Man With a Sword

by Henry Treece

  Hereward gazed at his son, who was a big boy for his fourteen years, and then put his arms about him. Cnut smiled sideways at his knights, and freed himself as soon as he could.

  Later, sitting with his father, Cnut said, ‘My prince, Robert Curthose, has knighted me, Baron. He promises that I shall ride beside him on the right hand one day.’

  Hereward looked into the fire and said, ‘That is a great honour, my son.’

  Cnut nodded and said quietly, ‘Yet it means that I am no longer a child. My own knights watch me always, and would be the first in the world to torment me if I acted as a child now.’ Hereward said, ‘I understand, Cnut. So it would be well for me to treat you like one of, say, my own age!’

  His son made a wry grimace and said, ‘Hardly that, father, for you are very old…. But not to put your arms about me, for example.’

  His words cut deep into Hereward, but he did not show this. Instead he made himself laugh and then said, ‘Well, at all events, we can go hunting together. That is a dream I have always held, Cnut. You and I galloping over the hills and under the boughs after the tall-deer…’

  The boy rose and poured himself more beer, forgetting to fill his father’s empty cup at the same time.

  He said slowly, the cup at his lips, ‘My prince, Robert, is a hardy hunter. I have grown used to his ways, Baron. He is unafraid to set his horse at any ditch or fence. When he rides, it is as though he were willing to lose his life that day. I have learned to ride in this manner, Baron. Less than this is no sport for me, I fear.’

  Hereward was too sad to carry on the talk any further. It was as though his son had rejected him as an old man, weak and incapable.

  Something in Hereward’s heart, some old pride or fierceness, made him want to challenge Cnut at riding. But he restrained this feeling, and went out to the byres to talk with the cattlemen instead.

  The next day, Cnut and his knights were off at dawn, without even breaking their fast, into the woods after the deer.

  Hereward saw them go. They cast no backward looks at the window where he stood. And when they had vanished into the valley, he called for the reeve and said, ‘Dag, you were wrong after all. I am an old man, and useless. My son has proved it to me. Let us go to the counting-house and make an addition of the revenues. I am still strong enough to hold a handful of coins, I would think.’

  31. The Affairs of Princes

  When the news came that the King had imprisoned Earl Roger of Hereford for life, and had beheaded Waltheof on St Giles’ Hill at Winchester, Hereward was still further downcast.

  Dag the reeve said, ‘It would have been better for Waltheof to plead as a Norman, then he would only have been imprisoned.

  But pleading as an Englishman, he should have known that the penalty for treason was death.’

  Hereward said, ‘Perhaps he would have been wiser to do what Earl Ralf did, and leave England altogether. It was a cruel thing for the King to keep him five months in the dungeons before killing him.’

  Cnut was sitting in the hall, drinking mead and playing chess with his knights. He looked up and said, ‘King William may sit firmly on his throne at the moment. He may be able to deal with such fools as the earls - but there will always be others waiting for their chance to topple him. Young men of power and pride, not these country squires who have hardly ever left their middens and seen the world.’

  Hereward said, ‘Earl Waltheof was a great lord, my son. He was almost a king himself in the north. His blood is as good as that of the King, or of the Atheling himself. I cannot sit here and listen to such slighting words as you have spoken. Such men are not petty squires, Cnut.’

  Cnut turned away and began to whistle. His men thought that this was highly amusing and began to laugh at Hereward behind their hands.

  When they had gone to their lodging and Cnut was alone with his father again, Hereward said to him, ‘My son, I am trying to be patient with you for the sake of your dear mother and because of the love I bear you. I beg you, have some thought for my position in this manor. It is not proper that I should be made the laughing-stock of a band of wandering horsemen.’

  Cnut said suddenly, ‘I think of my mother every bit as much as you, Baron. I was with her during the years when you were elsewhere, leading your own life. As for my knights being such common rogues as you would make out, I can tell you that each one is a brave man, each one has faced his enemy and killed him.’

  Hereward lowered his eyes and said, ‘I do not doubt that, my son. Most men of any quality have done the same. But most men of quality also know their places when they are guests in a house. Bravery does not relieve them of courtesy.’

  The boy strolled about the room and kicked at the stools and

  trestles as he passed. Then he said, ‘It is clear to me that my brothers-in-arms are not welcome here, Baron. And if they are not welcome, then I shall take it that I am not welcome either.’

  Hereward knew that this was the young man’s quick pride talking, and so he did not answer the words.

  But Cnut took his father’s silence as an answer and said, ‘Very well, Baron, if we are not welcome, then we will go. There are many other places where we may find a roof and a hearth-fire. The Bishop Odo would not criticize me at every turn, I can tell you that. Nor will Robert, my prince, when I go back to him in France.’

  Hereward tried to take his son’s hand, but Cnut pulled away. So Hereward said, as gently as his temper would allow him, ‘Cnut, Cnut, my dear boy, if we are to quarrel - which God forbid, for I have waited so long to see you - then let it be about something, and not about nothing! You, and your men, are as welcome under my roof as any of God’s creatures could be. As for going to Odo, I beg you not to do that. The Bishop is a great man, and no one denies it, but he is a man of ambition and policy; and it would not be right for one as young as you to become involved in affairs of state. Enjoy yourself, hunt, sing, do as you please - but, in God’s name, do not meddle with the affairs of princes.’

  Cnut turned on him and answered, ‘Baron, every day it becomes more plain to me that you regard me as a small child. Would it surprise you to learn that Robert Curthose has sent me a message, and that he wants me by his side before too long? He does not think of me as a useless boy, Baron. He is a man of wisdom, and he can judge the worth of his fellow knights.’

  Now Hereward lost control of his great rage. He took his son by the shoulders and shook him. ‘You little fool!’ he shouted. ‘Do you wish to have your own sheep’s head rolling in the dust, as poor Waltheof’s did?’

  Cnut stared up at him, unmoved, and said, ‘That will not happen - unless you betray me.’

  It was as though Hereward had been struck in the middle of the forehead with a sledge-hammer. His hands grasped at nothing; foam came to his lips; he sank on to a bench and trembled like a reed in the wind. In all his life he had never known a passion to shake him so, never known a pain as sharp as the one which now pierced him to the heart.

  And later, when he realized that Dag the reeve was holding a cup for him to drink from, he said, ‘So this is the baron who can sit a horse and handle an axe better than anyone south of the Humber, reeve? Now you see what I am - an old fellow who can be outfaced by any lad.’

  Dag shook his head and replied, ‘Not any lad, master. Only one lad - and that only because you love him too much to show him where his proper place is.’

  Hereward broke the cup to pieces in his clenched hand. ‘I will show him where his place is, Dag,’ he said. ‘I will take my belt to him, as other fathers do. I will drag him from his bed for this and show him what a stern father can be.’

  The reeve said, ‘Sit still, Baron. What’s done cannot be mended. Cnut left almost an hour ago with his horsemen, shouting through the village like a madman. He has gone to join Robert Curthose in France, I think.’

  Hereward laughed bitterly and said, ‘He can ride to join the devil himself for all I care now!’

  But when the reeve had left him the Bar
on’s anger died down, and he began to blame himself again for spoiling his son.

  Hereward did not go to sleep until the dawn came; and when the reeve looked in at him again, he seemed to have become a very old man.

  32. Two Old Men

  As the years passed Hereward and William drew closer to each other, like men who forgot their quarrels because they have suffered similar misfortunes. Yet in public there seemed little tenderness between them. Men compared them with two eagles who would hunt side by side unruffled - until the time came when both wished to flesh their talons in the same prey.

  In the privacy of their rooms the two men behaved very differently, however. There was no formality between them. They called one another by their Christian names, argued fiercely about all that came into their heads, and even at times rolled in the straw, wrestling like old Northmen, testing each other’s strength. It was as though each needed the other when they were away from barons and bishops and crowds. Yet, even so, neither ever mentioned the thing that lay nearest to his heart - the death of his wife. This sadness, while binding them close, set up an invisible wall between them. But it was another matter when sons were mentioned.

  In the year 1077, Prince Robert flared up against his father and garrisoned the castle of Gerberoy. Inside a twelvemonth he was on his knees in the dust, begging William’s forgiveness, with Cnut only a pace behind him.

  William gazed down in contempt at his eldest son and said, ‘Why do you fight against me, Robert?’

  Curthose answered, ‘Because you set my brothers above me, father. King Philip of France has said as much. Besides, I only ask for my rights - the duchies of Normandy and Maine.’

  William bit his lip, then said, ‘I treat all my sons alike. It is jealousy that blinds you, Robert. As for French Philip, he’s a rogue and a fool. If you believe him, you will believe anyone. As for your rights to the duchies - well, I gained them by skill and not by treachery. The only right you have to them, until I lie stark, is six feet of earth. And, I promise you, that shall be yours the next time you think to sound the war-horn in my face.’

  Hereward, beside the King, nodded at these words, his hands on his sword pommel, his fierce pale eyes glaring from the darkness of his helmet.

  Later, William said to Hereward, ‘I have shipped the boy home in disgrace. What of your own son, who was fool enough to follow him?’

  Hereward answered, ‘Lock him up, too. For me, Cnut may sink or swim as he chooses. There is little love between us and he is old enough to make up his own mind now, William.’

  Two years afterwards, as the warriors foraged in France, they had their horses killed under them by the same flight of arrows. As they lay on the ground William pushed back his helmet and laughed. ‘Fate means us to die together, Baron,’ he said.

  Hereward dragged the King to his feet and answered, ‘I count that no honour, King!’

  That evening the King sent for Hereward and offered him the choice of fiefs in Hereford or East Anglia. But the Baron shook his head and said, ‘Lord, I’m no great hand at running estates. Any clerk can trick me. Indeed, I’d be much relieved if some brisk young baron would kneel before me and take my Lincolnshire holdings off my hands. They are a burden.’

  William thought of these words, off and on, for years. Then, in August of the year 1086, he called all his landholders together at Salisbury and bade them take the oath of loyalty afresh. And after it was over he drew Hereward into his private chamber and said to him, over a horn of wine, ‘Friend, as you knelt today, I recalled what you once said to me in France, that being a tenant was burdensome. Is it still so?’

  Hereward answered, ‘It gets heavier with the years. At the age of sixty-six, a man needs rest. At that age, a son should bear the burden, and I, like you, could not trust my son to bear a bucket of water - without spilling it. Yet Cnut is twenty-four now.’

  The King nodded wryly, then said, ‘God is punishing us through our children, Baron. We must have done something very wicked in the past.’

  Hereward said, ‘Aye, you burned the poor folk in the north - and I sacked the Golden Borough.’

  William considered a while before he answered, ‘Yet, at the time, we both thought we were doing right, didn’t we, friend?’ But Hereward would not answer this. He said, ‘Why ask me? I can hardly read or write. I’m getting so rheumaticky I can scarcely mount the stairs to bed at night. I am but an old bag of bones, an old sheep with porridge for brains.’

  William pulled his fur-lined robe about him and said, ‘None of us gets any younger, friend. And there are times when I find it hard to sit my horse. But I shall have to, before long. I am soon to ride into Normandy again. There’s more trouble afoot, and I shouldn’t wonder but my son - and yours - is up to his neck in it.’

  He sighed and kicked at the logs on the fire moodily. Then he said, ‘Hereward, this time I do not wish you to ride with me. Will that anger you?’

  Hereward shook his head. ‘No doubt you have other work in mind for me while you are away,’ he said slyly.

  The King smiled and said, ‘You guess right, old fox! Seeing all these landholders kneeling today, it came to me that a list should be made of them, and of their holdings. A wise king should know what he possesses. I would like to know about every acre of land in my realm, whether arable or moorland; about every horse, every plough, every fish-pond.’

  Hereward said, ‘Aye, and every dog and cat, I suppose, before they lock you up as a madman!’

  But the King’s face was serious. ‘While I am away you shall ride the land from manor to manor, with my commissioners and clerks, on this work. I can trust you.’

  Hereward laughed, ‘Mercy on me! I can hardly add up a wine-reckoning!’

  The King replied, ‘Your work will be to keep the clerks in order, not to do the reckoning yourself…. As for reckoning, my own is sadly out, friend. Do you know, this very day I have given the Atheling permission to leave England, and to take two hundred knights with him. He’s a discontented fellow, and I thought he would be well out of the way. Now I’m wondering if I did right…. Suppose he goes straight to the French King with his knights? Suppose he persuades my son, and yours, to join him in fighting against us, the old fathers?’

  Hereward thumped his fist on the table and said, ‘For the love of God, let us keep off this matter. You’ll kill yourself, and me, worrying about sons. Here, drink more wine.’

  A little while later the two warriors were well away from affairs of state. They were trying to recall the songs that had been sung over Europe when they were boys. Suddenly they remembered the lam, Dulcis Arnica, the love-song they had whistled twenty years before among the reeds on Axholme the night they fished together.

  And servants peeped round the door, amazed, to see the two old fighting-men, beating time with their wine-horns and carolling away at a ditty that the rest of the world had forgotten. Two old men who sounded like love-struck young boys once more, with the spring burgeoning about them and no sad memories yet to recall.

  33. The Road to Normandy

  In the summer sun clerks in black gowns were scribbling busily and bailiffs strutting pompously with their scales and measuring-rods.

  Hereward was in the granary of a manor near Shrewsbury when news of the King’s misfortune reached him. A man came galloping under the arch, shouting, ‘Great tidings, lads! Great tidings! The Norman is dead!’ The clerks stopped writing: the bailiffs halted in their shouting and measuring.

  Hereward stepped from the granary and dragged the man from the saddle. Then, grasping the fellow’s throat, he said coldly, ‘Come then, out with it, traitor. What do you know?’

  The yeoman, half Welsh by birth, struggled with his words until the hard hand persuaded him. Then he said, ‘Master, I only speak what all in the south already know. It seems that the King, God help him, has been at his burnings again. This time he put the torch to Mantes, on the French border, because of some insult or other that Philip offered him. The tale goes that our Ki
ng’s horse trod on a hot cinder from the burning and flung him against the pommel.’

  Hereward said, ‘And he is dead? Is that the news?’

  The man began to shake. ‘That much is not known for sure, Baron,’ he answered. ‘Some say he is dead; others that he lies in Rouen, a-dying. But anyway, they say he has gone from this land and will never return.’

  So Hereward saw that the western shires had already turned against the King, now the news had spread that he was stricken.

  He left the work in charge of the clerks and rode towards London.

  It was the same in Worcester and in Oxford. Men were out, shouting in the streets that they would have the Atheling on the throne soon, and that the old English law would win the day. Even certain of the priests walked the streets with holy relics, saying that God had decided against the Normans after all.

  At Windsor Hereward was chased by a crowd and only just gained entrance to the castle in time. Both he and his horse were hurt by flying stones.

  The steward there said that it would be impossible to give him shelter for long, since the countryfolk had flocked into the town and were already threatening to burn the castle down.

  ‘We do not wish to offend them further at the moment, Baron,’ he said. ‘So it would be as well for you to eat and drink, then go out by the far postern, perhaps disguised as a servant. This is good counsel.’

  Hereward answered, ‘It seems that a man may only count on loyalty if he is there, with soldiers at his back, to compel it.’

  The steward smiled and said, ‘It seems so, master. But who are we, you and I, to change human nature? We must go the way the wind blows, Baron. Our loyalty is to ourselves now. So, I beg you, do as I say.’

  That night Hereward made his way out of Windsor dressed as an old scholar. Though his heart was heavy with grief, one part of him was amused that he should masquerade as one who could read and write - whereas, in all truth, he had found the greatest difficulty with both arts all his life.