Shieldwall

by Justin Hill

  Through the doorway he caught glimpses of robed monks, hurrying in unspeaking groups. It was time for vespers, which came early in winter.

  Singing rose into the evening darkness, more piercing for the sudden release from silence, plainchant, thin and high and beautiful: ‘Deus, in adiutorium meum intende’ – Oh Lord, come to my aid.

  Godwin felt himself transported from the world of blood and mud and violence to a purer land of authority and order and peace, and then a voice spoke to him that startled him.

  ‘Wulfnothson,’ a hooded monk whispered and Godwin found his gaze had been drawn deep into the flames. ‘Come, the abbot will see you now.’

  A candle threw back the darkness and the monk did not turn or speak as he led Godwin to a low hall, much like any lord’s hall, except that rather than carvings of dragons and warriors, the doorposts were entwined with crosses and foliage and the lives of saints. It took a moment for Godwin’s eyes to get accustomed to the warmth and the dark, for the abbot’s chamber was lit only by a great fire that glowed more than it burnt. By the fire, a heavy carved chair had been set, and on it, almost dwarfed by its grandeur, a bent and white-haired figure slumped in sleep.

  Godwin waited and the old man suddenly opened his eyes and looked up and smiled.

  ‘Ah! Godwin, son of Wulfnoth.’ Abbot Oswi had seemed old even when Godwin was a boy, but now he appeared ancient. He spoke in a small but firm voice and beckoned Godwin forward into the fire’s glow. The old man’s liver-spotted hand gestured to a stool at his side. ‘Your father was a frequent visitor in his time. As you were, if I remember aright.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Godwin said, a little lost for words.

  ‘So the king is dead.’

  ‘And buried.’

  ‘Died of his wounds,’ Abbot Oswi said.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Abbot Oswi gave the young man a penetrating look. ‘But this is past news. Why are you here? I am sure that Wulfnoth’s son has not come to my simple dwelling to pray with me.’

  ‘No,’ Godwin said. ‘I am lost, Father. My lord is dead and the Dane hunts me.’

  Oswi drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, without an answer. The old man pushed himself up and used the back of the chair for support as he took one of the three books he had on a shelf above the fire. He retraced his steps and eased himself back into the chair, then set the leather volume on his lap and patted it as if it were a cat.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  Godwin shook his head.

  ‘This is the first book of the Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum,’ the abbot said. ‘I brought it with me when I left Peterborough and I have kept it since.’ He patted the book again and his fingers stroked the silver catch. ‘The novices read it to me to practise their Latin.’

  Oswi forgot why he had brought the book and started to speak before he had quite grasped the thread again. ‘This was written by the Venerable Bede. Well, not this one. This is a copy.’ Oswi paused. ‘Ah, yes! That’s it. Bede has been much on my mind. He wrote this nearly five hundred years ago. Listen.’ Oswi read in Latin and then English. ‘“The island began to abound with plenty, and with plenty, luxury increased and this was attended with all sorts of crimes: in particular, cruelty, hatred of truth, love of falsehood, drunkenness, litigiousness, envy and other crimes. And a sudden vengeance for the people’s horrid wickedness.”

  ‘Do you know what that vengeance was, or who these people were?’

  Godwin told him.

  ‘Yes. We were sent to punish the Britons for their crimes – Angles, Saxons and Jutes. We punished them for their sins.’

  Godwin’s gaze was again drawn to the burning flames. The old man was rambling. Godwin hesitated before interrupting. ‘So the Danes are sent to punish us?’

  Oswi nodded.

  ‘But I did not sin. I kept my oaths. My lord was anointed.’

  ‘And he died for us all so that peace could reign.’

  Godwin looked unsatisfied.

  Oswi looked at him. ‘God wants peace. Go to the king.’

  ‘No, I cannot,’ Godwin said. ‘I swore myself to Edmund.’

  ‘Edmund is dead.’ Oswi leant forward. ‘Godwin Wulfnothson, Edmund is dead. All know of your loyalty. You kept your oaths, followed your lord through fire and hunger, cold and battle. But God wants peace. Think of what you might do as a powerful man. Use your talents to bring peace and prosperity and lawfulness back to England.’

  Godwin trembled at the thought.

  ‘He’ll kill me,’ Godwin said.

  ‘It is no small thing to be martyred.’

  Godwin laughed.

  ‘Godwin, the men you feasted and fought with are gone. You have survived where others have failed. You are brave and capable, England needs you. Give the people peace and order. Go, young Wulfnothson,’ Oswi said at last, and put his hand out to bless Godwin’s head. ‘Go in peace, Wulfnothson, and do God’s bidding.’

  *

  Godwin left Coenwulf at the abbey, in the care of the monks, but he did not go back to Contone. He found a high shieling and set a watch on the land about, and sent word for Kendra to come to him.

  She found the spot the next afternoon, behind a simple windbreak of thorn trees. A tiny fire of a few sticks smouldered. He looked wild with a week’s stubble on his chin.

  ‘Oh thank God you are well!’ she said. ‘We heard of Offa’s death. They have come, looking for you.’ She stopped herself.

  ‘Go on,’ Godwin said.

  ‘They beat Arnbjorn. We did not tell them anything.’

  ‘I am sorry that you have all suffered.’

  ‘We have not suffered,’ she said. ‘And if we have we would gladly suffer three times over.’

  ‘I asked you here to say goodbye,’ Godwin said.

  ‘Don’t,’ she replied.

  ‘Why not?’

  She laughed bitterly because she had had this conversation once before. ‘they will kill you, that is why!’

  Godwin did not answer. He looked out of the open doorway, and his sight was draw to the high place where Agnes left offerings. ‘I have asked my lands to be given to the abbey at Burne. Let the monks pray for my father, and the soul of King Edmund. And there is a man there named Coenwulf. If he needs anything …’

  Kendra nodded. ‘And what of my lord Godwin?’

  ‘Think of me,’ he said. ‘Let men say that Godwin Wulfnothson kept his oaths and that he was a good friend of the king.’

  Later that afternoon Kendra stood by the patch of thorn trees and watched as Godwin went, a dark figure diminishing into the short midwinter day. He did not turn and she did not wait. They had said their goodbyes, so she turned away and without looking back she made her way slowly homewards, heard only her own footfalls and the sigh of the wind in the winter grass.

  In Mykelhal a fire was lit, and Agnes sat grinding corn. She looked up as Kendra entered.

  Kendra drew in a deep breath as she sat down at the hearthside. ‘So,’ she said. ‘He’s gone.’

  *

  It was January, Solmonath – the month of the Reborn Sun – a month of beginnings and new hopes, but Godwin saw little hope ahead.

  The world was darkening, clouds gathered and the winds were bleak and northerly. They skinned his hands, and chapped his lips. All winter journeys were wearisome, but this one was the hardest Godwin ever took. It was tasteless, colourless, joyless.

  In truth he felt as though life had ended when he sat vigil in St Dunstan’s Abbey; or the last day he had seen Edmund standing in his hall door, and this surprised him; or on the day he lay sick in Contone and heard that Edmund had taken Eadric back.

  Candlemas 1017. Knut sat at West Minster and looked at the great and good men of the land who had gathered. This was his victory feast and all of England was there, great and small, thegn and alderman and bishop. It was a fine feast, dialogue by day, dancing, saga-telling and skaldic poetry by night. Joy shone like grease on their ruddy faces; laughter flowed like
wine along the benches; peace had come and England was united at last.

  Up to the hall one man rode. The sound of the slow-tripping hooves drifted into the hall. A man dismounted, left his sword at the door. Serving men were hurrying with the dishes for the top table. There were all manner of delicacies: heron and goose, partridge, pigeon, a dozen cranes and ten dozen curlews. The lower tables were already being served with simpler dishes of mutton and beef.

  The doors were thrown open. The feast fell silent. Knut wiped his fingers on the linen tablecloth and smiled.

  ‘Godwin Wulfnothson,’ the door ward announced.

  Knut sat back and waited.

  Godwin’s stomach felt hollow as he stood in the hall at West Minster. The high table where he had once sat with Edmund now held a row of turncoats and foreign warlords. It was all he could do to briefly bow.

  ‘I am Godwin Wulfnothson, servant of the late King Edmund. Greetings Knut, King. We swore oaths of peace at Derheste. I have kept to mine, and expect you to keep to yours.’

  A smile played about Knut’s lips. ‘I remember my oaths, but you have been long in coming to my hall.’

  ‘I am a slow traveller,’ Godwin said. ‘Less fast than others who are buffeted east and west by the slightest breeze.’

  Approach, Knut beckoned. Godwin walked up to the table. He kissed Knut’s signet ring and paused before Emma and kissed her hand as well.

  ‘Congratulations, lady,’ he said. ‘Are Edward and Alfred here? I should go to them and give them my respects.’

  ‘They had to go to Normandig,’ Knut said.

  Godwin nodded. He stopped before Eadric and did not bow.

  ‘Greetings, Alderman Eadric,’ he said, but there was no greeting in his tone.

  Eadric smiled. He did not hear what Godwin said; he did not care; who was Godwin, but the defeated friend of a dead king?

  ‘I said, where is Offa Fox?’ Godwin said.

  Eadric looked at him. He paused before he spoke and read the look in Godwin’s eye. ‘Perhaps you know?’

  ‘That I do,’ Godwin said. ‘He met my sword, and fell down dead.’

  Eadric said nothing.

  Knut was not interested in petty squabbles. ‘Well,’ he said, in a tone that appeared friendly, ‘sit and eat. You have come in peace, and in peace you shall leave.’

  Godwin sat. He did not eat or drink. No one talked to him. He could not bring himself to make conversation. At one point Emma caught Godwin’s stare, and her cheeks coloured and she quickly looked away.

  Yes, Godwin thought, you are guilty too.

  At the end of the feast Knut gave out arm-bands and fabulous gifts. Godwin knew many of them by sight, for they were spoils taken from the dead at Assandune. Thorkel was given the jewelled hilt that hung at Ulfcytel’s side. Eric the gold cross that was mounted on the White Dragon banner of the Wessex kings.

  Knut went through the whole company presenting chief supporters with gold arm-bands that he passed across the table on the end of his sword. He was magnanimous to all. Eadric eager as a whore. Godwin guessed how he had bought Knut’s favour and it sickened him.

  At the end of the feast Knut stood up on the high table so that all could hear him. His booming voice carried throughout the whole hall, and men shushed for silence.

  ‘Alderman Eadric,’ Knut said, and Eadric stood and bowed, ‘I promised you that when I was king I would raise you up above all other men, so that you would be the highest in the kingdom.’

  Eadric smiled and made little bows to each table. Godwin could not watch.

  Eadric continued to bow and scrape.

  ‘And so I shall,’ Knut declared.

  Godwin tried not to hear Eadric speak. He hated the man’s accent, hated his words. Hated everything about him.

  ‘I am humbled, my king, and am glad to have served you well,’ Eadric began.

  ‘Humbled is good,’ Knut said.

  At that moment ten men entered the room through the king’s dressing-room door. Eadric looked expectant, like a favourite hound that sees the best bone being brought into the hall and starts to drool.

  ‘Alderman Eadric,’ Knut said, ‘in return for the service you did for your lord – by breaking your oaths to him and me, and fleeing from battle – I shall keep my promise to raise you above all other men. Seize him!’

  Eadric paused as if this were some kind of jest, but from the strength of the hand-locks he quickly found it was no joke. He started to speak, but one of the Danes who had grabbed him struck his mouth. Blood flew out and Eadric spat out teeth not words. They pulled him away from the high table and dragged him down the middle of the hall.

  There was silence except for the sound of Eadric’s muffled pleas.

  ‘I shall raise you above all men, Eadric Oath-Breaker.’

  Eadric was hustled from the hall, and Knut put out his arm. Queen Emma took it and Knut led her outside, the whole company pressed behind.

  Godwin seemed as one woken from a long slumber. All about him men were laughing and chattering in delight and excitement, but Godwin sat stone-still and his eyes smarted. He stood and followed in the flow of the crowd.

  The whole company stood on the hall steps and watched. On the top step, Knut stood, the flicker of a smile on his face as a rope was tossed over a tree branch. Eadric’s wrists were bound behind his back. He was trussed like a swine for slaughter, and as he was led before the king there was a great cheer from those assembled. They pushed forward like the crowd at a fistfight, but Knut put out his hands for silence.

  ‘Eadric of Mercia, you were ever a traitor. Hang him from the highest tree, so that all men may see how we deal with traitors and turncoats. Let all witness the price of disloyalty!’

  Knut and the Danes treated the event like a party. Musicians were brought to play a dancing tune, and beer was passed from hand to hand, and the gold-giver gave Eadric a rough neck-ring that day, as the small figure rose slowly into the air with each haul on the rope.

  ‘Gently!’ the Danes shouted to the men who were pulling on the other end of the rope. ‘Don’t snap his neck – let’s see him dance!’

  Someone – a red-haired Dane with three fingers missing on his sword hand – thrust a beer at Godwin and Godwin took it and found himself rather enjoying this Danish way of doing things. Only Archbishop Wulfstan looked a little disapproving as he stood beneath the struggling man and said the last rites.

  Godwin later learnt that that they were hearing a popular Danish dance tune and in the years that followed it was often performed throughout the country, and always brought a tear and a smile.

  The Danes sang and cheered and they quickly forgot the man who was struggling on the end of his gibbet, but the English did not forget. Godwin watched him very closely. He did not take his eyes off Eadric’s face and hoped that Eadric saw him there.

  Eadric took almost half an hour to die. His heels kicked and the music had long since stopped before his feet did. At the last there were a few convulsive struggles, before stillness, and his soul had gone to judgement.

  Eric of Hlathir cut him down and took a wood axe and struck off his head. He laughed as he lifted Eadric’s head by the hair and threw it towards the water-filled ditch, as a man might throw a turnip by its leaves. After they kicked it about the West Minster lawns, Eadric’s severed head was eventually stuck on a spear above Crepelgate – a gory reminder, so that all might see the price of treachery.

  That night Godwin dreamt that Edmund came to him. Godwin thrilled to see him, even if it was only in a dream, and Edmund held his hands out to him. ‘When Knut kills you I will be here. I will look after you.’

  Godwin woke with a start, but the night was dark and calm, and even though Emma reminded Knut that he had to kill Godwin, Knut wavered and went out of his way the next day to invite Godwin on a hunt.

  Godwin bowed. He felt he owed Knut that at least, in return for killing Eadric, but he let the other men push their horses towards the quarry, left his spear un-blooded, had
less to prove than the others. Knut hung back as well. Godwin found himself alone with the king, and wished someone else were here to make conversation.

  ‘Godwin of Sudsexe?’ King Knut said as the riders rode back from the hunt.

  Godwin looked up in surprise. ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘You were Edmund’s man, were you not?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘When Ethelred died, all men came to me and declared me king, but you did not come to Hamtun to swear an oath to me.’

  ‘No, lord.’

  ‘And you did not swear to my father.’

  ‘No, lord,’ Godwin said, and he laughed briefly, despite himself. ‘I had sworn an oath to Edmund, and I was with him when he was made king.’

  Knut turned to him. ‘Why?’

  ‘He was a good man, and a good king, and I loved him like a brother.’

  Godwin opened his mouth, but stopped himself saying how he hated the Danes and how they had blighted his childhood.

  ‘You were a hostage in Ethelred’s court, were you not?’

  ‘I was,’ Godwin said, surprised that the king should know so much about him. There was a look in Knut’s eyes, as if he knew the answers to all the questions he was asking, and at last Knut seemed satisfied. ‘They tell me there are three deer ahead,’ he said. ‘We should hurry to catch them.’

  Next day a messenger came to summon Godwin to Knut’s private chambers.

  This is it, Godwin thought. I will be seized and killed. As he prepared himself he was in a strangely glad mood.

  He felt the blood tingle in his palms as he dressed, slowly and solemnly, like a hero in poems who dresses for a battle he knows he cannot win. He tipped the man who had cared for his horse, and asked him to care for his servants, if he should not return.

  ‘You sound like someone on his death bed,’ the man said.

  ‘Well, who knows,’ Godwin said.

  Godwin patted the man’s shoulder and then leapt up on to his saddle, Næling at his belt, and the night wind chasing like hounds across the sky.

  Knut was just doing what he had to do to keep the kingdom together, he told himself.