Shieldwall

by Justin Hill

  ‘The king has found a new wife. A Norman princess named Emma.’

  ‘Who are the Normans?’

  ‘People who live in Normandig.’

  ‘Why should the king marry a Norman?’

  Leofwine bit his lip as he tightened his sword belt another notch. ‘To stop the Army using Norman harbours. It is the king’s new plan. Though Father says the Norman duke’s oaths are not worth a bronze brooch.’

  *

  Godwin was six when the Army returned with a hundred and twenty ship crews, three kings and their battle-hardened retainers. The Norman ports remained open to the Danes, and now the king was saddled with a treacherous brother-in-law and a meddlesome wife. The Army plundered Exonia and all Wiltunscir while the king and his chief men bickered. They crossed from Wiltunscir to Hamtunscir and Leofwine and Godwin climbed to the high points and saw the land was burning.

  Wulfnoth summoned the biggest men from the farms about. They arrived in twos and threes, dressed for battle. The bearded men slapped each other’s backs while the lads too young to sport a moustache stood a little awkwardly with spear and shield or struck poses for the local girls. Godwin admired the shield-devices painted on the raw hide: crosses and axes and entwined wolves, on fields halved or quartered with bright blues and reds and yellow and white. He took a warped shield from the hay barn and pretended to be a warrior, and stood guard as Wulfnoth rode off, he and his men singing proud war songs.

  But the king dithered, and the man he put in charge of the English fyrd fell sick. That man – a foolish king’s thegn – was named Elfric. The closer the Army came, the sicker Elfric grew, till he refused to get up from his bed and asked another man to take the lead. The English lost heart then and began to disband. News came that Norwic had been plundered.

  ‘Nordfolc burns, but Sudsexe is saved,’ Wulfnoth said bitterly as he hung his unmarked shield on the hall wall.

  Wulfnoth was among many who clamoured for the king to act, but the king sent messengers to make terms with the Army, who said they would keep burning and killing until another great tax was raised to buy them off. They demanded twenty-four thousand pounds of silver. The amount was staggering. Men had never heard of such a quantity. It hurt them to think that their labours were being stolen by violent thieves. Wulfnoth cursed so hard he made the boys’ mother blush, but there was cold fury in his eyes when he came back from the barns.

  ‘Tighten your belts,’ he told his sons as they loaded up the carts. ‘This will be a lean year.’

  Godwin looked at the money his father had collected. It was a sorry collection of ha’pennies and farthings; the proud and distinguishing features of the former kings were worn away. He dipped his hand into the leather sack. The crowned heads were smooth and blank and fearful, they slipped from his hand like cowards before battle.

  Alderman Elfhelm was the lord of Northymbria. He had once fought alongside Wulfnoth and had given him the gold-worked sword hilt set with blood-red garnets that hung upon the hall wall. He was Wulfnoth’s benefactor, and in the spring of 1006 he declared that he would pass through Contone on his way to the king’s Great Easter Court at Wincestre.

  Alderman Elfhelm travelled with a great company of retainers and squires and farriers, but thankfully the Downs roads were too steep for them all, so he sent the packhorses and covered wagons on to Wincestre by gentler roads.

  ‘He is one of the great men of the kingdom,’ Leofwine told Godwin, as if he should know this already. ‘Now quick! Mother is calling you.’

  Gytha was filled with horror when she thought of so many grand and hungry mouths. She wiped her hands on her apron and did not know where to begin. ‘How long will they stay? They will eat us out of house and home! He will want game three times a day, and his men will not be content with oats and salt pork. They’ll want venison and snipe and goose and swan. There’s not enough food in the parish to last more than a week of hard feasting! And the alderman is a northerner, and we know how much they drink. Tell the ale-wife to malt more grains.’

  Godwin and Leofwine watched in wonder as the hall was scrubbed and swept and the wainscoting hung with new tapestries that came from Boseham on ox-drawn carts, the wide-horned beasts bellowing as they dragged the carts up the narrow stony path and left it a mess of ruts for weeks after. Their mother hurried to and fro, keys jangling at her girdle, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. An air of tense and nervous expectation filled the household as the day approached. Harbingers arrived two days before the alderman and set their mother in a final frenzy of activity.

  ‘When is the alderman due in court?’ She bobbed. ‘Does he intend to stay long? He is welcome, of course to stay as long as he likes. We are honoured indeed.’

  That night Godwin’s mother combed his hair and picked out lice eggs and flicked them into the fire. She dressed him in a fine kirtle of blue lambswool that was a hand-me-down from his brother, and over his shoulders she pinned a cloak of fine English cloth, hemmed with silver thread.

  Godwin and Leofwine stood together.

  ‘Godwin, how you are growing!’ Gytha said.

  Godwin looked sideways and saw that his head came up to Leofwine’s shoulder. He’d be taller than him soon, he thought.

  ‘Now, off to bed!’ she told him, and kissed his head. ‘God bless you. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.’

  Godwin and Leofwine were up with the larks. They climbed the high ash tree and spied out the end of the road that led through the thick woods of the Weald. When they saw the company ride from the forest they let out gasps of pleasure.

  ‘Look! Elfhelm rides a white palfrey with a silver bit,’ Leofwine said.

  Godwin said, ‘And at his right hand rides Father!’

  They scuffed their new kirtles as they slid down the tree and ran to the hall.

  ‘Mother! Father is here riding at the head of the finest company ever seen. Every man wears a gold armband, and their belts sparkle with cunning cut gems!’

  Alderman Elfhelm dismounted at the door. He was tall and balding, with greying hair and a war wound that left him with a stiff hip and a slight limp.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and took the bowl of welcome from Gytha’s hands. He took a loud and appreciative sip, looked about at the land, not the people, and seemed pleased. ‘Wulfnoth, this is a fine spot. It reminds me of the great moors of Northymbria. But this manor bespeaks of comfort and gentleness in the windy heights, like a great shoulder of the land.

  ‘Aha! So that is the South Sea. See how it glitters silver in the sunlight!

  Elfhelm strode a few steps futher, put his hands on his hips and let out a great breath. He stared down as the valley sloped down to the sea, hands on his hips in a defiant gesture. ‘You’re right, Wulfnoth. We’ve paid too much too many times. Look at that!’ Elfhelm pointed to the gentle and ordered landscape of little strip fields and woods and rivers and villages. ‘That is a land worth fighting for!’

  Elfhelm was the grandest man Godwin had ever seen and he watched him closely. His manner was magnanimous and to Godwin he seemed like a leader out of legend: high-born, educated, fierce, brave and generous. Godwin and Leofwine had never seen so many swords and shields stacked against the walls, so many bold and bearded men crammed along the benches.

  ‘So, you are Godwin,’ Elfhelm said as he ruffled Godwin’s freshly combed hair.

  Wulfnoth was eager his sons would make a good impression and he watched as Godwin puffed his chest out. Any boy who listened to poems knew how to announce himself in men’s company. ‘I am Godwin, son of Wulfnoth, son of Athelmar of the folk of Aelle, who came across the sea. My mother is Gytha, of the Hastingas, and they are the bravest of warriors!’

  Elfhelm laughed. ‘Are they?’

  ‘Of course,’ Godwin said and ignored the look Leofwine gave him. ‘Except my father. He is even more brave! And you are the alderman of Northymbria. Your great-great-grandfather was one of the Danes that King Alfred beat. My ancestor fought there too. He lost his hand and in return f
or his hand he was given this manor. King Alfred hunted here!’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Godwin said. ‘But you are welcome here, to come in peace. Hunt or no.’

  Alderman Elfhelm let Godwin talk, but the longer he went on, the more a smile began to tickle about his mouth.

  ‘You’re a fine talker, Godwin Wulfnothson!’

  Godwin almost forgot what he wanted to ask, but he had thought long about his question and it tumbled out. ‘My father says you are keenest to fight the Army. But if your ancestors were Danes, and they come from Danemark, why do you want to fight them? I have heard men say that when the Army comes again, you will support them against us.’

  ‘And who told you that?’

  ‘It is what the men in Cicestre say.’

  Elfhelm laughed, not because this wasn’t true, but because it was a rumour not worth the retelling. ‘Men – from Cicestre or not – say many things, Godwin, son of Wulfnoth. If you wish to sleep well at night, it is best to ignore the tattle you hear by the well-side. Where I am from, we say, “Whither the needle leads, the thread will follow.”’

  Riddling wordplays were popular and Godwin had a sharp mind and a quick tongue. ‘“An upright man does not throw a crooked shadow,”’ he said, and his mother tugged at his elbow.

  ‘Come away, lad,’ she said, but Elfhelm put his hand up.

  ‘No, but men might see a straight shadow and the evil in their own eye makes them see it crooked. Decide your path, and stick to it come rain or shine.’

  Godwin thought the alderman was talking to him, but then Elfhelm lifted his voice so that the whole assembly could hear him. ‘Hear me, all of you. This lad speaks well. It is true that there are some in England who say that because our blood and speech are Danish we support the Army. But we are good and honest Christian people. We have lived in the Isle of Britain for a hundred and fifty years. Our loyalty is to the White Dragon. We follow the English king into battle. And it has been thus for generations of man.

  ‘Who are the Army? In Danemark kings are ten a penny. In Frankia they choose the eldest son of the eldest son, as if age were the best qualification for kingship. But in England we have one king, and when one king dies the Wise – clergy, warriors and wise greybeards – assemble all the princes of the royal house and choose from the athelings the one most suited to kingship. And so our land is governed by law and custom, not by might or terror or the whims of a king, nor yet by the rule of the spear and the sword.’

  ‘So what makes a man wise?’ Godwin asked him later, when the dishes were cleared away and the tale-teller tuned his lyre in the corner.

  ‘A man is considered wise when he is respected by men of his shire and by the men of other shires.’

  ‘And are you one of the Wise?’

  Elfhelm laughed. ‘So other men say,’ he said.

  ‘And are you here to choose an heir to Ethelred?’

  Elfhelm laughed again. ‘No. That only happens when one king dies. But as well as choosing a new king, it is also our part to witness the actions of the king and counsel him if he should, by anger or greed or poor judgement, be led astray.’

  Elfhelm spoke well, and Godwin liked him, and the alderman took a shine to Wulfnoth’s lad because he reminded Elfhelm of himself when he was young: bright and freckled and inquisitive.

  At the farewell feast Alderman Elfhelm set Godwin on his knee. It was a great honour. The spring days were lengthening and they were allowed to stay up later, and Elfhelm laughed at his many questions.

  ‘So why is it that the Danes sail to England and we do not sail to Danemark and burn their halls?’ Godwin asked.

  ‘That is a good question, Wulfnothson. Some say that we have become too sinful. Others that we are badly led. Others yet say that we are too gentle and that we have been blessed with too many comforts. But the truth is that in England we prosper and trade and, with Christ’s blessing, grow rich. And as long as men exist the hungry will envy another his bowl of gruel. Law does not rule in Danemark; it is the sword and the axe that rule their land, and they grow fierce and violent from a young age. Even father and son come to blows. Look at their new king, Swein Forkbeard. He has raised the sword against his father, and now his father, that hoary-headed and unblessed man, has been driven into exile and drifts from hall to hall, begging for a cup of ale. There is no end to their violence. Neighbours are smoked out of their halls by their freemen. Freemen are cut down in cold blood and the killer pays no weregeld.’

  Godwin shook his head. Lawlessness brought manslaughter and murder.

  Godwin was sorry to see Elfhelm and all his great company depart, his father among them. ‘It is my duty to go and witness the king’s business,’ Elfhelm said as he held Godwin’s chin and winked at him. ‘Both for his benefit and for ours. For in England we keep the king to our laws, as well as us to his. Elfhelm held out his arm and Godwin grasped his wrist and they shook hands in farewell.

  ‘Farewell, Godwin Quick-Tongue!’ he said and ruffled his hair. Godwin ran alongside the horsemen till he was more than a mile from home and his father gave him a look that told him that enough was enough.

  A month later, as May filled the hedges with white, Wulfnoth returned with his closest retainers. They were stiff and formal, and Wulfnoth’s shoes were dusty as he swung down from the saddle.

  ‘Back into the hall!’ he told them. ‘Ring the bell. Summon all the men. There is dire news to tell.’

  It took twenty minutes for all the retainers to assemble. Wulfnoth’s eyes bored into them. His brows were tight-knit; his mood smouldered. The hubbub stilled. Godwin felt his heart hammering away as his father drew in a deep breath.

  ‘There is murder afoot – against both the king’s and our common law. Our recent guest the beloved Alderman Elfhelm has been most foully murdered.’

  ‘No!’ someone shouted. ‘Surely not!’

  More voices were raised. Godwin realised one of them was his. No, surely not, but Wulfnoth told the tale that he’d been told. ‘Elfhelm went to the hall of a Sciropescir thegn named Eadric Streona. This Eadric is a man with an evil name and had long feuded with Elfhelm’s people. A battle-shirker and braggart, loud on the benches, timid in battle. He welcomed Elfhelm as with a warm embrace. Took gifts and gave his own, and full friendship was restored on both sides. But on the fourth day as they rode to hunt, a bought man leapt out in ambush and drove a spear into Elfhelm’s back till the steel-thorn stood a hand’s breath from his belly.’

  The hall listened in appalled silence and Godwin did not know what this meant.

  ‘So passes Elfhelm,’ Wulfnoth said. ‘But there is worse to tell. As soon as the appalling deed was done, the king had Elfhelm’s sons seized and their eyes put out and forbade their family from taking either weregeld or vengeance.’

  News of Elfhelm’s murder spread faster than the cattle-blight. It was told in the hall that evening, as if one of the ancient tales had come alive: Elfhelm the hero; Eadric the villain, who had feuded with Elfhelm’s family as God had feuded with the brood of giants ages long.

  That night the storyteller played Elfhelm. He did not have the old man’s kindness, but he copied the limp well enough. Godwin wanted the story to hurry along to the moment of his death, for in dying a hero’s character shone through.

  The storyteller recounted Elfhelm’s dying words as if he had witnessed the event. The murderer’s hidden spear was thrust through him and the man’s hands clenched in agony. He let a rivulet of ale dribble from his lips, dark in the firelight, like blood. He staggered a few steps forward, staring at the imaginary spear, red with his own hot gore, then stopped as he saw Eadric’s face and understood he had been lured here to be murdered.

  You welcomed me with open arms,

  But hotter than fire between false friends

  Does friendship burn. My heart’s fire cools

  Mauled by the spear, men shall hear of this foul murder.

  For ages to come Eadric’s folk

  S
hall wander without land rights.

  The storyteller turned and in an instant he was no longer Elfhelm but Eadric. The transformation was horrifying. Absorbing Eadric was like swallowing hot coals. The man’s face twisted, his back bent, and his lips peeled back in a grim rictus. He looked like a hunched hound as he crept forward filled with malice: moor-walker, master of the fen-fortress, kindred of Cain.

  Eadric’s hiss filled the hall; he drew his knife, grasped the old man’s hair and pulled back his head, so his throat was exposed beneath the white beard. Godwin wanted to look away, but could not. Silence plunged in. It was as if they had witnessed Elfhelm’s murder in that Scirospescir wood.

  No one spoke. The shock was palpable.

  In the days that followed Godwin saw assassins everywhere. He stood close to his father, was ready to fend off the darting shadow, the hidden spear. When his father was out in the blacksmith’s yard, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, helping the farrier nail a new set of shoes on to his pony, Godwin kept watch.

  ‘Eadric won’t bother about me,’ his father said as the new shoe sizzled as it touched the cold hoof, but Godwin was not convinced.

  ‘Why would Elfhelm go to such a man’s hall?’ Godwin asked later that day as they castrated lambs.

  Wulfnoth stretched up to his full height. Godwin was almost of age, and it was time for him to understand men’s business. ‘Well, he went at the king’s bidding,’ he said.

  Godwin caught the look in his father’s eyes. ‘But why should the king act against him?’ Godwin said. ‘What did Elfhelm do?’

  ‘The king has evil advisers,’ Wulfnoth said, ‘and evil men see the world crooked.’

  News came that Eadric was betrothed to the king’s daughter. Godwin saw the light in his father’s eyes. So the king was complicit in Elfhelm’s murder.