Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘I am not a child.’ Tears stung Ulf’s eyes and he scrubbed them with his fists. ‘I am a man now and I fought too. We had a victory.’

  ‘Aye, a victory.’ It was Scalpin, the Sussex man, who spoke, ‘but our men were not as the housecarls were. Then we were each worth two of any soldier in Europe. If we had had such a body still to hold the men together we’d not have failed.’

  ‘We should never have trusted the Danes,’ Hakon said cynically, ‘a nation of reiving pirates. Well, it’s over now – only I wonder what it has done to him?’

  Waltheof and Thorkel had walked together down to the sea shore. It was still bitingly cold but the sun shone today out of a clear blue sky and the sea broke more gently on the white Northumbrian sands. For a long time they walked, but at last Waltheof sat down on a tussock of spiky marram grass and dipping his hand into the sand watched the grains running through his fingers.

  ‘So with our conquest at York,’ he said. ‘We let it slip like this sand. What fools we were.’

  Thorkel stood upright, his lank hair blowing in the light breeze, his pale cheeks whipped into colour by the sharp air. ‘Not you, minn hari.’

  ‘Well,’ Waltheof looked up at him, ‘what is it to be? Surrender to William? Or flight. No,’ he shuddered, ‘I do not think I could go from England. One last fight, here in this corner of it, with our backs to the sea?’ A heavy sigh escaped him. ‘But have I any right now to ask that of you all when it could achieve nothing but a selfish glory? Could I see Osgood and Hakon dead, and Ulf lying in his own blood? No – it is too late to fight.’ An utter dejection seized him. ‘I must surrender myself to William. I think if I do he will spare other lives – it has ever been this way.’

  ‘If not, we would fight,’ Thorkel said. He did not need to add that every man on that neck of land would do so and to death if the Earl called on them.

  Waltheof shook his head. ‘I must give myself into his hands – pray for mercy for you all – kneel to him . . .’ He tried hard to control himself, but the depth of his love for his men, for the very soil on which he sat, could not be suppressed. He put his head in his hands and scalding tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Thorkel sat beside him on the hummock of grass and set an arm about his shoulders. He did not speak, feeling in his own marrow the load-weariness of his lord, and only sat thus, looking out to sea.

  Eventually Waltheof drew a deep choking breath. ‘When we surrendered before it was an honourable submission – all of us because it seemed right. Now – I am a rebel alone, sueing for pardon. Jesu, can I do it?’

  ‘We can do what we must.’ Thorkel said. ‘You have enough courage.’

  ‘Have I?’ Waltheof stared out across the sparkling water. The sunshine, the blue sky seemed a mockery on this day. He felt utterly weary now, all the emotion drained out of him. It was as if the fight at York had never been. ‘I think it is run out too, like the sand.’

  ‘Never,’ Thorkel asserted stoutly. ‘My lord, send Richard de Rules to the King. You have treated him honourably, you could not send any one better to William to ask for terms.’

  Waltheof got to his feet, straightening his shoulders. ‘You are right, of course. I’ll speak to him now.’

  He walked back to the camp, calm again, master of himself, and despite the shrinking within, giving no sign of that breakdown on the beach.

  He found Richard in his tent yawning over a chess game with all the boredom of a prisoner. ‘Will you go?’ he asked. ‘One of my men will take you through the marshes and bring you back with William’s answer.’

  ‘I will go,’ Richard said. ‘My friend, this is the only thing you can do.’

  ‘Yea, but how must it be done?’ Waltheof asked wrily. ‘Will he make me go on my knees with a saddle on my back?’

  ‘No – no.’ Richard repudiated that custom vehemently. ‘I swear it. Waltheof, I promise you he will not do that. You hate him now for what he has done here in the north and I cannot blame you, but he can show mercy. Trust me.’

  ‘What else can I do?’ Waltheof said and watched him ride out with a native guide.

  The next morning he was back with William’s answer. The Earl of Huntingdon was to present himself immediately at the King’s camp, with all his followers, yielding up their weapons. Safety of life and limb were promised, but that was all.

  As Outy helped him into his battle-harness, seeming to take longer and more care over this than usual, Waltheof said, ‘If my father could see what I am to do this day . . .’

  Outy swore and then added, ‘You are not a proud man, lord, or I’d not say this – but I’ve watched over you since you were too little to reach a stirrup, and I tell you he’d praise God for you as you are.’

  A small tide of warmth crept over Waltheof, the first in all these days, reinforcing his courage, and he laid his hand briefly on Outy’s arm.

  ‘God send I have not brought you all to shame,’ he said sadly and went out.

  A silent company of men rode out of the marshy fastness with their Earl at their head. There was little talking and the only sounds were the horses’ hooves and the jingle of harness. Yesterday’s brief sunshine was gone and today the clouds were heavy, backing up from the east, yellow with the promise of more snow. Waltheof rode between Richard and .Thorkel. He could not think any more. All that was in his mind was to get through the surrender with dignity, and, throbbing with the pain of defeat and betrayal, he could only writhe the more at the pain of having to give his timber-axe into Norman hands. He remembered his father’s dying words – ‘bear it with honour’ – and wondered if that vivid spirit were restless this day. He held the axe in one hand, feeling the familiar smooth handle, the silver patterning. The thought that it might hang in a Norman hall was intolerable, filled him with shame, and he wished he had died with it in his hand as his brother had done. Barring that he should have burned it last night rather than surrender it.

  But he had done neither and when he dismounted in the Norman camp and walked at the head of his men through the lines of Norman spears, all he could do was to carry it with pride. He moved as if not of his own volition towards the King’s tent, as if he could not be about to do this thing, and when he came to a halt by the standard of Normandy, he looked round the circle of Norman barons waiting there.

  He saw William de Warenne who had shown him kindness in Normandy; he saw Walter Giffard on whose land he had hunted; both for them looked grave, but de Warenne gave him a faint encouraging smile. He saw Ivo of Tallebois, a malicious expression on his face, and Ralph de Toeni, the standard bearer, who came forward to organise the collecting and stacking of the surrendered weapons.

  He approached the Earl, his hand held out, but a last spurt of defiance rose in Waltheof. ‘No,’ he said in a loud clear voice, ‘I will give my axe to none but the King.’

  De Toeni looked uneasy. ‘My lord, I was ordered to . . .’

  Waltheof glanced down at him. ‘Do you wish to take it from me?’

  ‘Not I,’ de Toeni answered hastily. The story of Waltheof’s stand at the gate at York had reached every man in the Norman army. ‘I see no reason why you should not hand it to our lord the King.’

  At that moment William himself came out of his tent. He too was dressed in full battle-harness, his helm surrounded by a gold coronet, his sword at his side, a mantle of purple falling from his shoulders. His face was set and stem and for a while he stood, staring keenly at the Englishmen. Then he moved forward to face Waltheof.

  ‘Well, my lord,’ his tone was biting, ‘or should I call you rebel and traitor since you came thus to me once before?’

  The words struck Waltheof so that he winced. Slowly he knelt and laid the timber-axe at William’s feet. In a low, strangled voice, he said, ‘I surrender myself into your hands, King William, giving you dominion of life and limb over me. My cousin, Earl Gospatric, sends this ring as a mark of his surrender also. All we ask is life and limb for our people.’

  Kneeling there on th
e cold ground it seemed to him an eternity before William answered.

  ‘And if I pardon you, what then? You gave me your oath at Berkhamstead.’

  Aware that every man’s glance must be on him, must see his shame, he had to force the words. ‘Yes, Seigneur, I did, and I have raised rebellion against you because I deemed you had taken our land without right. Now it seems that God’s hand is heavy against us, that you have the right. If you will pardon us, I swear by the Holy Cross of our Lord Christ that I will never again take up arms against you.’ He lifted the axe, letting it lie across his palms, and held it out to William.

  The King laid his hand on it in token of receiving it but he did not attempt to take it. Their eyes met and held.

  ‘Can I trust you, Earl Waltheof?’

  ‘As I hope for the mercy of God, yes, Seigneur.’

  William was still frowning. ‘What I have forgiven once I will not forgive a second time.’

  ‘I would not expect it.’

  William bent then and raised Waltheof to his feet. “Keep your axe, my lord, and keep your title and your lands. Your men will not be harmed and you may all return to your homes.’ He saw the incredulity on the Earl’s face and went on, ‘There are some men I have not wanted for enemies – Earl Harold was one, and you, Earl Waltheof, are another.’

  ‘Sire!’ Waltheof clutched the axe, speechless.

  An hour later he was dining at the King’s table.

  CHAPTER 4

  On the vigil of St Cyprian’s Mass the roads leading to Winchester were crowded with men, women and children coming to the city to see what they might of the great celebration. A royal wedding did not happen every day and it was said that the new Archbishop of Canterbury was to sing the Nuptial Mass. A poor man would not see that but he could stand in the street and watch the procession pass and cheer for he knew not what. There would be a bride of great beauty, a groom who had become a hero to simple folk, and a great company of people in fine clothes all riding through streets hung with banners and garlands of flowers.

  ‘It will be a fine day tomorrow,’ a miller remarked, trudging along the dusty road and reading the signs in the evening sky. ‘No rain yet.’

  ‘It has been a good summer,’ his neighbour agreed. ‘My harvest is better than last year. The bad times may be over.’

  ‘The saints grant it,’ his wife said. Her feet were tired with the long walk, but it was worth it, she thought, for they said the King would be generous and there would be food and drink for all in the city. •

  Every now and then a cavalcade rode past, scattering the simple folk to the edge of the road, for all the barons were coming, every man of high birth and every Englishman of standing was on the road to Winchester. And many saw in this marriage the first uniting of opposing sides that might mend the hatred and the killing that had seared and burned the fair land. The Saxons saw their hero, the most popular and most loved of Englishmen now so favoured by the King that better times must stem from this union, while the Normans saw the flower of the King’s kin given to a man of parts, an erstwhile enemy whose prowess could not but call forth the admiration of any fighting man and whose great name was worthy to be joined to that of Normandy’s royal house.

  The Normans rode in great style; Roger FitzOsbern from Hereford, William de Warenne and his lady from his new estates in East Anglia, Walter Giffard from Buckingham, Bishop Odo from Kent, the Count of Mortain and his lady from Dorchester, Henry of Beaumont from Warwick, and the peasants goggled at their finery, at the magnificent horses and clothes and gold and silver that shone in the September sunshine. Great prelates came too, the saintly Bishop Wulfstan from Worcester in his plain soutane as always, the Norman Remigius from Dorchester, a contrast in his rich robes, Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances, soldierly in his bearing, and Giso, the aged Bishop of Wells.

  In the palace the Seneschal, Ralph of Tancarville, on whose shoulders rested the responsibility for the smooth running of all, was directing operations, harassed by a dozen questions all requiring answers at the same time. Servants scurried about their business of feeding and housing this great multitude; butlers, ushers and servers, maids and cooks were working from before dawn until dusk preparing the marriage feast, and Hakon, meeting Ulf who was proudly carrying his master’s newly burnished shield and helm from the smith, remarked that there was no sense to be got from anyone today.

  ‘There’s not a stall in town with any finery not sold,’ he said, ‘and as for finding a barber to cut your hair or a man to mend your shoes, it is like trying to find a pair of breeches in a nunnery.’

  Ulf laughed. ‘You have left it too late if you want new clothes now.’ He was exceedingly pleased with the embroidered tunic he was to wear on the morrow and secretly hoped it would outshine anything Hakon might have.

  Hakon gave him a friendly punch. ‘Oh, I’ve all I need and anyway with a new-born son to think about I cannot waste too much money on trifles. But I won’t disgrace our lord.’

  ‘Nor I.’ Ulf glanced up at one of the towers of the new palace and a slit window there. ‘At least things go well for him at last.’ He was beaming with vicarious joy.

  ‘Aye. No man ever earned his heart’s desire better. I wonder what he is thinking of now? He sent us out so that he might be alone for a while – only Outy is sitting outside his door like a wiry old watchdog. He said there had been such a din all day.’

  ‘So there has,’ Ulf nodded. ‘I think,’ he added wisely, ‘that the Earl wanted to wed the lady when we were in Normandy. I did not think of it then, but I see it now.’

  Hakon set his hands on his hips and roared with laughter. ‘My poor boy! Of course he did – have you only just realised that? But you were a mere babe when we went to Normandy.’

  ‘One of these days,’ Ulf said sententiously, ‘one of these days, Hakon Osbertson, I am going to hit you very hard and send you flat on your back – and at the rate I’m growing it won’t be long.’ But his eyes were sparkling with laughter.

  ‘Well, you are man enough since the York fight to take your wine.’ Hakon thrust an arm through his. ‘I’ve made friends with a fellow in the buttery – let’s go and see if he’ll let us broach a tub together. We’ll toast our lord’s joy.’

  They went off arm in arm, Ulf with a last glance at the turret window.

  Within, one of the two central participants in all this festivity was briefly alone. He sat on the bed looking through the slit into the warm September dusk. Now that it was quiet, all the bustle far away below, the tailors dismissed, his clothes ready, his jewels and gifts laid out, there was a little time to think, and with a deep sigh he lay back, his hands clasped behind his head in his favourite manner of relaxation.

  He could still scarcely believe the incredible truth that Judith – Judith! was to be his tomorrow. Since that day more than seven months ago when he had sat in tears on a Northumberland beach everything had changed.

  After the surrender he had gone home. He heard how William had set off on another impossible march, this time across the Pennines deep in snow. Somehow he got his army through, Chester surrendered and for the moment the fighting was over. By Easter the triumphant King was back at Winchester.

  Waltheof stayed quietly at home, only too thankful to have his earldom. He set about its affairs, visited Ulfcytel and gave him a further gift of money towards the rebuilding of the Abbey church, and inaugurated much new building on his various manors. It gave him something to do, to help blot out the memory of the ghastly waste of the north, the utter desolation of the land around York, the misery of the people, who would never now be his. He had long lost all hope that the mantle of Siward would fall on his shoulders.

  He had talked long with Ulfcytel, pouring out his fear that he was in part responsible – that if he and the rest had not set up a rising the bones of the starved and slain would not now be whitening in the hot sun in that barren land.

  Ulfcytel had looked troubled. ‘I do not know how to answer you, my child. Perhaps yo
u do bear some guilt, for without what you did, the King would not have visited his vengeance on those poor folk, but from the beginning of time men have fought for freedom, to keep their land from foreign invaders, and I do not see that you can be blamed for that.’

  Nevertheless Waltheof faced many dark hours when he fought in his own soul for peace, and daily he recited the Miserere that he might be forgiven for whatever guilt was his. And after all one had to go forward, and there was plenty to do. Ralph de Gael, part Breton, part English, had succeeded his father as Earl of Norfolk and Waltheof went to his heir-feasting – he had known the florid young man for many years but he did not find him a congenial companion, and soon found an excuse to ride home.

  Richard de Rules came to Deeping and they spent most of the summer together. Richard did not speak of marriage with Athelais again. She came to Ryhall once or twice, but every time Waltheof raised the subject of finding a suitable match for her she begged him not to do so yet, that she might give herself to Holy Church. He did not believe she really intended this, but because despite her difficult temper he was fond of her he did not press the matter of marriage. Also he had a feeling that Richard still wanted to wed her; occasionally he caught the Norman looking at her in an odd manner, as if he had a desire to break her to his will. Athelais bore herself proudly and what she felt he did not know – but she was lonely, he saw that, and he wondered if she regretted her refusal of the marriage offer but was too proud to say so. At least, he thought, she realised now that he himself would never be other than a kinsmen to her.