Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1) Page 5

  ‘Praise God and St Peter. What news do you bring us?’

  ‘None that you do not know already, but the King is on the move, I am sure of that. For the rest, there are no tidings yet of the Norman Duke. Some think now that he will not come at all.’ But even as he spoke he heard an echo of Leofwine’s words – ‘of course he will come.’

  Aldred seemed troubled and not much reassured. He was an old man and wanted only peace. ‘It is a turbulent world,’ he said sadly.

  Edwin gave a little laugh, as if turbulence was well enough to his taste. ‘Come,’ he repeated, ‘you must be hungry after your march. Eat and drink, my friend.’

  But Waltheof made no move towards the high seat. Instead he looked round the circle of faces, seeing two of his cousins, Osulf who was Morcar’s close friend and Gospatric who owned land north of the Tyne. He acknowledged their greeting but for the moment all that mattered was to find out the Earls’ intention for if they meant to keep their bond with Norway’s king he must warn Harold who would be walking into a trap.

  ‘What now?’ he asked. ‘What do you plan to do tomorrow? Do you really mean to meet the Norwegians with hostages?’

  ‘What else can we do?’ Edwin sat on the edge of the table, swinging one leg. ‘You are not suggesting we could fight again?’ He looked across at his brother who had opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. ‘In this we in the north must row our own ship. Mercia and Northumbria are not like the south, and if the kingdom is to be invaded, by God we’d rather have a Norseman than a Norman.’

  Thorkel spoke from where he stood below the high table. ‘I know Harald Sigurdson, and I tell you he is a man to fear.’

  Edwin gave him an odd look. ‘And I tell you Duke William is the one to beware.’

  ‘And what of Harold Godwineson, our anointed King?’ Waltheof glanced round at the men lining the trestle tables, many of them dispirited by their defeat, some thinking only of their own lands, but the name of Harold stirred their loyalty. Several men from further down the hall came nearer to hear what was being said.

  Edwin shrugged. ‘I am sorry for him. But no one can deny he is perjured, and we are wise not to rely on his help. Can good fortune come to a man who has broken a holy oath?’

  Waltheof stepped down from the dais. ‘I don’t know, but I cannot stand with you in this, my lord. It seems to me that your peace making with the Norwegians has sold our land as surely and more than Harold ever sold it by his oath. I must take my levies to him.’

  He glanced at Thorkel and his men and attended by them walked down the length of the hall, wondering as he did so if the Earls would let him go.

  A woman’s voice called out, ‘Well said, Earl Waltheof.’

  He heard Morcar laugh. ‘Let the puppy go. One hound or other will savage him.’

  He felt the colour flood his cheeks and for a moment he hesitated, but then he controlled himself and walked on out of the hall. Outside the air was crisp and cool, a low harvest moon rising above the roofs of the city, and he drew a deep breath, glad to be out of the heat and the tension within.

  Thorkel said, ‘Don’t heed them, my lord. Earl Morcar is sore because they could not beat the Northmen. It is a matter of pride.’

  He was still too angry to care for Morcar’s feelings. ‘He can wallow in it for all I care.’ He had his foot in the stirrup when Gospatric came hurrying out after him.

  ‘Cousin, stay a moment.’

  He mounted but paused, the reins loose.

  Gospatric laid a hand on his knee. ‘Don’t go yet. I want to talk to you. It is so long since we met.’

  ‘I must go back to my men.’

  Gospatric gentled his horse, smoothing the soft nose. ‘I have a son named for you. Will you stand godfather to him?’

  ‘Willingly,’ Waltheof answered, ‘when this business is over.’

  His cousin sighed. ‘Don’t make enemies of us all.’

  ‘Is it I who have done that?’ Waltheof caught up the reins. But he gave Gospatric a brief smile before he rode away down the street.

  It was near midnight when he and his companions reached Tadcaster again but to their utter astonishment the town was now swarming with armed men, men tired and sleeping where they might, but unscarred men ready for a fight.

  Waltheof gave Thorkel and Alfric one astonished glance and galloped down the hill to the bridge where he could see lights burning. More men were gathered there, men of rank by their clothes and accoutrements, and in the centre one of medium height with an air of authority that was unmistakable.

  Waltheof flung himself out of the saddle and on to his knees, his face alight. ‘I knew you would come, sire. I told them you would come!’

  Harold of England was holding a conference with his captains and chief thegns in the house of the leading citizen of the town, among them his brothers, Ansgar the Marshal and Maerlsweyn, the Sheriff of Lincoln. He listened gravely to all that Waltheof had to tell him of the situation in York; then he said, a hand laid lightly on the younger man’s shoulder, ‘I’m glad you went into the city, cousin. Now we know exactly where we stand. And for all the Earls have been frightened into surrender, I believe the people of this shire are as loyal as ever.’

  ‘They are, I swear it,’ Waltheof said eagerly. ‘As I went through the streets men asked when you would come.’

  ‘A few days of siege and we would have saved them the shame of surrender,’ Gyrth Godwineson put in quietly. He was the King’s next brother, grave, sensible, utterly devoted to Harold.

  Leofwine had his arm tucked through Waltheof’s. ‘I’d not miss the look on Morcar’s sour face when he sees us.’ His brown eyes were sparkling with amusement as he glanced at his cousin. ‘I’ll lay a wager such a sight will do you good too, eh?’

  ‘I must admit it,’ Waltheof agreed with some satisfaction. ‘When do we march, sire?’

  Harold had a rough map, drawn on parchment, laid in front of him. ‘It seems to me that if we set out at first light we can be through the city and as far as Gate Helmsley before the enemy need be aware of it. They are expecting hostages – well, let us not disappoint them.’

  Maerlsweyn of Lincoln, a man of sound good sense as well as high standing in the north, leaned over the table to look at the map and the line of the road from York to Stamford.

  ‘I know that vill,’ he said. ‘There is a narrow bridge over the river there. If the enemy are on the far side we’ll need to cross and that may be hazardous. The bridge could be held by a handful of warriors.’

  ‘Perhaps, but we should be hidden from them until we are within striking distance – unless a traitor should betray our approach.’

  ‘No man of ours would betray you, my lord,’ Ansgar said indignantly, but the King sighed.

  ‘Maybe not, but we are in Tosti’s erstwhile country now and he has his own following. There may be men hereabouts who would rather have Tosti than Harold.’

  A dozen voices answered in the negative but he sighed again and rolled up the parchment. That sigh was the only sign he gave of the sorrow that on the morrow’s battlefield, he must face his own brother and the one who had once been so close to him. He straightened his back wearily. ‘God will decide between us. With His aid I don’t doubt we shall send the Norsemen scurrying for their ships – indeed, we must for we have a greater enemy at our backs.’

  He bade them all sleep for the short time that remained before dawn and Waltheof thought how strained he seemed despite the confidence in his voice. There were lines under the tired blue eyes and more grey in the fair hair and golden beard than he remembered. God send us victory, he thought and then even more urgently, whatever comes God send he does not fall.

  The King now retired to the recessed bed normally occupied by the man of the house and his wife, and lay there with Gyrth. Leofwine came over to the fire to roll himself in his mantle beside Waltheof.

  ‘Well, little cousin, I told you that we should stand together for your first fight.’

  T
he rushlights were doused now, the thegns settling where they might on the floor. Only the glow of the fire remained and in the darkness Waltheof could see no more than Harold’s outline on the bed in the far comer. ‘Is there any man in England who would not fight for him?’

  ‘Some,’ Leofwine answered in a low voice. ‘He has made enemies, and in truth, Waltheof, I do not trust Edwin of Mercia, nor his brother. We’ve come two hundred miles to aid them, but would they do the same for us?’

  ‘God knows,’ Waltheof was surprised at the bitterness in his own voice. He was remembering Morcar’s parting words as he had left the hall in York only a few hours since. Then he said in an astounded voice, ‘Two hundred miles in seven days! How did you do it?’

  Leofwine shook his head, smiling at the recollection of it. ‘I have no idea. But I do know this – no one but Harold could have got us here. Somehow he kept us going when we were half dead with fatigue. We ate our bread and meat as we marched.’ His eyes were half closed as he added, ‘I swear every bone in my body aches.’

  ‘But you are here.’ Waltheof leaned on one elbow that he might see more clearly into Leofwine’s face. ‘Tell me, is Harold at peace with himself, or is he still haunted by that damnable oath? When he goes into battle tomorrow . . .’ he left the sentence unfinished.

  Leofwine lay on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the blackened roof above. ‘I think he will always be haunted by it, but yes, I think too he is at peace now. Wulfstan has absolved him. And he knows that he had no choice. If he had not sworn he would be a prisoner in Normandy to this day and then where would we all be? What other man could do what Harold has done, what other man could do what Harold has done, what other man could hold the fyrd, the shire men and thegns as he has done? Not I, nor Gyrth, and certainly not the young Atheling.’

  Waltheof thought fleetingly of Edgar Atheling, the only possible heir to the throne in that he was the great King Edmund Ironside’s grandson, but he was a boy of fifteen, slight, delicate, favouring his uncle the Confessor more than his martial grandsire – and it was no time for a mere boy to be on England’s throne. ‘There is only Harold. It is a heavy burden he carries.’

  ‘I know.’ Harold’s brother sighed. ‘Gyrth and I do what we can, but it is his burden alone. He finds it hard to bear the disfavour of the Holy Father in Rome. He loves the Church, and his own foundation at Waltham above all.’ He glanced across at the King’s still form. ‘I hope he sleeps. And we must too, young Waltheof. Keep near to me tomorrow. I’ll ask Harold to set your men next to mine. Remember to hold your left arm close and your shield straight, and swing high with your axe. God keep you, little cousin.’ He crossed himself and wrapping his mantle about him closed his eyes for sleep.

  But Waltheof lay wakeful for a long time, his mind too full for rest. He wondered if they would see Tosti in the battle and his thoughts went back to the days when there had been no dissension among the sons of Godwine. Yet even when he had been with them as a child it had seemed to him that they were all too strong, too individual to live long at peace together – only Wulnoth, a hostage now in Normandy at Duke William’s court, seemed to lack the family strength of character. He turned on his side – Leofwine was asleep now, the dark lashes down on his brown cheeks, and as a comfortable drowsiness stole over him Waltheof prayed that if a Godwine must lie in the dust tomorrow it would not be one of the three lying in this quiet room.

  In the morning York opened its gates to them with overwhelming joy and the streets were lined with cheering people, wild with delight that the King had come. Edwin and Morcar, hastily gathering the tattered remnants of their army, came to meet him near St Peter’s church; they swallowed their hurt pride and their shame and, kneeling, begged his pardon for their doubts.

  ‘As well they might,’ Leofwine whispered to his cousin. ‘Where did they think we would be?’

  ‘Sitting at Bosham counting the harvest?’ Waltheof suggested and Leofwine laughed.

  ‘For their sister’s sake they cannot quarrel with Harold, though I am sorry for her,’ he went on. ‘We all know his heart lies with Edith Swan-neck.’

  Waltheof had never seen Harold’s mistress, but he had heard of her beauty. She had borne the King four sons and he wondered if Edwin and Morcar were satisfied with their sister’s bargain, despite her crown.

  Shortly afterwards Morcar, accompanied by Cnut Carlson, edged his big chestnut horse through tire throng of soldiers to where Waltheof sat at the head of his levies awaiting the order to march.

  Morcar came straight to the point in his blunt fashion. ‘I ask your pardon for my harsh words yesterday. We had been hard pressed and I was not myself.’ He smiled, a brief smile that gave him something of his brother’s charm, and held out his hand.

  Waltheof took it, clasping his arm to the elbow. “You had already faced the enemy. I had no right to say what I did.’

  ‘Well, we face them together now,’ Morcar said. ‘God go with you, Waltheof.’

  ‘And with you, my lord.’ Waltheof watched him ride off to join his brother, reflecting on the Earl’s curious inconsistency of character, when he became aware that Cnut Carlson had lingered behind Morcar. He was a personable young man, with a kindly expression, unlike his belligerent brothers.

  ‘Earl Waltheof,’ he said quietly, ‘we are sworn enemies as some men are sworn brothers, but for this day I would forget it.’

  Waltheof hesitated. He did not remember his grandfather, but his father had spoken so highly of the old man that he had passed on to his son the bitter anger at that useless slaying. Yet it was hard to dislike Cnut. ‘For this day,’ he repeated and inclined his head.

  ‘It is a pity it could not be for longer,’ Cnut answered quietly, and rode off to join Earl Morcar.

  The horns sounded now and they marched out of York by the north gate, with no more than a pause for the Archbishop’s blessing. The sun rose high and warm on this Monday morning and Waltheof began to sweat in his byrnie for the chain mail was cumbersome and hot. He slung his helm from the pommel of his saddle with his shield and spear and the timber-axe and wiped the moisture from his forehead with his sleeve.

  Alfric glanced at the sun and grinned across at him. ‘We’ll sweat more yet,’ he said.

  A little before noon they breasted the rise above Gate Helmsley, a village on the banks of the Derwent, raising a cloud of dust on the dry road and the sun glinted on the forest of spears and axes borne by the marching men. Now at last they could see the enemy and Waltheof, summoned to a council of the captains, joined Harold where his standard, the Red Dragon of Wessex, had been set up on a little knoll.

  They saw at once that they had caught the invaders unawares for the vast bulk of the Norwegian forces lay on the far bank and perhaps only a third on the west and nearer side of the river. None were dressed for battle nor wore shirts of mail; weapons lay about on the ground and some of the men were swimming in the river while others lay about the grassy banks in the September sunshine. Not a word had reached them of the English King’s arrival in York and this morning they expected no more than a hundred hostages.

  Now there were wild shouts, men running to and fro, leaping from sleep, seizing weapons and helms in a desperate struggle for some sort of order, particularly on the west bank.

  Harold’s commands were swift and specific – to charge down the slope and scatter the enemy separated from the main body and then to take the bridge. The captains hurried back to their men and as they went Leofwine caught Waltheof’s arm.

  ‘Fight well, little cousin, and don’t fall this day.’

  The horses were led off and Waltheof, running back to his levies, seized his axe from Hakon. The sturdy fair lad was almost beside himself with pride at being allowed to carry his lord’s standard, and Waltheof gave his shoulder a quick grasp as he took his stand, with Hakon beside him, with Alfric and Thorkel and Osgood at the head of the men of his own earldom. He wanted to say something to encourage them, but many of them had b
een fighting before he was born, and all he could do was to give them a swift salute with his axe and wait for the sound of the horn. His hand felt sticky, his heart throbbed heavily and again he felt the sweat trickling down his neck under the leather gaps of his helm.

  If he should fail, oh God, what then? Death would be preferable to that, but he did not want to die either. He was trembling now with rising excitement and when the horns sounded he began to run down the slope, the doubts disappearing in the wild exhilaration of the moment.

  The whole English army moved forward at a jog-trot, the sound of their feet thudding on the rough turf as the Norsemen struggled frantically to reduce the chaos into which the unexpected arrival had thrown them.

  With a clash and a yelling of battle cries the English fell on them. Thorkel was shouting, ‘For God and St Guthlac!’ while Alfric on Waltheof’s other side was cheering on the men of Gelling, calling, ‘For Siward’s son, for Waltheof!’