FORTUNATELY THE KING seemed to be satisfied by Morcar’s terms and the gift of the two slave-girls, for the next morning, under cloudless skies and a fierce sun, we made ready to quit Brandune, and I prayed it was the last we would see of that fetid cesspit.
Awaiting us was Alrehetha, where the bridge was being rebuilt. Most of our host had already assembled there, and we were among the last few hundred men to make the journey, along with the king and his retinue. A token force would be left to guard the boats moored there, together with enough provisions to keep them fed. Everything else we took with us: bundles of firewood, timber planks, sacks of grain to feed our horses, barrels of salted fish and pickled eels, spare spearheads and mail hauberks, all of which were loaded on to carts or sumpter ponies. With us, too, travelled all the leech-doctors and fletchers, wheelwrights and armourers and priests who attended upon an army, as well as the ever-present rolls-keepers who recorded every last bundle of wool and roll of cloth taken from the royal storehouses, every chicken and goose placed in a cage for the journey, and made a tally of every cart and haywain as it was harnessed to a team of oxen and sent on its way to join the main column.
And among those rolls-keepers, as always, was Atselin. He sat at his usual desk in the yard outside the king’s hall, except that a canopy had now been erected above his head to shield his bald head and his precious parchments from the sun and the rain. He was overseeing the other clerks, who scurried about from building to building with bundles of scrolls under their arms on which presumably were written lists of goods, which they brought to him for his approval and his seal. A crowd was forming about his writing-desk and I hoped to escape his attention as I made my way past, towards the paddock where my destrier, Fyrheard, was grazing.
I wasn’t so lucky. My gaze must have lingered a little too long. Even as I looked away, he called my name. For an instant I hesitated, deciding whether to heed him or pretend I hadn’t heard, but then he called a second time, louder this time, and I realised I couldn’t ignore him. Sighing, I turned and made my way over as, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed the queue of grumbling underclerks.
‘What do you want, Atselin?’ I asked, without so much as a word of greeting. He would not have offered me that courtesy, and I saw no reason why I should do any differently.
He did not look up but continued to scrawl, squinting intently at the page. The grey of the goose-feather quill in his hand matched the crown of hair around his tonsure.
‘I merely wished to congratulate you,’ he said, although there was no warmth in his voice. ‘I understand that Morcar agreed to the king’s most generous offer.’
I frowned, suspecting some manner of snide remark to follow. ‘That’s right. What of it?’
‘Nothing, save to remind you that you are fortunate that your idea was successful, that young Godric remained true to his word and that his uncle was willing to listen to what he had to say. But don’t expect that King Guillaume will grant you or your lord any special favours because of it.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘The king still remembers how you defied him by venturing out on your little raiding expedition without his approval. Your good fortune changes none of that. Don’t forget, either, that had your plan failed, it would have been on your head. He would have given up a valuable hostage for no good reason.’
‘You’re wrong,’ I said. ‘He had no intention of keeping Godric prisoner. Had I not spoken when I did, the boy’s corpse would be swinging from the highest branch overlooking the fens as a warning to his countrymen. We wouldn’t have Morcar on our side but instead would surely be marching towards almost certain defeat.’
Atselin’s quill stopped, his hand suspended above the page, but still he did not look at me. ‘You think very highly of yourself, Tancred of Earnford.’
‘You were there,’ I said, almost spitting the words. My blood ran hot, as it always did whenever I found myself trying to reason with this weasel. ‘You were there, in Robert’s hall, when the boy’s fate was decided. So tell me, monk, which part of what I’ve said isn’t true?’
I waited for long moments, but no words were forthcoming. Instead he dipped his quill in the inkwell and carried on writing as if I weren’t there.
‘Speak to me, you miserable, shit-stinking rat,’ I said, and snatched the parchment he was working on out from beneath his hand. ‘Am I or am I not telling the truth?’
At once he leant across the desk, trying with his free hand to claim the sheet back, but I held it just out of reach.
‘Give that to me,’ he said, wearing a tired expression on his face.
‘First apologise, and answer me.’
He stared at me as if I were speaking in some foreign tongue. ‘Why should I apologise to you?’
‘Why?’ I echoed. ‘You call me over only to sneer at my deeds, and then you all but accuse me of telling lies. That’s why.’