Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  At last William rose to his feet. ‘In all conscience,’ he said slowly and clearly, ‘I cannot go against so united an appeal. I believe, as I hope for Christ’s mercy on the last day, that it is God’s will that I should rule this country and its people. I will accept the crown.’

  He paused and in that pregnant moment Aldred stepped forward, his face stem, not in the least overawed by this martial man. ‘I charge you, William of Normandy, as you so plainly fear God, will you keep the laws of this land as your noble predecessor, Edward, laid them down? Will you be just to Englishmen and Norman alike? Will you adhere to our customs and honour our traditions?’

  There was a stir and a movement among the Norman ranks of indignation that their Duke should be thus questioned, but he flung up his hand to check them. He drew his sword and held it by the cross piece. ‘All this I swear!’ His voice rang through the hall, ‘I swear it upon the Cross of Christ, so help me God, Our Blessed Lady and all the saints.’ He sat down again amid more cheering, and slowly Aldred went forward and made obeisance, followed by Stigand, who said something in a low voice that drew a faint smile from the Duke. Next came the young Atheling and at once William put an arm about him, kissed him lightly on the forehead, promising him all manner of delights at his court in Rouen and the company of his own sons. Edgar blushed and bowed and seemed happy enough with the exchange.

  Richard de Rules then took his place to the left of the Duke’s chair and first called the names of Edwin and Morcar. They came forward and knelt in turn, placing their hands between those of the Duke as they swore allegiance. Edwin said a few words in his easy, pleasing manner and then as they moved aside Richard de Rules cried out, ‘My Lord Waltheof, Earl of Huntingdon and Northampton.’

  Waltheof left his place and went to the steps of the dais, aware of little but that the moment had come when he must do violence to all his cherished loyalties.

  William leaned forward, the gold mantle glittering in this hall of brilliance, the jewels on the fibula varied and shining as he moved. He spoke in Norman.

  ‘Greetings, Earl Waltheof. For what purpose have you come here this day?’

  The question so startled Waltheof because of its very lack of necessity that for a moment he was speechless. ‘I am assured,’ he said at last, ‘that your grace wishes this realm no ill, that you will uphold our laws.’

  ‘This I have promised,’ William agreed. He did not take his hard gaze from Waltheof’s face. ‘If you will serve me you shall keep your earldom and your lands – and maybe more beside.’

  Waltheof had half expected this and yet he had not thought William would say it so soon nor so forthrightly. And into his mind came the memory of the day when he had set his hands between Harold’s, no more than eleven months ago, though it seemed to belong to another life. Then there had been the warmth of friendship between them, the King had given him a smile and a whispered word and there had been much hope.

  For a moment Waltheof faltered, remembering that morning and its overtones of joy. He could see Harold now, dressed in red and gold, Leofwine on one side of him, Gyrth on the other – so much hope.

  With an effort he brought himself back to this hall filled with alien men, speaking an alien tongue. It was William’s dark face that he saw now, not Harold’s, and he became aware that a hush had fallen, that everyone was waiting for him to do what he had come to do. Sudden rebellion rose in him, flooding him with an intensity of revulsion. God in heaven, how could he stomach the Bastard for lord, how bow his neck to the Norman yoke? He felt his whole body stiffen as if it too would rebel, would not bend the knee that had yielded so willingly to Harold. It seemed an age that he stood there, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth, unable to move – so long that there was a rustling and a whispering behind him.

  ‘Earl Waltheof.’ William’s voice jerked him back to the necessity of the moment. The Duke crooked a finger and beckoned him closer, and when he came up the step to stand by the chair, William spoke in a low voice that none might hear.

  ‘I understand you were much devoted to Harold Godwineson’s brother, Earl Leofwine?’

  Waltheof stared at him. How could he know such a thing? In years to come he was to discover that remarkably few things ever escaped the Duke’s notice, but now all he could do was to try to grasp the implication of William’s words.

  As if sensing his thoughts, the Duke said, ‘I make it my business to learn what I may about all men with whom I am to have dealings. You believe that Harold’s brothers lie on the battlefield in unknown graves, or even under the open sky with those too numerous to bury?’ He saw the swift pain in the Earl’s face and went on in the same low tone. ‘They do not. Some of my monks bore them to Waltham where they received Christian burial within the church itself.’

  Waltheof could not speak. He could only gaze at this remarkable man who, incredibly, had given him something he never thought to have – the knowledge of where Leofwine lay. At last, somehow, he found his voice. ‘I did not know.’

  ‘I forbade the brethren at Waltham to speak of it without my leave. The only condition on which I would allow it was their silence,’ William said and added sternly, ‘I want no martyrs’ tombs there. That is why . . .’

  ‘Why Harold lies on the cliffs?

  ‘He was perjured, was he not?’

  ‘Sire,’ Waltheof bent towards the Duke, his voice no more than a whisper, but containing all the urgency he could summon. ‘Sire, you have the crown. Show mercy now.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ was all that William would say. ‘There are two sides to every coin, my friend.’

  Waltheof understood his meaning. He felt a flame of colour rise in his face and slowly knelt. ‘Then must I own you my liege lord.’ He put up his hands, palm to palm. ‘I will be your man, William, Duke of Normandy.’

  William leaned forward. ‘You do not trust me yet – and indeed why should you, my lord earl? But you shall go to Normandy soon and see for yourself that those who obey me live in a land where all men may trust my word.’

  He placed his hands on either side of Waltheof’s, his fingers pressed, firm and strong, against the Earl’s. Their eyes met and held and in that short exchange Waltheof sensed, almost subconsciously, that it was the beginning of a trial of strength between them.

  ‘You are my man, Waltheof, Earl of Huntingdon,’ the Duke said, and as he leaned back in his chair a shaft of sunlight slanting in through one of the windows sent a glittering snake of light along the golden mantle.

  BOOK II

  THE CAPTIVE GUESTS

  MARCH-DECEMBER 1067

  ‘ . . .Many a man

  moon-glad, gold-bright, of gleams garnished,

  flushed with wine-pride, flashing war-gear,

  gazed on wrought gemstones, on gold, on silver,

  on wealth held and hoarded, on light-filled amber,

  on this bright burg of broad dominion.’

  Anglo-Saxon poem

  CHAPTER 1

  As the long ship drove through the sparkling sea the spray rose and Waltheof turned his face into it, relishing the freshness of the morning.

  Thorkel, standing beside him, said, ‘We shall see the coast of Normandy soon. There are fine sandy beaches and a good harbour at St Valery.’

  The Earl laughed. ‘Is there anywhere you have not been?’

  Thorkel smiled, puckering the scar on his cheek. ‘I had a restless spirit when I was a beardless boy. But I have never seen Rouen.’

  ‘Richard of Rules tells me there is a fine stone palace there, not unlike our King Edward’s at West Minster, and a cathedral church that is the envy of all Europe.’ The ship gave a heave on the rolling waves, and he caught hold of the side to steady himself, revelling in this journey. He laughed again and pointed along the deck. ‘I fear poor Hakon is not enjoying himself.’

  Thorkel followed his direction and saw Hakon bent over the side of the ship as seasick as a man could be. His face had a greenish hue and Outy was holding his head. ‘Poor
fellow. I think young Ulf is in the same case. He has not even ventured to stand on his feet. Look, my lord, there is the coastline.’

  Waltheof nodded. He could see the outline of land on the horizon and he wondered what Normandy would be like, what kind of land it was that had bred these men he was beginning to know. He had learned something of them during the last three months, for he had not been home since his submission to the Norman Duke, but had stayed in London at his command.

  On Christmas Day William had been crowned and Waltheof had been there to see it done. The ceremony had been performed by Aldred of York, assisted by Geoffrey, the Norman Bishop of Coutances – following Harold’s example William had refused to be crowned by one under the Pope’s displeasure, though Stigand remained in office for the moment. The Coronation had been marred by a misunderstanding between the people outside and the Norman guards with the result that a number of houses had been set on fire and panic narrowly averted, an example Waltheof thought, of the lack of trust on both sides.

  But he had cause to be grateful to William. Once the crown was on his head and the sceptre firmly in his hand the new King relented, as he had half hinted to Waltheof that he might, and allowed Harold’s body to be translated from the lonely cliff grave and carried in solemnity to his own abbey church at Waltham to lie beside his brothers.

  The English Earls had asked William to allow them to attend the burial Mass, but he had said simply, ‘No, my lords,’ in a pleasant voice that nevertheless left them in no doubt that it would be folly to disobey him. Waltheof confided to Wulfstan as they walked on a cold January day in the cloisters of the new Abbey at West Minster.

  ‘Do not pursue the matter,’ the Bishop advised. ‘It is clear to me that the King does not want any of us out of his sight for the moment. I have no doubt we will be free to go to Waltham in due course, but in the meantime be thankful, my child, that Harold lies in his own place at last.’

  With that Waltheof had to be content. The English lords had been generously treated and all retained their lands, only those of the dead at Hastings being appropriated. As the care of his land and people were of first priority Waltheof was not prepared to jeopardise either just now and because he was twenty years old, in the first flush of a healthy and vigorous manhood, he could not but look to the future.

  The country seemed reasonably quiet. William’s men were engaged in building castles such as England had not seen before and Normandy’s High Seneschal, William FitzOsbern, had been given charge of all the west country while the Duke’s brother, Bishop Odo, guarded Kent.

  Waltheof liked FitzOsbern surprisingly well and often hunted with him and his son, Roger, in the forests near Windsor, a sport, he discovered, in which the King delighted.

  In the middle of March William proposed returning to Normandy with much of the treasure he had captured and taking with him the chief English magnates. It was to be a triumphal progress, that all Normandy might see and acknowledge the high prowess of their famous Duke.

  Waltheof had been a little surprised at the King’s returning to his homeland so soon, for no attempt had been made to penetrate the north of England, and only half the country was in William’s hands. He said as much to Roger FitzOsbern.

  ‘All Normandy will want to greet him,’ Roger said, ‘and he does not like to be long parted from his Duchess. They are much devoted to each other.’

  This was a facet of the King’s character Waltheof had not expected. In England he had seen the Bastard as a proud strong man, a fine horseman, a huntsman, a man who dressed magnificently and lived frugally, at once opulent and abstemious, a man born to rule – but he had not thought that he would be a man for whom domesticity had much meaning, though he had heard stories of William’s tempestuous and determined courtship of Matilda of Flanders.

  Now on this bright morning in the fitful March sunshine, he was looking forward to seeing Normandy and its Duchess, and he stood with Thorkel looking towards the growing land mass ahead, the wind in his face. He found the sea intoxicating.

  Presently Richard de Rules came to join them. He seemed bent on friendship with the English Earl and in a court of tough hard-living men, his manners were quiet and courteous. ‘You are enjoying the voyage, my lord.’

  ‘I would it were longer.’

  Richard laughed. ‘I’m afraid not all your retinue feel the same. That poor little page is lying most miserably by your pallet and will open his eyes for no one. I tried to give him a little wine, but he could not hold it.’

  ‘You are very kind,’ Waltheof said, ‘Perhaps I should not have brought him, but his father fell at Hastings, poor child, and I would stand in his place. Tell me, do we ride straight to Rouen?’

  ‘No, tonight we lie at Caudebec on the river Seine, and then tomorrow we enter the city.’ He hesitated and then added, ‘Perhaps when the good weather comes you would care to visit my home. I know my mother will wish to meet you and I can show you some good hunting in the forest there.’

  ‘Gladly,’ Waltheof answered. The hatred of the fight in the ravine he had put behind him. One had after all to live in the world as it was, and for the moment that world was Norman-dominated.

  ‘By the way,’ Richard was continuing, ‘you are bidden to dine with the Duke – I mean, the King,’ he smiled ruefully, ‘I cannot get used to him being a king.’

  ‘You have been long in his service?’ Waltheof asked.

  ‘Four years. My father held a position at court, and my elder brothers were both in the Duke’s bodyguard, so it seemed only natural that I should ask him for a place. Now,’ he broke off, his eyes shadowed for a moment, ‘I suppose I should stay in Normandy on our lands, but to tell you the truth I have formed a liking for England and I am minded to make my home there.’ His ready smile lifted the shadow as he added, ‘I would like to see your earldom.’

  His genuine sincerity evoked an immediate response from Waltheof. ‘You shall come to Ryhall. I have many manors but that is the one where I am most content. It is a green and gentle place quite different from the earldom my father ruled.’ He had not thought of Northumbria for some time, but it was always there at the back of his mind. Richard, glancing at him, wanted to ask more, sensing that there was more to know, but he could see the King’s servants setting up the royal table just outside William’s little cabin and he had perforce to conduct Waltheof to it without pursuing the subject.

  Stigand of Canterbury was already at the table with the King when Waltheof joined them with William Malet who had been constantly in attendance on the King since landing last October. A place was laid for Edgar Atheling, but he had declined and was lying in the bow of the ship, another victim of seasickness.

  Since he had been at court Waltheof had discovered that Norman food was more elaborate, more highly spiced than he was accustomed to, but it was appetising and he ate eagerly, his hunger stimulated by the sea air.

  During the meal William spoke mostly to him. ‘Tell me, my lord Earl, since you are so good a sailor, have you spent much time on the sea?’

  ‘No, sire, but I have sailed often from London up the coast to the Humber, and I have been as far as Monkwearmouth.’

  ‘Monkwearmouth? Where is that?’

  ‘Further north, some eighty miles from York. And I went once with the . . .’ he was going to say ‘the late King’, but changed the words hastily, ‘with the Godwines down the channel as far as Cornwall.’

  ‘Ah, that is land I’m minded that my brother of Mortain should rule.’ .The ship gave a roll and with one accord the King and Waltheof seized various bowls and dishes that were about to slide off the table.

  The Archbishop held on to his own cup. ‘A wise choice, sir,’ he said smoothly, ‘they are strange fierce people there who will need a firm hand.’

  Waltheof gave him a swift glance. Was Stigand an Englishman or not? he wondered angrily.

  ‘I find, my lord Archbishop,’ William said without expression, ‘that most men need that. From my youth I have had
to hold my barons in check, for discipline is the only thing that brings peace.’

  ‘I thought,’ Waltheof said slowly, ‘that you had been more used to war than peace.’

  William inclined his head. ‘You are right, Earl Waltheof, but of late years my Duchy has come to know me for its master and a fair master at that so we have had peace. I deal starkly with rebels, but I do not kill except in war.’

  ‘That is the most Christian way,’ Stigand put in, but William paid him scant attention, seeming more absorbed in cutting himself a piece of cheese. He dislikes Stigand almost as much as we do, Waltheof thought amusedly.

  William Malet spoke for the first time, addressing himself to the Earl. ‘As you know, my lord, my mother was an Englishwoman, but Normandy is my home and I cannot but be proud of it. We shall pleasure ourselves in showing you the best of it.’ He had an open honest face and had been brought on this journey to bridge the gap between Norman and Englishman; having fought hard under the Duke’s banner at Senlac he had wept at the sight of Harold’s mutilated body, and perhaps no task was more to his taste that his present one. He went on, ‘And I am taking home a coverlet for my wife embroidered as only your countrywomen can do such work. Woe betide me if I return without a gift,’ he added ruefully and William laughed.