I found myself lying upon a narrow bed in a chamber barely larger than a horse’s stall. There was a single glass slit for a window, and the light was shining straight in, glaring off the whitewashed plaster. I must have slept a long time, for the sun was high, but even so I still felt tired. A fire crackled in the small hearth. Two stools stood beside the bed, and on top of one was a wooden cup. The rest of the room was empty; there was no sign of my mail or shield, or even of my cloak or shoes.
I did not recognise this place. The last I remembered, it had been night and we were riding along the old road, making for Eoferwic. I had collapsed, fallen from the saddle; Wace had gone away and then returned. But what had happened after that I did not know. I tried to think back, but it was like chasing shadows in the night: no sooner did an image come to mind than it slipped away again, melting back into darkness.
Only the battle came back to me clearly: the one thing I would rather have forgotten. Even as I lay there I could almost feel the thunder of hooves beneath me; I could see myself leading the charge as we drove into the English line. And I remembered the moment I had been struck, the flash of heat down my lower leg as the flesh was torn open.
My leg. Apart from a dull ache I could hardly feel it now. But my head was thumping, my limbs numb with tiredness, my mouth dry. I coughed. A strange taste lingered upon my tongue – like leather, I thought, although how I could tell that I was not sure, since to my knowledge I had never eaten any.
I struggled against the sheets that were wrapped around me, trying to shake off the heavy woollen blanket spread across them. My bare skin brushed against the cloth; my clothes had been taken from me along with everything else. I felt for my cross, thinking they might have taken that as well, but thankfully it was still there.
I reached out for the cup, managing to get a fingertip to it, not enough to grasp it fully, and it fell with a clatter to the floor, spilling its contents across the stone flags. I cursed under my breath, and slid back under the sheets.
Sleep came once more, and it must have been at least another hour before I surfaced. The room was still bright, but the sun had moved, no longer shining in my face, and I could see that the door lay open.
A man was standing there, watching me. He was stoutly built, and clearly used to comfortable living. His hair, brown but greying, straggled across his shoulders, but he was otherwise clean-shaven. He wore the loose-fitting robes of a priest over brown trews; on a leather thong around his neck hung a green stone, polished and sparkling in the sun. His face was weathered, and there were more than a few wrinkles around his eyes; he was in his middle years at least, even if he couldn’t yet be described as old.
‘Ah, I see you are awake,’ he said with a smile. He glanced down, saw the cup lying on the floor. ‘I will fetch some wine for you.’
I said nothing, and he disappeared from sight once more. From the accent in his voice I could tell that he was English. And yet he had spoken to me in French. My mind whirled. Had I fallen into the hands of the enemy? But if so, why would they have let me live, still less try to talk with me?
The Englishman soon returned, bearing a flagon down the side of which rolled a single red droplet. ‘It is a great relief to see you awake and well,’ he said before I had a chance to speak. ‘In truth we didn’t know whether you would survive. The Lord be praised that you have.’
‘The Lord be praised indeed,’ I said. It came out as a rasp, and I coughed, wincing at the rawness of my throat.
He set the flagon down upon one of the stools, and sat down on the other as he picked up the cup I had knocked over. He poured wine into it and passed it to me with pudgy fingers.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Drink.’
I took the cup in one hand, taking care not to spill any, and lifted it to my lips, letting the sweet taste of the liquid roll over my tongue. I swallowed; it slid coolly down.
The priest was watching me carefully, and I suddenly wondered if the wine had in fact been poisoned. But surely if they had planned to kill me, they would have done so before now.
‘Where am I?’ I asked. My throat still hurt, though now less than before. ‘Who are you?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Forgive my rudeness. My name is ?lfwold.’ He extended a hand towards me.
I glanced at it, but did not take it. ‘You’re English.’
If he took any offence at the accusation, he did not show it. ‘I am, yes,’ he said. ‘Although it may interest you to know that my lord the vicomte is not.’
‘The vicomte?’ He’d used the French word, I noticed, rather than the English, which would have been scirgerefa, or shire-reeve: the man charged by the king with the government of a province and everything that entailed, from the collection of dues to the maintenance of law and even the raising of armies. ‘You mean Guillaume Malet?’
The priest smiled. ‘Guillaume surnamed Malet, seigneur of Graville-Sainte-Honorine across the sea and vicomte of the shire of Eoferwic. I am honoured to serve him as chaplain.’ He gestured around at the chamber. ‘This is his house.’