Man With a Sword

by Henry Treece

  London itself was strangely still, like a city that waited for a thunderstorm, or the Day of Judgement. Hereward did not stay there long, but made his way on a wagon to Rochester, where, as the hot sun of July beat down, he was able to get a place on a wool-barge that was sailing for Rouen.

  No one knew him, and no one even seemed interested in him, once he had laid out his passage-money.

  Only once was he noticed, when the shipmaster, a sturdy young Fleming, said to his mate, ‘That old fellow in black - you know, the one who sits brooding in the prow all day - what do you make of him?’

  The other sailor scratched his head and said, ‘I’d say he was from the old Danelaw, by the manner of his speech. Perhaps some old scholar who wishes to make a pilgrimage before he dies. See, he carries a book with him.’

  The shipmaster said, ‘Aye, I’ve noticed that. But he never reads it. He seems fonder of that long bundle he holds under his arm. Maybe that’s some holy relic or other. I’d like to see it, just for curiosity. Not that I’m a religious man - but, being on the water so much, a man likes to take advantage of any relic that’s going.’

  If he could have looked inside the bundle that Hereward carried, he would have seen no holy relic, but a sword; the only thing that Hereward now possessed which marked him out as being different from a thousand other ragged wanderers.

  34. The Priory of Saint Gervase

  Hereward climbed the grey stone steps that led to the upper chamber of the Priory of Saint Gervase. He felt very tired and very old. The steps were so high that he had to lean from time to time to get his breath back. A hooded priest, going down the stairs, passed him and glanced back at him almost with contempt.

  At the top landing a bareheaded soldier with his sword tucked under his arm nodded to Hereward and made no movement to prevent him from passing through the tall oak door.

  Inside, the chamber was dark and its air was heavy with incense and sweat and the smell of herbs. The shutters were closed against the hot September sun. A score of thin white tapers flickered on a stand in the farthest corner of the long room.

  In another corner, away from the door, a crowd of men clustered round the King’s rough-hewn oak bed. They were soldiers and priests and scriveners. Hereward recognized the King’s sons, William Redhead and Henry, who stood dry-eyed at the foot of the bed; and the Bishop, Gilbert of Lisieux, who held a flask of mulled wine in his hand, as though waiting to administer it to the sick man. Guntard, Abbot of Jumieges, was there, holding up a silver crucifix set with rubies, so that the dying man’s eyes might see it wherever they turned.

  There were so many about that bed, and all whispering and intent on their business, that Hereward moved back and sat on a stool near the fireplace to wait. No one seemed to notice him; he felt like a nameless ghost.

  Then there was silence for a while, and in that silence the great bell of Rouen Cathedral tolled out across the valley, deep and mournful, as though proclaiming the sins of all the world.

  From behind the knot of crowding folk the King’s voice sounded, hoarse and weak, but still audible.

  ‘That is the bell of St Mary’s church,’ he said. ‘It will be ringing for Prime. Am I not right, Bishop of Evreux?’

  A tall and stooping churchman who knelt beside the bed nodded his white head and said, ‘Yes, my lord, you are right.’

  Then William said, ‘I have heard it every day for the six weeks I have lain here. I ought to know it by now. Six weeks. Has Hereward come to see me?’

  Hereward was about to rise and go to the King when the Bishop of Evreux said, ‘No, my lord, he has not come. If he comes, we will bring him to you straightaway.’

  The King said with an effort, ‘He will come. And when he comes, he will not need to be brought to me. He will find his own way. Of all men, he will find his own way - unless he is dead.’

  Hereward saw the great bishops and princes and barons about that bed, and he did not dare move among them to take the hand of the King. Instead he sat with his face in his hands on the little stool.

  After a while, the King said with difficulty, ‘My sons are here - all save Robert - and so are my barons and churchmen. In your presence I would say certain things that the clerks should set down.’

  Bishop Gilbert of Lisieux said, ‘Do not spend what strength you have, my lord. Let this wait till another day.’

  But the King spoke almost angrily and said, ‘Not even you, Gilbert, can say that there will be another day. I shall speak now. Let the scrivener dip his pen in the ink and be ready.’

  Gilbert of Lisieux leaned over and seemed to give the King a drink from the wine-flask, for when he spoke his voice was a little stronger and clearer. Hereward heard every word he said.

  ‘I have a mortal sin on my conscience. Set that down, scrivener. Do not be afraid. I have a sin which gives me pain no less than the wound in my body. And it is this: that I have been a man of war since my youth. Do not shake your heads, it is true. I have burned and killed all my days. See how the candles gutter! They are being blown out by the innocents of York whom I put to the sword. Do you smell the stench in this room? It is the smell of death, my friends. It comes all the way across the sea to me from that high hill at Hastings where men lay piled about their king. Set that down, scribe, without fear, for all men to read. And set down that the smell of burning has never left my nostrils since I ravaged Northumbria, Set down that though I professed to love the deer like my own children, I never took one in the chase but I thought of the villages I had razed so that the deer might run free in the forests for my pleasure.’

  As the King halted, drawing in his breath with labour, the Bishop of Evreux said, ‘Peace, my son, give your spirit peace. Just as the body needs rest after all its wandering, so does the spirit. Think on that, my son, and lie at rest.’

  Suddenly, William gave a great cry and seemed to sit upright in his bed. ‘By God’s Splendour!’ he said, ‘but must I suffer the mumblings of dotards as well as the agonies of the flesh? My sons gaze at me as though I am a fool. Look you, William Redhead, yours is the throne of England that I won with so much bloodshed and suffering. And for you, Henry, though I cannot give you land, there are five thousand pounds of silver waiting in the coffers. Archbishop Lanfranc will see that you get your throne, William. You, Henry, be about your business, weighing your treasure to see that I have not cheated you! But, for the love of God, do not stand over me as though I had lost my wits already. Be off with you, and see to your own affairs!’

  So shocked was every man by this outburst that there was silence as the two princes bowed before the bed and then quickly went from the room with a swirl of cloaks.

  King William gasped for a while, then said almost in a whisper, ‘My other son, the fool Robert. His is Normandy. May he govern the land well. I wish to God he were here now so that I could hold his silly hand in mine. Where is he? Who has seen my stupid son?’

  Hereward, in the comer, was sad at these words, for they called to mind his own lost son. The son he had tried not to think about for years.

  Gilbert of Lisieux said gently, ‘My lord, God will send him to you at the ordained time. Do not torment yourself so. The body can bear only so much, and then no more. It is not God’s will that you should shorten your days so. Be at peace, my lord.’

  William began to mutter now that he had always tried to do homage to God by serving Holy Church, by giving patronage to learned men and by founding religious houses. All about the bed nodded as they heard his words, like men trying to pacify a weeping child.

  Then the King’s voice gained strength once more, and he said out loud, ‘Such things are not enough for God. Hear you what I command. I have caused men to suffer in my time, men who are still rotting in my dungeons, some of them my blood-kin. God would not have it so. I command you that such men as I took at Ely, the Earl Morcar, and Siward Barn, should be set free. And let Wulfnoth, son of Godwine, walk in the light again. He has lain long in prison - so long, I forget when he first
heard the doors close on him. And there is my brother, Odo…. Odo, man of God, so-called, who rode at my side as I burned the villages and slaughtered the babes. Odo, who is bound to me in all my guilt. Set him free, though he plotted against me. Set him free, although he plotted against God himself in seeking the Pope’s holy ring…. And tell him I always loved him for the sake of our mother, Arlette, who taught us bravery as we stood at her knee.’

  At these words the bishops frowned and turned away for a moment, as though Odo were the devil incarnate.

  William struggled for a moment or two to get his breath, and seemed to be tossing about on the bed, for there was much movement, though his body was hidden from Here ward’s eyes.

  At last he said, in a high thin voice, ‘There is a knight, Baudri de Guitry. He fought well - where was it? At Sainte-Suzanne, it was. Under the hot sun, crying my name, vowing to serve me with every stroke. He was so brave, so courteous, so rare…. Baudri de Guitry, yes. His hair was like gold and his eyes were as blue as my mother’s. I often wondered if he were a son of mine. Baudri, who left Normandy to fight the Moors in Spain. What a fool I was to confiscate his lands, to take all he had, like a spiteful child, and only because he had not asked me if he might serve God against the Infidel! I must have thought that I was God’s ambassador on earth! I must have been the proudest man since Lucifer! In God’s name, give him back his lands, if you can find him! Find Baudri and tell him I loved him! Here, give him this ring and tell him… tell him… tell him.’

  Suddenly the King’s voice failed, and there was complete silence in the hot room. The great bell of St Mary’s had ceased ringing for Prime, and all was still across the valley.

  Gilbert of Lisieux said in an even cold voice, for all to hear, ‘He is asleep. Let us leave him to rest now. Let us all go and pray for one who will soon be answerable only to the God he has flouted.’

  Like mourners already, the men about the bed turned and went from the room. Not one of them saw Hereward, where he sat in the darkness, away from the flickering tapers.

  And when they had gone and the great door was shut Hereward rose and went silently towards the broad bed. The sheets were twisted and ruffled, and the pillows scattered. The bedclothes smelled of sour scent and sweat. The air was stifling.

  William the King lay like a great misshapen image, his thin hair black with sweat, his face pale and waxen, his blue-veined hands crossed above his swollen stomach. The wound the King had taken against the high saddle-peak was as terrible as any that a horn-pick could have caused. Hereward looked at the injury with grief; to think that a warrior like William should have faced axe-blade and sword-edge so often in his life, and then have fallen the victim to something which was not even a weapon. This was the irony of life - and death; this was what men meant by fate - a great warrior-king struck down in the moment of his glory when no foeman was in sight, killed by nothing, by a careless horse stumbling on a hot cinder…. Even Hardrada’s death from the little arrow made more sense. At least, though it was a chance missile, it was a weapon of war, destined for someone…. But this hurt of the King’s, it might just as well have been a tile falling from a roof in a high wind, an oak beam crashing down, rotten with age, a branch falling from an old apple-tree, a boy flinging stones…. Hereward shook his grey head and thought: ‘God sees all. He sees men’s errors, and then he waits for the right time to punish them. All men make mistakes and offend God; so all men will one day receive their punishment. Harold slew his brother and was killed; William burned all Yorkshire and now lies groaning here; I, who once sacked God’s Golden Borough, have lost my wife, my son. Now, what else waits for me?’

  It was while Hereward was thinking this to himself that the King’s eyes, dark with pain and red-rimmed with exhaustion, flickered and opened, to stare up at him.

  William’s lips moved and in a small clear voice he said, ‘Baudri, Baudri de Guitry! I was speaking of you, and now you are here with me. That is God’s work, to bring you here.’

  Hereward wanted to cry out his own name, but the King’s smile was so gentle, so peaceful, that he could not bring himself to break that peace. He nodded and knelt beside the bed, to kiss his lord’s dangling hand. The hand was cold and damp now, and as fragile as that of a girl. It was no longer a warrior’s hand.

  Then William said, ‘I had a friend. His name was Hereward. There were times when I thought that the strands of our lives were entwined. Now, in this lonely prison, I have learned reason. Hereward has not come to me, though I asked God to send him. So God has answered me, and has taught me the foolishness of my wishes. Let Hereward rest secure wherever he is, with his lands and his son. I wish him only well.’

  Hereward felt tears on his cheek, but his tongue clove to his mouth’s roof and he could not speak to the King.

  William gasped for a while and tried to sit upright in the tumbled bed. But the effort was too great for him, and he lay back again, his waxen face streaming, his hair hanging in elf-locks down his forehead.

  He said slowly, ‘Baudri, my friend, listen to me. I feel in my heart that there is little more I shall say, so listen. Make your peace with me; accept your lands back from me, and forgive me. What I did, I did for love of you, for jealousy because I loved you. So remember me well; and I beg you, see that my body is carried to Caen, where I once built a church to God’s glory. See that I am laid in the grounds of the Abbey, between the choir and the altar of St Stephen’s church. That is where I wish to lie, dear friend. The prelates may try to deny me this last wish; but you must fight them, Baudri. I must have my wish, do you understand? Do you swear that I, your lord, shall have it?’ Hereward found the voice to say, ‘I swear, my lord. You shall lie where you wish, or may I lose the use of my right hand.’ William smiled and nodded then, and let his heavy head sink back on to the straw-filled bolster.

  There was no sound in the room until suddenly the King said again, ‘Listen, the bell of St Mary is ringing for Prime again. That is most strange. It sounds more like a death-knell than anything else.’

  Hereward listened, but there was no sound of bells.

  Then, all at once, William the King sat upright in bed, as strongly as he had ever done, and clenching his right fist, shook it before him, as though threatening an enemy.

  ‘By God’s little splendour!’ he cried in a firm voice. ‘Get away from me, Godwinson! Must I kill you twice?’

  Hereward started to his feet to support the King’s body as it fell. But he was too late. William had rolled half out of the rough bed, and his body was now too heavy for the old warrior to raise.

  At last Hereward went to the great oak door and somehow opened it. A group of men were waiting at the foot of the steep stairs, some of them grave, others smiling. Hereward called down to them, ‘My lords, the King is dead.’ He could say no more.

  There was a great rush of feet up the stairway, and the Bishop of Evreux pushed Hereward aside as though he had been a thrall. He sank to his knees against the balusters, and stayed there, his head bowed, as the servants and the men-at-arms stripped the King’s room, and came back down the stairs with bundles of clothes and silver candlesticks.

  And at last the great bell of St Mary’s began the death-toll in all truth.

  35. The Little Garden

  In his death William lay more lonely than he had ever been, for his sons had gone to England and his barons had gone with them. All his belongings were stolen from the Abbey where he had died. Even his body had been stripped of whatever robes and ornaments belonged to it.

  No men of rank were left to carry the remains of the Conqueror to their last resting-place. In the market-place of Rouen, Hereward found a country knight named Herlwin who needed money for a new horse and armour. This Herlwin was an honest fellow who had always longed to prove himself in battle, but had never possessed fine enough weapons or mail for any baron to employ him.

  Hereward offered him gold from his own purse if he would help carry the King to Caen. Then, later the same day,
just beside the market, Hereward came on two fish-porters from the riverside who were willing to earn food and wine and a pair of shoes in return for the march through Normandy.

  So the party set off, by road and river, and at last came to Caen. It was a tiring journey in the high heat of the summer, and there were few in the countryside who willingly gave food or shelter to the bearers. All costs were paid by Hereward, until they were met at the outskirts of Caen by the monks of St Stephen’s.

  Then Hereward handed over the body of his dead lord, and walked like a mourner behind. A crowd of citizens ran out to meet the procession, many of them drunk and brawling, anxious to tear back the leaden shell and to look on the dead warrior’s face.

  But Hereward took his sheathed sword and beat them back. Then, as the party passed through the city gates, fires started up among the wooden houses of the town, and the citizens left the body to save their homes. It seemed that lawlessness had already begun in Normandy.

  In the garden of St Stephen’s, half the churchmen of the land were waiting. Hereward thought bitterly that these men were ready enough to gain the fame of being at the graveside, yet not one of. them had been willing to travel through the sullen countryside with the body.

  As the Bishop of Evreux praised William’s victories and renown, Hereward put his hands over his ears. He only took them away when a young man ran forward as the body was being lowered, and shouted out, ‘I am Ascelin, son of Arthur, and I forbid this burial. This dead robber cannot lie in this ground.’

  The Bishop said solemnly, ‘Why do you say this, Ascelin?’

  The young man answered, ‘Once my father’s house stood here. On this very spot he had his courtyard, where I played with my sister when I was a child. Now you would lay here the body of the man who stole my father’s land from him. It cannot be.’

  Hereward saw the tears on the young man’s face, saw his outstretched arms as he pushed against the coffin-bearers. Hereward felt that William was doomed to dishonour, even in death, just as, once before, his coronation in West Minster had been disturbed.