Conqueror

by Stephen Baxter

  The ordinary people of the town just had to put up with all this. They lived in long houses, like halls, families crammed in together, sharing their space with their animals in the winter. Desperately poor, they had to spend most of their time working not for themselves but on their lords’ lands. They made Orm uncomfortable. Unlike Danes, unlike English, they were fundamentally unfree in a sense that offended Orm’s independent spirit.

  The English party that had travelled with Harold was still here. The English wore their hair long; few had beards, but many had long moustaches that needed a lot of grooming. The Normans, who dressed so soberly they looked like priests, called the Englishmen women. This led to fewer deaths than Orm might have expected, as the English thegns kept control of their men, for they were few and a long way from home.

  Orm glimpsed Harold himself, and his brother Gyrth. Their red hair long and moustaches luxuriant, they were tall, imposing figures who easily dominated the gaggle of housecarls and servants who followed them. The brothers were half Danish in blood, and they looked it. In fact the keeping of housecarls, professional soldiers and sworn companions, was a custom introduced by Cnut, a Danish king of England.

  The Godwines were the most powerful family in England, it was said, more powerful and rich even than King Edward, who was descended from the famous Alfred. These handsome brothers shone, their glamour bright, even on this foreign soil.

  William was less often spotted. The Duke did not rape or whore. It was said he had been faithful to his wife Mathilda for decades, and, always austere, the Bastard preferred to spend his time praying with his brother the bishop, or hunting, a sport to which he devoted hour after obsessive hour.

  William’s sons, though, were not as disciplined as their father. With their companions, none of them older than thirteen or fourteen, they crowed their way through Bayeux, arrogant, money-laden half-men with heavy swords and swollen pricks. Orm thought they were like a mockery of the Godwine brothers. Perhaps the world would be better off, he mused, without these packs of glamorous warrior-cubs.

  It was with William’s sons that Orm, calmly searching the town, came upon Godgifu.

  They had caught her, evidently alone, and backed her against the stone wall of a church. She seemed unafraid, even contemptuous, but they were many, and they looked hungry.

  Robert, the eldest son, stepped closer. ‘English bitch,’ he said in his guttural Frankish.

  She looked down at him. ‘What do you want, little boy?’

  ‘I want you, you leathery old English bag.’

  ‘If you want a whore go and find one, if you can raise your little pink worm for her.’

  Robert’s friends laughed at him, and he coloured. ‘I’ve had all the whores in this pig-sty. You will kneel to me.’

  She grinned. ‘Why? So you can reach?’

  ‘I am Robert, heir of Duke William!’ he shouted. ‘Kneel!’ And he drew his sword, raising it towards her throat.

  Suddenly she had a knife in her hand, a stubby blade of the type the English called a seax. She turned aside Robert’s sword, grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and held her knife at his neck. ‘Call me a bitch again,’ she hissed. ‘Go ahead, Robert heir of William.’

  Robert struggled, enraged, but did not speak. The others stayed frozen for a heartbeat. Then they started reaching for their swords.

  Orm strode into the circle. The boys, startled, backed off. ‘Lord Robert. Your father is asking for you.’

  ‘My father—’

  ‘You know me. You need not doubt my summons. Go now.’ Orm nodded to Godgifu. Cautiously she released the boy.

  Robert glared at Orm. But he sheathed his sword and walked away from Godgifu.

  Orm’s heart was pounding. If his bluff had failed the consequences for him could have been lethal.

  Godgifu didn’t even seem to be breathing hard. She put away her knife calmly; Orm couldn’t see where she hid it. She glanced up at Orm. ‘Thank you.’

  Sihtric came bustling up. He was wearing a black cassock, with a wooden crucifix at his neck. ‘Well done, well done,’ he said to Orm, puffing out his cheeks. ‘I saw it all. You gave Robert a way to back out of the situation without losing face. Come. Let me buy you some wine - the least I can do ...’

  III

  Sihtric led Orm and his sister to a tavern, where he bought them cups of wine, and meat sliced from a plundered Breton pig served on wood-hard chunks of bread. But Sihtric had to borrow money from his sister to do it. Her coins were English silver pennies, which everybody knew were the most solid currency in Europe and accepted everywhere.

  Sihtric took a deep draught of his wine. ‘Ah. Spiced the way William himself is supposed to prefer it. Filthy muck, isn’t it? Give me good English ale any time. Well, that was a close thing. The death of one of Harold’s party at the hands of William’s own son could have been embarrassing. Very embarrassing indeed.’

  Orm turned on him. ‘Embarrassing? This is your sister. She could have been raped and murdered by those little arsewipes. I didn’t notice you running to her aid.’

  Sihtric laughed softly, as if the remark was utterly foolish.

  Godgifu sipped her wine, her blue eyes pale in the gloom of the tavern. ‘Orm, the truth is I’m here to look after Sihtric, not the other way around. Our father gave me the job when Sihtric joined Harold’s court.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Before he died. He was a thegn of Tostig Godwineson, Earl of Northumbria - brother of Harold. I was always a better fighter than Sihtric.’

  ‘Perhaps she has a little Danish in her,’ Sihtric said obscenely. ‘You Northmen always did enjoy a bit of the old in-and-out as you rampaged across England, didn’t you?’

  ‘Sihtric—’

  He ploughed on, ‘Don’t you think it’s strange to find us all here like this, a mix of mongrel races? Earl Harold himself is half English, half Danish—and we English are really Germans - and the Normans are Northmen too, or were a hundred years ago when they stole this bit of land from the Frankish king. Even the Bretons we chased across the countryside are, it is said, descended from Britons who fled here to escape from my own Saxon forefathers, though I find that hard to believe ...’

  Orm glanced at Godgifu. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  She rolled her unreasonably pretty eyes. ‘History,’ she said. ‘Always history.’

  ‘Priest, in Brittany - by the bog - you told me you had been looking for me. Why?’

  Godgifu said, ‘Tell him about the Menologium. I can see you’re longing to.’

  ‘The Menologium?’

  ‘A prophecy,’ Sihtric whispered. ‘Possibly heretical. Two centuries ago it came into the possession of Alfred - our greatest king, you might have heard of him. It was already old then, and proven - and the years since have shown it to be no less truthful.’

  ‘It’s a family legend,’ Godgifu explained to Orm. ‘A story. One of our family, a priest called Cynewulf, was at Alfred’s side in those days. Since then the sons of Alfred, the kings, have forgotten about the Menologium. But not us - not Sihtric, and our father, and a chain of grandfathers before him, going back to the cousins of Cynewulf.’

  ‘So what’s it got to do with me?’

  Sihtric replied, ‘Your forefather was involved too.’

  He told Orm the story of Egil, who had raided Alfred’s hall at Cippanhamm, and then fought the English at Ethandune. Orm knew the story, of course - or at least his family’s flattering version of it. Egil had spawned many offspring, among them a long line of Egils, one of whom, six generations later, had been Orm’s father, and the seventh Orm’s own elder brother, also called Egil.

  ‘Most Danes are no more literate than the Normans,’ Sihtric said dismissively. ‘But your family sagas preserve the memories of your ancestors. And if you are a soldier of fortune it does no harm to be bragging about the deeds of your forefathers, does it? Especially if one of them took on King Alfred himself. So it wasn’t hard to track you down,
Orm son of Egil son of Egil.’

  ‘I still don’t know what you want,’ Orm said.

  Sihtric began to speak hurriedly of his prophecy: of hairy stars and Great Years and enigmatic stanzas. ‘The Menologium was authored by a Weaver - that is the name the scholars give him - who guides our actions in order to fulfil an epic plan, whose goals even I cannot yet discern ...’

  Godgifu cut him off. ‘Sihtric believes that the prophecy is coming to its culmination, now, in our lifetimes.’

  ‘In fact,’ Sihtric said pedantically, ‘in just a couple of years. And the prophecy says that you will be involved in this great crisis, Orm.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, your kind.’ Sihtric’s eyes were shining. ‘I haven’t quite worked it all out yet. The Menologium is gnomic. But it can’t be a coincidence that a descendant of Egil Egilsson is here at such a time. I do know there will be a great struggle.’

  ‘In two years’ time, you say. The year 1066? How do you know that?’

  ‘The prophecy,’ Sihtric said, ‘contains dates. And in this historic clash, Harold Godwineson will be pivotal.’

  Orm drained his cup. ‘My head’s spinning,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if it’s these Norman spices or your English words, priest. What does Harold think of this?’

  Sihtric sighed. ‘He won’t listen to me. I’ve tried, but he’s reluctant.’

  ‘Why do you believe he’s so important? Is he named in the prophecy?’

  ‘No. But he is the most powerful man in England - although he will never be king. He would not have it, and besides, the blood of Alfred doesn’t run in his veins ...’

  It was all to do with the tangled history of kingly politics in England.

  The flight to Aethelingaig had proven to be England’s darkest hour. Alfred was remembered as the first and greatest king of a united England, though he left a country partitioned between English and Danes. It was left to his sons and grandsons to take back the ‘Danelaw’ from the Danish rulers - even though it would always be impossible to scrub Danish fashion, words and blood from the population.

  But under the reign of Alfred’s great-great-grandson Aethelred a new Danish threat emerged. The invasion of England became a policy of the Danish kings - and their resolve was stiffened when Aethelred ordered a massacre of all the Danes in England, one dark November day. Huge assaults brought about the conquest of the whole of England by a Danish monarch called Cnut, and for a generation England was part of a North Sea Empire including Denmark and Norway.

  Harold’s father, Godwine, had begun his career as a minor thegn in the land of the South Saxons. Now Godwine submitted to Cnut, and became the only survivor of a purge of the English nobility.

  ‘He even married Cnut’s sister-in-law,’ Godgifu said. ‘Harold’s mother, Gytha.’

  ‘This Godwine was a traitor to his king, then,’ Orm said.

  Sihtric shrugged. ‘I think Cnut saw qualities in the man. A steadfastness. You need competent men to run a country, you know.’

  When Cnut died his sons competed for the throne with King Aethelred’s sons, Edward and Alfred. Alfred came back to England - and was blinded and killed. Though Godwine always denied responsibility, blame stuck to him. But the bloody events moved quickly, the sons of Cnut all fell, and soon Edward was the only surviving claimant.

  Edward had grown up in Normandy. He had no English base of support, though he had Alfred’s blood in his veins. He needed Godwine’s help to take the throne. Godwine even pressured Edward to marry his daughter, Harold’s sister Edith, whose womb proved barren.

  ‘How King Edward must have hated Godwine and his strutting sons,’ Orm said. ‘This kingmaker who had killed his brother.’

  ‘This was all before our time,’ said Sihtric with a certain relish. ‘But, yes, that’s what the gossips say. It all came to a head some years ago ...’

  Godwine made an enemy of Robert, Archbishop of Canterbury, a Norman ally of Edward. A showdown came when another of Edward’s Normans was mistreated in Godwine’s territory. Godwine had to give up hostages to the King, including his own son Wulfnoth, another brother of Harold. Archbishop Robert fled to Normandy, and delivered Wulfnoth to Duke William.

  And there Robert made a promise to William, on behalf of Edward.

  ‘He promised William the throne of England,’ Sihtric said. ‘William already had a claim, of sorts, for Edward’s mother was his great aunt, but it’s a pretty spurious one. All malice, of course, a way to put a block on Robert’s enemy Godwine.’

  Orm grunted. ‘And what did Godwine say to that?’

  ‘Not much. He died soon after. And Harold was made Earl of Wessex. The King leans on him, despite the antics of his father.’

  ‘And,’ Orm said dryly, ‘I am to believe that Harold has no desire for the throne himself.’

  ‘No!’ snapped Sihtric. ‘You don’t know the man. When it became clear that Edward was likely to remain childless, Harold went to Hungary to bring back Edward’s great-nephew, known as Edgar the Atheling, the true heir. Harold went to fetch this boy. Now, is that the action of a man who seeks the kingdom for himself? When Edward dies, as he will soon, there will be challenges for his throne—’

  ‘From William.’

  ‘Yes. And from Harald Hardrada King of Norway-that’s a complicated business to do with the sons of Cnut. Maybe there will be others. But Harold will work to secure the succession of the Atheling, the rightful heir, and thus to unite England.’

  Orm snorted. ‘So you like to believe.’

  Godgifu said, ‘My brother seeks to get involved in this tangled story. For he believes that through Harold’s career his prophecy will be fulfilled.’

  Orm studied Sihtric. ‘It is a murky business, and dangerous too, to meddle in the destinies of kings. What’s in it for you, priest?’

  ‘He’s ambitious,’ Godgifu said immediately. ‘He fancies an archbishopric some day - don’t you, Sihtric?’

  ‘I resent that,’ said Sihtric pompously. ‘I’m doing my holy duty. There is a tradition of clerical devotion to the Menologium, if you look at its history. And you are nothing but envious of me, sister, as you have been all your life.’

  Godgifu pulled a face.

  ‘So,’ Orm asked, ‘why has Earl Harold come here? Surely he’s at risk.’

  ‘He’s come to make peace with William, if he can,’ Sihtric said. ‘For he knows William is dangerous.’

  William, thirty-seven years old, had been born the illegitimate son of the Duke of Normandy by a tanner’s daughter. It wasn’t an auspicious birth, and woe betide you if you reminded him of it. When William’s father died on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem the warrior-aristocrats of Normandy immediately turned on each other. William, only eight, never learned to read, but he learned to fight.

  Northern Frankia, with a weak central monarchy, was split into dukedoms, all in a state of constant warfare. William was still in his early twenties when he started launching raids against his neighbours. Perhaps because he had been born out of sinful lust himself he became an austere, pious sort of soldier who slew with brutal efficiency and then prayed for forgiveness from a vengeful God.

  ‘And now,’ Orm said, ‘he has his eyes on England.’

  ‘Harold always seeks peace first,’ Sihtric said. ‘He knows that William, with this “promise” of Robert’s in his pocket, will be a threat in the future. So he’s come to seek an alliance with William, through a marriage to his own sister.’

  ‘And Harold has also come for his brother,’ Godgifu said. ‘Wulfnoth, who has been a hostage of William’s for more than a decade. That’s why he’s come here. As for the risk, you’ve met him, Orm. Harold can look after himself.’

  ‘You think so?’ Orm said dryly. There was a commotion outside, and Orm nodded to the tavern’s open door. ‘Take a look.’

  Sihtric and Godgifu left the tavern, followed by Orm. And they saw the unmistakable figure of Harold, flanked by his brother and his other companions. His arms pinned by b
urly Normans, Harold, white with fury, was being led towards Odo’s church.

  Godgifu asked, ‘Should we help?’

  Orm shrugged. ‘I owe him my life. I must.’

  Sihtric hesitated. Orm saw calculation and cowardice warring in that thin face. Then the priest said, ‘Yes. Yes, we must help.’

  They hurried after Harold.

  IV

  The church was packed. Orm had to use his shoulders to force a way in through a crowd of prelates, armed warriors, and the retainers of William and Harold. The atmosphere was tense; English and Normans alike fingered the hilts of their swords.