Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘It’s all very well, my lord,’ he said, ‘messengers may come from London to tell me that the Lord Robert de Comines is to be governor here, but we are far from the King and his court. We have enough to do protecting our own without having Normans thrust upon us to cause more disorder.’

  ‘I doubt if the King sees it like that,’ Waltheof remarked. ‘To him it is but another part of his kingdom to be subdued.’

  ‘Subdued!’ .The Bishop’s already highly-coloured face went a deeper shade of purple. ‘It will be a strong man indeed who can subdue Northumbria.’

  A strong man, Waltheof thought, and I that man if God would give it into my hand. All the old longing for his lost inheritance came once more to the surface, but the Bishop was continuing his complaint.

  ‘Law is nothing here but words on a parchment.’ He regarded his guests suspiciously. ‘Do you also come from the King, Earl Waltheof? I hardly thought that you of all people, Siward’s son and . . .’

  ‘You mistake me,’ Waltheof broke in hastily. ‘I merely put forward what must be the King’s point of view. I rode north on personal business, but I came to inform you that if there is trouble and you are in need, I have some men at my back.’

  ‘Trouble? Need?’ the Bishop queried in an irritated manner. ‘What do you expect? I am not going to flout the King. If I gave you that impression, I did so unwittingly. But I heard that my lord Robert is barely five miles away and I have sent a man to beg him not to risk entering the town as yet.’

  ‘Oh?’ Waltheof raised an eyebrow at Thorkel. This explained a certain activity he had noticed in the streets, a gathering of men more than might be normally expected. ‘You think he will be attacked?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Aethelwine answered anxiously. ‘But I do not want a fight here, nor burning, nor looting. Archbishop Aldred sent word from York most particularly that we, the churchmen, are to take the way of peace and reconcile our people to the King.’

  Thorkel spoke for the first time. ‘With due respect to your office, my lord Bishop, I would say it is well nigh impossible to hunt with both hare and hounds.’

  Surprisingly Bishop Aethelwine did not take offence at this but merely wrung his hands more vigorously, telling them that they did not understand the situation here in Durham.

  It became all too plain within a very short space of time. Ignoring the Bishop’s warning, Robert de Comines arrived the next day – an arrogant man who lived for the battlefield and the hunt and who had no opinion whatever of the savages he had come to govern. He imprudently allowed his men to loot the city, rape the women and carry off anything of value, whereupon the men of Durham with reinforcements from the countryside around arose in fury and in a night of carnage slew every Norman in the place. Robert himself in the Bishop’s house laughed scornfully, assuring the nearly apoplectic Aethelwine that his Normans would easily deal with such a rabble.

  Robert’s arrogance was his undoing for a burning torch, flung with accuracy at the roof, set the place aflame and a wild yelling mob of Northumbrians bent on revenge for their stolen goods, their ravaged women, slew any who tried to escape. Robert died there in his pride and obstinacy and no trace of him was ever found in the rubble.

  Only one Norman escaped that night and he was wounded in the leg. He dragged himself away into the bitter darkness leaving a trail of red drops in the snow.

  A mile from the city Waltheof and his men, riding hard for they had seen the flames in the sky, came upon him lying exhausted on the frozen ground.

  Osgood swung down from his horse and turned the man over with one foot. ‘It’s a Norman,’ he said. ‘Shall I slay him, lord? He’s three parts dead.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Waltheof answered irritably. ‘He can tell us what has happened.’ He threw a costrel of wine to his captain. ‘Give him some of that.’

  Bit by bit the man gasped out his story and the Earl listened with a gathering frown. If Durham were burned and the Normans dead, there was no point in riding there. ‘What of the Bishop?’ he asked, and when he learned that Aethelwine had fled west in the darkness he set off in pursuit, causing the injured man to be taken up behind one of the men-at-arms, much to Osgood’s disgust. The fellow sobbed out his gratitude to the Earl but the next day he was dead and they left him in the snow.

  They found the Bishop at length, his monks struggling on foot and a sorry-looking horse pulling a cart which contained his lordship sitting disconsolately beside a wooden coffin.

  ‘We are going to Lindisfarne,’ he told the Earl. ‘We are taking the bones of blessed St Cuthbert back to his own holy island. I tell you, my lord, this night’s work has burned my city and my church, but more than that – it will set the north alight.’

  Waltheof dismounted and knelt briefly in the snow, touching the coffin with reverent hand. Of all the saints in the Church’s calendar, he most reverenced their own beloved northern holy man, and here were those relics deposited like baggage in a humble cart. He crossed himself and rose, riding thereafter beside Aethelwine and his precious burden, offering his escort as far as the coast, and as they crossed the dreary winter countryside, the open moors bleak and forbidding, he nevertheless felt a lightening of the heart.

  He was in his own country again, the place of his birth; men were ready to fight for it, to unite against the foreigner, and he could put all his personal problems aside in the national struggle. That his participation in it might put Judith further from his grasp hardly entered into it, for she was lost already, except in his dreams – and he could lose his own bitterness in action.

  He glanced across at Thorkel and laughed suddenly. ‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘Alfric always said you could tell a warrior because he scented battle like a war horse?’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I scent it now. By the living God, it is in the very air we breathe!’

  * * *

  But it was many months before the hope of a real stand came to a head. Waltheof stayed during the bitter winter weather with Siward Barn, waiting for Gospatric to join them, sitting by the fire and talking of what might be done when the spring came. Little news reached them from the south but they heard that the Queen had borne a son, Henry. ‘They call him the English prince,’ the messenger said, but Waltheof thought it would take more than the place of birth to make an Englishman of a son of William’s.

  Then one evening when at last the snows had yielded, there was a clattering of hooves and a cavalcade rode into the courtyard of Siward’s manor.

  The men in the hall were instantly alert. The Normans might always be expected though no sign of them had been seen since that dreadful January night; however it was no Norman who strode in but Waltheof’s own cousin Gospatric, followed by the sturdy figure of Maerlsweyn and the slighter one of Edgar Atheling.

  Waltheof went down the hall, his hands held out and he and his cousin embraced.

  ‘Waltheof!’ Gospatric held him at arms length. ‘It must be more than eighteen months since we met and by St Cuthbert, there’s naught of the boy left in you now. It’s a warrior I have for cousin.’

  Waltheof laughed, unable to hide his pleasure. ‘It is good to see a man of my own kin. How fares that child of yours that bears my name?’

  ‘Oh, he grows sturdily and has a new brother to bear him company. But here is my lord Edgar and your friend Maerlsweyn.’

  Waltheof turned to greet them. The Atheling too had changed since their stay in Normandy for he had grown tall and was much less the child, but he was still delicate-looking and lacking a purposefulness that would have been encouraging.

  ‘We have come with great plans;’ Edgar said, ‘but they will tell you all.’ It was typical of him that he left the explanations to his companions.

  ‘Aye,’ Maerlsweyn greeted Siward and Waltheof warmly. ‘But first tell us what has been happening here. Is it true that the Normans never came to Durham? We thought they would avenge the slaying of their men, but we heard strange rumours . . .’

  ‘That St Cuthbert protects his o
wn?’ Waltheof queried. ‘It is true enough, for the Normans did set out from York but they had hardly set foot in St Cuthbert’s land when a white mist descended so they could not see where to go. When it would not lift they turned back and have not tried to come since.’

  ‘It was the holy saint, indeed,’ Siward Barn put in. ‘The Bishop brought his remains back to lie again at Durham, for the flames were turned when they reached the church tower and it was not burned. God spoke and the wind blew – it was a miracle.’

  They were all sitting at the table now, wine and food before them, and Siward sent his household out of earshot. Then he leaned towards the visitors. ‘Well, my lords?’

  Gospatric spoke in a low voice. ‘We are agreed. We have seen that Englishmen are to have no part in the governing of our land any more – every office goes to a Norman and even if we keep our manors we are nothing. But neither can we do anything if we do not unite. Edwin and Morcar failed last summer . . .’

  ‘And Edric Guilda is like a wasp buzzing wildly, his sting worthless when he is alone,’ Maerlsweyn put in.

  ‘But if we all unite, attack under one leader, then we may succeed.’

  Waltheof leaned forward intently. ‘Under one leader? One of us?’ He saw no hope there, for there was not among them one man who could stand above the others. Only the Atheling had a true claim to the throne and he – Waltheof sent him a quick glance – he was not of the stuff of which leaders were made. Oh God, for a Harold Godwineson now!

  ‘No.’ Gospatric broke in, ‘not one of us. I am part Dane and so are you, my cousin. There is only one man – King Sweyn of Denmark. He is nephew to Canute who was no ill king, and nephew to Godwine too.’

  ‘Aye,’ Maerlsweyn agreed. ‘Let us ask aid of Denmark and offer him the Grown of England.’

  Long afterwards Waltheof wondered if they had any of them any real appreciation of the fact that the crown was now firmly held by a man whose tenacity was limitless. But at the moment in this smoky rush-lit hall, far from the Norman court where the Queen dandled her new-born son and a Norman sat on the throne once occupied by the great Alfred, it all seemed possible, a chance to free their country from the hated invader.

  As they made their plans, he found half his mind detached. He could not help remembering that before the quarrel over Judith he had come near to liking William. Certainly he respected him, saw his qualities and found in him a companion as energetic and strong as himself. But William’s refusal of Judith changed all that. Now he had a chance to avenge that interview in William’s solar. He still smarted at the memory of it and William’s taunt, ‘Whose spears won at Hastings?’

  The horns were filled. More men came into the hall, hearing of the meeting of the great magnates, so that all thought of secrecy was lost. The feasting and drinking lasted all night and Waltheof, flushed with wine and a half forgotten exhilaration, sprawled on the high seat next to his cousin, his long legs spread beneath the laden table. For this evening of decision Siward Bam brought out the last of his winter salted beef; there were roasted capons and great pasties and a ham that had hung from the beams of the hall, so that they might all eat their fill and more. The wine and the ale flowed and Waltheof felt it in his limbs and in his face. He thrust from him all thoughts of the past, all doubts. He would not see de Rules’ face, nor FitzOsbern’s smile, not Malet’s comically pessimistic expression, nor any of his new friends.

  ‘Let the Raven come again, let it fly once more over this land! He was the son of Siward the Dane, no Norman pawn. ‘Let the Dane come,’ he shouted, raising his cup. ‘He is of our blood. Let him come.’

  And the old cry rose. ‘Death to the Norman! Death to the invader.’

  Waltheof drank recklessly. Death to them all, and a free England again. Then would he throw that taunt back in the Bastard’s face.

  In the morning he had a very thick head, but hope, like the spring, was born again.

  It was late summer when at last the Danes, having plundered their way up the coast, wasting time and men, finally sailed into the Humber. There Waltheof, Gospatric, Siward Barn, Maerlsweyn and Edgar rode to meet them at the head of a great army. The occasion was only marred by the news of the death of Archbishop Aldred in the city of York. Worn out by his efforts to keep the peace in his see and aware that more blood was about to be shed he died, mourned by Saxon and Norman alike, and on this brilliant day, Waltheof wished that the old man could have seen that freedom must and would come again.

  The English leaders had raised all the men they could and messengers had gone to Edric Guilda in the west to support them by diversionary attacks; men had come from as far south as Sussex where one of the last remaining of Harold’s housecarls had ridden all the way north to join them. Only Edwin and Morcar were missing, still at William’s court, the fight gone out of them.

  Waltheof had sent Osgood to Ryhall and the latter had returned with every man he could collect; he also brought the Earl news that a son had been born to the girl Elfgive, a son who had been given his father’s name, but who had died within two weeks of his birth – and Osgood’s weatherbeaten face was sad and gentle as he recounted Elfgive’s grief.

  Waltheof went out alone into the dusk. He had had a son, a child of his body, and that child lost before he had looked into his face. For a long while he walked, in an endeavour to bow to a Will that he could never do other than acknowledge, and when at last he turned back to the camp, he knew that his relationship with Elfgive was over, that he would not return to her, nor inflict more sorrow on her. He would find a husband, a good man who would make her many children, peasant babies to romp like puppies at her feet and fill her life with more purpose than a noble lover and a dead bastard. What sin there was had never been hers. And presently when they rode out to meet the Danes there was forgetfulness and compensation in the fact that this time the men of Northampton and Huntingdon were their Earl’s to a man.

  Outy as ever rode in his lord’s shadow, his craggy face betraying nothing; Hakon had married his girl from Fotheringay but he left her to carry the Earl’s banner once again; Osgood was in his right element ordering the march, and Ulf, now fifteen, was carrying arms for the first time.

  ‘Remember your father and bear yourself well,’ Waltheof bade him. ‘You are no longer a page, but a man-at-arms in my service.’

  Ulf, tense with excitement, sat his horse well, his fair face flushed, gripping his spear as if he was already facing the enemy. He had grown very like Alfric, Waltheof thought.

  The English leaders met their Danish allies aboard the leading Danish vessel. It was a clear bright September day, warm with the richness of the summer that had passed, and Waltheof remembered that it was three years ago almost to the day when Harald of Norway had landed, and he himself had marched from Ryhall to his first fight at Stamford Bridge. Then the Danish Raven was their enemy. Now, standing on the deck of the ship, it flew over his head in the fresh breeze, and he wondered suddenly if the spirit of his father rejoiced to see this day.

  The Danish leaders came to meet them. An older man introduced himself as Jarl Asbjorn, the King’s brother, and two younger ones as Harold and Cnut, King Sweyn’s sons. There were greetings and the wine horns were passed round, there were smiles and laughter, but the Englishmen looked for Sweyn himself.

  Thorkel was frowning heavily. ‘The King is not here,’ he said in a low voice to Waltheof. ‘Is he mad? How can he command a people’s allegiance if he does not come himself?’

  ‘Are you sure he is not come?’ Waltheof’s eyes raked the deck in a sudden spurt of anger. ‘To sit at home and send a proxy is no way to win a kingdom.’

  ‘And more than that,’ Thorkel added, ‘this ship is stuffed with plunder – English plunder.’

  ‘The men must have their pay, I suppose,’ Waltheof said, but he shared Thorkel’s indignation. ‘God send we have not exchanged bad pottage for worse.’

  But for the moment they had to make the best of it and Asbjorn looked a solid warrior, while th
e two young princes heading the Danish contingent were both eager enough for battle.

  The Danes disembarked the next day and the whole army marched towards York, more men joining them all the time, and in the evening a band rode in headed by Waltheof’s old enemies, the men of the house of Carl. Magnus sat his horse arrogantly with his brothers Somerled and Edmund on either side of him. His eyes swept over Waltheof but he said nothing. It was Cnut, as always, who came up to Waltheof.

  ‘We fight together again, my lord Earl.’

  ‘For the time being,’ Waltheof agreed stiffly. ‘But after our visit to Normandy, your brother would have been my enemy even had there not been bad blood between our families.’

  Cnut sighed. ‘If I could wash out the feud in my own blood I would, but I pledge you my word that I will try to keep my brothers from it while we fight together.’