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The wild hawk must sit on glove; the wolf must live in wood wretched and lonely; boar must dwell in grove strong with his mighty tusks; the good on Earth must work for glory.
Gnomic Verses, in A Choice of Anglo-Saxon Verse, edited and translated by Richard Hamer
Margaret gathered Ulf into the folds of her cloak and held him close. Rain was seeping from the sky, and now that the heat of the fire was behind them he was shivering with cold. The noise of falling timbers filled the emptiness of night, but she did not dare look back. She hurried on, clutching Ulf’s hand, following the riverbed, all the time keeping close to the sheltering trees.
For a while she wondered if this was what Hell was like: a dark smoky territory where terrible creatures lurked around every corner. For a long time smoke stung her throat and the air they breathed held its pungent smell. The midnight hour must have passed. The mistress had told her to follow the stream and Padar would find them, yet there was no sign of a garrison moving through the woods. She stopped, raised Ulf onto her back, moved forward for a while and set him down again. As they moved deeper into the forest’s rustlings and shadows he stumbled beside her as mute as a wooden puppet. She realised that he was in shock. In one terrible day his whole world had been destroyed and his mother separated from him. It was concern for the little boy’s safety that numbed her fear as they struggled through the darkness.
Later the riverbed became a narrow trail following an incline that looped around a wide stand of ash and vanished. To Margaret’s relief, a trickle of water emerged farther on as they descended. She followed it and her common sense was rewarded when the stream became a river, eventually widening into an elongated pool. ‘Ulf, you must drink. Here, sweeting.’ She helped him to scoop up water into his hands and encouraged him to drink. She sank into a hollow on the bank, leaned her back against a tree trunk and pulled Ulf into her arms. He fell asleep instantly and moments later she felt her own chin drop as she too drifted into sleep.
Ulf was still snuggled against her breast when she woke up. Margaret undid her cloak, covered Ulf with it and eased him into the hollow. She stood, stretched her cramped limbs and then wandered a little way along the river bank. On the far edge of the pool, wraiths of morning mist rose up around a cottage so that it looked as if the small house had floated out onto the water, as if it could shift and slide away again. She could make out a squat jetty thrusting into the river and a cloaked figure emerging from the building. It paused, lifted a pail and moved through the thin tendrils of vapour towards a squawking noise that rose up from the rushes.
As the figure walked into the reeds and closer to where she stood, it looked up and over the pool, as if sensing Margaret’s presence hovering there. Then the woman, for a woman it was, she decided, beckoned to her. Margaret raised her hand in greeting and hurried back to the sleeping child. ‘Come, Ulf,’ she said softly, wakening him. ‘We can have shelter now.’
Ulf began to whimper but Margaret hugged him. ‘Hush, hush, child, it will be safe.’ She took his hand and hurried him through the mist. What she could not see was the gleam of mail caught by the rising sun glinting beyond the trees. She never heard horses nosing through the foliage behind the hut until soldiers emerged out of the wood and into the clearing. She stopped walking and pulled Ulf closer. The silent woman gestured at Margaret to come forward.
Margaret wanted to lift Ulf up into her arms and run back along the track, but she was too frightened to move. The soldiers’ leader, a helmeted man of small stature, dismounted and began to walk forwards, leading his horse. Even clad in armour, a chain-mail tunic, his gait was familiar and that grey stallion was surely from Reredfelle’s stables. It was Thunder, the horse Padar had taken.
He stopped, removed his helmet and called to her, ‘By Christ’s holy bones, Margaret and Ulf! Where is my lady?’
‘Padar! Padar; sweet Lady Mary, St Augustine, St Christopher and thank the holy angels of Heaven for you. But, Padar, you are too late. Reredfelle is destroyed, burnt to the ground!’
Ulf began to wail.
Padar shook his head and leaned down. ‘You are safe, Ulf. We thought as much. We could see smoke from the high ground. Where is she?’
Margaret choked back a sob and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. She gave Ulf to me at the garden gate and told me to find you. My lady turned back. Her ladies, you see …’
‘They have taken her.’ He gave the reins of his horse to one of his men and took Ulf from Margaret, lifted him up, looked at the child’s frightened face and said, ‘Ulf, we will find your mother. But first you will break your fast. The woman here will care for you until I return.’ He set Ulf down and turned to the man who held his horse. ‘And Hamlet will stay with you. After that we’ll decide what to do about all this.’
He knelt and chucked Ulf under the chin. ‘Trust me, it will be all right.’
Padar drew Hamlet a little way off into the trees and, after a short discussion, Hamlet nodded. Padar returned, handed a few coins to the woman. Then he introduced her to them as Hilde. She smiled toothlessly but never spoke. Her silence was as eerie as the early mist.
Padar said to Hilde, ‘You will care for these people. This soldier will protect you. If you betray them to anyone who passes this way, he will kill you. I shall return by nightfall.’ Padar’s face was grim and Ulf began to cry again. The skald patted Ulf’s head, mounted his horse and led his armed troop on along the river bed.
Margaret and Ulf rested with Hilde for two nights waiting for Padar to return. When Ulf cried for Elditha, Hilde gave him infusions of chamomile in mead to help him sleep; she fed them on barley cakes, fish and eggs and gave them pallets to lie upon. Ulf grew calmer. Margaret discovered that although Hilde could hear, she could only grunt in response, and though she knew that Hamlet was watching over them, and observed Hilde disappearing into the forest with bowls of fish stew and loaves of barley bread, she never discovered his whereabouts.
On the third day Padar returned without his troop. He led Elditha’s mare, Eglantine. Ulf buried his head into Eglantine’s flanks and rubbed her nose. The mare had miraculously survived the blaze and had not been taken.
Margaret said, ‘How did Eglantine survive? Did they not steal the horses?’
‘Some, but not all; a couple of them were tethered out in the deer hay.’ He reached up and patted the mare’s neck. ‘They missed this one.’ He was rewarded with a whinny.
Ulf asked, ‘Where is Elf, Padar?’
‘Your pony is with my men, Ulf, gone to be a warrior pony in a great battle.’ It was a lie. Ulf’s pony was gone.
Hamlet shimmied down from his lookout in the tall sycamores nearby and called to them that he had sighted soldiers south of the woods. ‘Normans are scouting manors close by. They’ll be occupied out there for a while but we need to move by nightfall in case they come closer.’
‘No, they won’t come here. They will have been to Crowhurst. They’ll take what they can from the King’s estate and return to their camps around the old Roman fort down near Hastings.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘They’ve gone to find the King. There will be a battle. Go, Hamlet; if you hurry you’ll find them. The fyrd is gathering near Bidborough.’
‘And you, Padar?’
‘I must take the little lad to safety. There are soldiers on the routes south and east of here so we shall ride west along the drovers’ tracks and deliver him to Queen Edith in Winchester.’
Margaret asked, ‘What about my lady?’
Padar touched her arm. ‘Come with me, Margaret.’ He left Ulf with Hamlet and guided her into the trees. He said in a quiet tone, ‘They took them away in carts. A Breton led them. He carried a standard with a wolf emblem. Those who have survived say that after that there was no mercy towards those who had fought them. And the fortunate who remain living are still burying their dead. There is little left of Reredfelle. Wait here.’ He went back to his horse, dug his hands into his
saddle-bag and lifted out a small casket. ‘Except this, I was given it by Father Egbert. He survived in the village church with the villagers who never came to the hall and he found this near a section of the roof which had collapsed. Do you recognise it?’
Margaret traced over the scorched bone plating and the tarnished silver below, where pieces of bone had torn away. She smiled. ‘This belongs to my lady. She keeps a key for it on a chain that hangs around her neck.’
‘We’ll keep it for her, shall we?’
Margaret nodded but there were tears in her eyes. ‘What is to become of us all?’
‘For a start we cannot waste any more time here,’ Padar said, as he tucked the box back into his saddle-bag. ‘We will leave when night falls. It will be slow and dangerous. If we move through the woods and avoid the roads, it will take us, maybe, three nights.’ He patted the pack strapped to his horse. ‘And by day we will camp out of sight, snug among the trees.’
As they parted, Hamlet said, ‘If I meet the King, I shall tell him that his son is safe.’
‘Tell him.’ He felt tears gather in his eyes and stared at his feet for a moment. He managed to smile through them. Looking up he said, ‘May a circle of God’s holy angels watch over you, Hamlet.’ Then he helped Margaret climb onto Eglantine, lifted Ulf up onto Thunder’s saddle and sprang up behind him. With Ulf leaning into his chest, he lifted his right hand in his customary backward wave and rode into the trees.
11
There at Waltham he [Harold] received a message about the landing of the Normans, news that was only too true, and straightway he decided to go and meet them, allowing nobody to stop him. […] he was too headstrong and trusting too much in his own courage, he believed he would be attacking a weak and unprepared force of Normans before reinforcements came from Normandy to increase their strength.
The Waltham Chronicle, circa 1177, edited and translated by Marjorie Chibnall
Countess Gytha hobbled into the candlelit chapel at Waltham. Her bones ached and she could hardly make it onto the cushion. She felt Thea’s anxious eyes follow her as she arranged her hands on the rail. There, that was better; on her knees now. She settled at last and bowed her head, murmuring whatever came into her thoughts. ‘Queen of Heaven, intercede for him. He was my boy, my Tostig. Bathe him in Heaven’s light. You were once a mother too … Holy Mother, wash away his sins …’
As Gytha prayed, the plainsong chanted by monks echoed through the Church of the Holy Cross, dispersing beauty through the chancel and the aisles. It brought little comfort. Tostig had begun the destruction of everything the family had strived for. Tostig had been cut down by Harold’s fyrd during the battle in the north and Harold had marched south again to Waltham. The Norman horde had landed and was harrying his lands in Sussex. He would destroy William the Bastard as he had Harald Finehair. Shakily Gytha rose to her feet. She was tired – so tired – and must rest.
The following morning dawned with a brilliant blue sky. Harold, Gyrth and Leofwine rode out after they broke their fast, early. Later that morning, the Provost of Waltham came to Countess Gytha. He recounted a tale that made her shudder with foreboding. At dawn, when Harold had prayed for God’s blessing on his campaign, Christ had bowed His carved head and looked down on him from the cross with an expression of sorrow on His usually peaceful face.
He shook his head. ‘Countess, it is an ill omen.’
Gytha said, ‘It cannot be. Provost, the spinners do not make his end yet.’
He shrugged, ‘Spinners weaving his end! What talk is this, Countess? I have sent two of our monks with the King.’
She laughed hoarsely. ‘With maces and sticks! Much good will they do.’
‘Not to fight, but if the King is killed they will bring his body to Waltham.’ Seeing the look on her face, he added, ‘It is unlikely, of course, Countess, but in case God …’ he faltered.
‘Get out of my sight, Lord Provost.’
After that, Gytha marched through the palace, tapping her stick before her, creating an icy wind, looking darkly at any who dared oppose her. She scattered her servants before her as she moved through the hall, back and forth, banging at tapestries as if beating the provost’s words from them. Then, she called her servants to pack her baggage.
Summoning her steward, she ordered, ‘Have a chest filled with gold coin.’
‘In such terrible times, Countess Gytha, that would be madness? What do you intend?’
‘We may have to buy ourselves out of this.’
‘The countryside is dangerous …’
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
After breaking her fast with a small meal of hot broth and bread, she changed into her travelling dress: a voluminous skirt, cleverly created to allow her movement when riding, and a loose tunic. She demanded that her horse be saddled and she ordered a wagon to be packed with items necessary for her journey, including her gold and silver hoard. If the house of Godwin fell, she would be there to gather up the pieces.
She called Thea to her chamber and looked at the girl more sternly than she had ever done before. ‘Thea, wear your warmest garments. I’m not leaving you here to be raped should our enemies reach Waltham.’
Gytha watched the delighted Thea hurry off. Not every girl was permitted to follow her father to battle. Her mouth twitched with a thin shadow of a smile. Not for nothing was Thea her father’s daughter.
After breaking away from the route south, Thea close by her, Gytha rode towards Canterbury. A monk battalion led by their abbot passed their retinue as they entered the town. These monks wore chainmail over their brown habits and all of them carried weapons.
Thea stared at the small swords tucked into their belts and the shields and arrow quills hung on straps slung over their shoulders. She remarked, ‘Monks are not permitted to draw blood.’
‘But they will,’ Gytha replied.
The fluttering Wessex dragon brought the group of monks to a sharp halt. Recognising the Countess, they knelt. When she asked after the Archbishop, their abbot shrugged, said he had no knowledge of him and that they were off to join the King’s army at Bidborough.
‘Stigand won’t draw blood; he cares too much for his own skin,’ muttered Gytha under her breath.
Now the Countess had to make a decision. They could become camp followers and ride after Harold south and west to wherever he chose to strike camp, or they could rest in Canterbury and await news.
‘We could go to my mother’s hall at Reredfelle,’ said Thea.
‘No,’ Gytha replied. ‘We ride on. Elditha will have gone to Canterbury already, you can be sure.’ Gytha sat erect on her horse, her loose garments falling down each side of the animal’s flanks.
The captain of her guard pleaded with her. ‘Countess, you have already slept one night in a wagon. Another will not do.’
‘Grandmother, please allow us to wait here for news. My back aches and at your age you must have even more pain. How can you sit a horse for so long when you walk with the help of a stick?’
‘You are not often wise, Thea, but this time you show a wisdom beyond your, what is it now, 14 years. We will lodge in the Archbishop’s palace. My child, the horse is doing the work, not my legs.’
‘Riding is tiring on the legs. You’ll never admit that, will you?’
‘Theodora Gytha, my legs lost their feeling miles back.’
Thea began to fret again. ‘If my mother is not in Canterbury, then she is in grave danger.’
‘Never fear, Thea, you will see your mother soon,’ Gytha said reassuringly, but in her heart she was not convinced that Elditha would have the sense to flee her estate. They could only pray to the Queen of Heaven that she was safe.
An hour later they rode into the precinct of St Augustine’s monastery. The yard was empty, apart from a motley collection of stable boys. A monk, plump as a pigeon, scurried out of the monastery building. Her first question was, ‘Is the Lady Elditha here?’ He shook his head. ‘We have sent her a guar
d. That was two days ago. The lady is to return with them. She has not arrived and they have not returned either.’
‘They may have gone to meet the King,’ said another who had come running, his dark habit threatening to trip him up.
‘Show us to our chambers. Then send us food and wine. Where is Archbishop Stigand?’
‘In London,’ the monk said.
‘And never available when our lives are in grave danger; come, Thea, we must rest.’ She watched as her guard carefully unloaded her coffers and then she made sure that they preceded her to her chambers within the abbey.
Duke William was making ready for battle. There had been comings and goings all night and now, as morning dawned, Elditha hovered by the opening of their tent and watched men form up in columns ready to leave. Thousands sat on war horses, but an even greater number, armed with swords, bows and quills of arrows, marched in lines out of the town of tents, through gates set into a stockade. The bailey at Hastings swarmed with soldiers, thousands of them, yelling to each other in many languages: French, Breton, Italian and others that she did not recognise. Archers were collecting arrow sacks from store tents; the clanging of weapons rang out and horses snorted. Like silver insects, their leaders climbed up and down the ladder to the tower at the top of the motte.
Brother Francis had departed from the women on the day after they had been brought to the camp and they had not seen him since. They whispered prayers without the monk’s guidance, but they never missed him.
‘Do you think he was a spy?’ Freya whispered, with an eye on the guard outside.
Ursula said, ‘When I fetched our water, I overheard a priest say that Brother Francis is with Bishop Odo now.’
‘That tells us where his loyalties lie,’ Elditha said dryly. She turned to them and added, ‘Don’t say that monk’s name again in my presence.’
The Handfasted Wife Page 12