Barnon nodded his head, ‘Aye, that I will. Thank you, my lord.’
De Gacé waited another two days before he raced through the castle asking everyone he met where he might find Barnon of Glos. When he finally ran into him, he took a moment to gather his breath before gasping, ‘Excuse me, but I thought you should know this at once. William Montgomery has been found.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Gone to ground in a farmhouse. I’ll get you the exact directions. But he’s not alone, he has three accomplices.’ De Gacé paused, then asked, ‘You say you have a dozen men?’
‘That’s right,’ Barnon said.
‘Then take them all with you. These fugitives are cornered rats. If they should try to fight, you need to be sure of exterminating them all.’
Within the hour, Barnon and his men were on their way. De Gacé watched them go with joy and exhilaration in his heart. It was a pity that three of his men would have to die. But they were by no means the best he had, and their loss was a small price to pay for their silence. There wasn’t a man in Normandy who wouldn’t understand why William Montgomery had murdered Osbern Herfastsson, nor would any but a Montgomery fail to applaud Barnon of Glos for avenging his master.
That Osbern’s death had left Ralph de Gacé as the last remaining guardian and closest councillor to Duke William was, of course, nothing but the purest coincidence.
Book Three:
Trial by Combat,
Trial by Ordeal
September 1041–January 1045
1
Winchester
‘Your Majesty,’ said Leofric, his voice slurred by all the drink that had been consumed during the course of a royal dinner, held in the great hall of Winchester Palace, that was prodigious even by Harthacnut’s standards of consumption. ‘I wonder, Your Majesty, if I might . . . possibly . . . if you would be so kind as to hear me . . . beg your indulgence for . . . for . . . ah—’
‘Come on, old fellow, spit it out!’ Harthacnut interrupted. ‘How can I be indulgent if you won’t tell me who to indulge, eh?’
Sven Estridsson and the other toadies and hangers-on that had come with the king from Denmark all laughed uproariously at this splendid example of regal wit. Godwin, meanwhile, just winced. He could tell that Leofric was about to talk his way into trouble and was too far gone to know it. If he’d kept his wits about him, he would have remembered that Harthacnut was a bullying drunk, who liked to use his own extraordinary capacity for drink as a weapon. He would insist that his courtiers match him drink for drink, and though this demand was dressed up as good fellowship and even generosity – for it was, after all, the king who had supplied the wine or mead that was being consumed – it was actually a means of imposing his will, for the more incapacitated his guests became, the more he would taunt them for their weakness, as if a man’s worth could be measured by his thirst.
Leofric had been a man of healthy appetites in his time, but not on Harthacnut’s scale; besides, he was well past the age when a man started losing his ability to drink all night and then be up at dawn to go hunting or warmongering.
‘I think the Earl of Mercia is tiring, sire,’ said Godwin, trying to get Leofric off the hook on which he was impaling himself. ‘It’s his age, no doubt. Why don’t I escort him to his chamber, just to make sure he doesn’t get lost on the way?’
‘Tiring . . . really?’ replied Harthacnut. ‘What do you say to that, Mercia? Are you too exhausted to ask for my favour?’
‘Certainly not!’ Leofric insisted, to cheers from the Danish sycophants. ‘Never heard such nonsense, Godwin. I’m as wide awake as . . . as . . . well, I’m wide awake, anyway.’
‘If you say so,’ Godwin sighed. ‘I was trying to help, you old fool,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Excellent!’ crowed Harthacnut. ‘The Earl of Mercia’s eye is bright. His wits are sharp. Here! Charge your cup and wet your throat before you speak . . . No, I insist.’
Leofric struggled through yet another drink and then, with red wine dribbling down his silvery beard, said, ‘It’s about . . . about the people of Worcester, Your Majesty.’
Oh God, thought Godwin. Not this. Anything but this . . .
‘What about them?’ asked the king. ‘Apart from the fact that they’re refusing to pay their taxes?’
‘Well, that’s just it,’ said Leofric. ‘Many of the people simply cannot afford the tax. They found it hard enough to pay their share of the money for your fleet last year. Now they’re being asked to pay again and . . . well, they just can’t.’
‘You care about Worcester, do you?’
‘Oh yes, sire. It’s in the heart of Mercia, so it’s my land. It’s also a family matter. You see, the townsfolk come from an ancient tribe called the Hwicce. And my family originally came from the same tribe, so I’m honour-bound to defend them.’
‘Huh!’ grunted the king. ‘Tell me, do these . . . what did you say they were called?’
‘Hwicce, sire.’
‘Yes, well, do they believe that England should be defended against its enemies?’
‘Absolutely, Your Majesty, they certainly do.’
‘So they would agree that I was right to build more ships for the English navy?’
‘Well, yes, but what I think, ah, confuses them is that they thought they were paying for a navy last time.’
‘They were, but that was my navy, the one that brought me here from . . . where did I come from, Leofric?’
The king spoke with exaggerated calm, like a teacher talking to a particularly dim pupil.
‘Bruges, sire.’
Harthacnut rolled his eyes, to titters from his friends. ‘Before that.’
‘Oh, yes, Denmark.’
‘That’s right, so what nationality were my ships?’
‘Er . . . Danish?’
‘Exactly. There were sixty Danish ships, and one day they and their men will go back to Denmark. Now I’m building thirty English ships – which is not enough, not nearly, but it will have to do for now – so that if someone else tries to invade, we have some way of defending ourselves. And ships have to be paid for. Do the Hwicces of Worcester understand that?’
‘Well, yes, sire, but—’
‘But nothing!’ Harthacnut slammed his fist down on the table. ‘The English must pay their taxes. I don’t care what they think. I don’t care whether they can afford it. I need that tax and they must pay it. Do I make myself clear, Leofric?’
‘Yes, sire.’
For a brief moment Godwin relaxed, thinking it was over. Leofric would be sent off to find the money, and once he’d been gone two or three weeks, something or someone else would have occupied the king’s attention. But then he saw Harthacnut’s eyes turning towards him and heard the king say, ‘So, Godwin, did you know that Leofric was about to plead on behalf of tax-evaders?’
‘No, Your Majesty.’
‘I find that hard to believe. You clearly knew something was up.’
‘I, ah . . .’ Godwin searched desperately for a form of words that would get himself out of trouble without dropping Leofric even deeper into it. The task was not helped by the fact that his own wits were dulled by the effect of the night’s overindulgence. Then inspiration struck. ‘You’re absolutely right, sire. I was afraid . . . afraid that Leofric was about to launch into one of his stories about the old days. Excuse me, Mercia, but they really can be arse-achingly dull.’
That got a laugh out of the Estridsson contingent. Godwin shot Sven a furious look: You’re supposed to be Gytha’s nephew, you little shit. That makes us family. Try acting like it for once. Harthacnut, however, remained unamused. ‘Good try, but I am not as easily fooled as some of my friends. I think you knew he was about to say something that would anger me, even if I am prepared to believe that you did not know exactl
y what it would be. Am I right?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘So, Godwin, tell me, what would my father have done, confronted by an entire city refusing to pay a tax imposed by royal decree.’
‘Well, Your Majesty, your father was a great man, much loved by his people for his fairness and kindness—’
‘Horse-shit. My father was as hard as nails. He ruled an empire that straddled the North Sea like a giant’s footsteps. True, he was fair. Those who did their duty and served him well would be properly rewarded. But God forbid that a man should betray him, or fail him, or disobey him, for then that man’s life was forfeit. Is that not so?’
Godwin nodded. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘And have the people of Worcester disobeyed me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. I have been disobeyed and betrayed, and if I let this pass without taking action, men all over the country will know that my word carries no weight and my commands are just so much hot air.’
‘But sire,’ Leofric begged, ‘they have no money, they cannot afford to—’
‘Nonsense! When my father became king, he levied a tax three times greater than the one I raised last year. The English found a way to pay him then, yes, even the ancient Hwicce from Worcester. They could pay me now; they just choose not to. So what then shall I do?’
The question was rhetorical; even Leofric, drunk as he was, understood that. Godwin waited to see what his delinquent sot of a monarch would decide. Just then, Sven Estridsson leaned over and whispered something in the king’s ear.
Harthacnut’s eyes widened. His face, already flushed and sweaty from his excessive consumption, turned a darker shade of puce. His breathing grew more laboured, and with spittle gathering in a white foam at the corners of his mouth, he shouted at Leofric, ‘Is this true? Is . . . this . . . true?’
‘Is what true, Your Majesty?’
‘Is what true?’ Harthacnut repeated in a mocking singsong voice. ‘Don’t give me that shit. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Is it true that your treacherous kinfolk in Worcester killed two of my tax-collectors?’
Leofric desperately tried to evade the issue. ‘I can’t be sure of that, sire. I mean, I didn’t see any bodies or anything.’
‘The hell you didn’t! You knew about this, didn’t you?’
Leofric’s shoulders slumped in surrender. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
Harthacnut nodded with slow deliberation. ‘Very well, then, I have made my decision. I condemn Worcester to harrying.’
A look of absolute horror spread across the earl’s face. The king had just ordered the destruction of the entire city. ‘No, sire, please . . . I beg—’
‘You beg in vain. That is the punishment I have chosen for Worcester. And your punishment is that you will carry it out.’
Godwin was shocked. ‘Your Majesty, are you sure this is wise? To ask a man to slaughter his own people, and burn down buildings within his own earldom . . . Your father would not have done that.’
Harthacnut nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I see that . . . Father might well have been concerned that his orders would not be obeyed.’
‘Exactly, sire.’
‘In that case, Godwin, since Worcester is very definitely not in your earldom, you had better accompany Leofric and ensure that my instructions are carried out to the letter. I want Worcester razed to the ground. I want it reduced to ashes. I want the streets to run with its inhabitants’ blood. And if you do not obey my orders, I remind you both that I still have those sixty Danish ships, each one of them fully crewed by fighting men . . . oh, and the ship you were so kind as to give me, Godwin. And I will not hesitate to turn them loose against anyone who crosses me.’
2
Worcester and Winchester
Three whole days had passed since the harrying of Worcester had begun: three days and nights of murder, rape, looting, demolition and arson. Now the flames rising into the night sky cast a glow like the fires of hell itself over the city and illuminated the torment of a screaming woman lying trapped beneath a fallen beam. Her hips had been smashed by the impact of the massive shaft of oak that had once supported the roof of the house where she served as some kind of menial scullion. Now she lay immobile, howling in agony, with the crushed remains of her dead child in her arms.
Her ear-splitting screeches cut through Godwin’s aching head like a skewer through his brain. He was drunk – very, very drunk, far more so than at any of Harthacnut’s feasts, so that it was a struggle just to stay in the saddle, even when his horse was still – and his discomfort was made worse by the smoke in the air, which made his eyes smart and irritated his throat and chest so that he kept coughing: dry, rasping hacks that only made his head hurt even more.
‘For God’s sake, someone shut her up!’ he shouted, not aiming the request at anyone in particular, let alone expecting to be obeyed.
The Saviour did not hear his words, but Satan must have done, because out of the smoke there emerged a man-at-arms, as ugly a brute as Godwin had ever clapped eyes on. His nose was caved in, and the sword that had split it had left its mark in the vivid scar that slashed across his face. His eyes were piggy, his gaping mouth was almost toothless and there were two large, swollen warts on his chin.
Compared to the dog that was straining at the leash in his hand, however, the man-at-arms was a paragon of masculine good looks. It was some kind of nightmarish mongrel, the spawn of beasts specifically chosen for their absence of any redeeming features by a breeder for whom viciousness, malice and an absolute refusal to be tamed were all considered virtues.
The man walked down the desolate street with a terrible, implacable certainty, and it seemed to Godwin as though the air somehow chilled for a moment as he passed. The earl was, in theory, this man’s commander – though he could not recall having seen him or the dog before – yet he did not dare utter a word, either of command or reproach. He just stood mutely as the man walked to within a few paces of the wounded woman, stopped and then loosed his dog.
The beast crossed the ground in the blink of an eye, sank its teeth into the woman’s throat and shook its head from side to side. When it pulled away, its maw was full of skin, flesh and gristle. It swallowed the grisly mouthful, then bent its head again towards its prey. It soon lighted upon a far more enticing dish.
As the dog began to tear at the dead child, emitting rumbling growls and snuffles of appreciation and wagging its stubby tail, while its master looked on as emotionless as before, Godwin felt nausea rising in his throat. He pulled on his horse’s reins and, desperately fighting the urge to vomit, spurred his mount into a trot, then a canter and finally a gallop. He tore through the burning city, past the piled mounds of corpses and the drunken, blood-spattered soldiers – for no half-decent man could undertake such a task if he was sober; past the burned-out shells of looted taverns; past the ruins of the modest buildings where the town’s tradesmen and their families had lived and worked; past the roofless, smoke-blackened church that should have been spared but simply fell victim to flames that could no longer be controlled; past the remnants of what had started the week as a peaceful Mercian town, and out into the meadows beyond.
Only then did he dismount, bend double and heave the contents of his guts out on to the fresh green grass. As he straightened up, wiping his hands across his face, he heard the sound of footsteps, accompanied by heavy, almost convulsive breathing.
He drew his sword and sprang around to face this new threat.
It was Leofric, stumbling blindly, head in his hands, sobbing helplessly. Godwin went to him and put his arms around him, holding him tight and murmuring reassurance in a tone he’d only ever used before with a crying woman. But Leofric was unmanned by shame and grief, and so, Godwin realised, was he. Soon tears were pouring down his face too, so that he could not talk, and the
y both stood weeping while the waters of the River Severn rolled by, heedless of what was happening on its banks, and the birds in the trees sang on, indifferent to human stupidity.
They had both stopped crying, though neither had said a word, when one of Godwin’s men approached them. ‘My lords,’ he began, ‘it’s about the townspeople. A lot of them got away. They’ve gone to an island in the middle of the river – Bevere Island, it’s called. What do you want us to do about them?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Leofric. ‘Go away.’
Godwin patted his fellow earl on the back. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with this.’ He glanced at the messenger. ‘Let’s leave his lordship be, eh? Walk with me a while.’
They stepped down towards the river’s edge. ‘John, isn’t it?’ Godwin said.
‘That’s right, my lord. John of Saltwich, they call me, for that’s where I come from.’
‘Very well then, John of Saltwich, tell me where this island lies.’
‘Oh, you can’t see it from here, my lord; it’s a way upstream.’
‘So it’s not within the boundary of Worcester?’
‘No, my lord, not by quite a way.’
‘Then we shall let it be. The king ordered us to harry Worcester. I was there myself when he gave the order. He said nothing about any islands, and therefore if we were to attack an island, we would be disobeying a royal command. And we wouldn’t want to do that, would we, John?’
‘No, my lord.’
Godwin heard the relief in the man’s voice and sympathised. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘have St Peter’s Priory and the cathedral church survived?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Godwin. ‘We can only hope that earns us some forgiveness when the Day of Judgement comes.’
The king was drunk when he heard the news that Worcester had been destroyed. He greeted Godwin and Leofric’s report with a burst of manic laughter that caused him to swallow some food the wrong way and cough violently. His courtiers hung back, unwilling to help for fear that any vigorous action towards the royal body, such as slapping him on the back, might be seen as an act of treasonable violence. Eventually Harthacnut recovered his breath, but the very act of prolonged coughing had unsettled his stomach, with the result that he vomited a great flood of vinous purple-red effluent all over the banqueting table.
The Leopards of Normandy: Duke: Leopards of Normandy 2 Page 22
