattened with what little the peasants can spare. On Saint Martin’s Day, there will be a big feast, where the geese will be roasted on a spit and served with a sauce of garlic, onions and various herbs. Everyone can eat their fill one last time before the austere winter half of the year brings great privations to many of them.
To be honest, we have no reason to complain, with our barns, buttery, larders and pantries brim-full of stocks, but if fugitives continue to show up at the manor during winter, we will soon have little to share with them if we want to survive ourselves. Thibault now finds it more important that the squires prove themselves as skilled hunters and trappers in order to stock up on meat for the winter. I enjoy our common forays into the woods that surround the fields and meadows of Wilburgfos. Although some spots are not without danger, the woods are a place of tranquillity where one can discuss many things that would elsewhere attract the attention of too many ears.
“Still nothing?” Cenric looks at me in amazement as we examine, in groups of two, the traps we set two days ago. Although he is not allowed to take part in the weapons practice because he is not of noble birth, he accompanies us when we go into the woods to set traps or hunt small animals, such as rabbits, partridges or ducks. He knows the area around Wilburgfos better than any of us, as he grew up here and used to hunt extensively with his father Cenhelm, Kjetil and the other servants of the manor, or to look for firewood, building material, mushrooms, berries and nuts.
“The Lord seems to have mercy on me,” I say, stalking over a cluster of thorny branches that spread out ankle-high across the ground. “Perhaps I should give Father Leofric some of our quarry if we have caught anything, so he puts in a good word for me to keep my luck going.”
Cenric laughs. “Certainly wouldn’t reject a fat hare. He’s not picky about food, even though you can't really tell how much he can gobble up by simply looking at him.”
“An English priest is far better than a French one. I’m sure Father Leofric cares more about the worries and needs of the people than someone from a foreign country would. Besides, he will do all he can to keep his office, and for that, he needs the people to trust him.”
“Or a feudal lord to protect him, for whom he is nothing more than a means to strengthen their rule.” Cenric’s voice has a threatening undertone.
When did he learn to think and talk like that? Astonished, I look at my former challenger, who has become my best friend over the last few months. He is no longer the awkward braggart of four years ago who could not back up his big words with actions. He is only a few months younger than me. Almost a man, and if his parents hadn’t been commoners but nobles, he would surely be dubbed next year. But he will never have that honour. He will never fight in an army such as he could have done in the fyrd under an English king.
Just as I start wondering whether I will ever become a knight, I hear someone rejoicing to my left.
“It looks like we’re having roast hare tonight!” Jehan’s red head glows above the undergrowth. He has his hands at his sides and is looking down with a broad grin at a wriggling something.
Jeannot swings the woollen bag off his back and opens it expectantly.
We join the two and look at the little animal desperately trying to free itself from the noose.
“It’s puny,” Cenric says disappointedly. “We don’t need a woollen sack for that. A belt pouch will do. Couldn’t his parents have walked into the trap?”
“Even small animals are good enough to eat, Cenric,” says Jehan and pulls out his knife.
The crack of a branch makes him pause.
Between the trees, a woman’s voice calls out, “Wait!”
About fifty paces from us, two slim figures in long cloaks are approaching light-footedly. Their cloaks are swinging back and forth with each step. The two figures almost seem to float through the undergrowth and between the trees, like beings from the Otherworld. A few strands of dark hair stick out from under their hoods. On the left arm of the figure in front, a basket made of fine wicker is gently swinging.
“Isn’t that the Breton noblewoman with her daughter?” says Jeannot with a frown.
“You shouldn’t go through the woods alone!” I shout at them.
“I am not alone,” Morwenna replies, pointing to the younger figure. “My daughter, Solen, accompanies me, as you see.”
“The woods are too dangerous for two women on their own,” says Cenric. “Neither a robber nor a wild animal will be scared off by a herb knife.”
“I don’t need any explanations from you about dangers,” Morwenna says with a stern look.
Cenric and I exchange a look while she bends down and frees the hare from the trap. She takes the little animal in her arms and strokes its fur.
“Have you at least told someone at the manor house where you were going?” I ask. “As your host, Sire Geoffrey is responsible for your welfare, especially since you sent your guards away.”
“Where they have gone, they are needed more than here.” Morwenna’s tone is sharp and final.
As always. Nothing has changed since our first encounter at the bridge near the monastery.
She examines me closely before continuing in a softer voice. “But if you are so concerned about our lives, perhaps you would like to offer to protect them with yours?”
I am to serve as a personal guard for two guests? Confused, I look at the squires, who look back just as astonished.
Morwenna’s eyebrows furrow. “You hesitate.”
There is more contempt in those two words than Lord Geoffrey could express in a whole sentence or Cenric in one of his rambling speeches.
She says it as if she expected nothing else from me. But I am not her underling and owe her no service. Who does she think she is, daring to ask, even demand, such a thing from me? I straighten up. “I don’t see why I should do that. You are not part of my family nor that of my liege lord. I am under no obligation to you.”
Just as I have spoken the words, Solen’s and my eyes meet. Her dark blue eyes sparkle like two gems under the large hood. Something in me is writhing at what I have just said. I am under no obligation to you, my voice echoes through my mind, mingling with a lighter voice, “Your blood ties and oaths of allegiance bind you, and what of your honour?” I frown. Was that in my head or did she actually ask me that?
Without taking her eyes off me, Morwenna is holding the little hare in her arms.
I clear my throat. “We should get going. We don’t have time to stand around here.”
“What about the hare?” asks Cenric, pointing to the bundle of fur in Morwenna’s arms.
“It is only small,” says Morwenna, “and I advise you to release it. If you have no sense of honour, at least show reverence for the old goddesses. If you spare the hare, you could obtain the favour of Abnoba, the great goddess of hunting, and ask her for good luck in the hunt. Besides,” her gaze becomes even more insistent, “you will appease the goddess Ostara, to whom the hare serves as a symbol of fertility and rebirth. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
I swallow. My heart is pounding in my chest as if my life were at stake. What is this woman talking about? Is she trying to bewitch me with words? Why is she looking at me all the time? What about the squires? Wouldn’t they also have reason to hope for luck while hunting?
Cenric takes a step forward and stands between Morwenna and me, ready to snatch the hare from her hands, if need be. He had to bear witness to the misery of his countrymen for too long to let a defeated quarry slip away before winter.
“Are we taking the hare or not? We have other traps to look at.”
Jehan pulls back Jeannot, who is still expectantly holding out the sack, and waves it off. “Oh, leave little long-ears alone. I’m sure we have some bigger fur wearers in the other traps.”
Cenric sighs as Jehan and Jeannot continue on their way.
I nod hastily, embarrassed that Jehan has caught me off guard with his decision. “He’s right. We should move on. Keep the hare.”
Morwenna’s voice floods my head with words dancing around. “Abnoba”, “hunting luck”, “Ostara”, “fertility”. I take one last look at Solen, who smiles silently at me. Feeling a sudden flush of heat, I tug at the collar of my tunic for more air. “You should go back to the manor house. You never know who or what might be prowling the woods at this time of day. God bless you.” I pull Cenric with me and follow the other two.
There’s something creepy about Morwenna, even if I would never say so in front of the others. She’s hiding a secret. Something that happened in the past that has brought her up north, just herself and her daughter. She speaks, but her words are as dense as the morning mists above the river.
* * *
After Mass on Saint Martin’s Day, Solen and her mother join the stream of people beside me, pushing their way through the portal out of the festively decorated church. Amid the throng, Solen is pressed so close to me that I feel her body at my side. She smiles at me. Her eyes resemble the waters of the Fors Bekkr on a day in early summer, a deep dark blue surrounded by the light, almost creamy tone of her face, which in turn is framed by her dark hair. Only now do I realise how beautiful she is, even though I have seen her many times before. This time, she is so close that her beauty literally leaps into my face. Only a blind man could still miss it.
“I have watched you at your work,” Morwenna says.
“Was there any particular reason why you did?”
Morwenna purses her lips. “I happened to be in the yard when your weapons practice took place. I must say that you are a skilled fighter.”
As if a woman can judge that! Besides, most of the men I have ever fought or who have seen me fight would say that I am the best of them all. “Do you think so?”
“One thing astonished me, though.”
“And that would be?”
“How is it that an Engleis is teaching squires at a Norman manor house?”
I take a deep breath to suppress the memories of Ledlinghe. Morwenna doesn’t need to know what really happened, and that the events of that time still wake me up at night after all these months. “It turned out that way.”
“A divine providence?”
“If you want to call it that.”
“Do you think you are chosen?”
“Only God knows. I would never dare to call myself the Chosen One.” Angered by Morwenna’s enigmatic questions, I look down to Solen, who bashfully avoids my gaze and lowers her head. A dark curl slides forward from her shoulder. I feel a deep urge to brush it back over her shoulder so that she straightens her face and looks at me.
“It must be hard to live as an Engleis in a Norman manor house. After all that your countrymen have experienced.”
“It is not harder than before. I am alive, and I earn a living.”
“You work with Normans.”
“And with the English at the manor house.”
Annoyed, Morwenna shakes her head. “Servants and slaves. You tend to spend most of your time with the Norman nobles and their sons.”
“Dame Edeva is a noble Englesse. Do you also count her as an underling?”
“She is the wife of a Norman baron. He rules over her as he rules over his followers. I understand, however, that you are under the personal protection of the Norman master of arms and must account for your deeds only to him. That is remarkable indeed.”
Is she making fun of me, or does she really admire me? Her expression is just as haughty as on the day I first saw her on horseback. Not a trace of humility. Whatever she has experienced in her homeland, it has not taken away anything of her disparaging attitude towards others.
“I am the son of Ðegn Osfrið of Ledlinghe, who served Eorl Morkere and thus King Harold. My father himself taught me everything he knew about fighting and warfare. I need not hide from any Norman.”
Morwenna’s lips form a thin line. She nods graciously. “The son of a ðegn, you say. A noble Engleis among Norman barons. Does it not bother you that you can never become one of them? That you, as an Engleis among Normans, will always be seeking the likes of you as a leper does among the healthy?”
Father Leofric is right when he says that women, like the serpent in the Bible, want to sow discord between God and man. “As a Breton, you yourself know how it feels to be alone among Normans. But you seem to master your life, too.”
A faint smile crosses Morwenna’s mouth. “I see you are not only good with weapons.”
From somewhere I hear a voice speaking in a foreign language. Only when I see Solen’s gaze move from her mother to me do I realise that it must have been her who spoke. She looks at me expectantly, almost impatiently.
“What?” I ask, completely taken aback.
Morwenna shakes her head. “My daughter suggested that you might accompany us if you feel as outcast in this manor house as we do.”
I look into Solen’s eyes, in which there is so much hope. My throat tightens. Solen is young. Even younger than Godgifu, maybe fourteen or fifteen winters. Young, but old enough to get married. The thought hits me like a thunderbolt. Perhaps they are on their way to meet her betrothed, who lives somewhere further north. Some rich Frenchman who is looking for a young woman of noble descent. “Where should I accompany you?” My heart hammers in my chest as if preparing to burst at an unwanted answer.
“We need to go further north, but at the moment, our healing skills are more urgently needed here. When winter is over and Dame Edeva is better, we will move on, God willing.”
“What about the warriors who accompanied you?”
“They have long since gone where we need to go. I sent them on while I stayed here to help the healer. A few weeks ago, I asked your liege lord for riders, so that we could continue our journey. Sire Geoffrey refused to provide even a single one of his men. He said he needed them for more important matters.”
Solen grabs my arm. “My mother and I will never reach the end of our journey alive without armed guards.”
My heart pounds all the way into my ears. In my head, I see Godgifu, my sisters and my mother lying on the ground, violated, bloody, dirty and mutilated. Without thinking about it, I put my hand on Solen’s finger. “I can’t leave this manor. I owe my life to the master of arms, and in return, I owe him service on the battleground. He might give me leave for some time, but Sire Geoffrey will not allow it.” I swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”
We look at each other for what feels like an eternity, my hand on hers, as if we were an old, close couple. If it weren’t daylight and her mother weren’t standing next to us, I would kiss Solen right now. I clear my throat and hastily pull my hand away.
Morwenna has been watching us with raised eyebrows. “Winter has just begun. Many things will change in the coming months.”
She says this with a certainty as if she can actually see into the future. Maybe she really is a witch.
* * *
It is a cold winter day when Roul’s uncle returns to the manor. Stígandr already told Lord Geoffrey a few days ago that the arrival of the men he sent off was imminent.
My two mortal enemies are back home. I vigorously scrub the sword blade with the linen cloth, without paying much attention to where I am wiping and whether the blade is not already clean enough. “Many things will change in the coming months.” Morwenna’s words buzz through my head like flies attracted by a badly wounded animal. An uneasy feeling creeps over me that my life will soon no longer be the same. I think of my father and our last conversations before the French invaded southern Englaland – the unknown danger that had been lurking out there, waiting to crash into our lives, overturning and completely destroying them. An invisible fist presses on my stomach and makes it difficult to breathe. Slowly, I lean the sword against the bench, fold up the cloth and put it on my leg. It’s not a whole army waiting for me out there somewhere. It’s just two men. One who hates the English to the bone, and one who has neither honour nor sense of duty and will sell his services to anyone who pays him highly enough. If only Ulfgar were alive! A tremor runs through my body when I see the image of my big, bearded friend in front of me. Why did he have to die? I clench my teeth and bury my face in my hands.
“Are you not well, Oswulf?”
I slide my hands down my face and try to make an indifferent face that doesn’t show the pain of the memory.
Stooping down, Roul looks at me as if he were checking for signs of illness. He himself is pale as a sheet and has been complaining since yesterday that he keeps throwing up. I hope he’s doing all right and that his food is not coming up at this very moment.
I find it difficult to swallow. It’s as if all the horrors of the past were trying to make their way out through my throat, blocking the way for my voice. “It’s…” I croak, clearing my throat and trying to sound determined and confident. “It’s all right, Roul. Don’t worry.”
“Hastez vus!” Jeannot waves from the door of the armoury. “I want to hear what he says.” He’s already off and running after the others to hear the latest French exploits against the rebellious English, told in glowing colours.
By one who lisps and is not man enough to confront a single Englishman, but instead orders his henchmen to kill him stealthily. What a brave warrior! I shake my head, take the linen cloth from my thigh and throw it over the sword pommel. “He’s right. We should go and listen too. Perhaps, at last, there will be peace in Englaland.” Dead silence. Who am I trying to fool? Certainly not Roul. He knows how I feel about his uncle and what his uncle thinks of me. Do I need to encourage myself by telling myself that my beloved homeland is no longer a cauldron of war and ruin for my countrymen? That the unbridled and ruthless murder and plunder of the French will finally come to an end? That I too will finally find peace? Peace! How can I live in peace when someone is trying to kill me and I must expect them to strike again every day?
Roul regards me with tired eyes. He is too sick to question my words. I push him forwards in front of me. Surely, he wants to greet his glorious and praiseworthy uncle, no matter how ill he himself is.
Outside in the yard, a motley crowd of children and youths has gathered around Quentin, greedily demanding and soaking up all the gory details of the battles against the rebels. From what I can gather from their faces and cheers at the door of the armoury, the French achieved a decisive victory against Hereward and his men.
While Roul is staggering towards the cluster of people and making his way to his uncle, I turn away and hasten to the nearby shed. There are some tools that have been affected by the damp late autumn. Cenric has also asked me to help him mend a fence later. His father, Cenhelm, has been in bed with a fever for a week, like many others who have been taken ill. A light can be seen from the herb hut almost all the time these days. The weather also leaves its mark on the people. Hild and Morwenna have their hands full, and Solen helps them where she can.
I imagine what it would be like to be injured in one of Quentin’s assaults and brought into the herb hut, with Solen examining the wound and her delicate hands roaming over my skin.
“…thtill here?” I hear a voice ask.
I startle and look around as if I’ve been caught in the act. In the yard, Quentin is walking with Hugues de Borre and the group of attentive listeners to the great hall, where Lord Geoffrey will receive him with pomp and glory. Celebrating a defender of the French order against the stubborn and unruly defeated. I spit out and continue on my way.
“If it had been up to me, I would have chased the Engleith from the manor a long time ago.”
I slow my step and prick up my ears. Ðu wyrma gifl! Speaking up on purpose so that I cannot but hear it. Yet what would you say if you were not surrounded by your ardent followers?
“How long will Sire Geoffrey let the master of arms have his way? An Engleith teaching Norman squires! Why not sell the souls of our children to the Devil?”
I stop and turn to Roul’s uncle. “Haven’t you sent him enough English souls in the last few weeks?”
Quentin pauses. His pursuers jostle each other before the whole bunch of chickens comes to rest. Roul’s uncle peels out of the crowd and, with his cloak billowing, takes a few steps towards me, though not fully leaving the protection of the group. With each step, the rings of his hauberk clink under his wide cloak.
“Did you say something, Engleith?”
I regard the burly man in front of me, who yearns to crush me with his foot like an annoying insect and yet has failed at every attempt. So far.
“Forgive me. I didn’t know you were hard of hearing or else I would have spoken louder.”
Quentin’s chest heaves as if he wants to blow me away when he breathes out. The fingers of his sword hand twitch. I only have my scramasax with me, but if it came down to it, that would be all I’d need.
“You think you are very clever because you have learned our language, don’t you? But you have no business in this manor house, Engleith. I know it, you know it, and everybody else knows it.”
“Everybody also knows very well what you think of me.”
His brow furrows as if he is weighing what I know and how far I would get with that knowledge in case of a dispute. “Then thank the Lord that the master of arms is so high in the favour of your liege,” he hisses, half-closing his left eye as if aiming an arrow at me, “for there’s plenty of us who think as I do.”
I cast a glance over the people gathered in the yard to see if I could hope for help, should he decide to attack me. Next to Quentin is Hugues, whose dark hair seems to stand up more with each sentence. Three more of Lord Geoffrey’s men are with him. Some servants, who have taken the horses and weapons from Roul’s uncle and his companions. A handful of children and English youths who have interrupted their monotonous work routine as underlings of the French to hear tidings from the far end of Englaland. As if it were necessary, the news will only rob them of any remaining hope that they will ever be able to shake off the French yoke. At the back of the group, the squires are raising their heads in the air. Neither Thibault nor Walchelin are near. The squires are unarmed. Roul is ill – but I could hardly expect him to help against his uncle anyway. “But not everyone would try to kill me because of that.” I hold my breath and watch every little movement of my opponent to be ready for an attack. From what I’ve seen of him so far, he’s not going to engage in single combat against me. He is a good fighter, but he needs the backing of an army to prove it. I would defeat him in no time.
“Are you really sure about that, Engleith?” Quentin grabs the side of his cloak and throws the corner over his shoulder. He turns, waving his hand at Hugues. “Let’s go! We have more important things to do than talk to peasants.”
“I’m very sure of it indeed!” I shout after him. “I have proof.”
Roul’s uncle slows his pace briefly but then continues on his way without turning round again.
I have no proof, but maybe this will cause him to make a mistake. Maybe, then I can finally catch him and make his stalking stop. The thought makes me smile to myself. I should be teaching squires, but now, I’m chasing a Frenchman who wants me dead.
“Hear, hear, he has proof,” grumbles a voice beside me. Stígandr appears out of nowhere, running bony fingers over his chin beard. “What crime has our noble Frenchman committed that you are gathering evidence against him?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Stígandr.”
“Maybe I could help you against him, you know, we English must—”
“You’re not English, and you never will be.”
Stígandr continues to stroke his beard as he looks at me. “Do you think you are in a position where you can be picky about who helps you and who doesn’t?”
Most of the crowd has now dispersed. Only Jehan and Roul linger, regarding us indecisively. Would Jehan fight on my side if need be? Even if he did, he is only a squire, albeit a very good one. Cenric would defend me with claws and teeth, but he is merely the son of the English cupbearer – who is in bed with a fever at the moment and exempt from any work. Whom else could I trust? Would Thibault save me again from the wrath of a countryman? What about Walchelin or Frederic the seneschal? Perhaps Stígandr could be useful to me after all. He travels a lot, gets around the country, perhaps knows the right people. A bitter taste spreads through my mouth. I feel a tugging in my chest. “Never trust a Viking,” my father’s voice echoes through my head. I see him in front of me, pronouncing these words with a raised forefinger. “Never trust a Viking!”
“My situation is not so bad that I need your help.” I turn around and walk to the tool shed.
“You’re afraid of this Frenchman, aren’t you?”
“I’m not.”
“Then what do you need proof for?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“He tried to kill you.”
Ic hine wergðo on mine sette. He got it all. Stígandr, of all people!
“Your silence tells me that I am right.”
“So what!” I open the door to the tool shed. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”
Stígandr puts his hand on his heart. “You may not believe it, but since your father’s death – may God have mercy on his soul! – I feel responsible for you.”
“You feel responsible for me? Don’t make me laugh! You are responsible for the death of Godgifu, Ulfgar and my whole family.”
“Now, now! Aren’t you doing me wrong? You know yourself that the French would have reached Ledlinghe sooner or later. How could one man have prevented that?” He puts his arm around my shoulders. “Now, let us forget the past, and together, think how you can get rid of this Frenchman.”
I shake off his arm and step into the shed. “I don’t want to get rid of him. I just want to make sure he gets his just deserts for what he did to me. I just need to get him to actually admit his deeds.”
“You should talk to him alone. Or at least, it must seem to him that you are alone. Thinking that he's not admitting guilt in front of witnesses will loosen his tongue.”
“Talk to him alone? How am I meant to do that? Do you want me to invite him to a meeting in the hayloft?”
Stígandr creeps far too close to me and leans towards my ear. “He prays alone in the chapel every night after dinner,” he whispers. “You could meet him there and try to extract a confession from him. There’s no one else there at that time. He’ll feel safe and might tell you more than he wants you to know.”
“What good would that do me if no one else heard it? I could never prove that he admitted his shameful deeds to me.”
Stígandr straightens up, adjusts his mantle and purses his lips. “Well, your old friend Stígandr might happen to pass by the chapel and overhear the conversation. I am Lord Geoffrey’s messenger. My word carries weight at the manor.”
I look at the goat face between the hunched shoulders. The eyebrows are arching expectantly over the flashing eyes. “Never trust a Viking!” Never… “Why would you do that? What would you get out of it?”
He spreads his arms. “But Oswulf, aren’t you listening to me? I’ve told you that I feel responsible f—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Stop blathering and tell me what you really want! You don’t do anything without asking for something in return. So?”
Stígandr looks at me silently.
Did he think that I would just accept his proposal? After all that has happened in the past?
“Your question does you honour. You want to know exactly what might be driving me to help you. You think I am working against you because it must have seemed that way to you in the past. There have been many unfortunate coincidences that have led you to this belief. I can’t change that. But look at our situation: we are two defeated people in a French manor house. We are being oppressed and used by the French for their purposes. Is this our true destiny? As the son of a great English ðegn, should you not aspire to something higher than running away day after day from a hateful Frenchman and his devious assaults? What would your father do if he were in your place? Would he not face the danger and take up the fight? Would he not challenge the Frenchman face to face and show him that the better man wins? That law and justice are on his side and will lead him to victory against baseness and jealousy? Would he not do that, do you think, Osfriðson?”
Images race through my head. I see Father taking up the fight in full battle wear. Over and over again. How he strikes down his opponents one by one. How he finally raises his spear in the air and roars out the victory to put the last surviving opponents to flight. My father would not be frightened by a single Frenchman. He would not run away. He would not wait for chance to bring his tormentor to justice. He would confront him here and now. And if necessary, he would also take up arms against him and go into battle for his right and his life. I have hesitated far too long. “He who does not fight is worth nothing.” I must put an end to this game. For good. And if Stígandr could bear witness to everything, I would soon have peace at last.
“Well?”
“Are you sure we will be able to prove his guilt?”
“Of course.” Stígandr looks at his fingernails. “But perhaps, you would prefer one of your French friends to help you?”
“What French friends?”
“Well, the squires and the master of arms seem to think very highly of you.”
“The squires are too young. They cannot help me. Besides, they are my pupils and trust me. I couldn’t possibly let them in on this and put them in danger while still keeping a clear conscience. And Roul? He would warn his uncle that I am trying to trap him.”
“And the master of arms?”
I shake my head. “I’m already too deeply in his debt. I can’t ask him for any more help.”
Stígandr folds his arms. “You don’t owe me anything. You could ask me for help.”
Help from Stígandr?
“Never trust a Viking!”
Do I have a choice? What about Cenric? Cenric is brave and doesn’t shun work, but he also acts rashly and imprudently. He would put himself in danger, and I cannot fight a skilled French warrior for Cenric’s life and my own at the same time. With Ulfgar, that was possible. But Cenric is not Ulfgar.
“Come on! What have you got to lose? If Roul’s uncle talks a little too openly, you have a witness. If not, at least you tried.” He tugs at his beard. The teeth of his lower jaw push out from behind his lip. The goat smile spreads across his face. “And if you need my help, I will be there.”
The wind drives through the door into the shed. I feel a cold breeze on my cheeks, but inside, I am on fire. My heart is pounding as if before a decisive battle. My fingers tingle. They long to do something. To get something done and over with. Life is constantly changing. People live and die, that’s just the way it is. Must I therefore submit to being stalked by a Frenchman who, even after many months, still hates me, just because I’m English? The image of a young woman with dark curls and deep blue eyes appears in my mind. My heartbeat speeds up. Solen. Didn’t Morwenna want me to protect her daughter? How am I supposed to do that if I’m dead? Must I trust a Viking to free me from Quentin? Do I have a choice? Father, forgive me!
“Agreed, Stígandr.”
“A good decision!”
“But if you betray me, I will kill you. This time, it won’t be just a threat. I will not rest until you’re lying on the ground covered in blood.”
“Have faith in your old friend Stígandr. He will take care of everything to your satisfaction. Go to the chapel tonight after dinner. I will wait for you there and give you a sign. When you enter the chapel, see that you leave the door open behind you, so that I can easily hear all that you discuss.” He throws one side of his cloak over his shoulder and straightens up as far as his hunched shoulders will allow. “You have made an important decision, young Osfriðson. Tonight, your life will change forever.” Like a shadow, he disappears from the shed.
I stare after him for a long time before I search for the tools that need mending. I try to swallow the metallic taste in my mouth. As I reach for a bucket of small tools, I pause. My hands are shaking, even though I am not cold. After a moment’s hesitation, I grip the bucket all the more firmly. Even if Roul’s uncle confesses, how can we go on? I can’t work as a helper to the master of arms forever! This manor is too small for two teachers. Thibault is French. Lord Geoffrey would never replace him with an Englishman as long as he can help it. I turn my gaze to the sky, ignoring the dark wooden beams of the ceiling. What is to become of me, Father? I should be sitting on a proud steed and fighting in full battle dress for Eorl Morkere and King Harold to defend Englaland against its enemies. Instead, I am working for those who killed our king and shared out our land between themselves. Whose henchmen laid waste our villages and destroyed our homes. Who took my family from me and brought me to this manor house as a stranger. What am I doing here?
I drop onto a barrel and bury my face in my hands.
“You were born to fight, Oswulf. Never forget that,” I hear a voice say.
I look up, but there is no one in the shed but me.
“You have always been a keen and ambitious pupil.”
“Father?” I sit up straight and look around. How can this be? He is not here, and yet I hear him loud and clear.
“I never promised you that your path would be easy. You are on your own now, and you have to show what you are made of. Fight, my son, and find your way!”
I nod in disbelief. “I will, Father.”
“But beware of false friends, Oswulf!” My father’s voice is slowly fading. His last words are but a whisper. “Never trust a Viking!”
An icy gust sweeps in through the door and tugs at my mantle. I rise heavily from the barrel and clench my fists. “I have no choice, Father,” I breathe. “I have to do it. Just this once.”
* * *
Dark clouds drift across the night sky, dimming the moonlight to a glimmer just enough to illuminate the ground on which I tread with unsteady steps. From the great hall, the hustle and bustle after the end of dinner breaks the silence of the evening. In the kitchen, the maids are chattering and clattering as they wash and stow away the pots and cutlery. Many are already busy looking for a place to sleep, while the servants once again stoke the fire in the middle of the hall so that it will continue to burn during the night.
With everyone moving about in the dim light, no one pays attention to me as I sneak out. Only two servants are in the yard at this hour to check on the animals one last time and make sure the doors and gates are locked. I wait in the shade of a hut until they have disappeared and then skulk on.
A faint light shines through the small windows of the chapel. Roul’s uncle must already be there. I hesitate. How do I know it’s him and if there is no one else around?
A slender shadow appears behind the chapel. I duck and squint my eyes. The shadow hovers next to one of the windows. For a moment, his face is illuminated. A tingling sensation runs through my stomach. Stígandr. I look around in all directions before venturing out of my hiding place. Stígandr gives me a sign. I tiptoe towards him, past the houses and to the side of the chapel. Cautiously, I peek through the window. “He’s alone,” I whisper. My breath and heartbeat race. I wipe my hands on my tunic and run them over my scramasax. The grip feels cool, but I am unbearably hot.
“Your short sword,” whispers Stígandr.
“What about it?”
“You don’t want to go to church armed – or do you think that will help you loosen his tongue?”
“You’re right.” I loosen the weapon belt and hand it to Stígandr. “Quentin must feel completely safe, otherwise he will never betray himself.”
Stígandr’s face glows ghostly white in the dim moonlight as he accepts my scramasax. “Don’t forget to leave the door open so I can hear and see you well.”
I nod, take another deep breath and open the chapel door. It creaks softly. I go in and pretend to think hard about something while I push the door as far as it will go. It swings gently towards me again. I push it open again. Another soft creak. An annoyed hiss comes from the front. I watch the swing of the door, which becomes slower and slower until it stops altogether. Now, the door is open wide enough for a man to easily walk through. I carefully approach the altar in front of which someone kneels under a wide-spread mantle with their head bowed, seemingly absorbed in prayer. I kneel beside them, direct my gaze to the cross above the altar and fold my hands. Leof dryhten, give me strength and courage tonight to expose this man and bring him to his just punishment. I lower my head and close my eyes. Father, forgive me!
For a while, we kneel in silence next to each other, each preoccupied with his own thoughts.
“Do you think that our God hears your prayerth?”
“Maybe. And you?”
Quentin fixes his gaze on the cross and pinches his lips together.
“It seems you are also praying in vain.”
His eyebrow twitches ever so slightly. “How do you know?”
“I’m still alive.”
Quentin gives me a disparaging sideways glance. “Death comes when you least expect it.”
“From the looks of it, I’m at the top of his list, but I’ve already escaped him several times this year.” I look for telltale signs in Quentin’s motionless face. “Did you know that someone at this manor house wants to kill me?”
“Why should I care?”
“Five times this man’s henchmen have attacked me, abused me and tried to bring shame on me, but in vain. It must be terrible to watch your underlings fail to accomplish such small assignments. Realising how little success you have against a single Engleis, even though you are among the best warriors in great battles. Don’t you agree?”
Quentin scowls at me. “I don’t know why you’re telling me all this.”
“Yes, you do.”
He turns away.
“I’ve had a few months’ rest because there were Englishmen to be defeated in the east of Englaland who continue to resist Norman rule. Sire Geoffrey sent men there. They all survived and are now back at the manor, most certainly including the man who wants to end not only my life, but also that of the master of arms. Because he hates the Engleis and cannot bear to see his nephew taught by an Engleis.”
“We have a Norman master of arms. Why do we need an Engleith?” He rises and turns towards the door.
I jump up and claw at his mantle. “You actually tried to kill Thibault.”
Quentin snatches the cloak from my hands. “That was a mistake.” He turns his face away. His shoulders are heaving.
“What have I done to you that you keep on trying to kill me?” I do not expect to get an answer to my question.
He looks at me with angry eyes, holding his hand with the tip of his mantle in front of his body as if for protection. While I search for a sword scabbard that might be peeking out from under his cloak, he takes a step back without taking his eyes off me.
He probably came to prayer unarmed, but under his cloak, he might be carrying a dagger. I must be vigilant.
Quentin’s gaze wanders restlessly over my body, as if he too is looking for a weapon on me.
I open my arms. “I have no weapon. I have come to talk, not to fight.”
Quentin nods. Even though the frown on his forehead remains, his voice suddenly sounds calm, almost gentle. “My nephew told me about you.”
Of course he did, and I can guess how the conversations between the two went. A heated exchange of hateful words and curses. It’s surprising that there hasn’t been an assault lately. Quentin must have been too busy to prepare more attacks on me. Or does he no longer find niþingas to carry out his orders?
“He says you’re a good man.”
“Roul?”
“He hated you at first – many of us did.”
“Then it is him who is responsible for the attacks on me?”
“No. He has nothing to do with it. I’m the only one to blame for that.”
We look at each other. A confession! He actually admitted that he ordered the attacks. That he wanted to kill not only me, but in his desperation and hatred also the master of arms, my protector. I hope Stígandr heard everything well. I should be happy now, but I don’t feel anything, except a strange tugging in my stomach, a tension, a bad premonition. “I thank you for your honesty, Quentin.”
“I have treated you unfairly. You are doing very good work with our squires. Sire Geoffrey and Thibault are very pleased with you, and so is Roul.”
My ears are ringing as if someone next to me is hammering incessantly with a blacksmith’s hammer on a hot iron on the anvil. Roul’s uncle admits his guilt and injustice and even praises me? I am about to say something when Stígandr enters the church.
Quentin turns round. His questioning gaze wanders from Stígandr to me.
“Did you hear everything, Stígandr?” My heart is pounding.
Stígandr approaches calmly. In his hand dangles my weapon belt with the scramasax. “Indeed.”
A smile wants to get out, but my lips are frozen. I reach out my hand, trembling. Something is pushing me away from here. “Good. You can give me my belt back now. We can go.”
Quentin looks from one to the other. “What’s going on?”
Stígandr hands me the weapon belt but holds on to the handle of the scramasax.
As I take the belt, the sword is pulled out of the scabbard. “My scrama—”
“You won’t need it where you’re going.” With a broad grin, Stígandr rams my sword into Quentin’s body.
“Wha—” groans Quentin, slouching forward.
“What have you done?” I catch Quentin and try to hold his weight in my arms. “Stígandr!” I can just see the Norþmann’s cloak fluttering in the doorway. The sand is crunching under his hasty steps.
“Help!” I hear him shout outside in the yard.
I heave Quentin onto a chair and try to keep him upright. My scramasax protrudes from his blood-covered belly.
“Quentin? Quentin, I didn’t plan this. Stígandr was only supposed to overhear our conversation. There was never any question of killing you. Do you hear me?”
Quentin looks at me with half-closed eyes and a distorted face. “You’re a good man, Oswulf,” he gasps before his strength fails him. “I know that now. But it is too late. Forgive me.” His head falls to the side. His body goes limp.
“Quentin! You can’t die now!” Desperately, I shake his shoulders, but to no avail. You can’t stir a dead man back to life.
I hesitantly release my grip. The body leans to the side and slowly slides onto the adjacent chairs. Helplessly, I sink to my knees and rub my face. I hear voices from the yard. He never wanted to help me. It was supposed to look like I killed Quentin from the start. He set a trap for me, and fool that I am, I blindly walked into it. They’ll arrest me and convict me. I press my lips together. “Never trust a Viking!” my father’s voice echoes through my head.
A whisper interrupts the voice. “Oswulf.”
At the chapel door, Roul’s blonde hair shimmers in the candlelight. He leans against the door as he staggers into the chapel. His face is white as chalk, his gait unsteady. His gaze wanders to the body on the chairs. “Uncle Quentin,” he breathes and continues to crawl towards us.
My thoughts fly from Roul to Thibault, the rest of the squires, Cenric, Lady Edeva, Lord Geoffrey. What will Solen think of me?
Leaning on the back of a chair, Roul reaches out a trembling hand to his uncle. His voice is no more than a hoarse squeak. “Uncle Quentin.” A tear is rolling down his cheek. He looks at me.
I swallow and slowly shake my head. “I didn’t kill him, Roul. You have to believe me.”
“Hastez vus, Roul, e alez hors de la chapele!” a voice bellows. Two armed Frenchmen rush through the chapel door and point their swords at me. “Lieve toi, engleis!”
“I didn’t kill him,” I say again to Roul as I stand up. “You’re capturing the wrong man. Stígandr stabbed him.”
One of the Frenchmen points to Quentin’s body. “And whose sword is that?”
“You still have your weapon belt in your hand, too,” says the second.
“I gave Stígandr my sword when I went into the chapel. He was supposed to give it back to me, but instead, he killed Quentin with it. It was supposed to look like—”
“Stígandr was watching everything from outside.” The two of them shove me forward with their swords. “It’s just as well he let us know before you skewered more men.”
I stumble outside, where half the people of the manor are waiting for me, wrapped in blankets.
“Stígandr killed him when he was supposed to give me back my scramasax.”
The Frenchman laughs briefly. “What reason would he have? We know you hated Quentin.”
“What? That’s a lie! Who told you that?”
“You told Stígandr yourself.”
“I never said I hated Quentin. I just wanted his confession that he ordered the attacks on me. I never wanted to kill him.”
The Frenchman pushes me further. “You can tell that to Sire Geoffrey when you stand trial. Va dunc!”
They drive me on like a piece of cattle being led to slaughter. Everyone’s staring at me. I catch sight of Jehan and Cenric. At the end of the crowd, I see the master of arms. “Ne ic hine cwealde, Thibault.”
“Ic cnawe.”