Ram frowned and nodded. “I suspected as much from what he said when we met. I hope to change his mind.”
Without warning, a loud bang heralded Caedmon’s arrival through the front doorway of the house. He burst into the room, his face flushed with anger. “Well, well, great earl. Not content with taking advantage of my whoring mother, now you turn your attention to my wife while my back is turned.”
“Caedmon!” Agneta gasped, taking her hand from the earl’s. “That’s not why he is here. Have you lost your wits?”
Ram’s heart thudded. He wanted to embrace this young man, his son who looked like him, obviously a Montbryce. “Caedmon,” he said softly, trying to maintain his composure. “You may say anything you wish about me, but your mother isn’t a whore. If you’ll but allow me to explain the circumstances of what happened.”
“Circumstances?” Caedmon cut in. “I know the circumstances. You shamed my mother then rode away, leaving her to fend for herself and her child.”
“I swear to you, I didn’t know I had a third son until I saw you at Ellesmere.”
Silence hung in the air. When Caedmon said nothing, Ram decided to continue. “Caedmon, I want to recognize you as my son. My family is of the same mind. I wish to offer you the name of FitzRam, if you’ll accept it. I also wish to—”
Caedmon strode to within a pace of his father, and hissed into his face. “I want nothing from you, Earl of Ellesmere. I wouldn’t consider bearing a Norman patronymic. You’re everything I despise.”
Agneta took her husband’s hand, trying to pull him away from his confrontational stance. “Caedmon, he’s your father. You can’t despise him.”
“You’ll not be the one to tell me what I can or can’t do, wife,” he shouted, red in the face, shrugging off her hand, keeping his eyes on Ram.
“Caedmon,” Ram said, raising his hands, palms towards Caedmon, trying to calm the situation. “You may not accept it at the moment and you may not like it, but you have Montbryce blood in your veins, blood from an honorable family lineage. Montbryce men don’t shout at their wives in that manner, particularly when she hasn’t been the cause of pain. If you wish to shout, shout at me.”
“Aye, father,” Caedmon spat out the words with great sarcasm. “Was it in this room you fornicated with my mother, or perhaps in the chamber where I’ve lain with my own wife? Your whore is upstairs now. Why don’t you go up and see her?”
Ram’s upward glance betrayed him. Caedmon thrust out one hand towards the door, the other on the hilt of his sword. “Get out of this house.”
There was no use arguing further. He’d made the first move. It was up to his son now. For all his skill as a diplomat he’d failed. He bowed to Agneta, bidding her farewell, nodded to Caedmon and left.
Caedmon turned to his wife, his face contorted by anger. “You had no right to allow him to enter this house.”
She could find no words to say to him. She’d on the one hand hoped the earl would come, and on the other dreaded he would. She wanted to know what kind of man he was. When the nobleman dismounted and she saw the resemblance, it made her weep.
Relief had washed over her like a cleansing rain when the Norman called her daughter. She could scarcely believe she’d heard him say these words. She’d been an orphan since her own parents had been murdered and Caedmon had been the rock she’d come to rely on, but now he seemed lost to her. To hear words of support and love from the Earl of Ellesmere was more than she’d hoped for.
She left the room and went to her chamber, where she wept alone, marveling at the depth of forgiveness that had enabled the earl’s family to survive this blow and to accept Caedmon. That was the kind of family she wanted. She prayed she might be able some day to overcome her own hatred for the Scots who had killed her parents and brothers and that her husband would survive the depths of despair into which he’d sunk
Caedmon had been missing for another sennight. There was no sign of him in Ruyton. When a rider cantered into the courtyard with a message, bearing a seal with the imprint of Caedmon’s ring, Agneta’s hands shook violently as she tore it open. She crumpled to her knees on the cobblestones after reading the missive.
My dearest wife Agneta,
I regret the agony and grief I’ve caused you. I no longer know who I am. I have to come to terms with the reality of my parentage, but I’m too full of anger. I need to make amends, to cleanse myself of the hatred and resentment burning a hole in my heart.
I’ve decided to join Pope Urban’s Crusade to rid the Holy Land of the Saracen menace. I hope in this way to restore honor to my name, and perhaps return a richer and saner man. By the time you read this, I will have taken ship for Normandie—ironic isn’t it! From there I will make my way to join with the Crusaders in Constantinople. I’m confident the income from the estate will meet your needs. I miss you. Forgive me, for everything.
Your unworthy husband, Caedmon
She clenched her fist and pressed it to her mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to burst forth. The bile rose in her throat. She didn’t know which emotion to succumb to first. Anger, fear, desolation, sorrow, all raged within her, but the most overwhelming pain was that he’d left just as she’d come to the full certainty that she was with child.
“Not one word of love, Caedmon. Not one word of love. But then why should I expect that? I told you I could never love you, but I recognise now that I do. Perhaps if you’d known of my love, your torment might have been easier to bear.”
She wanted to pursue him and beg him to return, but that was an impossibility for a pregnant woman alone in foreign lands. She went to her armoire and stood in front of it for many minutes, finally taking out the bundle she’d brought with her from the abbey. Trembling, she unwrapped the dagger that had taken her mother’s life, spread the cloth on her bed, lay the weapon atop it and crawled to sit cross-legged on the bed.
She stared at the dagger for more than an hour, then gingerly ran her trembling fingers over the walrus ivory handle, withdrawing them quickly, as if she’d been burned. A sob tore through her and she curled up in a ball.
She awoke some time later to the sound of someone banging on the door.
“Agneta,” Leofric shouted. “Open this door.”
The dagger was still there, taunting her. She lunged and grasped it in both hands, pressing the sharp point to her breast. Sweat broke out over her trembling body.
“Agneta,” Leofric shouted again.
The steel of the long blade made the dagger feel heavy in her hand, though it wasn’t large. It was a weapon made for a woman. Her thumb felt the raised edges on the elaborately carved steel guard. She looked down and, through her tears, paid closer attention to the Viking warrior carved into the front of the guard.
The banging came again, more insistent, and then Lady Ascha’s sobbing voice. “Please open the door, Agneta.”
Agneta looked back at the dagger—a gift to her grandmother from her own Danish grandfather. Was this a carving of him, striding out of his longship onto some foreign shore? Onto the shores of Northumbria, long ago? The blade was carved with mysterious designs which she didn’t understand, but which somehow spoke to her.
“Mamma,” she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I now have some understanding of why you did what you did. Why you couldn’t face life without my father. I can’t accept the prospect of life without Caedmon.”
Absentmindedly, she traced her fingertips over the Viking warrior. “Help me, brave grandsire from ages past. I don’t have the courage to raise a child alone.”
The earl won’t allow you to face it alone. He will help you.
Trembling uncontrollably, she stood on unsteady legs, went to the door, opened it and collapsed into Leofric’s arms.
“Agneta,” he whispered, holding her tightly.
They were all there. Lady Ascha looked like she had cried for a sennight. Agneta had never seen her mother-by-marriage look disheveled, even during the long journey they’d un
dertaken in their flight, yet now the woman was a wreck.
Coventina stared at her wide-eyed and it was obvious she too had been crying. Agneta leaned on Leofric who eyed the dagger in her hands. She gave him a reassuring smile and handed him the weapon. “Call Tybaut, Leofric. He must ride quickly to Ellesmere with this message from Caedmon.”
She gave the missive to Leofric and he and Lady Ascha read it together. Caedmon’s mother fell to her knees and wailed. Coventina knelt beside her to bring comfort.
Agneta turned to Leofric. “I must add a postscript, to tell the earl about our child.”
Ascha looked up. She and Coventina and Leofric all spoke at the same time. “Child?”
“I’m carrying Caedmon’s child,” she whispered.
Ascha struggled to her feet and took Agneta’s hand. “Dear daughter, I beg your forgiveness for what has happened. I should have told Caedmon. I should never have lied.”
“Lady Ascha, I’m not the one to whom you should say these things. Perhaps one day you can tell me, but now I’m too distraught. We must think only of getting Caedmon safely home. Go to your chamber and rest. Lady Pamela, help her.”
Edythe and Pamela, who’d stood gaping at the proceedings, both scurried to assist Lady Ascha to her chamber.
“I’ll ride with Tybaut,” Leofric stated. “Bastard of a Norman or son of a Saxon martyr, makes no difference. Caedmon is like a brother to me.”
Agneta nodded and held out her hand for the dagger. When Leofric hesitated, she reassured him. “It’s all right.”
He handed it to her. She went back into her chamber, penned the note to the earl, resealed the parchment and gave it to Leofric. “Go, quickly.”
She climbed into bed, clutching the dagger, her thumb caressing the Viking warrior over and over. She prayed her unborn child wouldn’t grow up without a father. It became her mantra, the dagger her talisman.
Crusade
Caedmon was surprised to be one of the few Englishmen among the motley horde of pilgrims gathering from many nations to join the crusade. Most of them were peasants with whom he had nothing in common. They were armed in large part with farm tools and crude weapons and had no fighting experience or skill.
As the days went by, an ironic truth dawned on him. He traveled mainly with the group of Norman knights in the throng, experienced warriors, men like Fulcher of Chartres and Walter Sans-Avoir. He was drawn to them and soon established an easy camaraderie.
As he and Walter rode side by side one day, Caedmon asked, “Where are these multitudes coming from, and why are they eager to join this crusade?”
His new comrade answered. “Peasants from many lands have suffered through drought, famine and plague. They are fleeing those ills and hope to find redemption, and perhaps riches, by participating in a crusade against the heathen Turks occupying the holy city of Jerusalem.”
Caedmon nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a kind of revolution. Serfs and peasants have usually lived out their lives in the village where they were born.”
“Oui, then, in April of last year, a shower of flaming lights in the heavens was taken to be a divine blessing for the crusade, and the darkening of the moon which occurred in the following February confirmed their belief.”
Caedmon recalled other portents. “I’ve heard outbreaks of Saint Anthony’s Fire across the land caused people to convulse in spasms. They were seen as a sign of witchcraft at work. People believe the world is coming to an end, and have rushed to join the crusade.”
“What can you expect? They’re peasants,” Walter replied derisively.
Caedmon resolved to keep an account of his adventures in a Coptic-bound codex, obtained in a market. He was also lucky to find and purchase a tooled leather pouch with several good quills, attached to which was an ink-pot with a firm lid, full of encaustum.
One good thing about the interminable miles is that I have time to think on my problems. As time goes by, some of my anger is draining away. Day to day survival has become the biggest priority.
In the beginning, the atmosphere in the camps was one of optimism and fervor. Women have joined the march, either to follow husbands and sons, or as camp followers. Many of these are gypsy women who offer their favors to any man who will pay. Though I ache for a woman, it’s Agneta I want.
The lively Romanies provide relief from the hardships and suffering of the march with their music and dancing. I marvel at their ability to bring life and merriment where there’s growing despair and doubt. They have learned to combat discrimination and persecution with laughter and abandon. No one in the camp trusts them, yet many come to their campfires.
Agneta and I have never danced, not even at Yuletide.
The masses are drawn by the monk, Peter the Hermit, from Amiens. He rides a donkey and dresses in simple clothing. He preached the crusade throughout Normandie and Flandres. He claims to have been appointed to preach by Christ himself and that he has a divine letter to prove it. Some of the peasants believe Peter, not Pope Urban, was the true originator of the crusade.
Peter the Hermit led the multitudes following him to Köln. He planned to wait there for more crusaders to arrive.
Caedmon attended a council of French knights held in Walter Sans-Avoir’s tent.
“What is your opinion, Walter?” he asked the man who’d emerged as a leader among his countrymen. “Will you wait with Peter in Köln, or go on?”
Walter replied without hesitation. “I’m encouraging the French knights to go on. I see no benefit in waiting for more rabble to arrive. They are not warriors.”
Others nodded their agreement, but Caedmon was undecided. “Köln is a bustling city, a centre of trade. It might be beneficial to stay here a while.”
Walter looked at him squarely and placed his hand on Caedmon’s shoulder. “It will be in your best interests to come with us, my friend. We’re knights like you. You don’t belong with the poorly armed masses.”
Many, including a group of French knights led by Walter Sans-Avoir, want to move on and not wait in Köln for more crusaders. Though I see the wisdom of Peter’s plan, I believe Walter is right—it is in my best interests to go with the French knights. I pray I’ve made the right decision.
Thus it was that Caedmon joined thousands of French crusaders who completed a months-long, dusty journey through Hungary, without major incident, and arrived at the river Sava, the border of Byzantine territory at Belgrade. The long trek gave him more time to ponder his situation.
I’m very homesick, and can barely recall the reasons I left England. I ache for my beautiful Agneta. I’m a fool for abandoning the only woman I’ve ever loved. But she won’t want me. I’ve hurt her terribly. I behaved like a child. How often in my life have I wished I had a father? Why wasn’t I willing to at least listen to the earl? I think often about my newly discovered Norman father. He could have turned his back on me, and who would blame any of them for doing so? He wanted to embrace me and I insulted him. I’ve been consumed with hatred for Normans, and yet here I am with Norman knights as my comrades and they are noble to the core. My own problems seem paltry in the face of what some of these people have endured.
One day, as I rested in the shade of a plane tree outside Belgrade, after long hours in the saddle, my scribbling was disturbed by the shouts of a fellow knight. The Belgrade commander had refused entry. We would need to pillage food.
Provisioning is a constant problem. We had all looked forward to Belgrade, a sizable town, and hoped food would be provided. As the horde has grown, settlements have become increasingly reluctant to honor the holy obligation to feed and shelter pilgrims. Having to pillage some poor peasant’s land for sustenance is more than I could bear, but I went off with other knights and aided in the theft of meager pickings from local farmers. I was later glad I made that decision.
Sixteen knights, who opted to rob the market in a village across from Belgrade, were caught and stripped of their armor and clothing, which was then hung from the castle walls. How c
an they survive without armor and clothing?
What am I doing here?
The crusaders were allowed to carry on to Niš, one of the most ancient towns in the Balkans, where they were provided with food. There they waited for permission to proceed to Constantinople, the embarkation point for the Holy Land.
I long to hear my own language spoken again, but I’ve become adept at communicating with the Normans in their language. In Scotland I wasn’t forced to learn to speak it, as English Saxons were after the Conquest. I suppose if I’m half Norman, I should learn to speak the language. I’m regaining some of my sense of humor. Praise God!
My quills are done. I’ll need to master making them if I can’t find any in a market. I traded some of my food for ink. It is hotter than Hades—high summer. They say July is the hottest month here.
In Niš, our group joined Peter the Hermit’s larger group once more and we were soon acquainted with what had happened to them in the interim.
When the larger army with Peter the Hermit arrived in Zemun, they became suspicious when they saw sixteen suits of armor hanging from the walls. It’s said tensions resulted in a dispute over the price of a pair of shoes in the market, which led to a riot, which then turned into an all-out assault on the town by the crusaders. Four thousand Hungarians were killed. Four thousand—over a pair of shoes. I can scarce believe it.
The Hermit’s crusaders then fled across the river Sava to Belgrade, but only after skirmishing with Belgrade troops. The residents of Belgrade fled, and the crusaders pillaged and burned the town. This noble endeavor has deteriorated into a murderous rampage. At first I was proud to bear the red cross of Christ on my right shoulder, but now—
I must not utter such words out loud, however. In these foreign lands they burn ‘heretics’ on a whim.
The commander of Niš worried about the size of the rabble following Peter the Hermit. It’s reported he summoned the monk and congratulated him but warned his town didn’t have the wherewithal to shelter the whole army. Peter understood and asked simply for provisions. The commander agreed to provide food and an escort to Constantinople if we left as soon as possible.
Redemption (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 3) Page 15
