Conqueror (32 page)

‘With my father, as a boy. He showed me the places my grandparents lived.’

It had been a late afternoon when his father and his men dragged the ship up a boggy beach from the still water of a bay. The land was low, with worn islands offshore. On a scrap of land above the marshy beach stood the settlement, a clump of huts with walls of sod. Fires had curled up into the sky, and voices in clipped Danish or Norwegian called to and fro, just like home. ‘I was thrilled,’ Orm admitted. ‘I was old enough to understand that I had crossed an ocean, and yet here were people living and working, and speaking in my own language.’

Godgifu smiled, enchanted.

Orm remembered that as he had walked with his father and his men along the beach, they discovered what looked like three humps on the beach. They turned out to be skin boats, upturned, with three skraelings hiding beneath each one.

‘Skraelings?’

Orm shrugged. ‘Savages. Ugly and brutish. They sail in boats sewn together from skin, and their women stink of fish.’

The Vikings killed eight of the skraelings, but one escaped. Later, more came boiling out of the forest, seeking vengeance.

‘That was why the settlement was abandoned. Just too many skraelings. But there are many who still regard Vinland as their home.’

‘And some day the Vinlanders will return,’ Godgifu said. ‘To reclaim their land from the skraelings.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Oh, they will,’ Sihtric said. ‘The prophecy demands it. Now we come to the crux of the matter. Orm, when exactly did this Bjarni—’

‘Bjami Herjolffson.’

‘When
did he lose his way and find Vinland?’

The date by the Christian calendar turned out to be hard to establish. Orm, like most people, remembered the years not by numbers but by great events: wars, the passing of kings, the coming of plagues or floods - or strange lights in the sky, like the comet of the prophecy. At last they established that the year of Bjarni’s voyage had been during the long reign of Edward’s father Aethelred, a time when the Danes were ravaging Britain - and that year, a murrain, a cattle disease, had afflicted England.

Sihtric had another document in his bag, a closely-written little book, a copy of a chronicle of the years that had been kept by English monks since the time of Alfred. It turned out that there was only one year in Aethelred’s reign noted for a murrain: the year 986 AD.

‘I knew it.’

‘I don’t see what you’re getting at,’ Orm admitted. ‘There is no “986” in your prophecy.’

‘Ah, but there is - embedded in its puzzles. Look again at the seventh stanza.’ He fumbled with his scroll, unrolling it. “‘The dragon flies west ... Know a new world born.” What else can that mean, but the discovery of Vinland by you Vikings? And the stanza says more. “Less thirty-six months ... Know a Great Year dies ...” My Moorish colleague has dated the end of the seventh Great Year, the seventh cycle of the comet, as September, AD 989. He does this by adding up the given months and dividing by twelve, so that—’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘And the “less thirty-six months” gives a date of three years before the Great Year’s end. So the prophecy predicts Bjarni’s discovery -
in the year AD 986.’
And he slapped the cover of his chronicle in triumph. ‘I knew it.’

Godgifu seemed shocked; it seemed that the priest hadn’t shared this secret even with his sister. She asked uncertainly, ‘But what does this mean?’

The priest rolled up his parchment. ‘I hold in my hand the power to shape history. That’s what it means.’

At last they were passed by the guard at the door, and made their way inside the palace. Sihtric led them through the crush of jostling English nobility towards the King’s bedchamber.

‘I’ll tell you another story of Vinland,’ Orm murmured to Godgifu as they lined up again. ‘My father told me that once, as they explored the coast, the first Viking settlers came across a human skull, smashed in as if by a stone. Searching further they found the wreck of a leather boat, a rude hovel made of piled-up sod - and a silver crucifix. These were the remains of a monk, one of those mad Irish hermits who sailed off in search of solitude, and God. It was a miracle he had crossed the ocean without starving to death. But he was the first to see Vinland, even before the Vikings.’

‘And the skraelings ended his journey.’

‘It seems so ...’

They made it at last to the door of the King’s bedchamber. It took bluff and bluster for Sihtric to persuade Edward’s thegns and housecarls to let him and his companions through.

And once again, to his astonishment, in the chamber of a dying king, Orm found himself witnessing history.

He lay on a pallet shrouded in rich cloth, like a skeleton already, his skin stretched over his skull, his hair white and thin as frost. He was attended by his wife—Edith, sister of Harold. Their marriage had been an alliance forced on Edward by an over-mighty earl, but now, whatever their differences, Edith looked genuinely saddened as she held the hand of her dying husband.

Doctors fidgeted, and the air was full of the stink of their potions; but there were more priests than doctors, and monks droned a dreary psalm. And Harold Godwineson Earl of Wessex was here, hands clasped in prayer, face grave. Sihtric sidled up to his lord.

The King stirred, startling them all. He raised a hand and feebly beckoned.

Harold stepped forward, and Sihtric, rat-like, followed. Though they spoke in whispers, Orm made out what followed.

‘Serve the Atheling,’ whispered the King. ‘Harold, do you hear?’

‘Of course, but—’

‘Edgar the Atheling is the true heir. In his veins flows the blood of Alfred.’

‘It is up to the witan to decide who succeeds. Not me.’

Edward snorted softly. ‘The witan will do what you tell them.’

‘But it is a dangerous time for England. And the Atheling is a boy. It is not the time to have a boy on the throne. Make me regent until the Atheling is ready.’

‘No.’ That was Sihtric, daring to interrupt a dying king.

Godgifu gasped, and Orm held her back.

Flushed, the priest whispered to Harold,
‘The throne is yours,
lord. The prophecy says so. We have spoken of this before, and my studies since have shown me the truth. This is what you must see now. In the ninth stanza: “A fighting man takes/Noble elf-wise crown.” Elf-wise -
Alfred.’

Shocked, Orm suddenly saw it. Harold’s standard was the Fighting Man; the crown Sihtric urged him to take belonged to a king descended from Alfred. He felt cold at the Menologium’s precision - and at the idea that a document drafted centuries ago had been designed to intervene
in this moment,
right here, right now.

And Godgifu looked shocked too. Evidently her brother had not shared this new interpretation even with her.

‘I have thought this through carefully, lord,’ Sihtric urged. ‘You must do this. England requires it. Providence demands it. You know I have openly admired your honourable intentions towards the succession of the Atheling. But it is not a question of honour or dishonour any longer. You have no choice.’

Harold turned on him, his broad, handsome face twisted. ‘Damn you, priest. You’re always
here,
aren’t you? Always darkening my soul. Always ready to lead me one step further towards perdition.’

‘Harold,’ Edward whispered. ‘Do you hover over me to steal my throne?’

‘No—this priest - that is not my intention—’

‘I kept the peace in our shores for twenty years. Well, England is for the furnace now. All my life I have been stifled by you Godwines. You are a better man than your father, but now in this extreme you show yourself to be no more than he was.’

‘Sire—’

‘Your father blinded and slew my brother. I pray you see your brothers die before you, Harold Godwineson. I pray you see them all die, before you are blinded, and die in your turn.’

Harold’s face hardened. Sihtric, wisely, said nothing.

Edward’s breath rattled in his throat, once, twice, three times. Then came a final exhalation, almost of relief, as if he were laying down a heavy load.

Harold straightened up. ‘The King recognised the threat to England. He vouchsafed the throne, and the safety of his queen, my sister, to me.’ He glared around the room. ‘You all heard it.’

Of course nobody present had heard any such thing. But no one challenged Harold’s cold fury. Even Edith, his sister, the King’s widow, would not meet his eyes.

Harold Godwineson was crowned in the church of Westmynster, in the manner of the descendants of Alfred, with sceptre and battleaxe in his hands. Though the coronation was a great spectacle and the feasting that followed lavish, some muttered about unseemly haste, for the new King was crowned the very day after the death of the old. But with claimants brooding on every horizon Harold had rushed to secure his throne.

Immediately after the coronation he began work on organising the country’s defence. He sent out orders to review the provisioning and summoning of the fyrd, and to ensure he had a navy good enough to protect the coast.

Godgifu hoped to spend more time with Orm. But Harold soon set off to the north to sort out Northumbria, with Sihtric and Godgifu in his retinue, and they were separated, not expecting to be reunited until March.

But Orm found work among the housecarls and the thegns. Under Edward’s peace it had been many years since a major battle had been fought on English soil. Suddenly the nobles of England found themselves under a martial king, in a country under evident threat. There were plenty of sons to be trained in fighting, and Orm was kept busy. But because of his links with the Normans in the past he was treated with some disdain by plump, unhealthy thegns.

In Northumbria Harold had already made a tentative ally of Morcar, whom he had supported as the new earl over his own brother Tostig. But Morcar and his brother Edwin earl of Mercia represented the only significant dynasty in England outside the Godwines and the line of Alfred. So, just as his own father had married his daughter to King Edward, within two months of his coronation Harold married Aldgytha, sister of Edwin and Morcar. This was despite the fact that Harold had been married for twenty years to Edith Swanneshals, who had borne him six children. But Harold’s marriage to Edith had been
more Danico,
a marriage made according to Danish customs, not sanctified by the Church but accepted within English society.

And within another month Aldgytha, though she was only thirteen, was pregnant.

‘You have to hand it to the man,’ Orm said to Godgifu, when they met in Lunden in March. ‘Three months since Edward died, and Harold has already locked his only likely rivals in England into his brand-new dynasty. Although I can see trouble ahead when Harold’s sons by Edith figure out what has happened.’

Godgifu was less impressed. She, or rather her father, had after all been allied to Tostig. ‘It’s another murky compromise,’ she said. ‘Mucky morals, from a man who got to where he is by betraying his own brother, bullying a dying king and lying about his last words -
and
breaking an oath made on a saint’s relics.’

‘Harold holds the throne. Nothing else matters. And you can’t run a country without committing a few sins, I’m certain of that.’

Sihtric, meanwhile, took little notice of such detailed matters. His deduction that Harold should grab the throne - a deduction he had come to alone in his relentless study of the Menologium, a deduction he had not shared even with his sister before presenting it to Harold at Edward’s deathbed - had raised his sense of his own self-importance to a new height. Now, as this critical year of 1066 unfolded, he withdrew even further from his sister and his bishop, and obsessed even more over his prophecy. He believed, he said, that a full understanding of it was tantalisingly close; and when he had decoded its message he would present it to the King, and so guide Harold’s actions through the next crucial months. Godgifu found his grandiose strutting alternately comical and worrying.

But Sihtric had a credibility problem. March was the month in which the ‘comet’ was prophesied to appear, marking the transition from one Great Year to another. But as March wore on, the days lengthening and warming, there was no sign of a hairy star.

Sihtric showed his sister correspondence from a scholar based in Iberia, called Ibn Sharaf. It seemed this Ibn Sharaf had an ancestor of his own, one Ibn Zuhr, who as a slave in England had taken away a copy of the Menologium for himself, perhaps memorised.

‘It’s marvellous,’ Sihtric said. ‘This Ibn Sharaf is based in Toledo, the old Visigoth capital. Toledo is the world’s hub of astronomy. Look - the Menologium describes nine visitations by comets, and the implication is that it is the
same
comet returning each time. Ibn Sharaf has checked records kept by Moor astronomers that go back centuries. There are observations that match all the dates embedded in the Menologium.

‘Ibn Sharaf argues that a comet isn’t a cloud, or a kind of star, as has been supposed by some. Some astronomers have seen the comets slide across the sky, brightening and darkening as they go. Ibn Sharaf says that comets ride on invisible roads between the spheres of heaven, brightening as they near the glow of the sun, diminishing as they recede. Ibn Sharaf is trying to establish the shape of such paths, for if one had that then perhaps one could explain the comets’ strange periodicities. And perhaps one could know when to expect the next visitation.’

‘As,’ Godgifu said slowly, ‘the drafter of the Menologium seems to have known.’

‘To the men of the future,’ Sihtric said pompously, ‘the path of a comet in the sky will be a trivial puzzle.’

This irritated Orm. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘even if that’s so, they’ve got it wrong this time, haven’t they? For March is nearly over, and your prophesied comet hasn’t appeared yet.’