Being the steward of Malet’s house I’d thought he must have to, if only to be able to receive his lord’s writ when the vicomte was away from Lundene.
‘I have something I thought you might be able to read for me,’ I said, producing Eadgyth’s letter from my cloak pocket. I had folded it to make it easier to carry, and opened it out before handing it to him. ‘It’s written in English, or so I think.’
He looked at me quizzically, and I suppose it was an odd request to make. But he took the parchment nonetheless, laying it out on the table where the light from the fire played across it.
‘It is English,’ he said. He frowned, then slowly began to read: ‘“To Guillaume Malet, vicomte of Eoferwic and lord of Graville across the sea, Lady Eadgyth, wife and widow to Harold Godwineson, rightful king of the English, sends her greetings—”’ He broke off and drew back, turning away from the table. ‘I cannot be reading this, Tancred. This is meant for my lord, not for me. If he were to discover I had been doing this, he would expel me from his service, or worse.’
‘I was the one who broke the seal,’ I said. ‘I will carry the blame, if anyone.’
‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.
‘At Wiltune,’ I said. ‘From Lady Eadgyth herself. She was the one that ?lfwold was sent to meet. We think that your lord may be conspiring with her.’
‘Conspiring?’ Wigod said. ‘No. That isn’t possible. He is a loyal servant of the king.’
‘And yet we know he was once a good friend of Harold,’ I said.
‘That was a long time ago.’ I saw that there was sweat upon his brow, and his face had turned a shade of pink.
‘So you knew of this?’
‘It was never any secret,’ he protested. ‘In the years before he took the crown, Harold and his wife often stayed in this house when they came to Lundene. But he’s dead now, and Eadgyth I haven’t seen in years – I didn’t even know she was still alive.’
‘But ?lfwold did,’ I said. ‘He has met with her more than once, to pass on messages from your lord.’
‘I know nothing of that, I swear,’ Wigod said.
I had been given no reason to disbelieve the steward’s word before now, and so perhaps he was telling the truth. I tried a different approach. ‘Do you know anything about the promises Malet made to her?’ I asked.
‘Promises?’
There was no time to explain everything; I could not be too long in case suspicions were raised. In any case, it was becoming clear to me that the steward knew nothing of Malet’s business with Eadgyth. In one sense that was a good thing, for at least then I could rely on him to give me honest answers.
‘Tell me what this says.’
‘I cannot—’
‘We need to know, Wigod,’ I said. ‘And one way or another, I will find out.’ I rested my right hand upon my sword-hilt, so that he could see and understand my meaning. I’d hoped that he might offer his help freely, for I did not like resorting to threats, particularly to a man with whom I had no quarrel. But I knew that this was the only way.
For a moment he did nothing but stand there, his mouth agape. In shock, no doubt. But then he returned to the parchment, rolling it out across the table, for it had become creased again.
He cleared his throat and began, ‘“To Guillaume Malet, vicomte of Eoferwic—”’
‘I know that part,’ I said impatiently. ‘What comes next?’
‘Of course,’ he said, and I saw the lump in his throat as he swallowed. His trembling finger traced along the lines as he read, pausing at times, I assumed, so he could work out the right French word. ‘“Every day I live I am consumed by grief. I cannot escape it, nor can I overcome it. In over two years while I have been here at Wiltune, you have given me nothing but false promises and false hope. I send this letter to beseech you, in the name of Christ our Lord and in the memory of the bonds of friendship which used to hold between us, to tell me where the body can be found—”’
I frowned. ‘The body?’
‘That’s what it says,’ Wigod replied. He carried on reading: ‘“His blood is on your hands. I know the guilt that plagues you, and perhaps you are content to bear that. But I cannot live for ever without knowing. Otherwise, if you are unwilling to grant me this, then there is nothing more for me in this world, and my blood will be on your hands also.”’
He stopped. ‘That’s all,’ he said, as he looked up at me.
It sounded more like a plea for help than anything else, and a desperate one at that. But what did she mean about a body, and the blood that was on Malet’s hands? Were the two things connected in some way; was he somehow responsible for someone’s death? And how did his own message to her – tutus est – fit with that?
‘You will say nothing of this to anyone,’ I told the steward.
‘No,’ he said. His face had gone pale.