The Conquest

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  Aubert's wife had borne him a son. Apparently the child was healthy enough, but Felice had been brought to the brink of death by heavy bleeding at the time of the birth. Aubert had told Rolf that as soon as he had witnessed the crowning, he intended returning to St Aethelburga's to watch over his wife and newborn heir, for whom the nuns were seeking a wet nurse.

  Rolf mounted Sleipnir. The grey had been groomed to perfection. Although there was no shine on his thick winter coat, it was whiter than the frost which had thickened overnight, and his full tail glittered like spume from a waterfall. Ears pricked, he sidled restively, eager to be away. A groom handed up Rolf's banner. Attached to a spear, a raven spread its black wings on a crimson field. He had found it on Hastings field the day before they marched away. The fact that it had survived unplundered for several days, together with the exquisite embroidery, had made him desire it for his own. The Dane axe would hang on the wall of his English hall and the raven banner would become his emblem.

  Together he, Aubert, and their small entourage, rode out onto the Westminster road. Already a procession of people, English and Norman, were heading towards the abbey in order to witness the coronation of the new king.

  Rolf was riding past the armourer's dwelling when the older maidservant emerged from the garth and stood at the side of the road. Her hands were set in fists upon her meaty hip bones and there was an anxious expression on her face. Her gaze fell upon Rolf and Aubert. Tightening her lips, she took a step backwards into the stiff silver grass on the verge as if to avoid being contaminated by their proximity. Rolf glanced at her curiously. He did not think that she was standing in the road for the purpose of gawping at the people on their way to the abbey.

  She hesitated, then arriving at a sudden decision, addressed Rolf. Rolf knew that the woman must be aware that he spoke no English. Obviously she wanted to talk to Aubert, but since her master had declared the merchant nithing, she could not approach him directly. Playing along, Rolf looked over his shoulder at Aubert and raised his brows.

  'She asks if either of us has seen Master Goldwin,' Aubert said neutrally. 'She thought perhaps he had come this way since he is not in his forge.'

  'No,' Rolf said. 'Last time I saw him was yesterday morn in his workshop. Is there something wrong?'

  She shook her head at Aubert's translation and made to return to the house.

  'Wait,' Aubert called to her. 'Will you tell your mistress that Felice bore me a son in the early hours of this morning.'

  Wulfhild gave him a glittering look compounded of unshed tears and loathing. 'I will tell her nothing,' she said, and turned her back.

  Rolf whistled softly through his teeth and urged Sleipnir forward on the road. Aubert followed, his dejection tangible and tinged with anger. 'No more,' he vowed stiffly. 'I will try no more.'

  Goldwin tilted the cup against his lips and in a single, angry gulp, drained the mead remaining in it. He had no appreciation for the honey-sweetness of the brew; he wanted only to buy oblivion from thinking. But the more mead he drank, the less control he had over his thoughts. They kept dragging him back to the lifeless little form on the bed. All the hopes that Goldwin had begun to nurture were mocked. He would never guide a small hand upon a blacksmith's hammer or watch a curly head crouch over a pair of bellows at the forge. It was all dust, his dreams as dead as the swaddled baby over whom Ailith was keeping such a fierce vigil.

  He knew that he should be with her now, but he did not think that he could shoulder the burden of her grief on top of his own. Well-meaning neighbours would visit and tell them that they would have other sons in the fullness of time, but Goldwin was afraid that the injury he had sustained at Stamford Bridge had rendered him impotent. Not once since his return from the battle had his manhood risen and stiffened with desire. Even when his thoughts strayed down erotic paths, his organ remained limp and unresponding. Perhaps he ought to ask Hulda for one of her remedies; but what good were her simples when she had been unable to save his son?

  The alehouse was becoming crowded with Englishmen seeking refreshment and courage on their way to bear witness to the coronation of the new Norman King at Westminster. It had not occurred to Goldwin in his grief that this was the day that Duke William was to be crowned, but he realised it now as another crowd of men surged into the alehouse and demanded a pitcher of mead from the harassed landlord.

  Vacating his trestle, Goldwin stumbled outside. A conroi of Norman soldiers rode past, stirrup to stirrup. Goldwin scowled at the arrogant manner with which they forced themselves a path, but at the same time, his armourer's eye admired the quality of their mail and weapons.

  More soldiers followed, and then a haughty-looking priest riding beside a magnificently clad Norman upon a superb golden-red stallion. The nobleman's hair was dark and thick, his features rugged and crude. It was a face that had been used time and time again to batter other men beneath its owner's will, and Goldwin realised that he must be looking upon the great William of Normandy himself. His gut churned with revulsion while his mind acknowledged that here was a power which would dominate all others and bring them subservient to the Conqueror's will.

  The road home to Ailith was filled with the glitter and pomp of the conquering Norman army. The other drinkers were all emerging from the alehouse to watch the procession ride past.

  'God curse him,' Goldwin heard someone mutter softly from behind. These sentiments echoed Goldwin's own, but he was enough of a realist to know that there was no Englishman who for one moment could match the abilities of the Norman Duke.

  Goldwin was borne along with the tide towards the abbey, and after a brief struggle of body and conscience, he let his feet take the path of least resistance.

  When Duke William entered the abbey, Goldwin stood outside with the crowd of English, waiting for the roar of assent which would announce that the crown had been placed irrevocably on a Norman head by an English prelate. The Duke's soldiers patrolled the crowd, their eyes hostile and uneasy. The Saxon who had uttered the curse outside the alehouse stood close to Goldwin, his legs planted apart and a belligerent expression on his face.

  'Should be an Englishman who sits on England's throne,' he muttered, and there were growls of assent from his companions. Goldwin started to feel hemmed in and sick from the quantity of mead he had consumed. Two Normans halted their destriers close to him and spoke to each other rapidly in French. One man was heavily mailed and carried a stout iron mace with a flanged head. The other sat astride a dappled stallion and was more lightly armed, although his equipment was of no less calibre. The soldiers finished their conversation and the one on the dappled horse made to ride on. Then, by chance, his eye caught Goldwin's, and with a smile of greeting, he raised his hand.

  Goldwin nodded brusquely at Rolf de Brize and turned aside. Laughing with the man in the privacy of the forge was one matter, but publicly acknowledging him in this volatile situation was quite another. To Goldwin's horror, de Brize pursued him through the crowd, and when Goldwin would not heed him, shouted out in very rough English, 'Saxon, you are sought at home!'

  Reluctantly Goldwin turned round. He knew that the other people in the crowd were watching him. 'I know!' he snapped. 'Go away and leave me alone!'

  'Aye, Norman pig, go home!' spat the Saxon from the alehouse. 'Crawl back to your French sty!'

  De Brize could not possibly have understood the rapid English, but the explicit tone made the sentiments all too obvious. The Norman gave the troublemaker a hard, contemptuous stare, and turned the grey around.

  'Friendly with the bastards, are you?' the Saxon sneered, and the moment de Brize was gone, shoved Goldwin's shoulder.

  'No, he's billeted close to us, that's all,' Goldwin responded. He was shoved again. Angrily he thrust the man away, the slow burn of anger kindling within him to a brighter flame. 'It is no concern of yours. I was the personal armourer of King Harold himself and my wife's brothers died on Hastings field. I'll not be insulted by a loud-mouthed empty brain such
as you!'

  The man raised his fist to strike Goldwin, but was diverted by the enormous shout of approbation that rippled outwards from the abbey. 'Fiat! Fiat! Long live King William!' The first cries were in Norman French, but soon the English took up the cry in their own tongue.

  Beside Goldwin, the Saxon lowered his fist, took a deep breath, and bellowed forth the English war chant from Hastings field. 'Ut! Ut! Ut1' It was taken up by his companions and the contagion spread like fire. Goldwin knew beyond doubt that it was time to make his escape.

  'Ut! Ut! Ut!'

  The Norman soldiers spurred through the crowd, bludgeoning with maces, striking with shield and sword, creating panic. The small core of troublemakers were targeted and ridden down.

  Goldwin tried to run, but there was nowhere to go, he was trapped on all sides. He saw the steaming nostrils of a bay stallion, the decorated chest band, the sharp glitter of a spear before it plunged. The Saxon who had originally started the chant made a bid to escape by slamming the heel of his hand into the middle of Goldwin's spine. Goldwin was catapulted forward, straight beneath the hooves of the oncoming warhorse. He saw the steel curves of the horseshoes and the short overlaps of white hair on the bay's pasterns. And then the weight striking down. Goldwin screamed and struggled until his voice was cut off by the blood filling his lungs. The horse plunged through the crowd. Panicking Saxons leaped or tripped over Goldwin in their efforts to flee. Time and again his body was kicked and buffeted, but he did not feel the blows. His last sight was the banner of a raven on a blood-crimson background raised in the distance above the multitude, his last thought that his turn had come to feed the carrion birds of the battlefield.

  Order was swiftly restored, but not before the coronation ceremony had been marred by the violence of several English deaths and the burning of some nearby buildings by an over-zealous conroi of Norman mercenaries. To placate the English, and because his own sense of justice dictated it, the new king had the bodies brought to a side room at the abbey, where their relatives could come and claim them, and he ordered recompense to be paid for the accidentally burned houses.

  Rolf yielded ground to two Saxons who staggered past him into the abbey, bearing the weight of a bloodstained corpse between them. Although its face was badly battered, Rolf still recognised the armourer. He crossed himself, feeling a pang of shock and regret. He had liked the small, pugnacious Saxon from the little he had known of him.

  It occurred to Rolf that someone would have to bring Master Goldwin home to his widow. She was but recently out of childbed and would not be permitted to enter a church until she had been cleansed. From what he knew of her background, she had no living relatives to perform the task for her. He wondered irritably where Aubert was. They had ridden to Westminster together, but had parted company shortly after their arrival. The onus, no matter how unpalatable, was upon himself to lay claim to the body.

  Giving Sleipnir to one of his grooms, Rolf followed the Saxons into the abbey and waited until they had laid Goldwin on the floor beside the bodies of four others who had been trampled in the riot. More victims were still being brought in.

  A middle-aged monk stooped over Goldwin and set about composing the dead man's limbs and straightening his garments.

  'Do you speak Norman?'

  The monk raised his head and fixed Rolf with a sad brown stare. 'I am Norman,' he said, 'although sometimes I come close to denying it.' His gaze wandered sorrowfully over the mounting toll of bodies. 'How can I assist you?'

  'This man, the one you are attending – I know him and I will take the responsibility of bringing him home to his family.'

  'You know him?' The brown gaze widened.

  'He's a master armourer – my billet makes us neighbours.' Briefly Rolf explained why it would be best for him to claim the body and bear it home to the widow. 'It is such a waste,' he nodded with a grimace. 'He should have stayed at home, the fool.' Fishing in his pouch, he withdrew two silver coins. 'Will you have masses said for his soul? I would not want him to find a lesser place in heaven since he died unshriven.'

  'It is not shriving or silver that places a man's worth in God's eyes,' the monk rebuked gently, but nevertheless he took the coins. 'If his heart and soul were true, he will find eternal peace. But I will have the prayers said. Take him now if you wish.'

  With a heavy heart, Rolf lifted Goldwin's body, positioning it across his shoulders like a dead deer, and carried it outside to his horse.

  Dusk was falling, the sky over the new abbey was a sultry pink hemmed by a border of ragged slate-blue. Out in her garth, Ailith shivered and rubbed her arms, but had no desire to return to the empty warmth of the house. She had fled its cheerful nothingness for the starker ruins of her garden which were far more in keeping with her state of mind.

  Harold lay sewn in his shroud, his little body surrounded by myriad flickering candles. Tomorrow he would be buried and all her hopes and joys with him. Hulda had said that she would stay, but had been called away to a difficult birth. There was still no sign of Goldwin, and Ailith was growing anxious. She had heard rumours of violence at the Norman Duke's coronation; some of the onlookers had been trampled and killed.

  At first she had convinced herself against the possibility of Goldwin being among the crowd, but the darker it grew, the more her confidence was shaken. I will go and make sure that the hens are properly shut in, she thought. And when I turn round he will be there.

  But when she had checked the fowl run and for good measure had walked twice around her ruined vegetable plot, her eyes met only the encroaching darkness of the empty path. She walked slowly down to the road. Perhaps if she stared hard enough, she would see Goldwin coming towards her with that slow, halting gait of his.

  At first the road was indeed empty. The Normans had imposed a curfew on the city and it needed a very good excuse to be abroad after dark without facing arrest and punishment. The wind was bitterly cold and the puddles bore diamond patterns of ice. Ailith shivered and tightened her cloak around her body. Her breasts ached. Hulda said that her milk would soon begin to dry up, but that was no comfort now.

  'Goldwin,' she muttered through teeth that were clenched with cold, and stamped her feet. 'Oh, Goldwin, please hurry.'

  And then, in the distance, she saw a man on foot leading a silver-white horse, its colour intensified to a gleam by the dusk. The man wore a frosting of chain mail and as he drew closer, the waxen glimmer of the rising moon gave her enough light to see that it was the knight Rolf de Brize.

  Her stomach turned over. She wanted to run to him and at the same time she wanted to run away and between the two found herself unable to move at all. He came on and she saw that his expression was sombre. The horse bore a burden over its saddle — an indeterminate dark mass. She could not tell what it was, for it was covered with the Norman's cloak. As he drew level with Ailith she cleared her throat.

  'God save you, Sir Rolf, have you seen my husband?'

  He halted the horse, his hand sliding up the bridle to the curb chain. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'There was nothing I could do except bring him home.'

  Ailith's glance flickered to the mounded bundle on his saddle and her unease intensified to become stark fear. 'What do you mean, bring him home? Where's Goldwin, has he been injured?'

  'I am sorry,' he repeated. 'Some of the crowd at the coronation ran wild and the Duk… King's knights had to charge to disperse them. Your husband was trampled… He is dead. I am sorry.'

  Ailith stared glassily at him. The chill of the night seeped into her mind, numbing it. The words trampled, dead, and sorry were laid across the numbness in thicker cords of ice.

  'Shall I bring him to the house?'

  She stood aside and gestured him to enter the garth. Her composure was solid enough to walk upon, but she was trapped beneath it, screaming.

  He tethered the horse to a tree and unfastened the bundle. Ailith saw the dark smears on the cloak that could only be blood. In silence she watched him heft t
he bundle and carry it into the house. It could not be Goldwin, she told herself. The Norman had made a mistake, it was someone else. She followed him within to tell him so, but it was too late. He had set his burden down on one of the sleeping benches along the far wall, and the cloak had slipped from the dead man's face. Ailith gazed upon her husband's battered nose and mouth, the dead eyes and blood-caked hair. The ice encasing her thickened.

  Wulfhild let out an enormous wail, and then stifled it with her fist. Sigrid, who had been kneeling in a candlelit corner, came forward. 'Master Goldwin,' she whispered, and her eyes flew from the body, to Rolf, to Ailith.

  'Go and fetch the priest, girl,' Rolf commanded.

  She looked at him blankly.

  'Bringeth thu y preost,' he said in mangled English.

  Sigrid grabbed her cloak from a peg on the wall and hurried out, a frightened look on her face and tears filling her eyes.

  'It is too much,' Ailith said in a distant voice and knelt at Goldwin's side. 'My brothers, my baby, my husband. What more is there to take?' She stared up at the Norman, but he had no answer for her. A look of appalled comprehension dawned on his face and his eyes went to the corner where her baby lay, surrounded by lighted candles on his last night above ground.

  'Christ have mercy, I did not know.' He crossed himself.

  'I do not need your pity,' Ailith said, as she felt her frozen shell begin to crack under the pressure of his scrutiny. 'I want you to leave.' She touched Goldwin's cold, rigid hand.

  Rolf de Brize remained where he was. Although Ailith did not look up at his face, she could see the firm stance of his legs. Her eyes fixed upon the toggles of rolled leather that fastened his nearest boot, upon the herringbone pattern on his twill cross-garters. She set her jaw. 'Please go.'

  For a moment longer he held his ground. Then he said a third time, 'I am sorry,' and walked away.

  The crack froze over and Ailith sank back beneath the protecting layers of ice, but with her she brought a shard of disappointment that he had not ignored her plea and remained to bring her kicking and screaming to the surface.