Sworn Sword by James Aitcheson Page B

dirtied with mud, and he smelt of cattle dung. He brought with him a glass jar, which he handed to me without a word. I asked him what it was for, but he stared blankly back at me; clearly he did not speak French. But if nothing else he must have understood my puzzlement, for he held one hand down in front of his crotch, extending his forefinger, while with the other he pointed to the jar I was holding.
    I tried to sit up, realising what he meant for me to do. My head was still heavy and my limbs weak from the fever, but the monk made no attempt to help me, instead merely gazing out of the window. At last I managed to perch on the edge of the bed, and with my back to the monk, I filled the jar.
    He took it once I’d finished, lifting the golden liquid to the light and swirling it about, muttering some words that I did not understand as he examined it. He sniffed at the jar in disdain, and then put the rim to his mouth. I watched in disgust as he sipped at it, and he must have seen my expression for he gave me a quizzical look before walking out, nodding thoughtfully, still muttering to himself.
    When the chaplain came to see me that evening, I asked him what the monk had been looking for.
    ‘If the urine is dark and cloudy,’ Ælfwold explained, ‘it shows that there is more healing work to be done. But if it appears pale and clear, does not smell stale, and most importantly is sweet upon the tongue, it is a positive sign of good health. Is this not common wisdom where you are from?’
    Perhaps it was, though I did not know it. It was not something the infirmarian had ever taught me at the monastery, and, to tell the truth, I was glad for it. But Ælfwold wouldn’t allow me to venture out until the monk was satisfied that my waters were sufficiently clear, and so for the next few days I was kept confined to my chamber.
    Whenever he could, the chaplain would sit with me and tell me the news from outside, little though there was. He made no mention of any further disturbances in the city, nor anything of the Northumbrians marching south, and I began to wonder if perhaps Malet’s concerns were misplaced. At other times the priest would bring with him a squared board on which to play chess, and also a game like it called tæfl , which I knew the English were fond of, and which he took great pleasure in teaching me. But most of the time I had nothing to do but sit, lost in my own thoughts as I faced the same four walls from morning until night.
    As the days passed, however, gradually I recovered my strength, finding my appetite once more. My head began to feel clearer, less heavy, and I found that I was spending less time asleep. By the fifth day since I first woke in that narrow bed my leg had healed enough that I was able to stand, if somewhat unsteadily, and even – with the chaplain’s help – walk about the room. It still gave me trouble, but the priest assured me that the earlier I started to put my weighton it, the faster it would get better. And he was right, for it was but another two days before my piss was finally clear and he judged me well enough to venture out. I couldn’t walk far without stopping to give my leg respite, but simply going beyond the door was a relief; so far I had seen nothing of the world beyond my chamber, not even the rest of Malet’s house.
    ‘This was once the residence of the Earls of Northumbria,’ the chaplain told me as he led me into the great hall, ‘built in the days when Eoferwic fell under their dominion. No finer palace stands in all of England, save perhaps for that at Westmynstre.’
    Indeed it was a place worthy of a vicomte. The hall was easily forty paces in length and perhaps more, with a gallery running around the edge, from which were hung round shields painted in many colours: vermilion and yellow, green and azure. The sun shone in through four high windows, casting wide triangles upon the floor. In the centre stood a table long enough to seat thirty lords, with