A bitter wind gusted from the east, piercing through my cloak. I pressed on, into the wind. Across the Temes, the land was a single field of white stretching from east to west, broken only by the cluster of houses that was Sudwerca, and by the woods that lined the distant horizon. In all the years I had spent growing up around Dinant, I had never seen snow like this; only since coming over to England had I known weather so cold.
I wasn’t the first to be out that day. Already the street bore the marks where feet and wheels had pressed, though they were few. Smoke rose thickly from the chimneys of every house; most of the townsmen would still be inside by their fires, for the sun was just rising. Only when I came near St Eadmund’s church again did people come into sight. Two boys drove a herd of pigs up the hill, poking them with sticks to keep them from stopping to dig in the snow. Further up, a man led a team of oxen hitched to a cart, the wheels of which wobbled violently as it trundled on. And there, waiting by the corner from where I had watched the two churchmen last night, were five men on horseback. Four of them were mailed and had spears in their hands, but the other wore a deerskin cloak covering a loose tunic with long, bunched sleeves. He was speaking with a decrepit woman who was clearly in some distress, since she was waving her arms violently, though for what reason I could not discern.
I paid them no more attention, for a glint of metal had caught my eye from the bottom of a rut, where a passing cart had carved its tracks. It was roughly where I remembered, to one side of the street. I rushed over and knelt down on the packed snow, clawing it away with my bare hands to reveal the whole length of the shining blade and the legend inscribed thereon: ‘VVLFRIDVS ME FECIT’.
I lifted it free with both hands, then with my glove wiped the dirt off its underside as I examined it closely for signs of damage. It appeared to be in good condition, despite obviously having been run over. Snowmelt ran down the steel, causing it to gleam in the new day’s light.
I heard a shriek and looked up to see the woman pointing a finger at me. ‘Hw?t la!’ she screamed, and she glanced up at the five men on horseback. ‘Hw?t la!’
The men rode at a trot towards me; were they friends of those I had seen last night? I stood where I was, sword in hand, uncertain whether to run or to fight. I was on foot and there was no way I could get away from them even if I had wanted to. And five was more than I could hope to fight on my own. Two I might have handled, and on a good day even three – if I were less tired, perhaps, and luck were on my side.
‘You,’ said one of those in mail as he slowed to a halt. A red pennon was attached to his spear and I took him for their leader. His face was pockmarked, his chin covered with a sparse stubble. ‘Who are you?’
The other three knights formed a half-circle around me, spears couched and ready under their arms. The other man, the one with the deerskin cloak, kept back, alongside the woman. He was dressed like an Englishman, his cloak clasped at the shoulder with a silver brooch, though his hair was cut short in the Norman style, and I guessed that he was an interpreter of sorts.
I thought about lying again, but something about their demeanour told me that would not be a good idea. ‘Tancred,’ I said stiffly. ‘A knight in the employ of the vicomte of Eoferwic, Lord Guillaume Malet.’
‘Malet?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘And what is a knight of his doing so far south, in Lundene? A deserter, are you?’
I was about to reply that if I were, I was hardly likely to tell him that, but thought the better of it. ‘I’m here with the vicomte’s chaplain.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘For what reason?’
It seemed clear that these men were not here to finish me off, or they would surely have done so already, and I was growing tired of his questions.
‘Why should I tell you?’
A crowd was beginning to gather – of those men and women who were about at such an hour, at least. There were no more than a dozen of them, all standing at a respectful distance, I noted, for no doubt they had spotted that these men held swords.
The pock-faced knight drew himself up in his saddle and gestured towards the woman standing with the interpreter behind him. ‘This peasant claims that she saw you here last night. Do you deny this?’
I said nothing. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that I might have been seen.
‘She swears that she saw you fighting,’ he went on. ‘Here, on this street, with another knight. Is this true?’
‘I was attacked,’ I burst out, which on reflection was not the wisest thing to say, for straightaway I knew he would take that as an admission of guilt, but I had committed myself and had no choice but to press on. ‘I was defending myself.’
He lifted his head slightly, so that he looked at me along the length of his nose. A faint smile spread across his face. ‘Do you know’, he asked, ‘what the penalty is for bearing arms against another in the king’s own city?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The penalty …’ he said slowly, as if to ensure that I did not miss a word, ‘is no less than the forfeiture of your sword-hand.’