Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  Waltheof wished heartily it would come. He wanted to prove himself, to show that he was Siward’s son. ‘Outy says the weather is set fair for another month at least, and no one can read the signs better than he.’

  Leofwine was smiling again. ‘Then I suppose we can look for William Bastard before October is out.’

  He had scarcely finished speaking when there was a stir in the camp, the sound of hooves and shouting, and they both turned back to see a man riding towards them. One look at his face brought an exclamation to Leofwine’s lips. ‘Gosfrith! What brings you from London?’

  The newcomer flung himself down from his lathered horse. “Lord there is a message from the Earls Edwin and Morcar. They bid the King come at once to their aid.’

  ‘What has happened? Speak, man, for God’s sake.’ He held out a horn of ale and Gosfrith drank deeply.

  ‘It is Harald Sigurdson. He has sailed south from Scotland with near three hundred ships and is plundering and burning all along the coast of Northumbria.’

  ‘Three hundred ships? They must hold a mighty army.’

  ‘Aye, lord, Cleveland and Holderness are raped and burning to bear witness to that. The Earls fear they cannot hold such an army. And,’ Gosfrith hesitated, ‘your brother Tosti is there with all his men.’

  ‘Then he is a traitor,’ Leofwine said between tightly folded lips. ‘Harold will be grieved. But there’s no time for grief now. Rest you, Gosfrith, and I’ll send messengers to fetch the King at once.’

  ‘He is not here?’

  ‘No, he’s down the coast, probably at Bosham, but when he hears the news he’ll march for London and so must we.’

  ‘Ansgar the Marshal has sent out messages to all the shires to summon the levies.’ Gosfrith, who was Port-reeve of the city, drained his horn and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Ah, that’s better. I was as dry as a corn husk.’ He glanced at Waltheof, ‘Why it’s my lord of Huntingdon.’

  Waltheof inclined his head, which was throbbing with the news. He felt a swift rising exhilaration, as if old Siward’s Viking blood was flowing in him at last. He turned to Leofwine, his eyes alight. ‘What would you have me do, cousin?’

  ‘Go home,’ Leofwine said promptly. ‘Muster your men and march to York. We’ll meet you there but it will take time to get all the levies assembled and on the road. You can ride more swiftly than we can march an army and your men are half way to York already. Find the Earls and aid them until we come.’

  Waltheof ran for his tent, shouting for Outy and for Turold his falconer who, with some half dozen men at arms were all who had accompanied him from Ryhall, his manor some miles north of Peterborough. In a quarter of an hour he was ready to leave and Leofwine walked beside him to the edge of the camp.

  ‘Go with God, little cousin. If He wills we’ll meet in York before Harald Sigurdson gets there. He’ll be too busy plundering to march as fast as we will, and anyway you and the Earls can hold him till we come.’

  ‘And Tosti?’

  ‘Tosti,’ the Earl said, ‘can go to hell for all I care. He and Harold were close once for they are nearer of age, but he was always a braggart and Gyrth and I came in for more than our share of cuffs from him when we were children.’ He paused, one hand on the smooth neck of Waltheof’s mare. ‘I will not call him brother again. What he has done now is as if he had set a knife in Harold’s back and for that I could kill him.’

  ‘And I,’ Waltheof agreed, but for other reasons as well, and he longed to be away, to strike a blow for the raped land that had been Siward Digera’s earldom. He glanced back towards the sea. ‘What if William comes now?’

  His cousin shrugged. ‘If he comes, he comes, and we will know that God is indeed angry with us, with Harold for his broken oath.’ For a moment he was silent, brooding, unusually grim. Then his smile reappeared and he clapped his young companion on the back. ‘But I refuse to believe that. We will beat the Norsemen and be back here to dare the Norman to set foot on our shores. Pray that the wind does not change for until it does William cannot sail.’

  ‘Our coasts will be unguarded.’

  ‘So they will,’ Leofwine agreed lightly, ‘but there’s more to England than a line of cliffs. If the Bastard comes we’ll meet him somehow, somewhere. Now get you gone and take that wild thing, Bors, with you. When you see the Earls tell them Harold will come.’

  He held out both hands and gripped Waltheof by the forearms. ‘When Harold moves, he moves fast.’

  ‘It is two hundred miles from London to York.’

  ‘We have horses, and feet. Look for us in two weeks. Away with you now,’ and he slapped the mare on her rump so that she leapt forward with the dog, Bors, running and barking by her side.

  Waltheof took his men home with such speed that they covered the distance in half the time they had taken to ride south and by noon on the third day they were descending the slope that led down to the little river and the village. There were pleasant fields here and a small timber church with a stone tower that he had built last year.

  To the left lay his own house, a hall surrounded by outbuildings, kitchens, stabling for his horses and storerooms all within a wooden palisade, and as he rode briskly in at the open gate he could see that the news had already reached his household for the place was teeming with activity. Osgood his captain was there shouting orders and Hakon, his Staller, and no older than his master, hurried to take the mare’s reins as he flung himself down from the saddle.

  ‘Welcome back, lord,’ Hakon said. His young face was shining with excitement. ‘We did not look for you until tomorrow.’

  A big man who had evidently been on the watch for the Earl came running down the outer steps from the hall door.

  ‘Alfric!’ Waltheof went to meet him. ‘I can see you have all heard the tidings.’

  ‘Aye, my lord. A messenger reached me at Gelling and I sent word to all my men to be here by nightfall. Do we march tomorrow?’

  ‘At first light and the stragglers can catch us up. Osgood!’

  The captain came running to stand respectfully by the Earl’s side. He was a square stolid man who had served under Waltheof’s father and for the last ten years had been awaiting his chance to put on his battle harness under the son’s command.

  ‘What now, old war horse,’ Alfric said, laughing, ‘you cannot wait to be at the Norsemen, can you?’

  ‘Norse or Norman I care not,’ Osgood said with relish. ‘I’ve not had a good fight since Godwine’s son beat the Welsh.’ He turned to Waltheof. ‘Men have gone to all your manors, lord, to summon the levies.’

  Waltheof nodded. ‘Is Thorkel returned?’ And when Osgood shook his head, he said nothing further but sent his captain to meet a company of men that came straggling in through the gate.

  Alfric said, ‘You’ll not find a better one than that to see your men in good fighting trim.’

  ‘I know,’ Waltheof answered and then added on impulse, ‘Please God, I don’t fail them.’

  ‘You?’ Alfric laughed again, not aloud but with his eyes and his mouth. ‘Why, you are Siward’s son, how can you fail?’

  ‘It is not easy to be the son of such a man,’ the Earl said soberly. They began to walk towards the outer stair of the hall where men were running hurriedly to and from the kitchen. A good smell of roasting meat heralded the approach of the dinner hour and his cooks and servers were hard pressed to find space and food for the company gathered this day.

  On the top stair Waltheof paused. ‘If my brother had not died . . .’

  Alfric thrust an arm through his. They were old friends despite the difference in years and he glanced affectionately at the tall fair-bearded young man at his side. ‘Osbeorn Timber-axe was a good fellow and a good son to your father, God rest him, but Siward would not have been displeased with you.’

  ‘I’ve yet to prove myself,’ Waltheof said as they entered the hall. There the servants were setting up the trestle tables. A fire burned in the centre of the hall, smoke e
ddying into the beamed roof, and Bors had already settled himself possessively with his nose to the warmth. At the far end was a small dais where the Earl’s table was set, the long high seat behind, stools and benches for the lesser folk. At the back of the dais was a narrow stair which led to his bedchamber, set in a small gallery above.

  Dinner was eaten that day in a somewhat disturbed manner for throughout the meal men came riding into the courtyard and Waltheof rose from his seat several times to welcome thegns and lesser men as they arrived.

  From Brampton they came, every man that was fyrd-worthy, from Fotheringay and Weston, from Bracebroc and Gerdelai, from Whiston and Connington and Belmesthorpe, and he bade them all sit at his table.

  ‘Eat well,’ he urged them, ‘for tomorrow we’ll not pause but get what we can as we go. And drink, my friends,’ he raised his silver-tipped horn, ‘drink death to the invader.’

  ‘Death to the invader,’ they shouted in answer, ‘death to the Norsemen! Death to Harald Sigurdson and Earl Tosti!’

  Horns were raised all down the hall and Alfric sprang to his feet. ‘And death to the Norman if he dares to come, he shouted. ‘For God and St Guthlac – and wass-hael to our lord Earl.’

  There was an answering roar and Waltheof sat in his high seat, flushed with pride in these his men. But he knew they cheered him because he was his father’s son, not for what he was himself, for he had done nothing yet to earn their approval. And the man for whose approval he most looked was not there to sing them battle songs to set the horns banging on the trestles. Had Thorkel returned to the King of Norway? It was unthinkable – he thrust the thought from him, and drank with his men, shouting perdition to the invaders.

  At last when most of the preparations were made, he called to Alfric to follow him up the stair to his own chamber. There he found his gear laid out and picking up his axe held it hard, gripping it until the muscles stood out on his arm, straining the golden bracelet that he wore there. ‘It has a good feel.’

  ‘I’m glad they brought that axe back when the Scots slew your brother,’ Alfric said. ‘It is right that you should have it.’

  Waltheof ran his left hand down the long handle. ‘It has not seen battle since that day.’ After a moment he laid it down. ‘I am for Croyland.’

  ‘I thought you would be. You wish me to stand in your place until you return?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be back before dawn.’

  Alfric sat down on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through the fur of the white bearskin that covered it. ‘The northmen burned Gelling when I was a boy. Beseech St Guthlac that they will not do it again – nor the Normans if they come.’

  Waltheof leaned his big shoulders against the door. ‘If they come Harold will be more than a match for William Bastard.’

  Alfric frowned, gazing through the narrow window where the shutters were thrown wide to the last of the afternoon sunshine. The stockade gates were open and beyond lay the pleasant woods and fields of the Earl’s demesne. He could see men working there, bringing in the last of the harvest. He clenched his hand on the fur. ‘If I should fall, let them not burn Gelling again. It is my son’s heritage.’

  Young as he was and untried in battle, Waltheof was aware of a swift premonition, as if Alfric knew one thing as certainly as he was sure of another. He crossed himself hastily. ‘God and St Guthlac protect us. As for young Ulf, if the need should arise he shall be as my own son.’

  Alfric roused himself, shrugging off his grave mood. ‘I know, and my thanks, Waltheof.’ He was smiling again, his normal gay manner cloaking whatever doubts lay below the surface. ‘We’ll be ready to march at dawn.’

  Waltheof swung his furred mantle about his shoulders, fastening the jewelled clasp for already the evenings were growing chill, and they went out together. He paused for a moment looking down into the hall and at his people. By the Holy Cross, not one of his manors should be burned!

  He shouted in his habitual manner for Outy and five minutes later with this solitary companion he was riding out along the rough road.

  As he came to the smith’s cottage he saw the glare of the fire within and knew that Hardynge would be working all through the night, forging weapons for those who had none, and repairing broken harness or damaged helms. The door was open and at the sound of hooves the smith’s daughter came out into the lane. Her name was Elfgive and she had long braids of corn-coloured hair that fell down over her breasts to her waist. He thought of the night when he had first undone those braids and laid his hands on the white skin of her bosom. As he reined in his horse she came to stand beside him. ‘You are going to battle, lord?’

  ‘Not yet. We ride at dawn.’

  Her face lit. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek for she had been baking and her face was hot from the fire, but joy gave her a swift beauty. ‘You will come in?’

  ‘No.’ He put out his hand and rubbed away the white smear. ‘I go to Croyland. I’ll not be back before we march.’

  She caught hold of his stirrup leather. ‘Oh, do not go. Let us have tonight.’

  For a moment he wanted to stay. He had taken her lightly last spring, tumbling her in a wood filled with bluebells when all the village was a-maying. It was his first experience of love and throughout the summer he had sent for her every now and again to come to him. The smith, far from objecting, had been delighted at the honour shown his daughter and equally delighted with the jewels and fine wool dress that his lord had given her. He had no doubt that when the Earl was tired of the girl he would find her a good husband. In the meantime neither had any pretensions about the affair.

  Elfgive herself had given not only her body but her heart also to the young Earl, yet even she had no illusions; for the moment she was his mistress but she did not expect it to last. Now she held her head high and would not let her lover see that his preoccupation with matters of more importance than herself was hurtful to her. She merely laid her head for a moment against his knee.

  Then she looked up swiftly. ‘Lord, wait one moment. I have something for you.’

  She ran inside and came hurrying back with a woven circlet of silk skeins threaded through a tiny bag. ‘Please, my lord, let me tie this about your arm. It holds a clover leaf for the Trinity and another charm – a holy thing given to me by a wise woman.’

  ‘Or a witch?’ He smiled indulgently and when she shook her head vehemently, he pulled up the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Will it keep me safe, my love?’

  ‘Aye, from evil and spells and the dark spirits.’ 'She finished tying the threads and then stood on tiptoe as he bent to kiss her. ‘God speed, lord.’ She wished suddenly that she was pregnant – it would be something of him to keep when he rode away, perhaps never to return.

  For a while after he had spurred his horse along the track Waltheof thought of her, of her body that had been his through many a warm summer night. He would have liked to lie with her once more before he rode north, but she had not touched the heart of him and presently his mind turned to other things.

  Passing through the village of Deeping he sent a message to the lord of the manor there, one Hugh of Evermue, a Breton who had married a kinswoman of his mother’s. Hugh himself was, as he knew, too sick to come and had no son but he would send the men of Deeping.

  Dusk was falling fast when at last he came to the village deep in the marshy fens where he had spent so much of his youth. He and Outy left their horses at the ferryman’s hut and took the boat over the Welland, named perhaps for the giant who had forged the sword with which Beowulf slew the evil fiend, Grendel. He had grown up with this legend and here on the misty water, sliding past the black bogs, the dark overhanging alders, he could almost feel the presence of the Nicors, the monsters who had haunted the marshes until the Cross of Christ came to send them back to the noisome shades from whence they had emerged. As a boy he had always been a little afraid, never quite certain that Grendel would not rise up again from the dank slime, that Nicors would not tip up the boat and dr
aw him beneath the green water.

  But there were no devils haunting the fen tonight. There was deep silence everywhere broken only by the dip of the oars and the occasional cry of a snipe or a curlew. Outy pulled his cloak about him, he suffered pain in his joints and hated the inhospitable marshes.

  Waltheof glanced amusedly at him. ‘It’s only for a few hours and Brother Eadnoth will make you warm in the kitchen.’

  ‘And where will you be?’ Outy asked grimly, with the familiarity of long years of service. ‘On your knees in that damp church, I shouldn’t wonder, instead of in your bed getting the sleep you need for tomorrow’s march.’

  Waltheof gazed away from him into the mist. A bat flew swiftly across the bow of the boat and the ferryman grunted. He did not answer Outy – they understood each other well enough – and soon the boat was alongside the triangular bridge and the path that led to the gates of the abbey.