‘Crungon walo wide,’ Ædda muttered as we skirted the edge of one such manor. ‘Cwoman woldagas, swylt eall fornom secgrofra wera.’
Something about those words was familiar. ‘Far and wide men were slaughtered,’ I said, trying to remember. ‘Days of pestilence came, and death took all the brave men away.’
Surprised, he shot me a glance. ‘You know it, lord?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘But you said the same thing when you were insensible with the poppy-juice after you were injured. Erchembald thought it might be Scripture, although he didn’t know the passage.’
‘Not Scripture,’ he said, his voice solemn as he turned his gaze down. ‘It comes from an old verse, one that was spoken to me when I was small by my mother, God rest her soul. She received it from her father, and he from his father in turn, and in that way it has been passed down through my family across several lifetimes. I know not who first laid down the words, but all my life I have never forgotten them. Sometimes I think of all those I have known who have perished, and certain lines will spring to mind.’
Death took all the brave men away. I thought of Serlo and Pons and Lord Robert, and hoped that somewhere they still lived: that death had not also taken them, my own fellow brave men.
And yet I sensed there was something the Englishman was not telling me: something he had hinted at before but of which he had never spoken openly. For my part I had never pressed him, but it seemed more important than ever now, when I needed strong and reliable men around me.
‘You used to be a warrior yourself, didn’t you?’ I asked. ‘You’re no stranger to the field of battle.’
He did not answer, not straightaway at least, and for a while we rode on in silence. I caught a glimpse of a dog, thin and wretched, wandering the ruins of its former home, plaintively barking for its master who would not come. Apart from birds and the occasional hare darting across the path, it was the only creature we had seen all day.
‘Do you remember that day earlier this summer when the Welsh came, when we pursued them into the lands across the dyke?’ Ædda asked.
He knew I did, and so I waited for him to go on.
‘That was the first time I had killed a man in fourteen years.’ Anger stirred in his eyes and in his knuckles, which had turned white as his hands balled into fists. ‘I did not like doing it then, and I like it even less now. Yes, it is true that I have seen war, but I am no warrior.’
‘What happened fourteen years ago?’
He snorted, as if the idea that I might be interested were somehow ridiculous, but when he saw my stern expression, he answered: ‘This story I have told to very few others. If I am to tell you, lord, you must swear not to repeat it, not to the priest or anyone else either.’
The rest of the party was a little way behind us, not so far separated from us as to be vulnerable should any attack come, but far enough to be out of earshot.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Go on.’
He regarded me for a moment, as if considering whether or not he could trust me, then sighed. ‘Since the beginning of that year the Welsh had been raiding all along the borderlands: plundering, raping and burning much as they are now. In the summer my lord chose me and my two brothers, Brun and Tatel, to go with him when he was summoned to the war-band of Bishop Leofgar of Hereford, whose writ at the time held sway along this part of the March.’
‘The bishop?’ I asked. ‘What would he know of war?’
‘Very little, as we would come to learn,’ Ædda said bitterly. ‘He was an angry man as I remember, overly fond of his wine and with a high opinion of his own talents. For all his posturing he was no more a war leader than myself or my brothers. I was barely twenty summers old then, and they were some years younger, both of them strong-willed and eager lads. Of the three of us only I knew anything of horsemanship or had any sort of skill at arms, but even I had not seen battle before.’
He inhaled deeply, as if to calm himself. ‘Not until that night at Clastburh. The Welsh came upon our camp while we slept and inflicted a slaughter such as I could never have imagined. I lost my eye when one of the bastards put it out with a spear, although I was among the luckier ones, for I survived. Tatel and Brun fell beside me in the shield-wall, both meeting their ends along with most of our host, my lord, and the bishop himself.’ He shook his head, and there was the slightest moisture in his eye. ‘I was the one who had to take the news back to my sick mother. I was the one who tried to console her, but the grief proved too much for her heart to bear and she too died soon afterwards. After that there was nothing left for me, and though it shames me, I ran away from my old manor, begging in the towns and by the roadsides until my wanderings brought me to Earnford. The steward at the time took pity on me and gave me work in the stables. Until these last few days, that has been my life.’
Ædda had ever been a solemn man, who kept to himself and rarely smiled, and I had long suspected that some sort of hardship lay in his past. Unlike the rest of the villagers he had no kin anywhere on the manor or those neighbouring. Now I knew why.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, knowing the words were trite but having no others to use in their stead.
He nodded, wiping a hand across his face to rid his one good eye of the tears that were forming. ‘I am not like you, lord,’ he said, his voice suddenly small. ‘I do not seek adventure; I have no desire for riches or glory. Just as your sword determines your path, so the horses determine mine, and that is all I have ever wanted.’
‘I understand.’
He did not seem to hear me, but went on: ‘Then this year the Welsh came again, and I slew them because they had done the same to men I’d known. In the same way I ride with you now. When the time comes I will be content to fight alongside you and send our enemies to their graves, for it will be justice. But I will not enjoy it.’
He turned to face me, wearing a grim, troubled expression. That was the most the Englishman had ever spoken in my company, and it took me a few moments to take in everything he had said.
Like me he had set foot upon the sword-path. He had tasted battle, had wielded naked steel and sent men to their deaths. But that was as far as our stories could be compared, for he had only ever done so out of duty. Ever since my fourteenth year all I had ever dreamt of was taking up arms, of serving my lord well and seeing my fame spread. Even now, after everything that had happened in my life, after seeing so many of my friends fall and knowing that I might easily have been among them, still I dreamt of those things. Still I craved the bloodlust, the feel of my sword and shield in my hands, the thrill of the kill. I could neither deny nor restrain it, so deeply was that fighting instinct ingrained within my very bones. It was as much a part of myself as my heart or my head or my stomach. Cut it out and I would die.
In pursuing those desires these last few months, however, I had somehow lost myself and forgotten who I was. Exactly when it had happened I could not say, but at some point my reputation had overtaken me. I had grown proud, and deaf to the good advice of my friends and comrades: all the things I despised in others; all the things I’d promised myself I would never become. I had spent too long glorying in my newfound fame, listening to the tales that other men wove around my exploits, until I had started to believe them myself. Until the myth figured in my mind more clearly than the truth. All this I had allowed to happen, and in so doing had nearly lost everything. Leofrun’s death, Earnford’s destruction: these were God’s ways of punishing me, of putting me back in my place, of reminding me who I was.
And yet the Tancred who led this desperate and hungry band of folk was an altogether different man to the one who had first arrived in Earnford over a year ago. I could see the change being wrought in myself, could feel fresh determination rising up and filling me. All the bruises I had suffered and all the ruin and slaughter I had witnessed only served to make me stronger.
We came upon others as we travelled: men and women whose lords and stewards, kinsfolk, children and livestock had been kille
d before their eyes, whose lives had in one stroke been torn away from them. They tended to be wary of us at first, but when they saw how dirt-stained were our clothes, how weary and ill fed our horses, and how few our weapons, they lost their fear and joined us. Probably they thought they were safer travelling in a group rather than alone, and probably they were right.
Thus over the course of the next few days our numbers grew. Some came laden with scraps of food, pots and whatever other goods that they had managed to salvage from their homes; others brought horses and dogs and even on one occasion two scrawny goats, one of which we later killed for its meat, little though there was.
A very few brought rumours of happenings elsewhere. And so we learnt that a great battle had been fought at Scrobbesburh in which the Norman army under Fitz Osbern and the castellan Roger de Montgommeri had been utterly routed. According to some, the enemy had slain the two commanders before reducing the town to ashes, giving no quarter to man, woman or beast. But others had heard differently; they said the commanders still lived, having managed to fall back to and hold out within the castle, and that Bleddyn had left a small force to besiege the town and lay waste the surrounding country while he took the main part of his host to march upon Stæfford to the east.
Whichever version of the tale was true, the news was not good. The only hope I could find came from the mouth of a timid alewife named Mildburg, the only surviving soul from her manor, who had seen a host of horsemen marching north up the old road known as Wæclinga Stræt that led from Lundene.
Ædda glanced at me. ‘King Guillaume’s army?’
‘If it is, it wouldn’t be before time,’ I muttered. ‘Ask her how long ago she saw them, if she knows how many they numbered, and whether she remembers what their banners were.’
He did so, and returned with the answer: ‘This happened but two days ago. She says they bore many banners, in all manner of colours and with various beasts emblazoned upon them, but chief among them was the golden lion upon a scarlet field.’
That was what I had been hoping to hear. ‘The lion of Normandy.’ So the king was indeed marching, though inwardly I couldn’t help but wonder if it were too late. ‘And their numbers?’
‘At least a thousand, she says, though how many more than that she couldn’t tell me. She claims she only saw them from a distance, and dared not approach any closer for fear of her life.’
Probably Mildburg had done the right thing, but it frustrated me that she was unable to tell us more. As it was, I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. One thousand men would not be nearly enough if we were to drive the enemy out of England and back across the dyke. I only prayed that the real number was much larger, or else that the alewife had merely glimpsed the vanguard or an advance party.
The further we travelled, the more survivors joined us, until our ragtag group had swollen to a band of nearly fifty men, women and children. With every new group of followers came more news; like many hands working together to spin a tapestry, their stories intertwined. Each thread combined with those that had gone before it, so that they often crossed over one another. Some added new colours to the weave or picked out details that the others had missed, until gradually an image began to form in my mind. An image in yellow and orange, brown and black and red. An image of blood; of a kingdom in flames.
Across the rest of Mercia towns were rising in support of the enemy; in many places there had been fighting between English and French and the streets had flowed with blood. In the shires the leading thegns were variously taking up arms in the name of Eadric, the ætheling, or the king, roaming the countryside at the head of their small armies. Travellers were being waylaid on the roads; castles and halls had been burnt to the ground. From the south came stories of a rebellion sweeping through the southern shires of Cornualia, Defnascir and Sumorsæte towards the strongholds of Execestre and Brycgstowe, while from the east flew rumours that the Danish fleet, strengthened by swords-for-hire from Frisia and Flanders, had arrived upon these shores and had raided along the coast, sacking every port between the Temes and the Humbre and leaving only corpses in their wake.
But even that was not the worst part of it. From north of the Humbre came tales that were as bad as anything I had envisioned in my darkest nightmares. Eoferwic had fallen to the ætheling with the help of King Sweyn, the two men having for the moment at least forged an uneasy alliance. The two castles and the great minster church had been put to the torch and the entire city consumed by a raging fire that had blazed for three days and nights. Nearly every one of the Normans, Bretons and Flemings had been cut down in the battle or else had been taken by the flames.
‘It’s said that those who were spared can be counted on a man’s fingers,’ said the man who had brought us this news, a travelling monk by the name of Wigheard who hailed from the town of Licedfeld not far to the north and east. He had been on his way to carry the same tale to his brothers in Wirecestre. He recognised my name when I gave it and was familiar with many of the tales that had been told about me, and therefore was only too eager to ingratiate himself and offer what information he could.
‘What do you mean, spared?’ I asked.
‘Taken captive by the Northumbrians and the Danes,’ Wigheard explained. ‘The rest were killed; none were allowed to escape.’
The Danes were renowned for their ferocity and for the fact that they rarely, if ever, took prisoners. So far as I could see, the only reason they might have for doing so was if these were persons of some standing, whose safe return they could offer to King Guillaume in return for a ransom of silver or some other form of riches.
‘Do you know their names of these captives?’
Wigheard shook his head. ‘No, lord. I only know what I have heard from others.’
Perhaps it was too much to ask; from what the monk had said it sounded like a massacre. In all likelihood that meant Robert and Beatrice had been killed along with the rest of the garrison in the city. I hoped it was not true, but too often of late had I clung on to faith only to see it dashed.
And so I did the only thing that I could, and prayed.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Father Erchembald that evening as we stood around the campfire, where I had gathered together the leading men of that small band for counsel.
Among them were the priest, Ædda, Odgar and the others from Earnford, the monk Wigheard and a handful of those we had met on our wanderings: those who looked as if they knew one end of a spear from another. A more feeble and bedraggled group I had seldom seen; they were hardly the kind of men likely to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. But they were all I had, and so I would have to make do.
‘If the Danes and the ætheling have joined forces then they will overrun the north of the kingdom before long,’ said Galfrid, a slow-witted Fleming, fond of hearing his own voice, who had been steward of one of the ruined manors we had come across. ‘King Guillaume will not be able to fight them off and Eadric and the Welsh as well; not before winter comes at any rate. We would do better to turn south and find safety in Wessex.’
‘If Execestre and Brycgstowe fall to the rebels in the south, not even Wessex will be safe,’ Ædda said with a snort. ‘Wherever we go, it will make no difference. The whole country is rising.’
‘Then what would you have us do, Englishman? Would you rather we waited until those of your countrymen who have fallen in with the Welsh finally catch up with us?’
Ædda advanced upon Galfrid. ‘What are you suggesting?’
The other man was undeterred, even though he stood a head shorter than the stableman. ‘Were it not for the treachery of your kind, none of this would have happened. We would not be roaming the kingdom aimlessly as we are now; instead we’d be keeping warm beside our hearth-fires in our own homes, with food in our bellies and ale-cups in our hands!’
His gaze rested for a moment upon the two seaxes belted to Ædda’s waist, one being that which I had given him. The stableman looked every bit the warrior,
and perhaps that was what aroused Galfrid’s suspicions. Like many of those who had come over since the invasion, he was probably accustomed only to seeing the English as a lesser grade of men, not as equals and certainly not as friends or allies.
‘Lord, this man has no place here,’ he said, turning to me. ‘How do we know he isn’t going betray us?’
‘He won’t,’ I told Galfrid. ‘Ædda is as loyal a man as I have ever known. Besides, he is right. We cannot guarantee that we will find safety in Wessex.’
‘Where do we go, then?’ asked Father Erchembald.
I buried my head in my hands as I tried to think. Having brought all these people here to discuss our plans, I still did not know what to suggest. Since hearing the news from Wigheard, a dark mood had overcome me. Truly it was as Fitz Osbern had said all those weeks ago. Everything was falling into ruin, and the more we tried to prevent it, the quicker it seemed to happen.
‘Tancred?’
I blinked and looked up. The priest was still waiting for an answer.
‘How many men do we have of fighting age?’ I said to no one in particular.
‘No more than a score,’ Ædda replied. ‘But they have no weapons or shields—’
‘Then we will find them some.’
‘From where?’ Galfrid challenged me. ‘And anyway, do you think they will want to fight, after everything they have seen?’
‘If they wish to take vengeance and see justice delivered upon the men who did this, yes.’ If they felt anything like I did, they would be only too eager for blood.
I glanced around the circle, at Rædwulf and Dægric and Odgar, at men from other manors and other hundreds whose names I did not know: Frenchmen and Englishmen alike. None of them made a sound, which I took for a sign that they were in agreement. Either that, or else there was no one willing to speak against me.
The Splintered Kingdom Page 34