Obviously he had something he wished to tell me, and I wasn’t prepared to have him chirping all the way back to Brandune. Neither did I want to have to make good on my promise, since if I killed him this entire expedition would have been for nothing.
His mouth opened but his tongue must have been frozen, for no sound came out. There was fear in his eyes, and I realised then just how short was the distance he’d travelled along the sword-path. This was no warrior. Certainly I would not trust him to stand in any shield-wall. I wondered if his sword had ever run with the blood of his foes, or if he had ever unsheathed it outside the training yard before tonight.
‘Tell me,’ I repeated. ‘Who is he?’
I saw the lump form in Godric’s throat as he swallowed. My patience was fast running out. Eventually he managed to compose himself enough to speak, although the words that emerged from his lips were not at all what I’d been expecting.
‘My uncle, lord,’ he said, ‘is Earl Morcar.’
Six
HE’S MORCAR’S NEPHEW?’ Robert asked later that morning, once we’d brought Godric to his hall and told him everything that had happened that night.
‘So he claims,’ I replied.
Already it all seemed an age ago. The thrill of the fight had long faded, and tiredness was beginning at last to catch up with me. My limbs felt like lead, fatigue clawed at my eyes, and I wanted nothing more than to find some quiet spot in which to lay myself down and sleep.
Robert fixed his gaze upon the Englishman, who sat on a stool beside the smoking hearth-fire, his hands bound with rope in front of him, his flaxen hair plastered to his skull. Since leaving Litelport behind us he’d uttered barely a word, except occasionally to murmur what sounded like a prayer, but he spoke now.
‘It is the truth, lords,’ he protested. ‘Upon my life, with God and all the saints as my witnesses, I swear it!’
To some men lying came naturally, while others learnt the art through years of practice. Nonetheless, to spew falsehoods when one’s very life was at stake was a skill that few possessed, and required no small amount of nerve, too. Perhaps I was wrong about the Englishman, but I doubted he was so daring, and for that reason alone I was inclined to believe him.
‘If you want to change your mind, you’d be wise to do so now, before you meet the king,’ Wace warned him.
‘Yes,’ Eudo added. ‘If he finds out you’ve lied to him, he won’t be best pleased.’
That silenced Godric, who no doubt had heard of King Guillaume’s unpredictable temper, and knew all about the fits of rage to which he was rumoured to be prone. It was often said that no man ever crossed him twice and lived, for while the king was sometimes prepared to overlook a first offence, he was rarely so forgiving the second time. By taking up arms in rebellion, Godric had committed his first transgression. Already, then, his fate rested on a knife’s edge.
The drapes across the hall’s entrance parted, allowing in a sudden burst of sunlight: something we had seen little of in recent days. Through the parting stepped a pale-faced, dung-reeking lad of perhaps twelve or thirteen, whom Robert had sent to the royal hall with news of our prisoner. He stood, panting heavily as if he had just run all the way to Cantebrigia and back.
‘You bring news?’ Robert asked him.
The boy nodded. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said in between breaths. ‘I returned as quickly as I could.’
‘Well, what is it? Did you give the message as I instructed?’
‘I did, lord.’
‘And?’
‘He is on his way, lord. The king’s steward told me himself.’