by James Wilde
As he agonized over what he was missing, the door trundled open and the guard stepped aside. Aged men trailed out, their faces ashen. The wavering light carved lines of tension into their features. Each one was a cleric of high regard, Balthar noted, puzzled. There was Ealdred of Eoferwic, with the nose of a falcon and a gaze like winter, and Wulfstan of Worcester, rotund, flushed and sweating. Heads bowed, Bishop William of London, Bishop Giso of Wells, and Abbot Baldwin of St Edmunds Bury followed, their whispers strained. Each one had committed himself to the cause of the new king, almost before the crown had settled upon his head. The future course of England was as much decided by these men as it was by William the Bastard’s army. What could have left them looking as if they had peered into the depths of hell?
Once they had passed, he slipped through a side door into the hot night. The mallets had stilled. The fires of the masons and carpenters were nothing more than hot embers. Blissful peace lay across the palace grounds, and it would remain that way until sun-up, when the frantic work of rebuilding would begin again in force.
Squatting behind a heap of fresh stone, he watched the clerics emerge from the hall’s main door. Their voices grew louder, their tone now clearly worried, even frightened. He eased out from his hiding place, trying to hear their conversation.
‘You are more spider than fox.’
Balthar jumped as he felt a heavy hand grip his shoulder. He whirled, readying his excuses for the king’s guards. Instead, he found himself looking into the faces of Edwin and his brother Morcar. The two Mercians reeked of wine and their eyes were dull with drink.
‘Spinning your webs,’ Edwin, the taller and stronger of the two, continued. ‘Always watching and listening and waiting for a fly to fall into your lap.’ He hooked his fingers in Balthar’s tunic and drew him in.
‘I serve the king,’ Balthar replied, unafraid.
‘You serve yourself,’ Morcar snapped.
‘And you do not?’ Balthar held the horse-faced man’s eyes with defiance. ‘Some say two great earls … two once-powerful men who commanded the respect of the English … could have rallied the beaten folk of this land to throw off the yoke of the Normans.’
Edwin raised his fist. Balthar set his jaw. Blows aplenty he had taken in his life; another would matter little. And all there knew that a price would be paid for any harm to one of the king’s advisors. The Mercian’s hand wavered, then fell to his side. ‘We took a stand—’ Edwin began.
‘And ran at the first sign of trouble,’ the Fox replied, emboldened. ‘Some say.’ He smiled, knowing it would sting harder than any fist. ‘When those who had the power to resist now drink Norman wine, in Norman halls, at the court of a Norman king, can any man blame plain folk for saying, “This is what God intended”? We follow the path of those who once led.’
Edwin thrust Balthar away, snarling, ‘And still you spin your webs, with words now. That is not the whole truth, and you know it.’
‘This matter is not settled,’ Morcar said, shaking his fist. ‘Even now, men rise up in the north. And they are not alone—’
Edwin grabbed his brother’s arm and spun him round. ‘Enough,’ he growled.
Balthar tensed. ‘You have heard news from the north?’
‘Afraid that your web fails you, spider?’ Edwin sneered.
‘I know the north rises,’ Balthar replied indignantly, but his words were drowned by mocking laughter. The two brothers clapped arms around each other and lurched back towards more wine. The Fox felt his cheeks flush. Was this mysterious news the reason for the king’s conclave with the clerics? ‘If another war is coming, so be it,’ he called after the two noblemen. ‘But still I see you sitting here drinking the king’s wine.’ The Mercians came to a halt: his words had hit home once again. But after a moment they staggered on their way without a backward glance.
They would regret treating him so, Balthar silently vowed, but already his thoughts raced towards this new mystery. With a hunger as if his belly had been empty for days, he turned and hurried towards the small house where Godrun lived. He enjoyed their talks each night at this hour more than he could express, though each one always ended dismally, with him trudging back to the cold bed he shared with his wife. But now there might be a double dish of cheer. If Godrun had been serving the king this evening, she could well have overheard the discussions.
He slipped past the guards at the palace gates – they were used to his comings and goings and paid him no heed. In the moonless dark, he stumbled along the familiar path among the ramshackle, filth-reeking hovels. Drunken song rolled out from some of the open doors, or the mewling of babies. When he passed, he kept to the shadows. He could not afford to be seen heading for a young woman’s home, for in Wincestre tongues were like knives.
Yet as he neared he heard cries emanating from Godrun’s hut. Fear clutched him. He quickened his pace, his fingers closing on the small, bone-handled knife his father had given him when he came of age. At the door, he heard those cries more clearly. His chest tightened. With trembling fingers, he eased the door open a crack.
Godrun lay on filthy straw beside the cold hearth. She was naked. A grunting Norman noble was atop her, thrusting. The sweating man gripped her wrists to pin her down, but her pale legs were high and splayed wide. Balthar fought against himself, but his gaze was drawn inexorably to that space between her thighs where the aristocrat’s cock slid in and out. He felt equally sickened and excited, and though his stomach churned he could not look away for long moments. As he watched, he realized Godrun was not struggling; indeed, she seemed to be writhing in time with her lover. He reeled back a step as if he had been slapped. But then he looked up and saw the girl staring at him. Her eyes were wide and pleading. Balthar held her gaze for a moment, confusion swimming in his head. Then he closed the door and pressed his back against the wall, covering his face.
For the first time in many seasons, he felt adrift. No cunning fox here, he thought with bitterness. He could make no sense of anything, not least the emotions churning inside him. He recognized the Norman, one of the lesser nobles waiting for crumbs from the king’s table. Had Godrun played him for a fool, carrying on with this knight while he did what he could to keep her safe? His cheeks burned at the thought, but in sadness not anger.
Like a whipped dog, he slunk around the side of the hut and covered his ears from the sounds of love-making. When they had subsided, a few moments of silence elapsed before the door rattled. The silhouette of the departing lover swept past along the path.
Balthar drew himself up, taking three long breaths to steady himself. Once he felt able, he crept back around the hovel and slipped inside.
Now dressed, Godrun stood by the hearth. ‘I knew you would return,’ she said, her voice flat.
Balthar tried to speak, but his throat was too dry.
With a cry, the young woman ran forward and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. He felt surprised by the rush of emotion, and the stifled sobs that followed. His hands fluttered like a bird’s wings in the air before he allowed himself to fold his arms around her. He rocked her gently, blinking away his own tears.
‘Forgive me.’ Her voice rose up, muffled.
‘Why?’ he asked.
Those wide eyes peered up at him, brimming with tears. ‘There is no escape for me from the men here.’
‘The men? Not … not that one alone?’
‘If I did not give myself, I would not be allowed to stay. I know that.’ She bit her lip. ‘You could never protect me.’
‘And … and you strove to keep this from me … to … save my feelings?’ She nodded. He closed his eyes, stung by his failings. How could he have been so blind to what was transpiring beneath his nose? In other times, he would have laughed in bitterness at the irony that the Fox had missed so much.
‘Do you forgive me?’ Her voice was barely a breath as she lowered her face again.
‘How could I not? You did what you did to survive. As do we
all.’ Balthar felt pity for the girl. Yet even then he was distracted by the warm, sexual muskiness rising from her. He felt his cock stiffen within his tunic. It pressed against her belly. When she did not pull back, he felt another confusion of feelings stir within him.
‘Will you now abandon me?’ she asked.
The asking of the question summoned an answer that surprised even him. ‘I could never abandon you.’ He grabbed her hand and smothered it with kisses. He felt shocked by the rush of feelings for Godrun, though a part of him realized he had been captured by her from the first moment he had laid eyes upon her. The way she looked at him, with respect, even awe, the manner in which she had been so open to his offer of friendship, her innocence, and, yes, the allure of her face and body, all of it had snared him like a rabbit in a trap. No fox here; he was prey, and he relished that feeling as much as the name the king had given him.
At first she jerked her head back in surprise, but then he saw a curious smile spread across her lips. ‘How could so great a man look fondly upon a mouse such as I?’
He hugged her to him and kissed the top of her blonde head. ‘You will not suffer at the hands of these men again. I will speak to the king himself—’
‘And you will tell him I am yours?’
Balthar hesitated. ‘In good time.’ He hid his fear at the momentousness of his commitment, all the things he was putting at risk: his position with the king, his power and growing wealth. He offered a comforting smile. ‘I am the Fox. I will find a way through this, and we will both be well.’
He kissed her on the head once more, dried her eyes, and gabbled arrangements to visit her soon. Out in the stifling night, his head spun with euphoria. This was a beginning, of that there was no doubt, and who knew what wonders lay ahead. His feet all but danced up the path to the palace. Godrun’s beautiful face floated before his eyes. He could feel the smoothness of her skin, and all he wanted to do was press his lips upon hers.
But as he neared the lamps gleaming on the palace gates, he felt his exhilaration ebb away. The tranquillity that had reigned there earlier was gone. From the grounds beyond the wall he could hear a hubbub of low voices, the clank of iron, the sound of many feet hurrying across the hard-packed mud and the neighing of horses brought from the stables. He stepped through the gates into a whirl of activity. Warriors swarmed in hauberks and helms as if for battle. Commanders barked orders. Scouts dressed only in tunics for light travelling were mounting their steeds and drawing towards the gates.
Baffled, and growing increasingly concerned, Balthar weaved his way through the throng. Once he had stepped into the relative peace of the hall, he realized his heart was pounding.
By the cold hearth, the king strode among his commanders, disseminating orders in a loud voice. He too was dressed for war, his vast belly straining at his long mail shirt. Yet for all his girth, Balthar saw no softness. Only power. Once the monarch had dispatched the final commander, he turned and caught sight of Balthar hovering by the door.
‘The Fox!’ he boomed without any humour. ‘Where were you hiding, you sly dog? I have been calling for you.’
Balthar stepped forward, bowing and scraping. ‘Forgive me, my lord. I—’
‘Enough chatter.’ A grim smile spread across his lips. ‘I have taken your counsel, Fox.’
‘My lord?’
‘To put the spear to the nest of vipers.’
For a moment, Balthar struggled to comprehend the king’s allusion. ‘Ah … the … the uprising in the north?’ he stuttered.
‘The time for brooding has passed. All hell is breaking loose.’ William clenched one gauntleted fist. ‘The long-expected invasion by the Danes has come.’
Balthar grew cold. ‘How many men?’
‘Some two hundred and forty ships sailed past the south and have been raiding the east, each one filled with Sweyn Estrithson’s most seasoned warriors.’ The king prowled around the hearth, his face darkening. ‘A force as large as the one you English faced at Stamford Bridge three summers gone.’
‘Harold defeated them—’
‘And in that victory your army was torn apart. This time the Northmen will be aided by your own kind. Word reaches me that across Northumbria the folk are rising up in readiness to join Sweyn’s men. Edgar the Aetheling, Gospatric and Waltheof have amassed their own army and are also set to join the Danes.’
Balthar blanched, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. ‘A force of that size has never been known. What hope do we have?’
The king lashed out with the back of his hand. Balthar saw stars, and when he came round a moment later he was sprawled on the flagstones. The iron taste of blood filled his mouth.
William loomed over him, his face as fierce as that of a ravening wolf. ‘I will not let what I have gained slip through my grasp like that whipped cur, Harold. This land will be mine, though I slaughter every man, woman and child living in it.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BLOOD SPATTERED ON the boards. The kneeling captive wrenched his head back from the fist slammed into his blue-mottled face. Gore caked his nose and dripped from his split lip. He let his head drop, his sweat-soaked hair falling across his features. Both his arms had been yanked up behind his back, tied at the wrists with hempen rope, with the other end thrown over the rafter and pulled taut. His vinegar-reek filled that hot, dusty house. Fear-sweat, Alric thought, sickened by what he was witnessing. The man’s rasping breath echoed through the stillness. His name was Jurmin, a weaver who had lived in Ely long before the rebel army came. He had always seemed a good man, the monk thought, diligent, courteous, with a quick wit, and he bowed his head in church without any prompting.
Two men stood in the shadows, spears at the ready in case Jurmin showed any resistance. Hengist prowled in front of the prisoner, his knuckles split. ‘Answer me,’ Hengist demanded. ‘Who else works for the king?’
‘I am true,’ Jurmin mumbled through his ragged lips. ‘I would never risk the lives of my own by helping the Bastard’s men.’
‘Lies.’ Another punch cracked through the dry air.
The captive threw his head back, his eyes filled with tears of pain, or rage, or frustration. ‘You take our food to fill the bellies of your men, when we can barely feed our own,’ he shouted. ‘Is it any wonder some here whisper behind your backs?’
Hengist levelled another blow.
Was this what it had come to? Alric wondered. They had arrived in Ely as saviours, but now stayed on as tormentors. How long before the folk of Ely became sickened by the undercurrents of fear and threat that now rippled among the houses? Since the store had been burned and the threat of starvation loomed larger, Hereward had grown colder than at any time since Alric had known him. At least he had insisted no lives should be taken. But he sat in the church every morning and listened to the tales of his spies, the rumours and the gossip that took on more weight with each telling. Neighbours pointed fingers at neighbours, perhaps in all honesty or perhaps in fear that they themselves would be accused. And Hereward’s warriors hauled in men and women to face harsh questions – and worse, if the accusations were great.
Jurmin spat another gobbet of blood on to the boards. The monk winced as he searched the man’s battered features. He saw no guilt there, though he knew he could be mistaken. But he had never felt the accusations against the weaver were true. They reeked of petty jealousies against a man who had always caught a woman’s eye. No more, he thought, as he studied the man’s pulped face.
Unable to bear witness to the brutality any longer, he slipped out into the hot day. No one noticed him go. Shielding his eyes against the glare, he looked out over Ely boiling under the merciless sun. The baked mud tracks among the houses were deserted, the sound of the looms and the hammers barely a whisper in the stillness. It had been this way for days now, this feeling of the world holding its breath. Fearful eyes turned towards the gleaming landscape, watching for an attack they all knew must soon come, waiting, sweating, hungry and ti
red. Anxious eyes turned to their neighbours, suspecting ones they had once called friend. The relentless heat only made tempers simmer more. The entire settlement felt as though it was on the brink of catching alight. Would that the rains would come to dampen passions.
He glanced up towards the food stores where men in dented helms and rusted hauberks squatted by the doors. These guards were all Northmen, former huscarls and axes-for-hire, the fiercest warriors that Hereward had at his disposal. Though they had lost only a little of their supplies with the burning of the store, every morsel was precious. No one would now dare venture near the provisions with those cold Viking gazes levelled at them.
Alric shivered, despite the heat. His neck prickled at the mounting sensation that this terrible waiting was about to end. What came after would undoubtedly be worse still.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he hurried down the winding path, through the gates, and under the cool shade of the ash trees to the edge of the vast expanse of marsh. Fat flies buzzed over the brown pools of water. The air reeked of rotting vegetation. A few men gathered around the small jetty of iron-hard timbers reaching out from the isle’s bank. They were laughing, a surprising sound in the grim mood of the last few days.
As he neared, he glimpsed a boat moored at the end of the short pier. It was one of those strange craft that he had seen only the fenlanders use, a seemingly unstable circular design with cured hide stretched over a willow frame. But the local folk skimmed across the surface of the marsh upon them, propelled by a long ash pole.
Hereward stood at the centre of the group of men, more at ease than Alric had seen him since the night of the feast. When the group broke up, two of the men heaved a bale between them and set off up the path. Hereward strolled over, cracking his knuckles.