Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘No,’ Waltheof said, ‘no,’ and clenched his hands.

  ‘He is not fit to rule here,’ de Poissy took up the tirade. ‘Even to us, his own soldiers, he gives barren lands despoiled by war as a reward for the blood we shed for him. It is more than men will bear. We have a score to settle and are there no Englishmen left who would rise to avenge their dead?’

  ‘Aye,’ Ralph drained his horn, ‘and who has not dead to avenge? You have, my lord. What of Harold and Leofwine? What of your lands in Northumbria that are burned and wasted?’

  He was groping towards reason, towards understanding, trying to grasp this incomprehensible thing they were saying. For one moment he saw Leofwine’s face, the laughing eyes, the smiling mouth – no one, ever, had been to him what Leofwine was once. At last he said, ‘We cannot undo the past. Harold cannot live again.’

  ‘No,’ Ralph agreed. He leaned forward earnestly, ‘He cannot live, but he can be avenged. England can be for Englishmen again.’

  ‘Holy Cross!’ Waltheof said. He stared from one to the other. ‘It could not be done.’

  ‘It could.’ Roger’s dark eyes were snapping with eagerness. ‘Don’t you see? Cast William out, defeat him, and the kingdom can be free again.’

  ‘You must be crazed.’ A kind of horror began to seize Waltheof. ‘If William could defeat Harold and the house-carls and subdue all England, who can stand against him? I failed in Northumbria.

  ’

  ‘Aye,’ de Guitry agreed, ‘and got a burned earldom for your trouble. But you had no support. There are Bretons now, and Normans too, who have had their fill of the Bastard’s tyranny and greed.’

  ‘No one has ever beaten him on the field of battle.’

  ‘They will,’ Roger put in sharply, ‘and now is the time. He is engaged in war on Normandy’s borders and nearly all his strength is with him overseas. If the Danes joined us . . .’

  ‘No,’ Waltheof interrupted violently. ‘Never trust the Danes. God knows I’ve Danish blood myself, but I’ll have naught to do with them.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Ralph agreed, ‘I am inclined to agree with you. But if you will lend your name and person to our counsels every Englishman will rise to support you and we shall be strong enough. William is a bastard, no fit King . . .’

  Roger gave a snort of laughter. ‘Aye, we who are of the noblest blood in the land are submitting ourselves to one of mean birth, a bloody avaricious usurper . . .’

  ‘My lord!’ Waltheof exclaimed. ‘Your father was his cousin, his closest friend. How can you . . .

  Roger’s face was an ugly mottled red. ‘I am not my father.’

  Ralph pushed some wine towards him. ‘Drown your heat in that, brother-in-law. We must get to the point for my bride awaits me. Earl Waltheof, we are about to rouse the Kingdom. Our plan is that it should be divided into three earldoms, one for yourself, one for me, and one for Earl Roger.’

  ‘Three earldoms? And how should the country be ruled?’

  A slow, secret smile crossed Ralph’s face as if he were bringing out the tantalising fruit last of all. ‘By a king – one of us. Maybe you, my lord.’

  And at that Waltheof’s head cleared a little. He saw with horrifying clarity what they were involved in, what they were trying to seduce him to join – open rebellion, defiance of the King, more bloodshed, and as a prize, the Crown, for which he had no shred of ambition. His mind, befuddled with wine, tried to grapple with this moment of decision, when they were looking at him, when he must answer something. He was aware of the noise, the clatter in the hall, the clatter of dishes. No man at that feast knew what was being discussed at the high table, no man knew that high treason was being plotted, and' he – he must answer something.

  Into his mind then came the memory of that day on the river bank in Northumbria when he had submitted himself and his timber-axe into William’s hands and William’s surprising generosity; and he recalled saying once to Thorkel that if William gave him Judith he would never defy him again.

  He pushed the wine from him and shook his head violently, throwing it back and drawing a deep breath. Then he surveyed them. ‘My lords,’ he said and knew his voice was heavy, slurred with wine, ‘you have no idea of what you are about, indeed I think the devil himself has entered your heads. .The King has my fealty – I gave it willingly and in return he gave me the lady Judith as my wife and Northumbria to be added to my lands. He has made me kin and companion – how can I be faithless to him?’

  Roger’s lips curled into a sneer. ‘He is not worthy of our fealty – yours or mine. Shall such scruples stop us?’

  Waltheof regarded him with sudden disgust, seeing FitzOsbern’s son for the first time as a vain, proud, greedy young man. ‘You objected to my scald’s song this night as not sweet enough for a bride-ale – well, I tell you there is no song sweet enough to charm away the disgrace of treason. Even the heathen despise a traitor. Am I to play Judas or Achitophel for you?’

  ‘You didn’t think it treason to fight at York,’ Ralph growled, ‘and you had sworn loyalty to William before that.’

  ‘I know.’ Waltheof felt a flush rising in his cheeks. It was as if a net was closing about him and he must fight before the last point of escape eluded him. ‘But he forgave that, and I swore never to raise the sword against him again – nor will I.’ He looked from one to the other, seeing their startled faces, the incredulity there. They had been sure of him, expected his compliance! He was angry now that they should have taken so much for granted without seeming to take into account all that was at stake. He leaned forward. ‘Do you not know, you Normans, that by our law traitors lose their heads? At least you, my lord Ralph, should know that.’

  The Earl laughed. ‘No man can lose his head unless he is caught or plays the coward- – I did not think that of you, Waltheof.’

  His cheeks were flaming now. ‘By God, if this were not your bride-ale – but I do not need to defend myself on such a score. I will not stain my honour with treachery.’ He had a swift mental picture of a room in York, of his father’s last command – ‘Bear no stain upon your shield when you take the swan’s path.’ Child though he had been that memory remained vivid, and a shudder ran through him. God knew he had done evil enough in Northumbria without adding the foul crime of treachery to it. ‘My name would stink throughout Christendom,’ he added in swift repudiation, ‘and I will not be thus branded.’

  They were plainly taken aback and for a moment no one spoke. Down the hall at the lower tables men were eating, drinking, laughing, a wild babel of sound filling the hall, and no one, it seemed, noticed the tense silence at the high table. Waltheof seized his cup and drank again. Somehow he must get through this ghastly evening until he could leave, escape unscathed from this trap – for that it was a trap he was now sure.

  He felt their eyes on him, saw the anxiety, the fear in their faces. After what they had said would they let him leave this place alive? The vivid scene swam before his eyes, the colours of the clothes, the bright tapestries hanging on the walls, the painted shutters, the heat and the smoke, tire light of the candles, and he was thankful that just then the lady Emma’s aunt came back into the hall.

  ‘Your bride awaits you, my lord,’ she said smilingly at Ralph. ‘I bid you prepare for your bridal bed.’

  There was more wine passed round and then the men at the high table surrounded Ralph and went with him to the chamber where he was to undress. There they shut the door and Roger set his back to it.

  They mean to kill me, Waltheof thought, and cast about wildly for any means of escape, but there were four of them and he was unarmed. Dear God, if only he had his timber- axe with him he could have dealt with another hundred Normans, but he had not even his knife in his belt for he had left that on the table. His few men were outside and there was no way out of this tiny room but by the door.

  No one, however, made a move to lay hands on him. Instead, Chalon de Guitry poured more wine into cups that stood on a small table. He held out o
ne to Waltheof.

  ‘Drink, my lord.’

  Waltheof took the cup and sat down heavily on a stool. It would have been more sensible to refuse it, to keep what remained of his wits alert, only habit made him accept. He had drunk his way through many a marriage feast on good English ale, but this heavy French stuff went to his head, turned his stomach – yet he was not drunk enough for he needed to escape somehow from this sinister moment, this place, this situation that was none of his seeking. He drank recklessly and refilled the cup. De Guitry laughed and exchanged glances with Herluin de Poissy.

  Ralph began to undress, laying his heavy robes on a chest while de Guitry shook out a mantle for the Earl to wrap about his nakedness. Roger remained by the door. Presently he said : ‘Earl Waltheof, we cannot let you go hence after we have admitted you to our most private counsels.’

  Waltheof sat on his stool, staring at the cup in his hand.

  Perhaps they meant to poison him, perhaps there had been poison in the wine he had just drunk. He looked at the dregs of the red liquid, rich from the valley of Loire, and suddenly flung the cup at him. The last of the wine spattered across the floor and the cup rolled noisily away.

  ‘Well, Messires?’ he said. He felt sick with the wine and apprehension and a curious foreboding. ‘Let us get on with it. Do you seek my life?’

  Roger laughed harshly. ‘Nor your life, my lord. Only your silence.’

  ‘My silence?’

  Herluin de Poissy came to stand looking down at him. ‘Aye, my lord. You could send us to disaster, could you not?’ There was a dangerous expression on his face. ‘We counted on your support and we cannot have you walking free with our lives.’

  Waltheof stood up. Now he towered over de Poissy. He saw the man’s eyes, reddish like a ferret’s set in a sharp face, and he looked round at the others; Roger dark and intense, his mouth drawn tight; Ralph full blooded, his chest thick with chestnut hair, a wolfish expression on his face, and Chalon de Guitry, the coolest of them all, eyes watchful, one hand on the dagger stuck in his belt. Contempt rose in him.

  ‘You fools!’ He put out a hand to steady himself against the table. ‘All I have heard here is wine-talk, best forgotten.’

  ‘We are in earnest.’ It was the bridegroom who spoke now, sitting naked on a stool, the mantle about his shoulders. ‘Tonight’s union binds the greatest house in Normandy to mine here in England. All power is within our grasp. William is hated everywhere. He keeps every man of us on a tight rein, a damned sight too tight for my liking . . .’

  In a flash of clarity Waltheof saw then why they hated the King. It was just because he did curb them, because he would not let them run wild, because he would have order.

  He laughed, and was aware of how drunken he sounded. ‘God knows I don’t condone everything he has done, but by the Holy Virgin, not ten of you could make up his stature. Beside him,’ scorn rang in his voice, ‘you are little men.’

  They turned on him angrily. Ralph sprang up, upsetting the stool, there was a rasping sound as de Guitry drew his dagger, and de Poissy swore loud and long. Only Roger remained by the door.

  ‘We are wasting time. It is you who are the fool, Earl Waltheof, if you think we do not mean what we say.’ He nodded to de Poissy, ‘The oath then . . .’

  Herluin had a small reliquary in his hand. ‘Swear,’ he said, ‘swear on this sacred relic, a bone of St James, that you will never divulge one word of what has been said here tonight. Swear by the Holy Cross, by the Lord Christ Himself, that if you break your oath you will damn your soul to the everlasting flames.’

  He had his back against the wall now, for the room was whirling about him. ‘No,’ he answered thickly, ‘no . . .’

  ‘Then you will not leave this room alive,’ Roger told him. His voice was quiet now, but deadly. ‘We have a dozen men within call and yours have now been beguiled far down the hall. Swear, my lord, if you wish to live.’ He held out the little jewelled box and lifted the lid briefly.

  Waltheof did not need to see the relic lying there. He was trapped. Either he must swear or be murdered in this tiny rushlit room. The fact that he was now the King’s nephew would not stop them, they would find some plausible reason for his death. Drunk and sick as he was, that much he could see.

  Slowly he laid his hand on the ornate silver lid, feeling the chasings beneath his fingers, and a shudder ran through him.

  ‘Repeat the words,’ Herluin insisted and Ralph added, ‘Come Waltheof, all we ask is that you should not betray your friends.’

  Friends! He looked from one to the other and thought of Thorkel and Richard and of Leofwine. God defend him from ever having such as these for friends! They stood about him, waiting. And in that moment he remembered Harold the King and the oath sworn at Bayeux. That oath had tortured Harold until his life ended on Telham ridge. Must he, now, face the same rending of conscience? Yet what could he do? Was it a thing to die for? He thought of Judith and the children, of his manors and farms, his men – how could he throw all that away? And if he refused, kept his fealty to William, how would that serve the King if he were slain here and now?

  ‘Come,’ Ralph said again. ‘God’s body, is this not my bride-ale? I am hot for my bedding and we’ve been long enough already.’

  ‘Aye,’ Roger agreed. ‘My sister will wonder at your slowness to enjoy her beauty. Swear, Earl Waltheof.’

  He felt sweat breaking out on his forehead, and his hands were sticky with it. He made one last effort. ‘Will you not trust me?’

  Chalon de Guitry banged his fist down on the table. ‘Holy St Peter, if we can trust you, my lord, then you can give the oath we want without quibble. For God’s sake, swear.’

  He saw there was no moving them. ‘I swear,’ he began and found his mouth dry, ‘by the Holy Cross, by the Lord Christ Himself . . .’ And fear, icy despite the heat of the room and the sweat trickling down his face, chilled every limb so that the silver of the box now felt warm to his touch.

  ‘Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.’

  The words, droned by the priest in a low voice, fell on the stillness in the chapel, on the silent congregation, with oppressive solemnity. Even for the serving men and women standing at the back of the building, who understood no Latin, the weight of sorrow laid the meaning on them, and their love for their lord gave them a share in his grief. There was not a man among them who had not received bounty from his hand and they gazed with pity on his stricken face as he followed the tiny coffin, watching as the bearers, Thorkel and Hakon, Osgood and Outy Grimkelson, laid the Earl’s three-week-old daughter in her grave.

  Listening to the words Waltheof wrenched his gaze from the coffin lowered into a space before the altar steps and stared at the small splayed window. The sun was coming up now, the first rays casting patterns of light upon the floor, bright with the promise of a fair day.

  She was gone, his last-born, with little chance of life, and her passing seemed to embody all his present wretchedness. Three weeks of agonising indecision lay behind him. Since the bride-ale he had thought of nothing but the men who plotted and the oath he had taken. What had possessed him to swear? Yet if he had not, might he not also be lying under the earth? Against his will, against every instinct he was involved in a design on the King’s life; and he cursed the day he had gone to Ralph’s feast, cursed the wine that had bemused him. Since then he had prayed desperately for guidance. What should he do? Break the oath, be forsworn as Harold had been, or keep silence and abet even if passively, the most heinous treachery? He had no idea now what Ralph and Roger were planning – Roger had returned to Hereford, that much he knew, but what they intended he could not guess and told his men to report any movement of Norfolk men upon the roads.

  Once Thorkel asked, ‘What has happened? For the love of God, minn hari, tell me. Two heads may be better than one.’

  He had answered, ‘I can’t. This time I cannot tell even you. Only trust me.’

  Those last t
hree words and the expression on his lord’s face told Thorkel more clearly than any explanation how grave the matter was.

  Then the baby died, despite all the women’s charms, despite the rowan leaves strewn about the cradle, the piece of iron laid at the foot to keep evil at bay, and despite the prayers of the entire household. Now, listening to the priest’s voice, an awareness of the transience of life came to Waltheof and a swift resolution hardened with him. Whatever he might do to his own honour, he knew now he could no longer keep silent, no longer countenance anything that might bring more suffering on the people. And rebellion against William could only bring that. He wanted none of it.

  He looked up at the painted figure of the risen Christ, Christ in majesty, on the wall behind the altar. He had sworn by that living Christ in whom he believed with all his powers and now he must break that oath.

  How can I do it? The plea was drawn from deep within and involuntarily he put both hands before his face. And in that moment words came to him, seemingly from without.