1066
What Fates Impose
by G.K. Holloway
Copyright © 2013 G.K. Holloway
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Contents
Cover
List of Main Characters
Rouen, Normandy 1087
The Beginning, Winchester, January 1045
Nuptials
The Earl Harold
A Viking problem
Whitsun at Waltham
Wedding Plans
West Wickham
Another Wedding
Two Years Later
Plans in the making
Mid-Lent council
The Count of Boulogne
The Gloucester Witan
Exile
Edward’s England
The Return of the Exiles
Crossing
A New Era
Divine Retribution
The New Earl
Business in the North
The Welsh Problem
Rome
The King’s Winter Court
Return of the Brother
Mercia: Earl Aelfgar’s Great Hall, Coventry
Gloucester, the King’s Christmas Court 1062
Waltham, April 1063
Normandy, early in 1064
Forty Days and Forty Nights
Back Home
1065 The Summer of Discontent
Farewell to the King
King Harold II
Normandy
St. Stephen’s Abbey, Caen
Storm Clouds Gather
Rome
In England
The Journey South
William Prepares
Normandy
Westminster, Easter 1066
May
Normandy, the summer of 1066
Norway, August
Normandy
September, England, the Nativity of St. Mary
Normandy
Wessex in September
Ponthieu
In the North
Stamford Bridge
Ponthieu
Sussex
London
Hastings
Waltham
Friday, 13 th October
14 th October, 1066
At the Watch Oak
Sunday Morning
List of Main Characters
Royalty
Edward King of England, son of Emma
Edith, Queen of England, daughter of Earl Godwin
Emma, Dowager Queen of England, King Edward’s mother and great aunt of Duke William of Normandy
Wessex
Godwin, Earl of Wessex
Gytha, Godwin’s wife
Sweyn, son of Godwin
Harold, son of Godwin
Tostig, son of Godwin
Edith, daughter of Godwin
Gyrth, son of Godwin
Leofwine, son of Godwin
Wulfnoth, son of Godwin
Beorn, Godwin’s nephew
Edyth Swanneck, handfast wife of Harold
Godwin, son of Harold
Magnus, Son of Harold Edmund, son of Harold Gytha, daughter of Harold
Ulf, son of Harold
Mercia
Leofric, Earl of Mercia
Godiva, Leofric’s wife
Aelfgar, Leofric’s son
Aldytha, Aelfgar’s daughter
Edwin, son of Aelfgar
Morcar, son of Aelfgar
Northumbria
Siward, Earl of Northumbria
Aelflaed, Siward’s wife
Osbern, son of Siward
Waltheof, son of Siward
Cospatric, Earl of Cumbria, grandson of King Ethelred
Gamel Ormson, great grandson of King Ethelred
Oswulf, grandson of Earl Uhtred, King Ethelred’s son-in-law
The Church
Edmund, a monk, Harold’s friend
Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury from 1052
Eadmear, Archbishop of York
Wulfstan, Bishop of Worcester
Normans
William, Duke of Normandy and great nephew of Emma, Queen of England
Matilda, Duchess of Normandy
Robert, Count of Mortain, brother of Duke William
Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, brother of Duke William
Robert de Jumieges, Archbishop of Canterbury
William Malet, Norman knight and friend of Harold Godwinson
Eustace, Count of Boulogne, brother-in-law of King Edward, ally of Duke William
Guy, Count of Ponthieu, ally of Duke William
William Warenne, knight and close friend of Duke William
William FitzOsbern, knight and close friend of Duke William
*
In 1066, England had a population of about two million people. Adults stood as tall as the English do today. By 1166 the population had halved and the average adult was three inches shorter. There had been neither famine nor plague. What happened was that half the Saxon population died at the hands of the Normans, and those who survived worked longer, paid more taxes and ate less. The English, under an apartheid-like regime, were denied access to positions of power and ownership of substantial amounts of land. William had conquered; Norman civilisation had arrived.
.
Rouen, Normandy 1087
In his bed the King, who can never be killed, lies dying. The old hag was right after all. He would not die on the battlefield. So, here he is, inside the church at St. Gervase, sixty years old, white haired and corpulent, waiting for fate to find him, while his courage deserts him and terror creeps through his being.
Six weeks previously, at the height of battle, the Conqueror’s horse bucked and threw him high into the air. He dropped back onto the pommel of his saddle, splitting his pelvis and puncturing his bowel. The infected wound turned his insides putrid.
As he lies in his sweat-soaked sick bed, his fevered mind flits back and forth to deeds both past and present. The old king feels his life slowly slipping away. He urgently needs to make his peace with God. Only the Almighty can help him now.
Around his bed a few dignitaries are gathered, including the Conqueror’s sons, Robert, William and Henri; their fates too, will be sealed this day. Henri, the youngest, sits at a fine oak table. He knows he will inherit nothing from his father and so he counts out, one at a time, the five thousand marks bequeathed him by his late mother.
Outside in the pale blue sky, a raven circles; inside Robert stares vacantly at the bedroom wall. William Rufus, his fingers stretched out before him, inspects his nails.
He appears quite satisfied with his manicure and so busies himself with running his hand through his fine long red hair.
Their father turns towards them, no expression in his bloodshot eyes, his face an explosive red. Blotches like bruises have formed all over him. A few silver hairs grow like onion roots from the end of his bulbous nose. His once powerful body is drained of its strength and virility.
Long forgotten memories buried deep in his mind, revived by guilt and foreboding, form familiar characters; wretches who parade mockingly through his semi-conscious. In his delirium he watches a parade of aberrations. They jeer at him waving handless arms, some hobbling about on the stubs of their legs, their feet hacked off long since. With perverse delight the miserable creatures beckon him towards them, greeting him with rotten-toothed smiles. Something about their diabolical welcome is irresistible to him. He cannot help but stare. Tears flow down his face. This is his first display of emotion since his coronation twenty-one years before, when he sat newly crowned on the throne at Westminster, trembling before the eyes of God.
Now though, he must face the enormity over which even he, a king, has no control. He must pay the price.
As he gazes down the bed, he is surprised to discover it is not a warrior’s sword he holds but a beautiful, leather bound, gold-inlaid, jewel-encrusted Bible - there to comfort him, to reassure him of the existence of God and the hereafter. It offers no reassurance; it is simply a reminder that he will soon be called to account, a quick and violent hero’s death denied him as he has always known it would be. After a sigh of resignation he turns in the direction of his priest, Bishop Gilbert de Lisieux.
‘Father, hear my confession.’
With difficulty Gilbert forces his gaze away from the jewel-clad tome. The bishop nods sagely to the Conqueror, who then begins the last of his confessions.
‘I have persecuted the natives of England beyond all reason,’ gasps William. ‘Whether gentle or simple, I have cruelly oppressed them. Many I unjustly disinherited. Innumerable multitudes perished through me by famine or the sword.’
After a short struggle for breath he continues, ‘I fell on the English of the northern shires like a ravening lion. I ordered that their houses and corn, with all their implements and chattels, be burnt without distinction and great herds of cattle and beasts of burden were butchered wherever they were found.’
He stops for a moment to pause for breath and to reflect on his actions. He lowers his eyes; he sees only the Bible.
‘In this way,’ he continues, ‘I subjected a fine race of people to the calamity of cruel famine and so became the barbarous murderer of many thousands of men and women.’ He pauses and breaks down, tears mixed with perspiration running down his face. The onlookers remain motionless, voyeurs at a grim display. No one steps forward to help the old man. Contrition is something they had not expected to see.
Slowly William regains control, reaching inside for his last remnants of strength while William Rufus tries hard to suppress a yawn. To his credit he succeeds.
The King continues, ‘Having gained the throne of that kingdom by so many crimes I dare not leave it to anyone but God.’
Rufus and Robert exchange startled glances. At his desk Henri smirks.
The King then utters the following words to the room: ‘I appoint no one as my heir to the Crown of England, but leave it to the disposal of the Eternal Creator, whose I am and who orders all things. For I did not attain that high honour by hereditary right, but wrested it from the perjured King Harold in a desperate bloody battle.’
He feels none of the expected relief from the burden of guilt that weighs him down, just remorse. ‘I declare amnesty on all those I have imprisoned, that they may once more enjoy their God-given freedom.’
Still fearful, still full of dread, he lies there in his hot, damp bed, breathing sour air, hoping for what, exactly? He does not know. No matter what he says, the burden of guilt continues to weigh him down. He is convinced the fate he has dreaded since childhood now awaits him; he will go to hell and burn there for all eternity.
He has made amends, adhered to the Christian faith, built fine churches. What more is he supposed to do? He needs a sign, a sign from God, to know all is well, that he has been forgiven his transgressions. Is it too much to ask?
With the very last of his strength he raises his head to look around the room. There are his sons, his brother, the bishop, and ...‘Oh God, oh God Almighty. No, not him! Not him! Not now!’ his voice rasps in his constricted throat, his eyes bulge as he is gripped by terror. Before him, unseen by the others, stands a blood-drenched warrior, tall and proud as an oak, fresh from the battlefield, his lank and sweat-soaked hair hanging down his shoulders, his once handsome face made ugly by an eyeless socket. More blood runs from a wound to his throat and another from his chest. As though to steady himself, he leans on his battle axe, resting his hands on its iron head. He stares impassively at William with his single eye, blue and deep as the ocean; a stare made all the more intense by its singularity.
William has seen him, or thought he has seen him, a number of times over the years, glimpsed in crowds or spotted in enemy lines but never before has he seen him so clearly, so close and for so long as he does now. The first time he saw him after Hastings was in York, while burning the city to the ground. Later, he thought he saw him outside Stafford, amongst a party of refugees. Over the years Harold had come back to haunt William at the most unexpected times; he knows this is their final meeting on this earth.
A chill floods William’s body, making him raw, shaking him to the core.
‘What do you want? What are you doing here?’ he gasps.
In response the warrior says nothing.
‘Is this a trick?’ the King growls.
The onlookers think him delirious.
‘You need rest, my Lord.’ It is the kindly John de Villula who speaks, stepping toward his patient.
‘Can you see him? Can you?’ William croaks.
Villula stops in his tracks as though punched; such is the force of the King’s question.
‘See who, my Lord?’
‘There! There,’ rasps the old man, pointing with a trembling finger.
‘There is no one there, my Lord, it must be a trick of the light,’ comes the embarrassed response.
William is not reassured. This is no trick of the light. The warrior stands there just as before, his expression unchanged, although the King now thinks he perceives dark humour in the face.
‘Have you come for me?’ he ventures.
A trace, fleetingly brief, of a smile appears on the face of the apparition. He turns, swinging the axe over a shoulder as he does so, and steps, with a swift backward glance, silently out of the room.
Hopelessness descends upon King William. The chill leaves him and he feels hot again. His temperature rises as though he is being poached in his own perspiration. He wants to break free from the heat but escape is impossible. Pain washes through him. He closes his salt-stung eyes and sees scarlet as bright and vivid as fresh-spilt blood. Horror floods through him. The demons have returned. He hears their raucous laughter and feels their dirty, hot, sweaty hands all over him, pulling him downward, ever downward. Was he, like a pagan king of old, to be consumed by fire?
Then all is hot, black and silent.
The Beginning, Winchester, January 1045
In the King’s great hall, disturbed by sounds of early morning, Edmund the young priest opened his eyes. Like many of the other men he had slept all night in his chair. Looking round he noticed the heavy wooden shutters remained closed against the cold morning air; a few torches and the glow of embers in the braziers still provided the only light in the dark hall, which was permeated by the smell of wood smoke, stale beer and mutton fat. On the tables lay the remnants of last night’s meal; plates, goblets and drinking horns, carelessly strewn about.
Close to the remnants of the fire sat Godwin, Earl of Wessex, a great bear of a man, and four of his sons. Th
ey were discussing the day’s forthcoming events and were in good cheer. This was King Edward’s wedding day and at last England would have a queen: Edith, Godwin’s daughter was the bride and with God’s grace she would produce an heir to the Crown. Godwin looked up, noticed Edmund and beckoned him over.
‘Come and join us, Edmund,’ he called genially.
Edmund rose slowly to his feet, stretched his stiff limbs and after a few cursory scratches walked past the ornately carved oak columns, on which creatures, real and mythical, chased each other to the heavens. Stepping gingerly through a group of sleeping dogs he joined his friends, who sat discussing the day’s forthcoming events.
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