Conqueror

by Baxter, Stephen

  Orm Egilsson was no Norman but a Dane. He was an adventurer, a mercenary. He had actually been riding ahead of the Norman raiding party. That way he had a chance to be the first upon the next hapless Breton farmer and his terrified family. It wasn’t much of a way to wage war, in Orm’s opinion, to ravage a countryside, torch the buildings, slaughter the men, and leave every woman over the age of nine raped to death. But it was the Norman way - and though he avoided the butchery and the rapes, the best way Orm could impress his employer, a Norman count, was to be out ahead of the pack, his blade flashing, his war cries louder than anybody else’s.

  And that was why, as he took a short-cut through a small, tangled copse, he had been the first to come upon this patch of clinging bog.

  Well, he had to get out of the mud. But when he tried to push himself up his arms just sank in the mush up to his elbows, and as he thrashed around the links of his mail coat clogged up and grew heavier. Winded from the fall, he was starting to tire. And, he realised, each time he struggled to free himself, all he succeeded in doing was stirring up the mud and sinking a little deeper. He had to laugh. Was this how his life was to end, drowning in mud? He would be turned away from paradise with the heroes’ mockery ringing in his ears.

  And so much for impressing the Duke, he thought bitterly. But he had no choice but to ask for help.

  ‘Hey!’ He shouted as loudly as he could, and took off his conical helmet to wave it. ‘A hand! Over here!’

  The Normans surged on like a storm, but he thought he saw a couple of riders peel off.

  He struggled further, sank deeper. He repeated his cries in the Frankish spoken by the Normans, in English, and in Danish.

  ‘I can hear you. No need to yell.’

  The new voice was English, and a woman’s. Orm tried to turn. The mud was now almost up to his waist, its heavy grasp tightening around his legs.

  The woman, who must have been riding with the warriors, was standing at the far side of the copse, with a man beside her. Short, confident, wiry-looking, she wore no mail but a sensible tunic and trousers of tough-looking leather. Her brown hair was pulled back revealing a face bronzed by sun and rain. Blue-eyed, around twenty, she might have been pretty, Orm thought bleakly, if she wasn’t so obviously amused by him.

  The man beside her had similar pale blue eyes; he was in mail and carried a mace, but looked too slight to be a warrior. Older than the woman he looked sly to Orm - slim and lithe, like a snake.

  Orm knew him. ‘You’re the priest who rides with Harold.’

  ‘That’s true,’ the man said. ‘My name is Sihtric. This is my sister, Godgifu.’

  Orm tried to straighten up, recovering as much dignity as he could. ‘And I am Orm, son of Egil, son of Egil, who—’ But he tipped over backward, and, thrashing in the mud, sank a bit deeper.

  Like the call of a bird Godgifu’s laughter echoed around the little copse.

  Sihtric murmured, ‘It isn’t polite to mock the poor chap, Godgifu. So you’re Egilsson? In fact I’ve been meaning to find you. Is it true your father was born in Vinland?’

  ‘Conceived there,’ Orm said, gasping in the mud. ‘Born in Greenland.’

  ‘Ah. And do you have an ancestor, another Egil, who fought Alfred at Ethandune?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then our families have a connection,’ said Sihtric. ‘You see—’

  ‘I would happily debate genealogies with you all day, priest,’ Orm said, breathless, ‘but I have rather more pressing issues on my mind.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Godgifu practically. ‘Come, brother, we can discuss the Menologium later; for now let’s help him out.’

  Godgifu and Sihtric cautiously worked their way around the bog. They found a fallen branch and laid it across the mud. The branch was heavy, its bark rotten and crusted with lichen, and they were both soon filthy. Orm managed to grab the branch, which at least stopped him sinking further into the mud. But he couldn’t pull himself out. They all kept trying, and Sihtric murmured a prayer in Latin.

  ‘It’s not prayers he needs right now but muscle, good Sihtric.’ A tall, well-built man clad in expensive-looking mail came striding into the copse. Behind a glistening helmet inlaid with bronze, Orm glimpsed locks of greying red hair and a long moustache. He spoke English, and must have been about forty, but he was a slab of muscle who might have massed twice as much as the skinny priest.

  Sihtric bowed. ‘Lord. We’ve done our best, but—’

  ‘I can see you have.’

  ‘His name is Orm Egilsson,’ Godgifu said.

  ‘Orm, is it? One of William’s paid warriors? I’ve seen men die like this before, once the mud gets in your mail, and your leather gets soaked - but not today. Eh, Orm Egilsson?’

  He turned to his horse, which was being held by a boy, and took his shield. It was the Norman kind, the leaf shape with rounded top and pointed base that the craftsmen called half-lanceolate. The Englishman dropped the shield on the mud, and without hesitation strode out along it, showing impressive balance. Positioning his feet carefully, he leaned over and stripped off his glove. ‘Flesh on flesh is your best bet now.’

  Orm threw his glove towards Godgifu and reached up. The Englishman warmly clasped Orm’s hand and pulled. Orm scrambled, kicking at the mud, but it was the Englishman whose sheer straining power won the day, and Orm came free all at once like a baby popping from between its mother’s legs.

  The Englishman helped the Dane to stand and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘There. Next time watch where you’re riding.’ Before Orm could thank him he picked up his shield and strode back to his horse.

  The priest said, ‘What a man. Sees a problem, solves it, moves on. Well, Orm Egilsson, you’ll have a story to tell when you get drunk tonight.’

  Godgifu scraped the mud that clung to Orm’s mail. ‘Anything broken?’

  ‘Only my pride.’ He looked down at her as her gloved hands brushed across his chest. Their eyes met, her bright boyish gaze playful yet with hints of depth. The way she stroked his chest felt almost tender, despite the layers of cloth and metal that separated his flesh from hers.

  He asked, ‘Who was that?’ But he thought he knew the answer before the priest replied.

  Sihtric said, ‘Harold, son of Godwine, Earl of Wessex. Quite a man, don’t you think? And now you owe him your life, Orm Egilsson.’

  It was midsummer, 1064.

  II

  Orm didn’t see Godgifu again until the raiding party returned to Normandy.

  Orm was actually paid off at the Breton border. He didn’t make much of a profit, given the cost of the horse and the weapons he lost in the mud, and he would have been glad to see the back of the Norman raiders, who had mocked him mercilessly since his fall. But, paying his own way, he stayed with William’s party all the way to the small town of Bayeux, where Duke William’s half-brother Odo was bishop. There a feast was to be held, and a service of thanksgiving given by Odo in his richly appointed church.

  Orm, twenty-two years old, was an adventurer. As a second son it was up to him to find his own wealth and land. In the patchwork of warring dukedoms that was northern Frankia there were plenty of opportunities to fight - and there were few better paymasters than William the Bastard, who had been winning battles since he had fought his way out of his own brutal childhood.

  Some day, when he was rich or feeble or both, Orm would go back home to find a wife, buy some land, and build a farm of his own. Or perhaps he would go to England, where Danes, it was said, were still welcome, even if he might have to become a Christian and abandon the faith of his forefathers. But in the meantime he was an opportunist. And in his chance encounter with the English girl Godgifu, in those moments when she had touched his muddy mail and looked into his eyes, he thought he had glimpsed an opportunity, a new track. And so he followed William home to see where this new chance might lead.

  In the end he found her in Bayeux, one bright midday.

  Bayeux was dominated by church
es, and the manor houses of the lords. Today the little town was crowded with William’s men, and the vendors, chancers and whores that clustered around any successful army. By noon the roasting pits had been burning for a day and a night already, full of butchered pigs, sheep and cattle plundered from Breton farms, and the wine was flowing freely. The warriors strutted through the town like the sons of gods, eating, drinking, rutting, fighting, sleeping where they fell. They wore their helmets so that the whores would know who they were, though Orm was surprised their cocks weren’t already worn to nubs from their endless obsessive rapine.

  The ordinary people of the town just had to put up with all this. They lived in long houses, like halls, families crammed in together, sharing their space with their animals in the winter. Desperately poor, they had to spend most of their time working not for themselves but on their lords’ lands. They made Orm uncomfortable. Unlike Danes, unlike English, they were fundamentally unfree in a sense that offended Orm’s independent spirit.

  The English party that had travelled with Harold was still here. The English wore their hair long; few had beards, but many had long moustaches that needed a lot of grooming. The Normans, who dressed so soberly they looked like priests, called the Englishmen women. This led to fewer deaths than Orm might have expected, as the English thegns kept control of their men, for they were few and a long way from home.

  Orm glimpsed Harold himself, and his brother Gyrth. Their red hair long and moustaches luxuriant, they were tall, imposing figures who easily dominated the gaggle of housecarls and servants who followed them. The brothers were half Danish in blood, and they looked it. In fact the keeping of housecarls, professional soldiers and sworn companions, was a custom introduced by Cnut, a Danish king of England.

  The Godwines were the most powerful family in England, it was said, more powerful and rich even than King Edward, who was descended from the famous Alfred. These handsome brothers shone, their glamour bright, even on this foreign soil.

  William was less often spotted. The Duke did not rape or whore. It was said he had been faithful to his wife Mathilda for decades, and, always austere, the Bastard preferred to spend his time praying with his brother the bishop, or hunting, a sport to which he devoted hour after obsessive hour.

  William’s sons, though, were not as disciplined as their father. With their companions, none of them older than thirteen or fourteen, they crowed their way through Bayeux, arrogant, money-laden half-men with heavy swords and swollen pricks. Orm thought they were like a mockery of the Godwine brothers. Perhaps the world would be better off, he mused, without these packs of glamorous warrior-cubs.

  It was with William’s sons that Orm, calmly searching the town, came upon Godgifu.

  They had caught her, evidently alone, and backed her against the stone wall of a church. She seemed unafraid, even contemptuous, but they were many, and they looked hungry.

  Robert, the eldest son, stepped closer. ‘English bitch,’ he said in his guttural Frankish.

  She looked down at him. ‘What do you want, little boy?’

  ‘I want you, you leathery old English bag.’

  ‘If you want a whore go and find one, if you can raise your little pink worm for her.’

  Robert’s friends laughed at him, and he coloured. ‘I’ve had all the whores in this pig-sty. You will kneel to me.’

  She grinned. ‘Why? So you can reach?’

  ‘I am Robert, heir of Duke William!’ he shouted. ‘Kneel!’ And he drew his sword, raising it towards her throat.

  Suddenly she had a knife in her hand, a stubby blade of the type the English called a seax. She turned aside Robert’s sword, grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and held her knife at his neck. ‘Call me a bitch again,’ she hissed. ‘Go ahead, Robert heir of William.’

  Robert struggled, enraged, but did not speak. The others stayed frozen for a heartbeat. Then they started reaching for their swords.

  Orm strode into the circle. The boys, startled, backed off. ‘Lord Robert. Your father is asking for you.’

  ‘My father—’

  ‘You know me. You need not doubt my summons. Go now.’ Orm nodded to Godgifu. Cautiously she released the boy.

  Robert glared at Orm. But he sheathed his sword and walked away from Godgifu.

  Orm’s heart was pounding. If his bluff had failed the consequences for him could have been lethal.

  Godgifu didn’t even seem to be breathing hard. She put away her knife calmly; Orm couldn’t see where she hid it. She glanced up at Orm. ‘Thank you.’

  Sihtric came bustling up. He was wearing a black cassock, with a wooden crucifix at his neck. ‘Well done, well done,’ he said to Orm, puffing out his cheeks. ‘I saw it all. You gave Robert a way to back out of the situation without losing face. Come. Let me buy you some wine - the least I can do …’

  III

  Sihtric led Orm and his sister to a tavern, where he bought them cups of wine, and meat sliced from a plundered Breton pig served on wood-hard chunks of bread. But Sihtric had to borrow money from his sister to do it. Her coins were English silver pennies, which everybody knew were the most solid currency in Europe and accepted everywhere.

  Sihtric took a deep draught of his wine. ‘Ah. Spiced the way William himself is supposed to prefer it. Filthy muck, isn’t it? Give me good English ale any time. Well, that was a close thing. The death of one of Harold’s party at the hands of William’s own son could have been embarrassing. Very embarrassing indeed.’

  Orm turned on him. ‘Embarrassing? This is your sister. She could have been raped and murdered by those little arsewipes. I didn’t notice you running to her aid.’

  Sihtric laughed softly, as if the remark was utterly foolish.

  Godgifu sipped her wine, her blue eyes pale in the gloom of the tavern. ‘Orm, the truth is I’m here to look after Sihtric, not the other way around. Our father gave me the job when Sihtric joined Harold’s court.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Before he died. He was a thegn of Tostig Godwineson, Earl of Northumbria - brother of Harold. I was always a better fighter than Sihtric.’

  ‘Perhaps she has a little Danish in her,’ Sihtric said obscenely. ‘You Northmen always did enjoy a bit of the old in-and-out as you rampaged across England, didn’t you?’

  ‘Sihtric—’

  He ploughed on, ‘Don’t you think it’s strange to find us all here like this, a mix of mongrel races? Earl Harold himself is half English, half Danish—and we English are really Germans - and the Normans are Northmen too, or were a hundred years ago when they stole this bit of land from the Frankish king. Even the Bretons we chased across the countryside are, it is said, descended from Britons who fled here to escape from my own Saxon forefathers, though I find that hard to believe …’

  Orm glanced at Godgifu. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  She rolled her unreasonably pretty eyes. ‘History,’ she said. ‘Always history.’

  ‘Priest, in Brittany - by the bog - you told me you had been looking for me. Why?’

  Godgifu said, ‘Tell him about the Menologium. I can see you’re longing to.’

  ‘The Menologium?’

  ‘A prophecy,’ Sihtric whispered. ‘Possibly heretical. Two centuries ago it came into the possession of Alfred - our greatest king, you might have heard of him. It was already old then, and proven - and the years since have shown it to be no less truthful.’

  ‘It’s a family legend,’ Godgifu explained to Orm. ‘A story. One of our family, a priest called Cynewulf, was at Alfred’s side in those days. Since then the sons of Alfred, the kings, have forgotten about the Menologium. But not us - not Sihtric, and our father, and a chain of grandfathers before him, going back to the cousins of Cynewulf.’

  ‘So what’s it got to do with me?’

  Sihtric replied, ‘Your forefather was involved too.’

  He told Orm the story of Egil, who had raided Alfred’s hall at Cippanhamm, and then fought the English at Ethandune
. Orm knew the story, of course - or at least his family’s flattering version of it. Egil had spawned many offspring, among them a long line of Egils, one of whom, six generations later, had been Orm’s father, and the seventh Orm’s own elder brother, also called Egil.

  ‘Most Danes are no more literate than the Normans,’ Sihtric said dismissively. ‘But your family sagas preserve the memories of your ancestors. And if you are a soldier of fortune it does no harm to be bragging about the deeds of your forefathers, does it? Especially if one of them took on King Alfred himself. So it wasn’t hard to track you down, Orm son of Egil son of Egil.’

  ‘I still don’t know what you want,’ Orm said.

  Sihtric began to speak hurriedly of his prophecy: of hairy stars and Great Years and enigmatic stanzas. ‘The Menologium was authored by a Weaver - that is the name the scholars give him - who guides our actions in order to fulfil an epic plan, whose goals even I cannot yet discern …’

  Godgifu cut him off. ‘Sihtric believes that the prophecy is coming to its culmination, now, in our lifetimes.’

  ‘In fact,’ Sihtric said pedantically, ‘in just a couple of years. And the prophecy says that you will be involved in this great crisis, Orm.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, your kind.’ Sihtric’s eyes were shining. ‘I haven’t quite worked it all out yet. The Menologium is gnomic. But it can’t be a coincidence that a descendant of Egil Egilsson is here at such a time. I do know there will be a great struggle.’

  ‘In two years’ time, you say. The year 1066? How do you know that?’

  ‘The prophecy,’ Sihtric said, ‘contains dates. And in this historic clash, Harold Godwineson will be pivotal.’

  Orm drained his cup. ‘My head’s spinning,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if it’s these Norman spices or your English words, priest. What does Harold think of this?’

  Sihtric sighed. ‘He won’t listen to me. I’ve tried, but he’s reluctant.’

  ‘Why do you believe he’s so important? Is he named in the prophecy?’

  ‘No. But he is the most powerful man in England - although he will never be king. He would not have it, and besides, the blood of Alfred doesn’t run in his veins …’