Sir Sigefrith crosses words with Egelric

“Pardon me, sir.”

Sigefrith turned before he had a chance to recognize the voice, and was startled to come nose-​​to-​​tremendous-​​nose with Egelric Wodehead.

“Might I have a word with you?”

“Of course,” Sigefrith said automatically, but he was immediately on his guard. He had noticed Egelric eyeing him all through the funeral and the following dinner, particularly whenever he had the charge of the young Prince Colban.

He knew that Egelric knew… but Egelric did not know that he knew… and it was important that Egelric not know that he had been with Malcolm at all… oh, it was awkward indeed.

And in the kilt he wore for formal occasions, he was all the more intimidating. He looked enough like Malcolm at first glance to send Sigefrith’s heart skipping a beat, and different enough at closer study to make the resemblance seem like a spectral shadow upon his face.

Above all, he knew that the King respected Egelric greatly for his keen mind, and Sigefrith did not flatter himself that he was a particularly clever young man. He knew he could best the Squire at swords, but here in the King’s hall, where Egelric desired to cross words with him instead, he had met his match.

“Let us find a quiet corner,” Egelric proposed, and he led Sigefrith to a corner of the hall farthest from the small, softly murmuring crowd that surrounded the King.

Colban saw Sigefrith leave the group and came running after, calling his name plaintively.

“Just a moment, Cubby,” he cautioned.

Meanwhile Egelric bent down and said something to the boy in Gaelic. Colban laughed and ran off.

“What did you tell him?” Sigefrith asked. He was sorry he hadn’t learned more than a few words of Gaelic in his time with the Scots. But it was already fortunate that he had managed to fit the Norse and the Latin into his absurdly thick skull.

“It’s what my grandfather used to tell me when I pestered him,” Egelric chuckled. “It is our joke. I tell him to go out to the dunghill and see whether I’m still up on top.”

“But you’re standing right here.”

“Aye, that’s the joke.”

Sigefrith smiled. “Does he understand?”

“He did after the first trip to the dunghill. Not bad for a boy his age.”

“He’s a clever boy.”

“Aye. Remarkably. You’re very fond of him, I’ve noticed.”

“Oh – of course. Why not?” Egelric was eyeing him narrowly again.

“You’re a young man to have patience for such a small boy.”

“I’m a father too.”

“That you are,” he nodded.

“Is that – I mean – How can I be of service to you?”

“Oh, only a small question. I simply wanted to ask you where you acquired the amulet you’re wearing.”

“Oh!” His hand leapt to cover the prancing silver stag he wore on his neck, but of course it was far too late for that.

It was Malcolm who had taken it from his own neck and put it on Sigefrith’s on one particularly drunken night – something about putting a collar on his lapdog – but Sigefrith had kept it afterwards, not to say treasured it, and only removed it upon returning to England, as a precaution.

But then the last letter from his cousin Colban had come, mournfully noting that no one had seen or heard from Malcolm in a year, and that it was beginning to look likely that he had gone to a place from whence he would never return.

Then Sigefrith had taken out the amulet and begun to wear it again, as his way of keeping the faith. He alone knew that Malcolm still lived – he was, at least, the last to have seen him alive. He knew that Malcolm must be in Brittany or even beyond, but alive. Surely that little brother to the devil and cousin to all cats had a few lives to spare.

But he had not even told the King, at Malcolm’s command, and it pained him, for he would have loved to have spoken of Malcolm with someone. Even Malcolm’s little son was reaching the age where it was unsafe to say the least thing.

Still, it seemed that Egelric Wodehead was skirting dangerously near to that topic of conversation, and he would have to do his best to avoid it.

“I got it while I was with the Scots last year.” That much Egelric was permitted to know.

“It is curious. Did you win it or was it a gift?”

“A… gift.”

“Who gave it to you? I realize it is indiscreet…”

“Oh, well…” He would have to lie. Worse, he would have to lie to a clever man who had probably already thought of ten things he might say, while he himself hadn’t even yet found one.

“I only ask because it looks very much like something some of my own family would wear, and I wonder whether you have met any of them.” His voice was soft and nonchalant, but his eyes were keen.

Sigefrith had not realized the amulet was so recognizable, else he would surely not have worn it. Indeed, he had taken care to run into young Malcolm the first time he had, and Malcolm had eyed it askance – nothing escaped his golden eyes – but he had said nothing. And so Sigefrith had thought that surely it was only a piece of jewelry, and nothing that would reveal a secret.

He should have remembered that young Malcolm kept his own counsel and came to his own conclusions. But of course it was far too late for that.

“His name was… Duncan, I believe,” he said, choosing the first name he could find that was not Malcolm.

“Duncan? Do you know his family or his clan?”

“Ah… no.”

“Well, did he look like me?” Egelric asked with a smile. “Surely you would not have forgotten the nose.”

“Ah, no. Didn’t look like you at all. I think he was from… the north.”

“Then he is not one of mine. I merely wondered. Forgive my indiscretion.”

“Of course, of course,” Sigefrith said, relieved.

“If you will excuse me, sir, I had better go out to the dunghill and make sure I’m not still on top of it.”

“Send Colban back in to me if he is.”

“I shall,” he chuckled as he went off.

“Good Lord,” Sigefrith whispered to himself as he leaned back against the wall in exhaustion. He had not won, but at least he had not been quite defeated – so he thought.