But tonight there was no sorrow, only triumph and laughter, the wine and ale flowing. Harold the King sat on the high seat, smiling down at the ranks of his battle-scarred men with Earl Gyrth on one side of him and Earl Leofwine on the other, and with the northern Earls Edwin and Morcar beside them. Every man there was eagerly anticipating the sharing of the enormous treasure they had seized, gold and silver and jewels beyond anything any man had expected.
Waltheof’s pallet had been brought in so that he might lie beside the high table. His wound had given some trouble, red lines of inflammation running up his thigh and for the first two days he had known very little of what was going on around him, but Thorkel’s skilled nursing had brought the fever down and he was beginning to recover.
He was still half intoxicated by the battle, by the discovery of his own strength, of his ability to lead, and when Thorkel sang battle songs to them all, he joined in the chorus, roaring out the refrain with the rest. Men were drunk with joy tonight as well as with liquor; even the sober Gyrth was convulsed with laughter at a tale Edwin was telling him and all down the hall men recounted battle deeds in story and verse. At one point Morcar and Leofwine leapt into the centre of the hall and re-enacted the fight on the bridge so that every man raised his cup or horn to Outy who sat staring at his feet. Even the sons of Carl lost their enmity for the house of Siward sufficiently to drink to him.
Over all Harold presided, his face a little flushed. Watching him Waltheof thought, such a victory must mean God had forgiven him the oath, and he must know it – surely he must know it.
Ansgar the Marshal was on his feet now, a little unsteadily. ‘Wass-hael to our lord King,’ he shouted. ‘Let all our enemies see what he has done at Stamford and beware. Will the Bastard dare to come now?’
A roar of ‘No! No!’ answered him and cups were raised to Harold, every man on his feet to hail his King.
It was at this triumphant moment that the door at the far end of the hall burst open and a man came in, staggering on his feet, ashen with fatigue, his clothes caked with mud and dirt. He lurched up the hall and fell on his knees before the high table.
‘Lord King,’ he cried and his voice was hoarse with weariness, ‘I am Godric of Hastings. I have ridden day and night. The Norman Duke has landed.’
There was an instant and utter silence at the high table. Down the hall men gradually quietened, staring at the newcomer as the news passed along the tables.
Waltheof sat up, his eyes riveted on the King. Harold had sprung to his feet, his high colour vanishing.
‘Mother of God, now?’ The words broke involuntarily from him, but almost at once he collected himself. ‘When did he land?’
‘Three days since, lord, on the eve of Michael’s Mass.’ Godric was half sobbing now in complete exhaustion and Thorkel, seizing a horn, took wine to him. He drank and then went on, ‘Near to Pevensey it was. There are thousands of them, more than we could count, men and horses and arms, and more ships come all the time, but I did not wait to see the last . . .’
He was swaying on his knees and Thorkel beckoned a serving man to bring a stool for him. Now there was a burst of noise in the hall, every man talking at once to his neighbour, and Waltheof stared at the King, wondering what he would do. It seemed unbearably ironic, after the long summer of waiting, that two enemies should come at the same time, asking more than was possible of any leader, even such a man as Harold Godwineson.
The King was exchanging a few hasty words with his brothers and then Gyrth banged on the table for silence so that Harold might speak.
His voice, firm and strong, carried down the hall. ‘I must return at once to London. Let every man of my housecarls be ready to march in an hour, the rest and those who are wounded must follow when they can. Let the captains see to it.’
Edwin rose to his feet. ‘Harold, you came to our aid and we thank you for it. But we have fought two battles within five days and our men are exhausted.’ All the joy of the feast was gone now; the old antagonism had returned and men looked to the King to see how he would answer.
‘I have said those who cannot march now may come with all speed as soon as they can,’ Harold answered curtly. He raised his voice again. ‘Let none of you fear. The Duke is a great warrior, we know, but he is far from home, and in a land he does not know. We shall beat him as we beat Harald Sigurdson. He was also a great warrior and where does he lie now?’
A roar answered him, men shouting their belief in him, but when the noise had subsided Morcar said loudly, ‘And the treasure? Are we not to share it?’
How can he? Waltheof thought, and Thorkel said under his breath, ‘What is the matter with the man? Does he think the King will cheat him?’
Harold replied calmly but his eyes were snapping with annoyance. ‘There is not time for that now. If we do not conquer the Bastard it is he who will have the bounty. My lord Archbishop, I beg you to take it into your charge until we have sent the Normans home. Then we will share it and Duke William’s plunder as well.’
The Archbishop nodded his head in agreement and there was a murmur of approval around the hall for Aldred was beloved both in the north and south and trusted by all. The housecarls were already leaving the hall, stools and benches pushed back, the remnants of the food gathered up for the march, and in a short while only a shambles of the feast was left. Those who were staying behind had no more stomach for it, but stood around in small groups talking in anxious voices.
Morcar, red in the face, had sat down again and was staring moodily at his brother who was listening to Harold’s instructions.
Waltheof had swung his good leg off his pallet and was gingerly endeavouring to stand, his face crimson with pain and effort, when Harold himself came across to him.
‘I will come,’ he said between his teeth. ‘I can ride.’
‘You cannot,’ Harold’s tone was firm, ‘not tonight, and not as hard as we shall go. Follow when you can.’
Furious at his own weakness Waltheof pushed aside Thorkel’s restraining hand and rose, standing unsteadily. That he should be incapacitated now was past enduring. ‘I must come, sire,’ he said imploringly, ‘I must! For Duke William to land now . . .’
The King sighed. An hour ago he had been feasting and drinking, a victory behind him, but now the danger was worse than before and the strained look he had worn that night in Tadcaster had returned to his face. ‘Well, I could not be in more than one place at a time,’ he said at last, ‘and I left orders in London that a general muster was to be called at the first sign of danger so I’ve no doubt the shiremen are coming in.’ He glanced down at Waltheof’s disappointed face and smiled. ‘You are afraid you will miss the next fight after your performance at Stamford.’
Thorkel laughed. ‘Do not tell him that again, sire. His head is so puffed up already we shall have him strutting like a young peacock.’
Harold gave his cousin’s shoulder a friendly grasp and his smile widened. ‘I remember how I felt after my first battle. Obey your leech, Waltheof. I’ve no intention of fighting the Norman too soon and you will be able to ride in a few days. In the meantime,’ he glanced across at the two northern Earls, ‘I will leave Maerlsweyn here to stand in my place and see order kept.’
He does not trust Edwin and Morcar to come south without the Sheriff to urge them, Waltheof thought grimly, and then added hastily, ‘I beg you, Harold, take the men of my earldom with you. They were not at Fulford so they are fresher than the levies here, and Alfric of Gelling and my own man, Osgood, can lead them until I come.’
Harold hesitated, but as Alfric who had been listening to this talk came forward eagerly, he agreed. ‘Very well, if they can be ready.’
Fifteen minutes later Alfric came back into the hall with Osgood to make his farewell to his Earl. Thorkel said in his quiet way that he would remain with Waltheof; Outy did not even bother to say it for as far as he was concerned there was no alternative.
‘God go with you, Alfric,’ Thorkel gripped his hand gaily. The
healed scar on his cheek wrinkled when he smiled, giving his face a puckish look. ‘Don’t beat the Norman till we come.’
Alfric laughed. ‘We’ll let the boar waste his strength a while.’ He turned to Waltheof and for a moment the smile went from his face. ‘Farewell, my lord. You will remember .what we talked of that last day at Ryhall?’
‘Of course.’ Waltheof gripped his hand. ‘But I shall be in London soon after you and we will fight together. Leave me only the men of Ryhall for my escort.’
‘I doubt if I could prise them from you after Stamford fight,’ Alfric said, He glanced round the hall. The rushlights were burning low now and only the serving men remained, clearing away the trestles, for of the men who had feasted there this night almost half were ready to march out into the darkness and the rest were outside in the courtyard to see them go and wish them God speed.
Leofwine came in with his swift light stride and bent for a moment over Waltheof’s pallet. ‘Goodbye, little cousin. Don’t ride too soon – though I think I can trust Thorkel to see to that.’
All Waltheof’s disappointment rose up again. ‘That I should have to lie here while you ride south . . .’
Leofwine smiled. ‘Don’t fret. We shall meet in London – or elsewhere.’ His voice fell on the last word and then he was gone with Alfric behind him.
Waltheof watched them leave and beat his fist on his bed, almost weeping with frustration.
Thorkel said, ‘Peace now. What use is a wounded man on a march?’
CHAPTER 4
It was several days before Waltheof was able to persuade Thorkel that he was fit to ride and nearly two weeks after the army’s departure that he finally led the men of Ryhall into London – only to discover that Harold had left it the day before.
Distraught citizens told him that when the King heard how the Norman Duke was laying waste the countryside, burning and pillaging and slaying, he had sworn a mighty oath that the Bastard should not step one mile further into England. Without waiting for the rest of the shire levies or the northern armies to come in he had marched out of London determined to fight the Norman as soon as possible.
Now only the very young, the old and the sick were left in the city and Waltheof listened to the news with a sinking heart. Pausing only to feed his men he rode over London bridge and out into Kentish countryside. They were all weary after the long march, much of it in drenching rain, and had been hoping for a few days’ respite in London, and he sat stiffly in the saddle. His wound had closed well, but now he was tired, and it was paining him, tire freshly healed skin taut and pulling as he rode, even though it had been firmly bandaged by the deft-fingered Icelander.
Thorkel rode beside him as always, and behind he heard as he had heard for many days the steady tramp of the feet of his men, every one desperately weary, but it warmed him to know with certainty that now they would follow wherever he might choose to lead them.
He was thinking of Fulford and the northern Earls’ precipitous action and of the disaster into which it had led them. Surely Harold could not have fallen into the same trap? Yet it seemed that this was just what he had done, perhaps just what Duke William, knowing his man, intended him to do.
The men of the shires and the northern levies would soon come in – Edwin and Morcar had been preparing to leave, albeit grudgingly, shortly after his own departure from York – and with these added numbers surely they would have a better chance of victory? He said as much to Thorkel.
The Icelander sighed. ‘The King has marched so far and done so much. I think now his heart is ruling his head.’
Waltheof straightened, sitting upright in the saddle. ‘He won at Stamford. He will win again.’
Dusk was falling the next day and he was looking for a place for his men to rest for an hour or two when two serfs came down the road. They were running and they looked frightened out of their wits. When they saw the Earl and his men they stopped and stared at him.
‘What is it?’ he asked sharply. ‘Have you news of King Harold? Do you know where the Normans are?’ And as they goggled at him, he added, ‘For the love of God answer!’ The younger man recovered himself enough to point down the Hastings road. ‘There is a great battle, not many miles more, by Sandlake.’
A battle already! Waltheof suppressed the desire to dismount and shake information out of the half-witted fellow. ‘Tell me what you know – quickly.’
‘There has been fighting all day,’ the serf went on and his elderly companion took up the story, his voice shaking with fear. ‘They came up from the sea – we cannot guess their numbers.’
‘The King’s camp is by the apple tree where the roads meet. They have fought all day . . .’
‘There are thousands slain . . .’
‘We saw, lord – now we go to warn the villages . . .’
Abruptly, in the middle of this chorus, Waltheof set his spurs to his horse, shouting to his men to follow, and galloped impetuously down the darkening road. Torn with undefined fear, his mind in a turmoil that seemed to find physical expression in the pit of his stomach, he hardly dared guess what he would find down the Hastings road and in a short while he and Thorkel had outstripped the rest.
Suddenly it seemed they heard the familiar noise – in the distance still but unmistakable – the chaotic sound of men locked in battle.
He heard Thorkel draw a hissing breath as they rode over a causeway that crossed a deep watercourse, and then on the far side the noise increased and they found themselves in the midst of fleeing men, men on foot, men on horseback, all coming towards them. Some were slightly wounded, others scarcely able to drag shattered limbs, yet all endeavouring to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the enemy.
Waltheof pulled his horse back hard on its haunches. ‘Hold! Hold!’ he shouted and caught one man by the shoulder. ‘For God’s sake, tell me what has happened.’
The man looked up, his face streaked with blood and sweat, and the words tumbled out incoherently. ‘It is all over – we could not hold the line – we tried – but men kept dropping. Those cursed arrows – if only help had come – are there levies with you, lord?’
Waltheof answered between stiffened lips. ‘No – no.’
‘Then God pity us all.’ The man ran on and after a moment of stunned horror Waltheof leaned down and caught another by the byrnie. ‘How far to the King’s camp?’
‘A mile down the road,’ he was told, ‘but Ansgar has drawn off the men there.’
Things must have gone desperately wrong for Ansgar to order a retreat, he thought, but surely not beyond retrieving. ‘Where are they now?’
‘God knows.’ The man leaned wearily against the Earl’s saddle. His head was bleeding and he put up an arm to wipe the blood with his torn sleeve. ‘The Marshal is badly wounded, they are carrying him in a litter back to London.’
‘But on the field – surely the King is holding?’
The man began to sob. ‘He is dead – they are all dead. The Earls – the housecarls – there is not a man left by the standard.’
For an instant Waltheof reeled in the saddle. He could not have heard aright, or else this must be some appalling nightmare. He drew a deep shuddering breath. ‘You cannot mean – not all?’
The fyrdman could hardly speak. ‘There is no one – no one left alive there . . .’
‘Earl Leofwine?’ Somehow he brought out the name but the man shook his head with another sob.
Waltheof sat bowed over the saddle, tears running down his own face. Oh Christ, not Leofwine – not Leofwine!
Thorkel said in a low voice, ‘Jesu, have mercy.’
The man went on, ‘There is nothing you can do here, lord. Turn for London with the rest of us.’
Blind rage seized Waltheof then, giving expression to grief too great to be borne in sanity. ‘By God’s wounds, we can avenge them,’ he swore. Furiously he brushed away the tears and gathering the reins rode swiftly among the men milling down the road, rallying them and calling
them to his standard. One man told him that the Northamptonshire levies had been on the right wing of the English army and, as his own followers had by now caught him up, he led the little band he had collected back over the causeway and along a bank to the left. Below was a little stream and a tangled mass of undergrowth, and on the far side a steep escarpment down which more men were scrambling and tumbling towards him. He shouted to them in the near darkness, calling them to him.
‘The Normans are coming. Their horsemen are behind us,’ one fellow gasped out as he clambered up the bank by Waltheof’s feet. ‘Let me go,’ he cried out in panic as he found himself grasped by the neck of his leather tunic, ‘let me go. They will slay us all!’
Waltheof wrenched him to his feet. ‘Whose man are you?’
‘For the love of our Lady, let me go.’ And then as there was no relaxing of the iron grip. ‘I am from Fotheringay.’
Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1) Page 7
