Sworn Sword: A Novel

By James Aitcheson

"Aitcheson brings excitement and intrigue to a bloody period of medieval history—one that is underrepresented in the genre...[and] shows great promise as an adventure novelist in this colorful d

Enter into a ruthless, formidable world, where violent warriors seek honor in holy places and holy men seek glory in dark deeds. As the two opposing forces battle for conquest, the fate of England hangs in the balance

January, 1069: Less than three years after the Battle of Hastings in 1066 and the death of the usurper, Harold Godwineson, two thousand Normans march in the depths of winter to subdue the troublesome province of Northumbria. Tancred a Dinant,a loyal and ambitious knight, is among them, hungry for battle, honor, silver, and land.

But at Durham, the Normans are ambushed in the streets by English rebels, and Tancred's revered lord Robert de Commines is slain. Badly wounded, Tancred barely escapes with his own life. Bitterly determined to seek vengeance for his lord's murder, the dauntless knight quickly becomes entrenched in secret dealings between a powerful Norman magnate and a shadow from the past. As the Norman and English armies prepare to clash, Tancred uncovers a cunning plot that harks back to the day of Hastings itself. If successful, it threatens to destroy the entire conquest—and change the course of history.

The Conquest Series:

Sworn Sword (Book 1)

The Splintered Kingdom (Book 2)

Knights of the Hawk (Book 3)

ebut."—Publishers WeeklyJanuary, 1069: Less than three years after the Battle of Hastings, two thousand Normans march to subdue the troublesome province of Northumbria. Tancred a Dinant, a loyal and ambitious knight, is among them, hungry for battle, honor, silver, and land. But at Durham, the Normans are ambushed by English rebels, and Tancred's revered lord Robert de Commines is slain. Badly wounded and bitterly determined to exact vengeance, Tancred uncovers a plot that harks back to the day of Hastings itself. If successful, it threatens to destroy the entire conquest—and change the course of history.

James Aitcheson's stunning debut sweeps readers into a ruthless world, where violent warriors seek honor in holy places and holy men seek glory in dark deeds. As the two opposing forces battle for conquest, the fate of England hangs in the balance.

"A terrific writer...Aitcheson's portrayal of eleventh-century England is vibrant and authentic...Full of intrigue and vivid, realistic battles, this accomplished debut novel sets a high standard indeed."—Ben Kane, bestselling author of The Road to Rome

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sourcebooks
• Release date: Mar 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781402287688

James Aitcheson

James Aitcheson was born in Wiltshire, England, in 1985 and studied History at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, where he developed a special interest in the medieval period. Sworn Sword is his first novel.

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Copyright © 2011, 2013 by James Aitcheson

Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Tim Byrne

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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Originally published in 2011 in Great Britain by Preface Publishing, an imprint of the Random House Group Limited.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Aitcheson, James.

Sworn sword : a novel / James Aitcheson.

pages cm

(pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Great Britain—History—William I, 1066-1087—Fiction.

2. Historical fiction. I. Title.

PR6101.I83S96 2013

823’.92—dc23

2013010790

To my parents

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Map

List of Place-Names

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Epilogue

Historical Note

Acknowledgments

An Excerpt from Splintered Kingdom

About the Author

Back Cover

List of Place-Names

To add to the historical authenticity of the setting, I have chosen throughout the novel to use contemporary names for the locations involved, as recorded in charters, chronicles, and Domesday Book (1086). For British locations, my main sources have been A Dictionary of British Place-Names (OUP: Oxford, 2003) and A Dictionary of London Place-Names (OUP: Oxford, 2004), both compiled by A. D. Mills.

Alchebarge: Alkborough, Lincolnshire

Alclit: Bishop Auckland, County Durham

Aldwic: Aldwych, Greater London

Aleth: Saint-Malo, France

Bebbanburh: Bamburgh, Northumberland

Bisceopesgeat: Bishopsgate, Greater London

Cadum: Caen, France

Ceap: Cheapside, Greater London

Commines: Comines, France/Belgium

Cosnonis: River Couesnon, France

Dinant: Dinan, France

Drachs: Drax, North Yorkshire

Dunholm: Durham

Earninga Stræt: Ermine Street

Eoferwic: York

Execestre: Exeter, Devon

Gand: Ghent, Belgium

Haltland: Shetland

Hæstinges: Hastings, East Sussex

Humbre: Humber Estuary

Kopparigat: Coppergate, York

Lincolia: Lincoln

Lincoliascir: Lincolnshire

Lundene: London

Orkaneya: Orkney

Ovretune: Overton, Hampshire

Oxeneford: Oxford

Reddinges: Reading, Berkshire

Rudum: Rouen, France

Searobyrg: Old Sarum, Wiltshire

Silcestre: Silchester, Hampshire

Stanes: Staines, Surrey

Stanford: Stamford, Lincolnshire

Stybbanhythe: Stepney, Greater London

Sudwerca: Southwark, Greater London

Suthferebi: South Ferriby, Lincolnshire

Temes: River Thames

Trente: River Trent

Use: River Ouse

Walebroc: Walbrook, Greater London

Waltham: Waltham Abbey, Essex

Wæclinga Stræt: Watling Street, Greater London

Wærwic: Warwick

Westmynstre: Westminster, Greater London

Wiire River: Wear

Wiltune: Wilton, Wiltshire

Wincestre: Winchester, Hampshire

– One –

The first drops of rain began to fall, as hard as hammers and as cold as steel against my cheek. My mail hung heavily upon my shoulders, and my back and arse were aching. We had risen at first light and had spent much of the day in the saddle, and now night lay once more like a blanket across the wooded hills.

Our mounts’ hooves made hardly a sound against the damp earth as we pressed on up the slope. The path we followed was narrow, little more than a deer track, and so we rode in single file with the trees close on either side. Leafless branches brushed against my arm; some I had to fend away from my face. Above, the slender crescent of the moon struggled to make itself shown, casting its cold light down upon us. The clouds were rolling in, and the rain began to come down more heavily, pattering upon the ground. I pulled the hood of my cloak up over my head.

There were five of us that night: all of us men who had served our lord for several years, oath-sworn and loyal knights of his own household. These were men I knew well, alongside whom I had fought more times than I cared to remember. These were men who had been there in the great battle at Hæstinges, and who had survived.

And I was the one who led them. I, Tancred a Dinant.

It was the twenty-eighth day of the month of January, in the one thousand and sixty-ninth year since our Lord’s Incarnation. And this was the third winter to have passed since the invasion: since we had first mustered on the other side of the Narrow Sea, boarded ships, and made the crossing on the autumn tide. The third winter since Duke Guillaume had led our army to victory over the oath-breaker and usurper, Harold son of Godwine, at Hæstinges, and was received into Westmynstre church and crowned as rightful king of the English.

And now we were at Dunholm, further north than any of us had been before: in Northumbria, of all the provinces of the kingdom of England, the only one that after two years and more still refused to submit.

I glanced back over my shoulder, making sure that none were lagging behind, casting my gaze over each one of them in turn. In my tracks rode Fulcher fitz Jean, heavy-set and broad of shoulder. Following him was Ivo de Sartilly, a man as quick with his tongue as he was with his sword, then Gérard de Tillières, reticent yet always reliable. And bringing up the very end of the line, almost lost in the shadow of the night, the tall and rangy figure of Eudo de Ryes, whom I had known longer and trusted more than any other in Lord Robert’s household.

Beneath their cloaks their shoulders hung low. They all held lances, but rather than pointing to the sky as they should have been, ready to couch under the arm for the charge, they were turned down toward the ground. None of them, I knew, wanted to be out on such a night. Each would rather have been indoors by the blazing hearth-fire with his pitcher of ale or wine, or down in the town with the rest of the army, joining in the plunder. As too would I.

Tancred? Eudo called.

I turned my mount slowly around to face him, bringing the rest of the knights to a halt. What is it? I asked.

We’ve been searching since nightfall and seen no one. How long are we to stay out?

Until our balls freeze, Fulcher muttered behind me.

I ignored him. Until daybreak if we have to, I replied.

They won’t come, Eudo said. The Northumbrians are cowards. They haven’t fought us yet and they won’t fight us now.

They had not; that much at least was true. Word of our advance had clearly gone before us, for everywhere we had marched north of Eoferwic we had seen villages and farms deserted, people fleeing with their livestock, driving them up into the hills and the woods. When finally we reached Dunholm and passed through its gates just before sunset earlier that night, we had found the town all but empty. Only the bishop of the town and his staff had been left, guarding the relics of their saint, Cuthbert, who resided in the church. The townsmen, they said, had fled into the woods.

And yet there was something about the ease of our victory that had made Lord Robert uncertain, and that was why he had sent the five of us, as he had sent others, to search for any sign of the enemy nearby.

We keep looking, I said firmly. Whether or not our balls freeze. In truth I didn’t think we would find anyone tonight, for these were people who would never before have seen a Norman army. Naturally they would have heard of how we had crushed the usurper at Hæstinges, but they could not have witnessed it themselves. They had not felt the might of the mounted charge that had won us that battle and so many others since. But now at last we had come in force: a host of two thousand men come to claim what was the king’s by right. They would have seen our banners, our horses, our mail glinting in the low winter sun, and they would have known that there was no hope of standing against us. And so they had fled, leaving us the town.

So it seemed to me, at least. But what I thought didn’t matter, for the decision was not mine to make. Rather it belonged to our lord, Robert de Commines, by the king’s edict the new Earl of Northumbria and the man charged with subduing this quarrelsome province. Of course Eudo and the others knew this, but they were tired and all they wanted was to rest. We had been on the road so long: it was nearly two weeks since we had left Lundene. Two weeks we had spent riding and marching through rain and sleet and snow, over unfamiliar country, across marshes and hills that seemed to go on without end.

We carried on up the slope until we had come to its brow and could look down upon the land in every direction: upon the wooded hills to the north and the open fields to the south. The moon was partly hidden behind a cloud and I could see almost nothing but the rise and fall of the earth. Certainly there was no hint of firelight or spear points, or anything else that would have betrayed the enemy. The wind buffeted at my cheeks and the rain continued to fall, though far to the north and east, near to where the land met the German Sea, I saw clear skies glittering with stars and I hoped that the weather would soon ease.

I checked Rollo, my horse, and swung down from the saddle, patting him on the neck.

We’ll rest here awhile, I said. I thrust the end of my lance into the sodden ground, leaving the head to point toward the sky, while beneath it the damp pennon limply displayed the hawk that was Lord Robert’s device. I lifted my shield from where it hung by its long guige strap across my back and rested it against the trunk of a tree. It bore the same emblem: a black symbol upon a white field; the bird in flight with talons extended, as if descending for the kill.

There was not much forage to be had here, and so I dug a brace of carrots out from my saddlebag to give to Rollo. He had kept going without complaint all day, and I would have liked to have offered him more, but for now it was all I had.

The others said nothing as they too dismounted and began to pace about, feeling the use of their legs once more. Eudo rubbed at the lower part of his back, doubtless nursing some twinge from spending so long in the saddle.

To the east the clouds were beginning to break, and I could spy the silver-flecked ribbon of the river Wiire as it wove about the town of Dunholm. A narrow promontory jutted out to the south, atop which stood the fastness: a palisade surrounding a small huddle of buildings; shadows against the half-lit clouds. The promontory was sided by steep bluffs and the river coiled about them, enclosing the fastness on three sides. Thin spires of smoke rose gently from the thatch of the mead hall there: threads of white lit by the moon.

Below the fastness lay the town. There the rest of our army would be out in the streets: half a thousand knights like ourselves, the household warriors of the lords heading this expedition; seven hundred spearmen; and another three hundred archers. And of course there were the scores upon scores of others who attended on such an army: armorers, swordsmiths, leech-doctors, and others. Many of those would be there too: close to two thousand men reveling in the spoils of war, the capture of Dunholm, the conquest of Northumbria.

It was perhaps something of a risk to allow those men to go plundering when there was a chance that the enemy still lurked, but the truth was that they had been waiting the whole march for the promise of booty. It mattered less for knights like ourselves, for we were paid well enough by our lord, but the spearmen fought out of obligation: most were drawn from the fields of their lords’ estates, and so this was their only hope of reward. For Robert to deny them it now would be to turn them against him, and that he could not afford to do. Already there was discontent among the other nobles, some of whom were reckoned to have felt (though none had said openly) that they were more deserving and that the honor of the earldom should have gone to them, to a Norman rather than a Fleming, as Robert was. But many were the men who had come over in the last two years who were Normans only by allegiance, rather than by birth. I myself hailed from the town of Dinant in Brittany, though it was some years since I was last there; Fulcher was Burgundian, while others came from Anjou or even Aquitaine. But in England that should not have mattered, for in England we were all Frenchmen, bound together by oaths and by a common tongue.

Besides, Lord Robert was one of the men closest to King Guillaume, having served him for more than ten years, since the battle at Varaville. I found it odd, to say the least, that a man who had served loyally and for so long should be resented so vehemently. On the other hand, these times were not as settled as once they had been, and there were many, I knew, who would look only for their own advancement rather than the good of the realm.

It was on a night like this that we took Mayenne five years ago, Gérard said suddenly. Do you remember?

I had fought in so many battles that most of them had blurred in my memory, but I recalled that campaign. It had been a protracted one, extending late into the autumn, perhaps even into the early part of the winter. I knew because I could picture the sacks of newly harvested grain we had captured on our raids, and I could see the leaves turning brown and falling from the trees in the countryside all about. Yet, strangely, of the struggle for the town itself no images came to mind.

I remember, Eudo said. It was in November; the last town to fall on that campaign. The rebels had retreated and were holding out within its walls.

That’s right, said Gérard. They expected a long siege, but Duke Guillaume knew they were well supplied. He took a bite from his loaf, then wiped a grimy sleeve across his mouth. We, on the other hand, had over four thousand mouths to feed, but it was nearing winter and the countryside lay barren—

And so we had no choice but to attack, Eudo said. A smile broke out across his thin face. Yes, I remember. We attacked that night, so quickly that we had overrun the town even before their lord had dressed for battle. He laughed and looked up at the rest of us.

I shook my head; five years was a long time. Back then I would have been but twenty summers old and, like all youths, my head was probably full of ideas of glory and plunder. I had craved the kill; not once had I paused to consider the details of whom we fought or why, only that it had to be done.

Beside me, Fulcher yawned and shrugged his shoulders inside his cloak. What I’d give to be with my woman right now.

I thought you left her back in Lundene, I said.

That’s what I mean, he replied. He took a draught from his waterskin. I say let the Northumbrians keep their worthless corner of the country. There’s nothing in this land but hills and trees and sheep. He gave a laugh, but it seemed to me that there was little humor in it. And rain.

It’s King Guillaume’s by right, I reminded him. And Lord Robert’s too now that he’s been made earl.

Which means we’ll never be rid of the place.

You’ll see your woman soon enough, I said, growing tired of these complaints.

That’s easy enough to say, when your Oswynn is waiting for you back in Dunholm, Ivo put in.

If there isn’t another man taking care of her instead, Eudo added, smirking.

Had I been more awake I might have been able to think of some retort, but instead I simply glared at him. I was not young or foolish enough to think that I loved Oswynn, or that she loved me; she was English and knew hardly a word of French or Breton, and I was French and knew almost none of English. But she was my woman all the same and I prayed to God that she was safe. Perhaps Eudo had been speaking in jest, but on a night such as this, when wine and mead flowed freely, I knew how high men’s spirits could run, how hard it was for them to control their lusts. There were few enough women to be had as it was: only those who had come northward with the army. Soldiers’ wives and camp-followers. Women like Oswynn.

There was a kind of wild beauty in the way she always wore her hair unbound, in the way her eyes appeared dark and yet inviting, that drew the stares of men wherever we went. More than once before, it had been only the threat of my blade meeting their necks that had kept them away. I did not like to leave her on her own, and for that reason I had paid Ernost and Mauger, another two of the men from my conroi, to stay away from the plunder and to keep guard over the house I had taken for us. Both were fearsome fighters, men who had been at my side at Hæstinges, and there were few, I was sure, who would try to defy them. But even so, I would be glad when the morning came, when I could get back to her.

I swallowed my last mouthful of bread, laced up my saddlebag, and looped the shield-strap back over my head. Mount up, I said to the rest of them as I climbed up onto Rollo’s back and freed the haft of my lance from the earth. We move on.

The track continued to the west. There had been high winds recently, and on several occasions we had to negotiate around trees that had fallen across the way. More than once the path itself seemed to disappear and we had to turn back until we found it again. To venture into the heart of the woods in the dark was to risk getting lost, for we did not know this country.

But the enemy would. They would know to stay away from the paths; they would probably travel in small groups rather than together. They could be less than a hundred paces from us and still we might pass them by.

I felt an angry heat rise up inside me. Our presence out in these woods was as much use as a cart without wheels: Robert had sent us out only so the other lords might see that he was being vigilant. And yet if we returned before dawn without having seen anything of the enemy, then we would have defied his orders and failed in our duty to him.

I gritted my teeth and we rode on in silence. I had been with Robert since my fourteenth year, when he was little older than I was now, and in that time I had come to know him as a generous lord who afforded his men good treatment and rewarded them well too often with gifts of silver or arms or even horses. Indeed it was from him that I had received Rollo, the destrier I rode: a strong mount of constant temper that had seen me through several campaigns and many battles. To his longest-serving and most loyal retainers, moreover, Lord Robert gave land, and I, as one of the men who had led his conrois into battle, who had saved his life on more than one occasion, would soon be one of those. I was patient, as one had to be, and grateful for what he had given me, and rarely in those years had I found cause to resent him. But now, as I imagined him with the rest of the lords, sitting by the hearth in the mead hall up in the fastness, while we were here—

I was broken from my houghts by the sound of church bells ringing out from the east.

What’s that? Eudo said.

There was no pattern to it, no rhythm, just a clash of different notes. It came from across the river, from the direction of the town, and I frowned, for my first thought was that some drunken men had taken to violating the church. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

I pulled on the reins and Rollo slowed to a halt. He whickered, his breath misting in the frigid air. The night was quiet and all I could hear was the soft patter of raindrops upon the earth and the branches whistling and creaking as the wind began to gust. But then the chiming came again: a long, dull tolling that seemed to resound off the distant hills.

Sickness clawed at my stomach. I had heard bells like those before.

We have to get back to the town, I said. I turned my mount about, and then, because I was not sure whether the rest had heard me, shouted: We have to get back!

I dug my heels into Rollo’s flanks. He reared up; I leaned forward as he came back to earth and we took off up the hill, back along the way we had come. Hooves pounded; the ground thundered. I spurred him on, faster, not looking behind to see if the others were following. The rain lashed down harder, driving through my mail, plastering my tunic and braies against my skin. Trees flashed past on either side and still I looked to the east, toward the river, trying to see beyond them to the promontory and to Dunholm, but through the mass of trunks and branches I could see nothing.

A war-horn sounded out across the hills: two sharp blasts that pierced the night air. A signal to rally.

Suddenly the ground fell away and I was racing down the hill toward the river. I neared the edge of the trees; the three stone arches of the bridge came into sight. The wind tugged at my cloak as it swept down from the north, and carried on that wind came a faintly rippling beat: the sound made when a hundred spear-hafts drummed against a hundred shield-rims. A sound I knew only too well. It was one I had first heard at Hæstinges, when I had stood at the bottom of the hill and gazed up at all those thousands of Englishmen lined with their shields and their weapons along its crest, each one ready for us to charge up toward them, each one taunting us to come and die on their blades.

It was the sound of the battle-thunder, meant to intimidate, and even after all my years of fighting it still did. My heart thumped in time with the beat.

For Lord Robert had been right, and the Northumbrians had come.

– Two –

We galloped down toward the bridge, leaving the woods behind us. I looked out across the river toward the town: a crowd of timber and thatch buildings interwoven by narrow streets, with the tower of St. Cuthbert’s church rising tall above them. Orange light flickered across its stone face and, in the distance, I could see flames amid the houses. They licked at the sky, sending up great plumes of black smoke, together with still-glowing ashes that lit up the starless night. Again I heard shouts, although these were no longer shouts of joy but cries of pain, the screams of slaughter. And over those voices, almost drowning them out, came the drumming, steady and ceaseless.

Eudo cursed as he drew up beside me, and I realized I had come to a halt.

Underneath my helmet, my brow was covered in sweat. A drop trickled down in front of my eyes; I wiped it away as I reached down my shirt and pulled out the little silver cross that hung around my neck day and night.

Christ be my shield, I said, and I kissed it, as I always did before battle, before tucking it back under my shirt. Whatever lay ahead, I trusted that God would see me through safely.

Watch your flanks; don’t rush ahead or dawdle behind, I shouted to the others. Stay together; stay with me! I raised my ventail up over my throat and chin, hooking the chain flap into place, and passed my forearm through my shield’s leather brases, gripping the topmost cross in my hand.

I kicked on, controlling Rollo now with my legs alone. Iron clattered against stone as we rode across the bridge, over the fast-flowing Wiire and on to the rutted street that passed below the bluffs and the fastness’s high palisade. Gobs of mud flew up as I splashed through a long puddle, spattering over my hauberk and my face, but I did not care. Houses streaked past on either side. We were going into the wind and the raindrops were hard as hailstones as they smacked into my chest and my cheeks, but my heart was pounding and all I could think about was riding harder, harder.

And then I saw them, a hundred paces ahead: a host of shadows rushing on foot through the darkened streets, spear points and ax blades glinting in the light of their torches, round shields upon their forearms, long hair flailing behind them as they ran. Beyond them stood a line of Normans, a mere dozen men without mail or helmets, armed only with spears, and the enemy, two score and more, were charging toward them.

On! I shouted to the rest of my men, and I lowered my lance before me, gripping it tightly in my hand. For King Guillaume and Normandy! The white pennon whipped up with the passing air, wrapping around the haft.

We fell upon the enemy like the hawks we bore on our shields, swooping down on their rear almost before they knew that we were there. I drove my lance into an Englishman’s back, letting it go as he fell forward, then I drew my sword as another half-turned to face me. I cut the blade down hard across his chest and blood sprayed forth, but I was already riding on through, not looking behind to see whether he was dead, for I had seen my next victim. He screamed as he came at my right, his face red with anger, his hair flying from beneath the rim of his helmet, his spear held before him. He thrust it forward and I fended it away with my sword. As he overbalanced, I struck down hard across the back of his neck, ripping through flesh and through bone, and he went down. To my left an ax bore down on my flank, but I took its brunt on my shield, and while its wielder struggled to recover for his next attack, I smashed the iron boss into his face. He staggered back, his face streaming with crimson, just as Eudo came forward and slashed across his throat. The Englishman had no time even to let out a cry as his eyes widened and he sank to his knees.

The rest, seeing the danger from their rear, were beginning to turn, but we were among them now and they were in disarray. The battle calm was upon me and time itself seemed to slow, each heartbeat a fresh surge of vigor through my veins as we tore into their lines.

Kill them! I roared, and my cry was taken up by some of the Normans on foot.

Kill them! they shouted, the few of them that they were, and they pushed their shield-wall forward, driving into the dwindling English ranks.

When a line breaks, it is almost never a gradual thing but rather happens all at once, and it was no different then. Pressed from both front and rear, the enemy crumbled, and suddenly on all sides there were men fleeing. One stumbled back into the path of my sword, and he was dead before he hit the ground. Another tried to raise his spear to defend himself, but he was too slow and my blade tore into his throat. Yet another tripped as he ran, falling face down into the mud, and he was struggling to get to his feet when Ivo rode him down, his mount’s hooves trampling across the man’s back, crushing his skull.

The Northumbrians were running now. Gérard and Fulcher were pursuing them, but we were few and I did not want us to get separated from one another, in case there were more of them on their way.

To me! I called, sheathing my sword and going to recover my lance, which still protruded from the back of the first man I had killed. It took some effort to pull it out: I had driven it deep through his torso, but I twisted the head about and eventually it came free. The head and top part of the shaft were streaked with his blood, and where before the pennon had been white, it was now pink.

Gérard and Fulcher rode back to rejoin us, and we were five once more. Four of the dozen spearmen lay dead in the street, but there was no time then to feel sorry for them. I rode up to those who remained. Some leaned on the top edges of their shields while they recovered their breath; others staggered about among the corpses, retching by the side of the street, and I supposed those ones were drunk. If they were, it was something of a miracle that they were still alive.

Where’s Earl Robert? I asked those who looked the most sober, but they looked blankly at each other.

We don’t know, lord, said one. His eyes were bleary and he smelt of cattle dung.

I was about to correct him, for I was not a lord, but evidently he had seen the flag attached to my lance and it was easier to let him assume that I was. I let it pass.

Go back up the hill, I told them. Back to the fastness. I did not know where the earl would be rallying his men, but eight warriors on foot were unlikely to accomplish much here on their own.

A flash of silver caught my eye further along the street and I saw a conroi of knights—at least a dozen, perhaps as many as twenty—charging down the road from the stronghold, toward the town square. I couldn’t see any banner, but a few were carrying torches and the flame streaked behind them as they galloped past.

Go, I said again to the spearmen, then I waved to Eudo and the others to follow me, and we rode on.

The road was strewn with corpses both Norman and English, but far more of them were Norman; this I could tell because their hair, rather than running long and loose, was cut short at the back in the French fashion. There were corpses with spears through their chests, corpses missing arms, and some missing heads. One lay sprawled forward, his face deep in the mud, a great gash across the back of his neck.

The road branched to the left, down the hill toward the north, and we turned to follow the conroi I had seen, which was some way ahead of us, already passing the tower of the church, disappearing around the bend that led down to the square. One of the lords had joined them from somewhere, for I saw a banner flying over their heads, though I did not recognize the colors: two thin green stripes on a red background.

With me, I said. I noticed Ivo was beginning to lag behind and thought he shouldn’t be tiring so quickly, but then I saw that he was clutching one hand to his side, close to his waist, and I realized that he had been struck.

Onward, I told the other three as I slowed Rollo and trotted back toward Ivo.

His teeth were clenched tight and he had a pained expression on his face. I’m not hurt, he gasped. Go with them.

Let me see, I said as I pried away his fingers. His mail was wet with crimson; beneath it, his tunic was similarly stained, and there was a round, open wound where a spear had pierced his skin. It looked deep, and I only hoped that it had not penetrated his gut.

Get back to the fastness, I told him. Find someone who can help you.

It’s nothing, he said, shaking his head. I can still fight.

Don’t be a fool, I said, more harshly than I had meant, perhaps, but it was plain that he was going to be of little use in the fighting that was sure to come.

He bowed his head feebly but did not argue as he tugged on his reins to turn back up toward the stronghold.

Go, I said, slapping his horse on the rump to start it moving, and slowly he began to ride back up the hill. I did not wait to make sure he was gone but wheeled around to follow the others, who had already disappeared from sight, beyond the bend in the street. On either side of me Normans were fleeing back up the hill, some staggering, some managing to run, and there were some too on horseback, although they had no mail or weapons with them.

Back to the fastness, I shouted to them all. Silently I cursed at how we could have been caught so unprepared. I thought of Oswynn and I inhaled deeply, praying to God that Mauger and Ernost had taken her to safety.

The wind rushed past and the ground disappeared beneath Rollo’s hooves. On my right the church tower rose up, tall and dark, though its bell was no longer tolling. The street turned sharply to the left, and all of a sudden the marketplace was before me and I was charging at full gallop toward the enemy. For the square was filled with men: Normans and English running among each other, shields clashing against shields, all in disorder.

A horse screamed in pain, and I watched as its rider was toppled from the saddle, still desperately clinging to the reins as he hit the ground. The animal teetered on its hind legs, and the knight, with one foot caught in the stirrup, was kicking, struggling to get away. He was still shouting when the hooves came down on his face.

I looked for Eudo and the others, but in the darkness and amid so many men and horses I could not see them. In the very center of the mêlée the hawk banner flew high, and I searched for Lord Robert among his knights. At first it seemed he was not there, and I felt my heart race, but then he lifted his head, shouting as he drove his sword through an Englishman’s chest, and I saw the red strips of cloth attached to his helmet: the tail that signified that he was the earl. There were ten knights with him, and a great many spearmen as well, but the Northumbrians must have recognized who he was, for they were throwing most of their numbers into that part of the battle and were already beginning to surround him.

For Lord Robert and King Guillaume! I roared as I charged to his banner.

A lone Northumbrian, separated from the rest of his kinsmen, came at me from the front, throwing the full weight of his body behind his spearhead; I cut to the right and took the blow on my shield, striking the weapon away so hard that the haft slipped from his grip. I followed through before he could get out of the way, bringing the boss down on top of his bare head, and he fell to the ground.

More of the enemy had seen me coming and quickly they turned to face me, away from Robert and his men, bringing their shields together, overlapping them to form a wall. They began to level their spears, but they were few in number and so I spurred Rollo on, trusting in him not to falter, not to panic. I raised my shield to cover his flank, ploughing onward, ducking my head and closing my eyes tight, and then I heard the snap of ashen shafts and the clatter of limewood shields upon the stones and I knew I was through. I looked up to the sight of splinters flying and Englishmen fleeing around me, and then I was among them, cleaving with my blade: tearing through leather, through mail, and through flesh; making space for anyone who might be behind me to follow.

For King Guillaume! came a cry, and I recognized the voice as belonging to Lord Robert. I looked to my right and he was there by my side, pressing forward through the Northumbrian ranks, his helmet-tail flailing behind him, his teeth gritted in determination as he brought his blade down, shattering the rim of an enemy’s shield. For Normandy! he yelled.

The enemy clustered close around us, thrusting forward with their spears, but then a war-horn blasted out and suddenly most of their kinsmen were falling back to form a new shield-wall further down the marketplace, leaving these few without support. The rest of Robert’s knights were with us now, and the English must have realized how exposed they were, for fear took hold of them and all at once they fled.

I was about to give chase when Robert shouted out: Hold back! I looked behind me and understood why, for there were barely twenty knights under his banner and he could not chance to lose any of us. More spearmen had arrived to fill out our ranks; and, down the road from the fastness, I saw banners of all designs, banners in red and white, green and blue, and riding beneath them were men in mail hauberks, men with helmets and swords, coming to join us. For a moment I breathed more easily, but only for a moment, because at the same time the English were gathering, marching up the hill from the town gates, and once more they were banging their weapons against their shields, all of them roaring with one voice.

"Ut, they chanted, like animals; like the hounds of hell. Ut, ut, ut!" A shiver ran through me; never since Hæstinges had I seen so many Englishmen bearing arms together, ready for battle, baying for our blood. There were hundreds of them under a purple-and-yellow-striped banner, and for every beat of my heart, dozens more were joining them in their long shield-wall.

One knight charged forward from our line, his ventail still undone and flapping away. Perhaps he thought we would all be behind him, or perhaps anger had simply taken hold of him, but he rode hard and he rode alone, straight for the enemy’s bristling spears. He lifted his lance high above his head and hurled it into their ranks, and then drew his sword, preparing to meet their wall, when a spear flew out of the sky, catching him in the throat. His sword fell from his hand as he tumbled from his mount, and I saw his neck snap back as he struck the ground.

The enemy whooped with delight, and the battle-thunder grew louder, faster. "Ut! Ut! Ut!"

Rollo fidgeted with his feet and I rubbed his neck to keep him calm. Around me men exchanged uncertain glances.

Hold back! Lord Robert shouted as he rode along in front of our forces, signaling to the rest of the lords who had gathered with their men and their banners. Hold back!

I realized I was still holding my sword and sheathed it again, looking around the rest of Robert’s men to see if there were any faces I recognized. The earl had nearly one hundred knights in his employ and I was not familiar with them all, but I saw several men who normally rode within my conroi and I called them to me. There were ten of them in all: Rualon, the sole other Breton apart from myself; Hedo, who had the broken nose; and several whose names I could not at that time recall. All of them appeared tired, but so far as I could see, none had been injured.

Ten, when there ought to have been nearly thirty. I spotted Eudo and the other two, who had seen the hawk banner and were riding back toward us. The three of them brought our number to fourteen—myself included—but even so that was only half of my conroi.

Where are the rest? I demanded.

The men bowed their heads and refused to meet my eyes. I knew what that meant. A lump rose up in my throat, but I knew I couldn’t think of such things now; that would have to come later, after we had secured victory.

For now the English remained where they were, standing, taunting, no more inclined to attack than we were, it seemed. They were waiting for us to come to them, just as we waited for them to come to us, both sides separated by little more than fifty paces.

Lord Robert returned to us, untying his chin-strap and removing his helmet. His face was weathered from the years we had spent in Italy; his hair, while not as long and loose as the Englishmen were accustomed to wearing it, was certainly not cut in the short style fashionable in France. And unlike the Norman lords who usually went clean-shaven, Robert was possessed of a full but well trimmed beard, which he often stroked when deep in thought. This he did now while he surveyed his men.

Including those who had this moment arrived from the fastness, I guessed that we had fewer than four hundred in that square—too few given that we had come to Dunholm with a thousand and a half. Most of those men were spearmen and horsemen, but there were some archers too, busily loosing volley after volley into the English ranks, though it seemed to me they were only wasting their arrows; most of the enemy had shields and few of the missiles got through.

Lord Robert rode toward me. His hauberk was spattered with English blood, his eyes were bloodshot, and he bore a bright cut across his cheek.

Tancred, he said.

He extended a hand and I clasped it in my own. My lord, I replied.

They were waiting for us, he said through gritted teeth. As I said they would be.

They were. I would have liked to know how they had managed to break into the town, where so many men had come from, but it seemed to me pointless to be asking then, when they were standing but fifty paces from us. It looked as if the whole of Northumbria had gathered to drive us out from Dunholm. I glanced back at our small host arrayed below the church, their anxiety almost palpable in the air. My spirits fell, for I knew that we could not hope to drive the enemy off.

We have to fall back to the fastness while we still can, I said to Robert.

He came closer, lowering his voice so that the others around us could not hear. If we do that, we hand them the town, he said. We don’t have supplies to withstand a siege. We must fight them now.

We don’t have the numbers, lord, I said. If we retreat we can gather our strength, sally out on our own terms.

No, Robert said, and his dark eyes bored into me. They fear us, Tancred. See how reluctant they are to attack! We will defeat them tonight and we will defeat them here.

They haven’t attacked because all they need do is hold us here, I pointed out. The rest will come around the side streets. And I told him how we had come upon a group of them close by the bridge. They’ll return, and when they do it will be in greater numbers than before. When that happens, we’ll be trapped here with no hope of retreat.

He remained silent. The English continued to bang their shields; some of the Norman lords were doing

Reviews for Sworn Sword

[brokenteepee · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Tancred is a knight following his lord as they move into Northumbria post Hastings. It's 1069 and things are not settled for William the Conqueror in England, especially in the North. In a surprise attack while Tancred and some of his men are out scouting the town is attacked and his Lord, Robert Commines is killed. Wounded while fighting, he and two friends managed to escape and find help for Tancred's wound the next town up. There Tancred reluctantly agrees to a task for a new lord despite wanting to stay, fight the enemy and be the one to kill Edgar the Aethling - the one who leads the rebels and therefore responsible for the death of his former master.And the woman he continues to dream about. Who he knew for about six months, couldn't communicate with because he speaks French and she spoke English but hey, the sex was good. He still mourns her. Endlessly.His sword arm itches a lot too. In fact if it itched one more time I was going to take a sword and cut it off. I appreciate that Tancred is a warrior. I appreciate that Tancred wants to fight but seriously there has to be another way to express it other than his sword arm itching. I did read an ARC so maybe this was corrected in the final copy.Maybe I shouldn't type reviews when I have a headache. My two major complaints being expressed I can write that I did find the book readable.The author's note in the back indicates that it is based in history and that many of the characters did exist. It's a first book for Mr. Aitcheson and I would imagine that he will get better with Tancred as he goes forth in the world. Tancred needs some maturity. For a man that leads men into battle he has a very short fuse and he is really not too bright. He is a warrior as we are told ad nauseum and he wants to fight - see arm itching - but there is a lot more to a good book than battles. Characters need depth and scenes need development. I'll give the next book in the series a try - I'm not ready to give up on our hero just yet.

[jbarringer-2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A very readable historical novel about England just after the Norman Invasion. Set in 1068, this story shows the chaos and violence as the English fought to loosen the foothold that the French Normans had gained on their island, from the perspective of a Norman soldier working to protect and support King Guillaume against the 'rebels' in Northumbria.
Written by an author who is a scholar of English history, this book uses the place names and Old English that would have been in use in 1068, though not to an extent that it gets in the way of the story. I was amused by how hard Old English was to understand even with my having studied German, which share a similar linguistic origin. And, while some of the details from history have been changed a bit to work better within the novel, for the most part this is a good retelling of history, so you can learn some history along the way. I always like books that teach real stuff while I am being entertained by adventure stories.

[speesh-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

History is written by the winners.

As someone much cleverer (Winston Churchill?) than me once said.

Except for the aftermath of the 1066 invasion and conquering of Olde England, by the Normans. All the stories about that disaster I can remember reading, are by the losers; the English.

Well, we've got the Bayeux Tapestry, of course, but that stayed in Normandy and is a little biased, I think most people would admit.

There is 'The Doomsday Book', but that is more a stock-taking and history has to be prised from it and implied and it doesn't read like a novel.

In later years, long removed from 1066, we generally hear from the poor, down-trodden 'Saxons' in their constant struggle against the dastardly Normans, personified in the tales of Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham.

That I know of, anyway.

This is an unusual book then, in that it is written from the point of view of one of the conquering Normans, only a couple of years after the 'Battle of Hastings'. Britain isn't completely conquered, the English people are still rebellious and the Normans see them as still rebelling against their new masters. In the pre-internet and national newspaper days, that's probably because not all Englishmen have heard that they in fact have new masters yet.

The story concerns a reasonably middle-ranking Norman Knight, who fought at Hastings (must point out here that the battle actually took place at what is now a town called Battle and the invading fleet probably landed near what is now Hastings). He has journeyed to the north of England, to the furthest reaches of the Normans' power, just two years after 1066. He loses his original Lord to the rebellious English and is sworn to another, embarking then on a mysterious mission, which on the surface seems easy enough - to protect a Churchman while he delivers a message for his nobleman, in the south of England - but develops and becomes more and more dangerous and, to him, develops treasonous over- and undertones, the longer the journey goes on.

This is where the book is, to me, an oddity. I am English and so used to reading about the Normans as the enemy. The English are the noble freedom fighters, battling to rid our green and pleasant land from the vicious enslavers. However, this book, by dint of being written from the Normans' point of view, turns all that on its head. And creates some very odd moments during its reading. To the book's hero, our Knight called Tancred, the Normans are of course, the rightful masters. Their King - William - the rightful King Harald Godwinsson is a traitor and usurper, who went back on a sworn promise to support William's claim to the throne. The English are the terrorists, intent on causing trouble and treachery at every turn and with every sly glance. Whether I had to hold myself back from hoping the Norman Knight would succeed in his mission, or win his battles against seemingly insurmountable odds, or come through in tense, sticky situations...I wouldn't like to admit. It's certainly an odd feeling to wonder if you should cheer for the Normans or hope the English suceed in their rebellious ways. Of course, it's not as easy as always seeing French-speaking, arrogant Normans against heroic, (Old) English-speaking natives. It's never completely black and white, right against wrong, conquerors against conquerees (?). All of which tends to keep you on your toes, keeps you thinking and keeps you involved in the tale.

'Sworn Sword' is a thoroughly enjoyable, fast moving, constantly surprising, satisfying, hard to put down, blood-soaked rampage through a post-Viking England. The old ways are about to be ridden rough-shod over, by the new, unfeeling, sophisticated and, for goodness' sake, French speaking invaders (themselves, old Viking stock, of course). For his first novel (as I understand it) James Aitcheson writes with great verve, passion and a sure style that puts him immediately in the same shield-wall as Bernard Cornwell, Robert Low, Giles Kristian and very few others. He Tweets me that there is a sequel out later in the year and I'm looking forward to getting stuck into that and having my English emotions twisted again very much indeed.

You really can't say fairer than that.

[bookscookslooks · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Tancred is a knight following his lord as they move into Northumbria post Hastings. It's 1069 and things are not settled for William the Conqueror in England, especially in the North. In a surprise attack while Tancred and some of his men are out scouting the town is attacked and his Lord, Robert Commines is killed. Wounded while fighting, he and two friends managed to escape and find help for Tancred's wound the next town up. There Tancred reluctantly agrees to a task for a new lord despite wanting to stay, fight the enemy and be the one to kill Edgar the Aethling - the one who leads the rebels and therefore responsible for the death of his former master.And the woman he continues to dream about. Who he knew for about six months, couldn't communicate with because he speaks French and she spoke English but hey, the sex was good. He still mourns her. Endlessly.His sword arm itches a lot too. In fact if it itched one more time I was going to take a sword and cut it off. I appreciate that Tancred is a warrior. I appreciate that Tancred wants to fight but seriously there has to be another way to express it other than his sword arm itching. I did read an ARC so maybe this was corrected in the final copy.Maybe I shouldn't type reviews when I have a headache. My two major complaints being expressed I can write that I did find the book readable.The author's note in the back indicates that it is based in history and that many of the characters did exist. It's a first book for Mr. Aitcheson and I would imagine that he will get better with Tancred as he goes forth in the world. Tancred needs some maturity. For a man that leads men into battle he has a very short fuse and he is really not too bright. He is a warrior as we are told ad nauseum and he wants to fight - see arm itching - but there is a lot more to a good book than battles. Characters need depth and scenes need development. I'll give the next book in the series a try - I'm not ready to give up on our hero just yet.