We rode on past them, towards the city’s western gates and beyond. The road followed the line of the Temes as it curved around to the south, towards Westmynstre church and the royal palace. A number of boats were moored there, from small barges to great longships. Among the latter I recognised Mora, King Guillaume’s own ship – the very one, indeed, in which he had sailed from Normandy during the invasion. There were few vessels known to be larger; at thirty-three benches she was longer even than Wyvern. Today she was at rest and sat high in the water, empty of all but a few men. Had she been out on the water I knew she would have been more impressive still. I could readily imagine her great sail, decorated in the king’s colours of red and yellow, billowing in the breeze.
On the higher ground beyond Westmynstre stood hundreds of tents, with banners of every hue flying high above: reds and greens, blues and whites. A wooden stockade had been erected on the slopes beneath the camp, forming an enclosure within which all the horses of the king’s host were gathered. How many men were encamped there, I could not say. Wigod had said that the king had eight hundred with him, and to judge by the number of tents and banners, that seemed about right. But even if all of those were fighting men, which was doubtful, it did not look like an army that could take back Eoferwic.
I breathed deeply but said nothing, though I glanced at Wace and saw his expression, and knew that he was thinking the same.
The Temes wound away to the south and we found ourselves amidst recently ploughed fields and rolling hills covered in woodland. The country all about lay silent, save for the calls of birds in the distance, the creaking of branches in the wind, and the crunch of small stones under our horses’ hooves. Every so often we met other travellers: peasants driving their animals to market in Lundene; pedlars and merchants; a group of monks with brown hoods. The further from the city we travelled, however, the less we saw of such people, and the more we were alone.
My mind kept returning to my conversation with Robert and his mention of the nun, Eadgyth. She was once much more than just a nun, he had said. Did he mean that she and Malet had once been lovers? But even if that were so, why send to her now?
I was jolted from my thoughts by Eudo and Radulf laughing as they exchanged bawdy jokes. I glanced behind me, trying to catch Eudo’s eye, but he merely ignored me. He had hardly spoken to me since yesterday; in fact he had spent the rest of that day away from the house, probably across the bridge in Sudwerca, although he never told us. Only as we were breaking our fast did he at last come back. He gave no reason for his absence, and when he looked at me his eyes were hard, his mouth set firm, as if in disgust.
‘What’s wrong with Eudo?’ I asked Wace, when we stopped at noon.
‘Maybe you should ask him,’ he said.
I had no wish to start an argument, though. Whatever the reason for Eudo’s foul mood, I knew that it would soon pass: it usually did. And so I ignored him as the seven of us sat beneath the drooping arms of an old oak and ate what food Wigod had provided us with: bread and cheese and salted bacon. ?lfwold made sure we did not linger long, however, reminding us that we still had many miles to make, and so shortly after we had finished we returned to our horses.
I was placing my flask in my saddlebag while beside me the chaplain mounted up, when I saw something drop from his cloak pocket. He did not seem to notice as he began slowly to make his way back towards the path, following the others who were laughing between themselves.
‘?lfwold,’ I called, raising my hand to catch his attention.
It was a parchment scroll, about the same length as the distance from my elbow to my wrist, tightly bound with a simple leather thong. I crouched down and picked it up from where it lay on the grass. It felt crisp and new, although the parchment was not the best: the surface was not even but grainy, while the sides were rough where the sheet had been cut from the edge of the animal’s skin.
The chaplain turned the mare about and rode back over towards me, a frown upon his face all of a sudden. ‘Give that to me,’ he said.
I held the scroll out to him; he reached down and took it carefully, watching me all the time as he replaced it inside his cloak.
‘What is it?’ I asked him.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing important, at least.’ He gave a smile, though I could not detect any humour behind it. ‘Thank you, Tancred.’
He turned and started to ride away. I stood there for a moment, puzzled by the change in his manner.
‘Are you coming?’ Wace called from the road.
I looked up, blinking as the glare of the sun struck my eyes. There was something important about that scroll: that much was clear, at least. And I couldn’t help but connect it with this mission of his, this journey to Wiltune and Eadgyth. But what reason would Malet have for sending to a nun in any case, and to an English nun at that?
‘I’m coming,’ I muttered, mounting up at last.