Cospatrick sent Maldred to announce the arrival of Edgar, rightful King of England, and of the Earls of Dunbar and Northumbria and of Cumberland, to see the Archbishop of York, with greetings from the King of Scots. This resounding announcement quickly won him into the presence of Walchere, a tall, ruddy-cheeked man of middle years with shrewd eyes, who had succeeded old Ethelwin in the see whom Maldred had last seen on that ship in Wearmouth Bay. It was this Walchere who had sent the monk Turgot to attend the royal wedding at Dunfermline. He was known to be of independent mind and incensed at the Conqueror's scornful treatment of Holy Church, especially the deposition of Archbishop Stigand and the maltreatment of his own superior Eldred of York. He was cautious, however, and declared that he would welcome the distinguished visitors provided that they came in peace and goodwill. But that, sadly, Archbishop Eldred was gravely ill, and that he feared for his life.
This last was a blow to the party from Scotland, for Eldred might have been the key to much, the most senior and notable churchman in England now that Stigand was imprisoned and the unknown Lanfranc in his place at Canterbury. Walchere was sympathetic, but not a great deal of use to them. His position was complicated by the fact that his territorial lord here, the Earl Waldeve of Deira, was also his close friend and was now apparently firmly in William's camp; indeed it had been part of the Earl Waldeve's bargain with the Conqueror that his friend Walchere of Hexham should get the bishopric. The ambitious new building which was going up nearby was in fact a great Norman-style castle-palace which the pair of them would occupy, so oddly close was the relationship. So that there was not much that Walchere might do to encourage the visitors. But he did not seek to prevent them having an interview with the sick Archbishop.
Edgar now suddenly asserted himself. He declared that he was the rightful king of this realm and that Eldred was his subject and friend. Admittedly he had failed him, and crowned the hated Norman; but he had repented of that folly, and he, Edgar, would forgive him. He would therefore interview him alone, as was suitable. This he insisted upon, with Walchere confirming that it was inadvisable for numbers to enter the sickroom, or for any controversy to take place, for the Archbishop was very frail. Cospatrick cursed below his breath, but was outmanoeuvred this once, being anxious not to seem to devalue Edgar's authority here in England.
However when presently Edgar rejoined them, he was in sour mood. The old man was doddering, he announced, all but senile, hardly had recognised him, seemed scarcely aware of what was going on, what was at stake. There was nothing to be gained there, nothing.
Cospatrick started up, asserting that they had not come all this way for that. He would go up and see what he could do. But Walchere firmly put his foot down. The Archbishop was in his house and care, as were they all. He was responsible. One interview with the invalid was sufficient for the present. In the morning, perhaps . . .
In the early morning, an unheard-of thing, Cospatrick attended Lauds, the cock-crow service of the Romish Church to start the day — whilst the others still slept. Walchere was impressed, and permitted the Earl thereafter to go up and see the sick man — who was apparently at his poor best first thing in the morning. Maldred, arisen by then, went with him.
The emaciated old man in the great bed looked frail indeed, a shrunken shadow of a tall and powerful figure, with a gaunt tonsured head and eyes deep in hollow sockets. But the eyes themselves were bright enough, almost fevered, far from dulled in senility. The Bishop introduced them, and left.
After their greetings, jerky and a little difficult, there was silence whilst the haggard prelate eyed them searchingly. At length he spoke, thinly, tremorously, but with no lack of certainty.
"You have come from that coxcomb Edgar?"
Cospatrick did not fail to note the tone, however weak. "No, my lord Archbishop. He is but in our company. We are from the King of Scots. Cousins of His Highness, both."
"You, Cospatrick, I... have heard of. Not always ... to your credit!"
"I would have been surprised otherwise," the Earl admitted, smiling. "Folk only spoken well of are, I swear, exceeding dull! Yourself, my lord, I have heard, are not all saint!"
A momentary twitch, which might have been a hint of amusement, flickered across the wasted features. "Bold!" he acknowledged. "Malcolm your King ... is no saint. But is now . . . wed to one ... I hear."
"She, the Queen, sends you her greetings and remembrances, my lord," Maldred put in.
"She was . . . ever the best of that family. Likest her grandsire Edmund. I never could abide ... his sainted brother Edward!"
This whispered outburst seemed to exhaust Eldred and he lay for a little, eyes closed, breathing heavily, while his visitors glanced at each other.
Then they found the sunken gaze on them again. "What does your Malcolm . . . want of me? A done man," he got out.
Cospatrick judged his man. "Money," he said baldly. "Aye. You are frank."
"Would you have me otherwise? Your Edmund Ironside was my grandmother's brother, see you."
"Ha! Yes — Elgiva. I had . . . forgot. So you are . . . some kin ... to Edgar."
"To my sorrow."
"He, he wanted money also."
"For a different purpose."
"Eh...?"
"He wants it to gain a throne for himself." "And you?"
"I seek it to fight Norman William. There is a difference."
"Aye. That is true." There was a sudden and distinct strengthening of that faint voice. "William the Bastard — hell receive him!"
"As you say, my lord. But — hell requires some assistance! King Malcolm seeks to provide that. But it is a costly business. He seeks to unite your Saxon lords, in armed rising. To assist this Hereward. To rouse Edwin, Morkar, Engelwine and the rest. Money, gold is required — of which Malcolm is short. Your earls and lords here have all been sorely impoverished by William's taxes and burdens. You know it all. To bring them to arms, we need treasure."
"Such treasure as I hold ... is not mine. Belongs to Holy Church."
"No doubt, my lord. But in this, it will be used for Holy Church's benefit. The Norman tramples on Holy Church. None knows that better than you. He puts his own men wrongfully into your benefices. What use your treasure to the Church you serve if William lays his bloody hands on it?"
The old man lay silent.
Cospatrick came a step nearer to the bed, leaning forward. "I hear that William has named a new man, a Norman, to take your place, my lord. One Thomas. You know of him?"
The broken prelate seemed to convulse with a spasm of sheer fury, shocking to see. He could speak no words.
"So — your treasure will be Thomas's treasure! Or William's. If you let it lie, do not use it aright. Now. Do you wish that, my lord Archbishop?"
The croak emitted from those blue lips was less than intelligible — but entirely eloquent and negative.
There was a pregnant pause, all waiting. Then the words came.
"How can ... I trust you . . . Cospatrick? Trust any?" That was agonised.
"I too hate William," the Earl said simply. "Whom .yon crowned!"
There was a long, gulping sigh from the bed.
Maldred spoke. "I swear, my lord, that all is truth, honest. That this is King Malcolm's purpose. That our mission is to seek to lead the Saxon lords in revolt. Forthwith. That this is what the gold is for — not for Edgar. Or for any other."
Eldred gave his almost imperceptible nod. "When do you ride?"
"So soon as we may. Time is short."
"So be it. Leave me now. I am weary. But send Walchere to me."
As Cospatrick raised a hand in salute, Maldred again intervened.
"My lord Archbishop — the Queen. Margaret Atheling asks, begs your charity. To help her. She seeks to free the Saxon slaves, taken by the Scots. There are many. Their owners must be paid. She is gathering moneys for this. Believes that you will help. I am to speak for her. Here is her ring. She is good, kind. Will you aid her? And them?" That came out in
something of an embarrassed rush.
Again the hint of a nod. "Give her ... an old man's . . . blessing." Two trembling fingers were raised, as much seemingly to point to the door as in benediction.
They left him, a little doubtfully, to seek Bishop Walchere.
It was after they had breakfasted that the Bishop came, to draw them apart from their companions and take them to a small chamber nearby.
"I do not know what you have said, or done," he declared. "But the Archbishop has been more open-handed than I have ever known him." He pointed to two leather bags on a table, one large, one small. "This is for King Malcolm's use. This for Queen Margaret."
Even Cospatrick was affected when he opened his weighty bag and saw what it contained. Eldred had indeed been generous. As well as hundreds of gold and silver coins, there were jewels, chains, rings, bracelets, chalices and other vessels, mainly gold, even an earl's sword-belt, far more than either of them had hoped for, a breath-taking treasure. And in the small bag there was sufficient to ransom many slaves, coins, brooches, medallions, trinkets and the like, but above all, a most splendid golden crucifix encrusted with rubies, priceless.
The Bishop eyed them curiously. "This is what you came for?"
. "Yes," Cospatrick admitted. "But we need more than gold to defeat the Norman. You will thank the Archbishop for us. . . ?"
Before they rode, Walchere added his own contribution to Maldred's bag, but nothing to the Earl's.
"The wages of hate and the wages of love!" Cospatrick commented cynically. "And hate will ever win!"
"Not in the end," Maldred said doggedly.
.* * *
Thereafter they rode cautiously indeed, not slowly but by unfrequented ways and high moorlands, due southwards now but making many detours and always with scouts out ahead, guided by one of Walchere's men. They had basically about one hundred and forty miles to go, but half as far again by the routes they took, partly to avoid populous and strategic areas in an increasingly Norman-dominated land, and partly to visit certain Saxon chiefs thought to be prepared to do more than curse the Normans. So they went by the North and West Riding moors and dales, and Haworth, to the Hebden Water by the Forest of Trawden, and then began the long climb into Peakland and the Derwent, making brief but high-pressure visits to ealds and thanes and lords on the way, Edgar playing the king, his Saxon friends persuasive, Cospatrick the paymaster. They had some limited success, with gold eloquent and word of Hereward's Anglian successes encouraging. But it became ever more evident that major military co-operation would depend on the active participation of their natural leaders, the Saxon earls, most of whose attitudes to the Conqueror had been equivocal, to say the least. Waldeve of Deira and Northumbria was in William's pocket now, although he was really a Dane, of course; Edwin, their own lord, talked but did nothing; Ulfwin of Kent was a mere boy; Edmund of Essex was married to a Norman, as was Ecgbert of Sussex. Wessex, greatest of all, was now wholly a prisoner of William, who had taken over his capital, Winchester, as his own favourite seat. So the visitors could not judge the extent of their success or otherwise, until they had made an impact on Earl Edwin of Mercia. Maldred, however, did rather better, on Margaret's behalf, managing to extract small but useful sums from men who found that a deal easier than to commit themselves finally to armed intervention.
Mercia, once an independent kingdom under the mighty Offa and Penda, was now much shrunken to a Midlands territory of something over one thousand square miles comprising much of the spine of England, its perimeters now largely occupied by the Normans who had carved whole new earldoms out of it. In consequence, Edwin and his brother Morkar ought to have been in the forefront of any opposition to the invaders, as their father Alfgar had been, their sister Eldgyth married to the late King Harold. But, although fighters, they were not of the same calibre and stuff of leadership. It was the Saxons' great misfortune that in their major hour of need, the generation of leaders seemed to have sunk to the second-rate. The cream of the race, of course, had fallen at Stamford Bridge and Hastings.
The travellers came, on the fifth day, into the high Peak area of Derby-in-Mercia, above the Derwent valley, where Edwin now roosted in a hilltop eyrie, once the site of a British fort, now little more than a robber's hold and a poor establishment for the successor of the ancient Kings of Mercia, once the most powerful in England. Their great castle of Tamworth, thirty-five miles to the south, was now the seat of an arrogant Angevin baron. Always on the watch for trouble, Edwin's guards intercepted the newcomers miles before they reached their goal, and so they were escorted up the steep corkscrewing track to the fort in fine style, the royal banner of the Athelings, specially sewn by the princesses at Dunfermline, flying bravely at their head.
The effect, however, was somewhat wasted, for although it was not much after mid-day, both Edwin and his brother Morkar were so drunk as barely to be able to greet the visitors coherently. This, of course, was the great weakness of the Saxons, and undoubtedly the reason for many a sad defeat. The Scots were hard drinkers too, but not to rival these. The Saxons drank ale, mead and cider with a sort of unquenchable enthusiasm, the more so since troubles had descended upon them.
Edgar was considerably offended at receiving little in the way of royal welcome. After all, he had once gone through a ceremony of proclamation as king, at which Edwin had been present. The consequent sulks perhaps helped to explain the less than white-hot Saxon enthusiasm for his cause.
There was nothing that they could usefully achieve that day, for the brothers were not quite so inebriated that they could not give orders for the visitors to be feasted — and plied with drink, naturally, of which it would have been unmannerly for the hosts themselves not to partake. As a result they were carried to bed eventually drunker than ever. Cospatrick and Maldred decided that they must circumvent this process somehow, and perhaps use the same tactics as at Durham — without the unfortunate necessity for early-morning religious exercises.
So at least two of the visitors were up betimes next day and awaiting the Saxon earls in what passed as their hall when eventually they came down for breakfast, both within a few moments. They were both big shaggy men, with full beards and shoulder-length fair hair. The Saxons, unlike the Normans, did not much go in for hair-cutting and shaving. Edwin, in his early thirties, was stocky and inclining to corpulence; Morkar, two years younger, was less heavily-built, less hearty. Now, they looked at their early-risen guests a little doubtfully. They knew Cospatrick sufficiently well, after all, his quality and repute; Morkar indeed had been one of the many who had for a little been Earl of Northumbria, in its recent troubled story — hardly a matter for congratulation with the representative of the original displaced line.
"A good day to you, friends," Cospatrick called out genially, for all that. "You are the better for a night's sleep, I vow!"
Uncertain how to take that, the brothers exchanged glances, muttering something vague.
Retaining the initiative, their formidable visitor went on almost without pause, "Have you thought further? To improve on what we spoke of last night?"
Again the blank stares. Clearly last night was something of a closed book for the Alfgarsons.
"Can you not commit more men? And more swiftly? We — or at least King Malcolm — can find the money."
"Men . . . ?" Edwin wondered.
"Money . . . ?" Morkar said.
"To be sure. You can do better than a mere three thousand, I swear. You could double that, God's Blood! And, who knows, we might double the gold."
Bewildered, the others eyed each other. "What three thousand? And what gold?" Edwin demanded. "Are you out of your wits, man?"
"Do not say that you have forgotten? Or would resile from your promises? In the sacred cause of England! And Mercia. The downfall of Norman William?"
Edwin sat down heavily at the board, calling for meats. And for ale, of course. He gestured mutely to his guests to sit.
Maldred took a hand. "My lord Earl — ho
w many men can you muster? In short time. And how many later? In a few more days."
"Muster for what?"
"For battle, what else? You will not defeat the Norman sitting here." That was Cospatrick again.
"I have not many men. Since York. Aye, and Stamford and Senlac..."
"Your earldom is still large, widespread. With many men on it. Do not tell us that Mercia has lost all its fighters? Or its will to fight!"
"We have fought all too much. And with little but sorrow to show for it."
"We could give you something to show for it, man. Or do you want it all to go to this Hereward?"
"A plague on Hereward! In his fenland mud!"
"William also has reason to say a plague on Hereward and his mud!" Maldred reminded.
Morkar spoke. "This of gold, money? What do you mean?"
"I mean that King Malcolm — and King Edgar, to be sure — know well that the Saxons are prevented from putting their full strength on the field, having lost so much treasure as well as blood, by robbery, by taxations and long warring. So we have collected much treasure. The Archbishop Eldred has been generous. We can pay for men. Help to feed the fires of war!"
Margaret the Queen Page 18