But now he had two hours before they landed. With Ginny on his mind, perhaps this was the perfect time.
7
Romance That Changed a Nation
AD 1068
One
It was a bright sunny day of early summer. The sky shone radiant blue, reflecting off the deep blue-green waters of the sea. For farmers, fishermen, and soldiers alike, the air seemed alive with promise. Even King Malcolm III of Scotland, descendent of Kenneth MacAlpin and known as the Great Head, or Canmore, in significance of the extent of his reign, felt similar stirrings in his blood. And with them came an eagerness to do what he loved best—fight and conquer.
He had no inkling that the news brought by the messenger that bright morning in 1068 would indeed lead to conquest, but of a very different kind than he could have expected.
“My lord.”
The King’s attendant waited.
“My lord,” he repeated, “there is word from the coast.”
The King stirred, then suddenly came awake, his eyes for a moment wild and threatening.
As accustomed as he was to the King’s behavior, the attendant unconsciously took a step back out of his master’s reach. He had never personally been struck, though he was only too well aware of the sudden and occasionally violent moves of the King.
“Yes, what is it?” grumbled the King, “—what is the report?”
“A vessel appears to be entering the firth from the sea, my lord,” answered the man.
“What are its colors?”
“English. And it draws near, my lord.”
“Near—how near?”
“It has cleared Fife Ness and now seems making for our own harbor.”
“And what—” began the King, then paused. He was on his feet now and fully alert, buckling on his sword as he spoke. “Better yet,” he added, “—bring the scout to me. I will hear the report from his own lips.”
The attendant disappeared, returning some three minutes later with the rider, who still had the dust of travel and the smell of horseflesh about his person from his ride to Dunfermline Castle from the lookout at Elie. The King was pacing his quarters when the man arrived.
“Give me your report,” he demanded. “How many vessels—does it look to be an invasion force?”
“No, my lord. It is but a single ship.”
The King took the information in with puzzled interest. “Keep me informed. I want to know the instant they put in.”
Messenger and attendant left the King alone. What could it mean? Malcolm asked himself. He was expecting no one.
The word he awaited came to the castle an hour and a half later. The ship had continued its course up the narrowing firth into the river, the King was told, and had just weighed anchor in the protected bay to the south.
“Give me information that is useful,” shot back the King. “How many boats did they unload? What is the disposition of their men? Do they bring horses ashore as well?”
“From what can be seen, the travelers appear well-to-do but are not protected,” replied the rider. “No armed force is visible. One horse only was observed on deck, and two boats were let over the side, my lord.”
“Are the travelers armed? Do they appear intent upon battle?”
“They are just now putting ashore and are certainly unprepared for an attack. They appear weary and worn. That they are from Wessex is likely, my lord.”
“Are they preparing to march upon the castle?” asked the King, still bewildered.
“It is doubtful, my lord. They move slowly—there are women among them.”
Malcolm’s face momentarily showed a thoughtful expression, then broke into a smile.
“Saddle my roan!” barked the Scottish King, “and gather my band. We will see what ransom we may collect . . . and then we will hear what these seek who sojourn to our land.”
Two
The land of France, far across the waters to the south, was just as distant from the King’s mind that sunny summer morning as the land of Wessex, from which his visitors fared. Certainly he had no fear of invaders from the south. After all, if the mighty Roman Empire had been unable to subdue Caledonia in years past, surely the French had even less hope of accomplishing such a feat.
And so Malcolm had not been anxious when forces from the Norman region of France had breached the English Channel two years before and taken over the English throne. How could the landing on the south coast of England of a Norman nobleman—even a cousin to the former English King who considered himself entitled to the throne—in any way affect the secluded, mountainous land north of Hadrian’s Wall?
But when William the Conqueror breached the Channel in 1066, the ancient Celtic kingdom now called Scotland, along with the rest of Britain, was destined never to be the same.
In the eleventh century, rule was achieved and maintained by force, not law. He with the strongest army reigned. Most thrones of Europe were transferred by murder, not peaceful succession. The ideas of constitution, law, and the orderly flow of power from generation to generation were notions that still lay in the distant future for civilized societies. In those days, only might insured rule.
Alfred the Great of Wessex had held the south of Anglo-Saxon England under his sway from 871 until 900 because he was the mightiest man of his time. But by 975, under increasingly less powerful successors, the kingdom he forged had grown weak and vulnerable to invasion.
Meanwhile, both in the north of England and on the Continent, a new people of mingled native and Viking stock were flexing their collective muscle. The Scandinavians were the strongest and most energetic race of peoples in Europe at the end of the first millennium AD As the Vikings had conquered and pillaged a century and two centuries before, their descendents had continued to subdue native peoples wherever they went. England had fallen under the rule of Danish kings in the early years of the new millennium. And in France the Norman (or Northman) state had been founded by Danes and Norwegians who intermingled with the native French.
But whereas ultimately England, though still weak, had managed to throw off the Danish yoke, the Norse influence on the Continent had grown stronger and stronger, and Normandy had grown into a powerful, highly organized, and efficient feudal1 state under a single strong ruler. By early in the eleventh century, in the face of England’s growing disarray, expansion of the Norman juggernaut was all but inevitable.
The English crown passed in 1042 to Edward the Confessor. Having spent more than half his life in France with his Norman mother, in customs and tastes Edward was more Norman than English, and he brought many Normans with him to London to serve in his court and in the church. Thus the invasion of Britain by their racial cousins of Normandy had begun long before the later military conquest.
The fact that Edward had no children insured that a dispute over his throne would one day be inevitable. In 1054, he decided to make his nephew and the former King Edmund II’s son, also named Edward but called the Ætheling2 his heir. This Edward was at the time living in Hungary with his wife, Agatha, daughter of the Hungarian king and niece of the German emperor. Upon the announcement of the Confessor’s choice, the Ætheling and his Hungarian family—son Edgar and daughters Margaret and Christine—left Hungary for England in order that Edward might assume the throne upon the Confessor’s death.
Edward the Ætheling, however, died prematurely three years later. Rather than return to the Continent, now that they were comfortably established, his widow Agatha and her three children remained in England.
There now remained two potential successors to the Confessor’s throne: Harold, earl of Wessex, the Confessor’s brother-in-law, and Princess Agatha’s son Edgar, now called the Ætheling in his father’s place. On his deathbed in January of 1066, Edward named Harold his successor. Harold therefore became King of England, with Edgar designated as the probable next in line to succeed him.
There was, however, a third claimant to the English throne: William, duke of Normandy, the Confessor’s
cousin. The duke considered his ties of blood closer than either of the other two, especially closer than Harold’s, who was not linked to the royal house by blood at all, but only by marriage. William of Normandy, therefore, immediately began preparing for an invasion to take the throne he felt rightfully belonged to him. He landed on the southern coast of England eight months later.
The dispute over succession to the English crown was settled swiftly. The new King Harold, even with superior forces, was no match for the organization and generalship of the duke of Normandy. The fighting was over in a day.
By the time word of the invasion battle reached London, the message was stark and unmistakable: King Harold II, along with much of the English nobility, lay dead on a low ridge north of Hastings. William, duke of Normandy, had become William the Conqueror of England.
The news was especially significant for one particular family. Agatha knew immediately that her son must flee England. Otherwise Edgar the Ætheling, grandson of Edmund II, descendent of Alfred the Great, and the nearest English claimant to Harold’s throne, would surely fall by the Conqueror’s hand.
Her fears were well founded. Immediately William began consolidating his rule according to the law of the time—the sword. He ruthlessly harried the south of the island, subduing England’s aristocracy with violence and an iron will and installing his fellow Normans in positions of leadership. All property was confiscated and became the King’s. William then redistributed the land in tenancy to his friends and loyal supporters to manage on his behalf. Much of Normandy had already been effectively subjugated according to this feudal system of land management, and now William quickly began to institute the same system throughout England.
William was especially determined to leave no vestige of the former English royalty, no rival claimant to the throne. He would root out all other scions of the royal bloodline that had ruled Wessex, Essex, Sussex, and Kent for two centuries.
In 1068, therefore, two years after William I’s landing, the dispossessed royal family of Edgar the Ætheling, half English, half Hungarian, sailed for the Continent, bound once again for Agatha’s native land and the birthplace of her children.
In Hungary they would find refuge from the Conqueror.
Three
Twenty minutes after receiving word of the strange ship that had dared anchor in his waters, King Malcolm of Scotland rode south out of Dunfermline with his men.
They were a wild band, well accustomed to raiding and pillaging, resembling more a band of Vikings—the warring stock whose blood had been infused into their veins in the past two centuries—than a King’s regiment. It had been months since Malcolm had raided in the southland. He was agitated and eager for action. His weapon had remained sheathed too long. His hand itched for adventure.
They did not have far to ride. The wide waters of the Firth of Forth were but three and a half miles distant from Malcolm’s castle. As they rode, however, the Scots King’s enthusiasm for plunder cooled. Upon reflection, he half suspected who might be aboard the vessel.
They reached the overlook from which the narrowing waters of the sea and the expanding waters of the Great River were visible. There below, in the protected bay, sat a ship at anchor, exactly as reported.
The colors of Wessex flew from its mast, though the flag as well as most of the sails, was in tatters. There had been violent winds the past week, and the ship had obviously been caught in some weather.
The King urged his horse again into a canter. His men followed down the incline toward the river. A few minutes later, at sight of a single horseman, he drew up and waited. Malcolm knew well enough by now that no threat was intended by this landing—and little plunder was to be had. At first glance toward the man, his suspicions were confirmed.
Malcolm sat on his roan and waited. This was his land. He would let the newcomer draw near.
“I come in peace,” said the lone rider as he approached, then stopped in front of the King, “—seeking the refuge of your court.”
“Who are you?” asked the King of the Scots. He knew well enough who the fellow was, but he would prepare him to do homage by pretending ignorance and forcing him to identify himself. He had not seen the man for years. At last meeting they were both scarcely out of their teens, but Malcolm recognized him instantly.
“I am Edgar, of the royal house of Wessex,” replied the visitor, keeping up the formality, “from the house of King Alfred, called the Great.”
Malcolm nodded with apparent disinterest. In truth, Edgar was smaller than he remembered, and with a higher-pitched voice. He had not come into manhood, he thought with satisfaction, with altogether the same vigor and brawn as had he himself.
“Our land has been overrun by Normans,” Edgar went on. “Our lives are in danger.”
Malcolm was well enough aware of what was going on in England. He had had dealings with the duke of Normandy already.
“We were bound for the Continent,” the English heir went, “but the summer storms have thrown us off course. We had little choice but to put in. Our vessel is unable to continue.”
There came a momentary pause.
“Surely you cannot have forgotten me, Malcolm,” said Edgar, with a hint of exasperation at the King’s disinterest and apparent nonrecognition. “We rode and hunted together. Why do you say nothing and look at me so?”
Malcolm nodded, as if begrudgingly indicating his remembrance of their youthful affiliation.
Edgar sighed in frustration.
“We throw ourselves on your mercy,” he said with sarcasm, “O great and mighty King Malcolm, lord and sovereign of Scotland and all the realms of the north.”
“You have entered unbidden into my lands,” said Malcolm. “Give me reason why I should not kill you all and take your horses and your goods for myself.”
“Come, Malcolm!” replied Edgar now in open frustration and annoyance. “How long will you play this game? Why should you not kill us!” he repeated in disbelief. “Because we are your friends! You were sent to the court in London for refuge yourself. You received every consideration. I seek only the same.” He gestured behind him toward the firth. “See, my mother is rowing toward the shore even as we speak. What shall I tell her—that you refuse the lady, the princess of Hungary and Germany and England, who loved you as if you were her own son?”
If Malcolm was shocked by the outburst of his companion of many years earlier or the overstatement regarding the affections of Edgar’s mother, his countenance did not reveal it. Most of his band, however, expected any second to see the great sword at his side drawn in a rapid stroke and plunged with powerful blow straight through the puny Englishman’s chest. None of them would dare address the King in such a manner! King Malcolm’s temper was legendary. He had killed Macbeth, his own father’s murderer, to gain the throne eleven years before, and he had been burning and plundering Northumbria without regard for life or property ever since. Surely he would now dispatch this unassuming ingrate, and then follow with an order for them to kill every man, woman, or child on board the vessel.
A long and tense silence followed.
Still without revealing more than a gruff and slightly irritated nonchalance at the whole affair, the King suddenly urged his horse forward and galloped toward the river where the small boat which had brought the Ætheling and his horse to land had now been joined by a second at the shore.
Malcolm’s rough band of men followed, leaving the vexed Englishman to eat a cloud of dust, then turn his own mount and do his best to catch up.
Four
The distance to the water was not great. But in the ten or twenty seconds following the interview, Malcolm’s mind relived his thirteen years in England—the memories stirred by Edgar’s unexpected appearance. He had been sent south at the tender age of ten to protect him from Macbeth, his own father’s rival, and returned north in the year 1055, at age twenty-four, to set about regaining his father’s throne.
About those formative years, most of wha
t Edgar said was true—Malcolm had learned to fight in England, to wield a sword with deadly skill, to ride any horse, to outrun any challenger on either his own two feet or the four flying hooves of mare or stallion. His association with Edgar’s family had not been a long one, however. Malcolm was already grown and raising an army in preparation for his return to Scotland by the time Edgar and his family arrived from Hungary. In that year, however, they hit it off reasonably well. He almost talked Edgar into joining his cause. And for a time, the two heirs to the Scottish and English thrones had indeed ridden and romped throughout Wessex and Kent together.
One thing he had not learned to do any better in England than he had in Scotland was to read, despite the most persistent efforts of Edgar’s mother to teach him. Malcolm smiled to himself at thought of the princess Agatha’s frustration over his overgrown boorishness and his disinterest in her attempted lessons.
“Malcolm,” she had upbraided him more than once, “if you plan to be the King of a nation, in these modern times when scholarship and education are necessary for those who would lead their people, you must know how to read and write!”
The Hungarian princess had done her best to refine his rough and backward ways, but he had frustrated her at every turn. He was always more interested in conquest than study. At any rate, the tutoring was sporadic, for Agatha had two young daughters to care for. Reminded now of Agatha’s family, he wondered briefly if the two little girls were on board with her.
Within a year after her arrival in England, Malcolm had left for Scotland to seize his father’s throne. He had gone south as a brash and cocky boy and had returned as a huge, hulking, and confident young man ready to kill for his right to rule Scotland. He had grown to manhood in England. He would never forget those years.
When Edgar arrived in Wessex, talk immediately began to circulate that these were the two young men who would one day rule the northern and southern realms of Britain. But fate had not treated Princess Agatha’s family kindly. Her husband was dead, and now her son had been deprived of the English crown by a Norman. Malcolm had his throne, while Edgar’s chances of gaining his seemed slim.
An Ancient Strife Page 33