PENGUIN BOOKS
Introduction
PART ONE: THE FORGOTTEN PRINCE
1 Beyond the Eye of God
2 Kingdom of Rheged
3 All Hallows
PART TWO: THE RIGHTFUL HEIR
4 Abernethy
5 Robert Shortboots
6 Battle of Gerberoi
7 Brothers-in-Arms
8 Atrocity at Gateshead
9 Knighthood
10 Grief at Launceston
11 This Turbulent Priest
PART THREE: ROGER THE GREAT
12 Adela’s Scars
13 Mos Militum
14 Battle of Mazara
15 Mahnoor
16 Vengeance
PART FOUR: BROTHERS AT WAR
17 An Ignominious Death
18 The Anointing
19 Revolt at Rochester
20 Battle of Alnwick
21 Vision of Beauty
22 The Twenty-third Psalm
23 Soldiers of Christ
24 Brethren of the Blood
PART FIVE: FOR GOD’S SAKE
25 The Purple
26 Talisman of Truth
27 Battle of Dorylaeum
28 Wastes of Anatolia
29 Siege of Antioch
30 Besiegers Besieged
31 Jerusalem
32 The Parting
PART SIX: LEGACY
33 Deadly Arrow
34 Treaty of Alton
35 Battle of Tinchebrai
36 Phantom in the Night
EPILOGUE
Testament
Postscript
Coronation Charter of Henry I
Genealogies
Maps
Glossary
Acknowledgements
PENGUIN BOOKS
Stewart Binns began his professional life as an academic. He then pursued several adventures, including that of a schoolteacher, specializing in history, before becoming an award-winning documentary-maker and latterly an author. His television credits include the ‘In-Colour’ genre of historical documentaries, notably the BAFTA and Grierson winner Britain at War in Colour and the Peabody winner The Second World War in Colour.
He also launched Trans World Sport in 1987, Futbol Mundial in 1993, the International Olympic Commitee Camera of Record in 1994 and the Olympic Television Archive Bureau in 1996.
Currently Chief Executive and co-founder, with his wife Lucy, of the independent production and distribution company Big Ape Media International. His first novel, Conquest, was published in 2011 and is available in Penguin paperback. Crusade is the sequel.
Stewart’s passion is English history, especially its origins and folklore. His home is in Somerset, where he lives with his wife Lucy and twin boys, Charlie and Jack.
The scriptorium of Malmesbury Abbey is in the middle of a long working day, a day that begins at five in the morning and does not end until vespers in the evening. Over twenty monks are zealously transcribing and illustrating the great books of the day, including those of Abbot William, the leader of Malmesbury’s Benedictine community and widely regarded as the wisest man in England.
Although the scene is a picture of intense toil, except for the gentle scratch of quill on vellum, it is conducted in reverential silence.
The monks of Malmesbury are the guardians of the finest library in northern Europe. They are engaged in the vital work of transcribing the precious word of God and the entire fruits of human knowledge. Their labours will become a major part of the heritage of these times.
Outside the abbey cloisters the burgh of Malmesbury bustles and flourishes noisily with the din of the commerce of urban life. An ancient settlement resting on an easily defended flat-topped hill, its celebrated springs have attracted settlers for hundreds of years.
In the heart of Wessex, Malmesbury had been a jewel in the crown of Anglo-Saxon England. With the arrival of the Normans sixty years ago it was one of the first English burghs to come under direct Norman rule. In 1118, Roger of Salisbury, Chancellor to King Henry I, seized Malmesbury and brought it under his bishopric at Salisbury. He immediately began to rebuild the abbey and the burgh’s walls in stone, a process which is still much in evidence.
The burgh is typical of England under the Normans – at least, in the prosperous southern earldoms. It is thriving in an uneasy, pragmatic truce between the ruling Normans and the defeated and dispossessed English. As is often the case in conquered lands, the victors offer sufficient wealth and opportunity to important parts of the native community to persuade them to cooperate with the new regime. Some call it treason, others cowardice, yet others common sense.
William of Malmesbury’s great work, Gesta Regum Anglorum, a history of the kings of England, had been completed in 1122, but he is still adding accounts, anecdotes and stories to the vast wealth of knowledge in the abbey.
Sadly, his eyesight is failing him and he relies more and more on the support of the brightest of his young acolytes, Roger of Caen, an intellectually gifted and enthusiastic young Norman, the second son of a nobleman.
William, a tall, stooping figure looking every inch a learned ecclesiast in his black habit, summons Roger into the cloister.
‘We must journey to the North.’
‘Why, Abbot? It is a wasteland …’
‘Recently, a Norse trader from Northumbria brought me an interesting story. What do you think became of Prince Edgar the Atheling?’
‘He must be dead by now.’
‘Well, the Norseman tells me he’s alive and living in a remote hamlet, high in the Pennines.’
‘Do you think such a journey is wise when winter is well nigh upon us?’
‘Perhaps not … but the chance to meet the rightful heir to the English throne is a rare opportunity, and too fortuitous to miss.’
‘You English, you never give in! His time passed him by sixty years ago. If he is still alive he must be in his dotage by now.’
‘Nevertheless … Choose three or four good men, and make sure they are handy with a sword. We leave after prayers in the morning.’
As William’s small party of monks journeys northwards, England’s countryside changes from a thriving kingdom of southern shires, where another rich harvest has been safely gathered in, to mile upon mile of grim desolation.
At Gloucester, Worcester and Chester they see new Norman strongholds in all their grandeur. Massive stone keeps are replacing wooden mottes and baileys, modest Saxon cathedrals are being rebuilt on impressive Romanesque lines. Normans and Englishmen mix freely; this new England is a land transformed. However, north of Chester, settlements become more and more sporadic and in places where people are to be found, they live in little more than hovels and endure a pitiful existence.
In the southern earldoms, people speak only of the memories of the massacres committed by William the Conqueror in his Harrying of the North of nearly sixty years ago. But in the North, the nightmare is still real.
After crossing the Mersey, William decides to make several detours down minor routes, both east and west. Away from the main road to Scotland, a route which runs north through Preston and Lancaster where a thin band of normal life is upheld by the vigilance of Norman garrisons, lie huge tracts of ravaged land. Rapidly being consumed by nature, decades of backbreaking toil to clear forests, plough fields and build villages will, in another generation, be wasted. Prime farming land will become nothing more than wilderness.
The western side of the Pennines is the most impoverished of all. In the east, the strategic route to Scotland and the importance of York and Durham mean that the Normans have been careful to rebuild and resettle. In the west, little has changed since the murder and destruction of 1069.
So complete is the devastation and killing in the remote parts of the hinterland that no one is left to bury the dead. Bodies, now no more than sun-bleached skeletons wrapped in rotting fragments of clothing, are still lying where tens of thousands of people were massacred in their villages.
William is deep in thought; there are tears in his eyes, his knuckles white as he grasps his reins in anguish.
‘I have read all the accounts of the Conqueror’s dreadful deeds in this land, but words cannot describe the true horror of this. It is to be hoped that he is now suffering at the hand of God for what he has done here.’
Roger has been fortunate in life. His has been the sheltered existence of a cleric since childhood; he has never witnessed anything like this before.
‘So, it is true. He really was a monster.’
‘Yes, he was a ruthless tyrant, like many of your countrymen.’
‘We are not all like him.’
‘I know, my son, but my father was a Norman, so I know that a love of war and a penchant for avarice fire the Norman blood.’
Both men say silent prayers as they pass every example of the brutality committed a lifetime ago.
There is still a small community on the hill at Lancaster, where a heavily armed garrison of the King’s men is overseeing the building of a stone keep, but the only civilians are a few souls marooned in service to the garrison and the masons. Most of the old burgh is in ruins, its simple wooden buildings burned to the ground, its small Saxon stone church gutted, its roof timbers charred and decaying.
William and Roger make camp beneath the walls of Lancaster’s keep. It is a cold night and their men build a large fire for them.
Roger is in pensive mood.
‘Abbot, why is it always the innocent who suffer?’
‘War is like a tempest; no one is safe. When a storm rages in the hearts of men, it consumes everything in its path. Like peasants’ hovels in a gale, it is the little people who are the most vulnerable.’
‘I’m glad we have the walls of Malmesbury and our Holy Orders to protect us.’
‘Don’t be too complacent, my young friend. If the winds are powerful enough, neither stout walls nor a monk’s heavy cassock will keep you safe. Both can prove flimsy in the midst of the tumults made by men.’
‘Thank you for that comforting thought, Abbot.’ Roger smiles wryly before another blast of cold air reminds him how uncomfortable he is. ‘This prince, Edgar … what kind of man is he?’
‘He is intriguing – enigmatic, shrewd, obviously a survivor. He has lived a very long life and is the only senior figure from the time of the Conquest still alive. He knew two Kings of England – Edward and Harold – and he was at York with Hereward of Bourne when the great English rebellion looked like it might succeed. And that was only the beginning of his story.
‘He befriended King William’s firstborn, Robert Curthose. He fought in Sicily and the Crusades, and stood with Robert at the Battle of Tinchebrai. What stories he can tell us!’
Roger stares at his mentor admiringly.
‘Well, if you put it like that, I suppose it’s a journey worth making.’ Then he adds, with rather less enthusiasm, ‘I just wish it wasn’t so far north and so bitterly cold.’
When they reach the settlement of Sedbergh, they find another tiny enclave of normality. Previously a flourishing village, it is now no more than a few makeshift shelters; the once-proud Anglo-Norse inhabitants have been reduced to a wretched vestige of humanity. Many are sick, some are lame, and all look pale and undernourished. Their clothes are little better than rags, few wear leggings and most walk barefoot.
William decides to stay for a while to help the community find some purpose. He puts his men to work, trying to make the meagre dwellings more habitable, while he and Roger strive to inspire the locals to help themselves. One young man, no more than a boy of sixteen or seventeen, seems the most vigorous, and William takes him to one side.
‘How many people are there here?’
‘Sire, about twenty in the village and another dozen or so in the hills around us.’
‘Where is your priest, or your thegn? Don’t you have a lord?’
‘There is no one. We are all from different villages. Our parents settled here a few years ago, after spending years hiding in the forests and on the fells. No one has claimed the village, so we came here to try to rebuild it.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Aldric, Abbot.’
‘Where are your parents now?’
‘They are dead. All the original settlers are dead. Last winter was very harsh, and many died. A group of younger men went down the valley in the spring to look for work, but we never saw them again. So, this is all that’s left – old men and women, a few children and four or five of us who are reasonably fit and well.’
‘Why haven’t you left?’
‘Because it’s our duty to stay; they would all die if we left.’
‘I admire your courage and sacrifice. Gather together the fit members of the community; I want to talk to them.’
Young Aldric summons two other young men, as well as three girls in their teens. William sits them down in the middle of the village and addresses them.
‘I am claiming possession of this village under the ownership of the Abbey of Malmesbury.’
There is an immediate look of horror on the faces of Aldric and his companions, but William is quick to reassure them.
‘My abbey will not be taxing you – at least, not until you can easily afford it. I will give you silver to buy seed, a couple of oxen and a plough, and sufficient to buy some sheep and cows. Tomorrow, Roger and one of my men will ride back to Lancaster to buy food to get you through the approaching winter.’
William is heartened when he sees the horror on the faces in front of him transformed into an expression of astonishment.
‘I am appointing Aldric as Thegn of Sedbergh, which I will have confirmed by King Henry at Winchester upon my return to Malmesbury. The rest of you are appointed elders of the village on my authority. Are there any questions?’
There is a stunned silence.
‘Tomorrow we will help you build a longhouse for the village, where you can all stay warm together in the winter. We won’t leave until it is finished. When it is complete, I will bless it and we will say mass together. In a few months’ time, when I find the right candidate, I will send you a priest from Malmesbury and together you can build him a church.’
Aldric bends down to kiss William’s ring, but the Abbot pulls him up, embarrassed at the overt show of gratitude. However, he’s not agile enough to prevent the girls, overcome by emotion, kneeling at his feet to bury their heads in his cassock.
Roger, seeing William’s unease at this outpouring of gratitude, catches William’s eye and grins at him mockingly.
‘Away to Lancaster with you,’ roars the Abbot. ‘And be quick about it!’
Ten days later, the longhouse finished and the village given a spark of life, William and his party head north to Appleby on the river Eden and begin to ascend the fells of the high Pennines towards Kirby Thore and the old Roman fort of Bravoniacum.
As they leave Sedbergh behind, Roger turns to Abbot William.
‘Will they prosper?’ he asks.
‘I think so. They’ve been through a lot and are strong people; they just needed a little bit of inspiration. We will keep an eye on them.’
Roger smiles to himself. He knows he has a lot to learn and that William will be an inspiring teacher.
There is a similar scene of poverty and destitution in Appleby. The old village is in ruins, save for a single ale and mead house run by Wotus, a crusty old Northumbrian, and his family, whose Anglo-Norse language William has difficulty understanding. Wotus makes just enough to survive by serving the itinerant charcoal-burners and lead-miners who come to his house once a week to drink themselves stupid and stare longingly at his comely daughters.
After a couple of days’ rest, William’s men conclude that, although the Northumbrian’s daughters are worthy of a modest detour, his ale and mead are far less endearing, his beds are in desperate need of fresh straw and his midden not fit for pigs.
And so, they move further north. The chill wind of winter begins to bite and snow falls from the gull-grey clouds above them. They lose touch with humanity. All signs of life – or death – disappear. Roger looks out across the bleak scene.
‘What kind of man would choose to live up here?’
‘One who has many memories to dwell upon, and perhaps a few regrets. When people who have lived a turbulent life come to face the end of it, it’s often the case that they seek solitude in which to reflect.’
William and Roger spend many hours speculating on the long and fascinating life of Edgar the Atheling, all of which only increases William’s impatience to meet him. But their idle musings are brought to an end by the increasing remoteness of their route.
Their men-at-arms look tense; they are not easily unnerved but are not accustomed to such hostile terrain. The boundless swathes of primordial forest, untouched by the hand of man, are dense and dark, and above them the high fells rise like menacing shadows. Only on the very crests of the fells is the ground clear, where relentless wind and bitter cold make it difficult for anything to grow except moss and heather.
On the third day north of Sedbergh, their sergeant rides back from his lead position to speak to William.
‘My Lord Abbot, is it wise to go on? This place is wild.’
‘Sergeant, the man we seek will have chosen this place deliberately. He is a prince of the realm – if he can venture here, so can we.’
‘I fear we are being watched … perhaps for the last couple of hours. I’m not certain, but I think I can see movement in the trees.’
‘Be vigilant, Sergeant. Send your best man to higher ground to see if we’re being followed. And tell the men to stay alert.’
The sergeant sends out his senior man, Eadmer, with instructions to work his way around to the back of the small party and check if anyone is following them.
They eventually find the key to their passage: the Maiden Way, an ancient Roman route, cut over the fells a millennium earlier to link the lead and silver mines of the northern hills to the routes heading south and to the fort at Carvoran on the Great North Wall of the Emperor Hadrian.
William has often reflected on Rome and its achievements. When writing his chronicles of the English kings, there were many monarchs he admired, such as the great and noble Alfred. He has marvelled at their courage, wisdom and triumphs. But if only he had been a scholar in Ancient Rome, then he could have been the chronicler of men who had conquered the known world; those who built a civilization so sophisticated and powerful that it endured for hundreds of years.
Now he is approaching the last outpost of their empire. He shivers, partly in awe at contemplating their triumphs and partly in dread at what he is getting himself into in this fearful place. He wonders what the intrepid Romans must have thought as they trudged northwards. Rugged and resolute, no doubt, they were men from the Mediterranean, southern Gaul; perhaps as far as Anatolia, North Africa, or Phoenicia. They must have been as anxious as he is now. What men they must have been!
The Maiden Way is little used and difficult to negotiate, but at least it cuts through the forests, fords the rivers and points true north.
‘Abbot, do you know the route?’
‘I do; the Norseman’s instructions were very clear.’
‘May a young monk, who is perhaps often too sure of himself for his own good, confess to an overwhelming feeling of terror at his current circumstances?’
William smiles and turns to his young companion.
‘There is much to fear in this world: nature and its wild and unpredictable habits; man and his bestial depravities. But it is God we should respect the most, for He controls everything. Pray to Him and ask for His protection.’
Roger kicks on, not at all reassured, scanning the trees intently and twitching at the slightest sound. After a while, he blurts out another question with an anxious tremor.
‘I know Edgar is the last English claimant to the kingdom, and I know what you said … But are you really sure he is worth such a perilous journey? He’s probably nothing but an incoherent old fool by now.’
‘Far from it, my young friend. The Norseman said he was not only lucid but a fount of stories. Remember, Edgar was announced as King of England after Harold’s slaughter on Senlac Ridge. He had powerful friends, including the Kings of Scotland and France. After being reconciled with the Conqueror and befriending Robert Curthose, he went to the Great Crusade with him – and both men came back in one piece, an outcome not afforded to many.’
‘I have been doing my arithmetic. He was too young to succeed the saintly Edward in 1066 – fifteen or sixteen, I think – so, he must be in his mid-seventies. I hope he keeps warm in this miserable place.’
‘I think we will find a man of some resolve. He fought in the wars between the Conqueror’s sons and must have gained their respect, otherwise King Henry would have had him killed or thrown into an oubliette.’
‘And you think this abode any better!’
‘My son, you have obviously never been in one of the King’s dungeons.’
They are now approaching the high moorland and the trees are thinning. Roger stops suddenly and crosses himself.
‘God bless and save us! It is Eadmer.’
He points to the last tree before the open moor. Hanging from it, severed from his body and tied by his hair, is Eadmer’s head, blood still oozing on to the ground. Bizarrely, despite the gruesome scene and the horror of his death – perhaps only moments ago – his eyes are closed and at peace, and he looks strangely serene. Nearby, his body has been propped upright in his saddle and his horse carefully tethered.
‘It is a warning to turn back.’
The sergeant is already turning his horse as he speaks.
‘Where are you going, man? You are a soldier; your father was a housecarl in King Harold’s army. Get a grip of yourself! We will cut him down and give him a Christian burial.’
With that, the renowned scribe of Malmesbury takes the sergeant’s sword and removes Eadmer’s head from the tree, placing it on the ground. They then pull his body from the horse, lay his corpse in a shallow grave and hold a short service.
A piercing wind shrieks at them as William reads from his Bible. The skies darken and the snow begins to fall more heavily, swirling around them in wild flurries. William seems oblivious to everything that has happened; the others are in a state of terror.
It is Roger who voices their fears.
‘Abbot, the men want to turn back. So do I.’
‘Roger, calm yourself. We haven’t come all this way to turn back now. We’ll find a place to camp over there in the trees and see what the morning brings.’
‘This is madness. We are in the middle of the wilderness and someone has just beheaded one of our men!’
In silence, and with grim determination, William leads his group to a small copse of trees barely a hundred yards away. As they enter the grove, looming above them, far off in the distance, they can see the mighty crest of Cross Fell.
Then the Druid appears.
He is standing alone on a small rocky knoll, no more than ten yards away. He wears a simple grey robe of washed wool tied at the waist with a pleated cord. His untied hair and beard are long and hoary and he has a heavy silver chain and amulet around his neck decorated with pagan images. His right hand holds a long oak staff topped by a ram’s skull replete with enormous horns, and around the wrist of his left hand is a small garland of mistletoe. His dark, piercing eyes are fixed on them in an unblinking stare. William assumes he is a druid, for he has exactly the mien and bearing that legend describes.
The sergeant-at-arms makes for his sword, but before he can draw it more than six inches from its scabbard an arrow cuts through the air and lodges in his throat, the tip of its head exiting close to his spine. A second hits him square in the chest near his heart, and a third lands inches away from the second. Both are deeply embedded. He is silent and motionless for a moment before reaching desperately for his throat, uttering a muted cry that turns into a sickening splutter as a stream of blood cascades from his mouth. His futile grasp of his gullet soon relaxes and he tumbles off his horse, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
In that instance, at least thirty heavily armed men appear, as if out of nowhere. They make no sound, not even the faintest rustle underfoot.
William begs his remaining companions in a hiss, ‘Do not move. Stay silent.’
They are clearly Celts, but resemble a breed William has only read about, never seen.
The Druid speaks in excellent English, but with a strong accent that confirms it is not his first language.
‘You are a monk and, I think, an important one. What brings you to our land?’
‘You have committed murder here.’
‘Your bodyguards are not welcome here, and neither are you. This is our land.’
‘Is this not the land of the Earl of Bamburgh?’
‘It is not. Our tribe has owned this land since before the legions of Rome came here. I asked you a question.’
William is thinking quickly.
Could it be possible for a tribe of Celts to have remained here, undisturbed since antiquity? To have avoided or repelled the attentions of Rome’s legions and of Saxon, Dane and Norman?
They certainly look like the ancient Celts of the chronicles. Their bearded faces and bodies are adorned with swirls of pagan imagery, but not in the blue woad of legend – theirs are an ochre colour, not painted on to their skin, but cut in and permanent. Their dress is like the Celts’ of Wales and Cornwall: woollen leggings dyed red; heavy cloaks over their shoulders – the only covering for their bare chests. Their weapons are similar to the seax, spear and shield of a Saxon housecarl, but they do not carry the housecarl’s main weapon, the axe, preferring a short but powerful Celtic bow and quiver of arrows.
‘I will see to it that your crime is dealt with by the Earl.’
‘The Earl? I know no such man. I rule here. Your guard strayed from the Roman path; that means he had to die. This one drew his weapon, which cost him his life. We let people pass, but if they stray into our domain or raise their weapons, they pay with their lives. It has always been so. I ask you for the final time, what brings you to our land?’
William decides that it is wise to acquiesce.
‘I am on a journey with my cleric, Roger of Malmesbury –’ he chooses not to mention Roger’s Norman origins ‘– to meet a man I am told lives near here. I am William, Abbot of Malmesbury, a chronicler. These are my men-at-arms.’
The Druid does not respond. He looks at his men, then closes his eyes and prays out loud in a language that is unrecognizable. He finishes his invocations by raising his staff with its ram’s head and pointing it at Cross Fell. He then looks at William, but more benignly than before.
‘We respect you. You chose to bury your man and pray over him; few men would have done that, preferring to scurry off the fells as quickly as their horses would carry them.’ He stares at William intently. ‘So, you are a storyteller. Storytellers are welcome here, but your warriors are not. They must go back to Appleby and wait for you there.’
‘But they are here for our protection.’
‘You have no need of them now. You are safe with us.’
William knows immediately that the Druid is right. Whoever these people are, it is certainly their realm. He nods to his two remaining warriors to depart. The older one, visibly terrified, questions the wisdom of William’s decision.
‘Are you sure, Abbot?’
‘I am sure. We are not far from our destination and these people will give us safe passage.’
The man-at-arms leans forward in his saddle to whisper, ‘They are heathens, murderous savages.’
‘They are heathens, and there is no doubting their savagery. But I have travelled a long way for the man I seek and I am not turning back now. Wait at Appleby for ten days. If we do not return, go to the garrison at Lancaster and tell them what you have seen here. In the meantime, say nothing of this to anyone – especially not to Wotus and his family.’
As his men turn and leave, William impatiently begins to ask the first of many questions to which he wants answers.
‘Do I address you as a priest, or are you lord of these people?’
‘I am Lord of the Gul. We do not have priests, or a god, as you would understand them; we worship the earth, moon and stars and follow what nature teaches us. You may call me Owain, for that is my name.’
‘And you are Celts?’
‘We are. Before I take you to the man you seek, I will tell you a little about us. We are the Gul, the last tribe of the great Kingdom of Rheged, a land that once stretched from the Picts of the mountains of Scotland all the way to the end of the fells of Hen Ogledd – what you call the “Old North” of England. Our southern boundary was the marshland where the waters of the Derventi, the Trenti, the Soori and the Irre Wiscce meet. Beyond lived the Coritani people, in what you now call Mercia. We speak Cumbric, which is like the Welsh you know in the south. I am a direct descendant of Urien Rheged, the most famous of our leaders; he ruled here many generations ago.’
‘How do you preserve your traditions? Do you trade with the other people in the area?’
‘That is all you may know about us. You are a storyteller, are you not? Read the poems of Taliesin; you will find them in the chronicles of the Welsh bards.’
‘You must tell me more. You are part of the great history of our land.’
‘I must? Indeed, I will not. We are not part of the history of “your” land. This is our land!’
Owain spits his answer at the Abbot, who realizes he has been given all the information the Druid is prepared to impart.
‘We must leave. The day is moving on and the snow will fall into the night. No man would want to be on these fells at night, blizzard or otherwise. We will help you bury your man. The Prince lives a few miles from here, next to the Water that Roars, near the Norse settlements of Alston and Garrigyll.’
‘How do you know we seek Prince Edgar?’
‘You surely haven’t come here to mine for lead. Why else would an English storyteller be high in the mountains of Rheged, stepping over the corpses of ill-begotten Saxons and Norse?’
William presides over another interment, for the sergeant-at-arms. Then, after several hours of struggle over difficult ground with driven snow increasingly obscuring the track, Owain Rheged and his band of warriors leave William and Roger at the top of a steep gorge. He beckons them towards a raging waterfall that spews its innards angrily into the valley below.
‘The Prince’s hall lies beyond the falls to the south, next to the Grue Water. There is a safe place to ford further upstream. You must show respect here; this place is sacred to us.’
William nods his assent.
Before he departs, Owain moves closer to William. He speaks gently, the ferocity of his demeanour suddenly assuaged.
‘Have you told all the stories you want to tell?’
‘Most of them, Owain Rheged.’
‘That is good. When you pray to your god, save a prayer for yourself.’
‘I always do. Are you concerned for me?’
‘You will soon be like the blacksmith without his strong arms …’ He pauses. ‘You will be blind by Midsummer’s Day.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I have seen it before. You have what the Ancients called nazul-i-ah, “the descent of the water”. In Latin it is called cataracta. It means “waterfall”.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I have seen it in the infirmaries of Constantinople. Prince Edgar believes I have never left these fells and that when he came here, he taught me English and the ways of Christendom. He doesn’t know that before my face was decorated my father sent me into the world to learn its ways. I was away for a dozen years and travelled across Europe and into the great empire of Byzantium.’
William hesitates, shocked by the Druid’s pronouncement about his eyes.
‘Is there anything that can be done about my sight?’
‘No … but keep that boy close to you. You will need him.’
‘You are a fascinating man, Owain Rheged. I would like to hear more of your story one day.’
The Druid doesn’t answer.
In an instant, he is gone – he and his warriors melting into the forest as unobtrusively as they had appeared.
William and his men travel for some distance to find the crossing point of the Pennine beck, shallow enough for their horses, before doubling back on themselves to reach the settlement where the Druid had said they would find their quarry.
William’s next Northumbrian revelation is the humble nature of the Prince’s settlement.
The main hall is not much bigger than a freeman’s two-room cottage, and the two smaller buildings are about the size of a peasant’s simple one-room dwelling. The cluster of buildings, which appears to be deserted, cannot be home to more than ten or twelve people.
They search for a few minutes, but no one can be found. The fire in the hall is just a cool ember and has not been tended for several hours. Roger seizes his chance to bid for a rapid retreat to Malmesbury.
‘So, Abbot, the bird has flown; there is no point in wasting our time here. I will feed the horses and we can begin our journey home.’
‘Not at this time, I fear. It will be dark soon.’
‘I suppose I must bow to your judgement – if we can’t start tonight, I’ll find us a place to sleep.’
William gazes into the dense wall of trees surrounding the settlement.
‘Let’s bed down in the hall. I don’t think our host is far away.’
William and Roger enter the modest hall and start to pile wood on to the ashes of the smouldering fire.
‘Roger, hand me those bellows.’
As the young monk reaches for the means to bring the fire to life, a gruff voice speaks to them from the shadows.
‘What do you want here?’
William, startled, turns sharply.
‘Show yourself, we have had enough shocks for one day.’
‘We are the ones who should be shocked. You have entered our hall uninvited.’
‘I am William of Malmesbury, and this is my cleric, Roger of Caen. We seek Edgar, Prince of this realm.’
‘There are no princes here, priest. Are you mad? Why would a royal prince be living in this godforsaken place?’
‘I am sorry; we have been told that Prince Edgar lives here. In fact, it was your neighbours, the Gul, who escorted us here.’
With that, another much gentler voice speaks.
‘Welcome to Ashgyll, William of Malmesbury. I’m afraid we will not be able to offer you the many comforts of the dormitories in your great abbey, but our settlement suffices for our simple needs.’
William and Roger turn to their right as the man they seek steps from the shadows with his steward. At the same time, the first man also steps forward; he is a large battle-scarred man, who is clearly Edgar’s sergeant-at-arms.
William bows and says, ‘My Lord, I am honoured to meet the Atheling Prince of England. You knew of our coming?’
‘Of course, my friends the Gul keep me informed. But none of that “Atheling” formality, that was a long time ago. I am now Edgar, Lord of Ashgyll, but my realm is no more than what you see around you. You must call me Edgar.’
The Prince tells his steward to take care of the horses, then gestures to William and Roger to move closer to the fire.
‘You must forgive my furtiveness when you appeared. I like to remain as anonymous as possible up here. I have chosen a quiet and contemplative end to my life. As a monk, I’m sure you will understand that.’
‘Indeed, although life at Malmesbury can sometimes be far more hectic than I would wish.’
‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘A Norseman. He came to the abbey to sell linen.’
Edgar smiles ruefully.
‘I thought as much. I recall he just appeared one day. He recognized me at Durham and must have followed me here. I don’t know how he avoided the Gul; perhaps he paid them off. I suppose you made it worth his while to tell you where I lived?’
‘Well, we did buy rather a lot of linen from him.’
‘Yes, he was a good salesman – very persuasive; he carried some excellent Norse mead. He probably got me drunk. Anyway, he had already guessed my identity, so there was no point in denying it.’
Edgar shrugs his shoulders, sits himself down by the fire and changes the subject.
‘You are a Norman, young Roger. I know Caen; it is a fine city. And I know the Normans well – especially a very noble one called Robert.’
After a pause, Edgar turns to William and stares at him pointedly.
‘Are you here to hear my confession?’
‘Not exactly, but I would like to hear the account of your many trials and tribulations. My life is devoted to the chronicles of the past.’
‘I know your work and that you have just completed your Deeds of the Kings of the English. The monks at Durham have a copy, which they are very proud of.’
‘You flatter me. How often do you visit the cathedral?’
‘I used to go occasionally, but now the stiffness of old age prevents any travel beyond my weekly trip to Alston, an old Norse settlement nearby. Like so much of the North, it’s not much more than a ruin where the few locals who survive hold a weekly market.’
‘Does that include the mysterious Owain Rheged and his band of Celts?’
‘No, indeed. No one ever sees them. They live deep in the forest – high up, near the open fells. Owain comes here from time to time. I like to drink, he likes to talk; he tells me endless stories about his ancestors and the great Urien Rheged.’
‘He killed two of my men; beheaded one and hanged his head from a tree like an animal. The other he butchered in front of us like a deer in the forest.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t do that to all of you; he is guarding the safety of his tribe. He still holds human sacrifices, or so I am told. He’s getting old, though, so perhaps he was curious about you. Maybe he was tempted to tell you his story? He must know the end is close for his people. It’s one thing keeping superstitious Saxons and Danes at bay with his sorcery, but quite another to resist the Normans. He knows their brutal reputation.’
‘I don’t suppose there is any point in trying to seek redress for what he has done?’
‘No, he is the law here. The Earl doesn’t venture up here; no one in their right mind does – except you, of course.’
Recalling the Druid’s account of his early life, William asks, ‘Where did he learn English?’
‘From me, although I suspect I wasn’t the first to teach him. I came here nearly fifteen years ago; I chose this place to be close to my friends in Scotland and because Ashgyll Force cleanses me. I like to wash away the dust of Palestine and the memory of Jerusalem every day. I also came here because I once had a very traumatic experience high in the fells of the Pennines. It changed my life.’
‘May I ask about the circumstances?’
‘You may. My life was saved by a man called Hereward of Bourne. You know of him?’
‘I do. He has become a legend, but I would like to hear about him from you.’
Edgar appears to ignore William’s request.
‘Let me tell you about Owain Rheged. He is a remarkable man and his people are a lost tribe, full of strange rituals. He started to appear in the distance after I had been here for about a year and we had finished building our home. Then one day, as I was admiring the endless cascade of the Force, he appeared behind me, shouting and cursing in his language and pointing his ram’s-head staff at me. Eventually, I realized he was telling me the ground was sacred, so I fell to my knees and bowed my head. I felt certain I would be struck down, but he saw my gold ring and seal and relented. He just stared at me, then walked away.
‘I didn’t cast eyes on him again for several months. Then, one bright spring morning, he appeared with an oak sapling, their sacred tree. It stands over there, taller than my hall now. We have been friends ever since. I am very meek with him; he is a king, after all, and I’m only a prince.’
William observes Edgar intently as he speaks about Owain, King of Rheged, and of the land of Hen Ogledd.
He is tall and, although now stooped with the ravages of age, still has the bearing of a nobleman. His clothes are modest, no better than those of a minor thegn, and his only adornment is the gold ring of the House of Wessex, the royal Cerdician lineage of the ancient kings of England. Although its many wrinkles suggest much anguish in the past, his face has a kindly demeanour. His grey hair is cut short, as is his neat beard; only his dark eyebrows hint at his previous colouring. His steel-grey eyes are clear and alert; he carries no visible scars, and his aged hands are delicate and soft like those of a scholar.
‘Do you know there are still bears up here?’
‘That cannot be. The last bears in England died out hundreds of years ago.’
‘So, you don’t know everything, William of Malmesbury.’
Edgar then asks his steward to bring him his winter cloak.
‘It’s cold enough for this today. Here, try it.’
William takes the bearskin cloak and drapes it over his shoulders.
‘Well, it’s certainly a bearskin – ideal for your Pennine eyrie.’
‘Owain’s people know where the bears are. There are only a few dozen left, but they’re here all right. And lots of hungry wolves to keep them company. The Anglo-Danes who lived in the valleys – before King William butchered them – used to say that Owain could change himself into a bear or a wolf at will.’
‘Edgar, it is your life I have come to hear about. The mysteries of Owain Rheged can wait for another time.’
Again, Edgar ignores William’s request.
‘He has a Roman centurion’s helmet and sword, hundreds of years old. He brought them here once; he’s very proud of them. They were passed down to him from his ancestors. The helmet still has some of its horsehair crest, a remarkable thing. He says he also has the head of the Roman who once wore the helmet. It wouldn’t surprise me. The Gul keep the skulls of their victims as trophies.’
‘Edgar, your story please.’
‘Let’s discuss it in the morning. We must build up the fire now, and drink some mead; tonight will be cold.’
‘It is already cold! Does that wind never stop howling? And how do you sleep with that thundering waterfall?’
‘You’ll get used to the waterfall. As for the wind, that happens often. It comes off Cross Fell, which the locals call Fiends’ Fell. It is the Helm Wind and it shrieks like a banshee. The Gul say it is their gods speaking to them.’
The next day, Edgar the Atheling, the 74-year-old rightful heir to the throne of England, is still reluctant to give his account of his turbulent life. He asks William to walk with him to Ashgyll Force, so that he can talk to him beyond the earshot of others.
The deafening roar of the Force makes it hard to hear, and Edgar’s words fight against nature’s resounding presence.
‘William, I am sure you are as sympathetic a man as you are learned. But if I were to tell you my story, it would be painful for me. Few men have been as blessed by birth as I have, but I doubt that many have had their blessings so cursed. When I first came to England as a boy, I spoke only broken English; I knew several of the Slavic languages of Europe and some local Magyar, but English was very foreign to me. My father died within days of setting foot on our ancestral soil, and I immediately became a target for the ambitions and greed of others. I lived in fear and, despite all that has happened to me, I am still haunted by my formative years. Even now, I often wake in the night, disturbed by some nightmare or other. That’s when the Force comforts me, or the Helm Wind takes away the hot sweats. Do you live with fear, my learned scribe?’
‘I live with my anxieties, like every man. Perhaps the telling of your story will bring you peace, as well as enlightenment to others.’
‘I have already found a sort of peace here. I have learned to live with my past. And I think, when my life is weighed in the balance, the favourable will outweigh the unfavourable – at least, that is my hope. There is a thread which weaves its way through my story and makes some sense of it all.’
‘Will you at least reveal that to me?’
‘The thread connects four old men. I am one, and my good friend Robert, Duke of Normandy, now languishing in the King’s keep at Cardiff, is the second.’
Edgar hesitates; he looks wistful, sad even.
‘And the other two?’ William prompts.
Edgar turns away and sighs before continuing, clearly in two minds about whether to trust William with his story.
‘The third is Hereward of Bourne, a man whose heroic deeds are known to us all, and the fourth is the seer, the Old Man of the Wildwood and father of Hereward’s remarkable wife Torfida, who set Hereward on the path that changed his life. We all lived into old age and, I hope, acquired some contentment and a little wisdom from what we had experienced. I know three of us did, and I only hope the same is true for Robert – I have had no contact with him for twenty years.’
William takes a deep breath. He is about to make the move that he hopes will convince Edgar to tell his story.
‘I have been to see Robert, in Cardiff.’
‘How …?’
‘I have been asking the King for permission for several years. When I heard of your whereabouts, it became much more urgent, so I went to Winchester to plead my case and he relented. He’s getting old himself and softening a bit.’
‘How is Robert?’
‘He’s frail, but well. He is well taken care of – confined, of course, but he can walk about the keep freely and his chamber is warm and comfortable.’
‘Did he tell you his story?’
‘No, he wasn’t really strong enough for that and he said you would be a much better storyteller.’
‘Did he, indeed? He had a habit of getting me to do the things he didn’t like to do.’
‘He gave me this parchment.’
William hands Edgar a small scroll, sealed with Robert’s ducal ring. The Prince’s thin, bony fingers carefully break the seal and he begins to read. At first he smiles, then his eyes fill with tears. The message is only brief and William has no idea what it says. But it has a profound effect on Edgar, who turns and walks closer to the Force.
After a while, he walks back towards William, pushing the scroll up into the sleeve of his shirt.
‘He must be very frail; his writing is tentative, like the scrawl of a child.’
‘I’m sorry. He was a little shaky when we met; he’s a very old man.’
‘He says I can trust you, that your chronicles are fair and accurate, but I knew that already. When I heard that you had arrived on these fells, I knew what you had come for. I have had time to think. The mighty Hereward once told me that the lives of men move in great circles and that at the end of a long journey there should be time for reflection. I have had plenty of time to reflect here in the Pennines. It’s a place for penance, as in Purgatory. Perhaps I am purged; I will tell you my tale. As you say, it may do some good, and Robert seems content that I should let people know more of his life.’
Later that morning, Edgar settles by his fire to begin his account. William of Malmesbury reminds young Roger of the date. It is 31 October, All Hallows, the Feast of the Dead, in the year 1126.
Roger’s responsibility will be to help William remember as much of the detail as possible. It is fortunate that he does not have to commit quill to vellum, as his hand still quivers from the horrors of the previous day and the menacing environment in which they find themselves, with the chilling cold of an approaching winter at over 1,000 feet in the Pennines, the thunder of Ashgyll Force and the screams of the Helm Wind off Fiends’ Fell.
The years following the Conquest were a living hell for me and the people of England. Its army, once so potent behind its legendary shield wall, never recovered from the gruesome battle of Stamford Bridge against Harald Hardrada’s formidable Norwegians and the slaughter of Senlac Ridge, where the courageous King Harold and most of the English aristocracy were massacred by William, Duke of Normandy, and his merciless clan.
Some brave souls rose in rebellion but were quickly annihilated. One by one, village by village, burgh by burgh, the English acquiesced. The last great rising came in the North, in the earldoms of Edwin and Morcar. When Svein Estrithson, the King of Denmark, landed with his army, there was a glimmer of hope. But Estrithson was easily bought off by William – his treasury was full with the spoils of his prosperous new domain – and the English rebels, now just a handful of valiant men, were left to their fate.