The Handfasted Wife Page 24

  ‘And a woman,’ she responded in English. After a while, she said, ‘My lord, we must talk. My skald is a prisoner. I do not want him hurt. I want him back.’

  ‘We negotiated before. Norman soldiers dead. Your escort murdered and you were abducted by this creature and his accomplices.’

  ‘I was not abducted …’

  ‘N’est pas vrai, my lady. No more of it. We are to be espoused in London in May when La Reine Mathilde is come. You will meet our new Queen.’

  ‘Count Alain.’ Elditha looked down at the gleaming plate and pushed it away. ‘I find I am tired.’ She began to rise. ‘I wish to retire.’

  ‘But first, a glass of sweet wine and, well,’ he played with his eating knife for a few moments, slowly turning it over in his hand, ‘shall I tell you about your son?’

  She nodded. As a slingshot catches a hedge sparrow, his words had found their mark. He clicked his fingers at a servant, called for hippocras, lifted the curtain behind his chair aside and ushered her through into what had been once, a long time before, King Edward’s antechamber.

  He indicated the chair that once had been Edith Godwin’s. Alice served wine and sweet cakes before retiring into the shadows. Elditha gathered her courage and waited for Count Alain to speak, her hands folded neatly in her lap and her gaze steady. ‘Tell me about my son,’ she said at last.

  ‘The child is with his nurse and with other royal children. The news from Normandy is that Ulf is happy. We can allow my stepson to live on in Normandy. They will make a priest of him.’

  Elditha felt tears well up behind her eyes. ‘Ulf is too little to know his future.’

  ‘It is not for him to decide. Who knows?’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can give me a son.’

  ‘My eldest son is not much younger than you.’

  ‘Godwin is seven years my junior. Besides, Queen Emma gave Canute a son when she was 36. We shall better that and have two.’

  She sat silently sipping the wine. He spoke of wedding plans. Candles burned, wax melted. At last he rose, saying that he must attend the midnight service with his soldiers. ‘Tonight the Angelus will be for my soldiers. Tomorrow we shall observe all the services together, and then we shall set out for London. If there is anything you need, Alice will see to it.’

  As he swept through the curtain, Elditha prayed to St Cecilia that this was to be their final encounter.

  ‘My lady,’ Alice said softly from the shadows, ‘there is no time to lose. It is best that you slip away when they are at chapel.’

  In a low voice Elditha explained how she would leave through the trapdoor.

  ‘I shall lock the outer door to your chamber, but I shall leave before dawn also. I intend to join my father and the men and women who live in the woods. I have had enough of Count Alain. He was my husband’s cousin, not mine. God go with you.’ Alice clasped Elditha’s hands. ‘We will save the skald, I promise you. But tonight, Elditha, you must travel alone, and may God go with you.’

  ‘Send him to Exeter. He will be safe there,’ Elditha whispered.

  When the church bell sounded, Elditha climbed off the bed and drew on her mantle. Pulling with her whole weight she dragged the bed back from the wall. The bell continued to toll, and monotonous as the sound was, she was glad of it as it hid her noise. She moved the chest until it was possible to pull on the ring and haul up the trapdoor. She threw her saddle-bag down first and then she dropped through the hole onto the earth below after it. Bending low, she crept forward, but just as she was almost ready to break her cover, she stopped. She could see the hem of a black gown moving slowly beyond her. It paused and she caught a whiff of incense. A pair of woollen-clad, heavy-booted legs stopped beside the gown. Brother Francis and another, the man Wadard, but if she kept very still, hardly daring to breathe, she would not be discovered. She was able to snatch at slices of their conversation. Brother Francis asked Wadard where he was going at so late an hour. Wadard replied, ‘Deerhurst, and after that I ride to London.’

  ‘Do not fail to speak of my part in it to the Bishop. And now, Wadard, we part company. Count Alain is waiting …’ They moved off towards the chapel, their words became indistinct. Then they were gone and there was quiet, except for the bell’s impatient toll.

  She lay on the damp earth and wriggled forward, pushing her satchel before her. She peered out into darkness and drizzle. If she hurried through the stamping, the coughs and the swishing of tails and kept close to the stable, the horses would cover her footfalls. A groom called to another from inside the barn to get horses ready for Wadard. She must be quick. She watched the stable door and listened. The clip of horses beyond, and voices, many voices; Wadard was leaving by the front yard. Clutching her bag she hurtled towards the path into the woodland, lightly sliding through trees to the river, hearing every breath she took, every rustle in the undergrowth. Ghosts flitted past her, imaginary things closed in on her, and water dripped from overhead branches. She hurried forward through cracking twigs and under shadowy trees. At last, she could hear the river’s lapping.

  She waited and, when no one came, she wondered if she should continue along the path. The moonlight slid along the branches, dark and bruised, blue-white like thinning ancient skin. Cloud obscured the moon, and then she could see nothing.

  ‘My lady.’ The soft whisper brushed past her ear, making her start. A hand clutched her arm and she dropped the saddle-bag. A figure emerged out of the gloom leading a horse and a cart, a slight youth, no older than her son Magnus. The boy stopped momentarily and pointed, indicating that she must climb up and crawl under the sacking in the wagon.

  ‘Try to sleep, my lady,’ he whispered and then he carefully and slowly turned the cart around and they were off. He had hardly stopped.

  The cart jolted gently through the trees and, eventually, wrapped in the warmth of sacking, she began to doze.

  28

  There was a clash of shields. The Vikings came, enraged by battle. Many a spear passed through the life-house of the doomed.

  The Battle of Maldon, in A Choice of Anglo-Saxon Verse, edited and translated by Richard Hamer

  Water sloshed through the long grasses beyond the cart. Confused for a moment, Elditha threw off the sacks and climbed down and came around to the front of the wagon. The drizzle had stopped and the pallid, veined moon was visible above. They were beside a wide river. Their cart was under a dripping tree. The boy had slumped over. He was wrapped in a cloak, asleep, the reins loose in his hands, and the horse was patiently grazing among the tall grasses. At her movement, the boy awakened and jumped down.

  ‘My lady, we are on the Severn, at a place where the river is at its widest and deepest. Across there,’ he pointed, ‘a half mile off, the kingdom of the Welsh. The ship should have come by now.’ He walked forward into the reeds and stood absolutely still. In the distance, she could hear voices calling into the night and hooves thudding on bracken. She pulled her seax from her belt.

  He hurried back, saw her seax and said, ‘You hear them too. Beorhtric’s men are coming through the woods, maybe two furlongs off.’ He looked about them. ‘There is tree cover between us and the jetty up there.’

  ‘How far is the jetty?’ Elditha asked, putting back her knife.

  ‘Not far. Wait here.’ He pushed through grasses to the shore and returned saying, ‘The ship is here. See for yourself. It is opposite the jetty up there, anchored in mid-river. We must pull the cart back into the trees and let the horse graze.’

  They led the horse back and looped the nag’s rope over a branch. Elditha lifted her saddle-bag from the cart and, bending low, they made their way to the river bank. Beyond the tall grass, where the wide grey, heaving river threatened to open and swallow them, she could see a large vessel at rest around two furlongs out, silhouetted against the sky with its sails down, a mighty bird with tired wings. Some distance off, to their right, a wooden jetty thrust out into the water. Already riders were gathering in a large group and were silently watching t
he ship.

  The youth pulled her into the tall reeds.

  ‘They are dropping currachs from the big ship.’

  ‘How long will they be?’

  ‘They need to find us, but remember, they will still think that Lord Beorhtric is your man.’

  She parted the grasses and peered upstream. She could hear voices echoing over the stretch of water that separated shore from ship. Beorhtric’s men had cut off access to the jetty and were sitting rigidly in their saddles, watching the water. She counted half a dozen riders, maybe more. Looking towards the big ship she could see men climbing into currachs. Moments later three currachs were rowing towards the jetty and the sailors were lowering a fourth into the water.

  ‘Stay here,’ the youth whispered, ‘Beorhtric’s riders must not see us, so I’ll swim out.’ He pulled off his boots and shirt and crawled to the river. He slid into the water and glided off, keeping below the surface, occasionally coming up for air. She stuffed his grubby shirt into her saddle-bag and held on to his precious boots. As he glided below the water, she tracked his progress by the air bubbles as he came up to breathe. Time was punctuated by shouts upstream, the snorting of horses, taunts and the sound of weapons clanking against shields.

  The first two boats reached the jetty. A third and fourth were still around a furlong out in the river. The boy rose up for air again, halfway to them. She laid her head on the sheepskin bag with her arms forward, protectively encircling it, and turned sideways again. The long-haired Norsemen, with swords that glinted through the moonlight, were climbing onto the jetty. They faced the helmeted horsemen who had gathered on the stony crescent by the jetty’s platform. Words were exchanged. She thought that she heard her name called out. Then she saw a rider trot forward. It could be Beorhtric himself. Something was shouted back to the currachs still on the water and, in a synchronised movement, the men on the currachs out in the water raised their bows and began to shoot. Beorhtric, if it was him, backed off. Another horse, a dark stallion caught by an arrow, reared up. Its agonised whinny reverberated downriver towards her as it threw its rider to the ground. One of the Norsemen raced forward and cut the soldier down, and as he did, the horse thundered off through the trees. Beorhtric’s men fell to and lashed out with their swords, their horses leaping and careering. Elditha could see that their numbers were evenly matched. Those on horseback had the advantage of height as long as they were not caught by arrow fire. The Norsemen on the landing stage fought back. She closed her eyes and prayed for help and, when she opened them again, weapons were flashing through the grey dawn. The noise was deafening, the air full of shouts and the ringing of swords. The battle was coming towards her.

  The horsemen drove the Norsemen before them into the trees behind her, between the cart and shoreline. The arrows-men rowed their currachs closer to the shore, closer to her hiding place. As arrows flew overhead, Elditha wriggled forward into taller grasses. She whispered her prayers, not daring to raise her head to look behind again. Then, glancing over the water, she saw her rescue. One currach glided close to where she lay, but she did not dare stand up and reveal herself. Then she saw the trail of bubbles. The youth was swimming alongside it. St Cecilia had answered her prayer.

  The oarsmen stopped rowing a little way from the shore. The boy raised his head and called out, ‘Jump for it!’ She stood up, tossed her bag forward into the currach, then the boots. She gathered up her skirt and tried to jump forward, but her foot caught in the folds of her mantle and she flew forward into the river. For a moment the cloak dragged her down. Arms reached down to catch her. She tried to swim but could not. Something caught at her legs. For a moment she thought that she would die here, within the grasp of a river snake. But then she was being lifted up from below. The snake was spitting her out. Her vision cleared and she saw the boy’s face beside her own. As they hauled her on board, she choked and spat out river water. She was alive. The boy swam alongside the craft until he too was pulled aboard. With the two extra bodies on board, the currach was riding dangerously low in the river, but it moved slowly away from the shore.

  Elditha looked back where the horsemen were fighting close to her hiding place. She heard the nag whinny from the trees and she could just see its bulky shape as it bolted into the woods, dragging the cart behind. The Norsemen yelled and slashed at horses’ forelegs, causing them to throw riders. Elditha gripped the side of the currach, her teeth chattering. She watched the boy watching the shore. His eyes were round and staring. No wonder. He would not be going home. She reached out and took his hand.

  At last their currach had reached the mother ship. Seamen were calling down to her, ‘Hold on to the rope.’ She clutched it. Hands lifted her up from behind and hauled her to safety on board. The oarsmen drew up their skin boat after them. She sank against the walls of the Viking craft. The tide began to turn and they were already manoeuvring the great ship round.

  She heard the call of a horn echo across the river and looked back toward the shore. Warriors hurtled through the grass. As the horsemen pursued, swiping with swords, they leapt into the river and struggled through reeds holding shields aloft, slashing a way clear with swords, staying close to the shoreline and steadily moving back along it to the jetty. The arrows-men provided cover as the warriors reached their currachs. They untied them, climbed into them and rowed back out into the river. But three did not make it. They remained trapped on the river bank where the horsemen had caged them in.

  Beorhtric’s men easily destroyed these last warriors. Elditha looked away as their dying screams reached out into the night, bouncing off the water. It was for her that these men had fought so courageously. Someone threw a blanket over her shoulders and said. ‘It’s over. We’re headed for the Irish Ocean.’

  ‘What do they call this ship?’ she asked.

  ‘The Sea Serpent.’

  She turned to see who was speaking. ‘You!’ she said.

  ‘Why so surprised? I have long been of service to the Godwin family. Your sons will be pleased to see you, Elditha.’ Earl Connor looked down towards the small crafts that had reached them. The great ship was now moving forward with the turned tide. He yelled, ‘Hurry, get them up.’ The sailors threw a rope down and hauled the fighters on board. The ship heaved as the last skin boat was thrust along a tunnel of warriors and into the stern.

  ‘Row hard, we’ve caught our tide, men.’ Connor pointed up at the boat’s two sails, directing his seamen to raise them. She was dripping river water but she did not care. ‘We are not clear until we are in the Channel,’ he warned. ‘They will ride along the bank and summon ships to cut us off.’

  ‘Beorhtric’s men,’ she said pointing to the bank. ‘That bastard traitor.’

  ‘Outrun them,’ Connor shouted at his crew. He glanced at the youth who clung to the walls of the boat and tossed a leather flask to the boy. ‘Here, drink, lad, and take an oar. It will warm you up. Three of my best oarsmen are murdered on that jetty.’ He returned to the front of the craft.

  The youth drank and spluttered and passed the flask to Elditha. ‘My lady, you must go inside beneath the covers. It will be a long cold night.’

  As she drank, the liquid filled her belly with fire and warmed her. The boy clambered back through the stern and took up a rowing place beside the Norsemen.

  She did not go under the shelter yet but leaned against the side of the ship. A wind blew from the north, helping to push the craft onward. Even though she was shivering she waited. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed how Earl Connor’s dark mantle flapped in the wind and his hair streamed behind him. The oarsmen grunted as they pulled back and forward. Elditha watched the horsemen galloping along the bank. Curses flew over the water to merge with the splashing of oars, rowers’ grunts and the wind’s keening. The horsemen tried to keep pace with the boat. Eventually the pursuit slowed and shouts faded into the distance. Beorhtric’s soldiers lined up on the riverbank, watched for a moment, and then turned into the trees.

&nb
sp; Beorhtric’s family had once been their people. If thanes who kept halls by the Severn joined with the invaders, what hope had her sons of recovering a kingdom? She stared into the widening channel that would lead them to the sea and into Ireland and felt ashamed for Beorhtric. She silently prayed to St Cecilia that Padar would escape his captors and that he would soon be making his way to Exeter.

  ‘Padar,’ she whispered into the night, ‘You have been my help and protector. God save you and bring you to safety.’

  When the stars shone like candle points above a heaving sea she retreated at last under the awning on the deck of the enormous bird-like vessel, seeking shelter from the wind and the bitter cold.

  PART THREE

  Rebellion

  Meanwhile the English were groaning under the Norman yoke, the petty lords guarding castles oppressed all the native inhabitants of high and low degree and heaped shameful burdens on them. The English groaned aloud for their lost liberty and plotted ceaselessly to find some way of shaking off the yoke that was so intolerable and unaccustomed.

  At this time, the force of citizens held Exeter, young and old seething with anger against every inhabitant of Gaul.

  The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis , 12th century, edited and translated by Marjorie Chibnall

  29

  Exeter

  April 1067

  Within months of her arrival, the Countess Gytha had created a kingdom of women in her palace at Exeter, a collection of one-storied buildings surrounded by orchards that was situated close to the town’s northern wall. Hilda, Gytha’s youngest daughter, set out to Exeter from her estate near Wallingford. She travelled west with a small train and three wagons containing chests of silver and gold, one filled with church paraphernalia, and a fifth wagon just for her tapestries. Soon, other noblewomen who dwelled in the west sought Gytha’s protection. They came carrying their children and their treasures; all that was left to them after their husbands were killed in the great Battle.