I felt the heat rise up my cheeks, and began to protest: ‘Father—’
‘I’ve seen that look before,’ he said, and he kept his voice low. ‘You wouldn’t be the first to take an interest in her.’
I stared back at him, offended that he should even suggest such a thing. That Beatrice was pleasing to the eye could not be denied, but that was true of so many women. And in any case, compared to Oswynn she was altogether plain. Oswynn, with her hair loose and unkempt, black as the night itself. Oswynn, who had travelled with me everywhere, who had been afraid of nothing and no one. Often in the last few days I had found myself thinking of our time together, short though it had been. Hardly six months had passed since we had met for the first time under the summer sun, and now, in the silence and the stillness of winter, she lay dead.
‘Come,’ the priest said with a sigh as he made for the door at the end of the hall. ‘It is already forgotten. There’s still much I have to show you.’
He led me outside to the courtyard, where the sun was high and bright, though there were dark clouds gathering in the north, and I guessed there was rain to come. Chill air rushed over me and I breathed deeply of it, drinking it in as if it were ale, until I could feel it reaching my head. I had not been out of doors in so long that I had almost forgotten what it was like. Indeed it was as if everything had become new to me again, and at the same time somehow more real: the smell of smoke wafting upon the breeze; the songs of thrushes perched atop the thatch. Things that before I would scarcely have noticed, but of which I was suddenly now aware.
A banner fluttered from the gable of the hall, divided into alternate stripes of black and yellow, with gold threads woven into the latter so that it caught the light. Malet’s colours, I presumed.
The hall and yard were ringed by earth ramparts and a high palisade, and beyond them lay the city of Eoferwic: rows upon rows of thatched rooftops, with only the minster church and the mound and timber tower of the castle rising above them. To the south, sparkling beneath the late-morning sun, ran the river. A few ships were out, their sails filled as they skimmed high over the waters. Most of them looked like simple fishermen’s boats, but one stood out. Larger than the rest, she had a narrow beam and high sides which came to a sharp point at the prow. She was a longship, built for speed, for war. To whom she belonged, though, I could not tell, for her mast and sail had been taken down. A slow, regular drumbeat carried across the waters, signalling every stroke, keeping the oarsmen in time.
‘Follow me,’ ?lfwold said. ‘You must see the chapel.’
I glanced towards him as he began making his way towards the stone building across the yard. In truth, though, I was not paying him much attention, for it seemed that there was some commotion near the gates. One group of men had lifted the bar that held them in place, while others were rushing now to open them.
The blast of a war-horn rang out, and then the gates swung open and a conroi of horsemen rode hard into the courtyard, two abreast, hooves thundering, each rider mailed and helmeted. Their lord or captain rode in front, carrying a pennon on his lance, though I did not recognise the design, which comprised four segments in blue and green.
‘Whose men are they?’ I asked ?lfwold, who had turned back and now stood beside me, his brow furrowed as he looked on in concern.
‘They’re the castellan’s,’ he said. ‘But they’re back early. He was supposed to be leading them on a scouting expedition north of the city this morning.’ He began to walk faster, and I followed behind as quickly as I could, wincing at each and every step.
Already a full score of knights had passed through the gates, and still more were following. Around them a crowd was beginning to form, of servants, kitchen-girls and stable-hands.
‘Where is Malet?’ the one with the pennon roared at them as he untied his chin-strap, letting his helmet fall to the ground. ‘Find me the vicomte now!’
‘What’s happened?’ the chaplain asked. ‘Is Lord Richard with you?’
The knight turned to look down at ?lfwold, and all of a sudden his expression instantly turned to anger. ‘It was your kind who did this, Englishman!’
He levelled his lance at the priest’s throat, just above the green stone that hung around his neck. ?lfwold stepped back slowly, his face going pale. The knight followed him, keeping the point of his weapon steady at the priest’s neck. ‘Tell me why I should spare your life,’ he said, half choking, as his cheeks streamed with tears. ‘Tell me!’