Winter of Discontent nc-2

by Iain Campbell

  Sven grunted an acknowledgement of the information imparted and after a long pause the taciturn Viking finally commented, “Why don’t you ask the other spy? You’re due to see him tomorrow. I’m sure that word would get out if the skald has been taken up for spying. Gundred may just be ill or have had an accident.” Alan nodded his agreement at this advice. Sven then continued, “By the way, I’ve arranged with Osbjorn’s steward for us to patrol to the south and receive regular supplies from the commissary, for both ships.”

  Alan’s brain froze with amazement for several seconds before he could exclaim, “What in God’s name possessed you to do that? Why would you approach the local authorities when we’re spies?”

  Sven snorted in derision. “Because they’re not stupid. A longship can slip in and out a few times without getting noticed, but one or the other of the ships are here nearly half the time. I told Henning that we camp up here because otherwise the crews get paralytic and start brawls, and it’s the only way to keep them under control. He can understand that. They knew we were here, but he just hadn’t gotten around to finding out who we were. Now he knows, or thinks he does, he won’t cause any problems. We get five barrels of ale, two barrels of ship-biscuit and two bushels of dried beans a day, and two pounds of meat per man per day, for both ships. We have to buy our own fresh bread and fresh vegetables. We also get paid a shilling a week for each man. He didn’t want to be responsible to pay us, but I insisted. Now that he thinks he knows who we are, he’s happy as a pig in shit and will leave us alone. This week’s supplies are stored over there under that tarpaulin.”

  Alan shook his head in disbelief and walked off towards the ten-man leather tent that he shared with other members of the crew, and sat down next to the fire to eat a meal of beef stew made from the rations that the Danes had provided, and washed down by English ale paid for by Prince Osbjorn. Finally he gave a laugh at the irony that the Danes were paying wages to the men who were spying on them and he was still chuckling when he wrapped himself in his blanket to sleep.

  The following afternoon Alan met with the spy Eadmer at ‘The Anchor’ tavern. As he walked into the tap-room he suffered the usual twinge in the stomach from the stench of unwashed bodies, vomit, urine, stale beer, rotting floor-rushes and animal excrement. His eyes watered from the drifting smoke from the small central fire, which in the absence of a chimney eventually seeped out under the eaves of the poorly-made thatched roof. Alan couldn’t understand how such an establishment could continue to exist, given the insalubrious conditions, poor fare and poor service- after all it wasn’t as if the drink was cheap. After a close look around in an unsuccessful attempt to locate Eadmer’s minders, Alan approached the nondescript spy, who was wearing a leather jerkin and breeches and with a red woollen cap. Eadmer waved away the slatternly woman who had been sharing his table, slipping her a silver penny as Alan sat down after carefully examining the cleanliness of the small wooden bench.

  Eadmer launched straight into his report without any preliminary pleasantries, talking slowly and carefully to allow Alan to mentally record the information he was receiving. A serving-wench approaching with two quart jugs of rancid beer was waved away by Eadmer, who had rented the table by a previous purchase of a pint jack which sat untouched on the table. Eadmer picked up his beer mug and surreptitiously began to pour it onto the floor, so as not to draw attention by leaving an untouched drink when they eventually vacated the table.

  When Eadmer had finished his report, which was intended to then be carried by the longship to King William’s agents further south, Alan explained the problem with Gundred and skald Thorkell Skalleson. “So that’s who you’re using. A fairly good source- if you can trust him, since he’s a Dane. Still, the Danes probably are no more fond of gold than anybody else, and any amateur spy is likely to be a weak tool. Missing two weeks of scheduled meetings isn’t a good sign, but I haven’t heard any rumours of spies being caught at Earl’s Hall at Durham, which is where the earls are staying. You’ll need to go up to Durham and see whether they’ve got cold feet, or what else is going on.”

  Alan grunted his acknowledgement of the advice. “I’ll get the ship to take me up to Monkwearmouth tomorrow.”

  “Nah! Nah!” replied Eadmer, waving a hand negatively. “You’ll be too noticeable that way. You’ve got the locals around here used to you, but questions will be asked if you head north instead of south. Buy a couple of nags and ride up to Durham with your servant. That way you won’t receive any undue attention- there are hundreds of armed men on horses and you won’t even be noticed. A longship would be noticed.”

  Alan did as he had been bidden and early the following morning purchased two rough hackamores and their tack from one of the less-disreputable horse-traders, carefully examining their legs and gait at a trot. While they weren’t animals that he’d be prepared to take on a campaign he was satisfied they could cover the eighteen miles to Durham and then back.

  Alan and his page Leof arrived at Durham a little after mid-day, payed their pontage toll to cross the wooden bridge over the River Wear and entered the town from the south. After weeks of living rough in either the hide-out cave or a tent at the camp on the bank of the River Tees Alan saw no need to patronise cheap and uncomfortable lodgings and chose a non-descript but comfortable inn called ‘The Duck amp; Drake’, taking a small and sparsely furnished but clean room on the first floor. The horses were ensconced at a small stable a few yards down the street, the young groom being given twopence to rub down and feed and water the animals.

  After a midday meal of bacon and vegetable pottage, day-old bread and hard cheese washed down by ale, Alan decided to have a brief look at the town before he sought Gundred and the skald. By southern standards Durham was a large town rather than a city and was nestled on high ground on the north bank of the River Wear in a tight loop of the river, so as to be afforded protection by the water on three sides. The site had been chosen for defensibility, given the history of repeated raids by Vikings and Scots. The town lacked the grandiose buildings that usually adorned cities, but possessed in full measure all the banes of urban life including noise and filth in the crowded streets. Apart from being one of few substantial towns in the north, Durham’s claim to fame were the holy relics housed the ‘The White Church’, the large church built of white stone by the Saxons to house the relics of Saint Cuthbert. There was already talk of replacing the church with a cathedral, to reflect the importance of the diocese being the fourth-most influential in the land.

  As they approached the church across the market square Alan indicated to Leof the burnt-out ruins nearby. “Bishop Aethelwine’s house. The bishop is no friend of the Normans, but nor is he popular with Cospatric and the House of Bamburgh. Robert of Commines was staying there when he came to the town after being appointed earl. The bishop warned him of the impending attack, but Commines thought he knew better- he always was an arrogant self-opinionated bastard. A typical Fleming. That was his last mistake. Cospatric couldn’t force his way into the house so he burnt it down and killed Commines and his men as they tried to flee the fire.”

  There were a number of people proceeding in and out of the west-facing main door of the church, many in the sack-cloth and broad-brimmed hats of pilgrims visiting this the most important religious site in northern England. Here, in a shrine located in one of the transepts near the altar, were gilded caskets containing the remains of Saint Cuthbert of Lindisfarne, the most popular saint in northern England, together with caskets containing the head of Saint Oswald and the remains of the author Bede, who had praised both of the saints in his written histories.

  The inside of the stone church was dark and cold, the air thick with floating clouds of incense. Just inside the church door stood two burly-looking priests in monk’s habits and a large box on a table. Noticing that the pilgrims placed coins in the box, Alan did the same, adding two silver pennies to the money that the diocese garnered from this religious tourism as the faithful came to pr
ay, and in some cases to beseech the miracles for which the shrine was famous. He dipped his fingers in the holy-water of the stoup and anointed his forehead and lips.

  Some two dozen pilgrims gathered at the wooden railing which separated the shrine from the remainder of the church, several bearing crutches or other signs of infirmity. Past pilgrims had included many of the powerful in the land, not least King Cnut who had gifted the diocese substantial lands within Northumbria. Alan first approached the main altar to kneel and pray at the altar-rail. The altar itself was covered with a beautifully-embroidered cloth of fine white linen, and on this stood two large golden five-branched candelabra with tall and thick bees-wax candles alight, and a large open vellum-bound book. Above was the magnificent Great Cross, which had been presented to the church a few years before by Tostig when he was earl, and subsequently deliberately damaged by Cospatric. Tostig had not sought to glorify God with gold and jewels, but with fine imported cedar-wood and the excellence of the craftsmanship of the carving. Alan felt that he could almost himself feel the pain clearly shown on the face of Christ crucified. How Cospatric, supposedly a Christian, could deliberately defile such a magnificent piece of work by mutilating the left side of the body, out of petty spite, was something beyond Alan’s comprehension. He drew from his pocket his five-decade of rosary beads and began reciting the Apostle’s Creed while kneeling below the crucifix. He then proceeded to Our Fathers and Hail Marys, allowing his mind to clear as he meditated on the familiar ritual.

  After completing his devotions at the altar Alan moved to kneel on the stone floor near the shrine, being able to find room at one end of the line of kneeling pilgrims. Again he allowed his mind to clear and accept the Word and to drink in the holiness of the sacred surroundings.

  By the time he had finished his devotions the afternoon was drawing to a close. When they left the White Church he turned his steps towards the fortified burg within the walls at the northern part of the town. While Durham had been fortified for protection against raids by the Vikings and Scots, both of which had occurred for time out of memory, it had no castle as it had never been governed by the Normans- apart from the few weeks of Robert of Commines ill-fated rule. What it did have was the burg. This was a fortification with wooden walls within which in times of trouble the local populace and their animals could take refuge for a short period, with some reserves of food and forage being maintained. A burg had a different function to a castle. The latter was intended to protect its garrison for a substantial period of time. In contrast, a burg was intended to protect all the people for a short time- it was not intended to undergo prolonged sieges as neither the Scots nor the Viking raiders undertook these. Within the burg was Earl’s Hall, and it was here that Alan and Leof went that evening.

  Gaining access to Earl’s Hall was not difficult. The streets of the city were thronged with warriors from three armies- the English, the Danes and the Scots. There were so many soldiers in the town that anybody with the bearing of a warrior and carrying a sword was less likely to be questioned by the guards than was a local townsman. Dozens of warriors were entering the burg, timing their arrival for the evening meal. There were so many entering that the few guards were overwhelmed by numbers and, not wanting to cause friction by challenging reluctant allies, the guards concentrated on looking fierce and alert while doing little.

  Alan strode in with the confidence of a man who knew where he was and what he was doing and who had nothing to hide- all of which were inapplicable, but he’d learned much from his time at the royal court and knew that an arrogant attitude could take a man almost anywhere. He had little concern about being discovered as an impostor. Whilst he wasn’t dressed in fine clothes, neither was he or Leof poorly dressed. He’d left his distinctive green-dyed wolf-cloak behind at the cave hide-out and was dressed Saxon-style in tunic and breeches made of russet-dyed wool, with cross-bound leggings and leather boots. His hair was long and in disarray, as he’d chosen not to tie it back. During his time in the caves he’d grown his beard longer- both the long hair and the beard being of flaming red. Given the regular Viking raids into Northumbria over the years, and the current Danish contingent, neither his tall and strong physique nor his colouring were in any way unusual in the Hall. He had met earls Edwin and Morcar in polite social gatherings in the south before the rebellion, but he had not met Waltheof, Cospatric or the other rebels, and more particularly had not met the minions that may be in a position to apprehend him. He knew that even those who he had met previously would be hard-pressed to recognise him now.

  All he had to do was avoid making any stupid mistakes and he would be safe.

  He took a place at one of the lower tables, well below the Salt, and talked to those warrior seated about him. Most warriors when they’ve had a few drinks will open their mouths and boast about themselves without any thought and Alan was able to obtain information simply by asking a few questions- indeed the main problem was trying to maintain the conversation on a basis that interested him, with the warriors wanting to boast about past exploits or complain about current accommodation and supplies.

  The general consensus was, with an army of nearly 10,000 men available, they should be marching south to attack Lincoln instead of sitting in Durham. Alan could well understand their comments- if he was ‘sitting on the other side of the table’ he’d also be demanding to march south. Every day’s delay improved the chances of King William winning. The earls had gathered their army. The enemy army was nowhere to be seen. Not to march south now was inviting disaster later.

  Half an hour after the hoi polloi started to eat, the members of the high-table walked in from another room. Alan recognised Edgar the Aetheling- and Gundred. He asked the man sitting at his right hand to identify Waltheof, Cospatric, Maerle-Sveinn, Arnkell and the four sons of Kali- Cnut, Sumarlithr, Gamall, and Thorbrand. He deliberately made no reference to skald Thorkell Skalleson, presuming that this was the man whose arm Gundred was holding and to whom she was giving adoring looks.

  After a further half hour of swapping lies and boasts with the men sharing his table, Alan rose and caught Gundred’s eye. After a start of recognition she looked at Alan, looked carefully at the nearby door that led outside to the privies and made a small motion with her head, without returning her gaze to Alan. He allowed a pause of several minutes before proceeding through the indicated door into the darkness outside, which was relieved only by a single torch burning on a post outside the wood-built privies. He stood near the edge of the torch-light until Gundred emerged from the Hall and, after he was sure he’d been seen by her, he stepped back into the protection of the darkness.

  “Thank Frigg you’ve come!” said Gundred. “I was beginning to think I’d have to send a letter, but I didn’t know who to use to carry it or where to send it. Quickly, I’m being followed!”

  “We weren’t sure if you’d changed your mind,” said Alan quietly, noting a roughly-dressed man sidling through the doorway. He put an arm about Gundred’s waist and pulled her close. “Never send a letter- never put anything in writing. I’ll see you tomorrow at St. Lawrence’s Church when the bell of the White Church rings at mid-day for Sext. There’s no service at St. Lawrence’s at that time. Now slap me and walk away.”

  Gundred leaned back and gave Alan a hard open-handed slap to the face, pulling clear of his encircling arm and stalking back to the Hall with an arrogant swing of the hips. Just another pretty woman who’d received and rejected an unwanted advance. Alan theatrically put a hand to his cheek and gave a chuckle as Gundred’s shadow followed her back into the Hall.

  Alan sauntered nonchalantly back into the Hall, collected Leof and returned to the room he had rented at the inn. Most of the room was taken up with a straw-filled palliasse, which Alan was to share with Leof. After lighting a single tallow-candle Alan pulled off his boots and sat with his back to the wall, deep in thought. Leof, exhausted by the exertions of the day, the late hour and the ale he had consumed, lay down fully-cloth
ed and was asleep in moments. After over an hour of deep thought Alan gave a chuckle filled with satisfaction, snuffed out the candle and settled to sleep.

  After breaking their fast on a sop of stale bread dipped in ale, Alan directed Leof to follow him out into the bustling streets. They’d brought two changes of clothes for the boy, both made of wool. One was a rough but serviceable tunic and breeches; the other was the clothing that he’d worn to Earl’s Hall the previous night, of better quality but still in the local Anglo-Danish style. The first stop was at a rag-seller’s stall, where Alan purchased a tattered and patched set of rags suitable to be worn by a street-urchin or beggar, but directed the stall-holder these were to washed, aired and ready for collection in three hours, paying extra for this. While Alan wanted Leof to be able to look like a street-urchin, he didn’t need to smell like one, nor share his clothing with other occupants- both of which were of concern to Alan as he was sharing a bed with the boy.

  While Leof’s clothing was being washed and dried, Alan firstly purchased a pair of rough sandals and then entered a barbershop. He’d decided that he was going to masquerade as a priest, but was damned of he was going to wear his hair in a tonsure. As in that guise his flaming red hair and beard were likely to draw attention, he had his pate and chin shaved clean. Next stop, at mid-morning, was the rear of the abbey. As Alan had hoped, the washer-woman had undertaken the laundry and a dozen or so monk’s habits were hanging on the washing-line to dry. After a quick look at sizes and another quick look to make sure nobody was watching, Alan removed two habits; one that appeared as if it would fit his tall frame, and another slightly smaller. Both were somewhat worn and threadbare, but were serviceable and Alan doubted they would even be missed. After then collecting Leof’s clothing from the rag-seller they headed towards St. Lawrence’s church, arriving about an hour before Sext.