by Paul Finch
Anselm said nothing else. He left his father in a solitary state, striding through the eastern door and ascending the stair towards the residential apartments. He was only a few steps up when a whisper sounded from a shadowy recess.
“Your grace … may I speak with you?”
Anselm turned, and found Ella waiting there.
“My child?” he said.
“Can you help Eric?”
“What are you asking? That I give him absolution?”
“I was thinking a little more than that.”
“Then you are a very foolish girl,” he said sternly, “and I shall pretend this conversation never took place.” He set off up the steps, his purple cloak swirling.
She hurried after him. “He’s your brother.”
He turned to face her again. “The law is the law. Everyone brought before it is someone’s brother or father or son. Eric will be tried. If he committed this crime, he is guilty of a heinous sin. There is nothing I can do.”
“I thought that, as a man of God, you’d see beyond the differences between our two peoples.”
“You were mistaken.”
“As Eric did.”
“I don’t wish to hear any more.”
Ella curled her lip. “So speak all who fear that right is not on their side.”
Anselm looked shocked. “You forget who you are.”
“Do you forget who you are?” she wondered. “Have they told you the circumstances surrounding Eric’s rebellion?”
“Of course. He slew Hugh de Valognes in a dispute over a girl.”
Ella shook her head, sickened by such an untruth.
“What more need I know?” Anselm asked. “Eric is an errant knight. Red Hugh was one of the first barons of the realm.”
“And one of the most rapacious. I doubt he’ll even be missed. His family are probably fighting over his wealth like jackals.”
“So the crime is justified because the victim deserved it? That’s a flawed philosophy, Ella.”
“A philosophy you Normans invented.”
“I’ve heard enough.” Anselm turned to continue up the stair, but Ella grabbed him by the elbow.
“You’ve not heard anything yet, your grace!”
“How dare you, girl! Unhand me!”
“I’ll unhand you when I’ve finished.”
“I am an Episcopal prince.”
“And I am lawful heir to one of the greatest earldoms in England.” She regarded him intently, her elfin beauty suddenly on fire. “So I will not be silenced. And you will hear the truth from me. About the campaign in the north and about the tortured soul that is your younger brother …”
*
Isabel had also decided to visit Eric in his cell. Having procured food and drink from the kitchens, she too had ventured down to the dungeon, but halted before she even reached his barred compartment. Red flames now flickered on the walls down there, and she heard the prisoner conversing with his captors.
“You can make your position easier by giving us the names of your confederates in this district,” Reynald said.
“Even if I had any, what would be the point?” Eric replied. “I’m still to be executed.”
“There are different ways of dying,” the knight called Drogo retorted.
Eric laughed. “Good Lord, it speaks.”
A furious impact followed: the smack of what sounded like a fist on bone, followed by an agonised grunt.
Isabel didn’t wait to hear more, but fled back up through the levels of the castle to her own bedchamber, where Rolf was pacing nervously. Sweat beaded his florid brow. When he saw her tears, he came to a standstill. After she’d stammered out what had happened, he began pacing again.
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” she asked.
“What do you want me to do, woman?”
“Stop them!”
“Reynald fitzJoulaix is the king’s man!”
“So are you!”
“That doesn’t entitle me to interfere with justice.”
Isabel ran fingers through her bronze curls, which, after the many stresses of the day, now hung loose. “My dear Rolf, the justice in England is made up as we go along.”
“You know nothing.”
“What is this trouble between you and Eric?” she asked.
He glared around at her, seemingly stung.
“You haven’t had a good word to say about him in years,” she added.
“He’s wayward, he has no direction in life, never has had …”
“Yet he fought at Hastings alongside you, a full knight of the duchy ...”
“He’s an adventurer! With no sense of responsibility. And look where it’s got him now. I always knew he’d come to a bad end. And I was right.”
“Well … at least you’ve been right about something,” she replied.
Enraged, he dashed across the room and drew his hand back to slap her. But she awaited his blow boldly, her chin lifted, her lovely eyes flashing defiance.
“Strike me and it won’t make any difference,” she said. “Not when the ones you should be striking are downstairs, shedding your family blood on your own floor.”
Slowly, he lowered his hand. “Isabel … we could lose everything.”
“Oh my husband, when will you stop being such a fool?” She moved to the door and opened it. “The ‘everything’ you talk about is soil and stone. There is so much more to life than that.”
10
The northern holdings of the Britons were challenged by the Scythians, a race of painted people, who came across the sea under a war-chief called Sodric. They captured many of the smaller isles, and fought their way inland, driving the Britons ever further to the south. These Scythians were extremely savage, and as well as expelling the Britons, they attacked those few enclaves of ours that remained in the northern highlands. In later centuries, even the Roman people, who would call the Scythians ‘Picts’ after the small, fast ships they built, would avoid engaging them in battle. After their catastrophe in the north, the Britons extended west, encroaching on us again, pushing us even closer to the sea. We fought them hard, but our numbers were shrinking and our bloodline weakening. Deprived of livestock and land, we produced fewer and fewer offspring.
Drogo yanked hard on the length of chain. It was looped through an iron ring set in a high point on the wall. Once again, Eric was dragged to his feet. Drogo hooked the chain onto a peg lower down, leaving the prisoner upright, his arms fastened above his head.
Eric was now severely battered. His face was cut and bruised all over; blood drooled from his nose and mouth. Drogo dug two more punches into him, this time aiming at his ribs. Eric gasped, spittle spurting from between his ruptured lips.
“Enough,” Reynald said.
Drogo backed away, but more it seemed because he was tired than because he was following orders.
Eric cackled. “Is that the best you can do, hog-face!”
Drogo snarled, and made to punch him again.
“Enough, I said!” Reynald snapped. “Can’t you see what he’s doing? His family are cooperating at present. But much more of this and it might change.”
“And what if it does?” Drogo replied. “We’ll release the Korred. It’ll tear this place to the ground.
“The main prize is bagged. There’s no reason to alienate more of the king’s subjects.” Reynald approached the prisoner, holding a flaming torch to examine his injuries. “I’ll be frank with you, Wakedog … there’s quite a bounty on your head. But the bounty on Earl Hereward is higher still. Does that interest you?”
Eric shrugged. “Gold is no use to a dead man.”
“But a royal pardon might be to a living one.”
“My lord!” Drogo protested.
Reynald motioned him to silence. His eyes bored into the prisoner. “You may think your world has ended. But you aren’t the first Norman to side with the English. Count Eustace joined the Kent rebels in 1067. Only a few of his men were punished.”
<
br /> Eric regarded him through eyes sunk in purple, swollen sockets. “You’re saying that if I lead you to Hereward, I’ll have my freedom?”
“That might be going a little far. Hugh the Red’s family will require recompense. But we Normans are by nature a disrespectful breed. Lead us to Hereward, and I’ll report to the king that you had a personal grievance with Hugh the Red, which was settled in the honourable way. And of course that you were instrumental in bringing the rebel earl to justice.”
“But I don’t know Earl Hereward. Why should I?”
“You joined the royal army without summons. You slew very few rebels, but saved your sword for one of the king’s most loyal henchmen. What else can we think?”
“I joined the king’s army to seek renown. But not your kind, Reynald. Nor King William’s. And I’ll stand by that statement in any court you put me in.”
“Your statement in court will be the raving of a broken man,” Drogo interrupted. “Have you seen the Tower dungeon? It makes this place look like a maiden’s bower.”
“Oh, this fellow is way past caring about himself,” Reynald said. “Curious though, Lord Eric ... how your father’s lands have remained undamaged during Earl Hereward’s uprising.”
Eric felt a new chill trickle down his spine. “What do you mean?”
“And Wulfbury right in the rebels’ heartland.”
“Reynald, for God’s sake …” Eric allowed a plea to creep into his voice. “My family have nothing to do with any of this. You saw their reaction when they learned what I’d done … they were horrified.”
“I saw it, yes. But the king did not.”
“The king will never believe ill of father. He knows him too well.”
Drogo chuckled. “He knows him for the surly, law-breaking land-grabber that he is.”
“Reynald, on the honour of your knighthood, you cannot drag innocent people into this!”
“Then on the honour of your knighthood, give me the names and locations of those bandits and killers who would bring this kingdom to its knees!”
“You know I can’t.”
Reynald shook his head sadly, before turning to leave the cell. Drogo grinned at Eric, and punched him hard in the mouth, before following. The barred gate clanged closed, and their footfalls thudded away along the passage.
“Reynald!” Eric shouted, spitting out more blood and broken fragments of tooth. “Reynald, you know my family are not with the rebels! You know that!”
11
The most beautiful of the gods was Arianrhod. She had a son called Llew Strong-Hand, a fearsome warrior. He could be killed neither at day or night, neither indoors nor outdoors, neither when riding nor walking, neither clothed nor naked, nor by the assault of any weapon lawfully made. To celebrate his victories, Llew formed himself a wife out of flowers, and named her Blodeuwedd. This creature had no soul, however, and betrayed him by taking a lover called Goron, with whom she plotted her husband’s downfall. After a night of passion, she talked Llew into revealing his weakness. He told her that he could only be slain at twilight, bound in a fishing-net, standing with one foot on a goat and the other on a cauldron, and only by a weapon that had been forged during a festival, when such work was normally forbidden. Blodeuwedd asked him to demonstrate. He did so, and at that moment her lover came out of hiding and attacked Llew. Llew died, but his family restored him to life, and in his rage he slew Goron and transformed Blodeuwedd into an owl, so that she must spend the rest of her life in loneliness and regret, feared and rejected by all other birds and beasts.
Anselm was in an agony of doubt when he entered the castle chapel, which felt as cold as a sepulchre. As he genuflected before the altar and joined his hands, the only light was provided by a small candelabra, which flickered violently, threatening to extinguish itself.
The bishop didn’t remember the last time when he’d prayed for guidance and felt that a heavenly voice had instructed him accordingly, and that was a deep source of worry. The Holy Father might have blessed the invasion of England with a papal gonfalon, but far too many things had happened since which had nothing whatsoever to do with the teachings of Christ.
Anselm rubbed at his aching brow as he mumbled his prayers. But then his eyes flickered open. From just in front of him he’d heard a suppressed sniffle. He peered through the lattice-work at the rear of the altar, but the candlelight failed to penetrate.
“Who is that?” he said. “Who is that there? Come out at once.”
Slowly, sulkily, Trewan slid into view.
“What on Earth are you doing?” Anselm asked.
Trewan sniffled again. He’d clearly been crying. “What does it matter?”
“It matters because this is God’s house.”
“And I’m in pain,” Trewan snapped. “So where else should I go?”
Anselm arched an imperious eyebrow. Disrespect for his office seemed to be the new way of things at Wulfbury. “The servants have been looking for you everywhere.”
“I don’t care.”
“Trewan … this behaviour is very unseemly.”
“I mean don’t care what you think,” Trewan said, sauntering past him down the aisle.
“Very few do, it seems,” the bishop said to himself. “Trewan!”
The boy turned reluctantly. “What?”
“Wait in my chambers.”
“Chastise me all you want. It won’t make any difference.”
“Just do as I say.”
Trewan left, looking slightly puzzled. Anselm focussed again on the altar, and the chill darkness skulking behind it. As he prayed, he tried his hardest not to think how bereft of warmth and light this holy sanctuary now seemed to be.
*
Isabel was strolling on the battlements wrapped in a bearskin cloak, when she encountered Dagobert.
Night had descended in full, and on all sides of the keep the features of land and ocean were lost in an abyss. Though the North Sea rumbled and roared, it lay invisible. Only the occasional torch, guttering in the breeze, illuminated the walkway directly in front of her and the embrasures to her left. Dagobert was standing in one of these, clutching a wad of crumpled parchment; his eyes were fixed on the void beyond.
Isabel halted, initially frightened. Slowly she came forward. “My lord?”
Dagobert gave no indication that he’d heard her.
“My lord, is everything alright?”
From here, she glimpsed the faint lights down in the gatehouse. Since Eric’s arrest, the king’s men had released the household guard, and Gilbert and the men-at-arms were back at their posts, though the ten knights Reynald had with him were still an aggressive presence in the castle, and were now camped inside the curtain wall. Somehow, she didn’t feel that Dagobert was standing here on the rampart to survey their deployment.
“My lord?” she asked again. “Is everything …”
He turned a haggard face towards her. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Nor I,” she said.
“Don’t worry, Isabel,” he added. “The idea of taking my own life had occurred to me, but then I thought that with Reynald and his cronies already installed here, if I was to die they’d probably never leave. And I’m damned if they’re having Wulfbury as well as everything else.” He showed her the bundle of papers in his fist. “Don’t worry about these either. They’re nothing new … old letters from Blanche. I was glancing through them.”
Isabel recognised the delicate handwriting of her deceased mother-in-law.
“They’re all I have left of her,” Dagobert added.
“I remember. She had a very elegant hand.”
“It’s always a pleasure to look at them. But moonlight and my old eyes were not made for each other.”
“Perhaps I can read them to you?”
“I’d be grateful.”
He handed the letters over. They continued along the walkway, arm-in-arm. And Isabel read:
My beloved husband
Forgive me. I haven’
t written in several months. But things were uncertain here before we had news of the Duke’s coronation. I am delighted to hear the campaign is going well, but I worry about you all. Try not to think about us while you are engaged in this war. It will only distract you from what is important. We are all well and in good spirits, and are counting the days until you return. Please write back as soon as possible. I enjoy your letters very much …
.
“My letters,” Dagobert snorted. “Every one of them penned by some monk or other.
Isabel read on:
My Dear Husband
You are quite wrong to concern yourself about my health. With the battles won and the spoils to be divided, it is of greater importance that you remain in England and plan for our future. Everyone here is very excited about the prospect of a new home across the sea. Trewan hopes you will now fulfil your promise and show him how to stalk deer. My husband, I repeat that you must not worry about my health. The prosperity of our family comes first. In any case, I am well and looking forward to hearing from you again …
“She was dead by the time I read that,” he said. “The post between here and Normandy is not good. She’d been dead for some time.”
“You miss her a great deal, I know,” Isabel said.
“It was made worse, of course, because I wasn’t there. None of us were except Trewan, but he was only a child.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Dagobert. It was the year of the invasion. You had to answer the Duke’s call.”
He shook his head despondently. His features were almost saturnine in the midnight gloom. “I didn’t have to. I had a great fief at Caux, a hundred knights, numerous tenants. Yet I wanted more. It’s been my greatest shortcoming that I’ve always wanted more. It blinded me to Blanche’s condition. She’d been ill for so long. I felt in my heart of hearts that we shouldn’t go – that it would be a long campaign. But it was the biggest event in our lives. We’d set our hearts on it, Rolf and I …” His voice had dwindled; he sounded more dejected than she had ever heard. “I was born the son of a dispossessed knight, Isabel. A wanderer, a wolf’s head. We never had a penny to call our own. What food we had, we poached, what weapons and horses we acquired, we did through battle. At Val-es-Dunes, we joined with Duke William …”
