Conqueror

by Stephen Baxter

  The Norse line broke. The English roared and surged forward, and for a moment the battle dissolved into chaos. But the raven standard pulled back from the mêlée, and to brisk shouting and the thin song of the horns, the Norse front-line troops withdrew to form a fresh wall. The English fell back too. As both sides receded from the heart of the battlefield, pulling back like a tide, they left a ground covered by fallen and mutilated bodies - some of them moving, crawling like slugs.

  The English ranks churned as the men in the front line were replaced by fresher bodies. The Norse closed up their circle once more, but it was noticeably smaller than before. But there was a new cry, as more Norse approached from the east: reinforcements from the ships.

  Harold gave the Norse no more time. Again the English line hurled itself forward; again the shield walls clashed, and again the bloody froth of death poured over the ground. It didn’t last long. The Norse fought with spirit, but their lines shrank until they were reduced to a knot battling around the raven standard. The reinforcements, exhausted after running miles in their heavy armour, were easily dealt with.

  Surrounded by his war band the last of the Vikings did not die easily. But at last the raven standard fell - and Hardrada and Tostig with it.

  Godgifu looked for the sun. No more than two hours could have passed since the English lines had first advanced.

  A weight crashed into her back, and she was pressed face down into the mud. A voice whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t struggle.’

  For an instant she was shocked into immobility. How could she have been so stupid? Now her life would end here, unfulfilled, childless; she would be raped and raped again, and then murdered if the rapes didn’t finish her.

  But she had a knife in her belt.

  With a mighty effort she got her hands under her chest and lifted herself up. She heard a body hit the mud, and a winded grunt. She found her knife and held it before her, coming to a crouch.

  Sihtric lay on his back in the dirt. ‘It’s me! Your brother! For the love of God—’

  ‘Sihtric?’ She had not seen him since Westmynster. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for you. I knew you wouldn’t be far from the action. Perhaps you could help me up. I seem to be stuck in this mud ...’

  XVI

  Harold Godwineson entered Jorvik.

  Harold took over the great minster cathedral, which had blossomed out of the foundations of the old Roman legionary headquarters on the site of King Edwin’s tiny chapel. Here he mounted a feast for his housecarls, thegns and fyrdmen, a celebration of services and prayers, songs and banqueting that threatened to go on all through the night. The leading citizens, who yesterday had been ready to crown Harald Hardrada, came to welcome the victor of the battle of Stamfordbrycg, and begged him to bring home the hundreds of hostages taken by the Ruthless one.

  Under Sihtric’s wing Godgifu was brought to the feast. She had nowhere else to go, but, scared that somebody might recognise her as an ally of Tostig, she sat in a corner with Sihtric, and ate sparingly and drank less. Amid the feasting Harold and Gyrth, the Godwines, looked dark. After all they had been responsible for the death of their brother. Tostig’s body, Sihtric told her, had been found on the field, had been decently wrapped, and would be buried here at the minster.

  Sihtric the priest marvelled at the capabilities of Harold the soldier. ‘Harold was in Lunden when word came of the Norse landing. You have to understand the position. Harold had had to disperse the fyrd from the south coast. But it was already autumn, and the threat from the Normans had surely receded for this year. Harold thought he could see his way to the end of a difficult first year on the throne. And now, this - the news of an invasion not from the south but from the north.

  ‘And yet he didn’t hesitate. He immediately formed up his housecarls and marched north. We came up that Roman road like a storm, sixteen riders abreast. And he sent riders ahead, calling out the fyrd for a third time this year. So we rode on, a gathering crowd of us, like pilgrims converging on Rome. It was marvellous to be a part of it, even though I knew I wouldn’t have to fight.

  ‘And even as we marched Harold sent envoys and spies ahead of the column. That was when he heard of the disaster that befell the northern earls.’

  ‘The battle at the Foul Ford - I was nearby.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Sihtric said dryly. ‘Actually Harold believed the earls had been right to try to contain the Norse before they took Jorvik, and at least Hardrada had been held up. At the news of their failure Harold marched on, undaunted.

  ‘And so we came to Stamfordbrycg. We had marched since dawn, and I thought the English might rest. But Harold fell on the enemy immediately. Surprise, and the decisiveness to make use of it: those are his strengths. And there at Stamfordbrycg, as the day wore on - well, you know the rest; you saw it. The Norse were exhausted. You can win one battle; it’s hard to win two.

  ‘And Harold saw Tostig cut down. I believe it broke his heart. But he would do it again,’ Sihtric whispered. ‘Yes, he would do it again.’

  Impulsively Godgifu touched his arm. ‘Don’t get too bound up in the glamour of war, Sihtric. Remember you’re the King’s priest, not his housecarl.’

  Sihtric smiled. ‘Perhaps I am becoming addicted to the stink of blood. What sport, though! When you get close enough to it you can see why men will always wage war.’

  ‘And what of the prophecy?’ she asked. ‘After all that has happened, is the Aryan empire still achievable?’

  ‘I think so,’ Sihtric muttered, and his eyes glazed as he receded into a private world of calculation. ‘I think so, yes. Tostig was a rogue element. Harold should have cut him down when the Northumbrians rebelled. If Tostig had not lived, he would not have stirred Hardrada to mount his opportunistic invasion. And then Harold and his forces would not have had to endure this battle, win this victory. Indeed if Harold had been able to make his alliance with the Norse, as I urged him, his own forces would be stronger, untested - and he might, conceivably, have Hardrada’s Norse at his side, rather than lying slain over muddy Northumbrian fields ...’

  ‘If, if, if.’

  ‘Yes. There’s nothing to be done about it now.’

  Messengers came into the hall. They whispered to the housecarls, who urgently spoke to the King. Harold stood, his face thunderous, and stormed out of the hall.

  Sihtric was slightly drunk, and was confused. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Can you not hear what is being said? A message has come from Harold’s brother Leofwine, in Lunden. William has sailed.’

  Sihtric was wide-eyed. ‘It is October. I thought we were safe for the year—’

  ‘Evidently not.’

  ‘Then Harold will go south again - and so must I.’

  Sihtric joined the crush to leave the hall, and Godgifu hurried after him.

  XVII

  On the day of the crossing, Orm had woken to a murmur of excitement outside his tent. Hastily pulling on his tunic and leggings, he went outside to find a clear blue sky, air unseasonably warm for October - and the breeze, though soft, blew from the south, at last.

  Already the horns blew, summoning the Christian warriors to mass.

  Orm hurried to find his lord, Robert Count of Mortain, who was tense, excited, relieved. ‘God has granted us the weather,’ he told Orm and his men, ‘and a moonless night to boot.’

  ‘So we go,’ murmured Orm.

  ‘William has willed it; God has permitted it.’

  And they shouted together, ‘We go!’

  The intention was to sail at night, but embarking in the dark would have caused chaos. So William’s plan was to launch at high tide that afternoon, form up his fleet off the coast, and sail for England overnight.

  The morning was one of frantic loading. In long chains the men passed bales of clothing, weaponry and provisions to the ships. It took two men to carry a hauberk, a heavy mail coat, strung on a pole. The horses were tricky, and every last one o
f them had to be soothed, coaxed, bribed and bullied to climb the timber ramps to the ships and settle down in its covered stall. At last, as high tide approached, the men clambered aboard. They hung their leaf-shaped shields along the gunwales as the Normans’ Viking forebears had always done.

  To cries from the captains, a clanging of bells, a blowing of horns, and blessings from the priests, the ships pulled away. Oars splashed, their blades glittering as they cut in their ancient rhythms into the water, and the sails, brightly coloured, billowed as they caught the soft southerly breeze.

  The dragon ships spread out over the flat water, mist-drenched, like images in a painting. Each of them bore a snarling animal’s head at its prow. William’s own ship, a gift from his wife, was called Mora, and at its prow was a finely carved figure of a child with a bow, and an effigy of his son Robert. Orm had sailed all his life but never as part of such a fleet as this. After so many weeks stuck on the Frankish shore, Orm relished the swell of the ship on the sea, the fresh salt of the breeze. Even the earthy stink of the horses was blown away.

  The ships were rowed to their muster point not far from the coast, where the water was shallow enough for anchoring. As the dark gathered the crews lit lanterns in their ships’ mastheads, one by one, and the fleet became an archipelago of yellow lights, stretching as far as the eye could see. Orm lay down under his cloak, his head resting on his helmet, his stiff mail coat at his side. Listening to the lapping of the water against the clinker-built hull and to the voices of the crews as they taunted each other in the dark, he imagined he was a child, safe in his father’s ship, on the way to Vinland.

  In the darkest hour there came a horn’s soft note. When Orm sat up, he saw that his ship was underway once more, the sail unfurled. The crossing proper had begun. Though they still hugged the Frankish coast, already the men had begun to speak in whispers, as if King Harold in Lunden might hear.

  In the dark, Odo came to Orm. ‘Quite an expedition - don’t you think, Orm Egilsson?’ His eyes shadowed, Odo’s face was a mask, like his brother William’s and yet not, with that hint of oily subtlety, that slyness.

  Orm had no excuse to get away from Odo’s uncomfortable conversation. He said cautiously, ‘The greatest expedition to cross this water since the Romans, they say.’

  ‘Well, true. In fact we come third, according to the histories I’ve read, after Claudius a thousand years ago, and Caesar a hundred years before him. But then the Caesars had the resources of an empire to call upon, and William only has a duchy.’

  ‘As yet,’ said Orm dutifully.

  ‘As yet, indeed. That might change soon, if we prevail. Tell me - you’re a military man - how do you see our chances?’

  Orm shrugged. ‘It’s late in the season, that’s our biggest gamble. We need to bring the English to battle quickly, and to win decisively. And yet—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If we hadn’t sailed now, the momentum would have been lost. We could never put this lot back together again next season.’

  ‘Yes. I think you probably know William has drained the duchy to pay for this expedition. A man like William doesn’t have long to achieve greatness. He has already outlived Alexander by a decade or more. Life is brief, Orm! Especially for a warrior prince. And this may be his last chance.’

  ‘We are privileged to be sailing with him,’ Orm said evenly.

  Odo grunted, amused. ‘You’re saying what you think I want to hear, aren’t you? But you’re right. And if we succeed, if Normandy grabs England with this bold stroke, I dare say that in days to come the men who will claim to have sailed with William tonight will outnumber us ten to one. Eh? And, of course, we sail with a far mightier presence.’

  ‘The Lord God.’ Orm bowed his head.

  Odo laughed. ‘You really are trying to please me, aren’t you, pagan?’

  ‘You’re a bishop,’ Orm said. ‘Just trying to be polite.’

  ‘Yes, very well. But God does sail with us, for we have the Pope’s endorsement. And that’s why I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘I’ll get to the point. I have heard all about the Menologium of Isolde. The prophecy that has been bandied about in King Harold’s court.’

  ‘That belongs to a priest called Sihtric.’

  ‘Yes. Whose sister you tupped.’

  Orm kept his face blank. ‘Your spies are good, my lord.’

  ‘Yes, they are. And they also tell me you have been present when this fool Sihtric has tried to fill his King’s head with nonsense from this document.’

  ‘And if I have?’

  ‘Don’t be evasive, boy, it doesn’t suit you.’ The bishop’s face was hard, more like William’s than ever. ‘This prophecy has become famous, at least in the English court. And such instruments can be dangerous. Perhaps even if we win the day, this prophecy will be read by wishful thinkers to say that William’s days will be short, that soon an English king will be back on the throne, Harold or one of his brothers. Something like that. You must see that such a prophecy can form a seed from which rebellion may grow. And I want you to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

  Orm frowned. ‘How?’

  Odo shrugged. ‘Work it out for yourself. Find this Menologium. Destroy every copy. Dispose of Sihtric if you have to. That sort of thing.’

  Orm said tightly, ‘We are about to invade England. Thousands of men will die in the coming days, whatever the outcome. And you fret over a bit of parchment?’

  ‘It is a detail, I grant you. But worlds can be won or lost over details - and I see it as my duty to William to take care of such details for him.

  ‘And there is more.’ The bishop leaned forward, his clever face intent. ‘Once, under Rome, the Church was united, from Syria to Britain, from Germany to Africa. When the empire fragmented, so did the Church - and Britain fell away. A few centuries of incursions by your pagan forefathers didn’t help.’

  ‘And yours,’ Orm said curtly.

  Odo grimaced. ‘I suppose I deserve that. But my point is that the popes in Rome have long been pursuing the reunification of the Church. When we are done England will be cut free of its ties to the barbarian nations of the north, and brought back into the Latin centre of the south, where it belongs.

  ‘And this is only the beginning,’ he said. ‘Some of us are thinking further - of a Europe joined together, waging war to reclaim what has been lost. Perhaps we can drive the Moors out of Iberia. Perhaps we can go as far as Jerusalem. Perhaps even the great church of East Rome can be brought back to the ancient centre. Some thinkers call such a war cruciata - marked with a cross, a crusade. The Norman invasion of Britain is only the first of these crusades. And that is why its holiness must be unblemished. The mere existence of this prophecy, with its unknown provenance, no doubt heretical, is a challenge to that holiness.

  ‘Think about it, Orm. By destroying the Menologium and all who protect it you will be doing a service to the mother Church that will see you rewarded in heaven. Even if,’ he finished harshly, ‘you have to slaughter the girl you tupped to do it.’

  It was with relief that Orm heard the cries rising from the lead ships, now dimly visible in the gathering light of dawn. ‘Land! Land!’

  XVIII

  Orm’s ship was one of the first to enter English waters. The Normans were relieved that Harold’s navy did not come out to meet the fleet. Perhaps the English had been caught unawares.

  They landed at a place called Pefensae, on the coast of the old kingdom of the South Saxons. It was a complicated, treacherous bit of shoreline; the still water shone in the low dawn light, and the ships glided like shadows between shallow islands. As they worked their oars silently, the soldiers peered out, many getting their first glimpse of England and the English. Hovels of reeds and sod slumped on the islands, no doubt inhabited by the poor sort of folk who made a living at the margins of seas. But there was no sign of life, not a thread of smoke or a rack of drying fish. Perhaps, Orm wondered, one of William�
��s local guides had tipped off his relatives that thousands of hungry Normans were about to descend on them.

  And, more to the point, there was still no sign of any English resistance, not so much as a sword edge or shield boss. The spies’ testimony that Harold had had to withdraw from the south coast to face Harald Hardrada must be true. The men joked nervously that they didn’t know if they would face an army of smooth-faced English or hairy-arsed Norse when they landed.

  They came at last to a peninsula, where a curtain of walls with round corner towers stood proud - Roman, that was obvious by the quality of the stonework, and the courses of red tiles embedded in the facing blocks. Orm could see now why this place had been chosen for the first landing by the Norman scouts. The harbour was big enough to accommodate William’s ships, and the fort large enough to take his troops.