Oath bound, p.10
Oath Bound, page 10
Styrkar just nodded. He would force himself to make it, or die in the attempt.
‘Take this,’ said the old man, before he could leave. Styrkar took the sack of supplies. Looking inside he saw the rest of the cheese, a waterskin and some apples.
With a nod, he left the old man behind and focused on putting one unsteady foot before the other. If there was to be a witan, he had to be there. Harold would have wanted that. Would have wanted him to pledge his loyalty to the new king and defend him against the Franks. He had to get there. Had to do his duty.
It took him most of the morning to make his way through the trees and onto the road. It was only then, as he gazed northward, that Styrkar suddenly remembered he had forgotten to thank that old man. He had been shown an act of kindness by a stranger, and he hadn’t even bothered to ask his name.
Too late now. He would have to save his thanks for another day. All he could think on now was reaching Berchastede, determined that this fight was not over yet.
14
SUDWECA, ENGLAND, NOVEMBER 1066
The familiar stink of woodsmoke hung in the air. Another day another burning village. How many had that been now? Ronan had lost count, but at least the screaming was over. The flames had died down quickly thanks to the rain and now all that remained were charred embers and the corpses of animals and peasants.
Ronan watched from the hill, thinking back to how they had come to this. Duke William had waited at Dover for days for the English to prostrate themselves, and when they had not come he became enraged. If these upstart thegns would not see sense, then William was determined to provoke them into action.
The duke set off on a campaign to ravage the southern towns and Ronan had joined in, at first enthusiastically, but now his zeal for the butchery was waning. There was no glory in this, no sense of victory, and it had not taken long for Ronan to grow weary of the slaughter. Likewise, Aldus stood beside him, his silent companion, watching with emotionless eyes. Ronan could not ask him his thoughts, but he guessed they were much the same as his own.
‘I’m sorry for bringing you here,’ Ronan said, not expecting an answer. ‘Pointless murder wasn’t what I expected either. When we reach the capital, I’m sure things will get better.’
Aldus said nothing, not even acknowledging he’d heard, but that didn’t matter. Ronan was talking to himself as much as his oldest friend.
The dumb giant had followed Ronan wherever he led since they were children. Though it had always been known that Ronan was high-born, it had never felt like that. He had been an outcast, despite his heritage. A pariah in some circles. It was only natural that his closest friend would be from humble beginnings. He had found Aldus as a boy, ridiculed and mocked by the other children of their town. Something in Ronan had wanted to protect him, despite his size. Aldus had seemed impervious to the barbs shot at him by the townsfolk, and it had fallen to Ronan to take those insults personally. He had defended Aldus, sometimes violently, and in return the giant boy had become his loyal follower. Ronan knew better than anyone that loyalty such as his was not to be spurned.
And so here they were. Two soldiers in a war of devastation. Ronan had made Aldus promises. Told him they would rise together. It didn’t seem like there was anything lofty in their deeds right now.
Half of William’s army had already made their way further north. He had left a contingent in Dover to guard their backs – an escape route should they find themselves on the run – but so far English resistance had been pathetic. The news of the English king’s death had travelled on swift and dark wings, and it seemed the people of this land no longer had the will to fight.
Nevertheless, the duke was determined to ravage the countryside until the English magnates fell at his feet and proclaimed him the new king. So far there had been little sign of them, but perhaps they were simply biding their time.
At the garrison in Dover, many of the duke’s men had fallen ill. A few days into their advance north, William himself succumbed to sickness. Though he still led his men it was obvious he was suffering. It seemed that their righteous and holy invasion had taken a turn for the worse. Perhaps they weren’t blessed in their endeavours after all, and if the English magnates waited long enough William and his invading force would succumb to disease before a rebellion were even necessary.
A call went up from somewhere, stirring Ronan from the grim prospect of death. It was time for them to move on. The knights had salvaged everything they could from the town – the pickings had been slim and it had taken little time to loot the place. Livestock had already been slaughtered; survivors fled across the hills.
Before Ronan and Aldus could make their way to the waiting horses, a weary figure came towards them up the hill. Brian appeared to have aged in the days since they had arrived. He looked as unhappy with their current predicament as Ronan was.
‘We are headed for Canterburgh,’ he said, as he came to stand by Ronan’s side. ‘Rumour has it the English will surrender there.’
‘And has any other rumour been true so far?’ Ronan replied.
‘We can but hope this one will turn out to be accurate. I for one could do with a bath.’
‘Of that there is no doubt,’ Ronan replied without thinking.
To his relief, Brian smirked, seeing the funny side. Though they were friends of old and part of the same conrois, Brian’s position as the son of a count gave him certain privileges. Not having to suffer mockery at the hands of one of his knights was among them.
‘The sooner these English accept God’s will, the better,’ he said, looking out onto the devastated town.
Ronan had heard the assertion many times, but still wasn’t sure how much of it he believed.
‘God’s will? Or the duke’s?’ he asked.
‘You doubt the righteousness of our cause?’ Brian replied.
‘That’s why you’re here? Righteousness?’
‘The crown of England is William’s by right. It was promised to him, under oath. He has the backing of the pope. We do God’s work, of that there is no doubt.’
Ronan gestured to the blackened timbers dotted with corpses. ‘This is God’s work?’
‘Don’t be so blind, Ronan. We defeated a false king on the field of battle. You don’t think God was with us that day?’
‘I don’t doubt we were blessed with victory. I was there, Brian. I fought. Our horses and lances sealed that victory. If God was there he was just a keen spectator.’
‘Victory is victory. If we won, it was God’s will.’
‘And yet the English have not yet acknowledged their defeat.’
‘That’s just a matter of time. God is on our side. This is what he wants. This is why we follow Duke William.’
Ronan sighed. ‘Sometimes I think you even believe that.’
Brian clapped Ronan on the arm. ‘Our faith keeps us strong, Ronan. Of course I believe it. Now, let’s go north and spread more of God’s righteous anger. Who knows, before the day is out we might have a gaggle of English lords begging for mercy at our feet.’
Brian made his way back to the horses. His weariness looked to have already left him and Ronan knew, despite his claims, that it was not his piety and religious fervour that kept him going.
They had all been offered rewards. This was not meant to be a mission of enlightenment; accompanying God’s chosen to claim his throne. That was merely the excuse. William had promised lands and power to his followers, and Brian was set to claim what he could. Not that Ronan blamed him. He had similar ambitions, as did every man who had crossed the sea to be here.
None of them had been forced into this. Ronan was well aware that he could leave if he wished to. He was under no obligation, but what was there back on the mainland for him? He was the bastard son with nothing to inherit. If Ronan wanted lands and titles he would have to take them, just like William.
He and Aldus made their way to where the horses were tied. Ronan struggled as always on his crippled foot, but he gritted his teeth and took the discomfort. Already the rest of the knights had mounted and followed the trail northwards. Ronan took to the saddle, watching as Aldus climbed atop his huge warhorse. He remembered well how the stallions had protested at being transported across the sea but they had been necessary, if not imperative to their victory. It wasn’t as though they could use the tiny English ponies indigenous to this island. Aldus for one would have struggled to find one that could carry his weight.
As they rode through the devastated town, Ronan tried his best not to take in too much detail. He’d always considered himself to have a strong stomach for war, but this was no war he had ever been privy to. This was slaughter, pure and simple.
He saw a soot-covered face peering at him from the wreckage. Could have been a young girl, could have been a boy, it was hard to tell. These people didn’t put much store by their appearance. Either way it was most definitely a child, a sole survivor scrabbling amongst the wreckage of his or her life. Ronan wanted to look away but he found himself staring as his horse conveyed him from the town. For the first time, he considered that perhaps he was on the wrong path after all. There would be much more suffering before this ended, much more misery to witness.
But despite the burning stink the town left in his nostrils and the sour taste it left in his mouth, Ronan knew he could not turn back now.
15
BERCHASTEDE, ENGLAND, NOVEMBER 1066
One foot in front of the other. That had been his constant refrain for so many miles now. Styrkar could barely feel his legs and his breath came in shallow gasps, but still he carried on.
One foot in front of the other.
Berchastede rose up before him, a huge wooden wall surrounding its boundary, but Styrkar did not allow himself to feel any relief. He was not there yet. Every step pained him, and as he neared the end of the journey his body was in danger of letting him down at the last moment.
He could not give in to collapse. Could not let his weak body fail him at this final obstacle.
Folk of all kinds milled about the place as he entered the wide-open gate. Peasant and warrior alike filled the streets, and in the distance he could hear the rowdy gathering he had come so far to witness. He was thankful the witan was not over. At least that was one bit of good fortune. Now all he had to do was stay on his feet long enough to see how it ended.
People stared as he staggered up the road, but that was to be expected. Styrkar knew he must have looked a sight – his red hair and beard in a tangle, stumbling like he’d just crawled from the grave. Despite his condition, no one raised a hand to help him as he made his way towards the huge longhouse that stood at the centre of the town. He could hardly blame them.
The crowd thickened as he drew closer to the longhouse, and the sound of shouting grew louder. Styrkar paused at the edge of the throng. His eye was drawn to a trough of brown stagnant water, and he could not stop himself from lumbering over and submerging his head, drinking in a long mouthful. If it tasted rank he could not tell, his mouth was so dry.
The cold water did its trick and he felt momentarily revived. After wiping the wet from his face and slicking back his hair, he began to push his way through the crowd.
He realised how weak he’d become as he struggled to push against the tightly packed mob. Styrkar found himself being jostled, where before his bulk would have seen the crowd part before him easily. Once he’d managed to make his way inside the huge hall he was hit by a cacophony of noise. The place was packed to the rafters with rowdy men, and the sound of it made Styrkar grit his teeth. For a moment he was back on the battlefield, his senses assailed by the sounds of screaming and dying men, but he forced himself further inside, all his strength of will making him focus on the task at hand, nailing him to the here and now.
Everywhere were thegns and magnates, jeering and cheering. Styrkar recognised some of the faces, though he could not put names to them. Others he had never seen before as they bellowed for attention. What was certain was none of them had been present on Senlac Hill. Not one of them had stood beside his king, but now they took it upon themselves to choose his replacement. Styrkar was sickened by their sense of entitlement. They should have been mourning Harold, not clamouring to pick his successor.
As he scanned the crowd, Styrkar’s gaze fell upon two nobles he recognised. King Harold had formed an alliance with these men, and betrothed himself to their sister to seal the pact – the sister Styrkar had delivered safely back to their care three years before. The earls, Edwin and Morcar, were very different brothers. Edwin, the elder, was a serious man. Handsome in his way, his hair neatly trimmed. His younger brother Morcar was a shaggy affair, every inch reminiscent of the brutish north over which they both ruled.
Styrkar clenched his fists on seeing them. They had been as much to blame for Harold’s death as anyone. The king had gone north to aid them in the fight against Norse invaders, only to find they had already been defeated. After Harold dispatched Tostig and Sigurdsson, Edwin and Morcar had pledged the king their support against the Duke of Normandy, but they had not arrived in time for the battle at Senlac Hill. Now both men stood front and centre, as though it was they who had secured victory in the north. As though they were the lords of this place.
A voice rose up amid the clamour, a long and soulful bellow that gradually silenced the crowd. From among the throng stepped an elderly man, long beard hanging down over his priestly white robes. Archbishop Stigand regarded the crowd with an air of superiority. Styrkar had always despised him; a man who expressed such devotion to his god, but had always forgone the self-sacrifice he demanded of others.
‘I would thank the earls, Edwin and Morcar, for their contribution,’ Stigand said, his voice still powerful despite his years. ‘The witan has now heard entreaties from all present, and we will decide who will take the crown of England and lead us against this Frankish duke. What say—’
‘I have not spoken.’
A single voice from the crowd silenced Stigand. The priest looked annoyed at the interruption, not least because the voice was that of a woman.
As Edith stepped forward to stand in the centre of this gathering of men, Styrkar felt a cauldron of emotion roiling within him. She was the first friendly face he had seen since Senlac. Harold’s true bride had been like a mother to Styrkar. She had always carried the strength and bearing befitting the wife of a king, but now she looked small and frail amid this gathering of nobles. The death of her husband had clearly affected her deeply, and Styrkar wanted to walk forward and embrace her, to tell her how sorry he was, but the shame of his failure and the weakness in his body held him back.
‘I have heard you all speak of rights,’ Edith said. Though her voice was small, every man present was silent. ‘I have stood and listened, while men who professed their loyalty to King Harold have argued and bartered for a crown that is not theirs. I have heard men talk of war who refused to stand by their king when he called upon them.’
There were rumblings of discontent from the crowd, but nobody dared to interrupt her. Styrkar looked across at Edwin and Morcar, seeing that even they were silent, though it was obvious they were the target of Edith’s barb.
‘Everyone here knows who the rightful heir is. My son Godwin is next in line to the English throne. It is he who now demands your support. He who will turn back the tide of Frankish invaders.’
‘So where is he now?’
A single anonymous voice from the crowd. It sparked a murmur of indignation, and Styrkar felt his heart drop, sensing the gathered thegns agreeing with the sentiment.
‘Your son has fled,’ shouted another voice. ‘Gone to seek protection from the High King of Ireland rather than face the Frankish bastard. What kind of leader is that?’
‘He had no choice,’ Edith said, but Styrkar could see she was foundering amidst the hostile crowd. ‘It is because of your inaction, your cowardice, your failure to support Harold, that he had to escape these lands.’
Edith was quickly drowned out by the scornful voices of the thegns. They had turned back to their base state, jeering like animals, and it was not until Archbishop Ealdred stepped forward that they stopped.
Ealdred was younger than Stigand, though his hair and beard were still white as winter. He placed a consoling hand on Edith’s arm, and called for calm from the crowd.
‘We have gathered this witan to choose our king, and can only select from those who have honoured it with their presence. Godwin has a claim, of that there is no doubt, but it is clear he does not carry the support of those present. England needs a king, here and now. Harold’s sons have fled across the sea and we cannot wait for their return.’
Styrkar could see the fury in Edith’s eyes, but she knew she was beaten, powerless to do anything. With her sons gone there was no one to represent the line of King Harold, and she backed from the centre of the hall, leaving Ealdred to continue.
‘The choice of who will be king is clear. He has the support of the standing earls and the church. He is also of the royal line. It is undeniable.’ Ealdred held up a hand, summoning someone from the crowd.
A youth stepped forward, not yet matured to manhood, but far from a child. He looked nervous, almost meek, but Styrkar could see some nobility in his bearing.
‘Edgar the Aetheling,’ Ealdred pronounced. ‘Grandson of the great King Edmund Ironside. This must be the man to take on the crown by right of birth and by the grace of God. What say you all?’
A huge cheer went up, filling the great hall to its rooftop. Styrkar could see Edwin and Morcar joining in, and realised this was as much their doing as Ealdred and Stigand. The boy was untested, and far too young to take the crown. He would be a puppet for these men, a figurehead on a throne they controlled. And there was nothing Styrkar could do to stop them.
The gathered throng grew rowdier in their support for the new king, and Styrkar found himself being jostled. There was nothing more for him here, and he turned, desperate to get out of the cloying hall and breathe fresh air again.
