Wulf’s brows rose. ‘A castle in the fens? That seems unlikely.’
‘Nevertheless, that is the rumour.’ De Warenne took up the wine jug and filled a couple of glasses. Taking one, he slid the other towards Wulf. ‘Take a seat, Captain, we still have to discuss the question of your name. I hardly think that FitzRobert is suited to a Saxon.’
Wulf groped for the bench, trying to will away the knot that was forming in his belly. Finally he was being offered the chance that he had longed for, but where was the elation, the triumph that he had expected to feel? ‘I am to be a spy.’
‘Locate Thane Guthlac’s encampment. Worm your way inside, we need to know how much of a threat they pose. It could be that there are just a few stragglers hiding out with him—we have no idea and we must know. Now, about your name—’
‘I could use my other name, my lord.’
‘Other name?’
‘Saewulf Brader.’
For a moment his lord gazed blankly at him, before understanding lit his eyes. ‘Oh, I take it Brader was your mother’s name? You used it before your father had you brought to Normandy?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Saewulf Brader,’ De Warenne repeated, slowly examining Wulf’s features. ‘Yes, that will do, it has an authentic ring to it. Don’t bother to get your hair cut either, it will help you look the part. And, if I were you, I might consider growing a beard. Damned hairy, these Saxons.’
Wulf took a sip of the wine. It was rich and sweet, smoother by far than that served lower down the hall. ‘No, my lord, I do not think a beard is for me, I have grown accustomed to the Norman fashion.’
De Warenne raised a brow. ‘You will raise their suspicions.’
Wulf grinned. ‘I could say I ran into some Normans and cut my beard off to disguise myself.’
‘Suit yourself. I leave the details to you.’ De Warenne met Wulf’s gaze directly. ‘Do a good job, Captain, and I won’t forget. There will be preferment for you.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Understanding that he was being dismissed, Wulf rose. ‘When do you want me to leave?’
‘As soon as you can. Oh, and one thing more …’
‘My lord?’
‘You have a horse?’
‘Aye.’ Not that his lord would call his poor Melody a horse; Wulf was a long way from affording a knight’s destrier. One day, perhaps …
‘You will have to leave him behind.’
Wulf nodded. A horse might also raise suspicions, since Saxons did not use them as much as Normans. But, in any case, from what Wulf had heard, horses and fenland did not sound compatible.
‘Put him in the stables here in the charge of my groom. I’ll see he knows to take care of him.’ De Warenne picked up a pouch and lobbed it towards him. ‘Here, this will help buy anything you might need.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
Tossing back his wine, Wulf turned to go. His mind was spinning. Finally, he was being given the chance that he burned for! He would not have chosen to spy on his former countrymen—in truth, his commission was far from pleasant. Some might call it a dirty task. Certainly it was not a task for a noble Norman. And this was, of course, exactly why it had been given to him. De Warenne and the Count of Médavy could flatter him all they wished by referring to his aptitude, to his fluency in English, to the length of his hair, but Wulf knew the real reason he had been chosen.
Wulf was not noble, Wulf was not even legitimate, Wulf was a bastard. A bastard of a commission for a bastard of a man. That had been the unspoken undercurrent in the entire discussion. No highborn knight would even consider such a commission.
Reaching the weapon stack by the door, Wulf picked his sword out of the pile and stood for a moment staring at it. It was a plain sword. With its wooden scabbard and its hilt bound in cowhide, it was the sword of a plain man. It might have a keen edge and Wulf might be able to wield it as well as any knight, but he had no noble family to sponsor him. And there, too, was another reason the Lord of Lewes had selected him to go to the fens. If by chance Wulf were killed, there would be no aristocratic friends calling for vengeance, there would be no noblewomen weeping at his graveside.
Rolling powerful shoulders, Wulf shrugged off his dark thoughts and buckled on his sword. He glanced around the huge hall filled with King William’s soldiers. He could not afford to be churlish, not when he was being given his chance. He might not choose to spend the winter in the fens, but the sooner he was gone, the sooner he might return. So, distasteful though this commission might be, he would do his best. As he saw it, those rebels, outlaws, call them what you will, were fighting a lost cause, and the sooner they came to realise that, the sooner the bloodshed could end. The sooner England could be at peace.
If there was one thing that Wulf had learned from his liege lord, it was that peace was not something that happened by chance. No, in the winter of 1067, peace had to be made. And if Wulf could play his part in bringing about that peace, and at the same time earn preferment for himself, then so much the better …
Chapter Two
East Anglian Fens—January 1068
Even when clad in green homespun and a simple matching veil, Erica of Whitecliffe presented a queenly figure. Night had fallen, and she was sitting by the fire in the rough reed-thatched shelter that was her latest refuge. Someone had actually found a chair for her. Incongruously it reminded Erica of a throne, and she was able to prop her chin on her hand and stare into the flames. Ranged about her on stools and benches, hugging close to the hearth, were the men she had chosen as her personal escort.
Ailric, his fair hair tied out of the way with a leather thong, was bent over his sword, sharpening it, and the gentle rasp of a whetstone on steel formed a backdrop to her thoughts, thoughts which went back and forth as she struggled to find a way out of their predicament. Morcar’s cough—it was worsening—brought a worried frown to her brow.
Outside the cottage the temperature had plummeted. And it was going to get worse, of that Erica was certain. It was early January; the coldest weather might yet be round the corner.
She was in exile, they were all in exile. And they could not live like this much longer, as that persistent cough was reminding her.
When they had fled her father’s hall at Whitecliffe in the south, Erica had prayed it would be a temporary exile, and that soon they would be home again with the world set to rights. But her father was dead and her people divided. Some had insisted on remaining with her while others, almost a hundred warriors, had taken refuge elsewhere in the marshes. When there was the slightest chance of harrying the Normans, the warriors took it. She longed for them to be together once more; she worried about the wives and children left behind in Whitecliffe.
Morcar, one of her father’s oldest housecarls, smothered another cough. She held down a sigh. Morcar was too old to be living the life of an outlaw, his chest was weakening. And there was Hrolf, with that leg wound that refused to heal—Hrolf needed good food which she could not give him, and rest and … Daily, Erica prayed to return home. This was no place to live, this was no life. But William of Normandy had fast hold of southern England and was not to be ousted, it would seem.
What could she do?
‘The bloodfeud with Thane Guthlac must end,’ she said