I left my horse and ran towards him, vaulting over the side of the barge and on to the deck. The Englishman stood on the other side of a great iron-bound chest, more than six feet in length, and two in both width and depth.
A coffin, I realised, and not merely any coffin, but that of the usurper himself. Of Harold Godwineson, breaker of oaths and enemy of God. There was no inscription that I could see, but that was only to be expected, if he had been buried in secret, with the knowledge of just a few men.
‘It’s over, ?lfwold,’ I said. ‘We know all about your plan.’
He did not speak, nor take his eyes from me. With hardly a murmur of steel he drew a seax from a scabbard beneath his cloak, holding it before him in both hands, as if warning me not to come any closer.
‘You would fight me?’ I asked, more in surprise than in scorn. I had never seen the Englishman so much as handle a blade, let alone use one in anger, yet here he was, unafraid to stand before me.
The edge of his seax, polished and sharp, gleamed in what remained of the firelight. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Eudo and Wace stamping down on the flames, which were dwindling rapidly.
‘You will not have him,’ ?lfwold said, and there was hatred in his eyes. ‘He is my king!’
‘Harold was no king,’ I said as I began to advance, one step at a time, towards him. ‘He was a usurper and an oath-breaker.’
‘It is your bastard duke, Guillaume, who is the usurper,’ he spat back. He stepped away, keeping his distance, circling about the coffin. ‘He stole this realm by fire and sword, by murder and rape and pillage.’
‘That’s a lie—’ I began, my blood rising.
‘He wears the crown and sits upon the royal throne,’ ?lfwold went on, shouting me down, ‘but as long as the English refuse to submit to him – as long as we continue to fight – he shall never be king.’
‘Liar!’ I said as I leapt up on top of the coffin and lunged towards him.
?lfwold swung his seax, but it was with the clumsiness of one unused to arms, and he succeeded only in cutting my cloak. My shield slammed into his chest, and the blade tumbled from his grasp as he fell on to his back.
Straightaway he was trying to get up, reaching out for his seax, which lay just beyond his fingers, but I was quicker, kicking it away before he could get hold of it. I levelled my sword at his throat.
He gazed up at me and swallowed, eyes flicking between me and the point of my blade just beyond his chin. ‘You wouldn’t dare kill me.’
‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.’
‘I am a priest,’ he said. ‘A man of God.’
Not so long ago I had spoken similar words in his defence. Yet now he threw them back at me, mocking me. My hand tightened around my sword-hilt, but somehow I managed to restrain myself.
‘You are no man of God,’ I said. ‘You are a traitor to your lord, to your king.’
‘My king is Harold—’
I kicked him hard in the side and he broke off. I didn’t have to listen to this. After everything, it seemed he was little different from all the other Englishmen we had been fighting since first we arrived upon these shores.
‘Malet trusted you,’ I said. ‘You betrayed him.’
‘No,’ he replied, almost spitting the words. ‘For two years and more I have stood by and done nothing while my kinsmen have suffered at your hands, been slaughtered on your swords. That was my only betrayal. All I wanted was to make that right.’
‘You broke your oath to him.’
‘Do you think I did so lightly?’ he countered. ‘Do you think it is so easy? Yes, I swore myself to him, and I gave him and his family my loyal service for as long as I was able. He is a good lord, a good man. But I have a duty more sacred than any oath, and that is to my people.’
He was trying to confuse me with his words, but I was not to be moved. ‘You are a traitor,’ I repeated, and pressed my blade closer to his neck, almost touching the skin.
?lfwold stared at me, and I at him. ‘Kill me, then, if that’s what you’re here to do,’ he said.
‘Don’t tempt me.’ My skull was pounding, almost drowning out my thoughts. Of course Malet wanted him brought back to Eoferwic alive, but at the same time I realised how easy it would be for my sword to slip, for me to pierce the Englishman’s throat and leave him here to die. I could tell the vicomte that he had fought on to the last, that we had had no choice but to kill him, and he would have to accept our word, never knowing the truth.
All around us lay in darkness. The skies were black, lit only by a few stars, the moon hidden behind the cloud. The fire was out; across the ashes were laid two cloaks, dripping with water, and Wace and Eudo were stamping down upon them, stifling the last tendrils of smoke. And just in time, for as I glanced out upon the black reaches of the Temes, there, edging past the first of the two ridges of land, a shadow amongst shadows, came the high prow, the tall mast, the long hull of the ship.
The point of my blade quivered as I held it before ?lfwold’s neck, held his fate in my own sword-hand.