New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  Hakon spat. ‘That bastard of Normandy is no friend of mine. I would be here when he comes, to run my sword personally through his black heart.’

  ‘Aye, we know you like not Duke William.’ Leowfine laughed. ‘But your opinion of him is somewhat personally biased. We’ – he gestured to himself and Gyrth – ‘have never had an opportunity to meet the man and judge his nature for ourselves.’

  Hakon snorted displeasure; Leofwine laughed the louder. ‘I am jesting, lad, I’m sure your assessment of the man is accurate.’

  Ignoring the byplay, Harold was frowning, his eyes creasing into narrowed slits at the mention of his brother Tostig’s name. He guided Gyrth some few steps from earshot of the men, beckoning Leofwine and Hakon to walk with them. With hardness in his voice, he said, ‘I would that I could say I never cared to hear of Tostig again, yet I must, for I need to know what the cur is plotting.’

  Gyrth scratched at the fair beard new growing around his chin. ‘It is not news you will like to hear. But first you must hear something from my own lips, lest someone else tells you and makes a fat goose out of a sparrow’s breast.’

  This sounded ominous. Harold stopped walking, waiting for his brother to speak.

  ‘During the early summer months,’ Gyrth said, ‘Tostig asked that I join his fleet, take up arms against you – but this you know, for I sent word to you immediately that I had refused him.’

  Harold nodded. This he knew.

  ‘I received further word, not a few days since while at Bosham with our mother. A letter, begging me again to join him, written in Tostig’s own hand.’ Gyrth lowered his head. ‘I had no choice but to hang the messenger who brought me it. I could not risk you thinking that I was not loyal to you. Tostig may be my brother, as are you, but you are also my King. And that makes a difference in this thing.’

  Setting his hand to Gyrth’s shoulder, Harold indicated his grateful understanding. This was no easy thing for Gyrth, no easy thing for any man of honour and conscience. ‘I am grateful to you, Gyrth, as king, aye, but more as your brother.’

  ‘Tostig and I always ran together as litter mates. You and Leofwine’ – Gyrth glanced at his other brother – ‘are joined in spirit, as Tostig and I once were. It saddens my heart that my favourite brother has turned against you so foolishly. I had hoped that, once you were anointed king, a negotiation could be made atween you.’

  ‘As had I,’ Harold agreed. ‘I had no intention of making war on my own kindred.’ He snorted a brief guffaw. ‘I have enough outside of my blood to occupy me in that!’

  Gyrth smiled appreciatively. ‘You sent embassies and messengers, even a letter in your own hand, but Tostig neither heard nor read any of them. Our mother’s letters could instil no sense into him, nor could any word from our sister.’

  To that, Harold made no reply. Edith had made no attempt to avert this quarrel between her brothers. Although he had no proof, it seemed likely that her communications had, in fact, urged the opposite.

  What price and value a crown? Harold thought. Gyrth would have been aware of Edith’s letters, probably of the contents, but no sense rubbing a nose in the dung.

  ‘There is more,’ Hakon added gruffly. ‘Tell him everything that was set down in the letter, Uncle.’ He nudged Gyrth none too gently with his elbow.

  Again Harold waited, resisting the sudden urge to put his hand to his sword pommel. He was not going to like this.

  ‘After the mess he made of landing along the Humber our brother went north to seek Malcolm of Scotland’s aid, which was promised

  – not that his promise is worth the shit it is written in. Then Tostig sailed to the islands of Orkney. Islands that are under the protection of Harald Hardrada of Norway. It seems . . .’ Gyrth swallowed; he lowered his head, his eyes, finding a need to stare at his boots, the grass, anywhere but at Harold. Then he continued quickly, spitting the sour-tasting words from his mouth. ‘My King, he confirms in his own words, that he has agreed to fight against you with the Hardrada under the banner of Norway. It is to that alliance he urged me to join with him.’ Falling silent, Gyrth opened a leather pouch at his waist, pulled from it a crumpled piece of parchment. Handed it to Harold.

  The King took Tostig’s letter, unfolded it slowly and read, taking in every word. When he had finished, he tore it in half and scrunched the pieces into a ball. He looked out to the sun-sparkle on the sea; clouds were louring in again from the west. The warmth of the sun, then, had been for a short visit only.

  Hardrada, King of Norway, who had also decided to take the opportunity to expand his territory. In the vein of Cnut before him and the aspirations of Magnus, his predecessor, Hardrada had decided to try for an additional crown.

  So, Harold thought, from the south I am to face William of Normandy, and from the north-east, my own brother, united in war with the Hardrada. He clenched his fingers around the damning parchment, brusquely jerked back his arm and hurled the thing from him with a wordless cry of pain. ‘God grant me blessing’, he shouted aloud to the wind-driven sea, ‘that I shall not need to fight both the devil-spawn scum of brother and duke at once!’

  10

  The Channel Sea When the wind shifted further to the south, they knew things might, at last, begin to happen. There was a new uprush of expectation among the Englishmen of the scyp fyrd. Daggers were eased loose, hands gripped tighter on the oars of the warships, the sturdy thirty-two- and forty-oared Dragon Craft, and all eyes were keening southwards. Towards Normandy.

  Across the Channel Sea, Duke William would be waiting and watching, cursing the poor sea conditions, no doubt. The English spies had worked well, had a very good idea how many ships he had mustered, how many – how few – would be under oar. Showing that he was no sea warrior. The majority of William’s fleet relied on sail, requiring a fair-set southern wind to accompany them across the ninety-odd miles between Dives and . . . and where? That, the English spies could not discover, only conjecture, and that too, might depend on the fickleness of the wind. William, once he set sail, could beach anywhere along the southern or eastern coast.

  Eadric the Steersman stood, eyes squinting into the brightness, balancing with the lift and fall of Dolphin’s foredeck, his head up, nostrils scenting the sea wind as if he were a wolf seeking prey. They were all one of the pack, these English ships, waiting to be loosed for the hunt. All they needed was a sight of that prey to start the run. The King was relying heavily on his fleet commander’s instinct and great knowledge. The movements of tide and wind were family to Eadric, being mother, daughter, wife and mistress. He knew all its moods, its tempers, cunning and subtleties. His senses told him now that William’s fleet was coming. He could not see sail or wave thresh, but they were there, heading north. Had anyone asked, he would have answered that he could smell them. As an animal would smell an approaching storm. His bones felt them. Or at least, if William had not ordered his men to sea, then he was a fool, for this was ideal weather. If it held.

  Eadric bit his lower lip, deep in thought, turning his mind from the south. There was no cloud, no breeze, but would this wind hold? Or would she, capricious as she had been all summer long, swing back to her previous hunting run across the Great Sea to the west? If Eadric could not decide the mood of the wind, then neither, he doubted, would William’s sailors. Had the Duke committed himself to action, or was he dithering? Was the pricking of Eadric’s skin, the tingling behind his neck, playing him for the fool instead? Happen they had all been on edge too long during this frustrating summer.

  The Norman army was growing restless, this much England knew as fact; supplies were diminishing, the eagerness for adventure dwindling into exasperation. Waiting for the wind was a desperate occupation. Hah! He ought to have used oar, not sail. With oar the Duke would already be here – but then with oar, he would have needed to find the men to row them, or the time to teach such men the skill. That was a thing the King, Harold, had also discovered of William’s nature. He was not a man to bide his tim
e, to be patient, to wait and wait again until the thing clicked, right, into place.

  A voice, distant but clear, sounded from the steerboard side; Eadric swung his head round, questioning, then raised his hand in acknowledgement to Bjarni Redbeard from the Sea Star, a craft that matched the length and speed of the Dolphin. Eadric cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back, ‘Nay! I see nothing – but they are there, mark you. I know they are there!’

  ‘Aye, we all feel it! He would be a fool, I am thinking, to pass by this opportunity —’ Bjarni was about to say more, but his shout was abruptly silenced, for the horn sounded, distant, from the south, from where Wave Dancer was patrolling. All the men lifted their heads, alert, breath held, listening. Again, the long, mournful cry of the war horn . . . and a third time. Eadric himself was the first to break the enchantment. He leapt, in four strides, from stern to mast, took up Dolphin’s own horn – the long and curving aurochs’ horn – and blew three blasts in response, the sound scudding over the creaming waves, caught by the wind and lifted to the high clouds. In that instant, the men, too, had come alive, racing for the rowing benches, hands tight-gripping the oars, heads turned, expectant, to Eadric their master for his signal. For a long moment he stood there amidships, fists bunched against his hips, legs spread, feeling the eager roll of his tight-held ship, the salt taste of the sea stinging his lips, the song of the wind springing past his ears.

  His eyes snatched to a white wake that folded around the keel – and another, and another, a silver glistening back, a fin . . . he tossed his head and laughed. ‘Look, my brothers!’ he crowed. ‘We have our friends to accompany us as we go to meet this bastard Duke of Normandy! Look! The dolphins have come to run with their sister!’

  A shout of exultation was tossed to the height of the mast, the strain was taken up by arm muscles and Eadric shouted the command they so eagerly awaited: ‘Lift her! Lift her!’

  Dolphin and Sea Star. From the west, the answering boom and boom of the war horns from Moon-Crest and Sun Singer. From the east, Cloud Chaser and Gull.

  The wolf pack was loose, and running fast on the trail of its prey.

  Like most of them crammed tight into the ships, Duke William was no sailor, but at least the strong wine he had swallowed before embarkation was keeping his belly where it ought be – unlike many of them who were hanging over the gunwales, spewing up their guts. How the horses were faring he could only guess, but at least the sea had calmed its heaving once they had cleared the leeward coast of Cap d’Antifer. That had been one of the most terrifying ordeals of his entire life – and he had seen plenty. The wind was not blowing from as far south as they would have liked, but the decision to risk embarkation had to be made. They had already waited overlong and the opportunity, so William had been advised by his seafarers, might not come again.

  ‘What are our chances?’ the Duke had asked them as they gathered together in a solemn group outside his command tent. Some, not willing to commit themselves, had scratched at neck and cheek, fiddled with ear lobes. Others had slowly shaken their heads, but most had agreed that the wind was unlikely to prove kinder this side of autumn. Clearing that lee shore was the dilemma. If only the wind would back a little more. Dives, the majority confirmed, was not the most favourable place from which to launch a sailing fleet. This prevailing wind was too westward, the lee shore too hazardous, with not enough experienced oarsmen to row them off, should need arise. Further along the coast would have been better – Eu, perhaps? Closer, too, to England.

  This particular argument had swung, blade about hilt, throughout the year, but William had been adamant. His muster point was Dives. Closer to Caen. Mile upon mile of sand suitable for the initial building of ships and the encampment of men. Beyond, sufficient grazing for horses. Add to that, an ideal embarkation point. Higher up the coast would mean a shorter, quicker voyage, but what was nearer for William was nearer for Harold too. His English fleet was more capable at sea, his spies were efficient. Dives was more protected because of its distance. When Harold learnt of Norman manoeuvring, the invasion fleet would be almost upon him.

  The captains had been right about that lee shore, however. William stood at the prow of his command ship, the Mora, his nails digging into the wood of the curving gunwale. He closed his eyes, saw again the spew of wave foam against rock and cliff, heard in his ears the rush of the sea as it beat against that coast, too close to the steerboard side of the fleet. The ships’ masters had known what they were doing and the wind had held. All but three ships of the convoy had slipped past the danger zone and headed out into the open sea.

  They were almost halfway across, so the Mora’s commander had said. So far all had gone to plan, even allowing for those few difficult horses who had been abandoned at Dives or had their throats cut, their carcasses heaved overboard. The mood of the men was buoyant and eager after these weeks within the confines of the camp. A few more weeks and William would not have been certain of holding their loyalty. Loading the supplies had taken much of their attention, but once that had been completed there was nothing to do save wait . . . no matter, now, they were under way, the thresh of spindrift frothing the water into a white churn of spray, curving beneath the bows of more than seven hundred ships.

  William gazed with pride at the array: large, sturdy traders’ craft, smaller fishing boats, a handful of warships, all held in tight check so as not to outrun the slower vessels. So many of them! Patterned sails, plain, striped, patched; red and blue, white, green, brown and saffron. Some men in the next ship saw the Duke watching them, raised their arms in salute and cheered his presence. Content, he waved back.

  His own was superb, a Flemish warship given as a present from his wife, built and paid for from her own purse. He gazed up at the wide billow of her striped red and saffron square sail, the bronze crucifix at the masthead glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight. Come nightfall, a lantern would be raised, as there would on all the boats to enable them to keep together – at least until any damned English ships were sighted. To avoid them, he was relying on the skill of his own Norman warships, riding ahead. They must discover the waiting English, signal word so that lanterns could be covered, sails reefed, course altered . . . over seven hundred vessels to be brought through a blockade under the secrecy of darkness. They had assured him it could be done, his captains and sea commanders. If they kept their nerve and their wit, they had said.

  The Duke raised his head, sniffed at the salt wind. The sun was dipping towards the western horizon. An hour until dusk. One more hour. Come dawn, they should be seeing the grey outline of England’s southern coast . . .

  They heard the hollow boom of the war horns before they saw the indistinct shadow-shape of ships. The white of oar stroke and bow wave, the gleam of bronze and glint of gold reflecting the sinking sun from the carved, grinning heads of the curving prows. Dragons, wing-stretched ravens, sea monsters. At their head, a craft with a prow shaped as a leaping dolphin. The English scyp fyrd, the sea warriors.

  Duke William watched in morbid fascination as they approached, racing through the creaming waves. So fast did they fly

  – even against the wind, but then, they were powered by thirty, forty, oars and were carried by the run of the tide. Eight knots or so could they speed across the open sea under the power of those oars, he had been told – by whom and when he could not remember. He could see the bank of oars to either side of the dolphin ship; could hear, now, the shouts echoing across the expanse of water between them, an expanse that was rapidly narrowing. Could hear, but not understand the meaning.

  ‘What is it they shout?’

  ‘It is the steersman, sir, calling the beat of the oar.’

  Unaware that he had spoken aloud, William stared at the man

  behind him who had spoken, a Fleming sailor. ‘And what ought we do about them?’ William asked caustically.

  The sailor shrugged, pointed vaguely at the sails of the Norman fleet. ‘We do as the others are already do
ing, my Lord. We turn about and run. Else we drop to our knees and pray.’

  The blood streamed to William’s face, his breathing came in rasping gasps from his throat. ‘I run from nothing and no one!’ The words burst from his mouth as he swung down from the foredeck, his strides taking him aft, to where his captain stood, issuing a burst of orders to the crew.

  ‘We fight!’ William bellowed. ‘Give the order on the horn – set ready the archers. We fight!’

  ‘No, sir!’ the Mora’s captain countermanded. ‘Your warships that were ahead must surely have already been destroyed. Your fleet is made of merchant vessels; when such encounter pirates, they run. It is not prudent to fight one of those dragon ships – and besides, our luck is turning against us twice over. See our sail, my Lord Duke? It is flapping. The wind has cast against us. She is veering to the west.’

  The Duke’s proud and glorious fleet began to scatter in disarray. Each ship, careless now of keeping within the discipline of the convoy, broke free and fled before the westering wind. Better, the seamen all agreed, to run for Normandy than meet the fire arrows of the English, all except the Duke, who stood rigid at the stern of his ship, with no choice but to watch. As well the words that ran through his mind were not voiced, for his oaths would have shocked even sea-tainted sailors.

  11

  Westminster Alditha sat upon the window seat, lost in her own thoughts, watching the intricate shadow patterns of the late-afternoon sunshine dancing through the wind-tossed foliage of the orchard’s fruit trees. A small orchard, only ten apple trees, but the grass beneath was lush and green, and the geese appreciated the freedom to graze there.

  Harold had returned to London yesterday, his face grey, eyes dark bruised, body-weary from the long summer of worry. At least for this year, it seemed the danger was ended. Duke William had seen his invasion fleet scattered, had lost more than forty of his slower, clumsier transports to the fire arrows of the English scyp fyrd; lost men to the grappling irons and savage hand-to-hand fighting that had followed.