One man sat hunched in the stern, his arms wrapped tight around himself, hands clamped beneath his armpits for warmth, the ruby ring he usually wore gone, lost to the sea. He stared out into the darkness, stared almost unblinking towards where England remained safe and unconquered.
For now.
Author’s Note:
England had an efficient navy – and very probably did meet the Normans mid-channel, although there is no proof of it. Unfortunately (for the English) if they did fight at sea, they did not make as thorough a job of destruction as in this story.
Duke William’s fleet did, however, wash up in tattered array along Normandy’s coastline. He did lose many men and vessels, although Norman propaganda claims the fleet fell foul of a storm.
I believe that it was for this reason – that William had been defeated mid-channel in the late summer of 1066 – that Harold made his one mistake. He assumed Normandy was beaten, at least for now; assumed that William would not be coming again that year. He stood the English fyrd (the army) down, sent the men, gathered along the south coast, home to bring in the harvest.
His one error. He underestimated Duke William’s determination and ability. The Duke commandeered every ship possible, regrouped, and sailed again in September 1066. One of the first men he had captured after his victory seven miles inland from Hastings, was Eadric the Steersman, the English Fleet Commander. He was imprisoned, and never saw his freedom again.
One final note, I named the English command ship Dolphin, to honour the author, Rosemary Sutcliff. Her superb stories set many a young (and older!) reader on the path to loving the thrill of historical fiction, or to writing our own stories…
Helen Hollick
www.helenhollick.net
Discussion suggestions
The English were known to be good sailors (many were of ‘Viking’ stock), and had a fleet. The Norman chronicles make no mention of it, however. Was this Norman propaganda, stifling the truth? Is it likely that Harold would not have used his ships and his experienced seafarers?
The Norman’s were also of ‘Viking’ stock – ‘Norman’ derives from ’Northman’, but unlike the English, they had become a land-based fighting-machine. Should Duke William have waited, built a more reliable fleet? As it happened, he managed to cross the Channel in September, but what if the wind had not changed? What if he’d had to wait for many weeks or months? Would he have held his armies together?
SEPTEMBER
1066
St-Valery-sur-Somme was a strong place to muster a fleet. The fields around were flat enough to accommodate a large warcamp and fertile enough to offer grazing for the all-important cavalry horses. Just as importantly, the estuary was long and wide with plenty of room to keep ships at anchor in relative shelter from the winds – the wrong winds. For William might be ready to set sail for England, but the winds were resolutely against him (although they were in exactly the right direction to speed the Viking ships to York).
William was trapped on his own shores with a huge army to provision – something he had sworn to do without ravaging a single estate in the area – and with what must have been a growing feeling amongst the ranks that God, like the wind, was against the Normans. He must have been frustrated and impatient and he was certainly vulnerable.
THE DANISH CRUTCH
ANNA BELFRAGE
For almost twenty-four years since Edward became King in the early 1040s, England had been at peace (discounting minor squabbles and the matter of Wales.) His reign was relatively prosperous because of it. The building of abbeys and churches took precedence over fortified defences – which is why there were no stone-built castles in England prior to 1066. The political upheaval caused by the death of Edward not having an heir, however, spread further than just Normandy. Whatever happened in England could affect trade for all the countries that bordered the North Sea – and beyond.
Sven Estridsen, King of Denmark, would be one most affected, for he was related to Harold Godwinson, and relied on various trade agreements. If William of Normandy were to conquer England, all that could change – and not for the better...
There was scaffolding everywhere – round the church that was slowly growing out of the ground, round the royal manor house a stone’s throw away. The tip-tapping of chisels on stone, the sound of hammers on nails, of men yelling in foreign tongues. Gunhild Ingvarsdotter kept even pace with her father, who now and then stopped to greet a man, slipping effortlessly from one language to the other.
‘Whatever else, one can’t fault Sven Estridsen’s eye for location,’ Ingvar said with a wry smile. Gunhild nodded. Built on a small bluff, both church and manor had unimpeded views to the west, the fields a rippling sea of golden, ripening barley, the copses of oak and beech rustling in the wind. Somewhere beyond the bustling town of Lund was the sea, and someday Gunhild hoped to travel even further west – to England, where her father had been born, or even to Paris.
‘Hmph!’ Mother said. ‘This is your land, and just because he’s eager to arse-lick every churchman that comes his way, it shouldn’t be you being forced to give it up.’ She sniffed. ‘Prime land, at that.’
Ingvar shrugged. ‘He gave me a fair price.’ But he didn’t like it, Gunhild knew, especially as Ingvar was expected to contribute in kind to the building of Sven Estridsen’s new church.
‘Fair price?’ Mother’s voice rose. ‘You should have bargained for more! Leif says—’
‘Leif? Who cares what he says?’
Off they went on one of their interminable arguments, and Gunhild fell back, wincing at her mother’s piercing voice. Hallgerdur was a forceful woman, equipped with a sharp tongue and hard hands. Rarely did she emerge the loser from any of her quarrels with her husband, so it rankled that in the case of the land here at Dalby, Ingvar had ignored her and done as the king asked.
‘Yet another church to the White Christ,’ Hallgerdur yelled. ‘This land is the land of Oden the wise, not of that milksop of a God who allowed himself to be sacrificed!’ She cut quite the figure, wearing her best red wool over her linen shift decorated with her silver jewellery, brooches set with precious stones fastening her tunic and cloak. Silver chains criss-crossed her chest, there was silver on her wrists and on her fingers.
Ingvar caught hold of her. ‘Keep your voice down!’
‘Why?’ She pulled free. ‘I am not afraid to say what I think!’
‘Unfortunately,’ Ingvar muttered. Hallgerdur launched herself into yet another vitriolic attack, spouting one insult after the other. Anger made her extraordinarily beautiful, cheeks flushed a vivid pink, eyes flashing. Like Leif, Gunhild thought sourly, just as her half-brother stepped into sight.
Leif was ten years older than she was, and as tall, as fair, as mean-tempered as Hallgerdur. They did not share a father, something Ingvar often said was a blessing, as who knew what mischief Leif was capable of when he’d stared too deep into a mead-horn or two. A lot, Gunhild suspected.
‘Mother!’ Leif raised his hand in a wave, and Hallgerdur went from angered harridan to simpering mother in a heartbeat. Gunhild shared a look with her father who rolled his eyes. With Leif came Magnus Gunnarsen, and Gunhild groaned: not him again, not this persistent suitor the size of an ox who was also Leif’s boon companion. She clutched at the amulet round her neck depicting Thor’s hammer while mumbling a few lines of the Pater Noster – she did that a lot, hedging her bets by invoking both the gods of old and the new god – and begged them to spare her from ever becoming this man’s wife.
‘You don’t want him, he’ll not have you,’ Ingvar murmured in her ear. Want him? She’d rather die in a peat bog than lie beneath that mountain of a man! Unfortunately, Hallgerdur was an eager proponent of the match – anything to please dear Leif – and sooner or later, Ingvar would cave.
‘Ingvar!’ A booming voice carried over the building site. ‘Come to inspect my efforts?
’
‘Don’t see you wielding a chisel,’ Ingvar shot back, and the man laughed, picking his way towards them. At his back came a couple of armed housecarls, and from the way people bowed and scraped, Gunhild deduced this was Sven Estridsen himself. He was accompanied by a fair youth and tall dark-haired man with a crutch. For an instant, the cripple looked at Gunhild, eyes as dark as forest tarns met hers, and Gunhild’s chest squeezed together, making it impossible to breathe.
‘It is good to see you,’ Sven Estridsen said once he was standing before Ingvar.
‘And you.’
They shared an embrace, and after some back-thumping the king released Ingvar and turned to nod first at Hallgerdur, then at Gunhild.
‘She looks like Inga. A spitting image of her aunt.’ Sven smiled at Gunhild. ‘If you are anything like Inga in character, the man who weds you will be a fortunate man.’
‘Me,’ Magnus said from behind Gunhild. He set a hand to her shoulder. ‘I aim to wed her.’
Gunhild shrugged off his hand. ‘I will not have you.’
There was a sharp tug on her braid. ‘Leave that to your betters,’ Leif snapped, before bowing a greeting to the king. ‘Leif Hallgerdursen, at your service.’
‘Hallgerdursen? You don’t have a father?’ Sven Estridsen looked him up and down.
‘I do, but he is insignificant.’ Leif straightened up to his imposing size. ‘Just like you, I take greater pride in my mother.’
‘Ah.’ Sven Estridsen shot the young man beside him an amused look. ‘Tell me, Knut, will you also adopt your mother’s name rather than mine?’
‘No.’ Knut grinned, shoving his thick fair hair out of his face. ‘Knut Svensson, that’s me, and I’m proud of it.’
Gunhild suppressed a little giggle. Leif was looking from one to the other with a confused expression.
‘And just so you know, I take as much pride in my father, the great jarl Ulf, as I do in my mother. But Estrid was the daughter of a king, granddaughter to Harald Bluetooth. Her name ties me to a line of kings and queens. What does your mother’s name tie you to? Outlawed pagan practices?’
Hallgerdur went a bright red. ‘Our gods—’
‘Do not exist,’ Sven interrupted. ‘And anyone who says differently, I’ll have nailed to the church door – by their ears.’
Hallgerdur paled and licked her lips.
‘Oden’s eye,’ Ingvar muttered as he followed Sven towards the manor. ‘Did you have to be so brutal?’
‘I’ll not have it. This…’ Sven swept out his hands. ‘…is a Christian kingdom. We embrace learning and light, not blood-sacrifices and superstitions. So best make your wife see that – quickly.’
‘It’s not easy to make her see anything she doesn’t want to see,’ Ingvar said.
Sven curbed the desire to say something scathing. In his house, he ruled, and his women would never question his authority. But all he did was nod, leading the way to his hall.
‘Is your daughter as good at handling her blade as her aunt was?’ he asked over his shoulder.
Ingvar grinned. ‘Better, I’d say.’
‘And does she have your gift for languages as well?’ Sven reduced his pace to allow Rolf to keep up. Recently crippled, Rolf still had days when he struggled with his crutch – although today it seemed to be the fair Gunhild who caused him to lag, Rolf’s gaze affixed to her slender shape.
‘She does. Speaks the language of the Franks like a native, as well as English.’ Ingvar preened. ‘And she knows her prayers in Latin.’
‘Don’t we all,’ Sven muttered. In a louder voice, he added; ‘She’ll make that Magnus a good wife.’ He led the way into the shadowed interior of his hall.
‘You heard her. She doesn’t want him, and I fully understand why. A vicious streak a mile wide, which is probably why he and Leif get along so well.’ Ingvar frowned. ‘Leif owes Magnus gold – a lot of gold. I wouldn’t put it past him to use his sister as payment.’
‘What?’ Knut said. ‘He’d sell his sister?’
Ingvar squirmed. ‘More like place her in his bed and oblige her to wed him afterwards.’
‘And you’d let him?’ Sven asked, wondering what had happened to Ingvar’s balls.
‘Not if I knew about it beforehand. But Leif is a wily fellow, and Hallgerdur worships the ground he walks on, so—’
‘Send her away.’ Rolf leaned heavily against his crutch. ‘A pretty girl with an aptitude for languages and sharp blades has many uses.’
‘Maybe so.’ Sven gave Rolf a sharp look. ‘Could you use her?’
‘If she’s willing.’ With a grunt, Rolf sat down in the chair Knut offered him. Knut squeezed his shoulder, no more. Best friends since the cradle, and now, due to that stupid accident, Rolf could no longer keep up. It made Rolf bitter and angry, complaining loudly that he was so useless he might just as well throw himself over a cliff. Which was why, of course, Sven had offered him a new venture.
‘Use her for what?’ Ingvar asked. At Sven’s invitation, he joined them at the table.
‘What do you know of what is happening out in the world?’ Sven asked.
‘Not much. Well, I heard Edward of England died – not much of a loss, if you ask me – and that Gytha’s son has claimed the crown.’ Ingvar grinned at Sven. ‘Your baby cousin, king of England, and here you are, mouldering in Denmark.’
‘Let’s see how long he keeps it.’ Sven poured them all some ale.
‘Keep it?’ Ingvar asked.
‘Harold is a fine man,’ Knut said. ‘But the kingdom he rules is a quagmire of treachery and deceit – starting with that brother of his.’
‘Ah. Tostig.’ Ingvar sipped at his ale.
‘That one has the wits of a fly in a honeypot,’ Knut said, making Sven smile. Tostig was hungry for power, for glory, but he was no fool – or maybe he was, seeing as he’d run all the way to Harald Hardrada to demand help in ousting his brother from the English throne. Sven tightened his hold on his cup.
‘Tostig is in Norway,’ he said, ‘and Harald Hardrada is preparing to invade England and claim the throne for himself.’
‘No!’ Ingvar sat back. ‘Insatiable bastard, isn’t he?’
Sven gave him a grim look. Harald had defeated Sven on a number of occasions, and where once Denmark and Norway had had one king, now they had two, Harald ruling Norway while Sven had to make do with Denmark. It rankled – God, how it rankled. He cleared his throat.
‘I’d hate it if that Norwegian idiot placed his hairy arse on the English throne!’
Knut grinned. ‘When did you see Harald’s arse?’
‘When he mooned me at the battle of Nissan,’ Sven retorted. ‘Anyway, whatever Harald is planning to do, he’ll do. Stopping him is like dragging the sun out of the sky – impossible. Besides, it’s not Harald that worries me the most. Should he win – and God spare us that, he’d never let us hear the end of it – England would still have a king of Viking blood. It is William of Normandy who is the real threat. For months, he’s been howling to anyone who cares to listen that he’s the rightful English king, no matter that the Witan has acclaimed Harold. I’ll bet my balls William has every intention of grabbing by force what he considers to be his.’
‘And can he?’ Ingvar asked.
‘Don’t underestimate the bastard. And if William wins, woe betide our brothers in England. He’ll bring his own men across, and the lands of the ancient Danelaw will be soaked in blood. And as to Harold…’ Sven slid a finger across his throat.
‘So what will you do?’ Ingvar asked. ‘And how would my Gunhild be involved?’
Sven sat back. ‘I want to send her to Normandy – with Rolf here.’
‘As spies?’
‘As whatever is needed to stop William’s invasion from happening.’
Ingvar coughed, spraying the table with ale
. ‘What?’
‘You heard: whatever it takes. Someone has to stop him. He grabs England and any hopes of a strong Danish-English alliance dies. Our trade, our people, will suffer…’ Sven gnawed his lip. ‘Those Normans are a rapacious lot.’
‘Sounds just like us,’ Knut offered cheerfully.
Ingvar waved him silent. ‘You expect a seventeen-year-old girl and a cripple to stop someone as determined as William the Bastard?’
Rolf leaned forward, something flashed, and Ingvar’s sleeve was tethered to the table by a very thin, very sharp blade.
‘Never underestimate a cripple,’ Rolf hissed.
‘Or a woman,’ Sven added with a grin. He sighed. ‘I know it’s a bit desperate, but William is a suspicious man. I can’t exactly send Knut here – or other hale and hearty men. But a lame man who sings for his supper and a young girl who accompanies him? William will, just like you, scoff at the thought they may be dangerous.’
‘Hmm.’ Ingvar pursed his mouth. ‘She’ll have to decide for herself.’
Sven nodded. ‘Of course. Fetch her.’
‘What, now?’
‘Why put off until tomorrow that which can be done today?’ Sven said. ‘Besides, we leave within the hour.’
1066 Turned Upside Down Page 12