SHROPSHIRE
1052 A.D.
“To Sir Ralph, the newest knight of Engla-lond!”
A few cheers resounded through the smoky Saxon tavern. Most of the occupants remained quiet, choosing to send sullen looks in Ralph’s direction rather than celebrate. Anglo-Saxons outnumbered Normans here, and Anglo-Saxons did not enjoy watching another Norman gain power. Ralph knew this and even tried to respect the fact. That did not stop him from feeling as if all the world should share in his glory.
He had always hoped to become a knight one day, but today’s promotion had caught him by surprise. Ralph had accompanied Lord Richard FitzScrob and a few other men to confront an Anglo-Saxon family for disobedience. Their son owed Richard labor on the castle, but he had repeatedly fled from his duties—presumably with his parents’ help. Richard FitzScrob and his men had been prepared to punish the family severely. But Ralph surprised everyone by talking with the young fellow, whom he knew from a previous occasion, and convincing him to submit peacefully to Richard’s will. After that, the family had also complied.
Truly enough, Ralph befriended Anglo-Saxons whenever he had the chance, because he saw no reason not to. He liked Engla-lond. He liked meeting men who had once been Vikings; after all, the Normans’ own ancestors were Vikings. He liked the air of independence and freedom that so many English inhabitants exuded, perhaps due to so many years of warfare. The men and women here seemed to serve their lords because they chose freely to do so—or at least they liked to pretend as much. And Ralph liked that about them. He was already starting to grow his hair out like most Saxons and was even considering a beard. He could speak fluid English and only spoke Norman if the occasion demanded.
Lord Richard had been so pleased by Ralph’s negotiations that on the way home, he announced his intention to knight Ralph the next time they visited King Edward—which would be in a fortnight.
“I am happy for you, Ralph.” This from Sir Fulbert, who sat across from Ralph and sipped slowly at some wine. The older man’s eyes wandered suspiciously to the nearby Saxons, as if expecting one of them to jump out and kill him at any moment. Ralph could not blame him. Barely a week ago, Sir Fulbert’s squire, Drogo, had died mysteriously on a scouting trip through the woods. Fulbert claimed that a wild red-headed wench had killed the squire, perhaps by some means of sorcery. The accused woman, Elwyna, had been shackled and put to work at Richard’s castle while awaiting trial. Ralph had caught glimpses of her a couple times and didn’t doubt her guilt. “But don’t grow too accustomed to leniency,” said Fulbert. “It can get you in trouble with these people.”
Ralph shrugged. “I don’t think I’m lenient,” he said. “I’ve just made a lot more friends than the rest of you bastards.”
Some of the men laughed; even Fulbert gave a little smile. The only one who made no response at all was Geoffrey, a knight who had said nothing all evening. Ralph wondered why the man had come out to celebrate in the first place. He rarely spoke, barely drank, and in most ways was Ralph’s opposite. If Lord Richard thought of Ralph as a friend to the Saxons, he probably saw Geoffrey as their most feared enemy. Geoffrey got nearly complete obedience from all of his tenants, purportedly because he terrified them.
Geoffrey’s silence tended to make Ralph uneasy. He wondered how often he would work with this man from now on. The land Ralph would acquire as part of his knighthood lay just next to Geoffrey’s. Ralph decided he should make some attempt to befriend Geoffrey, rather than risk becoming his enemy. “Maybe Geoffrey and I should team up,” he suggested jovially. “Between my charms and Geoffrey’s brutality, we’d be unstoppable.”
Geoffrey looked up from his ale—mostly untouched—and stared back at Ralph with flat golden eyes. Then he gave Ralph a very fake smile.
A few of the men laughed uncertainly.
“I think Richard picked you because you make him look compassionate.” A grumpy squire, no doubt jealous of Ralph’s promotion, managed to break the growing tension. “I hear King Edward will send some Normans home during the next council, never to return. Too many of the king’s Saxon subjects have complained about our presence here.”
“Surely they’re not complaining about Lord FitzScrob.” Ralph said this to assure himself as much as anyone. He also downed a few more gulps of ale to help wash away his fears. He wanted to stay here in Engla-lond, especially now that he would get his own horse and tenants.
“Nevertheless, I wouldn’t be too sure about your knighthood if I were you,” mumbled the jealous squire. “King Edward might not let us stay here, much less put another Norman in a position of power.”
Ralph stared into his horn of ale and tried to think of a new topic of discussion.
Sir Fulbert came to his rescue. “Have you looked for a wife yet? A proper Saxon woman might secure your place here.”
“That’s true.” This subject brought a smile back to Ralph’s face. He looked beyond the circle of Normans and surveyed his nearest options. “Might as well get started, eh?”
The men cheered him on appreciatively as he rose to leave the table.
He breathed a sigh of relief once away from his Norman companions. He liked them well enough, but more and more often he preferred English company to theirs. And he certainly didn’t mind the prospect of beginning the search for a woman—though he had no intention of choosing a wife yet.
A few seated women looked lonely enough for him to attempt entertaining, but a serving wench grabbed his attention, for she seemed in need of a hero. A large man had hold of the woman’s hand and did not appear willing to release it. The woman tugged a few times; she carried a pitcher of wine with her other hand and this limited her movement. But the large Saxon kept hold of her, leering and talking while she tried not to listen.
“Excuse me,” said Ralph. “I think the lady wants you to let go of her.”
Both the woman and the man blinked at him in surprise. Ralph hoped his Norman accent did not make him too difficult to understand. He gave his warmest smile to the woman, though she looked a little older and less attractive this close than she had from afar. A quick study of her curvy body assured him that she would still be worth the effort.
“And who are you to say?” The Saxon man’s sneer appeared as a streak of brown teeth amidst his thick beard.
“Merely a concerned citizen.”
“No you’re not. You’re a fucking Norman.” The Saxon worked up a mouthful of spit, then flung it upon the floor.
Ralph stared in disgust at the blob for a moment, struggling to contain his temper. Then he altered his stance slightly so that his hand draped almost casually over the pommel of his sword, making the weapon the most prominent trait of his figure. “I am a knight in the service of Lord Richard FitzScrob.”
“Well then, knight.” The Saxon’s grip on the woman tightened. “Maida and I know each other.”
Ralph looked to the woman, Maida, for confirmation. Her big brown eyes sparked with anger as she scowled at the Saxon. “I may know Seaver,” she hissed, “but that doesn’t mean I like him.”
Maida looked even prettier when she was angry. Ralph grinned and turned back to Seaver. “Looks like you should let go of her now.”
“You can’t tell me what to do!” Then Seaver twisted in his chair and kicked Ralph in the shin.
The strike caught Ralph by such surprise that for a moment he did nothing but hiss and absorb the pain. When he realized what the Saxon scoundrel had done, he reacted without thinking. He reached out, grabbed Seaver’s hair, and slammed his face into the table.
A ripple shot through the tavern as everyone turned to see what had happened. Ralph realized how awful he must appear: a Norman pulling his hand away from a seated Saxon whose nose poured blood onto the table. Ralph looked around in a panic. He wanted to say something in his defense, but that might only make him seem more guilty. Everyone stared back at him expectantly.
Then Seaver recovered, cried out with rage, and punched Ra
lph deep in the stomach.
Ralph struggled to stay standing as his insides turned to mush. To aid his efforts, he reached out and grabbed Seaver by the tunic. He noticed belatedly that Seaver had finally let go of Maida, but that hardly seemed to matter anymore. This conflict was no longer about a woman.
“Let’s take this outside,” growled Ralph, and flung Seaver towards the door.
Seaver’s chair fell out from under him as he stumbled to the exit. Ralph helped him on his way with a solid kick to his side. One after the next, they both staggered outside.
The sun hung low in the sky, scattering reds and yellows into a few wisps of clouds. On any other evening Ralph might have taken a moment to appreciate the beauties of the English landscape during such a gorgeous sunset. Tonight, he had to focus instead on dodging a swing of Seaver’s fist. Then he retaliated with a punch of his own. Seaver managed to grab his arm before the blow connected, at which point he lunged at Ralph with all the bulk of his body, locking the two of them in a chest-to-chest struggle.
For a little while Ralph was aware of nothing beyond Seaver’s weight against his hands, the constant struggle to stay standing while Seaver kicked and jabbed him, the roaring in his ears that combined the heaving of Seaver’s breath with the pounding of Ralph’s own blood, and the images of hair and snarling teeth flashing in his vision. His body felt heavy with drink, but a restlessness also stirred through his muscles, left over from the potential of violence he had faced earlier today followed by a peaceful resolution. Just because he was good at negotiating didn’t mean he disliked fighting, and somewhere beneath his whirlwind of thoughts, he reveled in this opportunity to bash someone’s head in.
He became vaguely aware of the fact that his struggle with Seaver had led them away from the tavern, which meant that he had successfully pushed Seaver a far distance. As their feet continued to churn through the dirt, they approached a thin line of trees and bushes, where the shadows might swallow them into darkness. This would probably be for the best, he suspected. He could hear people yelling behind him, including some of his own Norman companions, commanding the Saxons to go back inside.
He wondered how large of a crowd had gathered to watch the scuffle, but before he could look, Seaver’s elbow struck him soundly in the jaw. The blow made his teeth nick the side of his own tongue, filling his mouth with warm metallic blood. He spat some of it into Seaver’s face, then finally managed to pull the chubby Saxon onto the ground.
Unfortunately, Seaver maneuvered himself to fall on top of Ralph as he descended. Ralph lost his breath as Seaver’s weight slammed his back against the earth. And just when he had recovered enough to inhale, Seaver’s ropy fingers closed around his neck.
“Fucking Norman,” hissed Seaver, his hot breath lashing Richard’s face. “Think you can tell me what to do?”
Ralph tried to take another breath and failed. Then the panic began to set in. He felt the crushing pinch of Seaver’s hands against the tender muscles of his neck at the same time he recognized the murderous intent gleaming in the Saxon’s eyes. Ralph stopped thinking and responded in the only way possible.
His arm struggled to get out from under Seaver’s weight, then grabbed the dirk from his belt. He turned the blade and stuck it deep into Seaver’s side.
Seaver’s body jolted. First he tensed up, gripping Ralph’s neck almost to the breaking point. Then he gasped and went limp, rolling sideways as his hand went to the wound. Ralph’s blade sliced even further as it slid out. And once the knife was free, Ralph wasted no time; he slashed the Saxon’s throat.
Seaver gave a wet sigh, then stopped breathing completely.
Ralph nearly whooped aloud with joy. Just in time he stopped himself. He saw the small crowd of Saxons standing nearby. He realized the sun remained high enough to illuminate everything with a cruel shade of red. He felt the sticky blood on his hands and wiped it belatedly on Seaver’s tunic. Finally, it occurred to him that if Lord Richard found out about this, Ralph’s dreams of knighthood would vanish in smoke.
“No ...” He scrambled to his feet and scrubbed his hands against his tunic, over and over, as if he could cleanse the very act of murder away. “No! I didn’t mean for this … !”
Dizzily, he watched his Norman companions try to contain the anger simmering amongst the Anglo-Saxons. He counted about six Saxons altogether. Some of the Normans drew their swords. The Anglo-Saxons backed away.
Then he recognized Geoffrey. The short yellow mop of hair on Geoffrey’s head rippled in the breeze as he straightened his lean form and grabbed everyone’s attention. The knight did not speak loudly—Ralph heard no more than the low tone of his voice—but whatever he said caused everyone to turn and walk away.
Next, Geoffrey twisted to face Ralph, his golden eyes reflecting the last rays of sunlight. Fear curdled in Ralph’s belly as the knight moved towards him. Had Geoffrey promised to punish Ralph somehow? After all, that was the skill the knight excelled at. Ralph saw a strange emotion in Geoffrey’s gaze; where the knight usually looked numb and bored, he suddenly seemed brought to life.
Geoffrey stopped just a few feet away from Ralph. He looked from Ralph, to the Saxon’s corpse, and back again. “We have to get rid of the body,” said Geoffrey at last.
Ralph swallowed, feeling as if a rock lodged in his throat. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. His family will want to bury him ...”
“No.” Geoffrey crouched down, studying Seaver’s wounds up close. His eyes gleamed as they traversed the thick pools of blood. “They must not be able to find him.”
“I don’t understand.” A cold wind pushed clouds over the sun, choking the remaining light. Ralph shivered. “Why shouldn’t they find him?”
Even in the darkness, Ralph sensed Geoffrey’s pale gaze peering up at him. “Do you still wish to become a knight? Do you want Lord Richard to remain here in Engla-lond?”
“Of course!”
“Then no one must know what happened here.”
“But I can probably just pay the price of Seaver’s life. What do they call it? A werigald.”
“Can you spare two hundred shillings?”
“Well, not right now ...” He cursed inwardly, knowing that if he became a knight and had his own tenants, he would acquire such a sum easily. “But perhaps Lord Richard will pay it.”
“And in return, your knighthood would be forfeit.”
Ralph’s heart sank. He feared that Geoffrey was right.
“I will help you make this night as if it never happened,” Geoffrey assured him.
“But plenty of people saw me kill him!”
“Six Saxons.” The coldness of Geoffrey’s voice seemed to make the night air more frigid. “We will deal with them later.”
“Deal with them? How?”
Geoffrey pulled a long dagger from his belt, almost a seax. The dark blade glinted against the moon. “First, the body. We’ll have to take it to Eadgard’s farm.”
Ralph’s head spun. This was all happening too fast. “Who’s Eadgard? And why would we take the body to him?”
“Eadgard is one of my tenants who’s good at keeping his mouth shut. We will take it to him because he owns lots of hungry pigs.”
Geoffrey made it sound like he had done this all before. “Pigs … ?” Ralph’s stomach lurched inside him. He felt his last meal rising upwards. As Ralph gagged, Geoffrey put a hand on his chest and pushed him up against a tree. Ralph forgot about his disgust when he saw the dagger gleaming in Geoffrey’s other hand. The knight leaned close to him, whispering in Norman. “Or we could solve this another way, and make it look as if the two of you killed one another. I think this would save me a great deal of time.”
Ralph hoped Geoffrey could not feel the way his heart tried to hammer out of his chest. “No, no … that’s not necessary. We’ll take the body to … to Eadgard’s pigs.”
“Very well.” Geoffrey released him, then turned to collect the body.