Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  The Earl’s men stood in a small group, talking in low voices, all wishing they could go to him, but his guards stood solidly round him. Only Richard de Rules was able to cross the hall and speak with him.

  ‘Wulfstan and William de Warenne will stand for you,’ he said in a low voice, ‘and I am sure the King believes you.’

  Waltheof gave him a bleak look. ‘Against Judith? I doubt it. It is ironic, is it not, that when I did raise a rebellion against him he forgave me and now when I am innocent I will be condemned.’

  ‘We do not know that,’ Richard said stoutly. He was clinging to hope, but he knew his own countrymen too well for it to be more than a straw in the wind.

  ‘A little while ago,’ Waltheof said suddenly, ‘I would have laughed at anyone who said that this could happen, that Judith could . . .’ he broke off abruptly and a shudder shook him. ‘Do they want me dead?’

  ‘No – no! .That is not the Norman way.’

  Waltheof gave him a wry look. ‘I am coming to think there are worse things – four walls and no light, no air! Could I live thus?’

  ‘Yes,’ Richard said, ‘yes, for there is always hope – hope of pardon, of release.’

  ‘And if I was released, what then? Do you think they would leave me my lands? And I could not live with Judith again, nor she with me. William would banish me and I would be as Thorkel, a landless man.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘The last of the house of Siward without a hall of his own.’

  Richard was silent. He was remembering Wulfstan’s words, that men had used the Earl’s name, and the quick retort Odo had made to that. No, they would not easily let him go, he was too great a focal point, bore too great a name. He glanced across the hall as there was a stir by the dais. ‘They are coming back. God be with you, my friend.’

  He returned to his place behind William’s chair. The barons were grave and Wulfstan looked pale, his face taut with sorrow, but one or two, among them Ivo of Taillebois, appeared satisfied. He swaggered to his seat, giving Richard one malevolent look that told the latter all he needed to know. He thought suddenly of himself nine years before, a lad lying stunned in a ravine at the mercy of his enemy and that enemy Waltheof, and he wanted to lose his temper, to shout at these men to think, to know what they were doing.

  But William was coming back now and it was Robert of Mortain who gave their verdict. They had considered the matter carefully, he said, with due attention to all the facts. They wished to give the Earl every possible benefit and to bear in mind his years of loyalty to the Crown, but the evidence was heavy against him. They had no choice therefore but to consider him guilty of treason.

  Waltheof had risen and stood rigidly between his guards, aware only that the impossible had happened. Innocent, he had been proved guilty, and for a moment the hall, the colours, the lights, the grim faces whirled about him.

  Mortain was continuing, ‘We might wish to judge Earl Waltheof, as Earl Roger, by Norman law which is merciful, beau sire, but you have sworn to uphold English law and because he is an Englishman he must be judged by that. We have therefore to demand that his life be forfeited.’

  Almost immediately uproar broke out, every Englishman crying out his indignation. A sword rasped among the Earl’s own men, and Hakon shouted: ‘No – no. Death to the Norman! Waltheof! Waltheof the Earl!’

  Thorkel seized him, clapping one hand over his mouth, and Outy wrenched the sword from his hand. The Icelander’s own face was ashen, but he said in a low hard voice: ‘Fool! How will you serve him thus? We can do naught here.’

  Hakon stood trembling between them and Outy muttered, ‘Steady, steady. We’ll get him out of this yet.’

  The Norman men-at-arms moved among the crowd, restraining them, but there were angry mutterings and more than one man lost a little blood in a scuffle. Only the prisoner himself remained silent, rigid.

  Standing stiffly erect, he met William’s dark gaze, heard him concur with the verdict and he remembered in that moment their first meeting at Berkhamstead. Then they had looked directly at one another, each assessing the other’s character. He recalled how the sunlight had caught the golden lining of William’s mantle and how he had sensed that it was the beginning of a trial of strength between them. Now that trial was over and William, stark and inflexible, aloof in his high dignity, unbending in his will, had won and he was beaten, trampled to the dust as Harold’s dragon of Wessex had been, as England was.

  Somehow he summoned up reserves to meet this moment. In a loud ringing voice he cried out, ‘God will judge between us, William of Normandy. I will trust myself cheerfully to His mercy for I am innocent. I have sinned no less than most men but on this matter my conscience is clear beyond doubt. If you send me to my death I doubt that you will be able to say the same.’

  ‘Silence him,’ Odo snapped angrily. ‘Are we to hear our King abused?’

  Waltheof laughed. ‘Do you fear the truth, my lord?’

  William, tight-lipped, jerked his head at the guards and they seized their prisoner, marching him away down the hall.

  He looked neither to right nor left, did not see the anguish on Thorkel’s face, nor Hakon’s tears, not Outy’s shaking hands, but held himself proudly that all men might judge of his innocence.

  But outside in the crisp January air he drew deep breaths of it, filling his lungs as if to clear them of the heat, the oppression, the atmosphere of the hall, to expel it from him. He looked up at the sky, a lowering grey heavy with the promise of rain, but at that moment he would have given both his earldoms to ride free beneath it, to feel the rain driving into his face, the wind whipping his cheeks. Instead he was to be locked up, caged again – but for how long? Jesu, for how long?

  He thought they would return him to the Bishop’s house but instead they turned to the right in the courtyard and up the stair to the gatehouse, then down narrow steps from the guard chamber to a dark cell at the base of the tower. It was no more than eight feet square and was furnished with a narrow pallet, a stool and a bucket. There was a tiny slit window high in the wall, but as it was scarcely above ground level outside, little light came through it. There was an iron ring in the wall and two long chains hanging from it.

  They told him to sit on the bed and then fastened these to his ankles. After that they left him and he heard the heavy bolt slide across the door on the outside.

  He pressed both hands to his eyes, his head lifted, and one single, drawn-out cry was wrenched from him.

  Men in the courtyard, hearing that sound looked at each other and Outy Grimkelson, crossing with a jug and a bowl of bread and meat in his hand, trembled so much that water spilled from the jug.

  One soldier, a great coarse fellow, called out, ‘What’s amiss, old man? Have you never heard a rabbit caught in a trap?’

  Outy gave him a venomous look and went in under the arched doorway that led to the guard chamber. They let him in to serve his lord. He put the jug and the bowl on the floor and sat down on the bed, setting his arm about Waltheof’s shoulders. The years rolled away and it was as if they were together in grief at Siward’s deathbed. In blind instinct Waltheof turned and laid his head on the old man’s shoulder. After a moment Outy lifted a gnarled hand to touch his hair.

  CHAPTER 5

  Abbot Ulfcytel was feeling his years as he set out on the road from London to Winchester, a long road, straight as the Romans had built it, and on this chill March day, the second of his journey, it seemed endless. He drew his robe more closely about him in an endeavour to keep out the east wind; rheumatism, brought on by the damp atmosphere at Croyland, tortured his hands and arms now, and there were days when Brother Cullen had to cut up his food for him. He was with him now, a kindly ox of a man who attended him with a touching devotion.

  Brother Cullen was looking at the sky with the keen eye of a countryman. ‘It looks like snow, Father. Shall we try to reach Basing by nightfall or would you prefer to find lodging at some house nearby. I believe there is a small priory not far from he
re and I could ride ahead . . .’

  ‘We will go on,’ the Abbot said. He felt old and tired but nothing mattered so much as getting to Winchester as soon as possible. He could think of nothing indeed but the plight of his beloved child in God and throughout the last weeks as he led his brethren through their daily office he hardly heeded the words for there was only one prayer in his head. Many a night he had passed in vigil lying sleepless in supplication on the cold pavement of the church before the high altar, and beating in his head was the memory of Leofric’s dream. He recalled the dying Abbot’s words all too clearly – ‘I saw the Earl, his arms outstretched, and round his throat a thin red line . . .’ Leofric had been right about Peterborough and now that Waltheof lay under sentence of death it seemed that the rest of the dream might come true. In the blackness of those nights, the dread and the horror of it, Ulfcytel suffered for another as he would never have suffered for himself.

  Now at last, wracked with pain and worn with sorrow, he had the Archbishop’s permission to visit Waltheof in his prison. He was glad to be away from Croyland for a while, for the Countess was ruling the earldom as if her husband no longer existed. Once when he had told her of some matter that must await the Earl’s decision, she had raised one eyebrow and said, ‘I think, my lord Abbot, if he returns it will only be as one of your brethren.’

  He had been astonished by this answer and wondered how much she knew of her uncle’s mind. True it was that the King had so far refused to authorise the carrying out of the death sentence – perhaps, Ulfcytel thought, he could not bring himself to do it – and for the last two months the Earl had lain in prison awaiting William’s decision. Did Judith believe her uncle would release him to take the tonsure? Perhaps if she believed that her heart was not so black as he had thought.

  The dusk was falling now and with it a few flakes of snow, but Basing was in sight and there in the guesthouse of some kindly monks of St. Benedict, Brother Cullen fussed over him, attending to his needs and standing over him while he swallowed some hot soup. By the next evening they were in Winchester and on the morning after Ulfcytel was conducted to the tower where the prisoner lay.

  As he descended the steps his spirits sank proportionately for he had hoped the Earl had been kept in the same comfort as before, but all illusion was gone when he found himself inside and facing the gloomy cell, the narrow window, the rough bed.

  Waltheof sprang up when he saw his visitor, both hands held out, a delighted exclamation on his lips, but the Abbot was most conscious of the chains and the noise they made as the Earl moved.

  ‘My son,’ he said, ‘oh, my son . . .’

  Waltheof held his poor knotted hands firmly. ‘It is not so bad, Father, indeed it is not. Come, sit down.’ He pulled forward the stool and the old man sat thankfully.

  This was more of a shock than he had bargained for and he sat silently for a moment, studying the Earl. Barred from sunlight and fresh air and exercise there was little colour in his face now and his eyes were less bright, but he was calm and Ulfcytel felt a sweep of relief.

  ‘They treat you well, my child? You are not ill-used?’ ‘No, Father. I have – enough for my needs. And Bishop Walkelin visits me. The Archbishop has been once and the Abbot of Holy Cross. They allow Thorkel Skallason to come on Sundays. I told Hakon to return home after the trial – there was nothing for him to do for me here – and he sent me this,’ he ran his hands through the fur of the familiar white bearskin, ‘I have been glad of it these cold nights. And Outy attends me – indeed I fear what he would do if he were not permitted to bring my food and care for me. I am trying to teach him to play chess.’

  ‘A hard task,’ Ulfcytel said and managed to summon up a smile, ‘but no doubt it passes the time.’

  ‘Oh,’ Waltheof sighed, ‘the days go somehow. I never cease to be thankful that you made me learn the Psalter when I was a child for I recite it every day and in truth it keeps me sane.’

  ‘Thank God for that, my son. There is little amiss within if that is how you occupy yourself.’

  Waltheof’s smile went and for a brief moment Ulfcytel glimpsed the strain under which he lived now. ‘Ah, you do not know, Father. I am innocent indeed of the crime for which I am condemned to die, but I have other things on my conscience. I shall never have enough time to repent what I did to the house of Carl. When I think of it I know I am not fit even to speak the name of God.’

  Gently the Abbot said, ‘It was done in anger, in heat at the killing of Ulf, not coldly, and though I am not excusing you by any means, yet I believe on that day you were not wholly in command of yourself.’

  Waltheof linked his hands together and stared down at the chains on his legs. Sometimes he sat here counting the links, twenty-four to the left, twenty-four to the right, and one day he sat so still that a spider spun its web between them. He had watched that spider, enthralled, feeling a kinship for something that lived in this dark place.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he said at last, ‘but it is the most evil thing I ever did. If God wills that I die, it will be for that.’ He looked up and a flush crept into his face, though he did not wish it there. ‘You – you have no news for me?’

  ‘None. Would God I brought good tidings.’

  ‘It is odd that the King has taken so long to – to order my death. Why has he delayed? Every day makes it harder to bear.’

  ‘I do not know, my child, but I believe truly he cannot bring himself to do it.’

  The flush deepened in Waltheof’s cheeks. ‘He once said he never wanted me for an enemy and the longer time goes on, the more I think he will spare me, but I do not think he will give me back my earldoms, nor can I ever return to the Countess.’

  ‘Come to us,’ Ulfcytel suggested quietly and wondered whether to repeat what Judith had said to him. He decided against it.

  Waltheof smiled faintly. ‘I have already written to the King begging to be allowed to do that- – indeed, if he pardons me, there is nothing else I could do. I see why Cnut Carlson went to Lindisfarne. I sometimes imagine,’ his voice took on a dreamy tone, ‘I am already at Croyland, digging in the garden with Brother Cullen, feeling the sun on my back and tending the things of the earth – then coming in weary to sing the offices in the church with blessed Guthlac to watch over me.’ He broke off and looked down at his hands again.

  Ulfcytel said: ‘I will pray God night and day for this to come about.’ Yet, in inner grief, he thought – what of the dream, the line about that strong throat?

  Waltheof glanced up again. ‘Have you seen Maud – and Alice?’

  The Abbot thrust the wretched dread to the back of his mind. ‘At Candlemas, yes. Maud misses you, but she is young and she is sure you will come home soon. She plays merrily enough and as for Alice she is too little to understand.’

  Waltheof was silent, remembering Maud’s arms about his neck the last time he had seen her, but he would not, must not yield to his longing for her, must not think of her or he would lose the calm for which he had fought so hard over the last weeks.

  ‘And Richard de Rules?’ He changed the subject. ‘I have not seen him since my trial.’

  ‘He sends you his greetings and bade me say that the King is to spend Easter here and he will see you then. He has never ceased to beg for your pardon, in fact,’ the Abbot smiled, ‘by his very importuning he may yet bring about your release.’

  ‘He was ever a good friend.’ Another thought struck him. ‘What of Athelais?’

  ‘I saw her at Northampton. She is much grieved for you, I know, but she spoke little to me. I asked if I might do aught for her, but she said she had the means for her own providing.’

  ‘She is a strange wilful girl,’ Waltheof said. He had an idea she meant other than Ulfcytel had assumed. ‘I did wish . . .’ he broke off and rising, began to walk about the little cell. He could stretch his chains no further than three paces one way, six back and then three to the centre again. Ulfcytel watched him, listening to the sounds they made, noting th
e marks they created on the Earl’s ankles. The injustice, the inhumanity of it tore at him. He had watched this young man grow from boyhood to youth and youth to magnificent healthy manhood and to see him thus was almost more than he could bear.

  ‘Those chains,’ he said at last, ‘I’ll speak to Bishop Walkelin, to the King if need be . . .’

  ‘I am used to them now,’ Waltheof told him, but then in a sudden burst of confidence he went on, ‘Sometimes when I wake in the night I cannot believe where I am. It seems such a little while since I was a free man, ruling my own lands. I thought the King my friend, and many others. Now all that is gone and I am here – in this awful place – for nothing!’

  He had not meant to say so much but for the Abbot’s sympathy, his intimate friendship over so many years was raising in him the desire to confide his instinctive horror of the darkness, the dank squalor of his cell, the weight of despondency that it laid on him.

  ‘My poor child,’ Ulfcytel said, ‘none of us knows the day nor the hour when misfortune may strike us.’