The Splintered Kingdom c-2

by James Aitcheson

  He inhaled deeply, as if to calm himself. ‘Not until that night at Clastburh. The Welsh came upon our camp while we slept and inflicted a slaughter such as I could never have imagined. I lost my eye when one of the bastards put it out with a spear, although I was among the luckier ones, for I survived. Tatel and Brun fell beside me in the shield-wall, both meeting their ends along with most of our host, my lord, and the bishop himself.’ He shook his head, and there was the slightest moisture in his eye. ‘I was the one who had to take the news back to my sick mother. I was the one who tried to console her, but the grief proved too much for her heart to bear and she too died soon afterwards. After that there was nothing left for me, and though it shames me, I ran away from my old manor, begging in the towns and by the roadsides until my wanderings brought me to Earnford. The steward at the time took pity on me and gave me work in the stables. Until these last few days, that has been my life.’

  ?dda had ever been a solemn man, who kept to himself and rarely smiled, and I had long suspected that some sort of hardship lay in his past. Unlike the rest of the villagers he had no kin anywhere on the manor or those neighbouring. Now I knew why.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, knowing the words were trite but having no others to use in their stead.

  He nodded, wiping a hand across his face to rid his one good eye of the tears that were forming. ‘I am not like you, lord,’ he said, his voice suddenly small. ‘I do not seek adventure; I have no desire for riches or glory. Just as your sword determines your path, so the horses determine mine, and that is all I have ever wanted.’

  ‘I understand.’

  He did not seem to hear me, but went on: ‘Then this year the Welsh came again, and I slew them because they had done the same to men I’d known. In the same way I ride with you now. When the time comes I will be content to fight alongside you and send our enemies to their graves, for it will be justice. But I will not enjoy it.’

  He turned to face me, wearing a grim, troubled expression. That was the most the Englishman had ever spoken in my company, and it took me a few moments to take in everything he had said.

  Like me he had set foot upon the sword-path. He had tasted battle, had wielded naked steel and sent men to their deaths. But that was as far as our stories could be compared, for he had only ever done so out of duty. Ever since my fourteenth year all I had ever dreamt of was taking up arms, of serving my lord well and seeing my fame spread. Even now, after everything that had happened in my life, after seeing so many of my friends fall and knowing that I might easily have been among them, still I dreamt of those things. Still I craved the bloodlust, the feel of my sword and shield in my hands, the thrill of the kill. I could neither deny nor restrain it, so deeply was that fighting instinct ingrained within my very bones. It was as much a part of myself as my heart or my head or my stomach. Cut it out and I would die.

  In pursuing those desires these last few months, however, I had somehow lost myself and forgotten who I was. Exactly when it had happened I could not say, but at some point my reputation had overtaken me. I had grown proud, and deaf to the good advice of my friends and comrades: all the things I despised in others; all the things I’d promised myself I would never become. I had spent too long glorying in my newfound fame, listening to the tales that other men wove around my exploits, until I had started to believe them myself. Until the myth figured in my mind more clearly than the truth. All this I had allowed to happen, and in so doing had nearly lost everything. Leofrun’s death, Earnford’s destruction: these were God’s ways of punishing me, of putting me back in my place, of reminding me who I was.

  And yet the Tancred who led this desperate and hungry band of folk was an altogether different man to the one who had first arrived in Earnford over a year ago. I could see the change being wrought in myself, could feel fresh determination rising up and filling me. All the bruises I had suffered and all the ruin and slaughter I had witnessed only served to make me stronger.

  We came upon others as we travelled: men and women whose lords and stewards, kinsfolk, children and livestock had been killed before their eyes, whose lives had in one stroke been torn away from them. They tended to be wary of us at first, but when they saw how dirt-stained were our clothes, how weary and ill fed our horses, and how few our weapons, they lost their fear and joined us. Probably they thought they were safer travelling in a group rather than alone, and probably they were right.

  Thus over the course of the next few days our numbers grew. Some came laden with scraps of food, pots and whatever other goods that they had managed to salvage from their homes; others brought horses and dogs and even on one occasion two scrawny goats, one of which we later killed for its meat, little though there was.

  A very few brought rumours of happenings elsewhere. And so we learnt that a great battle had been fought at Scrobbesburh in which the Norman army under Fitz Osbern and the castellan Roger de Montgommeri had been utterly routed. According to some, the enemy had slain the two commanders before reducing the town to ashes, giving no quarter to man, woman or beast. But others had heard differently; they said the commanders still lived, having managed to fall back to and hold out within the castle, and that Bleddyn had left a small force to besiege the town and lay waste the surrounding country while he took the main part of his host to march upon St?fford to the east.

  Whichever version of the tale was true, the news was not good. The only hope I could find came from the mouth of a timid alewife named Mildburg, the only surviving soul from her manor, who had seen a host of horsemen marching north up the old road known as W?clinga Str?t that led from Lundene.

  ?dda glanced at me. ‘King Guillaume’s army?’

  ‘If it is, it wouldn’t be before time,’ I muttered. ‘Ask her how long ago she saw them, if she knows how many they numbered, and whether she remembers what their banners were.’

  He did so, and returned with the answer: ‘This happened but two days ago. She says they bore many banners, in all manner of colours and with various beasts emblazoned upon them, but chief among them was the golden lion upon a scarlet field.’

  That was what I had been hoping to hear. ‘The lion of Normandy.’ So the king was indeed marching, though inwardly I couldn’t help but wonder if it were too late. ‘And their numbers?’

  ‘At least a thousand, she says, though how many more than that she couldn’t tell me. She claims she only saw them from a distance, and dared not approach any closer for fear of her life.’

  Probably Mildburg had done the right thing, but it frustrated me that she was unable to tell us more. As it was, I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. One thousand men would not be nearly enough if we were to drive the enemy out of England and back across the dyke. I only prayed that the real number was much larger, or else that the alewife had merely glimpsed the vanguard or an advance party.

  The further we travelled, the more survivors joined us, until our ragtag group had swollen to a band of nearly fifty men, women and children. With every new group of followers came more news; like many hands working together to spin a tapestry, their stories intertwined. Each thread combined with those that had gone before it, so that they often crossed over one another. Some added new colours to the weave or picked out details that the others had missed, until gradually an image began to form in my mind. An image in yellow and orange, brown and black and red. An image of blood; of a kingdom in flames.

  Across the rest of Mercia towns were rising in support of the enemy; in many places there had been fighting between English and French and the streets had flowed with blood. In the shires the leading thegns were variously taking up arms in the name of Eadric, the?theling, or the king, roaming the countryside at the head of their small armies. Travellers were being waylaid on the roads; castles and halls had been burnt to the ground. From the south came stories of a rebellion sweeping through the southern shires of Cornualia, Defnascir and Sumors?te towards the strongholds of Execestre and Brycgstowe, while from the east flew r
umours that the Danish fleet, strengthened by swords-for-hire from Frisia and Flanders, had arrived upon these shores and had raided along the coast, sacking every port between the Temes and the Humbre and leaving only corpses in their wake.

  But even that was not the worst part of it. From north of the Humbre came tales that were as bad as anything I had envisioned in my darkest nightmares. Eoferwic had fallen to the?theling with the help of King Sweyn, the two men having for the moment at least forged an uneasy alliance. The two castles and the great minster church had been put to the torch and the entire city consumed by a raging fire that had blazed for three days and nights. Nearly every one of the Normans, Bretons and Flemings had been cut down in the battle or else had been taken by the flames.

  ‘It’s said that those who were spared can be counted on a man’s fingers,’ said the man who had brought us this news, a travelling monk by the name of Wigheard who hailed from the town of Licedfeld not far to the north and east. He had been on his way to carry the same tale to his brothers in Wirecestre. He recognised my name when I gave it and was familiar with many of the tales that had been told about me, and therefore was only too eager to ingratiate himself and offer what information he could.

  ‘What do you mean, spared?’ I asked.

  ‘Taken captive by the Northumbrians and the Danes,’ Wigheard explained. ‘The rest were killed; none were allowed to escape.’

  The Danes were renowned for their ferocity and for the fact that they rarely, if ever, took prisoners. So far as I could see, the only reason they might have for doing so was if these were persons of some standing, whose safe return they could offer to King Guillaume in return for a ransom of silver or some other form of riches.

  ‘Do you know their names of these captives?’

  Wigheard shook his head. ‘No, lord. I only know what I have heard from others.’

  Perhaps it was too much to ask; from what the monk had said it sounded like a massacre. In all likelihood that meant Robert and Beatrice had been killed along with the rest of the garrison in the city. I hoped it was not true, but too often of late had I clung on to faith only to see it dashed.

  And so I did the only thing that I could, and prayed.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Father Erchembald that evening as we stood around the campfire, where I had gathered together the leading men of that small band for counsel.

  Among them were the priest,?dda, Odgar and the others from Earnford, the monk Wigheard and a handful of those we had met on our wanderings: those who looked as if they knew one end of a spear from another. A more feeble and bedraggled group I had seldom seen; they were hardly the kind of men likely to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. But they were all I had, and so I would have to make do.

  ‘If the Danes and the?theling have joined forces then they will overrun the north of the kingdom before long,’ said Galfrid, a slow-witted Fleming, fond of hearing his own voice, who had been steward of one of the ruined manors we had come across. ‘King Guillaume will not be able to fight them off and Eadric and the Welsh as well; not before winter comes at any rate. We would do better to turn south and find safety in Wessex.’

  ‘If Execestre and Brycgstowe fall to the rebels in the south, not even Wessex will be safe,’?dda said with a snort. ‘Wherever we go, it will make no difference. The whole country is rising.’

  ‘Then what would you have us do, Englishman? Would you rather we waited until those of your countrymen who have fallen in with the Welsh finally catch up with us?’

  ?dda advanced upon Galfrid. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  The other man was undeterred, even though he stood a head shorter than the stableman. ‘Were it not for the treachery of your kind, none of this would have happened. We would not be roaming the kingdom aimlessly as we are now; instead we’d be keeping warm beside our hearth-fires in our own homes, with food in our bellies and ale-cups in our hands!’

  His gaze rested for a moment upon the two seaxes belted to?dda’s waist, one being that which I had given him. The stableman looked every bit the warrior, and perhaps that was what aroused Galfrid’s suspicions. Like many of those who had come over since the invasion, he was probably accustomed only to seeing the English as a lesser grade of men, not as equals and certainly not as friends or allies.

  ‘Lord, this man has no place here,’ he said, turning to me. ‘How do we know he isn’t going betray us?’

  ‘He won’t,’ I told Galfrid. ‘?dda is as loyal a man as I have ever known. Besides, he is right. We cannot guarantee that we will find safety in Wessex.’

  ‘Where do we go, then?’ asked Father Erchembald.

  I buried my head in my hands as I tried to think. Having brought all these people here to discuss our plans, I still did not know what to suggest. Since hearing the news from Wigheard, a dark mood had overcome me. Truly it was as Fitz Osbern had said all those weeks ago. Everything was falling into ruin, and the more we tried to prevent it, the quicker it seemed to happen.

  ‘Tancred?’

  I blinked and looked up. The priest was still waiting for an answer.

  ‘How many men do we have of fighting age?’ I said to no one in particular.

  ‘No more than a score,’?dda replied. ‘But they have no weapons or shields-’

  ‘Then we will find them some.’

  ‘From where?’ Galfrid challenged me. ‘And anyway, do you think they will want to fight, after everything they have seen?’

  ‘If they wish to take vengeance and see justice delivered upon the men who did this, yes.’ If they felt anything like I did, they would be only too eager for blood.

  I glanced around the circle, at R?dwulf and D?gric and Odgar, at men from other manors and other hundreds whose names I did not know: Frenchmen and Englishmen alike. None of them made a sound, which I took for a sign that they were in agreement. Either that, or else there was no one willing to speak against me.

  ?dda nodded solemnly as he gazed into the writhing, twisting flames. I wondered what was running through his mind: whether he could feel any relish at all in the prospect of the fighting to come, or whether it was something he would merely endure. Despite what had happened in his past I hoped he might find some enthusiasm within himself, could summon the battle-fury when it mattered. Often in the fray that was all that kept one going, all that kept one from succumbing to the fear that was always threatening to invade one’s mind. For once that had taken hold it did not let go, and when that happened a moment was all it took for a foeman to take advantage. Death came quickly when a man’s wits deserted him.

  I tried to shut such thoughts from my head. I couldn’t afford to lose any more good friends that way. Yet neither could I promise that any or all of them would make it through. In my heart lurked a certain guilt that I would be leading these men, some of them scarcely more than boys, to their graves, as I had led so many before them. But what other choice was there?

  ‘The king is marching,’ I said, addressing them all. ‘If we are to reclaim the lands that belong to us, he will need every man he can find. Are you with me?’

  The priest translated my words for those who did not speak French. One by one they gave their assent, perhaps strengthened by my resolve. A few hesitated, and perhaps their minds were upon the struggles to come, but eventually they too agreed.

  Even Galfrid gave his support, though I sensed a certain reluctance in his voice, which I put down to a lack of experience. It did not surprise me. Often the men who spoke the loudest turned out to be those who had the most to prove, their words a mere veil with which they attempted to disguise their shortcomings.

  I knew, for not so long ago that had been me.

  Twenty-five

  We didn’t have long to wait before our first prey presented itself. The sun was not long up, although we had been travelling for the better part of an hour that morning; there was dampness in the air and dew upon the grass. Summer was passing into autumn and all about the leaves were beginning to turn from g
reen to gold, in some places already falling.

  Falling, just as shortly the foemen before us would be. I counted four of them, riding from the north and the west. All were mounted upon sturdy ponies and all bore long spears with points that shone beneath the low sun. They came across the pastures and the fields, scattering sheep and tearing up the earth, sending clods of dirt and shredded vegetable leaves flying as they descended upon the small cluster of some five crumbling cottages that stood on the low ground by the water-meadows.

  At once the cry was raised amongst the inhabitants, who abandoned their tools and their animals, taking flight in all directions as they made for whatever cover they could find. One long cob and straw house, larger than the rest, stood beside the pig-pens, and the Welshmen made for this first. Outside geese honked a belated warning to their owners, scurrying away with outstretched wings. Two of the enemy burst into the cottage, dragging out a screaming woman by the hair and shoving her to the ground, while the others pulled a large chest they had found into the yard, where one of them proceeded to hack at it with an axe that had been slung across his back.

  All this we saw happen from the edge of a copse on the other side of the stream from the houses. The sun was behind us, and perhaps that was why the enemy had failed to notice us approaching, for a party of some four dozen ought to have been enough to frighten them off.

  ‘Wait here,’ I said to Father Erchembald, in whose care I had placed the women and the children, then to the menfolk: ‘With me. Stay quiet; don’t say a word unless you have to.’

  We moved slowly so as not to attract attention, making for the rickety-looking bridge that crossed the stream, keeping low to the ground where the long grass would conceal us. The last thing I wanted was to charge upon the enemy only to watch them take to their ponies and escape before we had the chance to kill them. Fortune had seen our paths cross this day, at this hour, but I was determined to make the most of that fortune and ensure that these Devil-sons did not live to return here.