by Justin Hill
The words and that voice fixed Godwin to the spot.
Eadric bent from the saddle towards him and Godwin flinched, and hated himself, for Eadric sat up and spoke to the crowd. ‘Don’t shy away from me, lad. If you were big enough to kill my brother, you should at least do me the honour of coming to court and settling the issue. You do yourself and your father’s memory no good by running like an outlaw.’
Godwin answered him, but he was standing in the crowd and Eadric was in plain view on his horse, so it was his words that carried, while Godwin’s were muffled by the people about him.
‘It is true my brother was a rough man, but he was a good and law-abiding man who paid his tithes to the Church, and more. You did a wrong deed when you came on him at night and burnt all his folk and cut down those who tried to escape.’
‘I did not kill them,’ Godwin said, but his voice sounded weak and shrill.
Eadric laughed at the statement. ‘No. You sent men to do the killing for you. That is an even baser deed.’
The crowd began to turn against Godwin, and many of Eadric’s retainers were eager to fight. Two of them drew daggers and began to shove towards Godwin.
Edmund saw the danger. In a moment he was at Godwin’s side. He stood tall so that his face could be seen.
‘I am Edmund, prince! This is a council of peace. There is no feud to be brought into the minster this day.’
The mood of the crowd hung in balance.
‘Eadric, let us meet at the law court, where Godwin shall pay proper recompense to your family for the death of your kin. And brothers, put past wrongs from your mind. The Army is just five days’ march north! Bear that in mind. Let it focus your thoughts.’
Godwin’s hand shook as he took his place by Edmund. He held it with his other hand and took in a deep, slow breath. Athelstan strode down the altar steps. It was clear that he had heard what had happened. From Eadwig’s manner it seemed he had taken the blame for it all. He sulked as Athelstan took Edmund’s arm and they moved a short distance away. The two men exchanged serious looks.
‘It was close,’ Edmund said.
‘He should not have come.’
Godwin realised they were talking about him and he stood like stone as he listened.
‘He has as much right as any.’
‘Edmund! There is too much at stake here.’
‘I told him. He did not bring the hotheads.’
‘Look at Eadric. He’s playing the wronged man. It’s disgusting!’
‘Let him gloat. We need Father made king, and we need him to declare war.’
‘He will declare,’ Athelstan said.
‘Then there is nothing to worry about.’ Edmund turned and saw Godwin standing nearby. ‘There is nothing to worry about, is there, Godwin?’
‘No, lord.’
Athelstan looked at them both. He pursed his lips and sighed.
Eadwig came forward and Athelstan took his arm and led him away. ‘Listen,’ he started, ‘I need you …’
Edmund raised his eyebrows and winked at Godwin.
Godwin felt like a piece of unwanted baggage. It was hard to say, but he had to say something and looked at Edmund. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t be foolish,’ Edmund said. ‘Remember, who hangs first?’
Godwin laughed. ‘Eadric,’ he said.
On the third day Ethelred capitulated. A great jewelled cross was brought forward. It was a Roman cross, heavy with gold, blue lapis lazuli and red garnets. Inside was a piece of the True Cross, upon which Christ hung. God bore witness to the compact of king and people.
Godwin kept looking towards Eadric, but his foe did not look his way. His eyes were on the king and the bishop as Ethelred swore a weighty oath.
‘I shall forgive all crimes against my person,’ Ethelred said. ‘I shall forgive all those men who swore false oaths and all those who broke their oath to me as their king. I shall enforce the laws on all my subjects.’
‘And let God bear witness to these words!’ Archbishop Wulfstan called out, and the sun shone brighter; then the clouds returned and the cathedral was plunged back into gloom.
And so full friendship was established, in word and in deed and in compact, on either side and the Danish king was declared an outlaw for ever.
The next day Ethelred held a feast at his hall in West Minster to announce that he would call a great fyrd, at last, against the Danes. The place was abuzz. Men were delighted to be united. They would drive the Danes from England with great slaughter. Peace would return when the Danes were gone. The possibilities thrilled them.
Godwin arrived as the beer and wine were being poured and water passed round for men to wash their hands. He and his men dismounted. Their footsteps were heavy in the mud outside. The cold clung to their cloaks as they greeted the door wards, left their swords at the porch and strode inside.
Godwin threw back his hood. His eyes were bright with anger when he strode inside and saw Eadric sitting next to the king.
‘Shall I come with you?’ Edmund said.
Godwin shook his head. His manner was serious. ‘No. I shall do this.’
Godwin strode between the benches. The hall fell silent. King Ethelred was in a fine mood. The light of many candles reflected in his eyes. They twinkled with mischievous delight as he saw the killer of Eadric’s brother coming towards him. He nudged Eadric and pointed. ‘Look!’ he said. ‘Eadric – it’s Wulfnoth’s lad.’
Eadric looked. His eyes glittered too. Like a watching snake, or the wolf in the shadows that watches the sheep in the high shieling.
Many a night Godwin had lain awake and imagined meeting face to face with Eadric. He had pictured himself meeting accidentally on a hunt, alone in a clearing with the man he had most reason to kill; or he had imagined walking round some insignificant hall corner and finding himself trapped with Eadric’s men before and behind, daggers drawn. Of course he had even imagined himself stepping close to Eadric, ramming three feet of steel straight into the bastard’s gut. Stepping so close he could smell the other man’s last breaths.
As he strode down the hall before the chief men of the kingdom, he felt his chest swell out, his spine lengthen and his feet boom proudly on the hall timbers. Godwin walked straight up to the high table. Eadric’s retainers stepped in front of their lord. Their hands were on their hilts and they towered over Godwin, big and mean and ugly. One of them, a red-haired man with blond eyebrows, stepped right into Godwin’s path, but something about the look in Godwin’s eye made him falter for a second.
‘Let him pass,’ came a voice. It was Ethelred.
The king’s cheeks shone with wine.
Godwin stopped and bowed, then turned to Eadric. He called out in a loud voice, ‘Greetings Alderman Eadric, Lord and Protector of the March and chief among the Mercians. I am Godwin, son of Wulfnoth Cild, of the South Saxons. All know of the enmity that lies between our families. This is a time that all Englishmen, of whatever family, should bury their differences so that we can present a united front to the foe. I offer you silver for your brother’s life.’
Caerl and Beorn hurried forward, with a small chest weighing their shoulders down. They set it on the table before Eadric.
It made a dull thud. The table timbers creaked and bowed beneath its weight.
Godwin stepped forward and threw the chest lid open. Silver coins skittered and fell from the pile within.
Eadric seemed briefly taken aback. He caught the look in Caerl’s eye and lost his train of thought for a moment, but quickly rose and bowed to the king.
Nothing troubled Ethelred. A month earlier he was an unwelcome exile in the Norman court and now he was king again and full of bonhomie. He shoved the chest towards Eadric.
‘There!’ he said to Eadric. ‘Make peace. Let’s have this feud done.’
Eadric started to speak, but Godwin took the gold ring from his arm and tossed it on to the pile.
‘Take this gift from me, Lord Eadric.’
Godwin stretched out a hand, open, to shake on their peace. There was little Eadric could do. He smiled. ‘You are a brave lad coming here to me,’ he said, but his hands remained by his sides.
‘Lord, it is the duty of every boy like me to come along and learn from his elders and betters. Take my hand, lord. Let us promise peace between our families!’
Godwin’s hand remained outstretched.
Eadric ignored it and prepared to speak.
‘Take my hand, lord,’ Godwin repeated. The whole hall listened. Eadric paused. He did not like to be spoken over. ‘Take my hand, lord!’ Godwin said once more. ‘Show all the good folk here that there is peace between our families and war between us and the Danes.’
‘Take his hand,’ Ethelred said, and slapped Eadric’s back. ‘Shake his hand and have done.’ The king directed him, and the room – great men all – willed it.
Godwin felt they were with him. Eadric felt it too. He moved slowly. Despite the smile and the easy manner, Eadric’s hand extended, Godwin read reluctance in his every movement and expression. The two palms met, the fingers gripped, and if Godwin had expected another bone-breaking tussle, he had misread his enemy, for Eadric knew how to play the pleasant courtier.
‘You speak bravely,’ Eadric smiled. ‘Just like your father.’
‘Thank you, lord,’ Godwin said. ‘But I do not wish to be judged by my words, only by my actions.’
‘I will be there to watch.’
‘Right behind me, or shoulder to shoulder?’
‘Shoulder to shoulder, of course.’
‘Then who could stand against us?’ Godwin turned to the assembled worthies. ‘Witness all of you here how Eadric and I have put aside our feud for the sake of the country. May this be a sign that better things are to come to England.’
Eadric waited. ‘Here!’ he said, and took a gold arm-band twice as large as the one Godwin had given him and fixed it about Godwin’s arm.
There was a murmur of approval. Eadric’s band was a princely gift for a young man. There was a flutter of applause; hands slapped the trenchers before them.
Godwin bowed.
‘Thank you, lord,’ he said, and bowed to the king. ‘Lord King, your reign has started well. Pray God this will continue!’
On the way back from West Minster Godwin took the golden arm-band from his arm and held it up. It was a wreath of three cords of twisted gold, each as thick as his thumb, with wolf-head ends with eyes of jet.
Clouds were drifting slowly north, but between them the stars were clear and the moon was setting in the west, and lighting the undersides with white. It glimmered on the reed beds, and on the slow rippling water, that was ebbing as the tide flowed out. Godwin took the arm-band and flung it far out into the water. It was dark against the sky as it writhed in the air and then fell with a dull splash and disappeared.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Great Fyrd
The Great Fyrd of 1014 drew men from all the shires of Wessex and Mercia that were free of the Army, and Ethelred sent word for them to gather at Oxeneford.
Athelstan, Edmund and Eadwig went by separate routes to Oxeneford, shaking hands, kissing babies, laying hands on the sick. In this way man by man they rekindled old loyalties, reforging the ties between ruler and ruled.
Godwin was sent ahead as harbinger, to gather provisions against their coming.
‘It will keep you out of danger,’ Edmund said.
Spring was the leanest time, and whilst the men could skip meals, the horses could not, and last summer had not been good for hay so Godwin and his men planned to do some old-fashioned provisioning, riding about the larger farms to beg, threaten or cajole meat and bread, oats and ale. But when they heard the king was finally taking to the field, the people were willing to give. ‘Anything is better than the Danes’ Rule,’ they said, and ‘Danes’ Rule’ remained a byword for many years after for circumstances too harsh to bear.
The princes shared a fine stone hall in Oxeneford, set among a warren of narrow and puddled alleyways. They had many men with them, all jostling for attention and favour, so there was no room for Godwin’s war band, and rather than be separated from them, he elected to join the other thegns in the camp that stretched all along Portemeadowe, from the Priory of St Frideswide to the ford.
‘Set your tent there, by the crouched willow,’ Ordulf, king-thegn, told them. ‘Oh, and put peace bonds on your swords,’ one of the sword-thegns said, and pointed to where the men of Sudsexe had their camp.
Godwin’s men pitched camp, but Godwin was unhappy. ‘It does not seem right that we are sent to the fields when all those cowards feast in Edmund’s hall.’
‘You know why they feast those other men?’ Caerl said. ‘Because they are disloyal. We are in the mud because Edmund trusts you.’
‘You think so?’
‘Of course. I see it as plain as the nose on your face.’
‘Thank you, Caerl,’ Godwin said later.
‘For what?’
‘Clearing my mind,’ he said. His confrontation with Eadric had shaken him.
Caerl put his hand to Godwin’s shoulder. ‘I was proud of you. You did well.’
‘You were?’
Caerl nodded. His father’s sea captain was a dour fellow, and Godwin could not remember him speaking so kindly before.
‘I always thought you didn’t like me,’ he said.
‘I didn’t,’ Caerl said. ‘You were a spoilt child.’
Godwin laughed. ‘And now?’
‘You’re no longer a child,’ he said, and gave Godwin a reassuring slap on the back.
Beorn had opinions about all the various peoples of England, and they were well represented here. Sudsexe men were, of course, the best of the best: stout and brave, and not so stupid they did not know when a battle was lost. Sudsexe women he approved of, even though they were not the most beautiful in the country. The most beautiful were from Dyflin, but they were the worst dressed women in Christendom, and they did not wash more than twice in their lives – when they were born and when they were laid out for the winding sheet.
East Anglians were there with their war chief, Ulfcytel, who carried the scars of his long battle with the Danes. They camped about his banner, which flapped at the door of his tent, a blue banner with a gold crown, in honour of St Edmund the Martyr. Beorn went over to swap stories with Ulfcytel’s retainers. They were too thick to realise a battle was lost and thought nothing better than turning themselves into noble and heroic corpses.
‘There are no old men among the East Engleas as a result,’ he said confidently that evening as the Sudsexe men cooked simple cakes of bread on the hot hearth stones. ‘While Cantebrigiescir is full of grey-beards who left each battle faster than a hound could run.’
Next morning, once he had finished his morning piss, Beorn looked across the river and swore. ‘Oh Jesus wept, look at that lot!’
A war band was pitching their camp about a hundred yards down the hill. They were short and dark, with stout and shaggy piebald ponies, round shields slung on their backs, spears in their hands.
‘Walsh!’ he said. ‘They stink worse than an unwashed hermit! God knows why Ethelred insists on taking their oaths. They’d steal a brass button from a toothless beggar. Count how many horses they have. I’ll bet you they have twice as many by morning.’
They waited for two weeks, eating beans and roots as the fyrd gathered from all the lanes and byways of free England. By the end of Lent Portemeadow was crammed with war bands and they were ready to ride before the Danes could escape.
Good Friday was dull as puddle-water, with prayer and fasting and endless readings from the gospels of Mark, Luke and John.
Caerl put his hand to Godwin’s shoulder. ‘Your father would be so proud if he could see you here.’
‘Really?’ Godwin said, but he did not feel like listening to stories about his father yet. There was little point in picking at scabs. He had done that as a child and had learnt that picked scabs b
leed.
That evening Prince Athelstan gathered the young men of the Wild Hunt for a sacred and private mass. They were glad to see each other again and renew their friendship. There were many tales to tell as they shared loaf and titled jug, and hall joy shone on their faces. As they broke the day’s fast, Athelstan gave out fifty pewter badges with his personal symbol: the stag. They were like the relic badges you could buy in Canturburie from St Hilda’s shrine, but they marked them out as the princes’ men.
‘Many years ago we decided to fight against the Danes. We were the pebble that began to roll. This great fyrd happened because of you, brave brothers. We fought before anyone else dared to stand up. Rise! Drink! The Wild Hunt shall ride again!’ he called out.
Edmund declared that each badge-bearer should make an oath.
‘I swear that I shall drive out the Danes or die in the attempt,’ Athelstan swore.
Edmund was next. ‘I swear that if Knut comes within a spear’s throw of me, I shall strike him dead. And if I come toe to toe with him, I shall kill him in combat.’
Most of the oaths were about killing Danes and got a little repetitive by the end, so when it was Godwin’s turn he put his hand on his sword and waited for silence before declaring, ‘I swear that I will uphold the laws of England against any Dane!’
He silently added an addendum between him and God: and I shall see Eadric dead.
Later that night white-robed monks went from war band to war band carrying enormous books with pictures of astonishing blues and greens that gleamed with leaf of gold. The books had a magical aura to them. The monks read passages from the gospels. Overhead, the sky darkened. The low clouds were brooding and foreboding, and the monks’ chanting was heavy with the thousand-year-old suffering of their Lord. Fervent prayers they sent Heavenward. Godwin prayed, and in Contone Kendra prayed fervently too.
As twilight fell, thunder rolled in the Chiltern Hills. Doom! it struck, and sharp lightning, as jagged as an upturned tree, smote the high peaks. Doom! it rolled, and through the camp a man flogged himself with knotted cord, calling on them to smite the Antichrist. Behind him a madwoman raved that the Great Tribulation was come, the ‘Days of Vengeance’ of which Christ had spoken. ‘Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land unto the ninth hour. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? ” My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’