Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  A few moments later Outy was warming his nobbly fingers by the kitchen fire and supping Brother Eadnoth’s ale, while his master knelt for the Abbot’s blessing in the latter’s quarters.

  Abbot Ulfcytel raised Waltheof from his knees. ‘Dear son, you are welcome. I was expecting you.’

  ‘You have heard the news then?’

  ‘That Harald Sigurdson is threatening all Northumbria? Yes, we have heard, and I knew that you would go to the aid of the Earls.’ He sat down in his chair by the table and folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his black gown, a quiet scholarly man, temperate both by nature and by calling. ‘What do you want me to say to you, my child? God speed? The blessing of St Guthlac aid you? Our Lady grant you safe return? All these my poor prayers you have as always.’

  ‘I know,’ Waltheof said. He stood by the narrow window that overlooked the kitchen garden so neatly kept by Brother Cullen, though he could see nothing now but darkness and the mist lying so low that the bushes seemed to grow out of it.

  ‘You wish me to shrive you?’

  ‘That too.’

  The Abbot continued to sit completely motionless and relaxed yet appeared to be waiting expectantly. He had an air of peace about him as deep and still as the fen beyond. ‘There is something else on your mind, my son?’

  The Earl came back into the circle of rushlight. ‘Father, and I do not know how to say it. Only – once I had thought to spend my life here, until King Edward’s will and my father’s wishes led to other things. Now I must find out . . .’

  Ulfcytel watched him, his calm eyes betraying nothing. ‘Are you thinking of your own desires or of God’s will? Of yourself or of England?’

  Waltheof s colour deepened. ‘I don’t know and that’s the truth of it. Oh, of England, of course – I’d not hold back, nor would any loyal man, for all the King is perjured. They say God will punish him and us all for that sin, but must I believe it?’

  The Abbot looked down at his folded hands. ‘I hear that Bishop Wulfstan is of the opinion that the King sinned greatly in the taking of the oath but that he would sin even more in the keeping of it. England is of greater importance than any man.’

  Waltheof sighed. ‘The Bishop of Worcester is a holy priest and he loves the King. Harold has my fealty. But there are other things.’ He folded his arms on his chest, trying to find words to express the tumult of aspirations and longings for he knew not what. But there were none and he looked helplessly at the Abbot.

  ‘What is it you want, my son?’ Ulfcytel asked quietly. ‘Fame? Battle honours? Riches?’

  Waltheof gave him a half smile. ‘As much as any man, I suppose. I would see England safe and prosperous, especially my own lands. I think I would die to protect them if I had to – perhaps I will. And . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want Northumbria back.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ the Abbot gave him a shrewd look, ‘now we come to the heart of it, do we not?’

  ‘I have more right than Earl Morcar, and if I had been older when they sent Tosti from the earldom . . .’

  ‘But you were not.’ Ulfcytel rose and came to stand beside him. ‘It is very simple, my child. You nurse ambitions now and you are become a man to deal in the world, not to renounce it. Only deal wisely and Northumbria may yet come to you.’

  ‘Have I disappointed you, Father?’

  For the first time the Abbot smiled, his habitually grave countenance yielding to the warmth he felt for this particular young man. ‘Dear child, you have but started on your journey. How should you disappoint me yet? But I think you doubt yourself.’

  ‘Sometimes – in the night hours.’ Waltheof did not meet the Abbot’s penetrating glance. He felt, as he had done so often before, that the Abbot saw through to the worst and best of him.

  As if sensing this Ulfcytel added in a gentle voice, ‘Well armed for all battles is the man who knows himself. You will not forget all we have taught you?’

  Waltheof shook his head, smiling. ‘I can still recite the whole Psalter for all I grew weary in the learning of it.’

  ‘You are a good son to Holy Church. Shriven and houselled, what is there to fear?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he answered, ‘nothing.’ Suddenly he wished the long night was over, yearned to be away, riding north at the head of his men, to taste the unknown, to be tried in his first fight. He suppressed the rising excitement and opened the door. ‘If you will come, Father . . .’

  He did not deceive Ulfcytel. ‘Patience, my child. Tomorrow’s dawn will tarry no more and no less than any other. Go down now and wait for me.’

  In the dark familiar church Waltheof needed no light to guide him and presently was kneeling before the shrine of Guthlac, the hermit saint of Croyland. He felt the weight of responsibility, the demands made, the expectations, and beneath all his own inadequacy, and he laid his hands on the holy stone as if he would draw strength from the very bones of the saint.

  CHAPTER 2

  By dusk on the third day the men of Northamptonshire reached the town of Tadcaster and found it in a state of mingled panic and gloom. As Waltheof led his little army over the bridge he saw English ships lying in the river, refugees from the Norwegian long ships. Several of the leading citizens came to greet him and when they saw him consternation was written on their faces.

  ‘We thought you were King Harold,’ an elderly man explained, ‘but we see you have no great army.’

  ‘I am the Earl of Huntingdon,’ Waltheof told him. ‘I am on my way to join Earl Edwin and his brother. What news of them? And where is Earl Tosti and Harald Sigurdson?’

  Half a dozen voices answered him at once and the tale poured out. The Norwegians had sailed down the coast plundering and ravaging, Scarborough was burned and all of Holderness a smouldering ruin. Then they had sailed up the Ouse and disembarked their men at Ricall not ten miles from York.

  ‘I saw them, lord,’ one man put in, ‘there were near three hundred ships and more men than I could count with great swords and axes and helms with horn upon them. And the King is bigger than I ever saw a man. He and Earl Tosti were like sworn brothers . . .’

  Another man took up the story, explaining how the Earls had led all their troops out of York three days ago on the eve of Matthew’s Mass. At first all had gone well. Earl Morcar had beaten off the enemy, inflicting heavy losses in his part of the field, but in the end he had been driven back, his banner trampled and he and his brother with what was left of their army chased back into York. There had been much bloody slaughter.

  Waltheof listened to the tale in growing horror as another man went on, ‘Harald Sigurdson and the traitor, Tosti – God curse him,’ he spat vehemently, ‘entered York on Thursday, but . . .’

  ‘Entered York?’ Alfric of Gelling queried from his place by Waltheof’s side. ‘Did the city not hold?’

  ‘No, lord, but there was enough food to feed the Norwegian host so now they lie at Aldby north of the city and tomorrow we have to send hostages from all the shires.’

  ‘Hostages!’ the Earl exploded. It was hard to grasp this story of defeat and he wondered for what they had marched ninety miles with such speed. Facing him, the weary men stared back, many with wounds, the older ones among them grave with anxiety. They shifted uneasily before him, eyeing his unscarred troops almost with resentment while on the bridge the Midland levies stared back with some scorn at these men who appeared to have yielded so easily.

  Waltheof swung himself down from his horse. ‘What are the Earls doing? Are they still in York?’

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ one of the wounded men answered. ‘They have submitted to the King of Norway and engaged to help him subdue the country. Earl Tosti is to have Northumbria again and . . .’ he saw the expression on Waltheof’s face and goggled. ‘Lord, half our men lie dead at Fulford. How should we fight again?’

  ‘Again and again if need be,’ another voice broke in, but this time in a very different tone, and it was a voice Waltheof recognised as a tall ma
n shouldered his way through the crowd.

  He was slender, and with a fine bearing, but at the moment dishevelled, his tunic torn, his left arm bandaged and a jagged cut, partially healed, running down one side of his face.

  Waltheof held out both hands. ‘Thank God for one sane man. Thorkel, my friend, I did not know whether I should find you here.’ The moment the words were out he would have given anything not to have spoken them. The reproach in the newcomer’s face sent the colour flooding into his own. ‘Forgive me,’ he said swiftly. ‘I swear I did not think it.’

  ‘I do not blame you,’ Thorkel Skallason answered in his light lilting voice, ‘for many of my countrymen are with Harald Sigurdson, but how should I do otherwise than you would have me do, seeing that I eat your bread?’

  The Earl grasped him by both arms and then glanced at the blood-stained bandage. ‘You are hurt?’

  ‘A flesh wound, nothing more, but,’ Thorkel took his arm and led him away from the agitated group, ‘in truth I think they are all a little mad here. The fight was a shambles. Yet we could have held York – only the Earls seemed convinced help would not come, for all I told them you would be marching, and the King too, if I’m any judge of men.’

  ‘Of course he is coming. When did they submit?’

  ‘On Thursday, but I saw nothing of that. If the King of Norway had seen me he would have given me short shrift, so I went out by the west postern in the dark. They are still talking terms, but there will be none of any advantage to an Englishman, and God help this land if Tosti is let loose on it again.’

  ‘Amen to that. Can I get into York?’

  ‘Easily,’ the Icelander assured him cheerfully. ‘The Norwegians have withdrawn to Aldby and there are no troops around the city. They think we are beaten and that Harold will not come. A man who came in yesterday told us they are ravaging the countryside for food and drink and women, and burning manors too, but they are dealing gently with York. Perhaps the King means to make it his capital.’ He gave a short hard laugh. ‘Only over our dead, eh, my lord?’

  ‘We’ll ride for York then,’ Waltheof said. He beckoned to the man who was holding his horse and sprang into the saddle. Then he surveyed the waiting crowd. ‘I want every one of my men fed before I return,’ and seeing their consternation, added angrily, ‘God’s blood, do you want our help or not? Alfric, see to it. Thorkel, come with me, and the first five men.’

  He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and was away down the narrow street. Thorkel seized a fyrd man’s horse, jerked his head for the man to get off and was mounted and away after the Earl. Outy, caught napping, was hard put to it to catch them up.

  The gates were closed when they reached the city but as soon as Thorkel called out his master’s name they were opened and the soldiers who admitted them said that the Earls were at the King’s hall near the Minster church of St Peter.

  As they rode through the streets wounded men stared curiously at them, calling out to ask if Harold their King was come, and Waltheof answered that he would be with them soon. Men lay about in doorways with hideous wounds, dragging shattered limbs or bleeding stumps and everywhere there was evidence of the magnitude of the defeat. Many of the northern levies recognised him even in the gathering darkness and raised a cheer for him so that he became very conscious that this was his father’s city; his anger rose that it had been so easily betrayed into the hands of an enemy and that he, Siward’s son, had been thus cheated of the fight.

  He strode into the King’s hall attended by his few men to find the Earls at supper with their thegns and captains, the tables none too meanly spread. Edwin and Morcar sat on the high seat and both sprang to their feet in astonishment as he entered.

  Edwin, fair and blue-eyed and light on his feet, was foremost as always, followed by his more stolid and heavily built brother. Neither appeared too oppressed by their defeat. Edwin wore a white wool tunic and gay scarlet mantle with a jewelled belt about his waist; there were ladies at supper in the hall and several followed him with their eyes for he was goodly to look at. Morcar cared nothing for clothes, but he was handsome enough to have his own following.

  Their greetings, however, were ignored, and Waltheof folded his arms across his chest. ‘It seems I came too late. They say at Tadcaster that you have made peace with Harald of Norway, that he is to be King and Tosti – Tosti! is to have Northumbria back. Are you mad, my lords?’

  A chorus of protest from the men at the high table assailed him, but subsided to indignant murmurs when Edwin raised his hand. He was about to speak when Morcar pushed past him and came to face the angry young man who had so rudely disturbed their supper table.

  ‘It is all very well for you who come late to call us to account, but it is our men that lie dead at Fulford, our city that is threatened.’

  ‘I came with all speed,’ Waltheof retorted. ‘We barely ate or slept on the way. If you had waited . . .’

  ‘Waited!’ Morcar exploded. ‘God’s Cross, Waltheof Siwardson, do you think your untried levies would have held the Norsemen when we could not?’

  ‘At least we could have accounted for a few of them. And what of the King? You sent urgent messages to him.’

  ‘We might have saved ourselves the trouble,’ Morcar snapped. ‘For all he is married to our sister he thinks only of his precious Wessex. We can see our homes burned, our women ravaged, aye and die here for all he cares.’

  ‘He cares for the Kingdom,’ Waltheof retorted hotly, ‘of course he will come. He promised you aid, did he not?’

  ‘Promises are easily broken – as he knows all too well,’ Morcar sneered. He was still smarting from the defeat at Fulford and must vent his fury on someone.

  Waltheof was so angry he could scarcely find words searing enough. ‘You have no cause to doubt him. Holy Virgin, that you should dare to slander him for submitting to William while he was a prisoner in Normandy when you have yielded so easily to Harald Sigurdson. I should be shamed to have surrendered this city without a fight . . .’ Thorkel laid a restraining hand on his arm, but he did not heed it. ‘Are there no walls here, no gates? I would think myself a poor fighter if I could not hold this city for a month or more . . .’

  Every head in the hall was turned towards them now, even the serving men pausing, dishes in their hands, to listen to the wild words.

  Morcar was white with rage. ‘You upstart boy! You’ve not seen twenty summers yet nor fought one fight – who are you to tell your betters what to do?’

  ‘I’d not have yielded,’ Waltheof retorted stubbornly, ‘certainly not to that devil, Tosti. And you are going to give Northumbria back to him.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it,’ Morcar shouted. ‘It’s Northumbria that touches you, doesn’t it? No doubt you hoped I would die on the field so that you might have it. You’d have made terms fast enough with the Norwegian then, eh?’

  A youth sitting near to Earl Morcar sprang to his feet. ‘And God forbid that any kin of Siward the Dane should rule in the north again – murderers all!’

  His outburst startled the men at the high table, caused necks to be craned lower down the hall to see who it might be that added fuel to the already flaring quarrel. Men who were from the immediate neighbourhood exchanged understanding glances.

  Waltheof swung round, saw the young man and his face flamed. ‘I will shed your blood willingly enough, Magnus Carlson, and as for treacherous killers, look to your own kin.’

  Two others, sitting beside Magnus and clearly his brothers for the strong family likeness between them, rose to their feet and stood flanking him. A fourth and the youngest, caught at Magnus’ sleeve and tried to pull him down, but he wrenched his arm free, loosening his dagger in its sheath. At that Edwin stepped swiftly between them. ‘For the love of God, who is the enemy here?’

  There was a moment’s silence. Morcar breathed heavily, his fury unabated, but as his brother’s voice was the one he heeded he said no more but sat down sulkily. Magnus and his brothers subsided; Somerled
, the eldest, short but strongly built, scowling at Waltheof and fingering the knife at his belt.

  ‘The house of Carl had best forget its quarrel for the moment,’ Edwin said and took Waltheof by the arm. ‘Come we must not, nay, we dare not quarrel among ourselves.’ He called for a servant to bring meat and wine and indicated that the Earl should join him and Morcar on the high seat, but Waltheof had at that moment seen the aging Archbishop of York who, pale and distressed, had risen and was looking at them all in consternation.

  He left Edwin and, kneeling, kissed the Archbishop’s ring.

  Aldred bent to raise him. ‘We are glad to see you, my son, albeit too late to save our city.’

  ‘That was none of my doing, my lord,’ Waltheof answered shortly and then, aware of the strain and weariness in the lined face above him, he added, ‘At least they have not burned your church, nor any of the city.’