‘And you believe those rumours?’ I asked, meaning it as a jibe. Robert did not rise to it.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Still, can we afford to ignore them? If we pay them no heed and they turn out to be right, then we stand to lose everything we have fought so hard to gain.’
Of course the stories that had reached him would have grown greatly embellished in the telling and the retelling. All the same, I knew just as well as he that buried among the roots of each of those tales would be a seed of something that resembled the truth.
For a moment silence passed between us, and then I asked: ‘What about the ?theling? Has there been any word of him?’
‘Not yet,’ Robert said. ‘He continues to hide in the wilds of the north, though no one knows where.’
From that at least I drew some relief, though it was slight. Eadgar ?theling was the only figure I could see who was capable of rallying the disparate noble families of Northumbria and uniting them in rebellion against us. The last surviving heir in the old English royal line, he had tried to claim the crown twice already: once in the wake of the defeat at H?stinges, though he’d lacked the support of the earls and had been forced to submit to King Guillaume; and again last year, when with the aid of the northerners and a host of swords-for-hire from abroad he had tried to take Eoferwic. Already his followers proclaimed him king, and not just of Northumbria but of the whole of England.
But as long the ?theling stayed in the north, it seemed to me that the kingdom was in little danger. For no one else had either the reputation or the standing to lead the size of army which would be needed to defeat us. The last who had come near to doing so had been Harold Godwineson, and at H?stinges he had nearly succeeded, despite what the poets who have written songs about that battle would have one believe. Since his death there had been only Eadgar, and unless and until he marched, all the rumours Robert had heard would remain just that: rumours.
We passed beneath the gatehouse and came to the hall. I let Robert enter first and followed behind him. There were no window-slits of horn to let in the light, and the hearth-fire would not be lit until much later, so it took my eyes some time to adjust to the gloom after the brightness of outside. Along one side stood a long oak table and benches which could be brought out for meals or the rare occasions when we had guests. On the walls were hangings to keep out the draughts, though these were no lavish embroideries depicting scenes from folklore, of battle or of the hunt, with warriors and ships and fantastic beasts, for such things were beyond my means, but rather plain cloths of scarlet and green.
Robert cast his gaze about the hall. ‘You have a fine place here,’ he said. His tone held genuine appreciation, although compared with the kind of living he was no doubt accustomed to, mine must seem like a modest existence. But what need had I for expensive wall-decorations, for jewelled chalices, silver plates or gilded candlesticks? Such things were, after all, only baubles, and did not by themselves lend a man any more status or influence. And something Father Erchembald had said came back to me: what mattered in the end was that I had around me men I could trust, sworn to my service. Men who would follow me into the heart of battle, into the gravest of peril. Their oaths were worth more than gold or silver or any number of precious stones.
‘Tancred,’ came a voice, and I turned. Serlo had not come in with us but had paused out in the yard and was looking back out through the gates, down the slope towards the fields and the cottages, his expression one of concern.
At that moment I heard shouts from outside, followed by cries of distress. I glanced at Robert, who looked as confused as I was, and we hurried out.
There was some sort of commotion, though at first as I gazed out into the low sun I could not see what was happening. But then I spotted Pons and Turold close by the sheepfolds. They were on foot, their arms beneath the shoulders of a third man whose weight they were bearing between them as they staggered forward. Pons called for help, and some of the villagers rushed towards them, taking the burden and helping to lay the man down upon a heap of straw.
I broke into a run across the yard, out towards the swelling crowd, pushing my way through until I stood over the man and could see his face more clearly. Even then it took me a moment to recognise him, so dirtied were his features. His tunic was bloodied and there was an arrowhead lodged in his side, while his face and his beard streamed with blood that even now he was coughing up. Then I saw his burnt face and the black scar where his left eye should have been.
It was ?dda.
Four
I CROUCHED DOWN beside the Englishman. He was alive, but his eyes were closed and every breath seemed laboured, as if there were a great weight pressing down upon his chest.