The Winter Mantle (16 page)

'You would still be bedevilled by the flies,' Ulfcytel said shrewdly. 'And before winter you would be in danger of facing the poleaxe.'

Waltheof sighed. 'You are right,' he conceded. 'I do not suppose that life as an ox would be much different to the life I lead now… although perhaps less knowledge would be a boon. I know that I should have the grace to accept what is to be, but recently I have found it hard to come by.'

Ulfcytel said nothing and turned back the way they had come, following the dusty path towards the cool, grey stone of the abbey. Waltheof paced beside him. Usually a visit to Crowland and time spent with Ulfcytel would help to settle his restlessness - like the hand of a ploughmaster on the yoke of a favoured ox, he thought wryly. But today there had been no such peace. News had arrived that precluded such a possibility.

Since returning to his lands, he had visited the monastery often, a part of him yearning for the spiritual grace that had been his as a young oblate learning his Psalter at Ulfcytel's knee. That yearning was strong today. For two pins he would have exchanged his rich tunic for a simple Benedictine habit.

'All around me I see people struggling beneath William's yoke,' he said as they toiled along the path, the late summer's blaze making their limbs heavy and bringing a glisten of sweat to their brows. 'And I do nothing. I bury my head, I feign ignorance.'

Ulfcytel made a sound of acknowledgement and doubt. 'Has your own lot been difficult?' he queried. 'Are your people not contented and your lands peaceful?'

Waltheof grimaced. 'It is true that my lands are peaceful,' he said 'and that my lot has been easier than many. But the King's hand is heavy. It seems to me that he takes all and gives very little back.'

'But if you rise against him and you fail, it may be that he will take all and give nothing at all back,' Ulfcytel murmured. 'Others have tried and failed this last year, have they not?'

Waltheof paused to look at the abbey buildings. The church was dedicated to Saint Guthlac, and had been raised above the marshy ground on oak pilings with additional soil brought from Upton, nine miles away. While his gaze admired the toil of man in the cause of God's glorification, he pondered the Abbot's warning.

Filled with discontent, Edwin and Morcar had fled the court and tried to raise rebellion but William had put it down as easily as swatting a couple of flies. Once again the brothers were hostages at court and castles were being built in the English heartlands to quash any further notions of revolt. Edwin was still being promised a royal bride, but Waltheof thought the Earl of Mercia had little chance of seeing that promise kept. The Normans appeared not to think that English husbands were good enough for their daughters - or nieces.

'Edgar Atheling has made his escape to the Scots court with his mother and sisters,' he said.

The older man exhaled heavily. 'And so could you, if that was your desire, but I do not think that it is. If you stay here then you have to accept the burdens laid upon you by the Normans. Complaint will only sour you.'

Waltheof's lips twitched. 'You mean either shit or get off the privy,'

A down-to-earth, unaffected man, Ulfcytel was not in the least perturbed by the robust language. 'That is exactly what I mean. It is no use bemoaning your lot. Either accept it with a smile or set about changing it.'

Waltheof felt a rush of affection for the small monk. Ulfcytel was very different from Waltheof's sire, the magnificent Siward of Northumberland, but the bond between the Abbot and Waltheof was as powerful as that between father and son. 'That is why I came to speak to you. I have had news today and I do not know what to do with it. I need your advice.'

'Ah,' said Ulfcytel, rubbing his jaw where tiny spikes of silver stubble glinted in the sunlight. 'I thought there was more to this visit than the spare time a man has when the harvest is all but gathered in.'

'A messenger came to Huntingdon two nights ago,' Waltheof said. 'From Earl Gospatric in the North Country.'

Ah,' said Ulfcytel again, rubbing harder, making a rasping sound.

'King Sweyn of Denmark has sent his fleet into the Humber
-
two hundred and forty ships filled with warriors ready to fight the Normans.'

'And you want my advice whether to join him or abstain?' Ulfcytel saw the eagerness and doubt written clearly in the young man's deep blue eyes and was troubled.

Waltheof folded his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits as if putting temptation out of his way, but a moment later he lowered them and clutched unconsciously at the hilt of his dagger. 'It is perhaps the last chance that Englishmen will have to be rid of the Normans,' he said. 'My father was a Dane; I have blood ties with the men in those ships. I do not believe I would have stirred from my lands for the sons of Harold Godwinsson, but this is different. I can almost smell victory on the air.'

'To a man of the Church, victory and defeat both smell suspiciously of blood and burning,' Ulfcytel said, turning round to look at the peaceful scene they had just left.

Waltheof turned too, but his gaze was looking inwards. 'If I go north and lend my arm to the uprising, then perhaps I will be able to regain all the lands that my father held and that the Godwinssons denied to me.'

'Morcar might have something to say about that," Ulfcytel murmured.

'Morcar does not have the advantage of my tie with the Danes.' Waltheof's good-natured expression was replaced by one that was narrow and stubborn.

Ulfcytel shook his head. 'I think, my son, that whatever I say will make no difference. You have made up your mind, and rather than asking me for advice you have come to tell me of your intention to join this uprising.'

'You disapprove?'

'I disapprove of all warfare,' Ulfcytel said. 'The Norman king has proven himself repeatedly in battle. You came to me with your nightmares of what you witnessed at Exeter. Has it all faded from your mind so swiftly?'

'No,' Waltheof said grimly. 'It has remained with me every waking moment.'

'Then why risk the same happening to your own lands?'

Waltheof sighed. 'Because I stood back at Hastings. Because the Danes and the English are my people - not the Normans. Because…' He made a gesture to show that he could not explain what he was feeling.

'Because your heart rules your mind,' Ulfcytel said almost sorrowfully, 'and it has always been so.'

'Surely a man must be guided by what is in his heart?'

'But curbed by the rein of his reason.'

Waltheof tugged on his moustache as if in thought, but Ulfcytel could see that his decision was already made. He would join the Danes and march with them because they were 'his people', because kinship mattered when kin were few.

'Father, will you give me your blessing?' Waltheof went down on his knees in the dust before Ulfcytel and bowed his head, his copper hair falling forward to expose the tender white nape of his neck. The sight reminded the Abbot of how much a boy Waltheof still was - and likely would be all of his life.

Gently, with a paternal ache of tears behind his lids, Ulfcytel laid his hands upon Waltheof's sun-hot hair. 'God be with you,' he murmured softly, 'and bring you through all trials with grace.'

Fires twinkled in the night, hundreds of them, lighting the spread of the Danish army and the English who had flocked to their banners. The surface of the River Humber seethed with longships, lanterns lighting the carved prows and sending shimmers of gold across the dark water.

Drunk on mead, camaraderie and hope, Waltheof feasted with the sons of King Sweyn of Denmark and roared death to the Normans with the rest of them. These men were his kin. He recognised himself in their joyful fierceness. Here he did not have to be abstemious and guard his tongue. Here he did not have to curb his laughter. He arm-wrestled with Viking warriors and his strength was acclaimed. He was a true son of Siward Digerra, accepted, feted and treated as a hero, not a green boy.

Come the morning the Danish army, its ranks swollen by Northumbrians and Scots, by the men of Holderness and Lindsey, by Saxon rebels from every corner of England, would march on York, the old Norse capital of England. Hopes were high, and increased with each swallow of mead. The Normans would be driven from the land and their hated castles torn down.

Waltheof ceased drinking before he reached a state of helpless intoxication. He did not want to go mead-witted into battle on the morrow. While such a state might enhance his courage and daring, it would numb his responses. To go up against a sober Norman would be intense folly. The Danish leaders seemed to think the same way, for they curtailed the feasting early and commanded men to seek their slumber so that they would be ready to advance with the dawn.

Waltheof slept with his axe for company and thought that, had matters been different, he would be lying in a feather bed at Huntingdon with his dark-haired Norman wife at his side — perhaps even a child of their mingled blood in the cradle. The notion was too sweet and sad for a battle eve. He closed his eyes and prayed, the Latin words filling his head in drink-muddled snatches, echoing as if they were being chanted in a church.

He dreamed of battle, but instead of the physical effort of wielding his axe he was trying to muster arguments in his head. He found himself engaged in a contest of wits, but the more he racked his brains, the closer he came to defeat. He could hear himself shouting, and a woman's voice shrilling in furious reply. She had all the strength; he was powerless. As the argument drained him, she forced him to his knees and he saw that they were in a courtyard, surrounded by accusing faces, none of them friendly. On the edge of the crowd a child gazed at him out of solemn, dark-blue eyes. As he looked at her, she turned away and Waltheof knew that in some way he did not understand, he had failed her. He bent his head; there was a scything pain and then nothing.

He awoke in a cold sweat, his heart thundering and the sharpness of the pain transmuted into the dull assault of a drink-induced headache. The shouting continued outside of his dream, but there was no anger now, just the exhortations of men eager to march on York and drive the Normans out.

As the massed English and Dane army approached the city the smell of smoke gusted at them, reminding Waltheof of Exeter and turning his stomach. The scouts who had gone ahead reported that the captains of the Norman garrison had burned down the houses immediately in front of the castle so that the English would have to cross open ground in order to lay siege to the keep. The flames had spread from the initial burning and had engulfed much of the city, including the cathedral itself,

Waltheof gripped the haft of his axe and prayed as they advanced into York. Those townsfolk who had not fled hastened to join the invading army, cheering, waving brooms, pitchforks, or spears that had been kept well hidden in the rafters. Elation and pride united with the roil of emotion in Waltheof's belly. Tears prickled behind his lids, some the result of wind-blown smoke but most caused by the welcome of the crowd. He was entering the city that had been the Norse capital of England for over two hundred years, a settlement that had been familiar to his father as Earl of Northumbria, and to his dead brother. Now their mantle was his and he felt the pride coursing through him with each beat of his heart.

A thick drift of smoke gusted across the advancing army and suddenly the cheers became screams and shouts of warning. The Norman commanders were sallying from the keep using a charge of cavalry and heavily armed soldiers to try to scatter the invaders.

Without warning, without time to realise and assimilate,

Waltheof's section was confronted by a conroi of mounted Normans. Hakon screamed and went down beneath the trampling hooves and the thrust of a lance. The razored steel punched through his throat, killing him instantly. The knight withdrew the lance with a jerk of effort and turned on the gaping, horrified Waltheof.

Waltheof's mind ceased to function and instinct took over. As the spear thrust at him he brought up the axe, whirling it round and down to chop off the haft beneath the socket. The knight groped for his sword and Waltheof struck again, and again, his lungs filling with a howl of rage and denial. Horse and knight went down, and so did the footsoldier who ran to defend them. Waltheof licked his lips and tasted the sweet saltiness of blood. The edge of his axe ran red, and he felt a terrible exhilaration. No more demonstrating his skills and strength for the paltry entertainment of his Norman captors. This was the reason why he had sweated on the training ground. This was
his
entertainment now, and when he had finished there would not be a single Norman left in the city of York.

Morning mist wove between the trees of the Gloucestershire forest in milky ribbons and a red sunrise filtered through the turning leaves. Simon rode his mount along the edge of the woodland, glad of his cloak, for although the day was set to be fair there was still a chill in the air this early. The King had decided upon a day's hunting and the court was gathering in preparation. He could hear the shouts of the kennel keepers calling the hounds to order and the boisterous laughter of men keen for a day's sport.

Simon was eager too. Since breaking his leg and enduring months of convalescence followed by the painful struggle to return to his duties, he valued such days as these. They allowed him to test himself to the limit, to force his will through the pain and keep up with or even exceed the other squires. In the saddle his handicap was minimal. He had to ride with his left foot at an odd angle in the stirrup, but he had learned to adjust to that, and the high pommel and cantle on the saddle gave him additional support. He was never going to make a jouster, but that did not matter. His slight, wiry build was meant for reconnaissance and scouting, for nimbleness and travelling light. Besides, to be a good battle commander Simon knew it was better to have an overview of the fighting rather than be in the thick of it.

He slackened the rein and let his pony pick its way along the edge of the trees until they came to the track that led back to the hunting lodge William would want him soon to carry his spear or hold his cloak.