‘His honour may have guided him to kill the thane Cospatric,’ the King said crossly, ‘it could not guide him to break the special peace of the King’s hall. It’s not fair to me. When my guest is murdered I am sure to be blamed; it may even be supposed that I killed him myself. If the murderer has fled, and he is a friend of yours, we need not try very hard to catch him. But it’s only right that his guilt should be made known, to clear other suspects. Who is he?’
‘No, my lord, I promised not to tell you. It was an honest killing, for vengeance, not for gain. That is all you need know.’
‘Very well, my dear, if you say so. Of course the murderer is one of your Danish housecarles, but you say he has fled and will never return. I presume that sooner or later he himself will be murdered in the course of this bloodfeud. Since I can’t hang him, that will be the most satisfactory end to the affair. But have you understood that anyone now at court may be blamed for the murder unless we name the murderer?’
The Lady agreed that blame might be attributed unjustly; but still she would not name the criminal. In the end the King paid full compensation to Cospatric’s kin, since he was at fault for not guarding his guest more carefully; and any magnate who chose to do so was allowed to swear publicly that he was innocent. That was the best that could be done to close the case.
I believe even the Lady was dismayed when she discovered that rumour laid the murder at her door. It was whispered that she had procured the killing of Cospatric because he was a dangerous foe to her beloved Tostig. Now I come to think of it perhaps that was the truth. The Lady was not in general an assassin, but there is very little she would not have done to help Tostig.
It did not help Tostig. Even those who did not blame the Lady believed the thane had been killed to please the Earl of the Northumbrians; it proved that his subjects were never safe from his unlawful vengeance, even when they took refuge at the court of King Edward. In Northumbria the discontent was greater than ever.
One day in the high summer of 1065 the court rode across Cotswold, on the move from one hunting lodge to another. On these journeys the King rode with his huntsmen and falconers; while the chamberlains were placed at the head of the column, so that we could begin to unpack his baggage before he dismounted. I disliked these moves, partly because riding makes me sore; but even more because it was difficult and chancy work to make the King comfortable in a chamber that had stood empty only a few hours ago. By his bed every little knicknack had to be in its accustomed place, and if anything got lost during the move I would be blamed.
I was in a bad temper as I rode through the customary midsummer rain, and when a little group of beggars cried out from the roadside I pushed my horse into them to chase them away. If they reached the King he would give them his purse; and then I would have a tiresome interview with the treasurer, who suspected me of peculation whenever I asked him for more pocket money for my lord. It was a wearing business to get rid of beggars, for the King would be angry if he saw them roughly treated; but a faithful servant must be rough with them if the King was ever to have an hour’s peace or a penny in his purse.
One beggar shouted that he had a message for the King’s private ear, and that he carried a token to prove it. But beggars will shout anything when they are struggling to get near a generous lord. Then this beggar, capering beside my restless horse, waved a ring at me. I reined in and looked more closely. It was a valuable ring, and one I had known.
I called up a housecarle. Together we put a halter round the beggar’s neck, and led him before the King. I had recognised the ring as one the King himself had lost in a crowd earlier in the year. It was a very fine ring, an ancient cameo carved with an image of St. John. I thought the King would be pleased to recover it, and would order the thief to be strung up then and there by the roadside.
I had an unpleasant surprise. The bound beggar spoke with the King, who then ordered the whole column to halt. ‘I want to talk with this man at leisure,’ he said, ‘and I find it awkward to bend down to hear him. He must be put on a horse, to ride beside me. Edgar, give him your horse. It’s sure to be quiet enough for him to ride, and a little walking exercise will be good for your figure – and your pride. When you recall this walk you will be more polite to the next holy pilgrim you meet. Perhaps I ought to put a halter round your neck, as you put one round his. I shall spare you that, on condition you really walk for at least five miles. No getting a lift on someone’s crupper, mind. Fair walking, as fast as we travel. And tell me in the evening if you don’t feel the better for it.’
For a full hour the King conversed with this tiresome beggar.
That evening in the bedchamber I was very distant with my lord. As a senior chamberlain I was entitled to ride a fine horse whenever the court travelled. Perhaps I was a little stout. But then my work was to look after fine clothes and valuable jewellery under a roof; if I had kept myself fit by going for long rides every day I would have been neglecting my duty. The King himself was as thin as a pole, because he was always fasting and praying even on days not commanded by the Church; and he was in the saddle every day for as long as his strength would permit. It amused him to make fun of any of his household who happened to grow a bit fat; but I had been unfairly treated, in front of a lot of unmannerly housecarles. I sulked, and I still think my sulking was justified.
Of course the King noticed it at once, and tried to coax me into a more cheerful temper; perhaps he was a little bit ashamed of the way he had treated me during the journey. King Edward was proud of his sense of humour, which he considered to be an attribute of every true Englishman; but he did not think as most of his subjects thought (for a saint does not think as other men) and his jokes often fell flat.
‘This afternoon you made a sad mistake, my dear Edgar,’ he said with a smile, ‘but it was a natural mistake. In every holy book we read that the most honest men can fail to recognise a messenger from Heaven. But even if there had been no smell of a miracle you should not have arrested a pious pilgrim, to carry him bound before me as though he were a common thief.’
‘What’s this about a miracle, my lord?’ I asked eagerly. My curiosity is always stronger even than the bad temper induced by a just grievance. ‘I saw the man was a begging pilgrim, but I did not suppose he would be witty enough to entertain the King of the English throughout a long ride.’
‘He carried important news, Edgar. It’s good news, and I believe it to be true. As soon as I spoke to him he told me that within six months I shall see God in Heaven. We can none of us feel at home until we get there; because we were made to inhabit Heaven, not to inhabit this world. When he had given me his news he acted like a sensible messenger and displayed his credentials. Didn’t you recognise that ring he waved before your eyes?’
‘I recognised it as yours, my lord. Last year you wore it at the consecration of some church in Winchester, and told me afterwards that you had lost it in the crowd.’
‘Did I say that? Oh dear, it never pays to conceal the truth. At that consecration I got excited, and then I was afraid to confess what I had done. You scold me so when I give away valuable jewellery.’
‘The treasurer scolds me if I fail to return it. My lord, you are the King, and you may do what you wish with your own. But the treasurer and I are responsible for seeing that the King shall look regal, and for that we must have rings and other jewels.’
‘Of course that’s true. But I have so many rings. And now I have one more than I had expected. Last year I gave it in alms to a beggar. In the crowd at that consecration I could not get near my almoner. In my robes of state I carry no money, and I could not send a beggar empty away. It’s just as well I was generous. Of course he was no ordinary beggar. Can you remember which saint we honoured in the dedication of that church?’
‘No, my lord. We see so many churches consecrated.’
‘That’s so, and a good thing too. We can’t have too many churches, if Englishmen are to keep on the road to Heaven. It was dedicated
to St. John the Apostle, and St. John himself came to the consecration. St. John was the beggar. St. John had my ring.’
‘Did I put a halter round the neck of St. John?’ I exclaimed in alarm.
‘Not as bad as that. The man who came to me today is a pilgrim just returned from the Holy Land. There he and his companions were lost in the desert, until St. John appeared and led them to shelter. Then he gave that man my ring. He told him to deliver it to the King of the English, with the message about a peaceful death within six months. Isn’t it lucky that I have made Harold swear allegiance to Duke William? When I die, some time this winter, the new King will come in peacefully.’
I did not suggest to my lord that he might live longer. His mind was made up, and already he was home-sick for Heaven.
The King waited quietly for his promised release. But during that autumn his realm was continually troubled. In August the Welsh made an incursion, for the first time since Earl Harold had taken the head of King Griffith. It was a raid, not a serious campaign; but as a raid it was insulting, not to say impudent. The raiders, bursting out from the inner hills of Gwent, burned the new hunting lodge which Harold had commanded to be built as a present for the King. My lord had intended to visit this new forest after Michaelmas, but now he told Harold to abandon the project. The lodge could not be finished until next spring, and by next spring there would be another King of the English.
Earl Harold began to muster an army to take vengeance on the Welsh. But he never again had time for an invasion of Wales; as far as I know these raiders still keep their plunder unpunished. At the beginning of October came news of the far more serious trouble in Northumbria.
Earl Tostig happened to be staying with us; or rather, he was visiting his sister, the Lady. The two of them had been drawn together by the scandal attending Cospatric’s murder; it may even be true that the Lady had instigated the killing to serve her brother, or at least Tostig may have believed so. Brother and sister were in the garden outside the little hunting lodge at Britford in Wiltshire, while the King took advantage of the fine autumn day to ride out hunting; it was his last day of pleasure in the woods.
At sunset a bedraggled courier rode in. He was one of Tostig’s housecarles from York, and he had barely escaped with his life. He told us that the thanes of Northumbria had risen in arms, plundered the Earl’s hall, and killed as many of his followers as they could catch. All the north was in rebellion; but the revolt was not directed against the authority of King Edward. The cry of the rebels was for another Earl, not for an independent Kingdom of the Northumbrians.
As soon as my lord got back from his hunting he consulted those of his Councillors who happened to be at court; that is to say, Earl Tostig and a few Bishops. Harold was mustering his army at Gloucester, and at that season of the year the other Earls were in their governments. It was agreed that nothing should be done until Harold had marched his army into the midlands.
It quickly became apparent that this was not a spontaneous revolt, but the outcome of a conspiracy plotted by many great magnates. The Northumbrians marched south, wasting Danish Mercia as though they were Vikings; but when they reached Northampton they were joined by Earl Edwin with the levy of English Mercia and a strong contingent of allied Welshmen. In gratitude the Northumbrians chose Edwin’s young brother, Morcar, to be their Earl. The main body of the rebels halted at Northampton, sending out foragers to pillage far and wide; but their leaders seized Oxford, on the very border of Wessex, and from this strongly fortified base sent envoys to treat with the King.
Tostig and the Lady were in despair. The combined armies of Northumbria, Mercia and north Wales were stronger than any force that could be raised in Wessex; and Harold was not even trying to muster the whole levy of Wessex. He said that the troops gathered in Gloucester would be enough to guard the court while he negotiated. On the Lady’s advice the King named young Waltheof Siwardsson Earl in the central Danelaw, including the shire of Northampton. Waltheof was young for such great promotion, and not especially bright; but it was hoped that a leader of his ancestry would draw some Northumbrians to the King’s side. The scheme failed; the rebels would not allow Waltheof even to enter Northampton.
The King was eager for war. But he was himself too old and sick to lead an army, and his chosen warleader would not fight. Harold said frankly that the rebels were too strong for him, and that anyway they had a good deal of right on their side. I remember a very stormy meeting of the inner Council, after supper in Britford hall. I stood behind the King as cupbearer; but the housecarles and servants had been sent outside so that the great men might lay their plans in private.
Stigand was the only clerk present, for this was a council of war. But it was also a meeting of the Godwinsson faction, so the Lady came over from the women’s table to sit among her brothers. When serious issues were at stake the Godwinssons cared nothing for convention; they would welcome a woman to their councils if they thought she could offer practical advice.
Stigand sat on the King’s right, taking the precedence of an Archbishop of Canterbury; on his right sat Harold, and beyond Harold the younger Godwinssons, Gyrth and Leofwin. On the King’s left sat the Lady, with Earl Tostig beyond her. Thus the two parties at court were neatly divided; Harold and his supporters on the right, the two loyal followers of the King on his left.
The King opened the Council with a warlike speech.
‘Tomorrow I shall ride against these rebels, at the head of my housecarles and any other honest men who will follow me. When the battle begins no true Englishman would cut down a Cerdinga, and if some Dane takes my head it doesn’t matter. I have only a few months to live, at best, and I shall die King of the English.’
‘Spoken like a King,’ said Harold courteously. ‘But you have not faced what will really happen when you reach Northampton. No one will raise a hand against you, my lord. But the rebels will kill your followers, and then make you their prisoner. Are you willing to be in name King of the English, while Edwin and Morcar and the Danes of the north rule as your ministers?’
‘Besides,’ said the Lady, ‘you cannot ride so far; you are not strong enough. Before you reach Northampton you would fall from your saddle and die of exhaustion by the roadside.’
‘Then I shall be carried, slowly, in a litter,’ the King answered stoutly. ‘That will allow time for all the West Saxons to join my banner.’
‘My lord, the West Saxons will not march against all Mercia and Northumbria,’ Harold objected. ‘My brothers will bear me out; the thanes fear civil war. They guard their homes, knowing that the King of the Danes will invade us if we kill one another in heaps. In Gloucester I have my housecarles, and a few other faithful followers. But I cannot muster all Wessex, even to fight the Welsh.’
‘All the Northumbrians marched south,’ said the King.
‘Exactly, because they are in arms against a foe whom they hate more than they hate the Danes,’ answered Harold triumphantly.
‘I gave them justice. Is that so intolerable?’ Tostig exclaimed in anger.
‘Perhaps it is, to Northumbrians,’ said young Gyrth with a snigger. ‘Besides, you murder their chief men when they come to your court. You can’t expect anyone to like that.’
‘That’s a foolish slander,’ said the King.
‘It is,’ Harold agreed with a smile. ‘Whoever murdered young Cospatric it wasn’t Tostig. But that’s what those Northumbrians believe, and if we investigate too thoroughly we may find the truth unwelcome.’ He grinned unpleasantly at his sister.
‘Never mind the reason why they hate Tostig,’ said the Lady hurriedly; the death of Cospatric was a dangerous topic. ‘These men have made war on their rightful Earl. Are we to submit to their rebellion?’
‘We must submit. That’s what I keep on telling you,’ cried Harold in exasperation. ‘I would fight for Tostig’s Earldom if we had the slightest chance of winning. But if we fight we shall be beaten, and then we shall lose everything. Whereas if we make pe
ace Gyrth and Leofwin keep their lands, and I remain war-leader of the English.’
‘A war-leader whose men will not follow him to war,’ said the King. ‘If that contents you we also must submit. Without you we can’t fight. Very well. Then I suppose Tostig must go oversea?’
‘That seems to be the wisest course.’ Harold was now the elder statesman, heavy with responsibility. ‘Look here,’ he added with a smile, as though offering a great concession, ‘how would it be if I myself see these rebels in Oxford, and fix up terms of peace? Remember, they have gone out of their way to proclaim their loyalty to the King of the English. If you allow them to keep Morcar as their Earl they will serve you faithfully.’
‘I give in. Do as you wish,’ said the King in a pet. ‘It’s no good trying to rule such beastly people. I shall go to bed.’
As I had expected, both Earl Tostig and the Lady came to see the King privately in his chamber that same night. Both were bitterly angry, and both suspected Harold of double dealing.
‘I helped him against King Griffith,’ said Tostig mournfully. ‘The Welsh would have overwhelmed him if I had not ridden with my Northumbrians along the dangerous path by the coast. Now he can’t be bothered to help me; or rather, he won’t run the slightest risk to help me. Perhaps the Mercians might beat us in a pitched battle, though with Waltheof in our ranks we should find the Northumbrians divided.’
‘He never intended to fight,’ cried the Lady. ‘Don’t you see? The rebellion is his work. Harold is war-leader, the greatest man in the land. There are other Earls, but which Earl can rival Harold? Not Edwin, who does not care what happens outside Mercia. Not Morcar, clinging to power that is not rightly his. Not Waltheof, child of a famous father, himself so insignificant that his father’s old vassals will not follow him. In all England there was only one man to rival Harold. So now Tostig is driven into exile.’
‘Is that how you see it?’ asked the King in surprise.
The Cunning of the Dove Page 22
