That seemed only fair, and so we settled it, weighing up the amount both on his scales and on the ones kept by the priest in his house until we could agree on the correct measure. Thus the toe-bone of the martyr St Ignatius belonged to me. If Byrhtwald had got less than he had hoped for, he did not seem overly disappointed. He tore into that evening’s meal and drank until he could barely stand. At the same time Father Erchembald remained convinced that we had secured a good price, and so everyone was happy.
As well as his wares, Byrhtwald often brought news of happenings elsewhere in the kingdom, and so far as I could tell he was usually reliable. He shared what knowledge he had the following morning while we broke our fast. Considering how much ale had vanished down his throat the night before, he seemed little the worse for wear. Certainly his appetite hadn’t diminished; the way he stuffed the bread into his mouth, one would have thought he hadn’t eaten in days.
‘They say’, he said in between mouthfuls, ‘that Wild Eadric is once more on the warpath.’
He looked at me meaningfully, as if expecting me to know who that was, and then took a gulp of goat’s milk from his cup. That was the first I had heard of any man of that name.
‘Who is he?’ I asked.
Byrhtwald spluttered. ‘You’ve never heard of him?’ White droplets dribbled down his chin, running into his beard. ‘Eadric, whom they call se wilda, the Wild One?’
‘Should I have?’
‘He was one of the leading English thegns who held land in these parts under the old king. A formidable man and a vengeful one too, or so I’m told by those who have met him; I’ve never had the pleasure myself. He raised an army in rebellion against King Guillaume three years ago, led his men along the March south of here, ravaging much of the country before he was met in battle at the crossing-point at Hereford and driven into exile.’
That would have been the year one thousand and sixty-seven: the first after we had landed upon these shores. There had been a host of small risings that summer: too many for me to recall them all. Most had been crushed almost as soon as they had begun, the leaders put to the sword and their followers made to submit. Guillaume fitz Osbern was the one who had quelled them; the king’s closest friend and adviser, he had been left to govern the realm while the king himself had returned to Normandy.
‘Where did this Eadric go?’ I asked.
‘Across the dyke. They say he joined the Welshmen, that he swore his oath to the brother-kings Bleddyn of Gwynedd and Rhiwallon of Powys. Nothing has been heard of him in the last three years.’
‘Until now,’ I said.
‘That’s right.’
I waited in case the pedlar willingly divulged any more, but he did not. Knowing what he wanted, I called for someone to fetch my coin-pouch from my chamber.
As soon as a silver penny had made its way into his palm, he went on: ‘The rumour is that they plan to march this summer. Together they’re said to be raising an army larger even than the one the?theling led against Eoferwic last year. An army thousands strong.’
At that I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘The Welsh are nothing more than raiders and sheep-stealers. They couldn’t raise an army worth the name.’
‘Nonetheless, it is happening. I will tell you something else as well, and I offer this freely, because we are friends and because you will no doubt learn it soon enough anyway. Eadric is looking for you.’
‘For me?’
‘From what I hear, the?theling has been offering a handsome gift of silver and gold for the man who delivers you to him. It seems he bears a grudge against you, for some reason I do not fully understand, but which perhaps you do.’
He looked at me quizzically. I suspected he had some idea why, and merely wanted confirmation. But this was a game that two could play at, and I had no more intention of giving out free information than he had.
‘Tell me what you think.’
‘Very well,’ he said, shrugging as though it were of little consequence. ‘This is why I think he wants you. It’s said you’re the man who won the gates at Eoferwic, who led the charge against the?theling, who fought him in single combat upon the bridge, who shed his blood and almost killed him.’
He paused, perhaps waiting for me to agree. In its essentials the story was true, although the details had grown somewhat exaggerated in the weeks following the battle. I had not taken the gates on my own, but with my sworn brothers Eudo and Wace by my side and others too. And while I had crossed swords with Eadgar and even wounded him, it was folly and battle-rage that had driven me to fight him. I was the one who had nearly been killed, not him. Were it not for the help of my friends, I would probably not be here now, and the tales would be very different.
‘Now,’ Byrhtwald went on, ‘perhaps I am mistaken, and they speak of a different Tancred entirely, though yours is not such a common name that that seems likely to me.’
There was no use denying it any longer. ‘You know you’re right.’
He shook his head sadly and bit his lip. ‘Nevertheless, it shames me that I did not make the connection sooner. For some reason I imagined that a man of such feats would be taller.’
‘Taller?’ No one would have described me as towering, but I was hardly short.
‘I jest,’ the Englishman said. ‘But let us speak seriously for a moment, lord. Your fame goes before you. Your name is whispered in the halls of the north; the?theling himself trembles at its sound. He remembers only too well how you embarrassed him before, and he punishes most cruelly any who dare speak of you in his presence. That is why he has offered this prize for your capture. Wild Eadric is not the only one seeking it, but he is the one you should fear.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Only that he is a powerful man, and dangerous too, especially to those who get on the wrong side of him. He is more cunning than you know, and unrelenting in pursuit of his ends. Do not think to underestimate him, especially now that he has the Welshmen as his allies.’
‘If the Welsh really were planning an attack as you say, I would know of it already,’ I said. ‘The summons would have come for me, and we would at this moment be mustering our own army to fight them.’
‘Ignore me if you wish, for I am only the bearer of news. Whether you choose to heed it or not is none of my concern. But let it be known that I have never sold you an untruth.’
I wasn’t so sure of that, and I was even less convinced by his rumours of a Welsh host gathering. Nevertheless I kept quiet, and talk soon moved on to other things. Of the rebels in the north or the Danes across the sea, Byrhtwald had nothing to relate. That worried me, for the less we heard, the more I began to wonder if Serlo had been right: if perhaps the enemy were biding their time as they gathered their forces for a bigger assault. Something was afoot, even if we did not yet know what.
Until the enemy showed themselves, though, we could do nothing. Nothing except wait, and that was the part of the warrior’s life I had always liked least. In the heat of the melee, with the clash of blades all around, the crash of shield-bosses ringing in one’s ears, there was no time for fear or doubt, but the hours and days before a battle were when those things crept into one’s mind. Every man who made his living by the sword felt the same, no matter how seasoned he was, how many campaigns he had fought or how many men he had killed. With every day that went by I grew ever more restless.
As it happened we didn’t have long to wait. By then just over a month had passed since the Welsh raid, though somehow it felt longer. Already the crops were growing tall in the fields, ripening under the summer sun, while new houses of wattle and cob were being built not far from where the old ones had been razed.
On the day that the news came, Pons and Turold had gone scouting with?dda while I remained in Earnford, hearing the villagers’ grievances with one another and passing judgment. One of the swineherd’s boars had escaped its pen, knocked over his neighbour’s water-butt and uprooted half the vegetables in the garden behind his cottage, and for that he was to pay two piglets to the injured party. Gode the miller’s wife had been caught collecting armfuls of sticks and fallen timber from the woods without my permission, and she was forced to surrender the lot as well as give me three sacks of her finest flour. Since Lyfing’s death she and her husband, Nothmund, had been hard worked, having added their son’s share of the burden to their own. She had never been able to bear another child, for reasons that neither they nor Father Erchembald, who knew something of the various ailments that afflicted people, could fathom. Lyfing’s death had left them distraught and tired and desperate, especially as the dry weather continued and the river ran low, which meant that there were days when the flow was not enough to turn the mill-wheel. But none of that excused what she had done, and so justice had to be dispensed.