‘When you and your men are called away to serve your king, to join his wars, who will defend us?’
In the years since the invasion I had grown to trust few Englishmen.?dda was one of those that I had taken a liking to, and I confess that I was taken aback by his tone. The stableman was a solemn and private character who rarely showed much cheer, but this was the first time I could remember that he had challenged me so openly.
He was around ten years older than me, I reckoned, though he had long since lost count. His skin was weathered from many seasons spent in the sun, the wind and the rain, and he had the look of one who had witnessed many hardships. In fact he might once have been a warrior, for while he was not especially tall he was ideally built for the shield-wall, with broad shoulders and powerful forearms that I imagined could once have sent many foemen to their graves.
‘You could defend them,’ I said. From the little I had seen, he was a capable fighter, if not an exceptional one. He was at ease in armour and helmet, and proficient, too, with both the spear and the long style of knife called the seax that the English favoured, which was more than most men could claim.
‘You would abandon us,’?dda said.
I bridled at his directness, but managed to hold my temper and instead cast him a warning glare. ‘If the summons comes for me to fight, then I have no choice but to go. You know that.’
His one good eye bored into me defiantly, but I held his gaze and eventually he turned away.
‘You fought well the other day,’ I said, and again I spoke honestly. He had killed more than his share of Welshmen that evening. ‘If it came to it, the villagers would follow you.’
Indeed he commanded a strange sort of respect among the peasants of Earnford, partly on account of his missing eye and disfigured face, which seemed to intrigue and intimidate them in equal measure. But he was also single-minded and forever had an air of determination about him that inspired confidence, much as they feared him.
‘They would not follow a cripple,’?dda said. ‘They scorn me.’
‘They would if I told them to. Who else could lead them as well as you?’
The Englishman gave a snort of derision. ‘Those days are behind me, lord.’
I regarded him for a moment, wondering what he meant. If he had led men into battle before, it was the first he had told me about it, though it would not surprise me if he had. Perhaps that was how he had come to lose his eye, too; so far as I knew he had never let the whole story be known, and no one had ever dared to ask. Nor was I to find out then, either, since he did not speak after that, but instead spent every mile of the journey back home in silence, as if he had already told me too much.
For the first time in a while, then, life in Earnford began to return to something like normal, until the memory of the Welsh raids seemed as distant as a dream. The villagers took care of their animals and tended their crops, which were growing taller by the week; it would not be all that long until the harvest. A week before midsummer, a pedlar came by way of the bumpy tracks from Leomynster and Hereford. With him he brought his tired, grey mule and a shaky cart decorated with streamers of cloth in scarlet and green. As usual it came laden with more than it seemed it should be able to bear: timber planks, fishhooks, iron cooking-pots, flasks of oil, stout candles and other useful things, as well as jars of honey and spices, casks of wine, pots of ointment and herbs and other remedies, which he said would cure all manner of complaints.
The pedlar’s name was Byrhtwald and he was well known both to me and to the people of Earnford, for he had visited the manor many times in the past year. As well as the various goods he brought on his cart and in his pack, he often carried smaller trinkets on his person, among which this time was a bronze pendant inlaid with a golden cross, which hung by a leather thong around his neck.
‘This?’ he said, when I asked him what it was. He looped the string over his head and held it out to me. ‘I bought it some years ago from a Flemish merchant who acquired it on pilgrimage in the Holy Land. I like to think it has given me protection on my many travels.’
Carefully I undid the catch and opened the two halves of the pendant. Into my palm fell a bundle of cloth little larger than an acorn, with some kind of hard object inside. A thin strip of parchment was attached to the cloth, which was finely woven and might even have been silk, and on it in tiny letters something had been written, though the script was difficult to read.
The question had just formed in my mind when Byrhtwald answered it: ‘The toe-bone of St Ignatius.’
I had no idea who that was or when he had lived, so I sent one of my servants to find Father Erchembald, who had more knowledge on such matters.
‘Bishop Ignatius of Antioch,’ he murmured to me when the relic-bundle was shown to him. Awe-stricken, he turned it over slowly in his hand, squinting at the tiny writing. ‘He was blessed as a child by Christ, and later martyred by the pagan emperor of Rome, who had him fed to lions, as I recall. He was among the holiest of holy men.’ He eyed Byrhtwald closely. ‘How much do you want for it?’
‘Surely you’re not asking me to part with so treasured a possession?’ the pedlar asked. ‘I have borne St Ignatius with me everywhere I go for seven years and more.’
‘Spare us,’ I said. He wouldn’t have allowed myself or the priest to examine it so closely if he had no intention of selling it. Nor had I seen him wearing the pendant in all the times he had come to Earnford before now, which suggested, despite his story about the Flemish merchant, that it had come into his possession recently. ‘How much?’
‘Two pounds of silver are all I ask for.’
‘Two whole pounds?’ I repeated. A good riding horse would cost as much, and in fact probably less. ‘For all I know this could be nothing but a sheep-bone.’
Byrhtwald looked affronted. ‘Have I ever cheated you before, lord?’
That was no answer, and both of us knew it. But I supposed he had been honest in all the dealings I’d had with him thus far, and so perhaps he spoke truthfully this time as well. I turned away to confer again with the priest.
‘Tancred,’ said Erchembald, keeping his voice low in an effort to contain his obvious excitement, ‘a relic this ancient would have tremendous power. And to think that the saint was touched by Christ Himself.’ He paused. ‘Our friend might not know how much this is truly worth.’
I had to suppress a laugh. ‘I’ll wager he knows exactly what it’s worth.’ Although if Byrhtwald were sincere about its provenance, then the protection such an object would lend whoever possessed it would be more than worth the cost.
I opened the coin-purse which hung from my belt. ‘I’ll give you half a pound,’ I said to the trader.
‘Half a pound? You would rob me and let me and my poor wife and children starve!’
‘The last time we met, you told me your wife was dead.’
His cheeks turned red. ‘She recovered,’ he mumbled.
‘She recovered?’
‘Thanks to St Ignatius!’ he said, and looked pleased with himself for having thought of this answer. ‘It turned out she had only fallen into the deepest of sleeps, brought on by her ravaging illness. All of us thought her dead, but on the day that she was to be buried she miraculously awoke, thanks to the blessed saint’s favour.’
That he was lying was clear, but exactly which parts of his tale were false and which were true I could not say. Still, I admired his nerve and his quick mind. As always I found myself entertained by him, even as he frustrated me.
‘Two-thirds,’ I said. ‘No more.’
He hesitated as if considering, and then smiled, holding up his hands to show that I had beaten him. ‘Two-thirds,’ he conceded. ‘Provided that I can have a bed in your hall tonight, a warm meal and a flagon of your best ale.’