Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

‘Then know your lord,’ Waltheof roared furiously and at the top of his voice bellowed, ‘I am Waltheof – Waltheof the Earl. Hold! Hold!’

  Somehow he and Thorkel got some semblance of order out of the chaos of men and darkness, Outy rounding up the stragglers and even Hakon doing a man’s work.

  Then, miraculously, a familiar figure came out of the darkness, a figure covered in blood and dirt, wounded, one arm hanging limp, but otherwise whole.

  ‘Osgood! Praise God.’

  ‘Lord, is it really you?’ Osgood, his breathing laboured, was near to exhaustion and he gave a gasp of relief on seeing the Earl.

  ‘Are our men with you?’ Waltheof asked swiftly, his eyes raking the darkness.

  ‘A few. The slaughter was . . .’ Osgood put a hand to his eyes as if to shut out the hideousness of all he had seen that day. ‘The falconer is dead – and many others, but I’ve brought out all who were still on their feet. There was no one left to die for.’

  ‘We can make a stand here. Where is Alfric?’

  ‘Dead.’ Osgood shuddered, for he had lost a boon companion, and Waltheof stared with clenched teeth at the sky. Was there no end to the loss, no end to bitter grief? Had they won at Stamford only to lose all here?

  From the slope opposite they could hear the sound of hooves as the Norman cavalry thundered in pursuit and some of the men turned to flee, but Waltheof, startled from grief into action, shouted to them to stand and fight. The Normans came on but in, the darkness they were unaware of the steep ravine and riding too fast to rein in they came headlong over it.

  Tumbling and falling, the horses slithering and pitching men over their heads, the Normans lost all order and were trapped in a morass of scrub, small streams, hawthorn trees and boulders.

  ‘Now,’ Walthof bellowed, ‘Now!’

  He plunged on foot down the ravine, his men behind him and then they were among the startled disorganised enemy, slaying with a fury that none could stop.

  ‘Out! Out! For Leofwine – for Harold the King!’ He was sobbing now, so beside himself with grief and berserk Viking rage that he neither saw the enemy, nor heard the shrieks and groans of those he slew. Nothing mattered but a bloody vengeance.

  ‘For Leofwine – for Leofwine . . .’ He swung his axe at anything that moved, trod on corpses and dismembered men, slid in a horse’s guts, heard only the sound of his own tearless sobs. If any struck at him he did not know it. The need was only to kill and kill again, until there was none left to slay.

  He leaned at last against a tree, his chest heaving, breathless and spent. He had lost his helm in the fight and blood was running down his leg where a blow had reopened his wound. Thorkel and Osgood were beside him.

  ‘We must go back now,’ Thorkel said. ‘See – there outlined against the sky on the top of the slope? There are more Normans, though I doubt they will risk coming down, but we cannot do anything against the whole of their cavalry.’

  Waltheof looked up into the darkness, but he saw nothing. He was still clinging blindly to his thorny tree in an endeavour to regain control of himself.

  ‘We’ve had some revenge, by God,’ Osgood said in grim satisfaction. ‘Not a man who came down that slope still lives. Come away, lord.’

  The men were gathering round them now, the same emotion gripping them all – that at least they had not left the field without a last vengeance on the invaders. Now there was nothing left to stay for. Suddenly young Hakon flung down his spear and burst into tears.

  Seeing his master still unable to speak, Osgood took charge. ‘Back up the slope and into the trees, fyrdmen. Make for London. One battle doesn’t give Duke William the kingdom, eh?’ He glanced at Waltheof and then at Thorkel, who nodded and said, ‘To London, then.’

  Osgood led the men off, scrambling up the bank towards the woods beyond and only Outy and Hakon, still struggling with his tears, waited with Thorkel for their lord.

  ‘Come,’ the Icelander urged, ‘before the Normans reach the road.’

  Waltheof turned away from his tree and as he did so a figure almost at his feet stirred and moved and a Norman knight looked up at him. He seemed to be unhurt, only stunned by a fall against the tree. He too had lost his helm and his spear lay a few yards off, but he did not attempt to reach it.

  It was quiet in the ravine now. The cavalry above seemed to have withdrawn to the main field of battle, and in that strange moment nobody moved.

  The knight spoke suddenly in halting Saxon. ‘I know you. You are Earl Waltheof.’

  The words startled him, brought him back to reality as he stared down at this enemy lying at his feet, who, incredibly, knew who he was.

  ‘I saw you last year at King Edward’s court,’ the knight went on. ‘Will you slay me too? My father and brothers lie dead.’

  Outy leapt forward, his axe raised, but Waltheof caught the handle of it and twisted it away.

  ‘Let us go,’ he said and drew a deep convulsive breath. Revulsion had seized him and with loathing he turned away from the bloody carnage and left the solitary Norman knight living among the dead.

  Back above the ravine they found their own horses gone, taken perhaps by some fleeing fyrdmen, but after a few moments Outy caught an abandoned mare and he and Thorkel helped their lord into the saddle. By now he could scarcely stand on his wounded leg and he was conscious of intense pain as he mounted. Then he suffered them to lead him where they would.

  In the darkness rain had begun to fall, dripping drearily down his face and neck. He was drained, exhausted, could hear nothing, see nothing but Telham ridge and the silent dead lying in the darkness – Leofwine staring sightless at the sky, Harold sprawled among the broken axes and smashed shields, and somewhere the dragon banner trampled in the bloodied ground by Norman hooves.

  CHAPTER 5

  Abbot Ulfcytel of Croyland, being a holy as well as a wise and politic man, did not consider that those who had taken the tonsure had any right to fight in a war, however just. The man of God, he thought, should be a man of peace and therefore kept his monks about their business during the troubles that beset England. His brother abbot, Leofric of Peterborough, that ‘Golden Borough’ so rich that her treasure could scarcely be counted, thought very differently and rode off to battle with several of his brethren. Two weeks later, desperately wounded and sick to the point of death, he was borne back to his abbey by his mass-priest and three of his monks. There, as he lay dying on the eve of All Saints Tide he sent a messenger to Abbot Ulfcytel, entreating him to come with all speed.

  Ulfcytel, taking with him only Brother Cullen, rode to Peterborough immediately and found the Abbot lying in his cell, candles burning at the head and foot of his bed and the brethren on their knees around him, chanting the Miserere.

  Leofric’s ashen face lit with affection when he saw his visitor and with scant ceremony he sent his monks away that they might be alone together.

  ‘It is good of you to come,’ he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper ‘I fear I shall not survive All Souls day if I see the end of All Saints. It is a fitting time to die, is it not?’

  Ulfcytel knelt by the bed and took the Abbot’s cold hand in his. He knew Leofric too well to pretend he was not dying for it was written all too plainly in the pallid features and sunken eyes. ‘A good time,’ he agreed. ‘We will offer Masses on All Souls day for you.’

  ‘I begged you to come, dear friend, partly because I wished to bid you farewell – but also I would speak with you regarding – that spiritual son of whom you are – most fond.’

  Ulfcytel raised his head sharply. ‘The Earl?’

  The dying Abbot nodded. ‘I know that Waltheof is as a son to you.’

  ‘You fear for him?’ It was very cold in this little room and Ulfcytel shivered. Yet it was not the cold that made him tremble for he had lived the cloistered life too long to care for that. The truth was that he too feared, longed to know what was happening in London. The injured men who had come home after the fight at Stamford had brought
the news of that battle and the wound that had kept their earl from marching south with the King. They also told of his prowess on the field and Ulfcytel indulged himself in a little permissible pride in this – but of the happenings of the last few weeks he knew nothing. Since the news of the battle near Hastings and the loss of the King, his brothers and, it seemed, all the southern thegnhood, the only certain knowledge he had was that Waltheof was in London and the army of Duke William loose somewhere west of the city. Two injured fyrdmen from Connington had made their slow way home and told of that last desperate fight near Telham ridge and how after it the Earl had returned to London. On the road north they had seen Abbot Leofric’s nephews, the Earls Edwin and Morcar, with the levies of Mercia and Northumbria, bound for London. Too late, Ulfcytel thought, and grieved for Harold, whom he had known so well in the days when the King was Earl of East Anglia.

  He felt a slight pressure on his hand from the chill fingers, and realised that Leofric was gazing anxiously at him.

  ‘I fear,’ the Abbot repeated in his strained voice, ‘there are so many dead – and I have had a dream, a vision . . .’

  Ulfcytel was aware of an unexpected prick of dread. ‘Concerning Waltheof?’

  ‘Yea, I dreamed I saw our church and all its treasures, melting in a great fire – there was a burning stream, chalices and plate and all our gold – it ran away into darkness and there was darkness everywhere . . .’ his voice faded a little and then with an effort he went on, ‘I saw the Earl, he stood in the stream – his arms outstretched – and round his throat there was a red line . . .’ He raised his eyes to the startled ones staring down at him, ‘I do not know what it portends.’

  Ulfcytel knelt stiffly, the undefined fear growing. ‘Nor I, my lord. No good, I think.’

  ‘No – it is a warning perhaps – of some danger to the Earl, to you all. I – I shall not live to see it, but you . . .’

  ‘I will remember,’ Ulfcytel said in a low voice. ‘I will warn the Earl.’ But warn him of what, he wondered? Did the dream foretell a violent end for Waltheof? God forbid, but in these times, who could tell? Or was it no more than the product of a sick and fevered imagination? He shivered again. There had been signs and portents seen in the sky this year and disaster had come to the land – it was never good to ignore such warnings. ‘God knows where the Earl is now,’ he said at last, ‘There may have been another battle. The Norman Duke will not easily be sent home now.’ Leofric sighed. ‘William is a great general. We saw that,’ he paused, finding it hard to breathe. The shadows of the last afternoon of October were lengthening and the candlelight softened the austere features of the dying man. ‘I doubt there was ever such a fight.’

  Ulfcytel wanted to ask more, but he could see that his friend had no spare strength. The Abbot was turning his head restlessly, his eyes closed now. ‘It is so dark, so cold,’ and as Ulfcytel began to chafe his hands he rambled on. ‘They fell – one by one – I saw Alfric fall – the men of Gelling killed his slayer – so much blood – and Leofwine stood over Gyrth’s body – until he fell too . . .’ Two tears oozed from under the closed lids. ‘Harold – Harold, my son . . .’

  Ulfcytel held the icy hand tightly in his. ‘He is at peace, my lord.’ -

  The dying eyes opened, quite lucid now. ‘Is he? Or was God angry with us all? Gyrth wanted to lead the army, that Harold might not – further break his oath – by drawing the sword – against William – but the King would not have it. Was it God’s justice that we were beaten?’

  ‘His mercy is greater than all,’ Abbot Ulfcytel said gently. ‘We must not fear for the King. Be at peace, Leofric-, my friend.’

  The Abbot let out a deep sigh and then coughed. Ulfcytel wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth. ‘I think you should not talk now, but rest.’

  Leofric shook his head. ‘No – no, I must speak of the Earl. I beg you, do not let him spend his life in a vain cause. If it is God’s will – that William should wear the crown – then bid the Earl remember – his people will need him. He cannot serve them from the grave – even if it be a hero’s grave.’

  This speech seemed to have exhausted him and Ulfcytel was not sure whether he heard his promise to repeat these injunctions to Waltheof – he was only aware of his own urgent prayer that it might be possible to repeat them, that Waltheof was not, even at this moment, lying cold on some unknown battlefield. This prayer was so intense that he did not know how long they remained silent together, but at last, thinking the Abbot asleep, he rose. Even as he did so however, Leofric opened his eyes and spoke once more in the words of the dying St Monica, mother of St Augustine.

  ‘“Lay this body wherever it may be – only remember me at the altar of the Lord.”’ Leofric smiled briefly at Ulfcytel who had fallen on his knees again. Then his eyes closed.

  On the next day, the feast of All Saints, he was dead. Abbot Ulfcytel stayed for his burial and then rode sadly home for he had lost an old friend. During the next weeks news filtered through slowly. At a Witangemot held on the open space north of London’s walls, a great meeting attended by all men of any importance left in the kingdom, the young Edgar Atheling was named for King, though he could not be hallowed until the next solemn season of the Church, Christmastide. Duke William approached Southwark, sending some companies of knights against the Londoners who had marched out over the bridge to defend their city, but apparently there had been no more than a scuffle, the Londoners being driven back behind the safety of their walls.

  The Duke, however, did not attempt to take London. He was wise enough to see this would be a major and lengthy task and for the moment was content to go through the countryside south of the Thames, burning and plundering and striking terror into the simple folk, hoping no doubt, Ulfcytel thought, by this means to induce their leaders to submit to him. He wondered if another army had gone out against the Duke and if Earl Waltheof was engaged in more fighting. He could not rid his mind of Leofric’s dream and waited impatiently for news to come, his normal spiritual calm considerably shaken.

  At last on an early December evening as he was washing his hands before the evening collation, he heard the clang of the outer gate and voices. Messengers from London, he thought hopefully, and sent up a prayer to St Guthlac that it might be good news. He was hastily drying his hands when there was a knock on the door and he turned to see his prayer more than answered, for standing there, wrapped in a blue fur-lined mantle, his hose muddy with hard travel, but alive and unwounded, holding himself erect as usual, was Waltheof himself.

  The Abbot’s sight grew blurred as he held out his hand, only the warmth of the Earl’s grip and the brush of his moustache as he kissed the Abbot’s ring assured the latter that it was no dream. Even so he could not help glancing involuntarily at the Earl’s throat, almost expecting to see a red mark – but there was nothing there.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said unsteadily, ‘dear son, I did not look to see you.’

  Waltheof rose and glanced round the familiar room. ‘In truth, I was not sure I would ever come here again,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘You have not come alone, surely?’

  ‘No, Thorkel is with me – the Prior detained him – and my men-at-arms are below with Brother Eadnoth in the kitchen. Osgood has taken the levies on to Ryhall to disband them.’ He spoke wearily, leaning both hands on the table, but he smiled reassuringly at the shaken Abbot. ‘I promise you I am flesh and blood, but at the moment singularly empty. We have ridden since morning.’

  Ulfcytel went to the door and calling for one of the lay brothers bade him serve supper for himself and his guest in his parlour. Then he poured a cup of wine which he handed to the Earl. ‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘sit and tell me what has brought you home.’

  Waltheof took a stool by the small fire that burned in a brazier and held out his hands to the warmth. The light of the flames lit his face and as he talked his companion studied it.

  ‘I have only come for a few days,’ he said, “because I wanted
your counsel, Father. I do not know what to do.’

  The Abbot took his usual seat, his hands folded. ‘Begin at the beginning, my child, and tell me all that has happened. The latest news I had was that the Atheling had been chosen for King. He is over young for the task that must face any leader now.’

  ‘I know,’ Waltheof said dispiritedly. ‘I gave my voice with the rest when his name was brought forward; indeed, there was no one else, and he is of royal blood and Edmund Ironsides’ grandson. He has a claim, which is more than the sons of Alfgar have.’

  ‘Do not tell me Edwin sought the crown! Did his brother Morcar put his name forward?’

  Waltheof gave a rueful smile. ‘I think they hoped for it, but no one supported that idea. Ansgar the Marshal was for the Atheling and he is a wise man – perhaps he thought a young King would unite us all.’

  ‘And will he?’

  ‘God knows,’ Waltheof turned back to stare into the fire again. ‘We are not united now – that is a certainty. Ansgar is too badly hurt to walk and cannot busy himself as he would once in the nation’s affairs. Edgar is a child still, and as for the Earls, they withdrew their support and marched north, again.’