The Conquest

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  'Have you ever herded pigs before?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Well here's your first opportunity.'

  By the time Rolf and his men had persuaded the pigs with a combination of whistles, yells, riding whips and spear prods to turn in the direction of home, the swineherd had succeeded in rousing a welcoming party. Every able-bodied man in the village waited to greet the Normans, a motley collection of spears, pitchforks, hoes, and axes brandished on high.

  The village leader was a tall, bearded man in his early thirties with hair as red as Rolf's own, but flowing to his shoulders. He wore a mail shirt with short sleeves in the old style, and a bright new helm. Held competently in his large fists was a Danish broadaxe very similar to those that held pride of position in Rolf's hall at Ulverton. The man's feet were planted wide, and his mouth was grimly set. Nor did his expression change when he saw the pigs that Rolf's men were driving before them.

  'Greetings,' Rolf said. 'We come in peace. I am looking for Ulf the Horse-trader. Do any of you speak the Saxon tongue?'

  There was a silence. Then the red-haired leader raised his axe. 'I speak it,' he growled. 'You are not welcome here. We have nothing to trade.'

  'I will pay good silver.'

  'We have no need of your tainted silver, Norman.' The man spat from the side of his mouth.

  'I was told in York that Ulf has the best horseflesh in all of the north country. I have come a far distance to discover if this is true, such is his fame. If you do not want to trade then we will ride on, but I pray you, let Ulf speak for himself if he is among you.'

  The villagers remained obdurately silent. The swineherd broke from their ranks to take charge of his pigs. Someone else gripped his snarling fawn hound by the collar. Rolf sighed heavily and turned the chestnut. Behind him he was aware of a rapid conversation being conducted in the Norse-English tongue of the region. His shoulder blades tingled. He imagined the curved axe blade sinking between them and dragging out his lungs on the return stroke.

  'Wait!' shouted their leader gruffly. 'Ulf does speak for himself.'

  Rolf stopped and looked over his shoulder, but he did not turn his horse lest he appear too eager. 'Then where is he?'

  The warrior lowered his axe. 'I will take you to him,' he said. 'He is my father. Come.' He gestured with the haft of the weapon.

  Rolf exchanged glances with his men. He knew that they might well be riding into a trap from which they would never emerge save as butchered corpses. What had the rapid conversation been about? Nothing gambled, nothing gained. He dismounted.

  The palisade guarded some fifteen dwellings. The stakes would not have kept a serious attacker at bay, being more of a territory marker than anything else. The paths between the houses were thick with winter mud. Straw had been thrown down to make rough walkways through the morass. The houses were made of timber, the spaces between the spars filled in with crude daub plaster. Their roofs were thatched; some in good repair, some in a state of mossy dilapidation. The axe warrior led Rolf to one of the larger and sturdier buildings. Its walls were constructed of stout timber logs and there were even carvings on the gable ends.

  'You can rest your horses in yonder barn,' said red-beard.

  Not without some misgivings, Rolf delivered his reins to his groom.

  The warrior stooped under the lintel, and drawing aside a heavy curtain, entered the house, ushering Rolf and his men within. Then, without another word, he left. Rolf was not reassured. He knew full well that they had been invited into the village because their leader had decided that it was unsafe to let them leave. He also knew with the sharpness of instinct that in one of the other huts their fate was about to be discussed by the rest of the villagers. All this crossed his mind in the time it took to strike spark from steel, and then his attention was occupied by the man who sat warming himself before the hearth, his splinted and bandaged leg resting upon a stool.

  His long grey hair was bound back from his brow by a woven band of scarlet and gold wool and his eyes were bright and shrewd as he inspected Rolf and his men.

  'Are you Ulf the Horse-trader?' Rolf asked, approaching him. As he advanced into the room, a movement caught his eye and he saw a young woman sitting at a table skinning a hare, two copper-haired children at her side.

  'Who seeks me?' The voice was a hoarse growl, which owed more to a winter ague than permanent nature, Rolf thought.

  'Rolf the Horse-trader from southern parts,' he replied. 'I desire to buy sumpter ponies of the highest quality to breed on my own lands.'

  'Hah, the south is soft!' The older man rubbed his leg. Now that he was closer to him, Rolf could discern dingy streaks of red among the grey locks. 'Your accent is not that of a south Saxon,' Ulf added suspiciously. 'I've met enough of them in my time.'

  'It is Norman,' Rolf said, taking a gamble. He had no doubt that a charade was being played out here, that he was being tested. It was inconceivable that Ulf had not been told of their visitors when the village had been roused to arms. 'I trade in war stallions, but there is a need too for sturdy pack animals. I was told in York that I could obtain them from you.'

  'Norman, eh?' Ulf said, more than half to himself. 'A breeder of warhorses.' He looked Rolf up and down. 'Why don't you stay on your own lands instead of meddling with what is ours?'

  Rolf could have mouthed the standard reply that the crown of England belonged to William of Normandy as of right, but it had not been his own reason for crossing the narrow sea. And having seen Ulf's son and the manner of Ulf's dress, he knew the right answer to give. 'I am a Viking at heart.'

  The small eyes narrowed and Ulf rubbed his broken leg faster. Again his gaze probed at Rolf, and fastened upon the various objects he wore around his neck – the cross, the red toadstone, and the hammer of Thor. Then he came to a decision, and shouted over to the woman. 'Inga, bring bread and ale for our guests, and fetch the bacon flitch from the store.'

  The woman wiped her hands on her apron and rose from the trestle. Two plaits of shining, wheat-silver hair rippled from beneath her kerchief. Rolf watched her, reminded of Ailith. Without being aware, he touched the horse clasp pinning his cloak.

  'My daughter-in-law,' Ulf said sharply as he saw Rolf's scrutiny. 'And my son is a proud and jealous man.'

  'If I was staring, it was because she reminded me of someone close to my heart,' Rolf said and immediately dropped his gaze.

  Ulf grunted. 'I said that your accent was not south Saxon, but still, you speak the language well for a foreigner.'

  'Sometimes words will unlock a door where a sword will only snap off in the keyhole,' Rolf said, and thought of the times that he and Ailith had sat before the hearth, each learning the other's language, exasperated and delighted by turns.

  'Aye, I suppose it is more diplomatic to oil a lock with a long tongue than it is to thrust a sword in it, but I have no trust in empty words. Rather the truth of the sword than a larding of falsehood.'

  'Amen to that. I bring good silver with which to trade.'

  Ulf sucked his teeth and nodded slowly. 'You are either a very brave or a very foolish man. We are not dullards or cowards to be duped or frightened into giving you what you desire. It may be that you will not leave here alive.'

  'I have felt so much in my gut,' Rolf agreed. 'But you have given me the protection of this house by offering me food and drink. The laws of hospitality are sacred. And I judge to look at this place that you are not only Ulf the Horse-trader, but Ulf the Thegn, the leader of this village. Your people will do as you bid them.'

  Amusement glinted in the deep-set eyes. 'You are wily, Norman,' Ulf conceded. 'It will be a pleasure to bargain with you over the animals you desire to buy, but you should temper your confidence. My leg is broken, and for the moment my son Beorn wears the mantle of leadership.'

  The woman returned with a woven basket containing flat loaves and a shallow wooden bowl holding fatty slices carved from a bacon flitch. Her daughter bore a pitcher of ale with laborious care, and
the boy carried yet another container that held a collection of drinking cups, their wood still dark and damp from having been recently washed. With lowered eyes, the woman set about serving the men. Rolf studiously avoided looking at her, but he was aware of her presence nevertheless. Ulf eyed him. 'My son fought the Norwegians at Stamford Bridge, and he fought the Normans far to the south,' he said.

  'He was one of the fortunate ones, he managed to escape in the confusion at dusk when King Harold fell. I am told that we have a Norman overlord now, but we have never seen him. As far as we are concerned, the north is still free.'

  Rolf made the sign of the Cross over the bread in an absent-minded fashion born of automatic habit, accepted a sprinkle of coarse salt as he broke the crust, and returned Ulf's piercing glance. 'Your son Beorn, he greeted our party in full battle-kit?'

  Ulf's expression was suddenly cautious. 'What of it?'

  'He must have been dressed that way before we came. There was no time for him to arm up between the swineherd crying the alarm and our arrival. Surely he does not keep order in the village by wearing a mail coat and brandishing a battle axe?'

  'My son thinks you are a spy from the Norman army. We hear that one has crossed the Humber.'

  'Indeed it has. I travelled with it for protection along the way.' Rolf tried to sound nonchalant as he helped himself to a chunk of the greasy bacon. It tasted much better than it looked.

  'You need have no fear,' he added with a brief glance at the woman, who had stiffened and drawn her children into her arms. 'They will not approach this village. Indeed, their commander told me that I was mad to leave the beaten track and seek you out.'

  'He was probably right,' Ulf said grimly, 'but he is no less mad himself to venture into these parts. You asked me why my son wears his battle-kit? I say that it is no business of yours. Only be thankful that you are not still travelling with the Norman soldiers. Now, eat and drink, and we will talk of trade.'

  CHAPTER 25

  Spring bulbs were pushing blunt green shoots through the black soil beds in Ulverton's kitchen garden. Some of the more precocious plants were in bloom. Ailith regarded with pleasure this sign that the dark winter season was ending. The months following Yule were always the most difficult to bear.

  Tancred had arrived from Normandy yester eve with messages for Rolf and a delivery of some yearling mares. But his lord was still absent. There had been no word of his whereabouts since the New Year when he had ridden north with Robert de Comminges.

  Ailith was worried, although she tried to keep her fears to herself. As a child, a native Saxon child, she had always harboured a fear of the northern parts. Fed tales of savage Vikings by her brothers, there had been a time when she had woken screaming every night, certain that a murderous Norseman was going to burst into the sleeping loft and separate her head from her body with a dripping sword.

  Ailith could feel Tancred's eyes on her in speculation as they sat down in the hall to break their fast after attending mass in the chapel. Since their first, unfortunate encounter on the shore, she had been unable to fault the man's behaviour. He was unswervingly polite, treating her with a grave courtesy that was so correct she wondered if it was false. His son was of an unsmiling, serious mien, but hard-working and unobtrusive. With his snub nose and wide, grey eyes, he could easily have been mistaken for a Saxon child, and Ailith had accepted him with an easiness that was totally absent in her dealings with his father.

  'Perhaps Lord Rolf will be here today,' she said, partly from courtesy, partly to voice her concerns before they exploded within her. 'He knew that you were due before the feast of the Virgin.'

  Tancred smiled wryly. 'When Lord Rolf is on a trail, nothing else matters to him. There is no-one as keen-scented as he when it comes to seeking out a good horse. If you showed him a hundred destriers, all looking much alike, and asked him to pick the best, he would know straight away which animal to choose. It is an instinct of the gut, and few men have it.'

  'What does his wife say of his long absences?'

  Tancred eyed her warily as they sat down before the hearth to eat their griddle cakes. 'She is not pleased, of course, but it is the lot of many Norman women whose husbands are still in Duke William's service over here. She knows that my lord is working to increase his fortune and standing, and that his endeavours can only benefit their daughter when it comes time for her to wed. 'And of course,' he added neutrally, 'Lady Arlette knows that whatever indiscretions her lord may commit, he will always return to her. It has been so since the day they married.

  Ailith coloured at his implication and finished her food in hostile silence. She was torn two ways. One direction led to vexation that Tancred should consider her an 'indiscretion' when nothing the least indiscreet had occurred between Rolf and herself. The other led to a surge of jealous insecurity over the information that Rolf always returned to his wife. She stood at a crossroads, torn and aching. Into her mind there came a picture of Goldwin, solid and dependable, his eyes alight with a love that was hers alone to command, and then she saw Benedict as a baby, suckling at her breast, depending on her for his very life. All that lay in the past, her memories both a salvation and a curse.

  Irritated with herself, she repaired to the stables and ordered the groom to saddle up the small chestnut mare. Elfa, as Ailith had named her, pricked her ears and whickered through her soft muzzle. The young woman fed her a crust of bread left over from the morning meal and followed it with a wrinkled apple from the store. Elfa crunched the treats greedily and searched for more. When the groom led her out of her stall, Ailith saw with misgiving that the little mare was already too fat. I should ride her more often, she thought. Rolf would be annoyed when he saw her. None of his horses was allowed to carry surplus flesh or lose condition for want of exercise.

  The groom held Elfa steady at the mounting block while Ailith gained the saddle. The leather was cold on the bare skin of her upper thighs between her long hose and her loin cloth. She found the stirrups and kicked with her heels. Elfa broke into a reluctant trot. The thrust and fall of the mare's spine set up a tingling between Ailith's thighs and she shifted uncomfortably, disturbed by other memories of herself and Goldwin in the early days of their marriage, by imaginings of how it would be with Rolf. Was the bush of his manhood as red as his hair? The thought made her blush at her own boldness, but not enough to abandon her speculation.

  Rolf's grey stallion was at grass with his mares in the fields below the castle mound. Ailith halted Elfa at a safe distance, not desiring Sleipnir to give chase. The grey's thick winter coat was as silver as frost. In the summer he was darker, with dapples like charcoal bubbles on his quarters and belly. Rolf said that he was proving a potent sire. Almost every mare he had covered the previous season was heavy with foal. It only remained to be seen over the next few years if he had bequeathed his own excellent qualities to his offspring.

  She rode away from the stud herd and took the stony path down a gully to the shore. The mare's hooves crunched on shingle and then thudded hollowly on firm sand. Spindrift blew off the tops of the waves and tingled Ailith's lips with salt. Beneath each curl of white crest the sea was a cold, clear green. Ribbons of weed, dark as blood, trailed in its glassy coils. Ailith urged the mare first to trot, and then eased her into a canter.

  Her hooves skimmed the edge of the waves, her mane flew like a banner, her tail undulated behind, and as the mare stretched herself, Ailith began to feel a sense of freedom. She flew with the horse, became part of her motion, and it was all too soon that Elfa's stride slackened as the mare became winded. Ailith slowed her to a walk and made the resolution to exercise Elfa every day until the gallop along the beach was twice as long.

  When, eventually, she rode into the bailey, she saw that a groom was rubbing down a mud-spattered bay which looked as if it had been hard-ridden.

  'A visitor rode in while you were gone, mistress,' the man responded to her anxious query. 'The seneschal and Sir Tancred are with him in the hall.'<
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  While he was speaking, Ailith's eyes travelled again to the weary horse. There was something familiar about it, and in a moment she recognised it for the one that Aubert rode when he had business abroad.

  'The visitor, what does he look like?'

  The groom shrugged. 'Not above your own height, mistress, and dressed in a brown cloak and brown English cap. Bushy eyebrows too.' He made this last remark to thin air for Ailith was already off the mare and running across the bailey. She was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding, and when she burst into the hall and saw Aubert standing before the fire with the other two men, a fortifying cup of mead in his hand, she knew from the look on his face that her fears were about to be borne out.

  She had gathered her skirts and raised them to her shins, the better to run, but now she let them drop and advanced to the hearth. 'Aubert, what has happened? Is it Benedict or Felice? Tell me!'

  Aubert's eyes were suspiciously moist. 'No, no, Felice and the babe have never been better… it is about Rolf that I have come.'

  Ailith stared at him. 'About Rolf?' she repeated, and clenched herself, knowing that she was about to be dealt a mortal blow.

  'Do you want to be seated, Ailith?'

  'No, tell me,' she said with wooden composure. 'Now. Is he dead?'

  Aubert's heavy brows drew together across the bridge of his nose. 'I do not know, but it is more than likely. Robert de Comminges and the main body of his troop were slaughtered in Durham-by English and Scots rebels. De Comminges and his bodyguard were chased into the bishop's house and the place was set alight around them. There were very few survivors, none of Rolf's men among them. The news arrived in London four days ago. King William is mustering an army to go north and quell the rebels, but the damage is already done.'

  'Rolf went north to buy horses, he might not have been in Durham at all,' Ailith said. There was a cold ache in the pit of her stomach that no fire would ever dissolve. She recognised the sensation from the night when Goldwin had died. It had been with her ever since that time, but she had been learning to ignore it. Now it reclaimed her attention, threatening to freeze her in solitary confinement.