New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  William, comte d’Arques, who had fought beside his duke at Valès-Dunes, was as sickened as the men and women of Domfront. Two days before the fortress finally surrendered, he withdrew his men and his support and rode back into his own lands.

  Mathilda, waiting for her husband at Eu, received a letter William had dictated boasting of victory. She read it twice: the first time with innocent interest, the second because she could not believe the words written there.

  ‘Is this true?’ she asked of the courier who had brought it. ‘Is the Duke exaggerating either to impress or frighten me?’

  The man nodded glumly. It was true, all of it. He knew because all at Alençon had been forced to watch. And three of those who had gleefully accepted William’s reward of gold had, sickened, taken their own lives out of remorse.

  Mathilda covered her mouth, fled to the privacy of her bedchamber, where she vomited profusely into the piss bowl. What manner of a man had she married? What kind of man was William?

  The Duke had studied each captured man in turn, with a calm, impassive expression as they were dragged to kneel before him. They had protested with wild cries that they were not the men who had hurled those insults, knew nothing of hides. The Duke had ignored their pleas. At his command all five were staked to the ground, their hands removed at the wrists and then they were skinned, while life was still in them; their hides hung from the walls of Alençon.

  36

  Porlock They ran the flat-keeled ships on to the shingle, the first few men dropping instantly over the side to splash through the foaming waves, their axes and weapons at the ready, minds, eyes and ears alert, though no one had come running down across the marsh from the rising swathe of green hills to meet – or oppose – them.

  Harold jumped over the gunwale and landed with a grunt of satisfaction on the shore. England. Home. After eleven months of exile as guest to King Diarmait in Dublin, it was good to be home, to reclaim what was his. He turned to grin at his brother, Leofwine, pointed with his sword to the moorland rising high on three sides of the three-mile stretch of bay. The reed beds of the Porlock marshes were silent, save for the cry of wading birds and the singing of the wind as it trailed, restless, over the emptiness.

  ‘They are watching for us up there. On a day as clear as this, they would have seen our sails from far out. We’ll give them something worth waiting for, shall we?’

  The mix of Irish and Viking mercenaries that Harold had employed were already grouping into a tactical wedged formation, sharp-honed blades bristling from the outer ranks like the spines of a defensive hedgehog. Harold intended to approach the village and outlying farms peacefully, try to persuade them to support him, but he doubted he would be successful. Six months ago one of Edward’s minor kinsmen, Odda of Deerhurst, had been made earl of this small coastal portion of Somerset that abutted the Devon border. He was not likely to give it up without a struggle.

  Harold’s lighthearted pleasure as he watched the high moorland reflecting the late summer colours of purple heather and golden gorse coalesced into something more serious as he looked across the sweep of the bay. With his father raiding along the eastern coast, from Kent down to Pevensey, this would be their only chance at reinstatement by force. They had their friends, but they needed to convince their opponents that it was futile to shut England’s door to Godwine and his sons.

  Nodding to his men, Harold ordered them to move out, up across the shingle. Primarily, they sought provisions – fresh food and water, arms and equipment. There was to be no taking of women against their will and no killing – unless for self-defence. Only if they were attacked would they retaliate. They were expecting a fight, for Porlock had never respected the Godwines. Swegn had been their earl for too many years to endear the family to the scattered population of this windswept Somerset coast.

  Harold was gambling on the fact that Swegn had openly confessed his misdemeanours and was probably by now on the return journey from his pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Whether he could persuade wronged Englishmen that his eldest brother would be returning a repentant and chastened man remained to be seen. It would be difficult, for Harold barely believed it himself, although, according to his father’s letter, Swegn had been sorely ill as he undertook the journey. How strange that men were all too eager to repent their sins when they realised they were not immortal. Aware that the thought was brutally cynical, Harold nonetheless mistrusted Swegn’s motives.

  Meeting only minor resistance that first day of landing, they made camp at the edge of the moors, where their lookouts could keep a sharp eye on the beached ships down in the bay below and for the approach of King’s men, from whatever direction they chose to come. And they would come, Harold knew that. Odda himself was occupied in joint command of the fleet with Earl Ralf at Sandwich, attempting to head off Godwine, but thegns of repute had been left here in the West, with orders to repel any attempted landing. The information was reliable and up to date, for there were men sympathetic to Godwine’s cause, willing to send messages.

  Leofwine was nervous. At almost seventeen, he had not fought in anything more serious than a boy’s wrestling contest. This would be the real thing; if they were intercepted, they would be facing death at the hands of experienced warriors. Harold, finishing his stew and setting his empty bowl on the grass, ruffled his brother’s hair. ‘We have some good men with us,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Most of them have made fighting their lives.’

  Darkness settled. The men, almost five hundred of them, were arrayed around the scatter of campfires, some finishing their meal, others checking war gear, talking, exchanging laughter and tales of bravado. Many were already rolled into their cloaks and asleep, mindful that the morrow would be long and exhausting, save for the unfortunate who would not see the reds and golds of another setting sun. Leofwine was stroking his whetstone along the blade of his dagger, although it was already honed to deadly sharpness.

  He held his counsel a long moment, then, in a rush, asked his brother, ‘Do you not feel fear? Are you not nervous of what we may face on the morrow?’

  Setting his hand to his brother’s arm, Harold laughed lightly. ‘Of course I am scared, lad! Most of us are. The man who goes into battle with no fear of death is the man who is likely to fall first. Contempt and confidence breed carelessness, my brother. The desire to stay alive and in one piece makes for quick thinking and fast feet.’ He tightened his fingers, nodded at Leofwine’s blade. ‘Use that as you have been taught, keep your wits about you and you will be fine.’

  A rustle of movement beyond the light of the fires made Harold pause, his head going up, alert. Others had heard, hands going to sword, dagger or axe. A man materialised from the darkness, ducking low, his breathing heavy. A sigh rolled through those watching.

  Throwing himself down before Harold’s fire, the scout’s head dipped in an unspoken acknowledgement. ‘Movement to the north. Maybe six hundred or so men.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Six, seven miles. They will be in position come dawn.’ The scout indicated the direction with a pointing finger. ‘I reckon they will draw their ranks up on that rise behind us.’

  ‘Not so.’ Harold grinned. ‘We will occupy it first. I think we should be waiting for them. Come, Leofwine.’ He elbowed his brother with a gentle nudge. ‘Forget about sleep, we are moving ground.’

  With the ease of the warrior kind, the men stirred without fuss or noise, pulled on boots, fastened cloaks and began kicking out the hearth fires and collecting equipment together. By dawn they were holding the high ground waiting for the local militia to attack.

  It seemed odd to be here, watching the first flutter of purple ease into a paler pink along the eastern horizon, knowing that the gentle peace of the moors would soon be shattered as the light flooded into the sky, and the enemy saw them, waiting, up here on the ridge. Harold had fought skirmishes and repelled sea raiders along his coast of East Anglia but, despite his bravado, he had not seen full battle either. And never had he
stood as Englishman against Englishman. The first few birds were carolling their morning greeting. The rush and swish of the incoming tide, running up to meet the shore, was whispered on the wind. From somewhere distant, carried on the melting mist of the morning, a cow lowed and a dog barked. The fresh dawn smell was of the sea and heather.

  A shout of alarm hurtled upwards to the sky from below, where the ridge mellowed into a scrub- and tree-dotted valley. The approaching men had seen the line of armed warriors, the glint of the first dapple of sun striking their swords and axe heads.

  Stomach-churning fear catapulted through Harold as the first rush came into the attack, breath hot and panting as they ran up the slope, eyes wide with frenzied anger, weapons ready to strike. The purple heather and the gold gorse became trampled and spoilt, contaminated by blood, the dead and the dying. The lazy quiet of the calm August morning shrilled with the screams of men, the clash of weapons, the grunt and thrust of vicious fighting. Within an hour of the sun riding into the dawn-flushed sky it was over. Above forty warriors died, thirty of them Odda’s men, only ten the hired Viking mercenaries from Dublin. The eight English thegns and their militia were no match for the sons of the sea-world and the black raven. Those English who could, trailed back down the hill to their homesteads and farms, their duty done. Harold let them go, for he was not his elder brother who would have had a point to prove. These were simple men of the fyrd, farmers and land-folk, obeying orders. They had come, fought, lost and gone. This stretch of coast would not now oppose Harold or Leofwine Godwinesson.

  For that day and the next they rested, tending wounds, mending chain-mail and leather tunic, cleaning and resharpening blunted and dented weapons. Harold had sustained no injury; Leofwine merely a scratch across his cheek where he had tumbled over his own feet and caught his face against the snarl of a gorse bush. The men teased him mercilessly, Harold himself thumping his brother between the shoulder blades and saying casually, ‘You face several hundred fighting men and are wounded by a bush? Just as well the thing was rooted to the ground. I dread to think how it would have hurt you were it mobile!’

  They returned to the ships, heaving the great, flat keels with their high, dragon-headed prows back across the shingle into the spindrift of foam that surged at their feet. Porlock was Harold’s. As the heat of August began to soften into September’s mellow heralding of autumn, much of Wessex, and all the men of Dover – grateful for Godwine’s stand against Eustace de Boulogne – rallied without need of incentive. Verbal propaganda that promoted Godwine as the innocent victim, combined with the buying of alliance and the making of promises, increased aid threefold. From Pevensey to Sandwich, Godwine’s influence spread, the rebellion expanding as each successive town offered support. Men who remembered Æthelred listened when Godwine or his sons declared that Edward was too much like his father. Englishmen, especially those of Kent, were growing uneasy at the insidious authority that Robert of Jumièges, a Norman, was spreading from Canterbury.

  As Godwine’s fleet swung towards the estuary of the Thames, a few ships diverted to burn Edward’s manor of Milton to the ground. As in all his raiding, Godwine commanded there was to be no unnecessary killing. He did not want to shed blood in order to achieve the reinstatement of his earldom, but to show that he was prepared to fight if he had to – and there was no doubting that Godwine would win. Those who would go against him had not the experience of command, nor the sheer guts to outface such an opponent. Earls Odda and Ralf, honest and sensible men, had tried to blockade Godwine’s incoming ships at Sandwich. But what could two inexperienced men of the land achieve against those who knew the sea as well as a lover understood the whims and fancies of a wife or mistress?

  37

  London By Monday, the fourteenth day of September, Godwine’s ships were anchored before London Bridge at Southwark, awaiting the tide to carry them through to where Edward’s army was massed on the northern banks of the river, awaiting them. The bridge was more than a means of crossing from one side of the river to another; it was as effective as any gateway, drawbridge or defensive bailey. Without consent from the elders and leading citizens his ships would not reach the far side; difficult enough navigating through those arched piers with the seething current slamming at the keel, without the addition of firebrands, rocks, arrows and spears hurling from above.

  Godwine stood on the foredeck, called to the merchant guildsmen arrayed along the wooden rails of the towering bridge above him. Seagulls were swooping and calling, their raucous noise drowning his voice. He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted louder. ‘Do you not fear for your established rights? Are your concerns being heard with sympathy by the King or turned aside with scorn and arrogance by his aide and confidant Robert Champart? Do you tell me that you are satisfied with the recent poor level of trade coming into London? That import taxation is not driving merchant of foreign lands to other ports, other towns?’ His neck was aching from where his head was tipped backwards, his eyes watering from the glare of the sun, but he continued, for he had them almost on his side. Few up on that bridge were talking, most were leaning forward over the rails, listening intently, many beginning to nod with vigorous agreement. London remembered only too well the inadequate policies of Æthelred, and was displeased with Edward’s regime.

  ‘The King has allowed the export tax to be lowered, that is good

  – but customs duty has increased for imports. Who will come to buy if he has nothing to sell? A merchant ship cannot sail without ballast, and no ship will come to take out your wool or cloth if it cannot bring olive oil, or building stone, timber or silks and spices in exchange.’ He flung his arm towards the almost empty wharves of the Billing’s Gate, where chickens, fish, dairy produce, timber and cloth were assessed for tax, among the more luxurious items of precious jewels, silks and fine-crafted embroideries.

  ‘When I was earl, a London woman could buy the privilege to sell her cheese or butter here on the wharf for two pennies per year. By how much has Edward increased that tax to swell his own purse? Half a penny, a quarter?’ Balancing himself against the movement of the ship as it jostled on the swell of the incoming tide, Godwine spread his arms wide to emphasise his point. ‘No, in his greed he has increased it by a full one penny!’ Grumbles and murmurs of agreement rippled along the bridge. ‘That did not happen while I advised the King. Were I back at his side, it would not happen again.’

  Godwine’s assurances, of course, were dosed with a liberal scattering of salt. His promises were easily made, probably as easily broken or forgotten; but then, at least he was talking to the Londoners. The King talked only to Archbishop Robert, who had interfered too high-handedly with London’s trade agreements.

  A few of the men standing there, dressed in their elegant cloaks, tunics, and chains and badges of office, guessed that trade had fallen dramatically these last two months directly because of Godwine’s ships’ pirating, but who cared for the trivialities? Edward had increased taxation, had imposed unpopular new regulations. Edward and his archbishop were not liked; Godwine had always been a friend of London.

  With the tide in full flood, and keeping to the southern bank of the river, Godwine advanced safely through the London defences and dropped anchor once more. The Thames, more than one quarter of a mile wide, flowed with sedate unconcern between the exiled earl and his aggrieved king.

  Godwine’s strength was greater than that of the royal command, his experience and ability superior, but he did not want to fight Edward, an anointed and crowned king. To do so would be dishonourable in the eyes of God, but it was his right to defend his own honour which had already been challenged. If he had to fight he would do so. The decisions of peaceful negotiation or bloodshed would be the King’s. Godwine sent a messenger across the river, politely demanding restoration of everything of which he and his son Harold had been deprived.

  Edward’s reply was succinct.

  No.

  Godwine’s response was prompt and professiona
l. He swung his

  leading keels across the river and encircled Edward’s fleet.

  Edward sat at a table, slowly turning the pages of a book of gospels that he had recently acquired. It was a sumptuous thing, the illuminated lettering dazzling in gold leaf, vibrant reds and blues. So beautiful a thing was it that he felt reluctant to soil the corners of the parchment with his fingers. Robert was pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back, pausing every so often to squint down into the courtyard below.

  Monday evening. Edward had retired to his Westminster palace, leaving his nephew, Earl Ralf, and Odda presiding over the land forces encamped between the two army roads of Watling Street and Akeman Street. Perhaps they would be more efficient than at Sandwich when they had been forced to flee before Godwine’s armada.

  ‘Look at this page, Robert,’ Edward said with a gasp of awe. ‘Is it not magnificent? How wonderful that the frailties of the human eye and hand can produce such a splendid and holy work.’

  The Archbishop glanced at the page, murmured a mechanical answer. Was that horses arriving in the courtyard? He moved swiftly to the window, but could see nothing. To his annoyance, Bishop Stigand had been appointed by the Council as negotiator between the King and Godwine. He had been due half of an hour since. Not that Robert expected much of use from him; Stigand had made it no secret that he favoured the exiles and it was common knowledge that he wanted the position of Archbishop for himself – he would hardly be an unbiased envoy.

  Robert snorted, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘You ought declare Godwine for the traitor he is and order his immediate execution.’ Added with vehemence, ‘He has pillaged and murdered, raided England for his own gain like a common pirate. Have done with him, I say, and this whole absurd situation will be settled.’