"So-o-o! This payment? How much?" Morkar was evidently a man concerned with things economic.
"Sufficient."
'.'To raise and feed and arm many men requires much money."
"Even when the fight is your own? The enemy your oppressor? The cause yours, not ours?"
"What is your, or your King Malcolm's, interest in this?" Edwin asked. "Why are you seeking to have us fight?"
"We also hate William. He threatens Cumbria, in Scots Strathclyde. Malcolm is now wed to Edgar's sister. He believes that we must act together."
"But with my men!"
"And others. Many others. Malcolm prepares a fleet, has a great army mustered. We have been winning promises from Saxon lords. Many are ready to march. But look to you, my lords, as leaders."
"You offered them moneys also?"
"Some. The greater part of it had to be kept for you. Who can field most men, should lead." Cospatrick shrugged. "And of course, for this Hereward."
There was a pause. "He is a small man. Of no importance. With a band of cut-throat fenmen. What need has he of moneys?"
"He has taken William's measure. Fought him for more than a year. Made the Isle of Ely a refuge for many. Broken men, yes — but men who are fighting. Are not these better than earls' men who will not, my friends?"
Another pause as, angrily, they chewed and gulped. There was a hostility between the Mercian brothers and Hereward of Bourne. There was even a tale that he was of illegitimate kin to themselves, possibly because of nothing more than that the fathers of both were named Leofricson.
"A thousand armed men, well led, are worth much gold," Morkar observed.
"Two thousand are worth more. Three thousand, more still!"
Again silence.
"Maldred — shall we say a chalice with one hundred gold pieces for these good lords? How think you?"
Nodding, Maldred went back up to their chamber, where two of Cospatrick's own men kept guard on their treasure. He counted out the coins into a suitable large golden cup.
Back at the hall the brothers' eyes gleamed when they saw the chalice, itself worth more than the pieces which filled it.
"Yours," Cospatrick said, pushing it across the table. "And more, much more. If you will find the men."
"How much more?" Morkar insisted.
"How many men can you raise . . . ?"
Gulping down his ale and taking a rib of beef with him — since he could hardly carry away eel-pie — Maldred left them to their unsavoury bargaining.
By mid-day Cospatrick was satisfied — or as nearly so as was possible, with inebriation setting in again for their hosts. They had the promise of three thousand men within the week —and no more gold to change hands until these were mustered and ready to march. He and Maldred left Edgar, Waltheof and the others of their party to keep the Alfgarsons up to scratch and to help marshal the assembly. Also to send out messengers to the thanes and lords they had visited on their way, to tell these that the Earls Edwin and Morkar had joined King Edgar in armed uprising, and to bring or send their contingents to the muster in the Peakland heights forthwith. With a mere dozen horsemen as escort now — for this was to be a very secret expedition — they set out, with two Mercians as guides. They took their treasure with them.
They had almost as much country to traverse as they had had from Durham to the Peak — one hundred and thirty miles or so. But this was very different country, low-lying, fertile, once populous and almost wholly Norman-occupied — save for the devastated areas. In fact, it was these dire stretches of man-made desert which made the journey a practical proposition, for by using their grim reaches for route, however circuitous, linked together by night-marches and detours to avoid danger-spots, they were able to accomplish a large part of their difficult travelling unobserved, or at least unaccosted.
But it made grievous and terrible riding, through what should have been a good and lovely land. Most of the burning and sacking and killing had been done during the previous two years, so that green growth had sprung up partly to hide the fire-blackened desolation. But it was still all there beneath, the sour acrid dust of it rising around them only partially to overcome the stench of rotting carcases of man and beast. Out of the growth rose the charred skeletons of roof-timbers and door-posts and trees, from all too many of which the grisly fruit of flesh-tattered and shrunken bodies still hung, amidst flocks of obscene birds. They rode through many dead villages and small towns, and unnumbered farmsteads, with the only life the rooting swine and half-wild poultry. And rats. The rats were everywhere, legion. Maldred for one felt sickened to the heart of him.
They went east by south, avoiding Alfreton and Derby, to cross Erewash near Codnor and so into the welcome fastnesses of Sherwood Forest. Southwards now, giving Nottingham a wide circuit to the Vale of Witham and Ermine Street into the levels of Kesteven, with water becoming ever more of a problem, standing, seeping, flooding water. To avoid the marshes they turned more and more into the south, through the worst devastated areas, to cross Welland near Stamford. Now Peterborough lay ahead, and here they were particularly circumspect, for it was known to be an armed camp, the headquarters of the Norman forces arrayed against Hereward, its great monastery the late Canute's favourite retreat when he had turned religious.
Now they felt their way needfully into the no-man's-land where the scouting parties of both forces might be operating. It quickly became real fenland, waterlogged with meres and pools and ditches everywhere, appalling country to fight over unless born to it, and disastrous for cavalry — hence the Norman failure here. Their Mercian guides were useless in this extraordinary terrain. All they knew was that somewhere ahead was the Isle of Ely, a great tract of firmer ground in the quaking watery wilderness, twenty-five miles across no less, almost the last quite unconquered corner of all England. Horses were a positive hindrance here. Landmarks were almost non-existent, any sort of straight course impossible. Soon the travellers were utterly lost, floundering in more than their footsteps.
Happily they were not long in being picked up by a patrol of Hereward's fenmen, in what proved to be Wimblington Fen, before they had wandered too far, with a seemingly impassable water-barrier ahead — and not over-gently treated by their rescuers, who were predictably suspicious of all strangers. These took them, by devious ways, and eventually by flat-bottomed scows, used apparently for cattle transport, across a wide open channel above which an early-autumn haze obscured the further prospect, until there rose above it all the roofs and spires of St. Ethelreda's Abbey of Ely itself, an unlooked-for sight in those endless flats.
There proved to be quite a sizeable town around the abbey, with whole streets of clay houses and hovels, warehouses and barns and brewhouses, even windmills — for this had to be very much a self-sufficient community, capital indeed of a self-contained land — if land anything so excessively watery could be described. The catching, farming, fattening, drying and smoking of eels appeared to be the principal occupation. But sheep and cattle seemed to thrive in these marshes, and spinning and weaving and tanning were much in evidence; also cider-presses, for there were orchards, like leafy islands, everywhere that the ground was sufficiently firm. The visitors were surprised and impressed.
They were conveyed to the abbey, and received by the Abbot Thurstan, a lean and muscular Benedictine of middle years, known to be much more than any mere spiritual adviser and useful provider of food and shelter to the outlawed Hereward, in effect his second-in-command. He was, indeed, also his landlord, for Hereward was a tenant of the abbey, with the former Abbot Brand, now dead, his uncle. Hereward himself was off on some venture. Thurstan knew of Cospatrick, of course, and when he heard that they had come to aid in the fight against the Normans, his welcome grew the warmer.
Waiting for Hereward, they discussed strategy. It quickly became evident that, cleric or none, their host had a full and swift grasp of things military and something of a flair for tactics. By the time the leader himself arrived, in the late
evening, they had in fact worked out quite a possible plan of action.
Hereward Leofricson was a large, a huge, man, of a stature to match his achievements. Heavily bearded, with a shock of long fair hair, he had twinkling blue eyes and a ready smile to counter his distinctly fearsome appearance. He was mud-spattered, as were all who travelled the fens, and vastly hungry.
He talked as he ate, through mouthfuls of food. "The Norman can be beat, yes. If we choose the field. Not he. He can beat us with armour and cavalry and bowmen. Aye, and with discipline. But we can use the land to fight for us. So we draw him to where his horses are of no use to him, where on foot his heavy plate-armour drags him down, where there is no mass target for his arrows. Into our marshes. Or in dense scrub-forest."
"Yes. The pity that so little of England is such," Cospatrick commented.
"It need not be. So long as there is sufficient to defeat him on."
"If you can draw him there."
"Aye, there is the rub. He is wary. Will not commit himself here. In large force. When we can coax him in, we beat him. Now, he will not be drawn much east of Peterborough. This devil-spawn Turold seeks now only to contain us."
"Turold . . . ?"
"An accursed Norman priest, whom William has appointed Abbot of Peterborough. He ravens like any wolf, a man of blood. They say that William sent him here saying that since he behaved like a soldier rather than a monk, he would provide him with someone to fight! Us. So the Normans here have a priest as leader." He looked over and grinned at Thurstan. "We answer him as best we can!"
"How many men do you have?"
"Of my own, some two thousand. But many broken men have flocked here, to the fens. Not all are of the best. But some are good. And learning how to be marshmen. Enough to double my force. I have never brought them all to battle, yet, for the Norman will not come for us in force. If only I could coax them in . . ."
"I think that I know how you might. With the good Abbot, and Maldred of Atholl, I have been discussing this. I say that if you muster your full strength near enough to Peterborough to be an open threat. And then another force, as large, say four thousand men, comes eastwards to join you, as openly — at least for the last part. Then the Normans will be forced to move. In strength. To prevent the junction of so large an army."
"Who would raise so large a force?"
"It is being raised now. The Earls Edwin and Morkar, with Edgar the Atheling, are mustering now. In Peakland. With other Saxon lords."
"Those! They will do nothing. Or do little and badly. These are but straw-men!"
"They may not have to do so much. Their part is to draw the enemy — for you to slaughter in your marshes."
The big man chewed reflectively. "You believe they would attempt this?"
"We are paying them well to do it."
"They would require to be skilfully led. I have no faith in these Saxons." The men of the fens were not really of Saxon origin, but Angles with a strong admixture of Danish blood. This was, after all, East Anglia and formerly part of the Danelaw.
"Send of your own folk, to lead them. Send the good Abbot, here."
"The problem will be to get the Saxons down into the marshes before the Normans can reach them," Thurstan said. "Else there could be a massacre. But on the wrong side!"
"It will have to be carefully planned, yes. The place well chosen. So that the Normans will be tempted to follow, almost forced to follow. Into ground where they will be trapped and your fenmen can descend upon them. Ground which the Saxons can reach from the north-west. Yet in your Ely marshes. You can think of such?"
"How long until this Saxon host appears?" Hereward asked.
"This is our fourth day gone. Three days more, to win back. Then four more. A week. Can you have your people ready in a week?"
"Yes." There was no debate, no temporising, no bargaining, about Hereward.
Maldred actually brought up the subject of money. "Do you need gold?" he asked. "To aid you in this?"
"Gold? Why should I need gold? All men love gold, yes.
But need it? No. We do not fight for gold, my lords, but for our freedom, our homes and land. Our hatred of the usurper."
"To your credit, friend." Cospatrick smiled. "But have I not heard that you, on occasion, have found considerable treasure for your taking? Was it not from Peterborough Abbey?"
"That! That was Norman gold. Stolen from our churches. By that evil man Turold. We but took it back. Brought it here, for Thurstan. But then, the Danes stole it from us! Such is gold — a stone for stumbling."
"If you have gold and to spare, my lord Earl, give some small part to Holy Church here," the Abbot put in. "We have lost much through the Danish raids."
"Very well," Cospatrick agreed. "Suitable that some of Eldred's treasure should come back to the Church..."
And so, thus easily, it was settled. Cospatrick, Maldred and Abbot Thurstan would go back to Peakland, and bring on the Saxon host. A rendezvous was selected, in the area between March and Chatteris, using the River Nene's flood-plain as tactical field, for ten days hence — a week would probably be too soon, with the Saxons mainly on foot. The thing was worked out in fair detail, with contingency plans in case of a variety of major hitches. These two were easy men to work with.
MALDRED FRETTED AS he rode. He berated himself for his impatience and irritation with these slow-moving Saxons, telling himself that they could not help it, that it was not in their nature to hurry or to be amenable to discipline or even to greatly enthuse. They were friendly, cheerful and courageous, which probably should have been enough. Moreover he was assured, even by Thurstan, that it did not greatly matter that they were already a day late for the link-up with Hereward's force — which would not evaporate into the hazy marshland air. In a way, the delay might be all to the good, giving more time for the Normans to become aware of the situation and to summon reinforcements — for the whole idea was that this should be a major defeat and disaster for the invaders, with large numbers trapped; it was even hoped that all of East Anglia might thereafter be recovered and used as a base area for an expanded English uprising and campaigning, its ports available for the looked-for Scottish ship-borne army, with possibly even Danish aid — although the fenmen, understandably, were less than keen on that.
Looking behind him at the vast straggling host, spread out in groups and parties — nothing so orderly as companies — over a great area, in no least haste and almost holiday mood, Maldred wondered how effective they were going to be. Perhaps they all, leaders included, were taking too literally the suggestion that they were to be the bait rather than the trap itself? If the Normans were to descend upon them now . . .
This was their sixth day out from the Peak, a large enough force not to have to hide themselves from any or to make tactical detours — save for reasons of terrain — and so able to follow the shortest route, by Alfreton and Sherwood Forest and Grantham and Bourne. No doubt, all the way, messages would have streamed away to inform the Norman authorities of their existence, numbers and progress. But that was the intention. Thurstan and Cospatrick had in hand the screen of mounted Scots acting as scouts well ahead of the column, to give warning of any trouble.
They were nearing the chosen strategic area here, just east of March, where the sluggish Nene wound its way into the wettest marshland and there spread itself into a vast shapeless network of channels and pools and meres, and so continued, forming a corridor perhaps eight miles by three, an all but impassable maze which ended eventually in the open water around Ely itself. Hereward and Thurstan had agreed that this was the most hopeful scene for the attempt, almost midway between Peterborough and Ely. The Fens army was to be massed to the south of this barrier, threatening Peterborough from the south-east, in the Raimsey and Tick Fen vicinity; the Saxon array to approach from the north-east, in what would appear to be a joint attack on the Norman-held city. It was not in the Norman nature to wait to be assailed by the despised, conquered and rebellious English, and it cou
ld be assumed that they would choose to descend upon the advancing Saxons, on firm ground, rather than on the amphibious fenmen in their own swamps. The main project was based, on this assumption, but contingency plans were made for varying eventualities.
Maldred would have preferred to ride with the scouts, but Cospatrick was anxious that one or other of them should always be in the company of Edgar and the Saxon earls, to try to make sure that any urgent messages sent back were promptly and properly attended to — no sinecure of a task. Actually Edgar and the earls now were scarcely on speaking terms. They had never loved each other, and now Edgar accused the brothers of being in Cospatrick's pocket, and only in this venture out of love of gold not of loyalty to himself. There was some truth in this, to be sure — which did not help. So the Saxon leadership rode in two companies, Edgar, Waltheof, Siward Biorn, Merleswegen and others from Scotland, with a few unfriends of the earls; and Edwin and Morkar, with old Bishop Ethelwin who had joined them, and their own ealds and thanes. Maldred tended to ride with the earls rather than with Edgar — who did not love him either.
It was in the early afternoon that Cospatrick rode back at speed to announce that the Normans had indeed issued from Peterborough in force and were heading this way roughly parallel with the course of the Nene, in the Whittlesey area. Thurstan was keeping them under observation meantime. There were about five hundred knights and cavalry and possibly two thousand spearmen and archers. Thurstan advised that the Saxon army halted meanwhile, to give time for Hereward to be informed and to bring his fenmen south-east-about by intricate routes through the marshes, with a view to a final trapping of the Normans in the Langwood and Wimblington Fens northeast of Chatteris.
Margaret the Queen Page 19