I was thinking of that night in Lundene, in the street outside St Eadmund’s church. At the time I had been so sure that it was him; it was only later that I convinced myself I had been mistaken. But now I had seen how much the priest was hiding from us, I wondered if perhaps he had been lying about what he had been doing that night as well. What if my instincts had been right, and if they were, what did that mean? What did any of it mean?
‘All we can do is what Malet has asked of us,’ Wace said. ‘After this, after we’ve driven the English from Eoferwic, any obligation we might have to him will be over. We’ll be free to do what we want, and what Malet does then is his concern, not ours.’
‘If we drive them from Eoferwic,’ I muttered. I closed my eyes; my mind was full of possibilities and half-formed thoughts. Never had I been so completely uncertain of my life: not just of the business with ?lfwold and Malet, but also of what I was doing here, of where I was headed.
Sometimes I thought that if I could only wake myself from this dream then I’d find myself back in Northumbria, with Oswynn and Lord Robert and all the others, with everything just as it had been before. I felt like a ship cast adrift on the open sea, subject to the whims of the tide and the wind, riding each and every storm while always clinging to the hope that I would soon find a safe haven. A hope that seemed to be growing fainter by the day.
‘Let’s see what happens when Eadgyth arrives,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll know what to do.’
Wace placed a hand briefly on my shoulder before he walked away, around the side of the hall.
I stood there a moment longer, gazing out across towards the dormitory and the thin tendrils of smoke rising from its chimney to the stars. Soon, however, the silence was broken by the sound of bells pealing out, this time for matins, I realised. I had not known it was so late.
I returned inside, back to my room. Shortly I heard footsteps on the stairs and on the landing beyond my door: Wace returning, I thought. The creak of hinges followed and then all was still. I shrugged off my cloak and lay down on the bed. The straw mattress was hard and offered little in the way of comfort, no matter how I positioned myself, and after several attempts, at last I stopped trying and sat up instead.
In the darkness I held my head in my hands as I mulled over everything. Amidst all the uncertainty, one thing was becoming ever clearer: I could not carry on not knowing the truth. Above all my conscience would not allow me to serve a man who was a traitor to his king and to his people. If there was some conspiracy between Malet and Harold’s widow, I had to know. Despite what I had said to Wace, I knew there was no guarantee that we would have any answers even when she arrived. I could wait no longer.
And suddenly I knew what I had to do.
The bells had stopped ringing some time ago; if anyone in the house had been woken by them, they would surely now be settled again. I stood up and went to the door, opening it just enough to be able to look out on to the landing. A faint orange glow played across the stairs from the hearth-fire in the hall below.
For a moment I wondered again: what if we were wrong? But I knew that if I carried on thinking in that vein, then I would lose this chance. There was no other way. We had to know.
The landing ran almost the whole length of the up-floor. At the far end, furthest from the stairs, was the chamber in which ?lfwold was staying. Barefoot, I slipped out of the door, closing it gently behind me; the last thing I wanted was to wake anyone else. There was little wind that night, or anything else which might have helped mask my movements. The only noise I could hear was that of mice rustling in the thatch.
Breathing as lightly as I could, I made my way along the corridor, keeping close to the right-hand side: the outer wall of the house, where the boards were less likely to creak. A little way further along, I could hear snoring, and saw that the door to one of the other knights’ rooms lay open. It was Philippe, his lanky frame stretched out, one arm hanging off the side of the mattress. A copper candlestick stood on the floor, the wax itself almost burnt down. He stirred, muttering to himself, though not in any words that made sense. I froze, thinking that he might have heard me, but thankfully he did not wake.
The next room belonged to the chaplain. This would be the main guest chamber, south-facing: usually reserved for visitors of the highest honour. Ours were mere retainers’ quarters by comparison. For we were just knights, I thought grimly. Nothing more than servants.
The door was sturdily built, with a great iron lock and handle. I pressed an ear up against the wood, stilling my breath as I tried to make out any sound of movement within, but all was quiet. I gripped the handle, hoping that it didn’t turn out to be locked. The iron felt cold against my palm, which I now realised was sweating. I gritted my teeth and pushed: gently at first, gradually putting more force behind it, until I felt it begin to grind open—