The Disputed Crown - Valerie Anand

THE
DISPUTED
A
CROWN
Novel of Eleventh Century England
VALERlt \NAN^
AUTHOR OF
G I L DEN FORD
$14.95
n Christmas Day of 1066,

William of Normandy is crowned King
William I of England. Yet the Conquer-
or's battle for the throne is far from over.
His defeat of Harold of England at the
Battle of Hastings and his brutal cam-
paigns across the countryside have
earned him as many enemies as ad-
mirers. Now the English people and
their leaders face a choice: to serve the
Norman invader or rebel against him.
Some, such as Harold's former fol-
lower Brand of Fallowdene and Brand's
new leader, Hereward of Bourne, choose
to resist. Others, including Brand's
daughter Wulfhild, accept the situation,
intermarry with the Normans, and begin
building a new Anglo-Norman society,
a process concerned as much with the
day-to-day trivia of thatched hall and
rye field as with the castle and the field
of war. Still others, such as Earl Waltheof
of Huntingdon, veer from one side to
the other, alternately making peace with
William and rebelling against him,
bringing disaster not only upon them-
selves but upon all around them.
Against this background, people live
their ownprivate loves and griefs and
enmities, which sometimes cut across
the official division of Norman and
English. Brand is enraged at his
daughter Wulfhild's marriage to a
Norman, Sir Simon Inconnu. Wulfhild
struggles to make the marriage succeed
because only through the marriage can
she keep her beloved manor. Fallow-
dene. Simon tries to remember the for-
gotten past, but the truth is almost too
(continued on hack flap)

BOSTON
PUBLIC
tlBRARY
Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2011
http://www.archive.org/details/disputedcrownOOanan
THE
DISPUTED
CROWN
ALSO BY VALERIE ANAND
Gildenford
The NoTTnan Pretender

1
THE
DISPUTED
CROWN
i VALERIE ANAND ^
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS X TJew york

Copyright © 1982 Valerie Anand
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
x\nand, Valerie.
The disputed crown.
1. Great Britain History— —William 1066-

I,
1087 —Fiction. 2. Hereward, 1071 — Fiction.

fl.
I. Title.
PR6051.N34D56 1982 823'.914 82-10279
ISBN 0-684-17629-7
This book published simultaneously

United States of America and in Canada
in the
Copyright under the Berne Convention.
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
without the permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
1 3 5 7 9 11 13 15 17 19 F/C 20 18 16 14 12 10 8 6 4 2
Printed in the United States of America.

For my husband Dalip
^
^ CONTENTS ^
A cknowledgements ix
English and Norman Riding Houses x

House of Wessex xii
Principal Characters xv
Author's Note xix
CORONATION DAY December 1066 a.d. 1
Part I. Dedications, 1068 a.d. 5
L The Rude Home comiiig 7
2. The Paradoxical Marriage 20

5. The Unquiet Monastery 30
4. Shadow of the Future 3 8
5. Extraction of a Molar 46
d*. y4 Af^72 Without a Past 54
7. The Spurious Merchants 64
S*. Culmijiation of a Feud 12
i^. Warningin the North 79
Part II. Revelations, 1069-1070 a.d. 87
1 . T^^ Rising Gale 89

2. Home Port 98
3. Odin's Ring 108
4. The Day God Dropped the Universe 115
5. The Obvious Solution 126
6. The Elusive Grave 134
Part III. Confrontations, 1070-1072 a.d. 149
L Unhallonjoed Norman Hands 151

2. The Golden Burgh 157
5. ^4 Blaze of Anger 165
^. Duels 174
5. Fî;er 180
6. The Burning Fen 190
7. The Last Defence 201
S*. Surrender 206
Part IV. Immolations, 1075-1082 a.d. 215
1 . T^^ Seditious Marriage Party 217

2. Unfinished Business 229
5 . Snow flakes in a Rainbow 238
^. Celestial Mills 255
5. Nemesis 265
(f. The Passing 275
7. The SuTwnons 285
DOMESDAY 1086 a.d. 295

^ ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 2is
It would be impossible to list all the books and publica-

tions that have helped with the background for The Dis-
me
puted Crown. There are too many, consulted over too many
years. But outstanding among them are George Slocombe's
William the Conqueror and Sons of the Conqueror, Frank
Barlow'sThe Feudal Kingdom of England, David Howarth's
The Year H. Galbraith's Domesday Book,
of the Conquest, V.
A. K. Astbur's The Black Fens, H. R. Loyn's Anglo-Saxon
England and the Norman Conquest, Jack Lindsay's The
Normans a?id Their World, and numerous local interest pub-
lications available from the cathedrals of Ely and Peter-
borough. These include The Fenland Story (W. E. Drury),
St. Etheldreda, Queen and Abbess (C. J. Stranks), The
Monastic Setting of Ely (Mac Dowdy), Peterborough Cathe-

dral (Canon J. L. Cartwright), and The Story of Ely and Its
Cathedral (D. E. Dorman).
tx
^ ENGLISH AND NORMAN ^
RULING HOUSES
996-1087 An
RICHARD I = GUNNOR
Duke of Normandy
died 996
RICHARD II JUDITH AELFGIFU = ETHELRED =

Duke of Normandy "The Unready'
996-1026 978-1016
RICHARD III ROBERT 7 HERLEVA HERLUIN EDWARD

Duke of Normandy 'The Devil" |
of Conteville 'The Confessor'
1026-27 Duke of Normandy 1042-66 =
1027-35 I Edith d. of
Earl Godwin
MATILDA = WILLIAM ADELAIDE ROBERT ODO EDMUND

of Flanders Duke of Normandy 3 marriages of Mortain Bishop "Ironside"
1035-87 = of died 1016
King of England MATILDA ^^y^"^
1066-87 d. of Roger EADGIVA
of Montgomery
I
EDWARD
Sons: Daughters: "The Exile"
ROBERT CECILIA died 1057
Duke of Normandy AGATHA
RICHARD CONSTANCE AGATHA
(died young) ADELA
WILLIAM RUFUS
(William
died 1100
II)
JUDITH STEPHEN MARGARET
of Aumale
King of England
Earl Malcolm
1087-1100
Waltheof King of
HENRY I
Scotland
1068-1135 I
2 daughters
King of England
1100-35 family inc.
Edith/Matilda,
Edith/Matilda
wife of HENRY
I 1
EiMMA r= CNUT = ELFGIFT

of Normandy 1016-35 1
of Northampton
ALFRED GODGIFT =z DROGO HARTHACNUT HABALD

murdered Count of 1040-42 "Har sfoot"
1036 Mantes 103 )-40
1 1
ALTER RAI.PH FULK

c ount of of He]reford Bishop of
Mantes Amiens
CHRISTINA EDGAR
Abbess of 'The Atheling'
Romsey
Note: Names underscored are those of English kings. Dates given are
from accession to death.
^ HOUSE OF WESSEX figs
GODWIN GYTHA
Earl of Wessex (related by marriage
died 1053 toKing'CNUT)
1 2
SWEYN EADGYTH = HAROLD = ALDITH TOSTIG

King of of Mercia kiUed
England and Wales 1066
EDGIVA Jan-Oct
Abbess of 1066
JUDITH
Leominster (?) of Flanders
HAKON 5 children twin sons (?) 5 children
Xtt
)
EDITH GYRTH LEOFWIN WULFNOTH 2 daughters

killed killed became a (1 died young
1066 1066 monk in 1 entered convent
EDWÂRD Normandy
'The Confessor"
Note: Names underscored are those of English kings. Dates given are
from accession to death.
^ PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS ^
BOTH HISTORICAL AND FICTIONAL
Normans, French, Bretons
Adelaide, sister to William the Conqueror

Agatha, daughter of William
Alain FitzHubert, the unpleasant landlord of Beechtrees
Manor
Aude, a castellan's daughter, friend to the Conqueror's niece
Judith
Emma, daughter of the Conqueror's friend William Fitz-
Osbern
Goscelin, young follower of Simon Inconnu
Hugh of Saugei, a page at the Norman court
and niece to William
Judith, daughter of Adelaide
Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury
Mabel Talvas of Belleme, the murderous wife of Roger of
Montgomery
Matilda of Flanders, wife of WilHam, also a lady with homi-
cidal tendencies
Mauger, man-at-arms to Simon Inconnu
Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, WiUiam's half-brother.
Ralph, Earl of Norfolk, a determined lover
Robert FitzRoger, precocious son of Roger of Montgomery
Robert of iMortain, William's other half-brother
Roger, Earl of Hereford, son of William FitzOsbern
XV
Roger, Earl of Montgomery, one of the Conqueror's chief
aides
Rollo, chief man-at-arms toSimon Inconnu
Simon Inconnu, landlord of Fallowdene Manor
Simon de Senlis, an ugly but loyal knight in Williams ser-
vice
William the Conqueror, King of England and Duke of Nor-
mandy
William FitzOsbern, his closest friend.
English, Welsh, Danish
Arnulf the Fallowdene blacksmith

,
Brand, ex-Thane of Fallowdene, now an adherent of the rebel

leader Hereward
Edgar Atheling, last surviving male member of the house of
King Ethelred
Edgiva, Brand's daughter: a nun at Withysham Abbey
Edwin, ILarl of Mercia, one of the few surviving English
nobles
Elfhild, Brand's daughter: married in Normandy
Gilda, wife of a smallholder near York: an exceptionally reso-
lute woman
Gospatric, briefly Earl of Northumbria
Hereward, ex-Thane of Bourne, also known as Hereward the
Wake: leader of a rebel stronghold on Ely
Hywel ap Olwen, adherent of and rival to Hereward
Leo, a monk at Ely Monastery: skilled in medicine
Morcar, Earl of Northumbria, brother of Edwin of Mercia
Odi Pathfinder, Brand's friend
Olive of Beechtrees, the unhappy wife of Alain FitzHubert
Osbern, brother of King Sven of Denmark
Swan, a Fallowdene girl, daughter of the potter
Thurstan, Abbot of Ely Monastery
Ulf, Swan's brother
Waltheof, Earl of Northumbria, Northampton and Hunting-
don, another surviving English noble
Wulfhild, Brand's natural daughter, wife of Simon Inconnu
Characters who do not appear directly but whose existence,

past or present, affects the action
Aldith, second wife of King Harold: in exile abroad

Eadgyth, first wife of King Harold: in a nunnery
Edith, sister to King Harold and widow of Edward the Con-
fessor
Edric the Wild, Mercian rebel leader
Godwin, Earl of Wessex and father of King Harold, deceased
before the story begins
Gytha, wife of Godwin and mother of King Harold: in exile
Hakon, nephew to King Harold and also to Thane Brand
Harold, King of England, killed at Hastings
Harold's children, especially his adult sons by Eadgyth: all in
exile
i^ AUTHOR'S NOTE ^
Hereward the Wake is one of the most famous char-

acters in EngHsh history, yet amazingly little is known about
him. He armed into history in about 1070 when
springs fully
the Isle of Ely became a major rebel stronghold. It is
first
fairly certain that he was a Lincolnshire thane, and fairly

certain that his family was linked in some way with Peter-
borough Abbey, either through land tenancy or blood rela-
tionship with the abbot of the time, or both. Tradition places
his family estates at Bourne in Lincolnshire. Tradition also
persistently has it that he went into William the Conqueror's
camp in disguise at least once and maybe oftener, possibly
dressed as a potter, in order to learn the Norman plans. And
it is said that he ultimately made peace with William and
that he married a Norman wife.
I have preservêd all these traditions and also taken the
liberty of involving Hereward in the northern uprisings of
1069. He may well have been there —no one knows—and this
enables me to use him as a unifying link in an otherwise very
disjointed series of events. The Anglo-Saxon resistance to
William I bore little resemblance to any modern liberation
front. It lackedboth leadership and steady purpose and was
often not much more than an opportunists' bonanza.
Mabel Talvas and her family, incidentally, were quite
as unpleasant as I have made them and probably worse. Her
son Robert of Belleme later became one of the most remark-
able psychopaths in English history. Mabel herself was killed
xtx
XX AUTHOR S NOTE
by the Saugei brothers as I have described; I have merely
allowed two of my own characters toaccompany them. Wil-
liam Pantol, who appears on the fringes of my narrative, was
falsely accused of the kilHng but eventually cleared himself
by undertaking Trial by Ordeal.
THE
DISPUTED
CROWN
Coronation Day
X December 1066 AD.
It should have been a moment of the utmost solemnity.

There should have been no sound in the incense-filled Abbey,
London's West Minster, except the voice of Archbishop
Aldred of York exhorting the new King William to be a good
shepherd to his flock. The crown, new-made for the occasion
and flashing with rare imported gems, should have been

lowered onto Norman William's black head with concentra-
tion and reverence.
But itwas a crown won on a field of battle. Now it was
to be set on his head against the background of screams and
running feet, while the smell of burning filtered through the
Abbey and the light through the precious glazed windows
was reddened with flame and blurred by wavering billows of
smoke.
Inside the Abbey, as the tumult increased in the street,
men turned questioning faces to each other and felt uneasily
for swordhilts that were not there. The Norman leaders,
whose cheering as the crown was elevated above William's
head had apparently provoked the uproar, were on their feet.
Soldiers were hurrying out of the Minster to investigate.
Close together, as if beleaguered in the midst of so many
Normans, were the few English leaders who survived from
Hastings. Big, blond Waltheof of Huntingdon stood with the
slender, fair-haired brothers Edwin of iMercia and xMorcar of
Northumbria (so alike and inseparable that they were com-
2 CORONATION DAY, DECEMBER 1066 A.D.
monly referred to as Edwin-and-Morcar, as if they were one

entity). They were exchanging taut remarks in English and
casting worried looks to where the boy Edgar, last male sur-
vivor of King Edward's superseded house, sat nervously with
his mother and sisters. And on the back of Edgar's chair, the
Lady Agatha's knuckles showed clenched and white with fear
in case her son should be harmed.
The noise grew and the firelight strengthened. Coughing
broke out as the smoke became thicker. The archbishop had
abandoned the measured pace of his ritual and was gabbling
the words instead. William the king was shaking, not with
physical fear but with dread that the kingship he had desired
and pursued so long might even now be snatched from him,
even now% when the precious circlet of gold and gems was
only inches from his head.
It was placed upon him. He felt the coldness and the
weight. Archbishop Aldred of York came to the front of

the coronation chair and knelt, the first to give his fealty to the
king, though his eyes were not on the king, but glancing
uneasily at the door. Soldiers were returning now, to report to
their commanders. With Aldred's hands still between his
own, William said sharply to one of his magnates: 'Titz-
Osbern! What has happened?"
"Only a mistake, my lord. The guards outside thought
the noise of our cheering was the noise of an attack on you."
The grizzle-haired William FitzOsbern, who had once taught
swordplay to the king, glanced with an incipient smile at the
outnumbered English. "They fired two houses to make a
diversion. I have ordered my men to help put out the fires.
Calm is being restored."
Aldred still knelt before the king. Their eyes met. Re-
meiiiber ixhat I told you, Aldred's gaze warned. Protect your
people. Even jrovi your onjon Normans.
He withdrew to make way for the next oathtaker. Every
leader in the Minster, Norman or English, must put his hands
between William's palms today. The racket in the street was
growing less, but the air was still spiky with smoke. The
Coronation Day, December 1066 A.D. 3
archbishop coughed. His chest hurt. He felt old and unnat-
urally tired. He had done his best. He hoped that this stark
Norman stranger had understood him. He did not think Wil-
liam was a fool, or ignorant. But he was not an Edward, not a
Harold. They, however often they might fall short of the
target in practise, had seen themselves essentially as guar-
dians of the realm, serving it. But these Normans . .
These Normans would fire a house at the sound of a

cheer. And as for William himself: Archbishop Aldred had
seen men before with hard dark eyes like that. Such men did
not serve. Others served them. He had exhorted William to
be a shepherd but William was not by nature anything of the
kind. Aldred looked at him, and at Earl Waltheof who now
knelt at the king's feet, his hands in William's, his head tilted
back to look into his new lord's face, his throat exposed.
Not a shepherd, thought Aldred miserably, staring at
William. A wolf.
f
S T I?
D€D1C7IT10NS
1068 A.D.
1 ^ Jhe Jlude yiomecoming
Adelaide of Champagne, trying to push a needle through

the seam of a man's pigskin glove, jabbed it into her finger by
mistake, because the pigskin was tough, her fingers were
thick, and Duchess Matilda of Normandy's bower at Rouen
Palace was exceedingly cold. She swore uninhibitedly and
massaged her mauve knuckles. "Build up the brazier, Aude,"
said the duchess considerately, to the nearest of her ladies.
The girl with the brown plaits and the wide-spaced
brown eyes rose obediently. Unasked, Duchess Matilda's two
young daughters went to help her. A dark girl sitting on a
stool with a copy of the Chanson de Roland in her hands
passed the woodbasket to them. "Tell me, Matilda," said Ade-
laide, "why is all your family so damned healthy? None of
—
you ever seems to feel the cold and look how many of you
there are! No one could have daughter than Judith
. .
." —she smiled at the dark
—betterbut
a
girl ". . have
. the one
I just
of her, and just one son. Four out of my six babies died before
their first birthday. While you and William ..."
The sentence needed no completing. Matilda's daughters,
now busily stoking an ornate bronze brazier shaped like a
mosque which somebody's adventurous Viking great grand-
father had looted on a Middle Eastern expedition, were
merely two of a congested quiverful. There were two more
girls in convents, destined to be nuns. There was another in
the nursery. And the background noise of savage yells from

the courtyard outside was probably Matilda's three sons
quarrelling.
Duchess Matilda, ash blonde and tiny as a kitten along-
.
8 DEDICATIONS, 1068 A.D.
up two skeins of green silk

side William's massive sister, held
to the inadequate light that thewindows of stretched mem-
brane let in. Rouen Palace had little glazing. It was built to
the most modern design, with Byzantine influence in the tur-
rets and arches, and its walls were extravagantly furnished
with tapestries and murals and Arab carpets, some of which
at least had been legally purchased. The Normans had given
up the overt treasure hunts of their sea-wolf ancestors. But
having provided all these luxuries, Duke William had called
a halt to the expenditure. Glazing, he said, was unnecessary
and uneconomic. So, as Adelaide caustically remarked, they
spent the money on candles instead. . .
"The ways of God are inscrutable," said the duchess. She

was not particularly interested in Adelaide's family history,
having other anxieties on her mind. "Only a God who loved
to make mysteries could have invented the English," she said
fervently. "They are unbelievable, Adelaide. They accepted
William. On Christmas Day, 1066, they crowned him and . . .
then all their leaders came with him on a state progress

through Normandy. And the moment the ships were well out
of sight of the English shores, what happened? Uproar. The
latest news — —
have you heard? is that what's left of King
Harold's family is stirring up trouble in the west of the coun-
try, in a place called Exeter. Just aspeace has been restored
in the east. I feel so angry. Now
William has had to go back
to fight a campaign, instead of returning peacefully with me
at his side."
"He's left a memento," said Adelaide. Her eyes rested
briefly on her sister-in-law's thickening waistline. "When is
itdue?"
"August." Matilda bit a thread off short, with sharp small
teeth. She peered discontentedly at her work. "Aude, more
candles, please."
"He'll soon send for you," said Adelaide soothingly. "I
think the English leaders will back him. Their visit to Nor-
mandy impressed them." Aude placed the candles close by
and the light picked out Judith, established on her stool with
The Rude Homecoming 9
elbows on knees and black braids falling forward over her

book. "The English are a remarkably handsome race. What do
you think, Judith?"
"Not very," said Judith, without looking up.
The elder of Matilda's daughters, Agatha, said wist-
fully: "Earl Harold was handsome, Judith. I shall never
forget him."
"Then it's high time you did," snapped Matilda. "Be-
trothed to him once you may have been, but he betrayed
your father and died for it, and the sooner we all forget him
the better. When it is clearer which of the English earls are

completely reliable, your father will probably arrange for you
to marry one of them. You will not be allowed to go into a
nunnery and pray for Earl Harold for the rest of your hfe.
I've two girls in convents and that's enough." Agatha flushed.
"And Judith is as bad," Matilda pursued. "I heard you refuse,
Judith, when Earl Waltheof asked you for a keepsake before
he went home. I was nodding at you from behind him all the
time but you took no notice. He paid you a compHment and
you were thoroughly discourteous."
"I didn't like him," said Judith, still without raising
her head.
"I didn't like your uncle when met him, and look at
I first
us now. Nine children," said Matilda with satisfaction, "come

August. It's the men you do like who disappoint you, believe
me. I once fell in love with an English ambassador to my
father's court and asked my father to speak to him, and he
turned out to be betrothed to someone else in England. I've
never forgiven that man yet for misleading me so. I would
have had him killed, if he hadn't very wisely hurried back to
England. Waltheof would be a very suitable match for you,
Judith. A powerful husband is a valuable asset, especially if
you can provide a nursery full of sons to make him appropri-
ately grateful to you. Look at me. Look at Mabel Talvas."
"Most of us," remarked Adelaide, stabbing the pigskin,
"would rather not look at Mabel Talvas. I shouldn't wish
Judith to take her as an example."
"No, no, of course not," said Matilda in a shocked voice.

"But still . . . she's married to Roger of Montgomery and she
has vast lands and all those castles, and she does exactly what
she likes."
"Including," said Adelaide grimly, "poisoning anyone she
doesn^t like. If she keeps up her feud against the Giroye clan
much longer, there'll be none of them left. Even her husband
doesn't seem to like her company much. He's gone back to
England with William, I hear."
"I'm glad of it." Matilda put down her work, and her
was suddenly drawn with worry. "Roger
small, pointed face
of Montgomery is the finest right arm WilHam could have. I
grow afraid sometimes, Adelaide. So many wars. Sooner or
later .you lost your first two husbands in war. You should
. .
know. I should be lost myself if anything happened to

William."
Adelaide put out a well-padded hand and patted her
sister-in-law's fragile wrist. "Nothing will happen to WilHam.
He was born to win battles and to rule. Before this year is out
you'll be crowned his queen. He will not tolerate the subver-
sives in England. You'll see."
Sound carried in fog. In the trio of serpent-prowed ships now

stealthily nosing their way through the network of fenland
rivers, orders had been given that speech was to be kept to a
minimum. The expedition leader, in the bows of the foremost
watched the ghostly reeds slip in and out of sight,
ship, Skua,
and peered into the whiteness, trying to keep track of their
position. He should know where they were if anyone did. The
fenland country of eastern England was his birthplace. He
was within two miles now of Bourne, which was his home.
He glanced over his shoulder at the insubstantial forms
of his shipmates and wondered whether he looked as unreal
to them as they did to him. Presumably he did, although he
found it hard to believe. Hereward of Bourne was six feet tall
and weighed over fourteen stone. His hair and beard were
the dark red of smouldering embers and his personality re-
The Rude Hoviecoining 11
sembled a sledgehammer, and he knew it. At twenty-six years

old, he wâs seasoned in war. Though he had never com-
manded a force before,and this would be his testing as a
leader, he did not doubt his abilities. He did not feel in the
least like a phantom.
And when he had brought his ships safe to Bourne, the

Normans who now occupied it would not think he was a
phantom, either. He had three ships, and their quality was
first-class. He had fifty-three men, and their quality was tough.
They were not all dispossessed patriots, these men who had
gathered to him at his uncle's hall in Flanders, when the word
went out that a leader was seeking swords with which to chal-
lenge the Norman rule in England. A call like that always
brought the others too, the footloose, the mercenary, the
criminal. You took what you could get. The second ship,
Waverider, was actually the property of her captain, a half-
Welsh mercenary called Hywel ap Olwen who would fight
for anyone who paid him. In the complement of Eaglet, the
third ship, was a former outlaw called Eadsige One-Ear, who
had a conviction for highway robbery. But they could
all fight.
The command of Eaglet was moderately respectable; she

was captained by twin brothers, Thurnoth and Thurman,
who had turned up in Flanders with six Norman helmets,
inside which were six Norman heads. They had tumbled
these grisly trophies out of a sack onto the floor at Hereward's
feet by way of credentials. They had been at Hastings, they
said, and after lying up to recover from wounds had gone
back to their home near St. Albans. It was occupied by the

enemy. Sooner than leave it to such a dishonourable fate,
they had collected a handful of the villagers who had been
hiding in the woods, attacked the hall, burnt it down, killed a
number of Normans, and then escaped with the proof of their

zeal slung over Thurnoth's shoulder. Thurnoth and Thurman
could claim to be patriots.
But even so, they wêre a wild pair, wild as passage
goshawks, and they loved fighting, preferably for a good
cause, but failing that, just for the fun of it. Of all his men,
Hereward thought, the one who most truly merited the name
patriot was own second-in-command in Skua, the dark,
his
stocky man called Brand, who was forty-five and an ex-thane,

who had been through Hastings and much else besides, and
whose advice Hereward was learning to value. Brand had
helped him considerably during the long year of 1067, while
he gathered his recruits in Flanders and trained them. In spite
of the fact that Hywel, Thurnoth, and Thurman had all most
passionately objected to the presence of Brand in this midst.
A figure moved amid the vapours and a foot scraped on
the boards. Brand himself moved forward to crouch beside
his leader. Behind him came his friend Odi, who had arrived
in Flanders with him and was rarely seen away from him. To
the flaxen, good-natured Odi, Brand was a kind of lodestar.
Brand said, under his breath: "There's a trace of wind. Do we
go on, or wait for dark?"
"We go on." Hereward's whisper could not have been
heard more than five feet away. "The fog's still blowing from
the sea. It won't lift at once. We should have time to sur-
round the hall and fire it. After that, it won't matter. Sad, isn't
it.^" Suddenly he pulled his bony, irregular features into an
exaggerated grimace of grief. "Home again after all this time

and we can't even see the shores of England. What a shame."
Brand did not smile. "It's a queer sort of home," he said,
"that's full of enemies,and a queerer sort of home still that

you come back to and burn down."
Hereward said: "Don't let Hywel hear you talk like that,
or the twins. We have had trouble enough with them."
"Them! " said Odi in a low growl.
Brand said: "I have learnt what not to say, in their
hearing."
"Brand of Fallowdene?" Thurnoth and Thurman had said,

."
virtually in duet. "But . .
"My lord Hereward," said Thurman, respectfully

enough, giving Hereward his due since Hereward was now
I
The Rude Homecoming IS
the rightful Thane of Bourne, "you have been brought up

mostly out of England. So you may not have heard of this
man. But he has a questionable past, very questionable."

Hereward, seated by the fire trench after dinner, his
mead-horn in his hand and his feet comfortably at rest on a
snoozing deerhound, gestured with the horn towards a group
of recruits playing backgammon on the other side of the
hearth. The nearest of them was Eadsige One-Ear.
"Oh, Eadsige." Thurman's shrug dismissed Eadsige as an
occupational hazard that warleaders must accept. "Brand is
something different. We are preparing to fight Normans.
Brand served Duke William in Normandy for thirteen years
— and he left England to start with because, some say, he
betrayed his lord."
"My father," said Hereward coolly, "was at the courts of

Kind Edward and King Harold. He told me Brand's story.
They met. Brand's loyalty is not in question. Harold himself
fetched him home from Normandy, and made a thane of him,
and Brand not only fought at Hastings but afterwards, he
refused to surrender to William or buy back his lands. Unlike
Waltheof, and Edwin-and-Morcar, who are at this minute
trailing round Normandy at William's heels, like pet dogs on
leashes. Brand is to be trusted. And it just might be to our
advantage to have a man among us who knows William's
mind." Heeyed them with the red-brown gaze that was na-
ture's logical accompaniment to his ember-coloured hair.
"When he first arrived here," he said, "after London sur-
rendered and those who did not want to surrender with it had
to flee, he took me to task for not being at the battle myself. I
had hard work to explain that my father would not have it,
that having sent me abroad to learn the arts of war from
Uncle Gerbod, he ordered me to stay here, so that one mem-
ber of the family at least should survive to avenge the rest if
it came to that — as it has."

"It sounds well," said Hywel, sitting close to Hereward,
tuning a lyre. "But it is not his loyalty we really doubt, man.
That may well be all you say. What frightens us is his soggy
M DEDICATIONS, 1068 A.D.
soft heart. That old story that he betrayed his lord ... if he
did, was for the sake of an old woman he felt sorry for. He
it
had who was a nun and ran off with a lover, and
a sister once,
would you beheve it, he was sorry for her, too. He wouldn't
disow^n her. He has a daughter w^ho is not all she should be, if
rumour tells true; rumour also recommends us not to criticise

her to his face. Chances are, one of these days, we'd find him
getting sorry for a Norman."
"Today," said Herewârd now, grimly and softly into Brand's

ear, regardless of the nineteen years between them, "when
Bourne Hall burns and the Normans start to run, I want your
blade as thirsty for Norman blood as this." With lolling
tongue and rolling eyes, his face pushed close to Brand's, he
gave a horrible impersonation of a man about to perish of
dehydration. "Remember this. Thane Brand. We're all there
are. Exeter's fallen. Harold's family has fled, God knows
where. The Danish king is related to them and could chal-
lenge A\ illiam's claim but he has refused to aid us. For the
time being, all that England has is us. And every building that
contains a Norman is an enemy fortress, whatever it was in
the days before they came. Including Bourne, w^hich in any
case I hold from Peterborough Abbey, where my uncle is
abbot, on the promise that my family will defend it and the

abbey from foes." He paused, and added: "My family trea-
sure was kept at Bourne and if the enemy haven't dispersed
it, I have a use for it. To feed all of you. You understand?"
"If I did not, would I be here?" Brand asked. His brown
eyes stared straight and angrily into Hereward's, recognising
the implied doubt, resenting it. Hereward said unyieldingly:
"That is what I hoped."
Moving away, he gave a low-toned order. The oarsmen
lifted dripping blades clear of the water. The thinning mist
showed a steep bank, crowned with a palisade. The gables of
thatched buildings could be glimpsed beyond. Keels grated
softly. The ships were shallow draught vessels of the old
longship type; even Waverider, the biggest, sixty-five feet
The Rude Hoviecovi'mg 15
lon^ with a fierce dragon prow standing man,

taller than a
drew only three feet of water. As they came ashore, grey

ficrures swarmed noiselessly over the sides. They had been
ruthlessly rehearsed for this. They knew what to do.

Faggots of brushwood were brought ashore. Bows and
bowstrings were unwrapped from the hides that had pro-
tected them from warping in the sea damp. FUnt and steel
struck sparks; incendiary arrows primed with tow were lit.
Each man released two of them over the stockade for the
benefit of the thatched roofs within. The assailants waited
quietly, weapons drawn. It was less cold now. They were
some way from the sea and in any case, this year of 1068 was
already pulling out of winter. It was nearly Easter. »
The fire showed, pink and gold through the vapours. A

hubbub arose within the palisade. A\ârily, they began their
advance.
The gate loomed up, with a thin line of flame running
along one side of it. AAîth an upflung hand, Hereward halted
them, to wait while it so, it was
burnt through. As he did
obligingly opened from within. A terrified, bleating river of
sheep and goats poured out. In the midst of them, some
mounted on kicking and wild-eyed horses, and some pound-
ing on foot, came the Norman occupiers, in sortie.
It was Hereward's own home, and Brand had implied
that it would give him pain to see it ablaze, with carnage in

the gateway. But Brand was wrong. Hereward had not seen
Bourne for more than ten years, and he had forgotten the
detail of the place. The gate might have been any gate; the
fight any fight. Hereward only saw, with satisfaction and no
regret, that the occupiers had been taken by surprise. Stum-
bUng through the fireshot smoke were men still fastening
helmets and byrnies; a mounted knight whose horse's saddle-
girth had not been tightened enough in the panic crashed at
his mount's very feet and was despatched as easily as a coney.
W\x\\ rising exultation, shouting warcries, waving his axe as

though it were a banner for his men to follow, Hereward led
them on. Leaving dead men to mark their passage and driv-
ing living ones before them, they swept the struggle back into
the courtyard from which it had issued, and cornered the rest
of the enemy there.
In the courtyard, the mist was in retreat, set swirling
away by the flaring bonfire that had been an outhouse by the
hall. The hall thatch was alight too. The air was full of
hoarse, incoherent shouting. Black silhouetted figures darted

to and fro, and sparks whirled upwards on the rising currents
of heat. Yellow smoke rolled down, thicker than the fog, and
rasped the throat.
It was hard from foe. But
to see, hard to sort out friend
the Norman opposition was thinning, and it had been out-
numbered to start with. The English fugitive who had
brought Herewârd news of Bourne's occupation had given
him an estimate of the numbers involved as well. Not more
than thirty men there, he had said. Now, among the figures in
the choking haze, fewer every moment displayed the conical
helms that were the hallmark of Normandy, and the horses
that squealed and trampled as they stampeded for the gate
wxre all riderless. The burning hall fell in with a crash and
waves of heat poured over the conflict. Suddenly at a stand-
still, sweat pouring from his skin, Hereward found himself
unassaiied in an open space. Immediately in front of him was

the one part of Bourne that he remembered well; the objec-
tive he had had chiefly in mind from the moment he planned
this expedition. The low, hump-roofed entrance to the under-
ground treasure vault. Sword still out, he moved towards it.
There were two men crouched on the top step. He
tensed as he saw them and opened his mouth to shout for his
supporters. Then he recognised Brand and Odi. Odi was
lying aw^kwardly and Brand was cradling his shoulders.
Hereward rubbed smoke and grime from his sore eyes, and
knelt beside them. "How badly is he hurt?"
"Under the knee." Odi spoke for himself though his voice
was hardly audible. "Blade got me."

"I pulled him here out of the way," Brand said. "I killed
the man who did it. What is this place?

The Rude Hovie coming 11
There was a scrabbling sound below and a man came up

the steps, breathlessly, weighed down by a small but appar-
ently laden wooden He caught his foot against Odi and
chest.
sprawled on the last step. The chest fell and burst open, and
bright things, arm-rings and brooches and gold buckles, spilt
into the light of the flames.
"It's my treasure vault," said Hereward. "And evidently
it still contains treasure." He reached out a long arm and
yanked the marauder to his feet. "Trying to make off with
your leader's belongings, is that it?" he demanded. "And
thinking you'd get away with it? Fm a little more awâke
than that, my friend. xMv eyes are so wide open that people
who know^ me well call me The Wakeful as a nickname.
Didn't you know?"
"It's our treasure as much as yours." The man was one of
Hywel's scruffy adherents, some of whom were nearly as

dubious as Eadsige One-Ear. "We all fought for it."
"You fought because I led you, and the treasure's for
financing this enterprise, not for any man's private hoard.
On your feet! If you want my gold, rat, you'll have to fight
me for it. No, drop that blade. No weapons. If my sword got
your blood on it, it might rust." Hereward let go of him,
threw his sword away, and half crouched, hands flung wide.
"Come on! What are you wâiting for?
Men were gathering round. They were all Hereward's.
The Normans wxre finished, cancelled into little deathly
heaps strew^n round the courtyard. It had become an arena
now for another, more private, conflict.
They wanted to see if he could do it. If he did not, his
leadership could be in question. A rebel leader remained a
leader only by virtue of w^hat he was. He had no archbishop
to put a consecrated crown upon his head.
Hereward was gifted and knew it. He had been taught
by, and he closely resembled, his Uncle Gerbod, whose talent
for surgical swordsmanship made most other men look like
inefficient butchers, and whose co-ordination in unarmed
combat would not have shamed a wildcat. But this opponent
was strong, broad-chested, with stout calves and supple

joints. They struck out, grappled, broke apart, circled, ex-
changed insults, grappled again. The other man clamped a
hand over Hereward's face, gouging for the eyes. Hereward
broke away. His opponent kicked out and upwards. But
Hereward had danced out of reach before the foot could land
and now he swooped back in, below the other's reaching
hands. He seized his victim round the ribs. Hereward had
long, gangling, very powerful arms. He used them. Someone
cheered. Hywel, less enthusiastic, remarked: "Man, we'll miss
his good axe-arm in the field."
"You'll ... all get fair shares ... of pay now. He'd
. . .
swindle you
. . .too ... in the end." The tightening grip
. . .
empurpled the captive's face. "Thieving hands ruin to . . . . . .
the strongest arm." The man's ribs cracked and the breath
went out of him in a whistling scream. Hereward broke his
neck and carried the body away to toss it into the blazing
pyre of the hall. He had done it in less than two minutes and
made it look easy. No other man there could have matched it.
If he had had any doubts of himself, they would never know
it. He strolled back, brushing hip hands together as if to rid
them of some obnoxious substance, and dropped to his knees

again beside the injured Odi.
Brand was binding the wound with linen torn from a
dead Norman. Odi himself had slipped into unconsciousness.
"If he dies," said Hereward, seeing Brand's face, "it will be in
a fight to remember. We've won our first victory. There isn't a
Norman left to defile my hall."
"You haven't a lot of hall left to defile," said Brand dryly.
"He can build another." The twins came up, with Hywel.
"You've a hall of your own in Sussex, haven't you. Thane
Brand?" Thurnoth asked. "But you'd burn it, surely, if the
Normans were in possession there?"
doubt it." Hywel was covered in grime and blood but
"I
the blood was not his. The fighting had lit him up; he was in
a mood to speak his thoughts. "He's got a daughter at home.
I've heard tell that this girl of yours has said she'd sooner
The Rude Ho?necoming 19
treat with Normans than abandon her home, and since he's
left it, presumably he holds his hall as pre-
her in charge of
cious as she does."
"Mind your own business,Hywel," said Brand sharply.
"I've disowned both my home and my daughter and that's the
end of it. I never think of Wulfhild now."
He was lying. He never ceased to think of Wulfhild, who
was the eldest of his three daughters and the one to whom he
was closest, though she was not his lawful child and he had
never asked her mother's name. Every day, during the year in
Flanders, he had woken to wonder if she were safe, and what
tasks she would turn her hand to today, left to order the
manor of Fallow dene alone. All the way across the North Sea
he had thought of her, and all the way down to Skua, helping
Hereward to carry Odi over the rough ground, he thought of
her. And made silent petition for her safety in these days
of fear.
2 ^%t Paradoxical
'Marriage
This, thought Wulfhild of Fallowdene, smiling, offering

ale and pasties, soothing a suspicious hound with a pat, giv-
ing glances of encouragement to the steward's wife, Dame
Editha, whose stout mottled hands were shaky with nerves,
this is At last, this is its true meaning.
defeat.
She had thought she knew what it meant. All through
the long year of 1067, as she struggled to order the manor, to
get crops sown and harvested and animals fettled when there
was hardly an able-bodied man left on the place but only old
men, young boys, women, and small children, she had kept
saying to herself: this is defeat, this is what we must expect.
But she had been wrong. To be one of the conquered meant
this: standing in your hall and knowing it was not your hall
any more; that the stranger who stood beside you and ap-
praised with expressionless eyes both your home and you,
now ow^ned your home, and you.
. . .
She went on smiling courteously. She had less to complain

about than some. This stranger, this cold, young Norman
knight who bore the curious, intriguing name of Simon
Inconnu, Simon the Nameless, was here more or less at her in-
vitation, after all.
Alone in charge of Fallowdene and its folk, when her

father was outlawed for refusing to surrender to the Norman
20
The Paradoxical Marriage 21
invaders, she had been afraid. In King William's eyes, Brand's
obstinacy might Brand had

well appear a double insult, since
once served him personally and of all men might have been
expected to make terms. Fallowdene was therefore in danger,
at wôrst of ravaging, at best of being thrown as a dainty to
some Norman adventurer who chanced to have done well in
the battle. had been for her to defend it as best she could.
It
She reviewed her weapons.

She had weapons of a sort, at least. Like her father, she
had once known \Mlliam personally. She had been to the
Norman court in the days when her father was there, in 1064.
She had travelled in the suite of Earl Harold as he then was.
Thev had all returned to England together later that year:
Earl Harold, her father Brand, her sister Edgiva, and herself.
It had not been a long visit. But her father had been among
William's associates and it was possible that William might
remember her. Certainly, he would remember Brand.
So she made her submission on her own behalf, sending
William a message through a kinsman, Thane Rolf, who like
Brand had lived through Hastings but unlike Brand was pre-
pared to make peace with the Norman afterwards, and was
journeying to W
illiam's base to do so in person. He had de-
livered the message safely, she knew, for he had come back.
He had died at Fallowdene later, of a wound received at
Hastings, which had refused to heal. But William had had
her letter, penned for her by the Fallowdene priest, since
Wûlfhild's literacy stopped at a carefully memorised signa-
ture. In it, she had said that
Fallowdene had to be given to
if
a Norman lord, please let him be a respectable man. It had

—
gone on to say that if necessary because she wished to re-
—
main in her home she would be prepared to marry the new
lord. She could speak French, she had thought as she dic-
tated her message. She could at least interpretbetween the
stranger and the people of Fallowdene, and prevent bad
blood arising out of misunderstandings. It had already been
rumoured that William proposed to provide for women in her
position, left holding lands on their own because their fathers

and husbands were dead, by offering them Norman partners.
All through 1067, she waited for a response.
And no one could say that WlUiam had not treated her
fairly. The marriage negotiations had been very nearly nor-
mal, except that Wûlfhild had no father to conduct her side
of them for her. An emissary had come from Bishop Ethelric
of Selsey to say that Fallowdene, and A\ûlfhild too — unless
she wished to change her mind and retire to a nunnery —were
to be given to a Norman knight, Sir Simon Inconnu. "A man
of perfectly good repute," the emissary told Wûlfhild. "He
has been with Roger of xMontgomery —now Earl of Wêst Sus-
sex, of course — as a house knight. He was orphaned as a boy
and spent some time in an abbey under the guardianship of
an abbot, but proved better suited to a Ufe as a knight than
one in religion. The abbot found a place with Montgomery
for him. With regard to Fallowdene, Bishop Ethelric is acting
on Earl Roger's instructions, which I understand emanated
originally from the king. Sir Simon performed some service to
the king at Hastings, I understand. On the field he seems to
have handed the king his own horse when
AMlliam's mount
was killed. Of course, you have little choice; you yourself
wrote to King \Mlliam, I believe, and now your only alterna-
tive is a nunnery. But I feel that you could do much wôrse,
that King William has treated you with honour."
"And this ... Sir Simon. What does he know of me?"
"That you are Thane Brand's natural daucrhter. That you
have served in good households and can conduct yourself
properly in any kind of society, even though it is true that
your mother was a thrall. That you are an entirely suitable
wife for a knight."
"It's true I was born in a thrall's hut," said Wulfhild.
"And with that beginning, one is a woman almost before one
isa girl. I am not a maiden."
"He knows." The emissary, a young clerk, blushed. "He
has assured the bishop that the matter is of no interest to him."
"No," said \Aûlfhild softly. Her eyes, set with a trace of a

slant, and of a very brilliant blue, did not tellhim what she
was thinking. "I suppose it wouldn't be," she said cryptically.
She was thinking: All he will care about is the land. I just
go with it like the two siibholdings and the oxen. But I made
the bargain. I imist keep it. "A\'hat did you say his name
was?" she asked the clerk.
"Sir Simon Inconnu."
Inconnu. The Nameless. The Unknown. Very appro-
priate.
And now he was here, appraising her hall, appraising her,

—
accompanied by four men-at-arms one of them was a rough,
red-faced creature w^ho would give trouble sometime or
—
Wulfhild knew nothing about men and a graceful, fair-
haired squire who answered to the name of Goscelin and
wore an elegant green velvet cloak over his mail, and clearly
thought the hall was rustic. Probably he thought she was
rustic too, with her sturdy peasant build and hands and face
weathered with wind and hard work. Wulfhild's eyes and her
beechnut hair were her only beauties. She stiffened. She did
not mind about herself. But she loved the manor of Fal-
lowdene. She loved the green and bronze downs that en-
closed the valley, and the woodland that filled the valley
bowl, an outpost of the Forest of Andred that swept up like a
timber sea to the other side of the northernmost down. She
loved the two snug little subholdings. Little Dene over the
hill to the south, and Westwater at the other end of the
valley; their patches of fertile field, and their little clusters

of houses. Above all, she cared for Fallowdene itself, with its
row of wattle and daub cottages, its squat stone church, and
its sturdy hall with the thatch sweeping nearly to the ground
on either side. The hall was snug in winter and well tapes-
tried, partly with bought tapestries, partly with hangings she
and Dame Editha had made. Her father had made most of
the furniture. If the Norman strangers, used to castles of
. "
gloomy masonry, sneered at her hall, she would hate them.

The man, Simon, had been drinking ale and consuming
pasties and looking about him in near silence. Now he spoke
to her directly for the first time since he had ridden up to the
gate in advance of his men, halted in front of Wûlfhild and
her nervous, stave-clutching collection of villagers, and said:
"I am Simon Inconnu. Am I expected?

"If you are ready," he said now, "the ceremony can pro-
ceed at once. I see you have a priest here. I have brought
a rincr.
"I . . . yes, I am quite ready. Everything is prepared."
Her mind was racing. / donh knonx at all ivlMt kind of
vian he is. I can only see the outside. He cari^t be more than
fidelity -five.Well viade, though he isn't tall. The accent's
south Norman. He's not coarse, not like that red-faced man.
But . .
But. There \\2iS inteUigence of a wintry sort in the young

knight's eyes, which were grey with a trace of blue, the neu-
tral blue of steel. But there was little warmth. And above the
young face, the hair, cropped short in the Norman fashion,

was precisely the colour of his eves.
The little church had narrow windows that were glazed, with
circular panes of stained glass at the top of each. The April
sun cast dapples of red and blue and amber on the flagged
floor and on the conCTreâtion. The whole villao-e crowded in,
whispering and agog. Alric the Steward represented \\'ulf-

hild's absent father, and Editha, with the air of one deter-
mined to fulfil the proprieties no matter how extraordinary
the circumstances, cried. The was priest, w^ho, like Alric,
elderly —
perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, having some young
men about the manor again performed the ceremony in En- —
glish and Latin, and A\'ulfhild interpreted for Simon. She
thought he seemed relieved at finding she could speak his
language. After that, because it was the custom at marriages
and they had no other precedent to follow, there was a feast.
Editha, aided by the girls of the village, had arranged it.
.
A sheep had been roasted, and there was fresh bread, river
trout,and honeycakes. Some garlands of early wild flowers
had been hung in the rafters. A high table had been set with
two chairs at the centre of it and here Wulfhild was seated
beside her new husband. Neither of them said very much,
because ^^\llfhild could not think of anything to say, and
Simon's conversation seemed to consist of utilitarian ques-
tions. A\^hat crop is in that field? How many oxen have you?
She sensed that he was as taut as she was, and that his hand
was rarelv far from his swordhilt. Perhaps he suspected
treachery under the polite surface of his reception. For him,
too, this day must be one of the strangest of his life. And the
night that must follow would be even stranger. . .
There was an incident during the feast. The red-faced

man, whose character seemed to be much as Wûlfhild had
estimated, pawed at one of the girls as she was carrying
dishes to and and when she eluded him, became angry.
fro,
The girl, who wasfifteen vears old and called Swan, which
suited her slimness and ash-fair colouring, backed away from
him, frightened. Her parents, Ulf Potter and Imme his wife,
rose angrily from their places, and looks of fury crossed other
faces. Ham the Miller, one of the few who had come back
from the battle, pushed his bench back; his daughter Gerda
walked to Swan's side. Once, Wulfhild would have called the
offender to order herself. Now she must glance imploringly at
the taciturn stranger beside her. True, Simon responded.
"Mauger, let the girl alone. You'll get leave soon and there
are women and Mauger obeyed.
in Chichester!" he snapped,
But it was a reminder to Wulfhild of her new position here.
She did not welcome it.
Five minutes after that, Alric brought curved oxhorns
bound with silver to the high table, and caught Wulfhild's
eye as he did so. She found herself going pink. Simon in-
spected the horn he was given, inside and out, and asked
suspiciously, "\\'hat is this?"
"It's .'
. . it's for mead," Wulfhild said. "That's a drink
brewed from honey."
"The end's pointed. It won't stand up on the table."

"No. We
we have to drain the mead at a gulp. It's a
. . .
custom at our weddings."

Alric filled the horns from a jug. Everyone watched ex-
pectantly. Wulfhild tilted the horn into her mouth and swal-
lowed. Simon hesitated and then did the same. There was
some clapping and table thumping from the lower tables, not
the full-bodied applause that would have sounded for a real
bridegroom, but not, at least, dead silence. A few of the vil-
lagers, like Editha, had chosen to pretend that Simon was . .
Real? But he was real, and this was a genuine marriage.

And in the taking of the mead, there wâs a meaning that
referred to that, and if Simon didn't know^ it, she knew it and
so did everyone else from Fallowdene. She held out her ox-
horn to Alric. "More mead," she said, in desperation.
It was an act of retreat, withdrawal from a situation that was
becoming confusing with every moment, more and more full

of contradictory feeUngs. Nice to have young men about . . .
yes, but they're Normans. This is a marriage party yes, . . .
but the bridegroom's a Norman. He seems well conducted,

civil . . . yes, but he's taking over Fallowdene. When the time
came to leave the table, she was floating in a mead-induced
mist and was deliberate.
it
She was dimly aware of Simon grasping her arm, of his

men trying to follow^ them to their apartment, of Simon bang-
ing the door in a row of disappointed faces that reminded her
of dogs cheated of a bone. In the apartment, w^hich stood
separately from the hall, Editha had lit candles in readiness,
and placed an earthenware basin on a table with ewers of
water beside it, one cold and one steaming. Simon examined
them fastidiously and began to divest himself of the mail he
had worn all day. Wulfhild made her wây to the couch on
unsteady legs and sat dow^n. To break the silence, and also to
convince herself that she was not too drunk to speak at all,
she said: "You've a scar on your right leg."

Most soldiers acquired a few scars early in their careers.
Simon had only one. But it was big, a broad silver blemish
across the shin. "It's not a battle scar," he said. "It was an
accident, when I was a boy." His voice had little expression;
she might have been a comrade about to spend the night on a
neighbouring pallet.
"It must have taken a long time to heal. It's so big. Why
are you called Inconnu?" A\ûlfhild asked.
He filled the basin. "It's just a nickname. My family is
obscure and I lost my parents early. You were told, I believe?
When was placed in Montgomery's household, the other

I
boys called me Inconnu as a joke, meaning Simon the No-

body. But it stuck. Now I'm proud to be a nobody who won
very interesting story, I'm afraid."
his spurs. It isn't a
Wulfhild looked at that prematurely silvered hair and

wondered what had been left out of his story. She opened her
mouth to ask something more. But her first word coincided
with and was drowned by a hideous cacophony from outside.
It bore a slight resemblance to music and consisted of a badly
played lyre accompanied by an off-key male chorus. The

chorus was singing a thoroughly improper song, in Norman
French.
Simon, in the act of splashing his face, froze. Then he
seized his cloak, wrapped it round himself, picked up the
basin, and strode to the door. A cheer mingled with the hor-
rible singing as he opened it. "Stop that caterwauHng!" bel-
lowed Simon, and hurled the contents of the basin into the
night. Song and cheering ahke dissolved into splutters and
yelps. He slammed the door and shot the bar again and turned
to Wulfhild. "I must apologise. It is high time that young
—
Goscelin he was the leader of that grew up. This is hardly —
an ordinary marriage . .
."
Suddenly, stupidly, mazed with the drink and over-

wrought, Wulfhild began to giggle. It was a hysterical kind
of merriment, not far from tears. She tried to muffle it in the
deerskins on the couch, but failed.Simon walked over and
shook her and then himself sat down with a thump on the
couch, shaking his head. "I feel giddy. But I didn't drink
much. What's wrong with me?" He shook her again, harder.

"What was in that stuff, that mead?"
"Nothing to h hurt you." Wulfhild wiped streaming
. . .
eyes. "Only if you're not used to it, even a little can ... I had
lots too much," she said with fuddled satisfaction. "Lots and
."
lots . .
She began to giggle again. Simon said: "They wanted to

refill my horn but I said no, it was too sweet. Were they
trying to make me drunk?"
"No." Wulfhild tried to master herself. "It's . . . what we
call the . . . the honeymoon drink. They serve it to the bride
and groom at marriages. To . . . well ... to encourage them."
"Oh," said Simon, soberly. So soberly that for a few mo-
ments her head cleared and the sense of being in a trance or a
dream subsided. She looked at him enquiringly.
"Listen," said Simon. "Are you listening? When my lord
Roger first called me to him and said I had been granted this
manor and you as a wife, I asked if I could have the lands
without the lady. I know so little of women. But he said no,
and that was that. One doesn't argue with Roger of Mont-
gomery, nor with King William, and it was from him that the
order first came. But all the way here, I thought: I am to
marry an enemy. She will hate me. Then ." . .
"Yes?"
"Your welcome was courteous," he said, "though perhaps
that was only from fear. But I want to know. Are we
enemies? I will hold Fallowdene by fear if I must. But I
would prefer a friend, not a foe, as my wife."
He was extending his hand as if to another man, to seal a
bargain. This was harder than the marriage itself, she
thought. That had been a formal legalising of their positions
here. This was infinitely deeper, and more personal.
What would her father say to this, if he were still alive?
She supposed he was alive. He had been proclaimed outlaw
after the fall of London and Alric, attending a Shire Court in
Chichester, had heard the proclamation. Brand had presum-
ably been alive then. But living or dead, he had left Fal-
lowdene and she had taken on the responsibility for it. Since
she and its villagers could not physically resist the invaders,
they must come to terms with them. If courtesy were not
enough, she must give more. Simon wanted friendship too,

If
then he must have it for she must face this ... if he were
. . .
alienated, he could revenge himself on others besides herself.

Wulfhild had been born to a thrall woman in the house-
hold of Eadgyth, wife of Earl Harold. She had been freed for
the sake of the friendship between Harold and her father.
Brand. She had spent most of her early years in rootless
fashion, serving other women and going where they went.
She had earned a reputation for being practical and stolid.
But w^hen her father brought her to Fallowdene, that stolid-
ity, that practical nature, had been bonded at once to the
service of the manor. They were tools for its safeguarding, as

sword and shield were to a warrior. If Simon were Lucifer in
person, he should have her friendship, if it were for Fallow-
dene's sake. She would perform friendship, as a task.
And he was not Lucifer, of course. He was just a man,
like many of the young knights she had met in Normandy,
despite his oddly coloured hair and his terse speech. Why,
thought Wulfhild, I have a half-sister in Normandy, married
to a knight.
And in her body, which had the simple reflexes of any
healthy female animal, the warm sweet mead was working.
3 ^ The Uncjuiet !Monastery
When the novice came to fetch him to Abbot Thurstan,

Brother Leo of Ely Monastery was in the orchard, talking to
an apple tree.
Brother Leo visited the orchard every day, whatever the

season. Tall and spare, black robe swishing round ankles bare
or booted according to the weather, he would pass along the
tidy rows of plum and apple that a namesake of his had
inaugurated more than a century ago, along with the vine-
yards that were his charge as well. Today, in spring, he ob-
served with pleasure the annual miracle of erupting bud and
blossom. All nature, it seemed to Leo, responded with joy to
the coming of Eastertide.
He had been given care of the orchard and vineyard
partly because of his namesake and partly because they went
naturally with the care of the herb garden that was bound to
be his province anyway. Leo, as well as being a horticultural-
ist, was a physician. After twenty-five years in Ely, these
tasks had become his greatest passions. Even his devotions,
he sometimes thought, were supportive now; the cup to hold
the wine.
"You'll give us a crop this year, won't you, sweeting?" he
said to the apple tree, patting its bole kindly. "We missed
your good fruit last season." Then he saw the novice ap-
proaching and stepped back. Leo was not embarrassed by his
own eccentricities but other people sometimes were and one
must not be inconsiderate.
"Benedicite, Brother Leo. Abbot Thurstan is asking for
you. He says, will you go to him in his office and take your
30
The Unquiet Mo?iastery 31
medicine chest. I think a physician is wanted in Witchford.

I'm sorry to interrupt you."
"Physicians are always on call," said Leo, as the doctor
in him moved smoothly over to oust the gardener. He had
learnt, tracing out the meticulous design of monastic life, to
transfer instantly from one duty to the next without conflict.
"Thank you for the message."
Abbot Thurstan sat in a square stone room, with candles
burning in their silver holders, because the unglazed win-
dows were as narrow as lanceheads and let in so little light.
Leo stood in front of the oak table, his medicine chest on a

stool beside him, and awaited instructions.
"You are summoned," Thurstan said, "to tend a man who
is wounded and feverish. You will be taken to the place al-
though you know where it is, I fancy. The sick man is in

Dame Withburga's cottage, on the far side of Witchford. Her
son is Snorri, the eel fisherman."
They both knew AMthburga and Snorri. Leo and Thur-
stan were both Wltchford-born. They were acquainted virtu-
ally with every soul in Ely, and with every fen path and
winding waterway. Abbot Thurstan's tone, and the carefully
bland expression on his wrinkled-apple face, were now an
implied and somewhat un-Christian comment on Dame
Withburga, and he knew that Leo would interpret it aright.
Leo did.
Dame Withburga taking strangers in?"
"Is
"Under duress," said Abbot Thurstan, and Leo noticed
what the poor light had not shown him before; that his abbot
was worried. "The man who has come to fetch you, and who
is now waiting very impatiently in our guest room, un-
doubtedly compelled her. He is Hereward of Bourne."
"Hereward of . . . but that's the dispossessed Peter-
borough thane, surely? He's in Flanders."
"Not now," said Thurstan. "Hereward of Bourne, now,
is here. He apparently decided
— . .
." — bitterness entered the
dry old voice ". that Ely had the makings of a good, safe
. .
stronghold for the resistance army he has been gathering in

Flanders. He's brought it here. I suppose he has a point. Ely

consists of seven miles by four of soUd land with impenetra-
ble marsh all round it for drowning Normans in. Ideal, from
Hereward's point of view. He and his men have billeted
themselves in Witchford while they build a longhouse to live
in. I gather that he has betw een thirty and forty men and he
proposes to recruit and train more, to create a force with

which to challenge William. Who they intend to set up in-
stead of William, I can't tell you, and I doubt if they know

either. But they are serious. Hereward actually had more
men when he left Flanders, but he chose to raid his old home
at Bourne on the way, to kill the Normans and reclaim the
family treasure. There were casualties. Your patient is one
of them."
Leo nodded, hoisting his medicine case onto his shoul-
der. "A stronghold to breed rebellion, here in Ely," he re-
marked. "Not a cheerful thought, my lord."
"It's a hideous thought!" TTiurstan's held-in feelings
burst through. His tremulous voice belonged to a man twenty
years older than the well-preserved abbot who at daybreak
had led them in the praisegiving of Lauds. "It exposes us to
all manner of dangers. You must attend this wounded man.
Brother Leo. As a physician, it's your duty. And in any case . .
this Hereward has a reputation for getting his own way. His
men call him The Wakeful. He's last to bed and first to rise
and nearly impossible to deceive, they say. And now that I've
seen him, I understand why they find him so impressive.
You'll have to go, because even if I said no, he'd make you.
But . .
." — his voice grew stronger, more emphatic
— ". . . if
Hereward of Bourne is a dangerous man, so is King William.

Tend this sick fellow. But bear in mind, that the less we have
to do with Hereward, the better."
Dame \Mthburga looked as if she heartily agreed with the

abbot. She was sheltering the injured man because no one
had given her a choice. Even if Abbot Thurstan hadn't said
so. Brother Leo would have known that at once from the
The Ufjquiet Monastery 33
bony arms folded grimly across her skinny chest, and the way
her were clenched. She stood at the door of her smoky
lips
wattle cottage and watched Leo come up to her, walking be-

side the tall, red-haired Hereward. "In the back," she said
shortly, and led the way.
There was little room inside, in those two dark compart-
ments cluttered with baskets, eels hanging up to smoke, and
the stilts that Snorri used for paddling about in the marsh.
The occupants of this hut did not eat well, either. The corn
and vegetable smallholding behind it was not productive. It
was good peat soil but prone to flooding. Never, except at
swordpoint, would Dame Withburga have let in two men extra.
But there were two additional bedrolls in the rear room.
One was occupied by the patient. The other presumably be-
longed to the stocky, dark man who was now crouching at
the sufferer's side. "This is Brand of Fallowdene," Hereward
said, pushing Leo forward. "Odi is his personal follower. I
came for you at Brand's request. I came myself, to make sure

there was no argument. Do what you can. The trouble is a
swordcut in the knee."
The wounded man, Odi, was half-conscious, and the
sweat of his fever wâs soaking darkly into tangled flaxen hair.
The dark man. Brand, moving aside to let Brother Leo crouch
in his place, said brusquely: "You were a long time. His fever
is Behind them Dame Withburga, opening her
rising." lips
just enough to let the words through, said: "If he dies, it will
bring bad luck to the house. It's always bad luck if a stranger
dies under your roof. Best take him to the abbey. Should be
holy enough up there to ward oflF misfortune."
Leo, paying no attention to either of them, drew back
the rug from the patient's legs. It was even harder to see here
than in the abbot's office. The one small membrane window
and a few chinks in the reed thatch let in all the light there
was. "Rushlights," he said. "Or lamps. Bring w^hatever you
have. Dame Withburga. And put some water to heat."
"Rushlights is all I've got," said Withburga ominously,
unmoving, as Leo cut away the soiled Hnen on the man's left
knee. "I'vê no tallow for making more, either. Making tallow
means collecting fat and boiling it and then the rushes must
be dipped and cooled and if you use my lights up it'll be days
before . .
."
"I know how to make rushlights, woman! We'll send you

some from the abbey in the morning, if you're so short. Fetch
what you've got and for the love of God, hurry!
"And You wouldn't stand there
the water too, quickly.
like that if were your son," added the man Brand sharply.
it
Leo glanced at him, and observed that his impatience was a

cloak for fear. Brand was afraid for his comrade. They had
been to war together, no doubt, and brothers-in-arms could
be closer than kin-brothers. Dame Withburga withdrew,
muttering, and under Leo's hands the bindings fell away,
exposing the wound. Brand said: "Odi's the best companion a
man could have. If he dies she says it'll bring bad luck to
. . .
her. What about him?"

His voice shook. The pugnacity had faded out of his
face, leavdng only worry and appeal behind. When he looked
like that. Brand's face was likeable, Leo thought. Hereward,
watching from a corner where he could not get in the way of

what little light there was, said: "I think the wound looks
better." Dame Withburga came back with lights, and Leo,
with a satisfied grunt, took one and held it close to the injury.
He felt Odi's forehead. "The fever isn't coming from that
wound," he said. "That's healing. What did you use?"
"Wild carrot tops salt water
. . . poultices .prayer,"
. . . . .
said Brand. "But if he's mending, then why is he so feverish?"

"I ache," said the man on the pallet weakly. His eyes
opened. "All over. Every bone."
"It sounds like the marsh fever," Leo said. "It's common
hereabouts. I can make up a draught for it. iMeanwhile, I'll
dress this again. Dame Withburga! The njoaterT
She brought it presently and put the steaming bowl sul-
lenly down beside Leo. "Don't be too hard on her," said the
monk, seeing Brand glare at her retreating back. "She's
afraid. What if the Normans came, and found her harbouring
The Unquiet Monastery 35
you?" He put a hand on Odi's leg and pushed the knee joint
upwards. Odi groaned. Leo removed his hand. "Raise your
foot from the pallet," he said.
Odi tried to obey. The effort made him sweat anew. He
lay back, closing his eyes again. "I can't."
"You must try. And you, Brand of Failowdene, you must
help him. Encourage him to exercise the limb, to raise his
foot and flex the knee joint. You soldiers," said Brother Leo,
good-humoured but disparaging, "you know all about making
gashes in other men's bodies, but precious little about the
finer points of repair. There's more to be done than just to
close the wound. Now, try again. Up . .

."
In the outer room, a door scraped across the earthen

floor and a draught swept through the cottage. Walls creaked
and rushlights wavered. An East Anglian voice, young,
male, panicky, began to babble. Dame Withburga's voice
snapped out a question. Then from the distance came shout-
ing and in the midst of it, a shriek. Hereward, without a
word, snatched out his sword and plunged out of the hut.
Odi tried to sit up. Leo shook his head and pushed him
back. He
kept his face serene though his pulses were thud-
William the Bastard himself came through that door,
ding. If
he would And Brother Leo attending to his God-given work.
Leo had learnt as a novice that prayer and medicine were
two you did not interrupt unless the building were
activities
burning down round you and sometimes not even then. He
began to wash the wound, asking Brand to pass what he
needed. He tried not to strain his ears for the sound of Nor-
man voices. He noticed that Brand was watching him, and
was glad that his hands were steady.
The distant uproar crescendoed and then died. The cur-
tainbetween the two small rooms was flung back and Here-
ward was with them again, Dame Withburga at his heels. "It
wasn't Normans," he said. "It was one of my men, Hywel. He
and his followers were trying to buy some onions and fowls
from a cottager, who misunderstood. That's all."
"iMisunderstoodl" It appeared that Dame Withburga was
seething. "Tried to take without paying, that's what they

were at. Master Hereward here, he made them pay, I'll give
him that. But it isn'ttime and it won't be the last,
the first
neither. Come from the Normans, they say they

to protect us
have." She was addressing Brother Leo. "And who's to pro-
tect us from them, that's what I'd like to know?"
"Watch your tongue, woman," said Hereward. "There
are hotheads in any army; I control mine, as you have just
seen. Brother Leo has more sense than you have. He gets
on with what he knows and leaves my men to me."
Brand said, with a slight air of unwillingness: "Brother
Leo would make a good warrior. He must have thought the
Normans were about to burst in and fire the hut over our
heads, but he didn't show it. Monks are braver than I
thought."
"You dislike monks, I suspect," said Leo, tightening the
last knot. "I sensed it when I came in. Has a monk ever
harmed you?"
"Not me. But my sister was forced against her will to
enter a nunnery. There was a tragedy. She fled with a lover
and died of his child."
"We weren't all forced. That, I would agree, is a mis-
take." Leo's hazel eyes wêre amused, not offended.
"For man it seems to me it's always a mistake," Brand
a
said. "Above all when he could make a warrior."
"You think of us as protected by our walls and vows? We

are God's followers and like most leaders. He takes His men
into danger now and then. It would not please God if I ran
away from my patient because I was afraid, any more than it
would please your leader if you ran away from a battle. Now,
listen to me. This man of yours needs care. As the fever
drops, and I hope it soon will, he will need goat's milk, meat
broth and bread to soak in it, and wine. His strength must
be fed."
"Here?" said Brand. He rested smouldering brown eyes
on Dame Withburga's stony face. ''She hasn't got it to give.
The Unquiet Monastery 31
and if I brought it, it might never get to him. I can't be here
all the time."
Hereward said: "There is an infirmary in the abbey."
Leo sat back on his heels. He had known this was com-
ing. Abbot Thurstan wouldn't like it, but if Hereward wished
it, Abbot Thurstan wouldn't be allowed much say. Besides,
Hereward was right. Odi needed an infirmary's care. He

glanced up, with a trace of mischief in his face, at Brand. If it
were from any situation any advantage to

possible to wrest
God, it was a monk's business to do so.
"I may be able to arrange for him to be moved to the

abbey," he said. "Meanwhile, Brand of Fallowdene, there is
something you can do to help him further."
"Is there? What is it?"
Leo smiled. "Pray for him," he said.
4 ^ Shadow oj the Jûture
''You need not arrange an Easter feast," Simon said to

Wulfhild. "We are invited to Beechtrees. You know it? It's
between here and Chichester. new now."

It has a lord
"Yes. The old one's dead." They both knew where and
how but neither mentioned it.
"The new man is Sir Alain FitzHubert, another Mont-
gomery follower," said Simon. "I know him. He has married
the widow at Beechtrees. Lady Olive, I believe she's called. I
take it that you have met her. There's to be a knighting cere-

mony same time for two of Sir Alain's young men and I
at the
intend to see Gosceliri knighted with them. He's twenty and
it ought to be done. I will be his sponsor, as his father is dead.
His stepfather has sons of his own to provide for now."

Wulfhild nodded, agreeing to everything. Certainly
young Goscelin should be knighted now and certainly she
wanted to see Lady Olive. She knew about Beechtrees' new
lord. Information had its own ways of seeping along the
paths of down and forest. Beechtrees was ten miles off but in
Fallowdene the villagers had all heard how Sir Alain had
arrived without warning with fifteen men at his back, and
taken possession of manor and lady alike without ceremony,
until his own chaplain protested and insisted on conducting a
marriage service. The Easter feast was to do duty for mar-
riage celebration as well, since the wedding itself had been in
Lent and Sir Alain's chaplain was apparently a stickler when
given the chance.
"You'll enjoy it, I daresay," Simon said.
38
Shadow of the Future 39
AWilfhild was not enjoying it. How fortunate, she thought,

sitting at the feast in the Beechtrees hall, how very fortunate
we are at Fallowdene. I know. I didn't know it might
didn't
have been like this. If I had known, I wouldn't have dared to
send that letter to the king. I was an innocent. I never saw

anything like this in Normandy.
Admittedly, there had been bad moments at Fallowdene.
She had experienced doubt and alarm in force the day after
her marriage, when she realised that without the mead in
him, Simon was indeed a silent and withdrawn man who
hardly ever vouchsafed a comment on anything but practical
matters. The day had had to ride round Fal-
after that, she
lowdene and the subholdings with him and inform the in-
habitants of all three villages that Norman land-law was now
in force, which meant that none of them could leave his
village without permission, or marry without Simon's con-
sent. —
They had listened in silence all three times and — after-
wards turned away from her to talk to each other, as if she
no longer existed for them. But she had hidden her wretched-
ness from Simon and today she was glad. Things could have
been far worse. William might have sent her Alain Fitz-
Hubert.
Sir Alain, within a week of his arrival, had had his vil-
lagers working slave-gang fashion to clear and level a stretch
of commonland as a practise ground for his young men and
their warhorses. He had burnt down two cottages whose ten-

ants objected to the forced labour. He had collected a further
labour force, unwilling and not all in full health, and set them
to work on a castle that Earl Roger, as he was now called,
was constructing a few miles away. He had hanged a man for
taking a deer. And now she must sit still and listen and
God's Teeth, admire —while Sir Alain recounted all these
accompaniment of hearty guffaws that Wulfhild
things to the
could have swôrn vibrated the hams that hung curing above
the fire trench.
The atmosphere of this Beechtrees hall was unlike any-
—

thing she had previously encountered. She had known many
households during her years companion to Aldith of Mer-
as
cia and Wales, and later when she was in Normandy with her
father. She had been present on some traumatic occasions in
some of them. But always there had been a framework of
manners and proprieties. No one, for instance, ever dined in
those houses wearing a sword. A small knife to cut meat, that
was acceptable, but no more. In most, the ladies had a table
apart and went out before the serious drinking started. And
in none would any man have dared leer at his lord's wife as
one or two of Sir Alain's knights were now leering at Lady
Olive. This was not a proper manor hall at all, Wulfhild
thought. It was a barrack-room, a den of soldiers in wartime.
And poor Lady Olive had to live here in the heart of it.
Olive was filling a wine cup for her husband. Wulfhild
had known her for some years. She remembered Olive first as
a round-faced, pink, and cheerful wife, and then as a sad
but sensible widow filling her husband's place as best she
could. Now she sat, wearing fine festival garments of blue
and white, generously adorned with gold, and looked as if
horror had pummelled all will and all feeling out of her. She
had no colour, in face or voice. She said: "Yes, my lord," and
"No, my lord," and laughed dutifully at his sallies. On
Wulfhild's other side, two of Sir Alain's knights were talking
noisily about the wife of Earl Roger, Mabel Talvas
—
Wulfhild recollected the name who was said to be apt to
put arsenic in the wine of people she disliked. A thousand
pities, thought Wulfhild, that Lady Olive couldn't adopt the
same procedure.
Lady Olive had given Alainhis wine, and taken her seat
again, between him and Simon. Speaking across Simon's
back, Wulfhild said softly: "Olive. It will get better soon.
One gets used to things. You may have children."
Olive achieved a parody of a smile. "I'm still under my
own roof," she said. "I should be glad of that, at least."
Sir Alain swung round. His large face was scowling and
his rather small eyes peered at them both suspiciously. "Eh?
What's that? A\'hat are you whispering about? We speak

French at this table now, do you hear?"
Olive was equipped with French, though not fluent in it.
She said, stumbling: "I said only ... I was happy ... to live in
my own house."
"Not your house," corrected Alain, and let out a roar of
laughter. He was like a hearty, man-eating bear. "xMine. One
of the furnishings, that's what you are." A thick paw shot out
in something between a cuff and a caress and Wulfhild saw
a tear fall from Olive's face. "But a pretty one. We won't
turn vou out," said Alain, still laughing. Simon caught
W\ilfhild's eye. "Where does the king keep Easter this year?"
he asked quietly.
FitzHubert's attention left his wife. "Winchester. A
merry him after that triumph at Exeter.
feast for The whole
city caved in, did you hear? They sent out their young men
and maidens to kneel at his feet and plead with him not to
sack the city. Hah! " He snorted. "They'd learnt to be afraid of
him by then. He blinded a hostage at their gates when they
first shut the city against him."
"And did he sack it?" Simon asked. "We are behind the
news, at Fallowdene."
Alain shook his head. "No.Fd have done, though, seeing
they let There are tun-
the usurper Harold's family get away.
nels under the city, it seems, leading to the river. They were
gone when the king marched in. No doubt at all that the
townsfolk connived. Fd have set the place alight for it."
Wulfhild asked cautiously: "Were any names mentioned
—of leaders in the city or of anyone involved with Har-
. . .
old's family ... ?"
The little, bright eyes studied her shrewdly. "Ah. That

outlawed father of yours. You're the eldest daughter, aren't
you? The illegitimate one?" He did not seem aware that he
was offensive; to Alain, no one with antecedents lower than
his own was capable of experiencing insult. "Brand, that was
your father's name, wasn't it? Brand of Fallowdene. No, he
wasn't mentioned. Wâs he in Exeter?"
"I don't know where he is," \\'u]fhild said. "I've had no

new^s of him. hoped you might, perhaps. This meat is very
I
good. I should like some more."

The meat was in fact over-greasy, and Sir Alain's cook
had apparently never heard of cooking it with fruit to coun-
teract the grease. But however repellent she found it, she
preferred it to discussing her family any further with x\lain. A
sensation akin to homesickness swept over her. But it was a
longing for a time, not a place. It was a longing for that first
autumn she and her father had spent together at Fallowdene,
before war threatened, when they sat by the hearthfire in the
misty evenings and talked of small things and built a friend-
ship from their newly discovered tie of blood. They were
parted now, and they had quarrelled. It made no difference.
She prayed every night for his safety.
Going home, as Wulfhild rode crowded beside Simon on a

narrow track where the winter rains had carved the chalk
into furrows and flutings, he asked her: "How many sisters
have you? Bishop Ethelric told me

your father was once
that
married and had two daughters from his wife. But he told me
nothing more."
"I've two sisters. One is married, in Normandy, and the
— —
other Edgiva is in Withysham Abbey, not far from Fal-
lowdene." She added nervously: "He gave them their por-
tions before he took Fallowdene over. Fallowdene he willed
to me even though well, my mother was a thrall. x\s you
. . .
know."
Simon glanced at her, mildly surprised. "I only spoke
from curiosity. Your origins don't concern me. Aly own are
nothing in particular and King A\îlliam himself is a bastard
with a humbly born mother. As for Fallowdene, it belongs to
me now, and its past no longer matters. Did you ever know
your father's wife?"
"No. She died before I ever met him. I was grown before
I found out who he was."
"So you had no family to speak of when you were young.
Shadov: of the Future 43
I have lived most of my life without a family. We have that in

common. How old is Lady Olive?"
Surprised by the change of subject, Wulfhild had to
think for a moment before she said: "She's a little older than
I am. Twênty-five or six. Why do you ask?"
"She looks more." They reached the gate of Fallowdene
and rode through. "Thirty, I'd have said."
"She's unhappy."
"She's a fool. She has her own roof, as she said herself.
FitzHubert can afford better clothes for her than I can for
you. There'll be babies in time. Some have to do with less
than that. iMuch, much less."
"Her wrists wêre bruised this morning. I saw her pull

down her sleeves to hide them." Wûlfhild beckoned to a boy
crossing the yard, to take their horses.
"He is a rough man, yes," said Simon as they dis-
mounted. "But she does nothing to help herself. She could try
smiling now and then. And there," he added quite pleasantly
at the lad who led their mounts away, "is another fool. You
might tell him, Wulfhild, that at his age there's no need to
walk wdth his back bent and to shuffle as if his sandals didn't
fit. If he wânts to trudge about like that, he can go to Beech-
trees w^here no doubt he will have reason."
He was saying, obliquely but clearly: we Normans are
here to stay and we shall hold together whether we person-
ally like each other or not. How^ we treat you, depends on
you. Wulfhild stood irresolute as he walked into the hall,
sickened by dread of the future. Once, that boy and his fel-
low villagers had been her friends. Now there was a barrier
betwêen herself and them. The news of Alain's behaviour had
already begun to reach Fallowdene. Would it breed more
resentment against Simon for being a Norman too, and
through him, resentment also against her? Would Simon
grasp the essential fact that w^hile Alain played tyrant in
Beechtrees, here in Fallowdene it would be wise to tread
with care, toput the balance right? She did not know. She
knew astonishingly little about this man whose wife she was.
He had volunteered nothing of his early life beyond the facts

she already knew, and his long silences did not encourage ques-
tions. Once or twice she had tried to ask them, but found
them, as if accidentally, turned aside. Simon remained the
Unknown.
The boy, Arnulf, was the son of Fallowdene's former
smith who had died at Hastings, like so many others. To
Arnulf, Simon was merely one of the men who had killed his
father. She could not talk to Arnulf now. Abruptly, she
turned towards her sleepinghouse. Her walk became a run.
Inside, she grabbed the first receptacle that came to hand, an
empty ewer, sank onto the couch and threw her heart up.
The paroxysm over, she took up a tally stick that lay on her
oak chest. She had forgotten to take it with her to Beechtrees.
She studied the notches on it and taking her small knife,
added those for the missing days. Turning her head to one
side, she considered the result.
Simon had been here now for three weeks. After two of
them, she should have had a period. She had not. A week
overdue, and now^ she had been sick.
Lady Olive might or might not have babies to look for-
ward to. She'd never managed to have any by her first hus-
band, poor soul. But Wulfhild, by the look of things, was
already blessed.
Diminutive, regal, stepping slowly because the wedge-shaped

spiralsteps were steep, Matilda of Normandy descended
from her bower to greet her husband's messengers to Rouen.
Her page Hugh walked ahead to announce her. Aude, Judith,
and Emma, the daughter of the king's friend FitzOsbern, fol-
lowed in the rear. From the waiting company of Norman and
English gentlemen, one came forward to be first to greet her.
He had a blue wool cloak trimmed with beaver and a garnet
brooch four inches across and he was English. Matilda rec-
ognised him, for she would never forget him if she lived two
hundred years, and she knew quite well that William had
done it on purpose.
It was a demonstration of William's power, over her and

over other men. Here you are, Maid, here's the man you once
loved so hotly that you frightened him into bolting headlong
out of Flanders to escape you. He's your husband's servant
now. Here you are. Thane Brihtric, here's the leopardess who
once terrified you into throwing an ambassador's post away.
You need not fear her now. I have tamed the leopardess.
"Thane Brihtric! " she said.
"My Lady Matilda." He smiled, broad and auburn-
haired as she remembered. He came from the fertile south-
west of England where, he had told her once, men lived well
and such frames as his were the norm. "I have a message
from your royal husband that I think you'll be glad to re-
ceive. You know of the fall of Exeter, I believe? At the Easter
Council, it was agreed that peace is likely now to endure. I
am therefore charged by King William to invite you to ac-
company me back to England for the Whitsuntide Feast. It is
his wish that at Whitsun you should be crowned Queen of
England."
He began to present his suite, while Matilda watched
him, smiling, thinking that he was more formal than she had
known him once. More formal than when he had paid her
compliments in her father's hall, and followed her as she
slippedfrom a Christmas feast to get out of the smoky at-
mosphere, and kissed her in the frosty courtyard.
As they moved to sit down, she said in her small,
all
pretty voice: "You have changed very little, Thane Brihtric. I

should have known you anywhere. But then, I have an excel-
lent memory. I never forget anything." And she watched,
pleasurably, the telltale red flow up under his fresh skin.
"
5 ^ Extraction of a 'Molar
". . . And so," concluded Hereward, striding animatedly

back and forth in front of the half-completed longhouse,
"Duchess Matilda will have a crown on her enchanting little
head this very Whitsuntide, in London assuming the wind —
stays fair from Normandy. And all the nobles of the land,
William's Normans and the English earls who've chosen to
wash his boots with their spit, will be there to see it. Most of
them must be getting a little dry in the mouth by now, I
should think. Earl Edwin of Mercia in particular has had
trouble with his mouth. Guess w^hat this is!
He held up a small object. It had a pearly gleam be-
tween his thumb and forefinger. "What is it?" someone
shouted. Hereward grinned. "One of Earl Edwin's back
molars! And with us today we have the man who pulled it
out. Step forward, Dunstan Tooth-Drawer!"
The tooth-drawer had spent a lifetime wandering from
town to town, touting for work and being fairly often kicked
by his patients while in the very act of ministering to them.
He stepped forward timidly, a small man dressed in clothes
of shabby brown. "Tell them," said Hereward, now standing
on the steps of the longhouse that served as a platform, "what
you told me. Come up here beside me. They'll hear better."
Dunstan, it transpired, had been plying his trade at the
Winchester royal residence, tending the humble mouths that
were his usual business. But a page had run out and asked
him to come to Earl Edwin. The earl had been awake all
night with toothache. Dunstan had followed the page obedi-
ently to the earl's quarters and there . . .
46
Extraction of a Molar 41
Bouncing the molar on his pahii, Hereward chuckled.
Dunstan gingerly let his own features crinkle in response.
''Never heard such screeches," he said. "I say it myself, but it
was a fuss over nothing much. I never took a tooth out

sweeter. But that veil he let out brougrht the kincr himself in
through the curtain to see what's all the uproar. I'd seen the
kiuCT in the distance afore; I knew who he was. He just
laughed at Earl Edwin and went out again and I starts pack-
ing to go. Then someone touches mv arm and says the king
wants me who's had a bad tooth on and off
to see to his friend
for a month. He
vou did a neat job on Edwin. And the
thinks
next I know Fm peering down Roger of Montgomery's gullet.
\\t\\\ He \^-as a change and a half from Earl Edwin, I can tell
you. Got no expression on his face at all to speak of, even
when you're taking out a canine with a great hooked root.
The sweat was fair pouring off me and he didn't vio-ve. Then
in comes the king again, The king spoke to
just as I get it out.
him. Thought Ed not know French, I suppose Fd been talk- —
ing English all the time and everyone who spoke to me used
English —butEve travelled and I understand French right
enough. And what he said was: 'Shame young Edwin's not
more like you, Roger. You should have heard him when this
fellow sa\\' to him just now. If I marry my daughter to him I
think Fll be getting a girl for a son-in-law.' I saw Earl Roger
wanted to answer, so I stepped back and he said well . . . . . .
pardon me for repeating it, but he said all the English nobles
were ..."
"Go on," said Hereward. "It's all right."
". . . were weak," said Dunstan with a gulp. "He said
they'd made peace too fast. Then he said what about the
other marriage, ber^veen the king's niece and Earl A\'altheof,
was that going for^vardr x\nd the king said not yet, because
he doubted how far he could trust \\âltheof. I pretended not
to understand and when I could I looked to see if the cavity
was all right and it was. Then I went."
"So." Hereward waved Dunstan to one side. He scanned
the faces before him and picked out Brand. "Brand of Fallow-
dene. You were are — —

a thane. You must have met these
men, when you were at Harold's court. How do you read

them? How far can William trust Edwin and Waltheof?
What are our chances of swinging them, and all their follow-
ers in their nice big territories, to us?"
Brand cursed secretly. was the kind of question he
It
most disliked. He was bad words for things like

at finding
traits of personality. They were too abstract. Hereward said
helpfully: "If William has been half-betrothing his female

relatives to them and is about to go back on it, how will
they take it?"
This was firmer ground. "They'll be angry," said Brand.
"And Edwin's brother Morcar will be angry too. He and
Edwin are so close they're almost the same man. And of
course,Morcar is Earl of Northumbria."
Someone laughed and said, "Edwin-and-Morcar!" Brand
nodded. "Yes. And they're both very proud men. They won't
like being disappointed."
"They like the sweet scent of importance?" said Here-
ward. He sniffed daintily at an invisible bouquet. "Good.
What about Waltheof?"
"He has a good battlefield reputation. But he has tender
feelings about his status too, I think."
"Hm." Hereward was pensive. "There's one we haven't
mentioned yet but he's important. The boy, Edgar Atheling,
the last of the old royal house. Do you know anything
about him?"
"He's the one who matters, isn't he?" said Brand. There
were murmurs of assent. "Our future king. We must have a
banner to follow, someone to put in William's place. Harold's
family are exiled and his Danish relatives say they are not
interested. So that leaves Edgar. He's just a boy. I don't think
I ever spoke to him, even." He added slowly: "When people
spoke 6>/ him, they didn't seem to think he showed much

promise."
He spoke matter-of-factly, ignoring the pain of what he
was saying. For he was admitting now that Harold's family.
the Godwin clan, had gone out of his life. In the deeper part
of his mind he knew it was forever. He would not see his
nephew Hakon, who was the blood-tie between Brand and
the Godwins, again. Nor Lady Eadgyth, Harold's widow, nor
Countess Gytha, Harold's mother. They had nothing to do
with him now, except that he had promised Eadgyth and
Gytha that he would go on with the fight, so that it was
partly for their sake that he was here. Preparing, it seemed, to
put Edgar Atheling in Harold's place.
"It may be too soon to say he has no promise," Herewârd
was saying."Do they know each other well, these four?"
"They were in the same set at court, yes. They used to
vie dress, and so on."
with each other in
"Ah!" Hereward laughed. "Four fashionable young men,
is that it?" He twitched off his mantle and flourished it, turn-
ing it this way and that. He adopted a whining accent. "The

very finest silken velvet, my good sirs, made by slave girls on
the shores of Cathay. The girls serve an apprenticeship ten
years long to learn the art of making it. Not cheap, no, I
wôuldn't offer a gentleman like you anything cheap —but feel

the material. . . . You needn't all stare at me
though I were
as
out of my senses," said Hereward, resuming normal in- his
tonation. "If we are to separate the English earls from their

allegiance to this Norman king, we first have to get at them.
They'll want finery for the queen's coronation. Can you think
of a better ruse to carry me into their presence, than to pre-
tend to be a merchant?
In Ely Abbey, Odi had a limewashed stone cell to himself,
with a brazier in cold weather, and a narrow window through

which he could watch April slowly paint the Isle with green.
There was no disturbance here except the distant chanting of
the monks and the voice of the great bell that rang the divi-
sions of the day. Here, in privacy. Brother Leo could poultice
and wash Odi's wound to the accompaniment of charms and
prayers, coax medicinal draughts down Odi's throat, treat his
marsh fever with leeches and sweat baths, and insist regard-
"
W DEDICATIONS, 1068 A.D.
less of the patient's oaths that he should attempt to flex the

injured leg. It was necessary, Leo said. If the fear of death
had lifted, other fears remained.
"When walk on my two feet like a man again?"
will I
Odi asked, as the weeks went by. He raised himself on an

elbow and pointed to his knee. "Look at that joint locked. —
—
Look at that muscle wasted. In spite of all your leechcraft
and the way I sweat and struggle to make the muscles work.
How long is it going to be. Brother Leo? Answer me that!
"As yet, I can't," Leo said quietly. "But you should re-
member that you're lucky to be alive. You nearly weren't."
"Lucky?" said Odi. "IF^n?"
Leaving him, Leo stood in thought for a moment in the
infirmary anteroom, frowning. A short monk with a ginger
tonsure like a ring of fire round his skull came through the
outer door. "You look anxious, Brother Leo. Your patient is
not better?"
"Not very much. Brother Athelstan."
"I shouldn'tworry about him," said Brother Athelstan.
"If he doesn't mend, that's one less nuisance on the Isle. That
friend of his. Brand, is here again. He's waiting outside. Shall
I fetch him in?"
"No," said Leo. "I'll go out to him."
He found Brand contemplating the main abbey building.
He turned as Leo came up. "Your abbey is a pleasant place,"
he remarked.
Leo smiled. "If you think so, I'm glad. It's a plain build-
ing, some say." He regarded it with affection. It was a solid
place, with a square squat tower at each end, and weathered
stone walls that seemed barely interrupted by the small win-
dows with their plain round arches. The low door was simi-
larly arched and unadorned. "A visiting monk who had seen
the new West Minster in London once said that the door of
our abbey put him in mind of the entrance to a cave," he said.
"Brother Athelstan —the monk you met just now —was furi-
ous with him. He said, or rather he shouted, that caves were
strong safe places that could keep out wind and rain and
what better concept for a house of God? Brother Athelstan is
always very passionate on behalf of the abbey. He will even
get angry if someone points out that Peterborough Abbey is
richer, though that's true. You want to see Odi?"
"Yes. How is he?"
Leo said, "I'm glad you came today. I want to talk to you
about him."
drew together. "What does that
Brand's heavy eyebrows
mean? Last time I was here, you said he was recovering.
You said the wound was closed and the fever gone. Is he
worse again?"
"No. I shall have him standing and walking within a few
days now. After a fashion. But only after a fashion. The knee
is stiff, in spite of all I have tried to do, and the muscles are
withered. Someone has to break it to him. Brand. He is going
to be lame, badly lame, for the rest of his life."
"He looked at me," said Brand, standing at Leo's side in the

orchard where he had come to find the monk, "as if I had
given him his death blow."
It had been as hard a task as he had ever performed in
his life. Leo had thought it would come less cruelly from a
friend, but Brand, looking at Odi's stricken and resentful
face, did not think it had made much difference. "Never? I've
got well, only to hobble for the rest of my life? All my life?''
."
"You'll be able to ride, use a bow . .
"But not run, not even walk evenly?" fist had A clenched
pounded the rugs.
."
"As a bowman you'll be as good as ever and . .
Brand had found himself talking to an unresponsive set

of shoulderblades. Odi had flung himself over and was lying
with his back to Brand and the world. "What did you save me
for?" said Odi's voice, muffled, speaking to the wall.
"That was shock talking," said Brother Leo, unsurprised.
"He will accustom himself, given time. I knew^ he would take
it hard; that's why I You mean more to

asked you to help me.
him than I do. The mind can be wounded like the body,
Brand. But it can also be healed, in time."
"I don't understand that." Brand fell into step beside him
as they walked back to the infirmary. "You talk as if the mind
were flesh."
"It's vulnerable, like flesh," Leo said. "It can be
wounded, and poison can get into the wound. He should not
be alone too much. Come when you can and make him talk to
you. Make him let the poison out." He glanced at Brand's
uninformative profile and said: "I think that you of all people
know what it is to bear a poisoned injury in the mind, Brand
of Fallowdene."
Brand frowned again."What makes you say that?"
"It's partly a guess. But when I heard your name, I rec-
ognised There is a history attached to that name. You
it.
quarrelled with your former lord once and were accused of

betraying him. He was Earl Godwin, wasn't he father of —
King Harold? Now you keep faith with Godwin's son, even
though Harold is dead and his family are far away. Perhaps
that accusation was a poisoned wound?"
"If you like," said Brand stiffly. "Yes, perhaps."
"Then you will know, better than anyone, how to help
Odi. Or you ought to know. No, no!" Leo shook his head at
Brand and suddenly smiled. "Don't glower at me like that.
I'm only a poor, timid, unarmed monk, remember!" But the
smile was the kind that men might exchange in the shield-
wall, and Brand, reluctantly, returned it. As Leo had hoped he
would. Brother Leo had taken to the dark, brusque ex-thane
immensely. "You must help your friend to let the past go," he
said. He paused and then added: "One day, you may have to
let it go yourself. Have you thought what you will do, if what
you are attempting to do now proves impossible?"

Brand said: "My daughter thinks as you do. We quar-
relled over it. I left her in our hall, and she was talking of
making terms with the Normans, so as to protect the place
from them. Well, women think differently, perhaps." He was
almost accusing Leo of unmanliness. Leo declined to com-
ment. "It's nothing but a counsel of despair, that kind of
talk/' Brand said roughly. "We shall win in the end, if we

fight hard enough, if we are willing to give enough. Our
lands, our futures, our lives."
"May your faith be rewarded," said Leo sombrely. He
added: "I think you have a great capacity for faith. Brand of
Fallowdene."
"I'm not sure w^hat you mean by that. You seem," said
Brand, "to talk about me as though you had known me
for years.''
"Monks live in a curious way," Leo said. "We stand back
from the world, and see it more clearly as a result, I think."
He smiled again, to mend the little breach between them.

After a moment, Brand once more responded.
6 « J !Man Without a Past
Three weeks later, when the tendency to nausea had
become noticeable and there was no more room for doubt,
Wulfhild told Simon that they were expecting a child. His
response astounded her.
She told him at night, as they were retiring. Wulfhild
was on the couch, combing the brown hair that wâs
sitting
one of her few small vanities. Simon was brushing the coat of
a deerhound bitch that had attached itself to him. He said
nothing at first, which was much what she expected; he was
such a silent man. Then he set down the brush, patted the
dog in dismissal, and came over to sit by her on the couch. In
the falling dusk she could not see his face very well, but
thought it was expressionless, as usual. "You must take care
of yourself," he said. "I don't know much about these things.
But Editha can advise you, I suppose." Then, as if he had
been holding himself under control, and this control had now
been broken, he pulled her to him and pressed his face
against her. A small sound escaped him. She recognised it but
did not believe in it until she felt the wêtness from his eyes
against her skin. She held him firmly, saying nothing, but
marvelling. Among the innumerable things she did not know
about this man, was much that was surprising.
Simon was pleased, and that was good. But in the days that
followed, a queer, vulnerable feeling invaded Wulfhild. She
felt detached from him simply because he was male. All male
conversation became alien, too hard-edged, and all male pri-
orities irrelevant. No doubt it was important that Sir Gos-
J4
A Man Without a Past 55
celin's new young destrier should be schooled properly, and

no doubt the red-faced Mauger's pursuit of the fair-haired
Swan was comical. And no doubt Alauger had made a great
fool of himself, carrying Swan's bucket of pig food to the sty
for her and falling over with it because he was ogUng her
instead of watching where he stepped. But the destrier was a
warhorse and a woman carrying a child, Wulfhild found, de-
sires to nurture and protect and is repelled by talk of battles.

As for Alauger, if Swan and
he had given up trying to maul
taken to carrying buckets for her, was a change to approve
it
of, not to laugh at. Wulfhild withdrew from the men and
their loud voices and hoarse laughter. As May wore to a close

and the days grew warm, she decided to ride to Withysham
Abbey and visit her sister Edgiva there. "Only walking pace,"
she said to Simon and Editha. "I'll come to no harm."
She and Edgiva were not close. Edgiva had been
brought up in Normandy and she and Wulfhild had only
known each other for four years. But they were friendly in a
mild way. AWilfhild had refused to take shelter in Withysham
Abbey when invasion threatened, yet it had remained in her
mind as a possible refuge if hard-pressed. It felt like a refuge
now% of a different kind. She would sit in the cool, white-
washed parlour with its beaten earth floor two steps below
the level of the grass outside, and make feminine conversa-
tion about herbs and embroidery and the little feuds and
absurdities of daily Hfe in the sisterhood. It was what she
needed.
Twô of Simon's men-at-arms came with her as escort.
When they reached the convent, among and its
its fields
clutch of cottages in a patch of land cleared from Andred
Forest, it was made clear that the escort was not welcome.
"Leave your men outside," said the gatewarden nun unsmil-
ingly. "There's a woman in the cottage by the spring who will
sell them ale if they can pay for it. They can't come in here."
Wulfhild raised her eyebrows, for in the past her escort

had alwâys been hospitably accommodated in the convent
guesthouse. But the nun's shut-dow^n expression would re-
^6 DEDICATIONS, 1068 A.D.
ceive no argument. She left her pony with the men, gave
them some ale money, and followed the nun to the parlour.
She waited an hour in the austere room, where a rood
was the only decoration and the small windows were shad-
owed by the rustling thatched eaves. This was strange.
Usually, if Edgiva could not come at once, a novice would
arrive with refreshments and a word of explanation. When
Edgiva at last appeared, W'ulfhild rose quickly to greet her,
intending to ask lightly what had caused the delay. Then she
saw was not alone.
that her sister
"I thought," said Edgiva in a clear cold voice in which
there was not the slightest trace of sisterly affection, "that
you wôuld like to see an old friend, Wulfhild."
It was Olive of Beechtrees, in the w^hite dress of a novice
and with face nearly as pale as the bleached Unen that
a
coiffed Wulfhild stood still, the words of greeting dying
it.
away unspoken. She knew at once that all conventional

phrases were now without meaning. Olive's pallor and Ed-
giva's stony eyes warned her of that.
"You must be wôndering," said Olive in a high voice,
"why I am here, in the habit of religion."
Wulfhild recovered herself. "You must have run away
from Sir Alain and come here for sanctuary. I expect . . .
you did the wisest thing."

Despite the tension they found themselves automatically
sitting down. "She came a week ago," said Edgiva. Her voice
grew a fraction warmer. "Are you on the same errand, by any
chancer Have you run away too?"
The refreshments arrived after all. Finding herself hun-
gry, Wulfhild took a cake. "No," she said. "I only came to see
you, Edgiva, on a visit. Lady Olive, I am so very sorry. Please
tell me what happened."
There was a silence. OHve glanced meaningfully at the

girl w^ho had brought in the cakes. She was a child, no more
than ten, one of the orphans to whom the convent gave a

home. They waited until the child had gone. Then Olive
said: "You can forget the lady. I'll never be that again." She
watched Wulfhild take another cake. "You seem famished,

^^'ulfhild. Did you not break your fast today? Or are you,"
said Olive accusingly, "with child?"
AWilfhild put the cake down. "Yes," she said, and knew it
for a wrong answer, a confession of guilt, and not simply

because it was an earthy and gross thing to be within such
celibate walls.
"I never had children," Olive said. "Not in five years with
my husband —my husband and then that
first Norman— . . .
beast kept asking if I'd quickened with him. And I hadn't and
he wanted to know why there were no children from before
and I said I didn't think I could have them and he was angry.
He made remarks about me in the hall, about barren cows
."
and being fit only for the slaughter. And then . . . and then . .
Her voice had risen and grown faster. Now it stopped

short and she pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. Edgiva
reached out and gently drew it down. There were teethmarks
on the back. "He I was useless to him," said Olive hys-
said
terically, was good for nothing except for one thing
"he said I
and ... he was drunk, they wêre all drunk ..."

"Hush now. Softly. It's all over," Edgiva crooned, patting
the bitten hand. She looked grimly at Wulfhild. "This hus-
band of hers this Norman ... in a fit of drink-induced
. . .
generosity, waived his rights as a husband and offered them

for a fee to anyone willing to buy. There were four buyers.
Then and there, on the floor of the hall, among the rushes and
the dogs. Hush, dear. Hush. You're safe here. No Norman will
ever cross this threshold, not if the king himself were to ask
for admittance. The abbess has promised. You can be glad
now you can't conceive. What if you had got a child from
that} Well, Wulfhild. You know it all now. What have you to
say, sitting there so pleased with yourself, with child by a
NonnanV
"She can have nothing to say for
herself. She's no better
than they now," said Olive viciously. She sprang up.
are,
Wûlfhild also came to her feet, thinking that Olive would
strike her. But Olive contented herself with a short and ugly
S8 DEDICATIONS, 1068 A.D.
and then with a swirl of white garments was gone.

epithet,
Wulfhild said shakily: "All Normans aren't like Sir Alain. My
husband isn't. That Olive should hate them all is natural. But
you spent years in Normandy, Edgiva. You know that men
vary there as they do anywhere. So why do you look at me
like that?"
''A Norman in Normandy's one thing. A Norman here in
England where he has no business to be, is quite another,"
retorted Edgiva. Her dark brows, the same heavy brows that
all Brand's daughters had inherited, were drawn low over her
eyes. "Here," she said, "they are invaders, foes, to be fought
or fled from. But not greeted kindly as husbands, as you've
chosen to do!"
occur to you that had I abandoned Fallow-
"It doesn't
dene, might be much harder than it is for the people in it;
life
that it could even have been sacked?"

"Oh, Fallowdene," said Edgiva contemptuously. "I was
with you the day you first saw it. I watched you. You stay
because you love the place, the hall, the fields, the valley. If
there were no people there at all, but only you, you would
still want to stay. You'd sell your soul for the chance. I can
see through you, Wulfhild."
"And I can see," said Wulfhild, "that I am no longer
welcome in Withysham."
All the way home, as she rode with her puzzled escort, who
hadn't expected to go back so soon, Wulfhild's mind went in
tired circles like an ox on a threshing floor. There was enough
truth in Edgiva's remarks to wound her. She did love Fallow-
dene. She had taken one comprehensive look at it when she
and her father first came to it, had seen it neglected and
dirty, and felt her heart go out to it. But, she said to herself,
as they rode out of Andred into the track through the smooth-
backed downs, whatever her secret motives, her choice had
protected the manor's people. She had struck a bargain with
William and it had paid. In any case, she thought, putting a
hand to her head where a headache had begun to pound, it
was done now. A child was coming. There was no going back.
She rode on through the trees towards the village, holding
onto that thought. She and her escort splashed across the ford
and rode out of the woods again, onto the track that led
through the cottages of Fallowdene, and straight into the
middle of an uproar.
"Oh no, what is it noivV Wulfhild said aloud, as she
kicked her pony into a hazardous trot, ignoring a surge of
pain over her left eye, and came up to the gesticulating
crowd in the centre of the village. It consisted of Norman and
English elements and the focus was a small knot of people
that included the fair-haired Swan, who was sobbing; the
man-at-arms Mauger, redder in the face than ever and scowl-
ing; and three small boys in the grasp of Alauger and Simon's
senior man-at-arms, a quiet and responsible individual called
Rollo. The small boys were, Wulfhild saw, the two young
sons of Ufi Lame-Leg, and Swan's younger brother. Young
Ulf. That Young Ulf was involved suggested at once that in
this argument the Normans, who seemed to be the injured
parties, might have a genuine complaint. Young Ulf was a
sullen and unfriendly child of whom everyone complained
regularly, including his own father, Ulf Potter.
Ulf Potter, along with his wife, Imme, and Ufi Lame-
Leg, were present as well and were shouting at Mauger.
Mauger was shouting back at them to be quiet but unfortu-
nately he was shouting in French and taisez-voiis was not a
phrase familiar to them. Wulfhild sighed. It was always hap-
pening. Once, drawn by a delicious smell, Simon had entered
the kitchen and found Dame Editha stirring a wonderful
broth. He said he hoped they would have it for supper and
made pouring motions to reinforce his meaning. Dame Editha,
nervous of the new Norman lord and anxious to please,
promptly took the pot outside and emptied it into the drain-
age ditch.
''Whafs going on?'' Wulfhild demanded at the top of her
voice in English and then again in French. Silence fell.
Simon appeared, shouldering through the crowed to reach

her. "I'm glad you're here. You're needed. The only person
who can speak both languages is you."
"But what's happened?"
"As far as I can make out from Mauger and RoUo . .
."
—with a gesture and a glare, Simon quelled a disposition on

the part of the crowd to enlighten Wulfhild in a chorus
". . . Mauger found these boys playing by the pigsty.
."
They were . .
A
gleam appeared briefly in Simon's eyes. For an instant
they shared once more the communion of minds they had
briefly know n on the night of their mead-enlivened wedding.
But it was gone as swiftly, leaving his face cold. "They were
pretending to be Mauger and this girl. Swan. They were mak-
ing fun of them."
"That bucket's much too heavy for you, let me carry it,"
said Rollo unexpectedly, in throaty and distorted EngUsh. He
couldn't keep the English imitation up and reverted to
French for the rest, but in an effeminate falsetto that kept the
effect pristine. "Mauger, don't do that no, you mustn't . . . . . .
oh, well, yes, you can carry the bucket. Like that," he said, in
his normal voice. Mauger glowered at him. There were stifled
sniggers from the crowd.

"The little one," said Simon, pointing at the smallest boy,
"was dancing round the others throwing pebbles at them.
Mauger understood enough to make out what it was all
about. He ordered them to behave. Then they began to dance
round him and to throw more stones. Bigger ones." AVulfhild
saw a cut on iMauger's nose and another on the back of one
hand. "That one ."
. . —
Simon pointed at Young Ulf ". was
— . .
the ringleader. Mauger chased them and caught up with

them here. By then, people were coming to see what all the
noise was. He was going to thrash the ringleader but the
mothers set about him."
"But they're only children," said Wulfhild. A pickaxe
was crashing through her skull at one-second intervals.
Simon said frostily, "You can tell them I have known men
who would have spitted them on a spear for this."
Suddenly it was all too much. Wulfhild closed her eyes

and gripped the saddle for support. She found Simon helping
her down. His hands were as firm and warm as if he had
never said that terrible phrase, in that casual tone as though
it did not matter. She took a deep breath. "Simon, this is all a
to-do over nothing."
"My men have been insulted," said Simon. "A lesson in
manners is required."
It was more than too much. It was far, far too much. The
searing scene at the abbey, the horror of that monstrous re-
mark about the spears—which seemed to justify everything
Edgiva and Olive had
said — came together
in Wulfhild like
spark and tinder. She rounded on Mauger and Simon alike.
"Stop making such a fuss over a children's game! Insults in-
deed! As if some childish naughtiness and a graze or two
were something for grown men to go to war about. In Nor-
mandy, do you run a spear through every little boy who
sticks his tongue out? How do any of you ever live to grow
up? But there are people it wouldn't surprise. I found Lady
Olive of Beechtrees at Withysham. She'd run away from Fitz-
Hubert. She was barren, so he threw her to his men to rape.
That's a complaint worth a little righteous indignation, not
this. As for Mauger and Swan, if they want to make such
fools of themselves, they'd better marry. I'm going to the hall.
I don't feel well." She pushed through the crowd, seeing it
with difficulty because of the sparks from the smithy in her

head. She reached her apartment, and a friendly basin, just
in time.
Simon followed her, with quick, angry steps, but

checked at the sight of the basin. "I'm better now," said
Wulfhild. She did not want sympathy or his child. She did
his
not care if she miscarried. "What did you do with the boys?"
"I let them go. I let their parents take them away." His
voice held pacific intent. "But," he said, "you must now make
them understand that if this is repeated I will personally beat
the offenders. I will not have urchins jeering at my men.
What is this about Lady Olive?"
Wulfhild repeated it. He sat down on a stool. "I'm sorry
you heard such a thing, in your present condition. I wish
you hadn't gone to the abbey."
"So do I. I shan't go again. I quarrelled with my sister."
His eyebrows, black as his hair must once have been,
rose. "Why?"
"Because I'm married to a Norman and carrying his
child."
They considered each other, wondering if the thin bridge
made of / let them go and / quarrelled with my sister could
bear the weight of reconciliation. Simon said: "There are men
who would run children through for such impertinence. I
didn't say I was one of them."

"No, but ." The trouble was, she knew so little about
. .
him. He might have been any kind of man. She couldn't tell.
"In Montgomery's household," he said, "one learns not to
be squeamish. One also learns to prepare children for the
world as it is. I'm not an Alain, Wulfhild, though we are in
the service of the same lord and I have to remember that and
so do you. By the way, I have told Mauger to marry that girl
Swan or let her alone. You are right about that."

"Good. You take it all so seriously," said Wulfhild. "But I
saw you almost laugh, once. Simon, you must have done
things like that yourself, when you were small."
He shrugged. "I don't know. I don't remember being
small.The point is ." . .
"You must remember something," said Wulfhild reason-

ably. "Where were you brought up? I've never asked you,
have I?"
"No." Simon addressed the wall beyond her. "Wulfhild,
when you told me you were having a child, I shed tears.
Didn't you wonder why?"
"Yes, I did. I was amazed. But ." . .
"You have a right to know this. It's time I told you.

When the child is born, there will be someone in the world
who shares my blood. When I say I can't remember my child-
hood, I mean exactly that. My earliest memory is of sitting by
2. roadside in Domfront, holding the reins of a tired-looking

horse, and realising that I didn't know who
I was or where I
was going or where I'd come from. went on along that road
I
and asked for directions to an abbey where I could lodge. I

was told that St. Peter's lay along one road and St. Simon's
along another. I chose St. Simon's. The abbot took me in.
From that abbey I take my name. Simon. Simon Inconnu.

Simon the Unknown. By the estimate of Abbot Richard of St.
Simon's, I was about seventeen when I arrived. My life before
that, Wulfhild, is a blank."
7 ^ Jhe Spurious "Merchants
Matilda of Normandy's bower in Rouen Palace had a

forlorn, dismantled air. The hangings were gone from the
walls and the rushes from the floor, and the personal belong-
ings of Duchess Matilda and her ladies were nearly all down
on the ship. Aude, who had run back to fetch a forgotten
mantle, wished very much that she too were down on the
ship. She had been cornered by Aiabel Talvas.
Aude was the daughter of a castellan and had been in
two sieges before she was twelve. On the second occasion,
the assailants had actually got into the castle before help
arrived, and then Aude had learnt that her little belt knife
had other uses besides cutting up her food at dinner. But in
spite of that, she had a natural shrinking from such creatures
as spiders and poisonous snakes, and Mabel Talvas undoubt-
edly came into that category.
She was talking now, in that clackety voice of hers, and
one could not back away or do anything at all but look pleas-
ant, because Mabel was married to Roger of Montgomery,
the most important man in the land except for William.
Thank the saints, thought Aude, that Mabel wasn't coming to
England.
". . . so brave of the dear duchess to travel in her condi-
tion. It's the sixth month, after all, and though I know the
duchess has perfect health, one does wonder what would
happen if there were a storm. What lucky girls you and
Judith are, though, to be going with her. Were your parents
pleased that you were chosen?"
64
The Spurious Merchants 65
"Yes, Lady iVIabel. Very pleased. I went home to

Quevilly for a week to say goodbye."
"Oh, yes. Your father is castellan there now." Mabel
could never mention anyone else's holdings without a certain
hungry yearning in her round eyes with that disconcerting
ring of yellow amid the blue. Aude thanked God that her
family had no link with the luckless Giroyes, with whom
Mabel's father had started a ferocious feud, and whose lands
Mabel was steadily annexing as their occupants one after an-
other died off, mostly with her assistance.
"You'll have a good dowry, no doubt," Mabel was saying.
"Perhaps the duchess has her eye on a pretty English thane
for you...?"
"Well, no. I have elder sisters and no dowry to speak of,
I'm afraid . .
."
"... I expect you hope she has. iVfter all, you have the
example of Judith in front of you. Does it make you envious?

Of course, I know that nothing has been settled yet . . . oh,
Judith, Judith, my dear. We were just talking about you.
You will seeyour fine Earl Waltheof when you get to En-
gland, won't you?"
Judith, who had come Aude, came slowly
in search of
into the room. Her face had stiffened at the mention of
Waltheof. He had not impressed her. She had not liked his
too-full lips and his too-shallow eyesockets, and he had
patronised her interest in reading. "What a serious book for a
little lady," he had said heavy-handedly, finding her en-
grossed in an account of how to cast church bells, which a

monk of St. Stephen's in Caen had written. "Do you think
you'll ever have to manufacture a bell, sweetheart?" Even at
sixteen, Judith had know^n that there wâs no point in trying to
explain to this man the pleasures of abstract knowledge. Even
at sixteen, she knew^ an incompatible personality when she saw
one. But if Uncle William decided that he wished to link the

new royalty of England to the old aristocracy by marrying
her to Waltheof, neither she nor Wâltheof wôuld have any
say in the matter. She preferred, for the moment, not to think
about it.
"Lady Mabel, do excuse me, but I came to fetch Aude.

The captain says we are nearly ready to sail."
"Oh, my dear. Then
won't keep you. I must be off and
I
see to my own travelling arrangements back to Bures." She

waddled away, short, stumpy, and odious, humming a tune.
As if her departure had somehow left more room for other
people, the door at the far end of the chamber opened, and
Duchess Matilda came in with Judith's mother, Adelaide.
A4atilda was under five feet tall and in pregnancy was a
cosy sphere topped by an exquisite small head. Beside her,
the stately Adelaide resembled a warship alongside a coracle.
Matilda said briskly: "Aude and Judith, go down to the ship
at once." She glanced impatiently over her shoulder, and a
page, moving at a brisk trot, came through the door behind
her. "Hugh, where in the world have you been? I told you to
see that nothing had been left behind and there are two
hampers in this room still. What have you been doing?"
"I'm sorry, madam." Hugh stood aside as Aude and
Judith passed him on their way out. He was breathless and
grimy, despite his elegant white and yellow livery. "I was
piling boxes on the landing stage and well ." . . . . .
"Well what?" demanded Matilda. "Speak up, boy."

"Lady Mabel called me to do an errand for her," said
Hugh nervously. "I was as quick as I could, madam."
"Lady Mabel Talvas?" Adelaide queried. "But what was
the errand? That's earth on the front of you."
"Yes, madam. She wânted me to bury a dog."
"Bury what dog? Whose?"
. . .
"A greyhound, madam. One of hers. She said it died

last night."
"Oh." Adelaide moved her well-fleshed shoulders and
caught her sister-in-law's eye. "See to the hampers, then. Nat-
urally Lady Mabel can use your services if she likes but ." . .
The boy turned scarlet, as if all the blood in his young

frame had rushed to the surface. He moved away, scooped up

the two hampers, and departed hurriedly. The x.\\o women
exchanged a long communion of eyes.
"Really!" said Adelaide. "He's only fourteen. Fm quite
aware, Matilda, that no one can control Mabel though she is
corrupt beyond belief. But I suppose we could try to make

her activities a Httle more difficult for her. Incidentally, I
wonder what killed that dog."

"Belladonna, I imagine," said Matilda. "She was talking
about it the other day. She remarked that the plant was
poisonous in all its parts and all the year round. She said
small quantities could be used to make an eye-brightener."
"Eye-brightener, indeed! I suppose she tested its poison-
ous powers on her unfortunate greyhound and found they
worked. A\'ho's the intended human victim, I Vv'onder? Is W'\\-
liam really so helpless?"
"It's not worth his while to offend Montgomery," said
xMatilda. "And besides, feuds are . . . feuds. \s long as she
stays within that framework, no one else is likely to be hurt."
"What about Hugh?"
"He's a Saugei. They're Giroye tenants, I believe." Ma-
tilda was indifferent. "All these boys get seduced in the end,
you know that. Why take it so seriously?"
Adelaide snorted, scrutinising her sister-in-law's small
face, shaped and textured like the heartsease flower. xMatilda
was an enigma. "How can even ^Montgomery put up with
her? I'd feel chilly down the spine, eating things prepared in
the fair ^Mabel's kitchens. She even poisoned his brother, if I
remember rightly!
"That was a mistake," said Matilda calmly.
"Indeed? Well, it strikes me as a mistake that needs ex-
plaining. How did she explain herself to Roger, for God's
sake? W^hat would one say} 'Darling, I'm so sorry, I've been
such a silly girl. You know I was putting arsenic in so-and-so's
wine for w^hen he came in from hunting? A\êll ... oh dear . . .
I always did have a head like a sieve, but I completely forgot

towarn your brother Gilbert about it and he came in first and

drank it before I could stop him and we're burying him to-
morrow and oh, darhng, you look quite upset, do have

. . .
some wine! Like that?

'
"Nothing of the kind," said Matilda, unmoved. "She just

informed her husband that his brother had fallen ill and died
despite all their efforts to save him. Roger thanked her for
fetching a physician promptly, and ordered Masses for Gil-
bert's soul. Poison wasn't mentioned. Roger hadn't much affec-
tion for his brother, anyway. What he does have an affection
for is wealth. Mabel's land and treasure have made him a
very powerful man. And she's given him a fine healthy fam-
ily, too."
"I notice that he now^ stays in England while Mabel stays
in Normandy."
"Oh, well." Matilda smiled. "They've got their family
now. I don't suppose he ever liked her. But Adelaide, you
don't understand Mabel. Or feuds. Feuding's something that's

in your blood, that you can't help. I know. I've had feuds of
my own. Come to that, I still have."
It was not hard for a wêll-dressed merchant, equipped with

samples of first-class silks and velvets, to gain admission to
the castle William was now constructing inLondon and using
as his base as his wife's coronation drew The place was
near.
thronged already with suppliers of every commodity hkely to
be needed either for a state occasion or the building of a
castle. iMasons, and confectioners
seamstresses, carpenters,
went in and out constantly. The dignified Flemish-born
merchant with the red beard and costly fur-trimmed cloak
found it quite simple to come face to face with Edgar Athel-
ing and Edwin of iMercia.
They were in the hall, an excellent place for a subversive
interview. Tables and benches were being carried
to and fro
and hangings were being
in readiness for a feast that evening,
tacked into place with much loud shouting of orders and
shifting of ladders. Hereward pulled mantles out of his pack,
while one of his more reliable-looking followers stood by un-

doing more bundles. He studied his two noble customers.
A man could be beautiful and had
still be tough. He
hoped to find that combination in these two. But they were
not an encouraging sight. It wâs true that Edgar, the pivot
of their hopes because he belonged to the house of King Ed-
ward, was only sixteen, and had spent most of his life in the
company of a saintly mother and two devout, depressing sis-
ters. Hereward had caught a glimpse of the Atheling's women-
folk, and if ever he had seen three women with a natural bent
towards a young man should
nunnery, there they were. No
spend much time among women, anyway. In Here ward's
opinion, women were trivial creatures, unable to endure the
brutal realities ofand such attitudes could be contagious.
life,
Exposed to more masculine influences, Edgar might alter a

good deal.
But it was still hard to believe that a warrior and a king
could be imprisoned behind that immature mouth, that bulg-
ing Adam's apple, and the over-glossy flaxen hair.Hereward
doubted Lady Agatha was entirely responsible for her son's
if
shortcomings. As for Earl Edwin, he was older and already

formed. He was a neatly built young man with small but
powerful hands and he did not look such a weakling as
Edgar. But he was too well groomed and too profusely jew-
Vain as a cockpigeon, thought Hereward disgustedly.
elled.
He wondered what Earl Morcar and Earl Waltheof wêre like.

They were not in the castle at the moment. He had only these
two work with.
to
"The duchess's crowning is a great occasion," he said
unctuously. "You young gentlemen will want to cut a dash at
the ceremony. I hear the king has magnificent tastes himself,
though no doubt he has his own suppliers. A great man. You
must admire him immensely."
There was no response to this ploy. They fingered velvet
pile, grunting abstractedly in answer to him. He said: "There
are rumours of betrothals soon, I hear. Earl Wâltheof and . . .
you too, my lord Edwin? You will need some fine new gar-
ments for those occasions, too." His tone was fulsomely coy.
Then he had it, the thing he was watching for, the
Atheling's quick sidelong glance to see how Edwin took it,
and the tightened muscles round Edwin's mouth. In a chilly
voice, Edwin said, "Rumour outruns fact, as usual."
"I else for you besides mantles and

have something
Hereward. He changed the pitch of his voice, so
fabrics," said
that they turned to him at once. "I have news, if you want to
hear it," he said, speaking \o\\\ "You will not want to hear it if
you are committed, body and soul, to King William. If you
are, say so and I w411 go. I have put myself in your danger,
saying as much."
They stared at him. Edwin and turned it
lifted a cloak
about. "No one was ever the worse for news. Accurate news,
that is."
"There are places in England," said Hereward, "where
men are gathering who wish to see you, my lord Atheling,
as king in AMUiam's stead."
"I thought," said Edgar, taking his cue from Edwin, and
studying the merchandise, "that Sven of Denmark had been
invited to contend for my crown. Since King Harold's surviv-
ing family doesn't appear competent to bid. I'm very much a
last choice it seems."
"There has been a change in the wind since you returned
to England." Hereward infused urgency into his voice. "The
mood favours you now\"
Edgar eyed him sardonically. Immature he might be, but
he was not quite a fool. "So I stroll up to William's seat at
the head of the feast tonight and push him off it, and sit down
there instead? Can you advise me. Master Whoever-you-are?
"You'd be wiser," said Hereward blandly, "to make your
declaration from a safer base. King Alalcolm of Scotland's
court, for example. It could be to his advantage to have a
man on the English throne whom he'd helped to put there.
He was placed on his own by King Edward."
"You're a bold man." Edwin regarded him curiously.
"How is Edgar supposed to get to Scotland?"
"There are ships in most ports, which will take pas-

sengers for payment. I can arrange that such a vessel is easy
to find."
"I see." Edwin was cool. "A Scottish king who viay be
friendly. Men who may be willing to rise for Edgar. Have
you approached Earl Waltheof yet? He'd be a nuisance if he
backed William. One of these resistance centres is in the
Fens, isn't it? That's his territory. We all have much to lose.
My betrothal and Earl Wâltheof's, for instance. They will
come about in time. Is it worth hazarding all this on the slight
chance of unseating AAîlliam through rebellion?"
Hereward smiled and stepped out of ambush. "If those
promises of marriage are honoured, you are right. It isn't
worth it. But will they be honoured? Will you ever be more
than figurehead earls of your territories?" He began to put
away unsold goods. "My advice you and Earl Waltheof,"
to
said Hereward, "is to ask for your brides now. And choose
what you do and what you advise my lord Edgar to do, ac-
cording to the answers you get."
8 ^ Culmination of a 7eud
"If your resources are over-stretched," said King William

with uncharacteristic generosity to his half-brother, Robert of
Mortain, "apply to me. The new castles in the west must be
built and the area controlled. The increase in taxes should
help offset the expense, of course." Long ago in Normandy,
William had learnt that the best way to keep a realm solvent
was to use other men's money. He honoured his barons with
the charge of his castles, and then padlocked his treasury
while they paid for the building, upkeep, and manning of the
said castles. He empowered them to collect taxes, on commis-
sion, and if that failed to solve their problem, he watched
blandly while they went short. Robert tried to hide his sur-
prise and did not quite succeed.
"We shall need to go north before long, unless I am
much mistaken," said WiUiam. "Those we leave behind us in
the south must guard our backs. That means fortresses in key
places, more than we have at present. The west we have now
discussed. In Sussex . .
."
"I have listed suitable sites in my territory," said Roger

of Montgomery. must say, my lord, that I regret that the
"I
Earls Edwin and Morcar have chosen this precise time to
leave for their earldoms, and that Earl Waltheof should have
been allowed to go with them. On the excuse of a hunting
expedition, I believe. Considering the rumours from Mercia
and the eastern Danelaw, it looks suspicious."
"We had refused to proceed with the betrothals of Earls
Edwin and Waltheof," said William. "A decision that you
yourself urged on us, if you remember, Roger. Their wish to
12
Cuhnination of a Fend 75
withdraw for a while was natural. If they can't be trusted, we

shall soon know it. To return," said the king, "to the matter of
the castle sites in your and my brother's Sussex territories . .
."
A clerk rose and began reading out a list. William re-
laxed his powerful body in his chair. With half his mind he
attended to the clerk. AMth the other half he considered, ob-
jectively, his council.
There wtvt Englishmen among them. It remained to be
seen how well they would run in the same yoke with his
Normans. The three English earls were a loss and their de-
parture was a bad sign; that wâs true. Edgar Atheling was
here but he wâs negligible as yet; still at the listen-and-learn
stage.There were three English thanes, all somewhat tight-

mouthed under the new regime. He regretted that there were
so few. In particular he regretted that Brand of Fallowdene,
who had once been a knight of his, had chosen instead to be
an outlaw. There should have been a fourth thane present
today, but Brihtric's chair was empty. William's gaze rested
on it thoughtfully. Brihtric's page had presented his master's
apologies; the thane was ill, he said. It was to be hoped that
this was not a diplomatic illness. Brihtric, of all the English-
men, was the most at home in William's councils because of
his travelled background. A pity Matilda hated him. Think-
ing of Alatilda, he glanced towards the courtyard. Across

there, in her quarters, the queen was showing off their new
son, their ninth child, to the thanes' wives. A fine boy, httle
Henry, but it had been a bad labour. He
had lit many candles
for Matilda's safe delivery, waiting through that long night.
^Montgomery interrupted the clerk, annoyed by a mis-
reading. The annoyance showed in his voice but not his face,
which remained wooden. It would be interesting to know if
Roger had ever lit candles for Mabel Talvas when she was in
childbed.
As a young unmarried man, Roger had been different;
talkative, animated. He had a vast scientific curiosity, a
hereditary trait in his family who in the midst of largely
ilUterate peers could read and write not only in their native
tongue but Roger could discourse for hours

also in Latin.
together of stars and alchemy, architecture, weaponry, and
the currents of the sea. But he had taken Mabel Talvas to
wife, untroubled by the violent history of her clan, concerned
only with her magnificent dowry and broad pelvis. It was
after that marriage into the eye of the Talvas-Giroye feud
that Roger's face had smoothed out into that curious blank-
ness, as if the man behind it had sealed off all his natural
responses. The process accelerated after the accidental

poisoning of Roger's brother.
One could see what had happened. Roger had taken
Mabel's wealth and through her had become the father of a
vigorous, intelligent family. His eldest son Robert, though
physically like Mabel,was said to have inherited all his fa-
Roger had a debt to his wife. He had ceased
ther's intellect.
to live with her but he would not betray her either, and
William knew that the loyalty that made him safeguard
Mabel also made him a thoroughly dependable henchman.
Provided, of course, that Mabel remained unmolested, de-
spite her sins.
There was a tap at the council chamber door and the
guards once more admitted Brihtric's page. He came, half-
running, up the hall towards them. William signed to the
clerk to stop. "What is it? Is your master worse?"
"Oh, my lord! The Lady Agatha said I must come and
."
tell you, she said I must come at once . .
"Tell me what?"
"My lord," said the page, and suddenly, uncontrollably,
sobbed. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose. "My
lord, Thane Brihtric is dead."
In Queen Matilda's apartment, her ladies sat with their eyes

on their stitchery and quaked. They were used to stormy
passages between William and his lady; theirs was a relation-
ship founded in violence and most of their savage confronta-
tionswere the prelude to lovemaking. But the ugly sounds
from Matilda's chamber this time had nothing to do with
Culmination of a Feud 75
sexual stimulation. William had arrived in the bower accom-
panied by the crash of a door flung back and the rip of a
tapestry caught on its corner. He
had seized Matilda roughly
by the arm, dragged her without explanation through the door
of their private chamber, and kicked it shut behind him. From
the sound of now, he was systematically kilHng her.
it
sobbing and clawing at the rushes.

Inside, Matilda lay
William flung away the heavy belt he had been using and
stood with his forehead against the window shutter, breath-
ing hard. From the floor, Matilda's whimpers gradually re-
gained coherence. "It isn't true, I tell you. I didn't do any-
"
thing to him. Brihtric died on his oivnl
"Brihtric died of belladonna poisoning, you lying bitch,"
saidWilliam to the shutter. "Like xMabel Talvas's last victim.
Some poor tenant of the Giroye estate he was, unlucky
enough to have a few fields she coveted. A man called Pantol.
No, you've never heard of him before and you don't want to
hear of him now but you're going to. His brother made the
journey here to me of the murder, to tell me what Mabel
tell
had done, and to beg me for justice. Which now, because of

you, I cannot give him. The man had the same symptoms as
Thane Brihtric and they were those of belladonna, with
which — it's common knowledge now Mabel has been ex- —
perimenting. What did you two ladies do? Exchange recipes?
Brihtric died when he ate a dish presented to him, and him
alone, by you, you gave and you had the previous
at a feast —
day sent a page to gather the nightshade berries for you. You
told some tale that a dose of nightshade could brighten the
."
eyes . .
"It does!"
"... having destroyed Brihtric, you then appropriated
."
his lands . .
"They reverted to me! They're within territory you've

made over to me ." . .
"He has heirs, whom you have dispossessed. Don't tell me

Brihtric died of a colic, my pretty Maid. I don't believe you."
Matilda sat up stiflly, whimpering again as she moved.
Her small pointed face was blotchy and her clothes were
covered with clinging bits of rush fibre. "I don't understand.
Why can't you give this man Pantol justice?"
He swung round, so quickly that Matilda shrank back
with a gasp of fright. "I mean, my sweet Maid, that I was
beginning to hope I might, just might, soon pass a law in
Normandy to prohibitMabel Talvas's kind of feud. I was
even beginning to hope that I could risk summoning her to
answer Pantol's charge. If Earl Roger had taken up arms
against me —
well, maybe now I have strength enough to put
him down. That hope is gone. If I bring Mabel to book, the
Montgomery clan will simply accuse you of murdering
Brihtric. Brihtric's kin, laying a formal complaint with Mont-
gomery's backing, would be a formidable combination. It's
unfortunate for you that you already have a reputation.
There was the Count of Maine and his wife, as I recall. Mak-
ing nuisances of themselves to me and of course you were
acting in my best interests when you had them poisoned . . .
but you can hardly claim a stainless character. See how I

protect you, my dear. Even though you have put back the
rule of law in Normandy by at least ten years."
He made for the door. Alatilda backed away as he passed
her. He stopped. To his own annoyance, the sight of her pale
face twisted with pain moved a tenderness in him, and then
excitement. His penis stirred. He lifted the doorlatch quickly.
"You can keep his lands," he said. "Half the court thinks I
connived at his death already. Better they think that, than

think I can't control my own household. But take care in the
future. Maid. Take great care."
"They've all gone, then? Edgar too? Well, Thunor strike me

dead with a thunderbolt!" Hereward arm round
flung a long
the nearest man, who chanced to be Brand, and danced him
the length of the longhouse to where the wine barrels stood.
He shouted for them come, and pulled the bung of
all to
the handiest barrel himself. The messenger who had brought
—
the news it was Dunstan Tooth-Drawer again was given the —
Ciilvnnation of a Feud 77
first beaker. "W^hat made Edgar go?" Hereward demanded.

"\\> all reckoned he meant to hedge his bets and keep in with
William, while standing ready to be overtaken by modest,
innocent surprise if there were a rising in his name. What
made him change his mind?"
"Queen Matilda," said Dunstan.
"Queen Alatil dear God, how?"
. . .
Dunstan took a long, enjoyable swallow of his wine.

He was not so afraid now of being the centre of attention.
"It seems," he said, "that long ago when she was a girl in
her father's house, she fell in love with an English ambassa-

dor named Brihtric. Thane Brihtric some of you might
. . .
know him. He rejected her. She went and poisoned him, two
weeks back."
They all gaped. "\\ ell, the little . .
." Hereward let out a
roar of laughter. "Wômen!
must be all that embroidery
It
they have to do. They get so bored they have to invent dia-
bolical revenges for ancient wrongs, just to make their lives
more interesting. But where does Edgar come into it?"
"The x\theling's mother is a very saintly woman," said
Dunstan. "So are his sisters. Seems they were horrified. They
made him go. \\'ent with him. Took passage on a ship bound
for Scotland, apparently. But that's not all my news." A hint
of his old, worried look reappeared. "There's something more.
Oh, not about the Atheling. But I was in and out, about the
court, seeing to teeth, picking up what I could. I heard this
and that. I heard summat about a place called Fallowdene."
Brand, in the act of raising his beaker to drink, lowered
it. His stomach contracted. He saw Hereward's russet gaze
turn to him. "\^'hat did you hear?" he asked.
"That been given over to a Norman." Dunstan
it's
avoided Brand's eye. "Don't know his name. But he's married
the lady there. They say she's your daughter, TTiane Brand.
So I hear, she wrote to King William and offered to marry
any man he made lord of Fallowdene, so she could stay there.
Sorry. But that's what I heard."
Among the sharply indrawn breaths, Hywel ap Olwen
IS DEDICATIONS, 1068 A.D.
Spoke. "And what does Brand here mean to do about it? Will
you burn your hall now, Brand bach?"
Brand set down his beaker with a bang. "You, Hywel,
are here for money and you make no secret of it. You're a
hired sword. So keep quiet."
There was a silence. Then Lame Odi, sitting with his
shrivelled leg stretched out in front of him, and his voice full
of the bitterness that had possessed him since the day he
learnt the truth about his disability, said: "But Hywel has an
argument. Seems to me."
'^NoT said Brand vehemently. He drained his beaker and
flung it on the floor, and strode out of the longhouse.
Hereward said: "Brand is older than any of us, and a free
man. It is for him to say what should or should not be done in
this affair. Not for you, Hywel."
9 ^ Warning in the CNorth
Rumour ran like quicksilver that autumn, travelling its

accustomed routes by waterway barge, itinerant pedlar and
wandering bard, merchant on business or soldier on the
march; but in far greater quantity than usual.
It spoke of trouble in Mercia, of the springing into prom-
inence of an outlaw leader there, called Wild Edric because
of his long and unbound and his wild boar recklessness.
hair
He had started a rising and had spread to Northumbria.
it
The latest increase in the taxes, burdensome to everyone, had

acted on the naturally combustible northern temperament
like lightning on an obtrusive pine tree, and assisted him.
Earls Edwin and Morcar were in it, report said, calling

out their thanes to back the rebels. Earl Waltheof had sent to
Huntingdonshire for reinforcements from his own men, and
was in it too. And the Atheling himself was at the court of
King Malcolm in Scotland and Malcolm was about to invade
across the Northumbrian border.
King Malcolm, apparently, had fallen in love with one of
Edgar's sisters and this was Edgar's condition for the wed-
ding. The girl herself was said to have a religious vocation

but no one expected either Malcolm or Edgar to worry about
that. On the heels of that information came the predictable
news that WilHam had gone north.

He had thundered up the spine of England, founding
castles as he went and leaving them behind him like a string
of knobbly vertebrae. Most were hasty affairs of ditch and
palisade and wooden fort, but he left them well garrisoned,
and before he was far out of sight, the commanders were
79
rounding up local labour to quarry stone and build more
permanent edifices. The south waited silently for further
news, and the Norman leaders left to guard it grew tense,
banned pubhc gatherings, and instituted curfews in the towns.
Aiore news slowly filtered through. The rebels had lost
heart. Wild Edric and his band had faded westward into the
Welsh hills. An embassy from WiUiam, led by shrewd and
dignified ecclesiastics, had waited on Malcolm and talked
him out of invading. Earls Edwin and Morcar were variously
reported dead, fled, imprisoned in the dungeons of the Lon-
— —
don fortress, and finally reliably in Scotland along with
Malcolm and the Atheling. The embassy had not talked Mal-
colm out of all his sympathies with the rebels. He was still
in love.
The autumn wore on. The woods of Fallowdene turned
to flame and copper and mellow gold, the exact shade of the
fallow deer's hide that had given the valley its name. Then in
November came gales that stripped the leaves from the
branches and brought rain sweeping in from the west. The
downpour brought the next batch of news by taking a party
of merchants out of their way to find shelter.
"Near civil war there's been," they said, sitting by the
hearth, watching their boots steam, and putting chilled hands
gratefully round tankards of warmed mead. "One man after
another's been in power in the north, since Edwin-and-Morcar
ran for shelter. Anyhow, the last to take over in Northumbria
— —
Gospatric, that's his name was more official than some.
He had the king's mandate. But was he grateful? Not he. Puts
his hands between the king's and waits for William to turn
his horse's head for the south, then declares for the Atheling,
if you please, and calls for volunteers. Just as everyone
thought the Atheling business was dead and done with. A4en
are flocking to him from everywhere, they say, even as far
away as the fenlands. And the Atheling's still in Scotland
dangling that sweet, pious sister of his in front of Malcolm's
nose like a carrot in front of some old donkey. If we don't see
a Scots force south of the frontier before long, we'll see pigs
Warning in the North SI
with wings instead. On top of that, there's talk of the Danes

slatting interested too. VouVe lucky to be here and out of
kail.''
Simon caught \\ûlfhild's eye. "I wonder," he said, "how

long I'll be out of it all. Not much longer, I fancy."
"I heard you," said Simon, striding angrily into the hall after
AWilfhild, "wrangling just now with that wretched smithy
lad, Arnulf. What's more, I understood most of it. It's not just
the incompetence of youth, I gather; he's been putting short
nails into my horse's shoes deliberately. Did it never occur to
you to come to me with that? You take too much on yourself!
I can't deal with this, thought Wulf hild exhaustedly.
There was enough as it was. The increasing heaviness of
pregnancy; the cold and wet of the December weather; the
endless work of the manor, so much of which was unfamiliar
to Simon and devolved upon herself as a result. Salting down
meat for the winter, preparing hides for use or sale, arranging
for the building repairs that always followed the autumn
gales, all the relentless work of keeping the household dry
and clad and fed. She sat wearily down on a settle. The hall
was warm. The fire was built up and the wooden walls were
double, with an insulating layer of brushwood between them.
But the hall was and pervaded with smoke. It
also stuffy
made her head feel as though it were stuffed with chaff.
x\nd last night, Simon had had one of his nightmares.
He was, apparently, prone to them. He would wake with
a cry and be reluctant to sleep again. Often he kept her
awake for a long time, talking. The first time it had hap-
pened, the night after his admission that he had no memory
of his boyhood, good had come out of that small-hours con-
versation. In the course ofit, he had told her that after join-
ing Montgomery's household and making a few friends

among the other young men, he had gone with them for a
night's carousal in Rouen and proved to himself and the girl
he went with, positively and hilariously, that he had had no
previous experience of lovemaking. "So I knew I was not
married. You have no unknown

on the other side of the
rival
Channel," he had told Wulfhild. She had been relieved to
hear it, to know that the child she carried was Simon In-
connu's lawful progeny. But since then there had been many
nights similarly disturbed, which brought no benefit, only
exhaustion. Last night had been one such.
She said: "I'm sorry. But you don't understand English
."
and I thought . .
"Didn't you hear me say I understood most of it? I'm

learning, and what I can't follow can be translated to me. I
am able, and would prefer, to make Arnulf's duties clear to
him myself. You ahvays seem to think you must protect your
people from me. When have they ever needed that protec-
tion? I sometimes feel that the sooner Earl Roger sends for
me to go back on duty, the better. This manor was given to
me, but who is lord here? At least when I ride with Earl
Roger, I know I shall be allowed to carry out my duties. I
might even," said Simon with a sarcasm that was now un-
pleasantly obvious, "get opportunities with him to win some
new rewârds. W^hat if one day I tell you we're leaving Fal-
lowdene for some better demesne? What will you say to that?"
"Leave Fallowdene?" said Wulfhild stupidly.
Within her, the child kicked as if in outrage and she put
a hand over her abdomen. She felt the valley round her as
though it were part of her, every leaf and green blade in it,
every bird and beast, every tree and hearthfire and human
soul. Each year her roots sank deeper into it. "Why not?" said
Simon, wâtching her. "It isn't my home. I haven't got one."
She opened her mouth to cry out: "No, but it's mine!"
and then, from his mind to hers, palpable as the heat blowing
from the fire, came the sense of his appalling loneliness.
He had been cast on the world at seventeen without
even a remembered home or kinsman's face for refuge. With
nothing but some skills in arms that his body remembered,
though his mind did not, and that showed w^hen the abbot
who befriended him tried him out with sword and bow\
She too had known loneliness. She too had been without
Warning in the North S3
kin, from the age of five, when her mother died, until she was
nearly twenty, when she found her father. But she had had
the memory of her mother's face and of the round thralls'
hut where they had lived; she knew her origins.
The only indications Simon had of his origins were in
those shapeless entities of evil that haunted his dreams. In

Fallowdene he had sought a home and she herself had cut
the links he tried to forge with it. With a colossal effort and a
voice that she knew rang as false as a cracked church bell,
she said: "I am your wife. Naturally I come wuth you wher-
ever you go." Simon's face blurred and she felt pain go
through her belly like a knife-slash. The sweat beads sprang
out on her forehead. In a whisper she said: "Simon. Find
Dame Editha. Quickly."
"A son," said Dame Editha proudly. "A little small, being
early, but nothing wrong with him. And a good easy labour.
It's cheered that Swan up, to see it." Swan, now Mauger's
wife, was in the early stages of pregnancy herself, and terri-
fied of it. Editha deposited the swaddled bundle in its father's

arms, and Simon stared at the baby as if he had never seen
one before. "Your wife is well," said Dame Editha. "Do you
want to see her?"
"PoiirquoiF Oh, yes." He changed to a slow, nasal English.
"I want to see her, yes."
W'ulfhild was sitting up, drinking a posset of hot wine
and herbs. He set the bundle down beside her. Awkwardly,
he said: "He is to be called Richard. After the abbot of St.
Simon's who was the nearest thing I can remember to a fa-
ther." He added: "You are all right?"
"Yes, I am. Quite all right. Richard is a good name.
You're pleased with him?"
"iMore than that," he said. He could not stop looking at
the bundle.
Wulfhild studied him. During her labour, between the
contractions and Editha's exhortations to push and breathe
deeply and bawl if she wanted to, she had been aware of
noises from outside the apartment. Hoofbeats. Men's voices.

At one point Earl Roger's name had been shouted. "Did any-
one arrive today?" she asked suddenly.
"So you heard?" Simon examined the baby's sleeping
countenance curiously. "The summons has come. I must
leave soon to join Earl Roger. First to inspect the new Sussex
castle, and then perhaps to go north. A new earl has gone to
—
take charge in Northumbria a man called Robert of
Comines. If he meets trouble reinforcements may have to
follow him."
"I wish you luck and a safe return," said Wulfhild. She
saw, and was moved by, a trace of surprise in his face. Prob-
ably few people had wished the individual Simon luck be-
fore. He had been a piece of a war machine, no more. "I
shall take good care of Richard," she said. "Your one blood
relation."
Simon said: "Thank you." He paused. Then he added,
a little stiffly, "And take care of our home, too."
The January night was frosty and and the cold wind
starlit
had a bitter edge at Durham, where Gospatric's rebels had

burst into the city to challenge Robert of Comines. Gos-
patric's army was something to reckon with now. It had Earl
Waltheof among its chief leaders, and the Atheling, Edgar,
was expected at any moment with a Scottish force. Hereward
and his band, travelling north from the Fens, had fused with
the army under Waltheof 's banner. Now, in front of Durham
fortress, with firelight from burning houses to help them see
what they were doing, Hereward commanded a squad de-
tailed to set the fort ablaze.
The wooden keep, in this strong wind, was a vulnerable
target.Lame Odi was preparing the incendiary arrows and
archers under Hywel were shooting them across the ditch.
The twins Thurnoth and Thurman were dancing like lu-
natics by waving torches that gave off sparks and
a bonfire,
streamers of ragged flame. Hereward stood near them, hands
on hips, to watch. Brand of Fallowdene was beside him. And
"
Warning in the North S5
beyond the outer defences of the fort, the fire grew and leapt,
scarlet and searing, into the black sky, as if Hell were open-
ing- its furnaces to let its demons out.
The red light on Hereward's face and on his already
ember-coloured hair made him appear diabolical, as if he
were himself made out of fire. "Every man in the north will
turn out now with a weapon to join us. Only let the news of
this spread!" he shouted to Brand, above the roaring of the
flames and the other, more terrible sounds that were savaging
the stars from within the blazing fort. "We'll make a fyrd that
can stand even against the Bastard! It's beginning!
Odi, steadily kindling arrows, heard him and nodded,
sourly pleased. "For them in there, it's the end!" he shouted
back, and laughed.
The newly created Earl of Northumbria, Robert of
Comines, and all his men were inside the fortress of Durham,
trapped.
JhrL
II
R€V€L71T10NS
1069-1070 A.D.
1 ^ Jhe Rising Qale
The inspection of the Sussex castles was over and Simon

Inconnu was at Winchester with Earl Roger when, Vesuvius-
like, the north exploded.
It was Roger the son of Wîlliam FitzOsbern who
brought the news from York, where he had been in the castle
garrison. He escaped by night from a seething city, grabbed a
horse from the stable at the main gate, and thereafter was
passed like a firebucket down the length of England from one
to another of the hastily constructed fortresses. He reached
Winchester, and William, when the court was at dinner. The
usher tried to announce him but was put unceremoniously
aside. "Don't waste my time," said Roger curtly. He was a
thin, sandy-haired young man, not impressive to look at (his
younger sister Emma
was one of Queen Matilda's least pre-
possessing ladies), but he was capable of a haughty manner.
The usher fell back, and Roger made straight for the table
where William sat, knife poised above his meat.
Two seats along from the king, FitzOsbern leant over the
table and barked: "What brings you here, boy? You're sup-
posed to be in York."
"York's besieged," said Roger, to the king, to his father,
to the hall in "Durham's burnt and Robert of
general.
Comines is dead. The rebels are in York and attacking the
castle. The Constable of York is dead as well and Sir William
Malet the second-in-command has taken authority. He sent

me for help." He then, to his shame, found black spots whirl-
ing before his eyes. He leant on the dais for support. He had
gone three days and nights with scarcely any sleep.
89
90 REVELATIONS, 1069-1070 A.D.
But he rode with the army when it set out at dawn, for
he was young and soon restored by and he did not want
rest,
to miss William's vengeance expedition. It promised to be

worth seeing.
"I came to England as her lawful lord," William had
said, rising from his place, his voice booming in Roger's half-
conscious ears. "I came blessed by the Pope and nominated
by King Edward. I offered, as it were, honourable marriage.
But if England prefers a ravisher, by the Splendour of God,
she shall have one!"
William was a man who knew his worth.

He from his mother, Herleva. Her father
inherited that
was a tanner in the town of Falaise and his house an unre-
markable two-roomed affair just within the town walls, but
when the young Duke Robert of Normandy rode down to let
his horse drink at the stream where she was washing clothes,
and smiled at her, and asked her name, his expression gave
her an estimate of herself that had nothing to do with her
social background. When the duke's messengers came next
day and said that she was to come to the castle
to her father,
and would be admitted through the postern gate,
after dark,
her reply rendered both her parents and the duke's mes-
sengers speechless with horror. "I never saw a man I liked so
well as the duke," she said. "I will be glad to come. At noon,
and through the main gate, not through the postern. I require
my lord duke to send me a suitable escort and a good horse
on which to enter his castle. He chose me. He should not be
ashamed of his choice."
She refused to change the message, and the couriers took
it back to the duke. They stood out of his reach, and their
voices trembled when they gave it. He was not nicknamed

Robert the Devil for nothing. But after a moment of stag-
gered silence, Robert the Devil threw back his dark head and
burst into a roar of laughter and said yes, to all she asked.
Had he rejected her, she told him long afterwards, she
would not have forgiven him. And had he taken her by force,
The Rising Gale 91
she \\ould have killed him if she could. Herleva knew \\hat
value to place upon herself and was capable of turning in
destructive fury on those \\ho failed to recognise it.
Her son was like her. And the English had not respected
him. They had rejected him and his self-love was wounded.
Like a hurt leopard or like Herleva, he rounded in fury on
the cause.
Simon raised his eyes, narrowed against the January
wind. There were granules of ice in his horse's mane and sleet
blew into his face. The column, which had been following the
River Ouse, had swung north-west and was streamingr across
rough tussocky grass and dead bracken, making for the main
gates of York, which \\'ere now materialising out of the sleet-
haze. They were open, as if for normal commerce. York had
been walled by the Romans centuries before and the stone-
work later repaired, but it wouldn't avail the rebels much,
Simon thought grimly, if they were as careless as this. Ahead,
the trumpet sounded the order to gallop. At Simon's side, the
young Sir Goscelin grasped at his swordhilt in a state of
mingled excitement and nervousness. It was his first real
campaign. At Hastings he had been among the reserves. He
was shaping well, Simon considered, in spite of being too
fair-skinned and fastidious in dress for Simon's taste. A few
years, and a battle or two, would weather him to a proper
toughness. Simon caught his eye and gave him a thumbs-up
sign as the horses gathered speed. Nine miles an hour became
fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. Overhead, a gatehouse sentry
frantically sounded a horn in a vain attempt to summon
someone to the defence of the gate. He was too late. The sleet
had helped the Normans; they had been invisible to him until
the last moment. Like a tidal wave crashing into a harbour
town, they burst through the yawning gates, and filled the
narrow streets inside, trampling what lay in their path.
The gates had not been open due to carelessness. TTie
city was controlled by the rebels, who considered themselves
to be the aggressors, and they had not thought that William
could reach the north so soon. They had left the orates wide
for their own supply trains and for those outsiders who
wished to bring in goods to sell. A siege in progress inside a
city, aimed at a fortress that occupied only a small part of it,
did not necessarily paralyse the life of the whole community.

On the contrary, smiths were in demand to repair weapons
and armour; and in this bitter weather, street stalls selling
pasties and ale, furs and boots and gauntlets, were well
patronised, by the besiegers as well as the townsfolk. The
great bridge that crossed the Ouse in the middle of the city
was thick with on foot and mounted. Children played
traffic,
as usual in the streets and dogs roamed, sniffing for scraps.
Women clustered round the stalls, and combined marketing

with excited gossip. Onto this scene, without warning, the
wave of steel and horseflesh bore down.
People, screaming, leapt for the shelter of the wooden
houses, and reached it or not according to their luck or agility
or the will of an arbitrary God. The knights yelled warcries,
uplifted exultantly on the buoyant muscles of their destriers.
There was a glory in it, a splendour in the powxr to terrify
and the licence to kill. Many of them were kindly, even self-
eifacing men in their own homes; in the streets of panic-
stricken cities they w ere gods, deities of war, and what dared
to withstand them died for its impertinence.
A man caught in mid-street waved a silly little knife at
Simon's horse. The man had a red, stupid face, eyes dis-
tended, mouth wide open. Sim.on reined his mount onto its
hocks with one hand and drove his sword home with the
other. It came away scarlet. Goscelin, laughing, nerves for-
gotten, sw ept ahead and slashed at a stall made of poles and
oxhides. It collapsed, bringing down the trestle table under it
and scattering furs among the hooves. Simon's horse sprang

forward to follow Goscelin's, saw the stall fall in its path, and
gathered itself to jump. A girl, no more than fifteen, was
scrambling from the wreckage. The stallion's shoulder caught
her as he landed, knocking her out into the road. Grey eyes,
fringed with black lashes, wideset, beautiful eyes, met Si-
mon's with entreaty and utter disbelief, in the moment before
The Rising Gale 93
another horse came plunging down the road and kicked her
head Blood poured out of her nose and mouth and the
in.
grey eyes glazed. To his own surprise, Simon's stomach

knotted and rose. But Goscelin was yelling like a demon just
ahead and four men, on foot but menacingly armed with
bows, had appeared in an archway. There was no time for
idle wondering. Simon reached for his spear and cast. Other
spears followed its example; the four wxre down in a jerking
heap and the charge had surged past them. That girl had
reminded him of someone. Not \\ûlfhild; Wulfhild's eyes
were blue. But someone only the memory was fugitive,
. . .
and they were already at the castle.

It was stout enough, with an outer wall now^ finished in
stone, and a moat curving round the side where the mound
was less steep. The besiegers were trying to make a bridge-
head with rafts. They were engrossed and oblivious to the
faint despairing sound of the sentry's horn, and the shrieks
from the town behind them, until the enemy poured out into
the open space before the castle. Then they swung round,
presenting the Normans with a momentary vista of amazed
mouths and eyesockets. Seconds later, they were fighting
hand to hand.
On the castle wall, magically, a line of heads sprang into
view and helpful arrows rained disaster among the rebels.
Distant but joyful, from the keep, came the sound of cheering.
The castle keep had a small apartment or two attached to it,
but when Alalet said he would have the king's bed put in one
of them, William said: "Nonsense, use those rooms for the
wounded. The rest of us wall sleep in the hall. Wt slept
harder than that on the road."
The rout was over. The conflict had dwindled to mere
plundering and hunting of fugitives among the scarred
wooden houses and the trampled garden plots as the sleeting
weather turned to snow. The leaders of the relief force had
crossed the lowered drawbridge to the racket of an exultant
welcome from Alalet and his garrison, and in the keep Wil-
liam had held a short, not altogether complimentary post

mortem on the operation. He
had conquered, relieved the
castle, and put the enemy to flight, but his men had failed
either to kill or to capture any of the enemy leaders, and

this did not please him. His comments on that subject were
nearly as sharp as the enemy's swords. Simon was not the
only man there who was glad to be freed from duty, to sleep.
But even so, even with the wounded, who were disturb-
ing bedfellows, housed elsewhere, it was a long time before
the hall settled. The meal they had eaten before lying down
had gone on for some time, accompanied by a liberal broach-
ing of the castle ale and wine. The ale was good; the wine
was terrible, a sour and heavy product of an English vineyard
too far north for good grapes. It was thick with lees, but it
wâs also warm and enlivening, and was con-

in the gullet
sumed in large quantities despite its shortcomings. The wine
induced a tendency to sing and the singing went on for hours.
To Simon's exhaustion-stretched nerves, it seemed a thousand
years before he could lie down in peace on the pallet he
shared with Goscelin and another knight and sink into the
spinning blackness, away from the unaccountable fatigue and
malaise that had been with him since that queer moment of
revulsion in the streets of York.
Almost immediately, he was sitting on a grass bank by a
roadside, staring up at the brown horse whose reins he held,
and wondering in panic who he was.
That first panic, in the dream as in life, was overwhelm-
ing, as though the ground underfoot had become unstable
like water. He asked himself frantically: who am I? What is
my name? But his memory stayed blank and his heart

pounded in fear as gradually he understood the immensity of
his loss.
The fear settled slowly. He became aware that he was not

wholly bereft. He still understood the world he lived in. He
knew him with soft nostrils was a
that the creature nuzzling
horse, and he knew that the dusty road that ran straight in
The Rising Gale 95
either direction was somewhere in Normandy. The trees — cut
back to a bowshot's width on either side of the road, as a
—
defence against robbers were heavy in leaf and the sky a
smooth dense blue; he knew that this was a June afternoon. It
was only his own identity that he had lost.
But that was enough. Swallowing, he studied his own
body. He seemed to be fully grown, an adult male, wearing
patched brown garments that did not fit well; they might
have been borrowed. He stood up. His legs shook and he
leant against the horse. He must go on. The road was a major
trackway and must lead somewhere. He must find people.
Someone might know him. His mind checked at that, as if
recognition could be dangerous. He had better find an abbey
where he could take sanctuary. Then he glanced along the
road again and it was no longer empty. A horseman was ap-
proaching.
He knew now, though it did not help him, that he was
dreaming. For on that day in his waking life he had mounted
and gone on to find the abbey of St. Simon, choosing it be-
cause the name had a dim famiharity, and there had begun to
build a new^ life to replace the one he had lost. But in the
dream, it was different. In the dream, always, he stood still
and watched a horseman approach. The rider was a knight
whose helm hid all his face, and he grew as he advanced,
towering into the blue sky. He released his reins and lifted his
hands to remove the helmet. Simon's mouth opened slowly.
That helm, he knew with the unreasoning certainty of night-
mare, concealed a horror beyond endurance. He must wake
before he saw it or he might never wake at all. But inex-
orably, inch by inch, the helm was coming off. He stared up
into grey eyes full of such unspeakable terror that his bowels
undid themselves in sympathy. Then road and rider dissolved
into a scene so monstrous that his dumb immobility broke
and his cry of rejection and denial ripped like a barbed arrow
through his larynx.
Round him, men tumbled from their pallets. Dead

torches were snatched from brackets and shoved into the

embers of the fire to kindle them. The source of the uproar
was found. Simon's comrades gathered round him.
"It's Inconnu! What's wrong with him?"
"Bloody hell, he's still asleep! He's sitting up but he's

asleep!"
"It's that filthy red rotgut. It's enough to give anyone
nightmares."
"God, there he goes again. Shake him, somebody!"
"W' ake up . . . wake up . . . wake iipT
He woke, blinking at the torchlight. He was back in the
rough, reliable world of everyday. He could not now recall
the end of his dream; it had gone even as he broke through
into consciousness. He knew only that had continued
it
deeper into terror than any of its if, some-

predecessors, as
where, memory was stirring. He became aware of an un-
pleasant smell. The pallet he was lying on was soiled. He
young face
rolled off. Goscelin knelt beside him, his ingenuous
was still racing. To his embarrassment,
anxious. Simon's heart
a tall shadow emerged from the gloom and he recognised
King William. "Hah! Inconnu." William regarded him, arms

akimbo. "If you make a habit of rousing the hall Hke this, no
wonder you're always in the party when Earl Roger lends me
men. He must be glad to be rid of you. Are you sick?
Feverish?"
"No, my lord," said Simon, ashamed. It was not dignified
to wake in the night shrieking like a child who has been
frightened by a ghost story. He pulled himself to his feet and
Goscelin helped him turn the pallet. "Sorry!" said Simon with
emphasis to the hall at large.
William shrugged and went away. The rest dispersed,
some amused and some grumbling, all losing interest. They
all lay down again. Simon kept himself awake for a long time,
sleeping at last only when it overtook him without his con-

sent. He was more afraid now of the dream than he had
ever been.
The Rising Gale 91
"At least," said Hereward, hurling another branch on the fire
they had made in the ruined abbey where they were shelter-
ing, "we're out of the weather, and the snow will stop the
pursuit. Ihope the other leaders got away." He stared out
through the door to where a cold round moon had risen over
the whitened moors. The flight from York had been headlong
into a blizzard. They had lost six walking wounded, who had
collapsed during the long march in the snow. "We must
search for them tomorrow. Waltheof and Gospatric, at least."
There \^'ere a few weary grins. Waltheof and Gospatric
had made an orderly, fighting retreat. But the Atheling's exit
from the York battlefield had been precipitate. Brand and
Hereward, holding the mouth of a narrow alley while others
got to safety behind them, had observed it with a mixture of
cynicism and despair.
"There's this," said Hereward, raising their spirits and
his own by willpowêr, despite the cold of the night and their
defeat. "Earl Wâltheof's been in touch with the Danes. It

seems that King Sven may be getting stirred into interest
after all. If he sends a fleet, it's the Humber they'll most likely
make for. We should make for it too. In all probability, we
shall meet the others there."
2 ^ 3-{ome Port
Simon came home to Fallowdene after Easter, on a glit-

tering spring day when the wind like a playful sheepdog was
chasing small brown and white clouds from west to east and
making snow flurries of the horse chestnut and the hawthorn
blossoms. Wulfhild found that she was pleased to see him,
and she thought that he seemed happy to be back. For a little
w hile, for half of one day, as she showed him how his son had
grown and told him the small news of the manor, they were
like an ordinary husband and wife on a day of reunion.
But in the small hours of the morning, Simon cried out
and A\ûlfhild, wrenched awake, felt him sitting upright be-
side her, stiff as if in rigor. She groped for the flints on the
shelf by the bed, and got a candle lit. Simon's eyes were open
but he was staring blankly, still in the depths of nightmare.
He did not know her. When he tore himself free of sleep at
last, \\\ilfhild was out of the bed, a cloak clutched round her,
watching him in the candlelight with eyes that fear had wid-
ened till the w hite showed all the way round.
"I'm sorry, it was one of my bad dreams. You should
have roused me." He was shivering himself. "Wulfhild, always
wake me. Shout at me, shake me, anything. I don't want to go
on sleeping, believe me."
"But what was it? The dream?" Wulfhild came cau-
tiously back. He put out a hand to her.
"I can't remember it all. I was at that roadside in Nor-
mandy again, the earliest memory I have. Realising that I
didn't know who I was. Then a knight rode up. He always
98
Home Fort 99
does ... in the dream. It didn't really happen. He takes off his
helmet and I know that I'm going to see something unbear-
able. I used to wake up
then, but I don't now. I go on sleep-
ing and I whatever it is. Only when I wake, I can't
see . . .
remember it. It's something so horrifying that I don't uoant to

remember it. Don't keep back from me, Wulfhild. Come here."
He was a vigorous lover and her body responded as it
generally did. But the tenuous link between their minds had
broken again. His thoughts were far away from her and he
used her impersonally though he were trying to bury his
as
dead past in her clay. This difficult union was not going to
grow easier, she understood that now.
In June she found that another child was coming, and
she was glad, because children compensated for much. She
was also glad that the new baby had not been conceived on
that night, in fear and impersonality.
"I hated England," said Judith. The rowers, setting a steady

pace, bore them up the Seine towards the towers of Rouen
and the great buttress of hillside jutting into the river beyond
the town. The sail lay folded on the deck, for the wind was
contrary. "I'm thankful to be home. ThankfidP' Her voice was
almost fierce. "I'm grateful to the English for rebelling. If
Uncle William hadn't decided England wasn't safe for us any
longer, we'd still be there. Are you glad to be home, Aude?"
Aude, huddled into a blanket for protection because the
wind was unseasonably cold, shook her brown head. "No. I
could learn to like England. It's beautiful."
"So is Normandy."
"Not same way," said Aude disloyally. She tried to
in the
been peaceful, in England. You can see it. There
explain. "It's
are houses, even towns, with no walls or palisades. Someone
told me
that except in the north, the nobles hardly ever made
private war on each other. When was Normandy ever like
that? I've been in two sieges myself!"
Sitting near to Queen Matilda, dangling a rattle for the
infant Henry who was perched on his mother's knee, Emma

the daughter of FitzOsbern said slyly: "And I've heard you
say you enjoyed the excitement!"
"Mymother told me once that she enjoyed the excite-
ment of war when she was young," said Aude. "But as she
grew older, she said to me, she changed. I expect I shall
change too."
Matilda adjusted her chair under the canopy that was
keeping off the wind for her, and said: "You may return to
England one day, Aude. The troubles will end. This was just
a precaution, sending us home. My lord will make the En-
glish leaders into his allies yet. When he does, I shall go back
to England and my daughter Agatha will marry Earl Edwin
and Judith here will marry Earl Waltheof " Judith turned
—
—
her head away " and we shall all need ladies to go with us.
Since you and Judith are such friends, Aude, I shall recom-
mend that you remain with her. I approve of your family.
Your father has always been a most trustworthy and sturdy
castellan in my husband's service."
The first buildings of Rouen slid past. A market was in
progress on the left-hand bank, with vendors shouting the
merits of their fish and eggs and leather goods in strident,
homely Norman French. The sound carried over the water.
Appalling, thought Judith, to be exiled, trapped in some En-
glish hall with a fool like Waltheof as one's lifelong com-
panion. "The earls will never make peace," she said. "I don't
suppose Edwin-and-Morcar will ever dare to get near enough
to Uncle William to discuss it, even, and as for Waltheof ... I
wouldn't trust him out of my sight with a bad silver penny."
"Had the marriages gone forward sooner, I think we
wouldn't have had this rebellion at all," said Matilda coldly.
"The mistake won't be repeated. We need the support of the
English leaders." Matilda's small face was set. While she was
in England she had had letters from Agatha, who was still
with the rest of the family in Normandy, expressing the eager
hope that now that Earl Edwin was out of favour, nothing
Hovie Fort 101
but Scotland, the idea of the marriage with him
a fugitive in
would go no further. Instead, pleaded Agatha, she wished to

spend her life in a convent, mourning her dead Harold. Melo-
dramatic nonsense, thought Matilda grimly. x\nd Judith was
little better. The two of them had much to learn. "Neither
your uncle nor I," said Matilda, "will jeopardise the realm's
well-being for the sake of a pair of foolish girls." She caught a
quizzical expression on Judith's face and knew that Judith
thought that Brihtric's death had jeopardised, if not the realm's
well-being, then certainly the reputations of both occupants
of the throne. "I advisevou to prepare yourself, Judith," she
said."Your uncle ." . . —
her voice lapsed into a heartfelt tone
—
quite unHke her usual diamante syllables ". can lose pa- . .
tience on occasion."
"I shall light candles to every virgin saint in the calen-
dar," muttered Judith aside to Aude, "that Uncle \Mlliam
loses patience with Earl Waltheof. Permanently, and soon I"
In the familiar palace they lifted their skirt hems and ran
eagerly up and down twisting flights of stairs, rediscovering
old haunts. Servants came to open baggage and put up the
wall hangings again. The bower had been little used in their
absence and most of the usual furnishings had been put
away. There were not enough stools.
"They're in the little room at the top of the tower," said
Emma, although showing no disposition to do anvthing about
it.She had unpacked a silver mirror and was disconsolately
examining her freckles in it. At sixteen, Emma had become
very conscious of her sandy, scrawny appearance.
"I'll go," said Aude. "I can bring a few down."
"I'll help," said Judith. "We had no exercise on that ship.
I feel cramped."
The room at the top of the tower wâs very small indeed
and when they opened it there was nowhere for the page
Hugh to hide. He faced them, quivering like an overdrawn
bowstring, from behind a feeble defence of stools and old
benches. He was backed up hard against the wall and his
face was chalky with a dread that faded only slowly, as he

saw^ who they were. "Hugh! " said Judith.
Her voice echoed. His eyes went huntedly past her to
the open door and the steps, as if he feared that she would
betray his whereabouts to an enemy. Aude said quietly:
"Hugh, what is it? Why are you hiding up here?" She held
out a hand as if to a timid pony. "Is someone angry with you?"
Hugh wiped the back of his hand over his face. He had
been crying and wanted to hide it. "Were you looking for
me?" he asked.
"No." Judith pointed at the stools. "We came for those.
Now, Hugh, what's the matter? Have you done something
wrong?"
Sharply, he turned his back on them, staring out of the
narrow window. One word emerged, indistinctly. "What did
you say?" asked Judith.
"Talvas!" repeated Hugh, and this time the word came
out as if he had spat it.
Aude and Judith simultaneously turned to make sure

that the stairway was empty, before Judith shut the door and
they both sat down on
a dusty bench. "Mabel Talvas?" Judith
enquired. Hugh nodded. "But ... is she here?" asked Aude.
Hugh was pulling himself together. The presence of two
girls in the room was enough to reassemble his self-control.
He faced them again and spoke more steadily. "She came two
days ago. With her full retinue. She was travelling to Lille to
make gifts to an abbey there ." . .
"By way of Rouen?" asked Judith.

"Yes, my lady." He remembered his manners this time.
"And she's coming back by way of Rouen, too." His compo-
sure faltered again. He balled his left fist into his right hand
and kneaded the knuckles. He was at the stage of growth
where his hands and feet had outstripped the rest of him and
seemed too big. What would one day be a strong aquiline
nose, too, was as yet merely an awkward beak. "She came by
Rouen to see 7;;e," he burst out. "She's coming back for me."
Home Fort 103
If he had said: "The Devil is coming for me," his tone would
have been much the same.
"Hugh," said Judith briskly, "will you please explain in a
way we can understand. How can Lady Mabel be coming
back for you, as you put it? And do stop backing up against
that arrow slit. You look like a maidservant resisting dubious
advances from a man-at-arms."
"Yes," said Hugh, "I expect I do." And now, at last, they
knew \^hat he was talking about.
Snatches of conversation overheard among the older
women recurred to Judith and Aude alike. Embarrassment
silenced them. The sight of it seemed to free Hugh from his.
"She wants to take me back to Belleme," he said. "She didn't

take me to Lille because she left half her retinue here any-
way. The abbot at Lille objected to the size of her following,
last time she visited him."
"Belleme?" said Aude, shaken.
"And if I don't go, or won't go, she'll throw^ my father off
his manor. He's Robert of Saugei. He used to be a Giroye
."
tenant until . . . until . .
"Mabel Talvas stole most of their land," said Judith.

Go on.
till now but
"She's let us alone it's good land with timber
and wheat and trout rivers and ..."
"In that case," Judith pointed out, "she'll swoop on one
excuse or another sooner or later. If it isn't you, it'll be some-
thing else. You know that."
"Maybe," he said, "but if I don't go to Belleme, then
she'll swoop sooner, and because of me."
They said nothing. He twisted round to look out of the
sHt again and said bitterly: "I'd best go out on the roof and
jump off. You don't know what it's like. You don't know what
she's like. The things she does. The things she makes me do."
"Listen," said Aude, "what would your father say if he

knew? He doesn't know, I take it?"
Hugh shook his head.
"I mean," pursued Aude, "would he think you should . . .
sacrifice yourself for the land and not even ask him?
Shouldn't you ask him?"
"No, I should not!" snapped Hugh. "He'd say, to hell
with the land. He'd lose his manor and perhaps have to run
for his life. For me!"
"Is he a knight?" Judith wanted to know.
"Yes."
"Then even if he is dispossessed, and has to flee, he has a
sword to sell. Now listen to me, Hugh. How long do you
think you would be in Belleme before he found out anyway?
And how long do you think Mabel Talvas will leave your
family in peace on their nice rich bit of land, even if you all
fall flat on your faces and worship her? We know her reputa-
tion . everyone does. There's no sense in this heroic sacri-

. .
fice. I'll find an errand you can do for me, or pretend to be
doing, and you can take a fast horse and leave tonight. Any-
way," said Judith with a practical air, "you can't go on
crouching up here. What's the point? Hiding from her is as
bad as running away."
"She isn't here yet," said Hugh. "I was trying to decide
what to do."
"And have you decided?"
"Sweet Christ," he said, laying his head against the stone.
"Guide me!"
They waited. "If I go home, she'll look for me there. And
she will look, that's certain. If I go home, we shall have to
flee. We God!" There was another an-
dare not wait. Oh,
guished pause. "I can't go with her. I'd sooner be dead. That
would be best. God forgive me, but that would be best." He
glanced upwards again, towards the roof of which he had
already spoken. Judith stood up quickly.
"None of that! You will go home, Hugh, now. I am Duke
William's niece. I have a right to command you. You'll also
swear to me no harm to yourself. Your dagger
that you'll do
has a crosshilt. Swear on
She saw with relief that she
that."
had done right, that this was what he needed, to have the
burden of choice taken away. "Aude, take the stools to the
Hovie Fort 105
bower. Say I'm coming that I'm
. . . in the chapel . . . anything
you like. I must get Hugh away."
saw Hugh mounted, on a
Presently, in the courtyard, she
horse her stepfather had given her, a bundle of food and
spare clothing in his saddlebag. He looked down at her. "I've
been in fighting twice, with robbers on the road," he said. "I
could fight in a battle if I had to. But I'm afraid to go to

Belleme."
"Most people are afraid of Hell," said Judith staunchly.
"And wt all know what the Talvas family is. No one can
do anything about them, but we all hwnjo. And one reason
why you can't go to Belleme is because you might just as
well set out straight for Hell. If you died unshriven there,
with her ..."
"Don't say such things."
"Go home, Hugh. Let your father decide what to do.
Travel safely. I shall pray for you."
He reached down a hand and Judith took it. "We may
need those prayers," he said.
He was younger than she, fifteen to her seventeen, and

they were at a time when two years mattered. But at this
moment, seated on his horse with a hard and lonely journey
ahead and a harder choice at the end of it, the man he was
going to be could be seen, emerging from the boy who was
his past. He had left that boy behind in the tower room, like a
discarded chrysalis. His own fast-growing palm was big

enough to swallow Judith's though her hand was strong and
square for a girl. He thought her dark eyes beautiful, and her
kindness and strength queenly. Judith, feeling his fingers
round hers, wondered what he would be like full-grown.
Handsome, she thought, with that strong nose and the spring-
ing dark brown hair. But she would never know. Her future
lay in England, with Waltheof. It would happen, she knew.
The would end and Wilham would seal the peace
rebellion
with his recalcitrant earl, herself the wax. She would not see
Hugh of Saugei again. They stayed like that for a few more
seconds, hands clasped. A whole world of might-have-been.
of VOWS unspoken and children unborn, lay between their

palms as an oak tree lies curled in the acorn. Then they let go.
"Godspeed, Hugh," said Judith.
Late in September, Alric Steward and Sir Simon rode to

Chichester, Simon to visit an armourer Arnulf was no —
swordsmith even if he had been trustworthy and Alric to —
exchange woollen cloth and honey for salt and dyestuffs and
a length of silk if he could find one. "In case," Wulfhild said
to Simon, "this coming child is a girl."
She said it with a trace of defiance. Swan had borne
Mauger a daughter in July, and Mauger, as though she had
done it on purpose to affront him, had sulked. There was
quarrelling in the cottage Simon had given them, and Swan's
milk failed. On Dame Editha's advice, she tried goat's milk,
but the baby pined and died a week later. Now Swan went
about with her eyes on the ground and steps dragging, and
Mauger ignored her. Simon, however, smiled. "Lately, I've
thought perhaps I had a sister once. It is just an idea but it
sticks in my mind. If Richard had a sister, I should be pleased.

I'll bring you the silk if I can."
But when he returned, it was with news from Chichester
that brushed such domestic matters aside. King Sven of Den-
mark, nudged at last into a faint interest in the English
crown, had ordered his fleet to sail.
It had, apparently, attacked the east coast of England. It
had been beaten off and no one seemed sure w^hat had hap-
pened to it next, but beacons had been reported going up
near Lincoln. A
seaman who had glimpsed the fleet when it
first it was two hundred vessels strong at least
appeared said
and he reckoned it meant business. "If you're summoned,'*
said Wulfhild sturdily to Simon, "take Mauger with you,
please. It will give Swan a rest."
Four days later, while she was outside feeding the geese,
she saw the glitter of spears and the bright dots of shields and
pennants, blue and scarlet, coming over the down from the
south. Earl Roger's messengers were on their way.
Home Fort 101
In the hall the news was told officially. Sven's expedition
had worked its way north and reached the Humber. Earls
Waltheof and Gospatric and all the chief men of the north
had joined it. York was besieged for the second time. King
AMlliam was at Gloucester, where the news had interrupted a
hunting party. He was calling up his forces. As before, Earl
Roger was preparing to send men to him and had ordered a
muster at his principal castle, Arundel. Two knights were
required from Fallow dene, and four men-at-arms.

"Mauger shall be one of them," Simon promised.
"Swan will be grateful," said Wulfhild brightly.
But when they were assembled, ready to leave, her
common sense began to buckle. This was far worse than her
first parting from Simon. Things had never been easy be-
tween them but there was no open dissension either, and
there was now a sense of unspoken partnership. More.
Simon's intensified nightmares had been hard for her to deal
with, but they had shown her his vulnerable places and his
deep, if inarticulate, need for this refuge at Fallowdene. And
above all, when they first parted, Richard had been newborn,
too small to be a person. Now he was a child who might be
about to lose his father. Simon's safety mattered now.
And where, she wondered, was her father in these trou-
bled times? Was he still alive, and if so, was he in the north
with the rebels? It seemed likely enough. And if he was, then
he was about to go to war on the opposite side from her
husband.
She managed to say farewell with dignity. But when
they had all vanished over the crest of the downs, she went to
her chamber and cried, and whether the tears were for Simon
or for her outlawed father, she did not know.
3 ^ Odin's Jlin^
On autumn day, the Anglo-Dan-

a frost-sharp, vigorous
ish forces took York city. It was the supreme moment of the
whole campaign. Furthermore, it was almost easy. The garri-
sons of the two castles that now stood within the walls
William had raised a second fortress there after his first ex-
pedition to Yorlc —
had been warned of their approach but
had underestimated the enemy's strength. Brand remem-
bered, all his life, the joyous moment when he and his
comrades reahsed that the Normans had improvidently
emerged from their castles to fight in the streets. It lasted half
a day, that exultant hunting down of the Norman defenders,
in and out of the alleyways and back and forth across the
bridge. Most of the townsfolk, wisely preferring to support
neither side this time until they were sure who was winning,
stayed locked in their houses until it was over. Then the
Anglo-Danish leaders strode about the streets, shouting to the
citizens to come out and greet their cousins from Denmark;
there was to be feasting and free wine for all, from the cas-
tles' stores. Cautiously, the citizens came out. The Danish
commander, Osbern the brother of King Sven, had given or-

ders that the castles were to be sacked and razed, but that no
offence was to be given to the inhabitants of York.
The feasting proceeded amid laughter and singing, and
the townsfolk offered their swords for future campaigns. "We
had north England in our hand that day," said Hereward
afterwards. "We had EnglandV When the leaders held coun-
cil the next morning, he urged them to use their advantage.
"Provision the city and send out a call for volunteers pre-
108
Odi7fs Ring 109
pared to withstand siege," he said. "With luck, the Normans

will come back and find themselves sitting
to get the city
down in the midst of enemies who will surround them while
they are surrounding us. This is our chance."
"All in good time," said Osbern. "The boys want some
leave before we get back to business again. And we want
those castles flattened, not just held."
Three days later, they were at one of the still-continuing
celebration feasts when a stranger arrived, a Mercian who
had Danish kinsmen. He had come partly out of a sense of
and partly in the hope of reward. King William
racial loyalty
was on his way, he said, he'd seen the banners in the distance
himself. The Normans weren't far behind him. And the
rumour flying ahead of \Aîlliam as he galloped north for the
third time was that he was angry, angry as few had seen
him since he mutilated the citizens of Alencon. . . .
It was too late to put the city into a state of defence. To

Hereward's helpless rage, they abandoned it that same day,
marching back to the Humber where the ships were beached.
There, a well-protected camp could be set up as winter quar-
ters and AVilliam, calmed by having got his chief
a little
northern city back, could be haggled with, a process assisted

by the fact that they had taken prisoners in the fighting
whose safety could be used for bargaining purposes.
They had been like a serpent coiled to strike, but the
chance was gone. A serpent, after all, needed a head, and
they lacked one. The man on whose behalf the fleet had
sailed from Denmark, Sven the king ("If he's real and not a
mere legend!" said Hereward savagely), had not accom-
panied his fleet.
The land south of the Humber was marshy and grey. The
broad river was sluggish at ebbtide, opaque and leaden-
toned. But not more so than the future of Norman powder in
England. Had Hereward at that moment been able to view
the Norman hopes from Robert's standpoint, Hereward
would have felt encouraged. Robert threaded his way rapidly
no REVELATIONS, 1069-1070 A.D.
between the Norman tents, squelching through soggy

patches and stepping over tent ropes. He had sent someone to
find his fellow aide Robert of Eu and someone else to bring
all the leading knights together ready for the summons Wil-
liam was shortly bound to issue. On the far side of the

Humber sat the Danes and their EngHsh alHes, with a pali-
sade round them and enough suppHes, probably, to feed
them until spring. With luck they could be bought off or
starved out eventually; then the northern resistance would
collapse.But what was the use of that, if as fast as William
extinguished the north, the south caught fire behind him?
The royal tent was in the middle of the camp, the
leopards of Normandy flying above it. That was the symbol
of kingship in England now, replacing the Dragon of Wessex.
But for how long? And what, if William were overwhelmed,
would replace the leopards? At this point Robert's mind
floundered. Not King Sven. That he could not believe. Not
halfhearted Sven who had dithered for a year before he sent
his ships and then stayed at home himself — and whose repre-
sentatives in the shape of three sons, one brother, two
bishops, and a trio of reputedly hard-drinking and quarrel-
some jarls had smashed York and then sat about on the ruins
carousing, finally subsiding into inconclusive winter quarters
instead of consolidating their gains.
And not Harold's sons, whose one foray out of obscurity
in Ireland, an attempt to land in the south-west, had been so
resoundingly defeated that out of sixty vessels, only two re-
turned to their Irish haven.
And oh no, not the indefinite Edgar Atheling, over-
not,
shadowed by his own commanders and famed only for the
speed at which he left battlefields. Even the English, thought
Robert, striding up to WîlUam's tent, however desperate they
might be, couldn't make a king of Edgar. Surely.
The tent held table and benches, rugs and pallet, chests
for maps and weapons and clothes. William, unusually, was
alone. He stood with his back to the entrance, gazing into the
depths of a wooden chest, and as Robert was announced, he
Od'm's Ring HI
turned quickly as if caught in some questionable activity.
The crown of England was in his hands.
He had been staring at it, that flashing circlet that he
had had made to replace the plain red-gold fleur-de-lys of the
Confessor. The value of those costly gems exactly reflected
the value that William set upon his kingdom. And he had
been brooding on it, so lost in thought that Robert's entrance
startled him.
The king was simultaneously Robert of iMortain's
brother, leader, and associate. Robert knew him well. The
natural result was that he rarely looked hard at William or
thought about him. But he did so now. It struck him that
William's thoughts today might not be so far from his ow n. If
so, then AMlliam's mind must be full of hideous trouble.

Every stage in William's life had been marked by the
struggle to survive. As a child-duke he had been stalked by
murder; as a young man he had put down rebellions before
they had time to put him down instead. As a leader he knew
that his stormy, grasping followers would stay faithful as
long stayed profitable, and not sixty seconds
as his enterprises
longer. One and the wolves wôuld have him. He ruled

failure,
through strength, not through hallowed and ancient right as
King Edward had done. It was not pleasant to be the one
who must tell him of a new attack from the rear. You could
not even offer William sympathy. He wanted power, not
understanding. Now, as he set the shining symbol of the
crow^n back in its chest, his intent black eyes demanded Rob-
ert's business but repelled with finality any comment on his
own. "Yes, Robert?"
"Roger of Montgomery's contingent are here. They lost
time looking for us at York. They have urgent news. They
fought their way through trouble in the Midlands to reach us.
There are insurgents there, led by the man known as Wild
Edric. It's believed he's gathering forces to attack the strong-
holds at Shrewsbury and Sheffield. The population seems to
be backing him and, if so, the Mercian castellans will need
help. What are your instructions, my lord?"
112 REVELATIONS, 1069-1070 A
Robert was William's brother, Herleva's son by the m
she had married after Robert the Devil died on pilgrima]
Robert knew that his loyalty was not in question. But it \^
hard to stand his ground in William's presence now. Willi;
locked the crown-chest with meticulous care, quietly. But t
fingers on the key were patched red and white with pressu
and when the king turned round, Robert found the tent W2
much more comfortable to look at than his brother's eyes.
Wild Edric's objectives were said to be Shrewsbury a

Sheffield, but he was mustering near Stafford, said Earl Re
er'smen. William left a small force to keep watch on t
Danes, and rode south. He was halfway to Stafford when

met the messengers from the Devon peninsula. Fortunate
although they brought unwelcome information, they w(
not appealing for help. The west was well garrisoned. B
said the messengers, they were obliged to report to the ki
that there had been fighting. Cornwall and Devon, Somer
and Dorset had all experienced risings. They had been cc
trolled. But it was necessary that the king should know.
"My thanks," said William, in an even voice that did i
deceive anyone who knew him. His mind ran over the map
England searching for one reliably loyal corner and findi
none except in the south-east where Montgomery like a gr
tomcat held the populace quiet under a heavy paw. He v
beholden to Roger. "Go back," he said. "Bring me a furtl
report on the south-western counties. You will find me
Stafford, or Shrewsbury, or on the road back to the Humb
when you return."
"One of Earl Waltheof's men asked me to find you," s;
Brand, catching up with Hereward. "The earl invites you

join him in Hallows Eve feast. Will you
his tent for the . . .
"No," said Hereward, spinning round on him,

will not!"
He stared angrily back towards the camp, where a sc(
of bonfires, dotted among the tents and shacks of the Ang
Odiffs R'mg 11^
Danish encampment, provided foci for several hundred rev-

ellers. About fifty of Sven's warriors, wearing ceremonial
horned helmets, were dancing and stamping round one fire;

stor)'telling, dicing, singing, and straightforward eating and
drinking were in progress round the rest. "They're all mad!"

said Hereward.
Brand, who agreed with him, remained silent. Hereward
walked further away from the merrymaking. Brand followed.
"W^'re to spend Christmas in York, have you heard?"
Hereward asked murderously. "That is the latest scheme that
has popped into the heads of Osbern and Gospatric and our
noble, splendid Wâltheof It's a way of thumbing our noses at
!
William, they say. Thumbing our noses, like urchins!" He did

it, urchin-fashion, in wrathful parody. "When we ought to be
at war," he said, "with swords! God's Elbow! We threw away
one chance when we were in York the first time; now we're
throwing away another. We could break out through that
little cordon Wilham's left. We could raise the north, wipe
out the Normans who are still here, and sweep into Mercia to
join Edric. But Osbern and
— his jarls" —
contempt infused
Hereward's voice "are not used to fighting in winter. You
don't go to war in winter, they say. You go into winter quar-
ters and sing songs patting yourself on the back for all the
noble victories you won in the summer, instead. I am begin-

ning to think that all Osbern came for, and all Sven expects
him to bring back, is a shipload or two of plunder! You don't
look surprised."
"No. I never had much hopes of the Danes, from the
moment I heard that King Sven hadn't come himself," said
Brand. "And after we marched out of York, I had no hope."
The light from the nearest bonfire was just enough to
show them each other's faces. "Did you ever have much?"
Hereward asked curiously. "Even back in Flanders?"
"I know William," said Brand with a shrug. "You know
the old stories of the Vikings in defeat? How the last sur-
vivors of a vanquished army would form the Ring of Odin,
facing outwards, shoulder to shoulder and back to back, and
fight on till all fallen? It has always seemed to me

they had
that we and not very much more. I wish we were
are that,
more; I would seize any opportunity of making us more. But
no, I have no great hopes of us."
*'Yet you never considered surrendering, when you had
the chance?"
"No."
"It sounds as if you see . no way out but death."
. .
"I don't. But when it comes, I hope to have a sword in

my hand. I hope that I won't be, merely, dead drunk at a
Christmas feast in York."
4 ^ %e Bay Qod
Dropped the Universe
"What is do you know?" Simon asked of his

this about,
neighbour, as they sat on their restless, pawing horses in the

courtyard of Nottingham Castle, in a damp November dawn.
Men with torches and lanterns milled about and the horses'
breath was eerily pink and gold in the torchUght, like the
exhalations of dragons. "Up to last night, we were on an
orderly march back to the north. Edric routed, Shrewsbury
relieved, Sheffield never even attacked, even the south-west
calming down as far as anyone knew. Then, all of a sud-
den, this."
He jerked his head towards the place where William,
also mounted, waited for his men to finish making ready.
Ever since last night, when a messenger had appeared in
haste and William and the Nottingham castellan had
abruptly left the supper table, a starkness and a silence had
hung about the king, so thickly that it was almost visible.
Shortly after William left the table, orders had come for a
daybreak start. They were marching to York, as a matter of
urgency.
Roger, FitzOsbern's son, spoke from behind Simon. "I
believe that the rebels in the north are supposed to be
making
for York to spend Christmas there. Someone was kind enough
to let us know. Men are coming from the northern hamlets to
join them. The Danish leaders have been boasting that they'll
."
thumb their noses at William. That's why he's . .
in
"Like that?" said Simon's neighbour.

"Like that," Roger confirmed, and his arrogant young
voice was serious. "Dangerous," he said.
For two and a pushed north, meeting no

half days they
human foe but frustrated often by wild country, forest, and
river and bog. It was a hard ride, though Simon found that he
could welcome it. there were enough
Physical exhaustion, if
of it, could keep his Sometimes his dreams

nightmares at bay.
skirted the edge of nightmare, and he would wake with a dull
headache grinding behind his eyes. But so far he had not
disgraced himself by w aking noisily in a camp full of irritated
and ribald comrades, and for that he was grateful.
The biggest obstacle in their path to York was the River
Aire, although it was a landmark they looked for eagerly,
since it was a tributary of the Humber and a sign that their
journey, if far from over, had at least proceeded a substantial
number of miles in the right direction. It had a bridge, raised
by some long-dead English ruler. When it came in sight,
there was a cheer. But when they drew close to it, the in-
clination to rejoice faded swiftly.
In the centre, the bridge sagged towards a ragged gap
with splintered, unsupported timbers hanging down at either
side. As the Normans drew up, a shower of arrows from
across the river sent them retreating backwards, raising their

shields in a reflex movement, although the arrows were fall-
ing short. They were a warning, not a serious attack. There
were men on the opposite bank, Danes, observing the en-
emy's discomfiture. Some of them, unmistakeably, were
thumbing their noses.
The Normans camped in the forest, and William called
his leaders to council.
"I shall be sorry for the rebels when he does catch up

with them," said one of the leading knights to Simon, as they
warily watered their horses. The knight was another Simon,
de Senlis by name, a short man who had been born with a
twisted foot that made him limp, and who had a small tough
The Day God Dropped the Universe 111
face with a lopsided mouth and a button nose that like his
foot seemed to have been twisted to one side. The lame

Simon and the Simon w'lxh no memory had a sense of com-
radeship and tended to drift into each other's company. "I've
been in Italv," said de Senlis reminiscently. "I remember a
summer day there once. Sunshine, olive groves, vineyards,
birds singing. Then all up in a fright, and there
the birds flew
was a rumble deep do\\'n in the earth and my horse threw me.
When I tried to get up, the earth tilted and flung me down
again. It's a terrible thing when even the ground you're stand-
ing on isn't safe any longer, ^^êll ." he nodded towards the
. .
royal tent ". .he isn't safe any longer. Not even for us, if we
.
oifend him in the least degree. And as for the Danes and the
English — especially the English ..."
know," said Simon Inconnu, "Sven's an invader and
"I
owes him nothing. But from the English he hoped for loyalty.
I know. I think ... I could feel sorry for the English."
They were delayed three weeks at the Aire.
They found a ford in the end, a considerable distance up-

stream, by taking soundings with ten-foot lances. They
crossed in force sufficient to discourage the Danes, and there
were no incidents.
But as they followed William onward, his men watched
him with increasing disquiet. The king wênt about his daily
show-
business calmly, speaking courteously to his associates,
ing no overt emotion. But it was there, and on every check
that they met during the rough and difficult ride towards
York whither the Danes from the Aire must have retreated
ahead of them, that hidden emotion grew. Every now and
then, in a brief, grating phrase, in a fleeting facial expression,
the earth moved.
They were
three hours from York w^hen Robert of iMor-
taincame to meet them. The Danes from the Humber had
marched to York as they planned, he said. His force had been
too small to prevent them. But when the Danes from the Aire
got back to York with warning of Wilham's approach, they
lis REVELATIONS, 1069-1070 A.D.
had all marched out again. They must be halfway back to the
Humber by now. "But," said Robert, "they've been recruiting.
They hailed the people of York as their cousins —most of
these Danelaw
folk really are of Danish descent a few gen-
erations —
back and they've held feasts and gone to Mass with
them, and there have been fourteen weddings. And King
Sven has been sent for, to come in person. We caught a mes-
senger. Though he boasted that he wasn't the only one; that
the message would get to Denmark safe enough without him.
He's dead now," Robert added, as if speaking casually of
some long-ago acquaintance.
"I see," said William.
He entered York in the afternoon. On the site of one of
the ruined castles a bonfire blazed. An effigy wearing a rough
wooden crown and a Norman helmet was perched at
dented
the summit. No one was about. The rash souls who had ar-
ranged this still wary enough to hide and
reception were
watch the from behind shutters. WilHam sat on his
results
black horse and watched also, till crow^n and helm had sunk
into the glowing mound. Then he turned away. He did not
sleep that night, but spent the dark hours pacing the bounds
of the encampment within the city, sharing the snow flurries
with the sentries, but sharing his thoughts w4th no one.
. . . Until the morning, when he gave his orders in a calm,
even monotonous voice, as though issuing the most routine of
instructions.
"Robert of Mortain and the Count of Eu back to the
Humber to resume surveillance of the invaders. Yes, my lord
of Eu? No, I am not ready to attack the Danish camp there. I
cannot spare you and my brother enough men as yet. In fact,
I am considering trying to negotiate a truce. The Danes may
be willing presently. Now for the rest. Hugh the Wolf and
. . .
half the remaining force to occupy York, rebuild the de-

fences, and control the population. A curfew is to be imposed.
The other half of my forces . .
."
"Our task," said William, addressing the other half, "is to

sterilise the north. To destroy all rebel elements and then so
to ravage this land that no reservoir of rebelKon can survive

and no invading army find a crumb to Hve on. All winter
crops, all ricks, granaries, and stores of any sort are to be
burnt. All stock is to be slaughtered and incinerated. All
houses and implements are to be destroyed. Every man old
enough to carry a weapon is to be slain. The women and
young children, you may let live."
From the men gathered before him, by the ashes of the
bonfire, therewere scattered shouts and growls of approval.
Scattered, for here and there were those who stood silent, as
understanding went home. Afterwards, Roger son of Fitz-
Osbern was their spokesman. "He said let the women and
young children live. But if the food's gone and their homes
too, how long will they live? I thought William never made
war on children?"
Robert of Mortain said heavily: "He's making war on
them now."
Ironically for the folk of the north, the weather broke into a
brief brightness. Sharp winter sunlight up the broad
lit
brown and green slopes of the dales, rocky crests

and their
stood clear of cloud. Beck and river glittered and the thros-
tles sang on topmost twigs. The apocalyptic death that was
loosed on the north swept over it unhindered by mist or

tempest, outrunning its own rumour.
To one inoffensive valley hamlet after another, where

sheep dotted the hillsides and bright streams spilt past the
squat cottages, irreversible disastercame as inconsequentlv as
from a ladder or a lethal bolt of lightning in a field.
a fatal fall
A boy herding goats would catch the nvinkle of lances

across the slopes and wonder what they were, before two or
three men split from the rest and galloped towards him over
the heather, to put an end to him and his goats, while the
others sped on to destroy the village that was his home. In
the village a woman fetching wood would see a smoke
smudge from beyond a fold of hill and wonder what had
caught fire in the next hamJet, and go back into her house; to
be brought running from it half an hour later by hoofbeats

and screams; round-up that
to be gathered into the ruthless
divided man from woman and mother from any son above the
age of ten or so; and there to be kept helpless, while the men
and animals were slaughtered, and the soldiers ran into the
house she had left empty, to kindle torches at her cooking fire
and thrust them into the thatch.
Again and again, the strike was so swift that terror was
mixed with disbelief, the eternal in head-on collision with the
mundane. Oh no, this isn't real, it can't be true, I have to
mend the roof, dig the carrots, feed the donkey. I can't be
dead, for tomorrow we're going to Gunnor's wedding tomor-
row. This can't be all there is, my life can't just stop, God
can't be so callous, so careless; He can't in a butterfingered
moment simply drop my universe. . . .
And afterwards, those who still lived, the women and the
young children, were grapple with another impossible
left to
thing, a emerged slowly, monstrous and de-

despair that
formed, out of the smoke. Not believable, that my husband at
whose side I lay last night is that dreadful heap on the earth;
not believable, that our animals and ricks and stores, our
cottage, are all gone. Not believable, oh dear Christ, not be-
lievable, that we have no shelter to sleep under tonight, no
food, not a crock of beans or a strip of dried meat, nothing
but the road and a blind search for help. . .
And there would be a gap, perhaps of days, before the

final outlinesof the monster were seen, that there was no help
anywhere, that every habitation for miles in every direction
was similarly stricken, that nothing lay ahead but death from
exposure and hunger and that if they were fortunate, the
. . .
children would die first. For if a sick woman succumbed be-

fore her young ones did, they would know the ultimate be-
trayal of desertion before they too perished.
A tiny handful of refugees lived through it. A few
reached York, where some charity was forthcoming and the
Normans did not hinderfew more stumbled
it. A past the
boundaries of catastrophe and found undamaged villages.
The Day God Dropped the U?iiverse 121
Some sold themselves into bondage there, for food. But they
were only a few. For the rest, the highways were their grave.
Simon Inconnu rode with a corps of a hundred and fifty
men, led by the other Simon, de Senlis, and he obeyed orders
like everyone else and like everyone else he thrust all
thoughts of pity behind a dungeon door in the back of his
head and slammed the bolts across. But if any of the others
were repeatedly aroused at dawn by a crescendo of agonising
hammer blows from the far side of the door in the mind, they
did not mention it.
Usually the agony in subsided once he was up;

his skull
twice nausea discharged and he pretended that something

it
had been wrong with his food the previous night. But each
morning seemed worse than the one before, and he began to
fear that he would not reach the end of the expedition with-
out falling ill. Trivial incidents tormented him. A shepherd
who cried to see his dog slain, haunted his mind persistently
afterwards. The more trivial the occurrence, the greater its
power of penetration, it seemed, just as the sharpest point is
the one that is ground most finely.

On the fifth day, they came to a lonely moorland hamlet
called Greenthorpe.
W^hen you were descending on an objective, sword out
and horse stretched to a gallop, there wâs a thrill. Your eyes
locked onto the buildings you meant to burn, like a hunting
cat's eyes on a chaffinch or a vole. It was this excitement, this
simple chemical response to stimulus, that had carriedSimon
through so far. Under its Green-
influence, as they surged into
thorpe hamlet, he dismounted and ran into the hall with
Goscelin and half a dozen others, kicked the fire to set the
straw floor-covering ablaze, and raced out again to remount
and join the human round-up.
A man, evidently the owner of
was shouting and
the hall,
expostulating as a couple of men-at-arms, one of them Si-
mon's man Alauger, herded him away from a large splay-
footed wôman who seemed to be his wufe. There was a gaggle
of frightened villagers, and a collection of children. Some of
the children seemed to belong to the splay-footed woman.

Two young girls were certainly hers, from the way they clung
to her for protection.
The big woman Normans, but they ignored
raved at the
her. A crippled boy eight was thrust roughly

of about
towards her by Mauger, leaning from his saddle. A plain little
girl with a skin eruption he treated similarly. She fell as he
pushed her and sprawled on the ground. A lad of about ten,

well built and pugnacious, ran from behind the big woman
and grabbed Mauger's leg. Mauger, caught off-balance just as
he was striking out with his sword, slithered to the ground.
He was up instantly, and as the boy charged him head-down,
he caught the lad by the arms and held him up for inspection.
"We'll count you as a man," said Mauger, grinning. The boy
read in Mauger's face more than the words had said, and
ducked awav, supple as a polecat, trying to escape. One of the

young girls ran from her mother's side to meet him. She put
her arms round him and said: "All right, I've got you." Simon,
riding up to yank the boy away, looked straight into the hor-
rified, pleading, angry grey eyes of the girl.
The splintering in his mind was virtually physical. He

would have said, had he tried to describe it, that the barred
door had broken at last. His ears sang and his sense of balance
faltered. He caught at the pommel to steady himself. He shook
his head to clear the dancing specks from his eyes. "Leave go,
lass," he said, using English, the northern idiom he had begun
to pick up of late, the Yorkshire word for a maiden, and now

the word that meant nothing. "There's nowt you can do. We
have our orders. It'll be quick. Give me the boy."
"No! No!"
"Yes, yes," said Mauger. He seized the boy by the tunic
and the girl by her brown braids and wrenched them apart
like the two halves of a drumstick. He tossed the boy to
another man-at-arms. "You're a pretty pigeon," he said to the
girl. She kicked out at him and screamed for her father.
Mauger's hand went under his byrnie to find the drawstring
at his waist. Simon slid off his horse and grabbed AJ.auger's
shoulder. Mauger swung to face him, mouth open in a shout
of rage. Simon's own shout drowned it.
"Leave my sister alone! " roared Simon.

Mauger gaped. Simon raised his sword. "My God, he's
gone mad! " Mauger yelled, and swiftly raised his own.
For Simon, the scenes reported to his brain by his eyes
had grown confused. Another set of scenes, partly repeating
those before him and partly, hideously, supplementing them,
had overlaid the real world. He did not know for sure where
he was: Yorkshire or Normandy. He did not know if he were
twenty-seven or seventeen, and whether this were December
or June. It had almost happened several times already during
this murderous expedition. It needed only a conjunction of

circumstances like this, repeating the essential features of
that far-off day, to bring the final breakthrough.He had seen
all this from a different angle, for that other
before, although
time he had looked down from a height. A girl, young, brown-
haired, and with those grey eyes that were the very colour
of his own, defensively clutching her young brother, crying
for her father, and a man reaching for his drawstring. The
girl's father now couldn't come; he was hemmed in by the
swords of de Senlis's men. The girl's father then couldn't

come; he was already pinioned on the earth of his own court-
yard. And then, that other time, Simon had not been able to
help her either but could only watch, trapped unseen behind
the crenellations of the wall above, his right leg splinted from
ankle to thigh and fever in his blood so that he saw and heard
what passed in the courtyard through the heightened senses
of pyrexia. As if they needed heightening. For what had fol-
lowed the rape was beyond belief and beyond bearing, made
even violation trivial, must be stopped, must be stopped, and
this time he was whole, with neither broken bones nor fever
and he could stop it and he would. This time he had a sword

and he could use it. It was quite clearly necessary, and he
wondered that he had not seen the necessity before, to kill
Mauger. He advanced briskly, with that plain intention.
Mauger met his overlord's serene, inhuman eyes and
yelled for help. It came. Hands clutched at Simon. De Senlis's

voice shouted his name. He evaded them, launched himself at
Mauger again. He wished people would stop shouting at him.

Didn't they know he had to kill Alauger?
"Inconnu! Inconmi! Put that sword up! Put it up, don't
you hear me?"
"I'm Mauger, don't you know me, I'm MaugerV
"He's mad, I tell you, he's bloody mad. He's always been
funny, wakes up screeching in the night. He's gone over the
edge!"
"Inconnu! Inconmir
He did not know whom they meant by Inconnu.
His name was Simon FitzTancred of St. Evroul. He went
on fighting.
He was not alone. Hehad companions. His muddled
head cleared for a moment and briefly he was back in York-
shire. Beside him was the owner of the hall they had just
attacked, gripping his pitchfork and battling at his side. His
adversaries seemed to be his own comrades. But it was right
for him to fight them because what they were doing, others
had done to Simon's family and it mustn't happen again. He
had let it happen then and he had a debt to pay. He had had
a sister and she was dead, and he had had a father too and a
young brother and he had neither saved them nor died with
them and . .
Sir Goscelin was among his opponents, but not a willing

opponent; his face and voice were full of appeal. Simon tried
to avoid him, finding him a distraction. The hall owner went
down. Then he found himself, as he had wanted, engaged one
to one with iMauger. His blade caught the edge of Mauger 's
shield and flipped it back. Mauger had never been a match
for him or anything like it. He drove under the shield and
found an easy mark in Mauger's body. Mauger fell. Good
riddance. Swan would be thankful. Sybil would live. No, that
was wrong, Sybil was already dead, had been dead for years,
had died ... oh no, oh God, let me not remember that, let me
not see it again, let it pass from my mind for ever. . .
His right arm was as heavy as stone. He did not think he
was wounded but his body seemed to have separated itself
from his mind. He was losing contact with his flesh. He
couldn't feel his hands and feet. Oblivion was coming. He
was toppling into it, and glad to topple. He was aware,
mistily, that Goscelin had sprung in front of him, was shout-
ing at the others to leave him, that he was ill, not treacherous.
Somewhere above it all, Simon de Senlis was bellowing:
"Don't kill him, disarm him, you fools!"
After that, there was nothing.
5 ^ The Obvious Solution
In the normal way, the advent of six women at the gates
of the Danish encampment by the Humber would have

caused only ribaldry. But not this time. Not these women.
These skeletal and the two gnomelike, swollen-
creatures
bellied children with them, these half-human things with the
tatters of filthy clothing wrapped about their gauntness, had
lost all attributes of sex. Their leader had been a big woman
once; now her yellowed skin hung in folds where the flesh
had melted from under it. "I had a Danish father," she said
to Brand, who was on gateward duty. "Does that entitle me to
ask succour from his fellow Danes? Will you let us in, to
shelter?"
When Hereward and Osbern came to them, the fugitives
were helping each other to eat the meat broth and bread that
Brand had ordered for them. The big woman was bathing the
enflamed feet of a younger girl. She said, in a voice from
which feeling had been expunged so that she seemed to be
reciting more than speaking: "We have come from what was
our home, to look for succour and vengeance and the assoil-
ing of our souls. Our men are dead, and our houses and all we
possess have been burnt. We need your swords. And we need
a priest."
"A priest?" said Osbern.
"You would be surprised," said the big woman, whose
name was Gilda, "at the things one does in the wilderness, to
stay alive. I said, a priest."
She would not have believed it once. She would have said:
I would rather die. But when it came to the point, she found
126
The Obvious Solution 121
paradoxically that it can take a surprising amount of energy
to die and that she had no energy left.

They had set out from the burnt farm; four women
herself and three of the villagers' wivês and a crowd of —
children, of whom Gilda's two lasses were the eldest. They
talked of making for York but the Normans had come from
that direction and they were afraid. "But my father was Dan-
ish/' said Gilda bravely, her face turned away from the great
ash heap that had been her hall, where all their food and the
bodies of the menfolk had been burnt. "I have travelled as far
as Humber-mouth myself, twice, to a fair and to a marriage. I
know way and that is where the Danes are camped. They
the
will avenge us. Come with me."
They met others on the wây. By the end of the second
day they were nineteen adults strong. They were all women,
all kinds of wômen, bond and free, young, mature, and aged.
were now many children. "And no food,"
In addition, there
"Water, yes. Plenty of streams. But no food.
said Gilda. We
passed two more villages, burnt out. There wâs nothing,
nothing to eat."
They had four small knives between them, and three tin-
der boxes. They made fires to sleep by at night. During the
second night an east wind rose, bringing pow^dery snow with
it. At daybreak two of the children were dead, one of them
Gilda's. "That was the start of the deaths," she said. But the
end of that road they still did not perceive.
They There was the first agony of
learnt about hunger.
desire and then the stomach cramps, the weakness, the faint-
ing. They learnt of the deathly cold of starvation, and of the
hallucinations. Not one but walked or stumbled with phan-
tasms of food before her eyes. On the third day they found a
little. One of the women was a pedlar's wife, a lean, black-
tressed creature with a foreign cast of face, slanting black
eyes, and high cheekbones. She had a child of four years old,
who from time to time burst into fits of angry screaming
because of his hunger. His mother had some useful skills. She
cut staves from a hazel copse and made them prod at holes in
wayside banks. They found some hibernating hedgehogs and

mice that day, and made a fire to cook them on. It meant a
scrap of lifegiving meat each. But that night the frost was
harder and the firewood did not last. In the darkness, they
could not cut more. The next day, one girl and her baby
were dead.
"We shared the clothes of the dead, for warmth," said
Gilda. "We walked more and more slowly." The constant cry-
ing of the children became a torment after a time; pity grew
frayed by the incessant demands that no one could meet.
Nerves already frail from lack of sustenance finally snapped.
Mothers shouted at their children to be quiet. One shook her
small daughter too hard and the child's neck broke. That
night, they heard wolves howl behind them where they had
left the body.
They toiledon along an endless moorland valley, be-
tween bare that rose white and bleak towards a sky as
hills
steely and unfriendly as Norman swordblades. But every

night took a toll of lives, and there came the day when Gil-
da's eldest daughter collapsed by the roadside as they were
setting out in the morning, and would not get up. She wanted
to sleep and forget her hunger, she said. Her mother would
not leave her but the delay was not long because the girl soon
died. The pedlar's child began to cry again and Gilda saw his
mother staring ravenously at the corpse. A human body, after
all, was meat. Gilda glared at her and took a shaky, defiant
step towards her and that time the monstrous thought re-
mained unspoken. But next day, an aged woman sank to the
ground and ceased to breathe, and the pedlar's woman, who
had knelt to feel for the heartbeat, drew her knife.
Gilda said: "No!" but her own voice sounded weak. The
slant-eyed woman said: "She's dead, ain't she?" Some of the
others cried out in horror. But not all. Some merely gazed at
the body with nothing in their faces but famine. Gilda pro-
tested again and the pedlar's woman got to her feet, knife
held chest high, blade flat, thumb on top. "The dead can't
feel.This knife's only for the dead. But get in my way and it'll
be for the living. My child's starving. Ain't yours?"
They turned away and let her do as she wanted. But
when she had made a fire . . . "The smell," said Gilda. "The
smell was too much. It was roast meat smell, just that, noth-
ing We were not strong enough." There was no one, by
else.
that day's end, who had not partaken of that atrocious meal.
A few threw up afterwards but by morning they were ready
to repeat the attempt. "You get used to anything," Gilda said.
"We went on. One day away from the
step at a time." A
camp, their numbers wêre down to six grown women and two
children; the pedlar's boy and, curiously, Gilda's lame lad
who despite his limp wâs sturdy. The last death, twenty-four
hours before they reached safety, had provided the survivors
with the strength to get there. "So we all need shriving," said
Gilda, mouthing hot broth. "And after that," she said in a
different voice, "we need revenge."
"And revenge," said Hereward, pulling his helmet roughly

off his head and flinging it spinning into a corner of the over-
crowded, fetid hut, "she will not get. The Anglo-Danish al-
liance is now a bad joke. You and I, my hearties, are all that's
bloody wêll left of the Anglo half of it. The noble Earl of
Huntingdon, Waltheof, son of the mighty Siward of North-
umbria, has surrendered. He's gone over to William in person.
While the equally noble Earl Gospatric has sent William a
pack of humble envoys with flexible knees and a perverted
liking for the taste of boot-leather. So our friend Osbern tells
me. That was the news he called me to hear."

"But . . . they know what happened, they must know!"
Thurnoth shouted. "There must have been others like Gilda,
."
they must have seen . .
"They did," said Hereward. "That's why they surren-

dered. Before worse befell." There was a silence.
The hut reeked of smoke and unwashed humanity. It
had floor space for fifty men to sleep packed but was not
meant for daytime occupation. Ships damaged in winter

storms needed repairs and they had expected to spend their
time working outside. But the thick snow of this January had
put a stop to that. They lived wedged inside now, passing the
days as best they could in refurbishing weapons, making
lyres, and singing. Out of doors, earth, sky, and river were
blanked out in whistling whiteness. Since Christmas, William
had gone on harrying; others would be dying now out in the
snowstorms, more of the \\omen and children to whom Wil-
liam's swords had shown such dubious mercy. It had been
said that on one foray, \\îlliam himself, with a party of com-
panions, had got separated from the army and lost in the
snow. A just Providence would have let him die of it. But he
had not died. He had cheered his men and kept them going
and brought them somehow back to safety out of the death
dance of the blizzard. It was being said too that his army,
some of whom had been close to mutiny because of the
forced marches he demanded of them through such appalling
conditions, as a result now regarded him with an admiration
close to worship. Among his enemies, despair was setting in.
God was not on their side. Among the English leaders now,
only Hereward of Bourne held to his course.
"So," said Hywel ap Olwen, sitting cross-legged on the
floor by "What now?"
the brazier.
"AA'hat indeed?" said Hereward. "We still have some fuel
to build Wîlliam's pyre with. Wt have King Sven. He'll arrive
by spring. Wt have the Danish force and the truce they made
with William that at least lets us stay put unmolested and
get our ships fit to sail. And we have our right arms."
Someone muttered that he would put more faith in those
than in King Sven or his Danes.
"They're the best we have," said Hereward shortly. "The
best Gilda and the others like her have. Gilda is a valiant
woman," he added. Alongrside Hereward's belief that women
were light-minded and timid ran a corresponding vein of im-
mense admiration for the few he had encountered who were
The Obvious Solutioii 131
not. "We also have Ely," he said. "When we can sail, we

propose — Osbern and — to sendI a mixed force of Danes and
English back to Ely to put it into a state of defence. It's a
valuable stronghold. Well, are you agreeable? Do we fight on
without Waltheof and Gospatric, or trot meekly at their heels
to make our peace with William? Which?"
A shout of collective indignation assured him that no one
proposed to trot meekly anywhere. "And follow those
cravens?" Eadsige One-Ear demanded. Brand of Fallowdene
said diffidently: "They want to keep others from going the
same way as Gilda, I think. Waltheof and Gospatric aren't
backward in battle." But he was shouted down. "They should
have died defending their people," Thurnoth threw at him.
"Not sat snug in hiding and then given in!" His eyes, which
were of a hard bright blue, fixed angrily on Brand. "Like calls
to like, perhaps. You have a weak streak in you. Brand. We
have always been afraid of it."
"My father," Hywel observed, "was a \îking sea-rover

and my mother was a Welsh fishergirl. Not one drop of En-
glish blood have I in me. But I am willing to die to drive the
Normans out Brand here lets the Norman
of England. W'hile
make
wôlves den in his house, and lets his daughter
their
bear their cubs. Brand and Waltheof are much alike, it seems
to me. When we go south again, we should give some atten-
tion to Fallowdene."
"I might have known," said Brand bitterly, "that you
would seize on any chance to bring that subject up."
But the silence all round him was endorsing Hywel.
Frustrated by the loss of their allies, by the increasing im-
possibihty of the task they had set themselves, Hereward's
band was in a mood to be tempted by an expedition that
sounded within its compass. Even Lame Odi, for all that he
owxd Brand, was not his friend in this.
And Hereward was going to stand back from it, because
Hereward was a leader who knew when to impose himself
and when to let the majority vote take charge. If he resisted
this, his followers' loyalty might swing from him to Hywel.

Hereward therefore was keeping silence. Brand was alone.
He He was tired, mainly of conflict. He had
felt tired.
had so much of it in his life, and this conflict now was the
greatest and hardest of all. He had not, till now, realised how
worn he was by it. He made one more attempt to defend
himself. "We have more important things to discuss than
Fallowdene. This news, of the earls' defection, is what mat-
ters now."
"They have withdrawn from the fight," said Hywel.
"And therefore, every little tiny means of continuing it must
be pursued by those still willing to pursue it. Fallowdene has
become very important indeed, it seems to me."
No pity in Hywel, and no understanding. And from
Hereward, silence.
"Well?" said Hywel. "We're waiting. Will you lead us
against Fallowdene and its Norman squatter? Or shall we go
without you? We'll spare your daughter's life. She can go into
a convent, like Gilda. We'll bring you back your son-in-law's
head and be content with that."
"Two alternatives," said Thurnoth, evenly, and from all
round came consenting murmurs.
"You're wrong," said Brand. "There is a third choice. I
can go alone."
While Hywel talked, resistance had been hardening in
him like a bar of iron. Fallowdene should not be sacrificed.
This third way would doom him. Brand, but it might pro-
tect his home. And his home mattered to him, while his life
did not.
"If there is a quarrel with the Norman who holds Fal-
lowdene," he said, "it is my quarrel, and not yours. It is a
personal quarrel, one man to one man. If I find my son-in-law
there, I will kill him if I can. If not, I will try to kill as many
as I can of the Normans who are there instead. But I will do
it alone. Fallowdene is my manor. Wulfhild is viy daughter. I
have the right. Does anyone say I have not?

"It's not a question of rights," said someone in whom
logic was still unfortunately more powerful than emotion. "If
he goes alone, it will be useless. He'll be killed and Fallow-
dene will stay as it is."
"No," Hereward, speaking for the first time. "One

said
man alone, in country he knows well, can do as much damage
as a squad. And in any case, Brand is right; this is his private
quarrel. In taking it up, he does all that can be asked of him.

Go, Brand. Bring us back a brace of Norman shields; they
might come in useful. Go with God."
He knew, of course. His voice said one thing, his eyes
another. He knew quite well that Brand had not the least
intention of shooting the Norman incumbents of Fallowdene
from ambush. He was going instead to ride boldly to Fallow-
dene and challenge the intruders openly, and let Providence
decide between them. He would almost certainly not return
but that, of course, was what he wanted. Let it be so.
The astonishing thing. Brand thought, was that it was
such an obvious solution. He wondered why it hadn't oc-
curred to him before. It was too difficult to fight the Normans
and protect Fallowdene at the same time, too difficult to re-
spond to Gilda's terrible need for vengeance, and simul-
taneously to the love he felt for Wulfhild. He proposed there-
fore to cease from responding to either. The only way to do
that was to cease to live. So he would die. Thankfully.
"I require," he said, "an undertaking, that whether I
come back or not, there will be no raid on Fallowdene by
you or your followers. Thane Hereward. I repeat, this is
my business."
Hywel demurred but Hereward, sensing the right mo-
ment to re-establish his authority, cut him short. "Brand has
asked me for an undertaking. It rests with me, not with you,
Hywel! I give it, Brand. Go in peace."
6 ^ %e Elusive Qrave
Brand rode down into the valley of Fallowdene on a soft

April morning with a lightheartedness he had not known since
boyhood. It was over. The long struggle for integrity, the
remorseless grinding of the millstones of opposing loyalties,
all were done with. He had made his peace with God, going
to Ely Abbey first, to ask Abbot Thurstan to shrive him.
Thurstan and Brother Leo alike had pleaded with him not to
go but when they saw he was determined, they promised him
their prayers. Their friendship and their indignation on his
behalf were a comfort now, a mantle to keep him warm on
the last journey of his life. It would be the last journey, of
that he was sure. He would keep his word. He would attempt
to rid Fallowdene of its Norman incubus. But since he was on
his own, he would be outnumbered.
He felt no fear, nor did he try to picture what awaited

him at the manor. He was in the hands of God now. The
village looked the same as ever; as if he had been away only a
few weeks. The folk who watched him pass did not recognise
him because he had kept his helmet on. The palisade gate
was open and he rode straight in. He was sliding his feet out
of his stirrups before it was borne in on him that if he had
come here to find a grave, Fallowdene was a most unsuitable
place in which to look for one.
It was the hall itself, to begin with. Shaggy, homely, and
welcoming, it had no aura of drama. Nor had its livestock.

His right foot descended into the midst of a flock of vocifer-
ous geese, led by an aggressive gander that he had to dis-
courage with a jab from his boot. Dogs came barking out of
134
The Elusive Grave 135
the hall. One bitch had a string of half-grown puppies behind

her. After the hounds came a girl whose face he recalled,
though he remembered her as younger, with her fair hair
loose. Of Normans, he could no sign. He stared at the girl
see
and said: "x\ren't you Swan?" and when she stared back
without answering, he pulled his helmet off. Her mouth
opened in surprise.
"My daughter," he said. "\\'ulfhild, is she here?" Swan
nodded and moved to take the pony. He resigned his mount
to her and made for the hall. Wulfhild \\'as there, sitting with
her feet on the coping of the hearth. \ child, a bov, more
than a year old, played on the floor beside her, with a pile of
painted wooden blocks. The child looked up when the door
creaked, and his eyes made Brand jump because they were
AWilfhild's eyes, beautifully set with the suspicion of a slant,
blue as cornflowers, or lightning. Wulfhild turned on her
stool and he saw that she was feeding a very young baby.
"Fatherl" she said, but softly, so that the ecstatically sucking
infant was not disturbed. ''Father
Brand said: "\\^here is your husband?" and was annoyed
to find that his voice had an emotional croak.
She had put on a little weight, he noticed, and there was
an air of physical well-being about her. But there were lines
between her eyes and a firmness about the mouth that might
become hardness one day. Since they parted, her life had not
been all happiness, clearly. "Where have you come from?"
she asked him and then, anxiously: "Is it safe for you? Come
to the fire and . .
."
"I said Brand doggedly, unyieldingly, "to see

want,"
your husband. You have one, I hope!"
Wulfhild smiled. "Yes. Let me introduce you to your
grandson, Richard, and your granddaughter, Blanche. Blanche
looked very like you w^hen she was born."
"Did she?" said Brand uncompromisingly. "But she and
her brother bear French names, I notice. If your husband is
not here, are any of his men in the house? I will speak to the
most senior of them."
The infant Richard seemed to have detected a kinship

between himself and the stranger. He now put out a small fat
hand and tugged Brand's cloak hem. The hounds had fol-
lowed the newcomer back into the hall and two of the pup-
pies were rolling each other over with playful growls. They
rolled between his feet. He had come here to find an honour-
able death and the place was awash with domestic trivia and
fecundity. He thought of Gilda, whose children were dead
and whose home with all its beloved small possessions and
daily tasks was burnt and gone. He looked at his daughter
angrily. "Your husband or his representative!" he snapped.
Her eyes widened. "Do you never," said Wulfhild coldly,
stopping him short as if she had slammed a door in his face,
"ask a person's name?"
He had never asked her mother's name. He had fathered
Wulfhild on the floor of a cowbyre and carried nothing away
from the encounter beyond the memory of vivid blue eyes.
Years later, he had apologised to Wulfhild for that omission
and she had taken it lightly ... he thought. But it must have
gone deeper than she admitted. "Very well," he said, "what is
your husband's name?"
"Sir Simon FitzTancred. He is here, but what is your
business with him?" She lifted Blanche to her shoulder, pat-
ting the baby's back.
Brand detached Richard and set him on a bench. "What
do you imagine my business is? This man has stolen my
land and .
."
.
"Stolen me? I was willing, I assure you. Father." Wulf-

hild set Blanche in a wooden cradle and called Editha's
name. The steward's wife appeared from the kitchen, check-
ing at the sight of Brand, about to burst into excited cries of
welcome. "My father has come home unexpectedly," said
Wulfhild quickly. "I am taking him to see Sir Simon. Look
after the children for a moment, will you? This way," she said
to Brand, leading him to the door. "It's just across the yard."
She hadn't understood him, obviously. "I am here, Wulf-
hild," he said, as he hastened after her, "to challenge your
"

husband. Don't you understand? To kill him if I can and
reclaim what belongs to me."
"I realise that," said Wulfhild. All pleasure and greeting
had gone out of her face. She led the way to the sleeping-
house that had once belonged to Brand himself, and threw
open the door. She stood aside for him. He went in braced for
anything, even an ambush. He stopped. From behind him, his
daughter said mockingly: "That's Sir Simon, there on the
couch. He has been there most of the time since he came
home from the north in February. Do you often haul deliri-
ous men from their beds in order to fight them, Father?
"But he's an old man!" said Brand, outraged. He was aware

that to be outraged because WiUiam had married his daugh-
ter to a second-rate Norman instead of a first-rate one w as in
the circumstances ridiculous. But he could not help it. Itwas
not right, said his paternal instincts wrathfully, that Wulf-
hild's man should have grey hair. She was too young for that.
"He's twenty-seven," said Wulfhild quietly. Brand strode
up to the couch.
Simon FitzTancred was a very sick man.
He was lying on his back, muttering now and then. It
was true that his face was young. But fever had consumed
the flesh, baring the outlines of the skull, and the dull skin
was The air about the bed smelt stale.
flaking.
Brand had come seeking death at this man's hands, but
there was no death for him in those thin, flaccid fingers. His
mission was slipping away, losing reality in the face of other
things that were more real. The children, whom he had now
seen for the first time. This man's malady, which cut him off
from all wars and feuding. And the tears that Wulfhild,
standing by the bed, was not troubhng to hide.
An old man, Fallowdene's last surviving thrall, was sit-
ting with Simon. "How is he?" Wulfhild said. "Has the fever
dropped at all?" The old man shook his head. Wulfhild, mis-
erably, knelt down by the couch.
Brand passed a hand across his forehead. The divergence
of reality from expectation had bewildered him. He found

suddenly that he was hungry, thirsty, and
had taken
tired. It
more strength than he knew% to ride directly towards his own

death. He found a stool and sat down on it. Wulfhild and the
thrallconferred in low^ voices. Then Wulfhild stood up.
"You've seen him now," she said to her father. The flash of
anger she had shown as they entered had gone. She had no
need to defend Simon from him now. "We'll go back to the
hall. You'll want food."
In the hall, Editha brought ale and meat pasties, and
had to be greeted at last, and heard out w^hile she expressed
her astonishment and excitement at seeing him. After that,
Wulfhild and Brand sat down by the hearth and surveyed
each other across four short feet of space, four long years of
estrangement, and the two small existences of Richard and
Blanche, and neither knew what to say. Until Brand asked
bluntly: "What is the matter with your husband?"
"It's a long story," said Wulfhild.
She told him, choosing her words, beginning with
Simon's arrival at Fallowdene under the name of Inconnu,
because he was a man without a past. When she said that
Simon had gone north with the king. Brand's heavy brows
drew together but he held back the urge to interrupt. Wulf-
hild, observing it, said: "You know^ King William. You served
him for thirteen years. His men do his bidding as the sword
in your hand does yours. He had no choice. Let me go on."
At a village called Greenthorpe, Simon's memory had
returned. "Because something that happened there was so
like something he had seen in the past, I think," said Wulf-
hild. "It seems that he shouted out that a girl one of his
men —Mauger—was threatening was his sister. He tried to

protect her. He
ended up fighting his own comrades and vir-
tually fighting on the same side as the Greenthorpe folk. He
killed iMauger. Then he was overpowered and taken to the
king at York. The leader he was riding with he was another —
—
Simon, Simon de Senlis was my husband's friend. He
wouldn't let the others kill him."
\\'illiam, it appeared, had hardly known what to do with
the prisoner. "He was sick in his head and raving," said Wulf-
hild. "No one could make sense of it. He kept on insisting that
iMauger had attacked his sister. Then he became more ra-
tional but he would start to rave again if questioned." Finally
William, who was hurried and not very interested in this

trivial affair, but concerned all the same to give a fair ruling
to man who had once done him
a valuable service, had
shruorcred and said: "The man is mad. If he can travel, send
him home."
"One of his men-at-arms, Rollo, brought him back," said
Wulfhild. "Simon was rational then, as long asno one ques-
tioned him. When he got here he told us, quite freely, that he
had remembered his name — Simon FitzTancred—and that he
had once seen his family massacred. But he wouldn't say
any more than that. iVfter that he hardly spoke to anyone at
all, about anything. He sat for hours, staring ahead of him as
though he were seeing . . . something terrible that we

couldn't see. Once or twice, very gently, I tried to ask him
but . .
." —her voice shook a little
— ". . . he would just get up
and walk away or was not to talk
else start to shout, saying I
about it, that he couldn't talk about it, that I was tormenting
him by making him think about it. But he was thinking about
it all the time, Father, whether I spoke of it or not. I could
see that. I thought if he could share it with someone, talk

about it, even once, he would be eased. It was as if his mem-
ories were burning him up from within. I think they are. He
went down after that with fever and it's never left him since.
It's subsided once or twice but it always comes back and now
it's getting worse." She was crying again. "If it goes on, he'll
die. It's burning his strength away. Sometimes I think his

memories must be so ugly that he uoants to die, to be free
of them."
"And you?" said Brand. "You don't want him to die?"
"Oh, dear God," said Wulfhild, shaking her eyes clear of
tears to look at him. "Do I look as if I do? What has Simon
ever done to me — except give me Blanche and Richard? Do
you want them left without a father? They're your grand-

children, remember. Do your"
Simon had fallen while trying to defend English villagers

ill
against \\ illiam. He
had been out of his mind at the time, but
nevertheless, those were the facts. This was Brand's anchor,
his justification to his absent comrades, and Gilda and all
those like her, for what he was about to do. His justification
to Wûlfhild was that if someone did not do something soon,
Simon would die anyway; yes, there was a risk, but what had
she to lose? She listened doubtfully, and then said very well,
she would pray. She would be needed to do more than that,
said Brand. He would need help. She must assist him. First
of all, thev must stoke the sickroom brazier and wrap the
patient up in all the rugs they could find. The fever must
come down.
"We've done that already," Wûlfhild said. "It gets the
fever down for a while, but every time it leaves him weaker."
"I only want to get it down for a little, so that I can talk
to him," said Brand. "He doesn't know anyone as he is."
Brand marvelled all over again at the effort he was prepared

to expend, to save his enemy's He hoped to God that he
life.
was going the right way about it. He wished that Brother Leo
were here.
What, he asked himself, had Leo said about Odi? That
the mind could be wounded like the body and that Odi
should be encouraged to talk because it would cleanse the
wound. It had worked up a point. Odi had been turned from
speechless withdrawal and back into a functioning human
being, albeit a sour one. With. Simon, AAûlfhild had already
reached the conclusion that it was his silence that was de-
stroying him. If so, then the silence must be broken. In this,
Simon's weakness might be his salvation.

They built up the brazier till the temperature in the
room was tropical. \\ûlfhild sweated inside her heavy wool-
len clothes; Brand had stripped to the waist. Simon's face wâs
flushed but still dry, and he seemed to be in a stupor. Brand
The Elusive Grave Ml
settled himself on a stool and signed to Wulfhild to take an-
other. "Now," he said. "We wait."
Presently he rose, leant over Simon, and touched his skin
with a fingertip. "The sweat's beginning," he said.
Conversation lapsed. The hours went by. They gave Simon

drinks, replenished the braziers, changed bedding, took turns
to sleep. Dame Editha brought them food, tiptoeing, her eyes
full A night went
of questions that could not yet be answered.
by. At daybreak. Brand roused from a doze to see Simon
looking at him. "Who are you?" said Simon faintly.
Waking from a similar doze, with her back propped
against the wall, Wulfhild said: "That's my father, Simon.
He's come to see us." She turned to Brand. "Pray God you're
in the right of it," she said softly, and left the room.
Desperation set in within minutes of beginning the attempt

to make Simon talk. He did not want to answer questions and
itwas cruelty to press him.
He was entirely lucid now and not at all inimical. He
said, weakly but calmly, that he was happy to meet Wulf-
hild's father and glad that they could converse in French. He
knew that the marriage couldn't be to Brand's taste but

wished to say that he meant to be a good husband to Wulf-
hild. He was sorry he was too ill to get up and behave as a
host should. Perhaps Brand would excuse him now, he was

very tired. He did not sleep well these days. He was so liable
to nightmares. His voice slipped at that point, into an ab-
normal timbre.
"I know of the nightmares, and their cause," said Brand,
going in for a direct attack because there was no other way.
"You your memory and got it back. But you've never told
lost
anyone exactly what it was that you remembered. You
should, I think. Will you tell me?"
"No, I will not!" said Simon, and the high, hysterical
note was there again. Much as Odi had done, he rolled over,
turning his back. Brand said: "Would you tell the priest, if I
M2 REVELATIONS, 1069-1070 A.D.
fetch him?" There was no answer. Brand wondered what Leo

would do now. He thought about his friend, about Leo's
compassion and skill and his essential toughness. '*Do you
want to get well?" he demanded of the man on the bed. "Or
not?" Simon peered back at him over a humped shoulder.
"No," he said.
"Your wife wants you well again. You should recover if
you can, for your family's sake. The family you have now, I
mean. I know you lost the one you were born into. What did
happen, that day? Tell me!
Simon sat up propped on arms that
feebly, his weight
shook, and glared at Brand. He uttered a sound somewhere
between a snarl and a retch, and then flung himself down
again, curled into a foetal ball. In the safe warm womb there
were no nightmares. Brand hesitated for a full five minutes,
experiencing desperation and compunction. At the end of the
five minutes he seized Simon's rugs and wrenched them off.
He must go on now, or give in. It was cruel, yes, as cruel as
the point that lances the boil, or the hands of the bonesetter
on the snapped tibia. But it might well be Simon's only
chance.
"You had better tellme," said Brand, and was amazed at
the authority in his own "For neither of us is going to
voice.
leave this room, and I will not stop asking you, over and over
again, until you do. Do you hear me, Simon FitzTancred?"
It took thirty hours. Again and again, Brand almost gave up.
Again and again it seemed to him that this attempt to recall
Simon to life must drive him out of it instead. What held
Brand to his course was a conviction, which felt as though it
were coming not from himself but from somewhere outside
him, that he was doing right. Again and again he conjured
Brother Leo in his mind and asked what to do, and every
time, the imagined Leo said: "Go on."
Simon fought. Alternatively he swore at Brand and ig-
nored him, turning his back in feeble resentment and block-
ing his ears from Brand's insistent voice. Wulfhild withdrew
completely from the contest, unable to endure it. Day gave
way to evening and evening to the second night. At the
lowest point of the night, when the darkness outside was at
itsmost intense and the world most silent, the fever reap-
peared. Brand, who had not slept at all, stood over the couch
and argued with his patient, as weird a species of doctoring,
he thought, as could well be conceived. "Simon, you have no
plague, no marsh fever. This illness is something you are
doing to vourself. It won't free you of your memory. To do
thatyou must empty the memory into someone else's mind.
You must talk to me. Talk to me, Simon. Tell me what hap-
pened that dav."
Simon turned away again but the fever rose no higher.
He slept and Brand, exhausted, droused too. He woke as the
room lightened, and helped Simon out of bed to relieve him-

self. Simon drank some water and said he wâs hungry. Brand
felt his forehead and found the skin cool. As the day passed,
this state of affairs held, but there was a change of a new kind
in Simon, an increased frenzy in his resistance, as though he

were despairing of driving Brand away. In the afternoon he
slept again and when he woke. Brand at once went to him
and reiterated, hoarsely now% the demand that Simon should
tell him of the day he lost his family.
Simon cursed him.

He had cursed before in the course of this curious duel
but not in this way, not with this depth of feeling, not with
these extreme obscenities. Brand let the obscenities wâsh
over him, knowing them for a sign of imminent victory. At
the end of the outburst, Simon leant back against his pillow.
x\nd gave in.
"All right, I'll tell you. You'll wish I hadn't." He spoke

fast, almost gabbling, "or you will if you're the kind of man I
think you are. Listen."

His father, he said, had had a knight's fee near St.
Evroul. "A place called Harville. iMy mother died young. I
had a brother of six years old and a sister aged twelve. Sybil,
her name was. I was seventeen, then. My father never sent
me away to learn a knight's business as most fathers do. He

said he wanted to know what his sons were being taught. I
stayed at home and learnt from him. I broke my leg riding at

the quintain. Our house was like a little castle had to be, —
there were so many brigands about. We had a palisade and a
stone hall like a keep in miniature, with crenellations on top
and a flat roof. I was ill; the leg was cut as well as broken,
and the cut enflamed. I was restless, shut indoors. Sybil it —
was Sybil who thought of it suggested that on warm days —
my bed should be put on the roof so that I could see into the
courtyard. Twelve years old, that was Sybil, fond of me,
thinking of His voice faded for a moment
ways to help . .
."
but returned; having begun he did not seem to want to turn

back. "She had grey eyes and black hair. That girl at Green-
thorpe had the same kind of eyes. I thought she njoas Sybil. I
thought . . . well, I band of men
was up on that roof when a
burst in one afternoon. The gate was open. Most of the ser-
vants had gone to a market in the town. We were expecting
them back. But the family hadn't gone. If only they had. If
."
only Sybil had . .
Brand sat still, keeping his face quiet, while his belly
muscles contracted and contracted again. The men had found
the remaining servants, and Sybil and her nurse, and Simon's
father and brother, and got them together in the courtyard.
They seemed to know something about the household be-
cause they asked where Simon was. "They shouted their
questions. I could hear." Simon's father said that his son was
visiting relatives in the Rouen district. Then the men spoke
together and this Simon could not hear. But he heard them
laugh, and saw Sybil clutch at her small brother as if to pro-
tect him. Then one of the soldiers had dragged the two chil-
dren apart.
At Simon had hauled himself off his pallet and
this point,
tried to shout over the wall but no one could hear him be-
cause Sybil was screaming. "Rape," said Simon shortly. He
stopped. "G<9 onT said Brand fiercely. Simon gulped air and
did go on, faster and faster, tumbling it all out. The details of
The Elusive Grave M5
the monstrous perversion of human ingenuity down there in
the courtyard. The degradation of terror, the reduction by
agony of the human to the animal. The deaths, years too soon
and an eternity too late, of servants he had known all his life,
of his father, of the children. A boy of six, a girl of twelve:
even they were not able to command the blessing of quick
annihilation.
Helpless, trapped, Simon had seen and heard it all. He
had quickly ceased even to think of calling attention to him-
self. He had lain and sobbed at his own terror as well as at
the horror below. When it was finished, it was night and the
men were sated. They went, without searching the house or
firing it. He shocked beyond grief, till he
lay there weeping,
heard steps coming up the stairway. He thought it was one of
them but it wâs Hubert, the steward, who had hidden in a
cornloft throughout the killings and so survived. Hubert got
him down, singlehanded, sliding him down the steps on a
table top, so that the splinted leg would not be jarred. "He
took me in a cart to his brother's home a few miles off," Simon
said. "I got better, slowly. When I could, I took a horse — it
belonged to Hubert's brother —

and rode back. The place
was deserted. The other servants must have come back at some
point — and then fled. The bodies were gone; someone must
have taken courage to stay and bury them. But there were
still signs. There were traces of the fire they used to heat . . .
their spearpoints, and the ground was scuflFed in places

where. ... I just turned the horse and rode away. I didn't
know^ where I was going. I rode and rode, galloping mostly,
till the horse was exhausted. Then ." For the first time
. .
Simon looked directly at Brand. "I came to myself sitting at

the roadside, holding the horse's reins, without a memory to
my name except that in a way I did still know my name. I am
called Simon. When I wandered off to find lodgings, I asked
my way at a fork in the road and they told me that the right
fork went to the abbey of St. Peter and the other to St.
Simon had a familiar ring so I took shelter there.

Simon's. St.
The abbot named me Simon after the abbey but it isn't the
coincidence it sounds. It was a half-memory, only I didn't

know it. Until Greenthorpe." His fingers moved restlessly on
the fur rugs on top of him. "I didn't knov/ when I was lucky,
did I?" he said bitterly. "All those years, wishing I could
remember past. Now I can and it never leaves me alone.
my
happened yesterday
It's as if it all ." . .
He broke off and rolled over. Brand waited, and let the
natural processes of release come and go. After a time, a long
time, the harsh crying died away. Quietly, Brand said: "Do
you know who did it? Did you see the shield devices?"
The silvered head moved from side to side. "No," said
Simon's muffled voice. "They threw their shields aside in a
heap. remember that. All higgledy-piggledy. Too far away
I
for me anyhow."
to see,
Brand knew the St. Evroul district. He knew whose terri-
tories were adjacent. He also knew which lord Simon now
served. Simon turned over again and said: "We had no quar-
rel with Mabel Talvas. We were nothing to do with the
Giroyes. I'll never know, I suppose." His tone revealed his

exhaustion. "It was how long?
. . . more than ten years . . .
ago. It was 1059, June. I did ask Hubert if he knew who they
were, but he didn't. He was working in the byre when he
heard one of the maidservants scream and he just peered out
of the door, once. Then he spun round and made for the
ladder to the loft and lay there with his hands over his ears.
They didn't do a proper search; just seized all the people who
chanced to be about in the courtyard and the hall. He was
lucky. But he never saw who they were. Or so he said. I was
very weak, still, even when I rode off to look at my home
again. He may have thought ...
"I suppose," said Simon slowly, after a pause, "that he
may have known more than he told me."
"I wonder," said Brand. "If he's still alive."
In the night, Wulfhild lay close to Simon as if his body might

warm the fear out of her bones. Terrifying as the rumour of
an advancing horde, or the event of plague in the house, was
the threat that now lay over her home. "Do you think that
Goscelin will bring back news from Normandy?" she asked,
knowing that Simon did not know either, but too afraid to
forbear a plea for reassurance.
"It's a slight chance," said Simon. "Hubert may be dead,
and perhaps he only knew what he told me, any But in case.
when Goscelin came back from the north and said he wanted
leave to visit his home, which isn't far from St. Evroul, and
volunteered to search for Hubert while he's there ... I
couldn't forbid him. If there is any way to find out the truth,
I must take it."
"I know." She did know. Even Fallowdene was of no

account, beside the horror that had overtaken Simon's kin.
Simon had shared with her only the outline of that last day at
his home, but the outline was enough. She thought: What if it
had been my father, or Blanche and Richard, or Simon him-

self? But still, within her, the prayer took silent shape. "Oh
God, let Goscelin return without news. Let it be impossible
to learn any. Or if not impossible, then let the killers not be
the Talvas clan, for that would mean the end of us all. God,
please, not the Tal vases, no!"
They did not sleep that night, nor did they talk any
more. They lay and comforted each other by their mutual
two children
presence, like afraid of the dark. And wondered
where Goscelin was now.
Goscelin had returned from the north, riding with Sir Alain
of Beechtrees. Brand, which was fortunate, had gone by then,
bound for the company of friends whose whereabouts he
would not discuss with Simon or Wulfhild. Goscelin had
seemed the same as ever; young, merry, fastidious in dress.
Whatever he had seen and done in the north, he had the gift
of separating himself from it, it appeared.
But, touchingly, he had not separated himself from
Simon's distress. He had been glad to see Simon recovering,
and shocked at the weakness that the illness had left behind,
which looked as though it would be slow to depart. He had
M8 REVELATIONS, 1069-1070 A.D.
been horrified at the story that Wulfhild, briefly, told him. He

offered at once, since Simon would not be strong enough to
sit a horse for a long time yet, to go in search of Hubert.
He could visit his own home, he said, and combine the two
errands.
They let though Wulfhild had misgivings. They
him go,
had kept Simon's story largely concealed from Alain Fitz-
Hubert of Beechtrees, but one of his men had lately acquired
a habit of reappearing in Fallowdene because he was at-
tracted to the now-widowed Swan, and of necessity. Swan
had had to hear the tale of Greenthorpe. Wulfhild had often
been sorry for Swan, but had no opinion of her good sense, or
her discretion.
News came, after a time, that Goscelin had taken ship
from Chichester. But after that Goscelin, the young, the
merry, the fastidious, vanished into silence.
ParL.
Ill
C0NFR0NT71TI0NS
1070-1072 A.D.
1 ^ Unhallowed
CNorman Jiands
Earl Wâltheof of Huntingdon approached the Winches-

ter Council Chamber with a bold stride, trying to look confi-
dent. The palms were damp.
of his hands
He had excused himself from the earher part of the
Easter Sitting of 1070 on the grounds that the business was
mainly ecclesiastical. But he could put it off no longer. He
had been summoned to attend today. And he did not know
what kind of reception awaited him.
Since his surrender the previous winter, he had avoided
the court. But having sworn his fealty to \Mlliam and being
confirmed anew in his earldom, he had tacitly accepted the
responsibilities that went with it — one of which was to attend
what in other days had been called the Witan Council and
was now simply the Council, but was essentially the same
thing except that its importance now was even greater. He
had gathered already that the Ecclesiastical Sitting with
which the had opened had been an earthshaker. Wil-
session
liam had sprung a Papal Legate, backed up by a couple of
Roman cardinals, on the assembly, and announced his inten-
tion of reforming the lax English Church. He had then
booted half the English bishops out of office on the grounds
that their appointments had been irregular or else that they
had not overseen their flocks punctiliously enough. Arch-
bishop Stigand of Canterbury had been among the first casu-
1)1
152 CONFRONTATIONS, 1070-1072 A.D.
alties. Now there were rumours of a French or Norman

prelate being imported for Canterbury, as had been done at
York when Archbishop x\ldred died. Waltheof considered it
in poor taste for the man who had loosed the holocaust on the
north to raise scandalised eyes to Heaven and summon a
Papal Legate because a few parish priests had been human
enough to get married, or because a few bishops had not been
appointed according to the letter of the law. But he had not
said so. Just now, it was necessary for Waltheof to be careful
what he said, to anyone.
He had, and he knew it, a record of vacillation that
merited uncomplimentary comparison with an aspen leaf. He
had started off bravely enough with a valiant performance at
Hastings, and his surrender that same autumn, if hasty, was
not discreditable. It had helped to restore order. But he had
followed that with a tour of Normandy virtually arm in arm
with William, and then with an indignant flight from the
latter's court because his promised Norman bride was not
forthcoming. He had promptly joined the rebels in the north,

flourishing a battleaxe and shouting traditional warcries. And
then he had broken faith with the rebels too. Again for a
reason: the devastation of Yorkshire had appalled him. But
here his rampart of good reasons collapsed. His proper course
now would be retirement to exile. He hadn't gone. He was
not quite thirty and his life lay ahead. He wanted the estate
he had been bred for, the lands and revenues and the place
near the seat of power. He could not face exile. He admitted
it to himself, as he walked into the Council Chamber.
But he might have to pay to avoid it. He did not know

how his fellow councillors would greet him, and he feared
that greeting. Waltheof was as nearly fearless on a battlefield
as a man could be, but at the thought that at the sight of
him men might turn their heads away and talk pointedly to
their neighbours, or else stare at him in silence, his spirit
quailed like a salted snail.
To his relief, nothing of the kind happened. Men were
standing about in groups, not yet in their seats, for the most
" —
Unhallowed Norman Hands 153

part. Several nodded in acknowledgement; some murmured
(jreetinors of a conventional kind. A number stared, but more,
it seemed, with interest than condemnation. One of the
younger Council members, Ralph the young Earl of Norfolk,
beckoned to him.
AA'altheof went towards him, though doubtfully. He
knew Ralph well enough to know that if there were one man
in the entire court who was likely to make uncomfortable
remarks, he was the one. Ralph of Norfolk was a disconcert-
ing young man even to look at. He was pure Breton, which
meant pure Celt, and though his father had served at King
Edward's court, so that Ralph had known England all his hfe,
he wôuld never melt into an English background. His mother
had been a volatile woman of great beauty and some said —
mystic powers. Ralph was like her. He was lithe and hardy,
with very black hair, melodramatic eyebrows slanting up at
the outer corners, and Hght eyes that had the greenish trans-
lucency of ice-water. He also had beautiful teeth, which he
showed in a dazzling grin whenever one of his acute remarks
went home. Many people, mostly men, did not like him.
Women, on the contrary, mostly did.
He used that unnerving grin as Waltheof reached his
side. "Welcome to the Council. Have you heard what the first
item on the agenda is?
"The new abbot for Peterborough, I believe," said

Waltheof. "Since the old one's dead. I heard that the new
candidate couldn't get here in time for the rest of the church
business, so we're dealing with him today. A man called
Turold, isn't he? A Norman."
"Yes, and with military experience. He'll need it since
Peterborough's in the Fens, and the old abbot was related to
that madman Hereward who was with you in the north, and
who is now said to be holed up in Ely with
a pack of Danes.
Hereward's got the Abbot of Ely under his thumb. This is a
grand opportunity to make sure he no longer has friends in
Peterborough as well. Peterborough's so rich, people call it
the Golden Burgh."
15^ CONFRONTATIONS, 1070-1072 A.D.
"I know," said Waltheof. "Huntingdon's next door to the

fen country."
Ralph grinned "Of course you do. But it's clear
again.
that there's something else you don't know. Turold isn't the
first item on the agenda. Only the second. You're the first."
"Me!"
"It's all right." Ralph took his upper arm in a friendly
grasp. "No need to look so horrified. You want to get married,
don't you? The first item —it's supposed to be confidential, of
course, but it leaked out — is your betrothal to the Lady
Judith. Let me be the first to congratulate you."
Brand arrived back in Ely before the end of April, having

prudently left Fallowdene as soon as he felt sure that Simon
was mending. Once there, he presented his comrades with an
ultimatum.
He had come back, he said with arms uncompromisingly
folded across his chest, because he had promised King Har-
old's widow that he would go on with the fight, and because
he had seen Gilda. But he would not pursue that fight in his
own home, against his own

and he did not consider his
kin,
son-in-law to be one of the enemy. He told them why. Simon
had fought against his own men at Greenthorpe and that,
said Brand, was enough. He, Brand, had helped to heal
Simon's illness afterwards and he would not apologise for it.
If necessary, he would leave Ely. Wild Edric was still alive in
Mercia, he believed. He wôuld offer his sword to Edric. The

matter of Fallowdene, he said, was closed. And if they didn't
like it they could each, individually, one at a time here . . .
Brand's remarks became less dignified and somewhat technical.

"Wê couldn't, you know," said Hereward solemnly, eyes
bright with appreciation. "It isn't possible."
"He's showing his soft streak," said Hywel ap Olwen.
The twins grunted in agreement. "Sorry for a Norman, just
as I always said he would be, one of these days. Are wt going
to accept this, boys?"

"I can tell you one Norman I'm not sorry for!" said
Unhallowed Norjnan Hands 15^
Brand, raisincr his voice above what threatened to be a de-
structive hubbub. Hereward, once more riding with the
temper of his men, was obviously not going to interfere. "I
picked up a bit of useful news on the way here. The old

Abbot of Peterborough is dead," said Brand. "Thane Here-
ward's uncle, I was ."
believe he . .
"We know that! " That was Thurnoth.

". .he is to be replaced. I see you haven't heard. You'll
.
be interested." He knew as he spoke that what he was doing

would not please his friend Brother Leo. But if he didn't tell
them, they would learn it from some other source in time,
and he also knew very well that if they learnt it now, it would
be a superlative distraction from Fallowdene. For one thing,
it would rouse Hereward. "The new abbot," he said, "and
custodian of the treasures of the Golden Burgh, is to be a

Norman. He is on his way to take charge of it. With a squad
of knights."
Abbot Thurstan, sitting at his desk with a vellum roll lying
before him, seemed to shrink into his chair as he looked at

Brother Leo. "Who told you this?" he asked, half -whispering.
When Leo first came in, his abbot's expression of harassed
conscientiousness had said: cojildn't it wait till tomorrow? It
had altered now.

"Snorri," said Brother Leo. "Dame Withburga's son.
While was tending him after Osbern's Danes beat him half
I
to death to make him agree to supply them with eels free,

regularly. It seems that the Danes think everyone is so afraid
of them that they can say and do as they please, get drunk
and boast of their exploits and plans, and no one will act
against them. But Snorri had heard them swaggering and
shouting in the street the day before and he told me what
. . .
he heard." He added: "I was so glad to see Brand of Fallow-

—
dene back and safe. So proud as no monk should ever be
to hear that he healed this man Simon with knowledge he
learnt from me. And so puzzled that he had not come to the
abbey to tell me all about it. Now I know why he didn't
n6 CONFRONTATIONS, 1070-1072 A.D.
come. He is on the other side, now, though I fancy not with-

out a conscience about it."
"Oh dear Christ," Thurstan picked up the vellum roll

and helplessly put it down again. "I've no love for the Nor-
mans. That is a letter to tell me that the Norman Sheriff of
Cambridgeshire has just helped himself to another of our
abbey manors. Rode in two days ago and took over without a
by-your-leave. All dues henceforth to go to Sheriff Picot in-
stead of Ely. Barefaced theft. But this . . . for the Danes and
Hereward, Hereward of all people, to be preparing to raid
Peterborough !" . . .
"To save the treasures from the unhallowed grasp of the

Norman Turold," said Leo. "Well, Hereward sacked Bourne."
"We must warn the abbey. Did Snorri know when it
would be?"
Leo said grimly: "Tonight."
2 ^ Jhe Qolden Bur^h
The wall had been built round Peterborough Abbey be-

fore the turn of the century. That was the last stage of recon-
struction after it had lain ruined for more than a hundred
years, since the Danes sacked it in 870. But a wâll alone,
the monks unhappily recognised, wâs not enough. It needed
armed men too and they had none. Once, they had had the
Thane of Bourne. But now the world had gone mad, friend
turning overnight into foe. The Thane of Bourne was the
enemy they now dreaded, the menace that crept towards
them through the moonlit fenland waterways from The
Wash, accompanied, unbelievably, by their ancient foes the
Danes. While the Norman Abbot Turold, of whose appoint-
ment they had at first heard with such outrage, now figured
in their minds as an anorel. He was said to be on his way and
said to be escorted by a hundred and sixty French knights.
They longed for those knights, as drought-stricken fields long
for rain.
The altar candles and the torches in the nervous hands
of the monks shed a restless light over the lovely stonework of
the church of Peterborough. Gold and silver crosses and
shrines glittered, light fragmented in their chasing. Incense
sweetened the air. Outside, the moon was nearing the full
and had turned the marshland ground mist to silver gauze.
The monks, w^ho had gathered in the church in response to
a sanctuary-seeking instinct, pallidly faced the frightened
novice who had been on guard on the walls and whose urgent
banging on a gong had brought them running. "I saw their sails
in the moonlightl" he panted. "A long way off yet, but . .
."
in
All eyes turned to Brother Athelstan of Ely, the red-

headed monk who had brought them the warning from Ely,
making his way to them across the Fens only three hours
since."They won't harm us, will they?" someone asked fear-
fully."They didn't harm you on Ely. They're not pagans, are
they? Not like the Danes who ?
. . .
Not like the Danes in 870, who had beheaded Abbot

Hedde on his own altar steps and let the head bounce down
them to the floor, before going on to slaughter all his monks,
sick and elderly notwithstanding. They had one of their
number bedridden in the infirmary now.
"No, they're not like that," said Brother Athelstan, but
with an irony that did not raise their hopes. He glowered and
his ginger tonsure bristled. "The Danish leader Osbern hears
Mass every day at A\îtchford," he informed them. "I've seen
him myself, with his great hairy paws folded on the altar rail
and his housecarles all lining up behind him like a lot of
schoolboys. They're Christians right enough. They won't
harm you. As long as vou cooperate."
"Co cooperate?" somebody else stammered.
. . .
"Cooperate. The object of this raid is to avert the scan-

dal there would be if this Norman abbot, this ferocious, war-
like,ungodly Norman ..."
"I wish he were here," groaned the monk who was acting
abbot since old Abbot Brando had died, and who felt his
responsibility as though it were a cope of lead.
". . were to get his hands on the wealth of the Golden
.
Burgh. I am quoting the Danes, who swaggered their inten-

tions all over Witchford. It will be your treasure or your lives,
I promise vou."
"If Turold doesn't come," said the acting abbot, clinging
to hope.
He might come. There was a chance. They knew where
he was. He and he had sent his time-
wâs travelling overland
table ahead so that they should be ready with a fitting wel-
come. He should be at Stamford now^ and was due to reach
Peterborough the next day. Stamford wâs not very far. An
The Golden Burgh 159
hour since, they had seen their sacristan Yware set off for it.
They had piled Yware's mule with all the precious goods it
could carry; gospels and vestments and small valuables. If he

could not bring aid in time, these at least might be saved. But
he might be in time. He might.
If not . . . they glanced round them at the crosses and
shrines had been beyond the mule's capacity. The
that
church was full of them; so were the abbey buildings and its
other chapels. If the worst came to the worst . .
"If it comes to it, we must fight," said the acting abbot,

forcing resolution into his voice. "However ill-equipped wx
feel ourselves for such work."
One of the brethren crashed a fist down on a silver shrine
and sent the candlelight sliding and dancing. "Ill-equipped?
Are we men or not, under these robes? Are there not enough
of us to hold a gateway?
"We've no weapons," said a novice affrightedly.
"We've knives in the kitchen and pitchforks in the barn.
Would you like to face an angry man with a pitchfork? We've
woodaxes and stones! We have these, even!" The wrathful
monk reached above his head and heaved a bronze and silver
crucifix from its hook. "Put that back!" shouted the acting
abbot.
The monk stopped. "You think it blasphemous?" he
asked seriously.
"No, foolish." The acting abbot had command of him-
self now. "They'll snatch it from you. Find a pitchfork instead
and take a vow to stick that into Osbern's Danish gizzard. I

myself," he said vigorously, "intend to apply a meat chopper
to the scurrilous red head of Abbot Brando's beloved kinsman
Hereward. Arm yourselves, my brothers, and let us get to
the walls!"
"Ship oars!"
Wet oarblades gleamed in the moonlight as they were
lifted out of the water. The vessels rested on the stream. "We
wait for daybreak," said Hereward.
An owl hooted tremulously. If dawn were near, there

was no sign of it yet. Brand sat with his knees drawn up for
warmth and thought that this expedition reminded him of the
attack on Bourne. Hereward's unblinking willingness to de-
scend with an armed force on places he said he cared for was
one of his oddest characteristics.
He had made out a good case for it, as Brand had ex-
pected. Gambled on, indeed. He could not tolerate, said
Hereward, the thought of foul Norman fingers closing on the
sacred treasures of the abbey his family had fought to de-
fend. He had actually had tears in his eyes at that point. His
expressive hands drew crosses in the air. He pressed his
palms together in worship of a rood conjured from the sky
and drew his sword to protect an imaginary shrine from an
invisible foe. Since the promised adventure had done every-
thing Brand could possibly have hoped for in the way of
taking attention away from Fallowdene, and since it had
offered him a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of his
friends and return to the business of being part of the resis-
tance, he had displayed enthusiasm. But he was wondering
now if they would ever get to the real point of their activities,
the ejection of King William from England and the enthron-

ing of King Sven. Sven was reported to be in the Humber
with a fleet; a chimera at last become real. Genuine action
might be near. Brand hoped so.
The sky was paling. The abbey walls were emerging
slowly into view. A warbler started to sing in the reeds. The
sun came up, red and barred across with smoky cloud. Here-
ward drew his blade and raised it to catch that ominous light
on the polished steel. "Unship oars! " he said.
They landed on grass grey with dew. The abbey gate
was shut. They formed up in front of it and Hereward
sounded his trumpet. A shower of stones at once hurtled
down on them. One of the Danish housecarles, struck on the
elbow by a heavy piece of rock, stumbled to one knee, his
arm hanging limp. Hereward strode up close under the gate,
cupped his hands round his mouth, and shouted.
"You in there! Can you hear me?"

"\\> hear you!" \ôices from the other side of the gate
answered instantly. "Who are you? Hereward of Bourne?"
"lam!''
"Then what are you doing here with armed men, march-
ing on us like invaders? You swore to defend us!
"Fm here to defend you, you fools!" Hereward roared.
"I'm here to take the abbey treasures to safety before a Nor-
man gets possession of them. Do you wânt to see them in
enemy hands? \\t mean you no harm. Wt will stay and pro-
tect you from Turold when he comes!
"For your information," retorted the invisible speaker
beyond the gate, "we have sent to Turold, who is our lawfully
appointed abbot, to come and help us defend ourselves from
you. He will soon be here. He was in Stamford last night. The
Kingdom of God knows neither Norman nor English. Go
home, Hereward. You're not wanted here!"
Hereward went back to his forces and nodded at Osbern.
Osbern said: "Bring fire!
The gate was stout but it was also timber. \\^hen the fire
had a hold, they brought a tree trunk and the ram thudded
against the weakening fabric until, groaning and splintering,
the two great leaves of the gate parted. They crashed in-
wards, and the monastery and church, framed by tall columns
of flame from the burning gateposts, were before the assail-
ants. A crowed of monks, dark-cowled and determined, stood
in the way. As Hereward and Osbern and their foUowêrs

sprang over the smouldering debris, another volley of stones
came through the air tomeet them.
The resistance was strong. Hereward had said they were
not to kill monks if they could help it, but they wêre not
going to help it for long, that was clear. The monks had
weapons that were homely but not the less dangerous for
that. Brand warded off a swinging stave and closed hand to
hand with a monk brandishing a murderous knife. It had

most likely been purchased for chopping suet, but it was
newly sharpened and that bright edge would chop men just
as well. The monk also possessed a most ungodly vocabulary

and the arm on which Brand's fingerswere groping for the
nerve that would paralyse that knife-hand was armoured in
the muscle of manual toil. Brand had had a knee in the groin
that made his eyes start, before he got control of the knife
and — still trying to obey Hereward's prohibition —hurled his
adversary rolling across the ground.

But others had had to kill. Three monks lay, dead or
badly hurt, blood seeping through their robes onto the wet
grass. He had time to see so much, before a surge of shouting,
struggling Danes and monks cannoned into him and he was
once more caught up in the fray. A tonsured head butted his
midriff and a blow from a carpenter's hammer rang harm-
lessly if clangorously on his helmet. An axe rose up before
him, not harmless. He was forced to use his blade. It bit
through black wool fabric into unguarded flesh and his
enemy fell. Then, between one moment and the next, the
resistance was over, the monks scattered, fleeing or throwing
down their weapons, pleading: don't take our treasures, leave
thevi in their hallo'ived places, nxe implore yon . . .
"We're taking them to safety,you wantwits!" Osbern

shouted, through laughter, brushing monks off him. "Follow
me, lads!"
had never been any use to implore a Dane to leave
It
treasure alone, anyway. Osbern made for the abbey still

laughing and they all joined in as they raced after him, the
exhilaration of the fight working in their veins. Jostling and
whooping, they plunged into whatever doorways presented
themselves. 7 he monastery buildings smelt of damp stone and
beeswax; the church and tower chapel were fragrant with
incense. And everywhere, everywhere, was treasure. It was
enough to make angels avaricious, to suborn a saint or en-
flame the accustomed souls of usurers. In this house whose
inmates were vowed to poverty, precious metals and priceless
gems winked wherever light fell. Four Danes, flinging open
doors at random, burst into the infirmary where a solitary
figure lay on a tumbled bed, and even here there was a great
silver cup and three gold rushlight holders that they seized
before the rash on the sick man's terrified face sent them
colliding with each other in their haste to get out again.
In the refectory, another party of treasure hunters found
candlesticks of silver, and a silver rood five feet high, fixed to
the wall. It mirrored the hands that reached for it. It was
fixedwith iron spikes and would not come away when they
tugged, but the golden crown of thorns and the golden wedge
under the taut, graphic silver feet turned out to be loose and
these they removed. One man, disappointed by the loss of the
rest, found flint and tinder by the lectern at the other end of
the room and fired the pile of benches on which they had
climbed to reach the rood, before they left.
Brand, staggering out with an armful of gold-embroidered

robes taken from a chest, met Hywel and a party of cronies
coming down the tower steps with a huge altar frontal held
betwêen them. Hereward and Osbern ran from

side by side
the church, brandishing great shining crosses. Osbern, uncon-
sciously following the suggestion one of the monks had made
the night before, used his trophy to swat a cowled, protesting
figure out of the way.
They all came together, breathless and exultant, in the
open space before the gate. Two or three fires were burning
now in the abbey buildings. Most of the monks had fled out
of the gate, but a few still ran distractedly here and there,
and some were up on the walls, apparently scanning the
horizon for Abbot Turold and his hundred and sixty knights.
Hereward glanced towards them.
"We have what we came for," he said. "I think we leave."
They were home in Ely, unloading the sliding, shining heaps

of candlesticks and crosses, lamps and shrines, caskets and
coinage, which on the way back had caused the ships to ride
so much lower in the water than usual, when Odi the Lame
observed that during the fight he had heard something
interesting.
"Sitting on this monk's chest at the time, I was," he said.
tossing a chased gold cup into the air and catching it. "He
was babbling. Said we were all madmen wasting our time,
that William was here to stay and everyone knows it but us.
Even Earl Waltheof 's settled now to marry the king's niece
and she's on her way from Normandy already. A Norman lord
in Peterborough and a Norman lady in Huntingdon. Doesn't
it turn your stomach?"
Whereupon, unfortunately for himself, and fatefully for
everyone else, the half- Welsh mercenary Hywel ap Olwen
had a private inspiration.
At Peterborough, Turold and his knights sat their horses be-

fore an abbey ransacked and ruined. Rain had put out the
fires, but blackened window frames and thin coils of vapour
from gaping doors told where the flames had been. The
brethren, creeping back now that Turold had appeared, stood
in shivering groups. The sacristan, Yware, who had thrown
himself off his mount at the sight of the place and rushed into
the infirmary, reappeared and ran to Turold's stirrup. "It was
Hereward and the Danes, right enough. Brother Leofwin's
—
there—he's not harmed and he heard them shouting in
Danish and English." Yware impulsively broke away and
sped for the church. A few moments later he came out again,
his face distraught, and darted into the tower. Turold
watched, mailed hands hardening on the red-scalloped rein,
so that the horse pawed and dropped its jaw away from the
bit. "He'll find the same everywhere," said the Norman abbot
gratingly to the nearest knight. "What a shame they didn't
stay to confront us."
"They were only after plunder," said the knight with
disdain. "We'll never see the likes of them marching to a
battlefield."
3 ^ J[ Blaze of Anger
Judith, very set of face and very taciturn, sailed for En-
gland with an escort of ladies including some barons' wives at
last joining their husbands there (several of William's mag-
nates had returned to Normandy because their wives were
objecting to their long absence; it had made William angry).
Also in the party were Aude and Emma the daughter of Wil-
liam FitzOsbern. Adelaide, who hated sea travel, said good-
bye to her daughter Rouen. On that day, realisation finally
at
poured over Judith was leaving Normandy perhaps
that she
for ever, to pass into the power of a man she detested. She
stood on the landing stage and cried in her mother's arms.
—
Adelaide, mistaking the reason or else determined to mis-
take it —murmured: ''There, there. We all leave our mothers
in the end. Commend me Waltheof and remember all
to Earl
I've told you, and your marriage nightwhen it comes will
hold no terrors. No more tears, now. There, there."
London was sultry, the fortress that was its chief strong-
hold noisy and full of dust, for the construction was still not
wholly finished. Waltheof was there with William to greet
the bride. She kissed her uncle's cleanshaven face and Wal-
theof's hirsute one, and returned formal thanks to her be-
trothed for the gifts he had sent to her in Normandy. More
awaited her, among them a gentle, dainty, dapple grey horse.
"He's a pacing horse," Waltheof said. "The smoothest pace a
rider can imagine. Ideal for a lady." He
managed, with a
subtle pitch of voice and a delightful smile, to imply that
Judith was both infirm and incompetent. "What a thoughtful
gift," she said hypocritically.
165
She searched his face, some leaven of virtue

seeking in it
that she hadn't noticed hitherto, but found none. His face
was, as always, symmetrically handsome, with blue eyes that
held an irritating knowingness. They told her that he be-
lieved he knew more about her than she did herself. He
knew, those eyes said, that her love of books was affectation,
and that she would soon learn that her true happiness lay
only in nurturing his seed. And she must spend the remainder
of her life with this fool.
With thankfulness, she heard that the marriage cere-
mony was It would be delayed for a
not to proceed at once.
year, duringwhich time she was to study EngUsh and grow
accustomed to the ways of her new country. It sounded as
though William did not quite trust Earl Waltheof, not yet.
She learnt from the tutor appointed to teach her English that
the fenland near Waltheof's Huntingdon territory was oc-
cupied by malcontents, who had sacked Peterborough
Abbey, and whose numbers included Danes. William prob-
ably harboured secret fears that Waltheof might even now
throw in his lot with these rebels. "Oh, please," whispered
Judith to her pillow that night. "Make him join them!
Please!"
Further evidence that Wilham did not yet feel much
confidence in his future nephew-in-law was forthcoming
when Huntingdon
she learnt that the castle he had raised at
was not in Waltheof's hands. Waltheof's home there, which
she was soon to visit with her uncle, was an English-style hall,
although luxurious.
"I hate English halls," she said to iVude, as they walked
on the walls. "Myhusband should have a castle to take me to,
at least. This whole marriage is an insult!

"I like the wooden halls," said Aude perversely. "They're
snug."
"Rustic, fire-prone, and badly defended," said Judith
tartly.
"Oh, Judith! I'm envious," said Aude.
A Blaze of Anger 161
Judith turned to her with naked surprise on her face.

"Envious? Of me?"
"Yes, of you. You're getting a well-set-up husband and a
home and you'll have children."
"I wish people would stop saying that. I feel like a mare
or a . . a .
."
. .
"Well, I'd Uke a nice, healthy, good-looking man and a

hall or even just a farmhouse, and some babies," said Aude
defiantly. no dowry worthy of the name. I've got
"But I've
four brothers to be given patrimonies and what's left has to
go round six girls and I'm the least beautiful of them. I shall
end up in a nunnery, I expect." She stopped, clenching her
teeth against an unexpected desire to burst into tears. Aude
had grown up in a castellan's household, and had never been
segregated from men. She wâs used to the vigour of a mascu-
line atmosphere, even to the strong air of danger. To imagine
the feminine hush of a nunnery was for Aude to imagine
death by suffocation.
was both horrified and contrite. "I
Judith's expression
thought ... Ia dower and that your parents
thought you had
meant to find you someone. But you'll come with me when I
marry. I shall have lands put in my name. I will dower you.
Don't feel like that, Aude. Please!"
"I'm sorry." Aude bit her lip and controlled herself. "I
shouldn't have burst out like that. If you can help me, when
you're married . . . well, I shall be grateful. Thank you,
Judith." She added, to change the subject, "About this visit to
Huntingdon. I heard this morning that some of your ladies
are to go on ahead of the rest. I think I'm to go, and so is
Emma. Do you know why?"

"Yes," said Judith. "It's a stratagem."
She caught Aude's elbow and led her to look over the
crenellations.Below% the courtyard was busy as usual, with a
bustle of men and horses, dogs that snoozed and scratched,
and doves that preened. "Look there," said Judith.
In the courtyard, a girl was tossing crumbs to the doves.
and a young man had paused to speak to her. Even from up

here, Aude could recognise them. The man was Ralph of
Norfolk, his glossy blue-black head bared to the June sun.
And was Emma, FitzOsbern's daughter.
the girl
Two years ago, Emma had been the plainest of Matilda's
ladies. But those two years had brought a miracle. The sandy
hair had turned to rich amber and the skinny figure taken on
not only shape, but grace of movement. What had been a
mere snub nose was now enchantingly tip-tilted, and the ten-
dency to freckles had become a dusting of golden beauty
spots. More than that: Emma had not only grown beautiful
but had learnt of it. She was half-alarmed at it, and half-
delighted, and it showed. It showed as she turned to speak to
Ralph, and visibly both rejoiced and wondered at her power
to attract him. Judith said: "She will be in trouble if she's
seen with him."
"Emma and Ralph?"
"Yes. When she came back
England with us and
to
Ralph saw what she'd grown into, he pricked his ears and
started to prance." Aude smiled, though with sadness behind
the smile. No man had ever paid that compliment to her.
"But the king is displeased," said Judith. "He has other plans
for Emma. She's his oldest friend's daughter. There's been
talk of one of his sons for her, even. So, no Ralph. And you're
all being sent to Huntingdon two days early simply to get
Emma away from him."

Below, Ralph had begun to walk away, perhaps out of
prudence. They could see that Emma's eyes were following
him. "Poor things," said Judith, but with more mockery than
tenderness. "Imagine believing they can outwit my uncle.
When you go to Huntingdon, Aude, would you like to ride
my grey horse?"
"The one that Earl Waltheof gave you? But Judith,
you'll offend him if . .
."
"Oh, I could lend the horse to a friend. That would be all
right. I don't ivaiit to ride him myself!" said Judith pettishly.

*'Oh." It was obviously more of an order than an offer.
"In that case . . well, thank you," said Aude.

.
Aude had never ridden an ambler before.

Amblers were a recent innovation from Moorish Spain,
one of the many
marvels that returning pilgrims had brought,
like the carpets and the Byzantine architecture so evident in
Rouen Palace. The elegant little horses were selectively bred
as well as trained from foalhood to trot with the legs moving
in pairs on either side, instead of diagonally as in the natural

trot. The pace was as smooth as a very easy canter but more
enduring. A
good horse could amble at eight miles an hour
for long distances and the rider need not rise to the motion. A
pregnant woman could ride such a mount with comparative
safety; aged or inexpert riders could cover greater distances.
Aude was none of these things, but she loved the comfortable
movement of the little horse, and his proud plume of a tail
and his gracefully arched neck. Waltheof could not be such
an ogre, she thought, if he had so much care for Judith's
safety, and so much generosity. A horse like this was
valuable.
She wondered, as the cavalcade neared Huntingdon,
how Judith would settle down in this land. To an eye adapted
for rolling hills and forests it was bleak. The fenland was as
flat as a sea floor, patched with meres and reedbeds and the
too-vivid green of bog grass. The earth was black peatsoil,
fibrousand organic; local people used it for fuel. The sky
was enormous, with no hills to intrude on it.
But for Aude, the scene had attraction. For one thing,
she could appreciate its practical advantages. This was not
country in which an ambush could easily be mounted, yet it
was a good place in which to pitch a camp, for there was
plenty of water. There was a waterway close to the track
just ahead. The slanting afternoon sunlight made a glittering
line of it. They had ridden far, and probably when they
reached the water they would halt to let the horses drink.
Then the glittering line moved and turned into men with
steel helms and bright pointed spears. The Fens had more
Aude had given them credit for.
cover than
They had an escort of twenty-five knights, but there
were more men than that on the Fens. It was suddenly alive
with men, springing like a fantastic crop from every ditch
and bank on both sides of the track. Arrows swished and
the armed men fore and aft of the group of ladies were the
targets.Some toppled from their saddles. Others reached for
their own bows and spears, but their intended victims merely
dropped into hidden ditches as the missiles passed overhead.
Some of the escort horses fell, squealing, thrashing their legs.
A knot of four knights from the front of the line charged the
assailants and floundered to disaster through deceptive green-
ness into black bog. The ambush had been very efficiently
placed.
At no one understood its purpose. Then a helmeted
first
figure vaulted a ditch and bounded towards them. He

grabbed at Aude's bridle. She pulled her small dagger out to
defend herself but the blade turned on mail and then it was
wrenched from her hand. The man shouted something in
English which she did not understand. He sprang onto the
grey horse behind her, drumming the animal's flanks with his
heels. The little horse plunged forward. Aude strangled a
scream as he mounted a bank and jumped from the top of
it. He
shuddered on landing, under the double weight. Her
captor kicked him on again and he broke into a gallop. Some-
where she heard a horn and from the corner of her eye she
saw the rest of the attackers abandon the fight and begin to
run. They ran on ground known to them but not familiar to
their pursuers. The pursuit floundered into the fen as the four
knights had done; she glimpsed mire-covered figures, thrown
from their saddles, scrambling up to drag at the heads of
frightened, wildly splashing horses. Then they were all left
behind and she must concentrate on keeping her seat as reeds

and pools fled by and the thick ungauntleted hands of the
intrusive person behind her ruthlessly steered the horse on a
zig-zag trail across the marsh. She clung with knees and
thighs, chafed even through the protective leggings she wore
under her kilted skirts. The wind made her eyes sting. They
tore up another bank and this time half-slith-
at full gallop
ered down the other side. At the bottom they pulled up and
the horse stood, trembhng with exhaustion, his coat no longer
grev but black with sweat.
Thev seemed to be waiting for the others to catch up.
This was a rendezvous. Aude's captor slid to the ground and
Aude, for the horse's sake, dismounted shakily after him. She
went to the distressed creature's head and patted him. It was
something to do, to keep from thinking how frightened she
was. Also, the horse was a friend. And the only one, at the
moment, that she had.
She leant on the grey's shoulder, thinking of the wel-
come thev should have had at Huntingdon, of the roast meat
and new bread and the comfortable down-stuffed pallet she
would have shared with the other girls. She made the curious
discovery that she was tired and hungry. Odd, how such
mundane considerations could invade moments of mortal
peril. She might be killed within the hour or . . . no, she had
better control her thoughts. Fear was never useful. Her fa-
ther had told her that.Keep your head and you might think
of a way and you were lost. Use your intelligence.
out. Panic,
For the first time she wondered who these men were, and
what they wanted with her.
She examined them cautiously. They were a savaore-look-
ing band, bearded, and with long hair trailing from under
their helmets. She wondered why her captor had sprung so
decisively for her horse and no other. Then a reason occurred
to her. Her wobbly knees steadied for a moment, only to
begin a horrified vibration again as the further impUcations
became clearer. She might be safe for the moment, but when
they realised . . .
They were getting ready to move on. The sun was going
down. Her captor came over to her. He had a darkish beard
and impersonal blue eves. She was a piece of booty, not a
human being. She must speak now, while they were still
within reach of Huntingdon.

She caught his eye. "I . .
." —she pointed to herselfand
spoke as clearly and loudly as possible in the English she had
picked up while sitting with Judith at her English studies
". am not Lady Judith." She shook her head violently on the
. .
word Judith. He grinned infuriatingly and patted her shoul-

der. It meant: She repeated: "J^î^h nonV but he
njoell tried.
only grinned again and made to help her mount. She ignored
the extended hand and mounted without it. It was no use. She
would be abandoned to her fate, she supposed, unless Judith
could persuade either her uncle or her betrothed to ransom
this unimportant castellan's daughter. Assuming that the
unimportant castellan's daughter survived long enough in the
midst of these barbarians to be ransomed, of course. She sat
passively in the saddle, and the march set out.
An hour later, with dusk closing down, they came to a
wide waterway. Alders overhung it. Some of the men went
forward and plunged under the branches. First one, then an-
other, flat-bottomed boat was pushed out from concealment.
In answer to signalled orders, Aude dismounted again and
followed as her horse was led aboard.
It was dark when they bumped ashore and she was
urged into the saddle again. The last part of the journey she
covered in a daze of weariness. At last there was a roof gable
ahead, just visible against a starlit sky, and the gleam of a
fire. Figures crowded round them. Men bearing torches held
them up to see by. In the forefront was a big man whose head
and beard were nearly He seemed to
scarlet in the torchlight.
be a leader, senior to the one who had seized her. He pointed
at her and burst into a furious spate of English gutturals. He
screwed his right forefinger expressively into his temple and
then jabbed it at her captor. The word Judith recurred sev-
eral times. A dark, thickset man came forward and stared at
her, and shook his head. In French, he said: "You're not Judith,
are you? I saw her when I was in Normandy."
"No. I tried to tell them I wasn't, but I couldn't make
them understand. She wasn't with our party. But she lent me
her horse. I'm one of her ladies, that's all. I tried to tell them,"
she added almost hysterically.
The red-haired man snapped, also in French: "What's
your name?"
"Aude. I'm called Aude."
She saw in the shaky cresset-light that he had russet
eyes, and that they were hot with anger, which was frighten-
ing, although it was directed more at her captors than at her.
He said: "^^êll, get dow^n, then. This man here. Brand of
Fallowdene, will look after you. See she's correctly treated,
Brand. Dear God, what stupidity! Wêll, dismount, girl. You
don't want to spend the night up there, do you?" He saw that
she was swaying with fatigue, and with a snort of pure ex-
asperation, moved to help her. She let him, too tired now^ to
resist. He steadied her to the ground. As he did so, to her
alarm, the anger blazed up in his eyes, to a new intensity.

This time it was directed at her. But she did not have the
slightest idea of the cause.
4 ^ Dwels
In the morning, on the trodden earth outside the Ely

longhouse, Hywel ap Olwen died by violence. But not at the
hands of Hereward. Or not quite.
Hereward had slept very little that night. He was too
angry. His fury burnt him from within and would not let him
rest. It was anger, to begin with, against Hywel who had
conceived this demented scheme to seize Judith, niece of the
king and betrothed of Earl Waltheof. In order, Hywel had
said defensively, to forcemen and arms, or at least a guaran-
—
Waltheof and to paralyse the king.
tee of neutrality, out of
Paralyse the king! God's Elbow! Hereward almost burrowed
through his pallet in his wrathful and sleepless churning.
William would have burnt the Isle from end to end. Com-
pounding madness with perfidy, Hywel had then gone on this
mission with a large number of men including Hereward's
personal followers as well as his own, and they had kept it
secret from Hereward. Until, finding the camp oddly quiet
and the faces of some of those still in it oddly furtive, he had
forced the truth out of Odi. Odi had wanted to go but had
been left behind because he was too lame to run, and was
disgruntled about it. He proved, after quite a short session of
bullying, willing to talk.
And on top of all that, Hywel had acted on inaccurate
information from a Huntingdon source concerning the means
to recognise Judith. She would be riding a grey ambler, so
Hywel had been informed. As a result of that, he had come
back to Ely with . . . Aude.
114
Duels i75
Thinking of Aude, Hereward buried his head in his arms
and groaned aloud, drawing a grunt of protest from the
neighbouring pallet. He would never forgive either Hywel or
Aude for the terrible betrayal of his body as he helped Aude
from her horse. He
had looked directly into that square,
sturdy face and its dogged brown eyes, and his hand had
closed on the warmth of her arm and his loins had moved.
For a Norman, they had moved. Hywel would have laughed
to hear it. Hywel would have proposed an obvious remedy.
The deepest anger of all came from the fact that that remedy
would be for this malady of not the slightest use. It was not
that kind of disease.
No.He raised his face from his arms and saw that the
light through the open door of the longhouse, left fastened
back because the night was hot, was turning to grey. It was
nearly day. Today he would deal with Hywel, finally. And he
would also deal with the menace that Hywel had brought
here. For she was a menace. Of all else that she was, that
came first. And must be overcome.
It was a scorching day. The sky was an unrelieved blue and a

heat haze quivered above a stone storage hut by the long-
house. Insects hummed. Aude, who had passed the night on a
straw pallet at the inmost end of the longhouse with Brand
placed close, ready equally to protect her and to prevent any
attempt at escape, stood nervously at Brand's side, among
Hereward's men. They were in rough semi-circle outside the
longhouse. The men were as wild a set of outlaws as she had
ever imagined, but their behaviour just now was orderly.
They were an audience.
The two men who were, so to speak, the performers,
were in full armour. The few inches of Hywel's facial skin
thatwere visible shone with sweat. He was leaning on a two-
handed axe. Hereward still had his helmet under his arm. She
could see now how very big he was, how wide the great bony
shoulders and how long the reach of his arms. His face was
remarkable, its more thrown together than assem-

features
bled. The was not ugly; smiling he would be attractive.
result
But he was not smiling now.
"I have had enough," said Hereward, addressing them,
"of faithlessness. In particular, of the faithlessness of Hywel
ap Olwen." He paused and then repeated himself in French,
apparently for Aude. was as though, she thought in puz-
It
zlement, this was partly a show for her benefit. "It is bad
enough that we have no Danish allies now," said Hereward.
"Bad enough that they let themselves be seduced by gold and
have abandoned us, leaving us to do with what we have and
are. But I could endure that, if what we had was a force of
trustworthy men, and if what we are was worthy. Instead, I

have foes here in my own camp. Hywel thinks he can lead
this force better than I can. Hywel takes it upon himself to set
out on this insane attempt to seize as a hostage the last person
anyone in his right sense would choose. And Hywel doesn't
even bring back the right person As he
at the end of it all."
once more translated, the russet eyes rested momentarily,

fiercely, on Aude. Under the dragging dread that had pos-
sessed her even in her exhausted sleep the night before, she
found an answering indignation. Her presence here in what
the man Brand had told her was the Isle of Ely was hardly of
her own choosing.
"I am rarely caught unprepared," said Hereward. "Some
of you have even been good enough to christen me The
Wakeful, because I am so alert and hard to deceive. I admit
that I spoiled my reputation yesterday. Hywel deceived me.
But Hywel do it again." He turned and spoke directly
will not
to Hywel, who was waiting in a savage silence. "Will you
fight? Or will you take your followers and leave Ely? Once I
should have been sorry to lose your swords. But not now.
Faithless men are worse than no men. Take your choice."
There was a pause, during which Hywel glanced round
almost as if he expected the men to answer instead of himself.
Suddenly, Aude thought: perhaps he does. Perhaps he hopes
his supporters will rise up on his behalf. But they won't, they
Duels 111
look as if most of them are at least half-\îking and the Vik-
ings never interfere in a private quarrel, not if they think the
man issuing the challenge has a good reason. And this man,
this Hereward, has. It struck her that her own fate might well
depend on the outcome of this. Stealthily, she crossed her

fingers: Oh, God, I prefer Hereward to Hywel, if it comes
to it.
In front of her, Hereward was putting on his helmet. It

was going to begin. Hywel, in face of his silent followers, had
taken up a fighting stance, accepting the challenge without
words. Hereward took his own axe from his belt. He nodded
at Brand and Brand, stepping forward, tossed a glove onto
the earth as a starting signal. They closed.
It took half an hour, but in the first minutes, Aude saw-
that barring accidents, such as a foot turning on a stone, the
end was assured. Hywel had no chance, could never have had
a chance, even if he practised day and night until the Plough
disintegrated and Orion died of old age. He wâs fighting only
because he had no alternative that him any dignity. Heleft
had almost certainly hoped to unseat Hereward by transfer-

ring the loyalty of the warband to himself, but they had
chosen to wait for the result of this confrontation. In a sense,
he was now committing suicide.
He was a competent enough warrior. He knew the work
of the great axe. But Herewârd fought with the fine and glit-
tering edge of genius. After ten minutes there actuallywas an
accident, but it Hywel. He slipped momentarily
happened to
and gave Hereward an opening. Hereward stepped back and
let him recover. The audience drew a sharp, collective
breath. It was a gesture both magnanimous and insulting.

Hereward had said, in effect: "I can afford to play with you.
You're mine whenever I choose."
Hywel fought back with skill and resolution and no hope
at all. When the end came, it was a performance almost lazy.
Hereward had had his opponent giving ground, round and

round in a circle. Then it seemed that he had brushed the
upraised axe aside and brought down his ow^n weapon on
his knocking him down, face foremost.

adversary's helm,
Hereward at once went down on top of him, kicking away
Hywel's fallen axe, and twisting one of his arms hard up on
his shoulderblade. Crouching there, above his helpless
enemy, he said in a voice that was quiet, but still carried:
"Where is the woman, Aude? Bring her here."
Horrified, she looked at Brand for an explanation, but his
face was as surprised as her own. He pushed her gently and
said: "You must go. Go on." She walked forward slowly
across the trampled ground.
When she reached the two men in the middle, she stood
looking down at Hereward and at the vanquished Hywel flat-
tened beneath him. Hereward, with one hand, was loosening

his captive's helm and pushing it half off. Hywel, speaking
with difficulty, his face pressed into the earth, said: "Finish
it, you?" There was a sigh or murmur of puzzled com-
can't
ment from the men who watched.
There was nothing in Hereward's face but dislike as he
turned his head fractionally to look up at her. He said: "You
have an interest in this man's fate. He brought you here
against your will. I translated for you, just now, so that you
might understand what was going on. Will you now give him
the coup de grace? Or shall I hang him from the highest
beam in the longhouse?" He added, tranquilly, as though re-
marking that it was a hot day: "If I do that, it could take him
twenty minutes to die."
He was holding his belt dagger out for her to take.
Brand, who had walked behind her and had heard, was she —
—
thought explaining to the other men, in English. She looked
at the knife, and at Hywel, and at Hereward's unfriendly
eyes. This was, in some way that she did not understand, an
act of aggression against herself. She remembered the anger
in his face last night, when he helped her to dismount. She
knelt down, taking the dagger. She put the point against the
place where Hywel's spinal column entered his skull at the
back of his neck, drove it home, and it was over.
She offered the dagger to Hereward again, conscious of
Duels 119
having in some way won a contest. He took it. "How did you
know — to do that?" he asked.
"I saw m)^ mother do it, duringThere were two
a siege.
men, hurt beyond help. She showed me how^ it was done.
She said I might need to know^ one day, and that it was
quick, and not very messy. Did you think I would run away,
or faint?" Aude asked him contemptuously. "When I was
eight years old, I helped lay out the dead and tend the
wounded, after our castle was attacked, and when I wâs
eleven and it was attacked again, I killed a man w^ho got in
over the wâll. T used a knife then, too." He stared at her. "You
didn'twant me to be brought here," Aude said. "Will you
now send me back to Huntingdon?"
Hereward released his hold on the dead Hywel and
stood up. "No," he said. "Since you are here, and perhaps the
real Lady Judith values you, you may be worth a ransom.
Armies must eat."
"I thought," said Aude, "that you stole a great treasure
from Peterborough."
"Wê did. It was ecclesiastical treasure and we sent it for
safekeeping to the King of Denmark. And w^hen it went, all
our Danish allies went with it. God was just; the ship it trav-
elled on capsized in a storm and most of that great treasure is
now at the bottom of the sea. When the news washed ashore
with some of the wreckage, and the word got back to us, we
were not sorry. But we wxre no better off, either. So, my dear,
you stay. Take her away. Brand."
The expression on Herewârd of Bourne's face was so
strange that, as Aude went away with Brand, she glanced
back once to see if she had imagined it. But she had not. It wâs
an expression of despair and disbelief, and she had only seen
anything like it once before in her life. On the face of a man
on top of a scaling ladder, in the moment when he wâs thrust
off it to his death.
5 « :Piever
During the next few days, Aude sensed a new and un-
pleasant atmosphere in the camp.
In the few hours she had spent there before Hywel died,
the men had mostly regarded her with a mixture of curiosity
and ill-concealed longing, kept under restraint by Hereward's
orders and Brand's guardianship, but present nevertheless.
Now, they ignored her as much as possible, and if compelled
to acknowledge her existence, did so offhandedly. And it was
not because she had been the instrument of Hywel's death.
Brand was still on a species of guard duty and although he
too had become withdrawn, he would speak when spoken to,
and answer direct questions. AA'hen she asked him if Hywel's
death were being held against her, he said: "No. Hereward
did only what any leader would have done, and you were
given no choice." But he would not volunteer any further
explanation.
Passing the time was difficult. The less noticeable she
was, the better for her, she felt. She knew that a messenger
had been sent to Huntingdon to demand a ransom for her,
and prayed that the reply wôuld be favourable, and speedy.
Meanwhile she kept within the longhouse as much as she
could and occupied herself with mending, as slowly and
thoroughly as possible, a rent in her skirt. It had to be
mended, and while she was wearing it, at that. She had no
other clothes to put on. Most of her luggage had been on a
pack mule, and all she had with her was one small saddlebag.
Fortunately, it had contained comb and needlework gear.
W^hen that was done, she played backgammon against her-
180
Fever ISl
self, with Brand found for her. Once or twice he

a set that
played as well, and on those occasions there was some con-
versation; she learnt for the first time that he, and several of
his fellow outlaws, had been thanes, men of rank in ordinary
life. It came as a surprise to her; they appeared so wild. But
he would not talk much, and several times she saw that he,
too,was eyeing her oddly.
Hereward never came near her at all.
It was very hot. She slept badly and found it increasingly
hard to eat, although the food in the camp was good. Here-
ward's band did themselves well, it seemed. There was
another looming problem, too. It was not yet acute, but if
she were here a week hence, it would become paramount. She
must ask Brand, she supposed. He had told her he was once
married.
But the need for that was forestalled. On the fourth
morning, she was sitting at the backgammon board, hating
the stifling atmosphere of the longhouse and wishing that
her head would not ache so, when Hereward came in carrying
a bundle WTapped in brown cloth. He brought it straight to
her. "You'll want this," he said abruptly. "I got the things
from Witchford yesterday. No, undo it when you're by your-
self, not now."
She took the bundle, puzzled. "Is there any word from
Huntingdon?" she asked.
"No, it's too soon. Aren't you comfortable here?"
It was difficult to talk, let alone argue, with this man.
She did not feel strong enough. "In my place, would you feel
comfortable?" she said.
"You're perfectly safe. I have seen to that. When you do
get back to Huntingdon, think what a splendid tale you'll
have to tell your friends. You'll be a favourite for weeks."
"I'd sooner not be a favourite for that reason. And will I,"
said Aude, with a temerity that was not in spite of her in-
creasing sense of bodily weakness but because of it, "still be
perfectly safe if the ransom is refused?
Hereward sat down astride a bench, his knees jutting up
on either side. In his patched dun tunic, the belt stuffed full
of weapons, with his mass of rust-hued hair and beard, he was
an uncouth object to be the Thane Brand said he was. But his
French was educated. "It won't be. We shall get something for
you. You may have a long stay if we have to haggle, but you'll
be none the worse for that. What do you take us for?"
She had already, because her guard on her tongue had
slipped, made clear the answer to that. She said nothing.
"You don't understand what we are or what we hope to gain,"
he said. "To you, we are a half-comic, half-terrifying, band of
hairy savages lurking in the Fens. Scruffy barbarians who
might do anything!" He lifted his upper lip and produced a
fleeting snarl. "Like that. Yes?"
"If so, can you wonder?" Aude said wearily.
"Perhaps not. You've been told we're criminals rebelling
against a lawful king, I expect. Well?"
"Yes."
"Why," said Hereward, "do you call William a law-
"^
ful king?
Aude knew her political background. "Old King Edward
named him heir. Years ago. And when Earl Harold visited
Normandy, King Edward's lifetime, he swore on the bones
in
of holy saints that he would uphold William's claim. But
when Edward died, he forgot his oath and seized power
himself."
"Said like a good little pupil. Would it surprise you to
under English law it is the old king's last
learn, firstly, that
nomination that legal, and that on his deathbed, King Ed-
is
ward named Harold? And that the oath Harold took in Nor-
mandy was not valid?
"Not valid? But..."
"Ask Brand. He was there. He can tell you that that oath
was extracted under duress. William threatened to hold Earl
Harold prisoner till he swore. And when he did swear, the
bones of the saints you think so important were hidden under
the cloth where Harold's hand rested. He didn't know it until
the cloth was lifted afterwards and voilaV Hereward . . .
Fever 1 S3
swept an imaginary cloth into the air and grinned tri-

umphantly at her across a chest of canonised bones that she
could almost see. ''And,'' said Hereward, before she could
comment, "remember that in the north of England, when folk
would not accept him, William has slain innocent men by the
thousand, destroyed their homes and goods, and left the
womenfolk and the children to starve in a moorland winter.
If he were ten times a king, should he remain so after that? I
have no wish to harm you." His voice grew^ remote. "But I am

willing to interrupt your life for a while. Against the business
of driving AMlliam out, that is not important. Your life itself
isn't important. And nor is mine. If you understand that, you
may think less hardly of us."

"I feel like a mouse," said Aude with bitterness, "being
told to be a good mouse and let the cat eat it because the cat
is hungry."
"You may feel differently, when you have had time to
think," he said, getting up to go.
"Does it matter to you, what I think of you?
He lifted a foot over the bench, and paused for a brief
second as he turned away. "It might," he said unexpectedly,
and went.
Left alone, Aude undid the bundle he had given her.
Inside were clothes in the English style; linen shifts, tight-
sleeved long underdresses, shorter tunics with wide sleeves
justbelow elbow length. Donations, probably reluctant, from
the women of W^tchford. Last of all, rolled together, were
some stout squares of white linen. She wôuldn't have to ask
Brand any embarrassing questions after all. For this, she
must be grateful to Hereward.
She examined the clothes. The underdresses wêre a frac-
tion too long. Her headache seemed to be worsening as the
day grew hotter, but turning up hems was hardly fine sewing.
She got her needlecase out of her saddlebag again.
It was astonishingly hard, for some reason, to thread the
needle. Her eyes did not want to focus. Perhaps there was a
thunderstorm coming.
Brand, entering the longhouse half an hour later, found

her sitting on a bench and trying with painful slowness to
stitch. She had round her shoulders. She smiled and
a cloak
Such a warm day and yet I keep shivering."
said: "It's so silly.
"You should be on your pallet," he said. "You have

fever."
After that, Aude's world became unreal. She lay on the
pallet and Brand brought milk and wine and herbal drinks to
her, and some broth that she did not want but tried to swal-
low because in this strange, unsafe place full of inexplicable
enmity, it seemed important to please people. Faces came
and went and voices boomed. She shivered with unbearable
cold and asked for rugs. She burnt with intolerable heat and
pushed the rugs away. She ached in a manner that revealed
to her the exact construction of her skeleton, since every bone
seemed made of pain. Hereward came; he towered over her
with worry in his chestnut eyes. She did not understand the
worry. She had thought he hated her, and hadn't he said her
life was not important? She tried to grapple with the prob-
lem, which appeared to have some kind of significance, but

her brain was unequal to it. She went to sleep again.
On the third day, Hereward sent to the abbey for Leo.
He came after some hours' delay, smudged and hot. He
had been on the far side of the Isle, dealing with men injured
while fighting a peat fire. A fire that had started in tinder-dry
reeds had extended to the fibrous soil itself and travelled
underground. Two men, stepping onto what looked like
sound earth, had gone through ankle-deep into smouldering
matter. Leo was in a hurry to get back to them, and he was
also tired. He strode through the longhouse angrily, black
robes swishing. Aude was very weak, and her face was
stained red with fever. But she was in a lucid patch and could
answer questions. He asked her a number of things, in a low
voice, as he felt her forehead and peered into her throat. She
whispered husky replies. He knelt, and offered up a prayer
for her recovery, then moved away and beckoned Hereward
outside.
" "
Fever 185
"It's the marsh fever. Don't you recognise it? The
swamps breed trouble in this weather as much as in wînter.
You'll have cases among the men soon. Most will recover. But
this woman is new to the fenlands and has it badly. She is
very ill."
"What do we do for her?" asked Hereward shortly.

Leo squatted to open his medicine case. "I've herbs here
to make a drink that will ease the pains and may relieve the
fever. But she should be taken away from the Fens. More
than that. To be a prisoner, and above all in a place like this
—
where she has already seen death if I understood her aright,
she has had to kill a man herself; yes, I see you know what
—
I'm talking about none of these things will help her. Get her
to Huntingdon, Thane Hereward, to safety and freedom and
people she knows. Otherwise," said Brother Leo, rummaging
in his pharmocopoeia, "she'll probably die."
"How can she travel, if she's so ill?" demanded Hereward.
"She can travel more safely than she can stay where she
is," said Leo. "She can be carried to a boat and go by river
to Huntingdon. If Abbot Thurstan permits, I wdll go with
her."
"And what," enquired Hereward, "is wrong with your
infirmary up there?
"Too near the swampland. And she would still be your
prisoner. She is frightened here."
Hereward planted his fists on his hips. "You're fooling
me, monk. Or else she's fooling you. The girl knows I mean
her no harm. x\sk her!
"I did. She says you told her her life was not important.
When it, tears ran from the corners of her eyes. It
she said
was as though you had dealt her a wound. I can send a
priest to give her absolution. But I cannot promise to save her
life while she stays here. Is that clear?"
"Quite clear. Take her to the abbey. She is only a Nor-
man, after all." Hereward's face was obstinate.
"She may mean nothing to you," said Leo sternly, "but
she's no use to you either, is she? If she dies, I doubt you'll
take money for goods you can't deliver. Only a dishonest man
would do that."
"Damn you! " said Hereward, on a flash of anger.
"No. If she dies, I shan't be the one who is damned," said
Leo calmly. "Well, you must decide. If you insist, she shall
come to the abbey. There she can at least have peace and
privacy for her last hours."
''Davm your said Hereward again.
Aude was conscious when
was carried to the boat,
she
and vaguely aware of what was happening to her. She saw
Brand and Hereward leaning over her as the stretcher was
settled on board, and attempted to murmur some words of
farewell, and thanks for the things they had done for her. Her
voice was very faint and Hereward could not hear her clearly.
He leant closer. "What did you say?"
"I said, thank you for the clothes. And for my freedom.
God be with you," said the breathy murmur, close, very close,
against his face.
When Hereward returned to the longhouse, there was an in-

spection of weapons and armour.
It was an inspection that reminded Brand strongly of his
youth in Earl Godwin's household, where savage surprise

raids on one's efficiency were commonplace. Then, the busi-
ness had had a certain exhilaration. At the time, you were
bullied and brutalised, outraged by accusations of idleness,
slovenliness, incompetence, and dubious parentage, but too
terrorised to protest; and afterwards you clustered together
in mutual abuse of your leader and were proud of his imagi-
native invective. But what was stimulating at nineteen, at
forty-nine was maddening. Moreover, to Brand's experienced
eye, there was more to this than a sudden desire for an extra
polish on martial preparedness. Hereward was smouldering
under the surface with a peat-fire rage that had nothing to do
with the invisible rust and non-existent bluntness he pro-
fessed to detect in their weapons.
After the late meal, there was none of the usual loung-
Fever 1 81
ing. They about outside the longhouse, working glumly

sat
with sandbox and oil. At length Hereward disappeared back

into the longhouse, and Eadsige One-Ear, spitting medita-
tively on the spot he was trying to erase from a helmet,
remarked: "I thought he'd get back to normal, with her gone.
But he's worse. S'like a bloody plague he's got."
Everyone grinned. "Trouble is, what's the cure?" said
Thurman. "He wants a wild night out, or a week of them.
Never looks at a woman on the Isle, or anywhere else as far as
I know. And that's a pity. He could do with it."
"Our poor leader," Odi agreed slyly, reaching for a fresh

burnishing-cloth, "has a bad attack of sex." His hand closed
on the cloth and froze. Stretching for it, he had turned
towards the longhouse. Hereward was in the doorway.
He contemplated them, arms folded, gaze roaming
malevolently round him. It stopped, eventually, at Odi.
"So Odi thinks I'm suffering from an attack of sex, does
he? Wêll, well. In the middle of a war, he thinks I've time for
that!" He "Some of
considered them collectively once more.
you have time for it, perhaps. I've had to deal with the com-
plaints from the Isle folk. And some of you were casting your
tomcat eyes on that little Norman. Oh, I saw. But not me. I,"
said Hereward grandly, "refuse to make such a fool of myself.
Sex, my hearties, is not worth being a fool about. What is it,
when all's said and done? Something that tomcats make a
noise about. And what, for the love of Heaven, do you look
like when you're at it? Answer me that. What do you
. . . . . .
...look... like?"
No one answered him. They waited, with lively interest,
for him to tell them.
"It's said to be the greatest experience on earth," said
Hereward rhetorically. "Bards sing of it. Cats, as I said, yowl
about it. iUonks run away from it and idiots wallow in it. And
what does it look like? A pair of fourth-rate contortionists
whose latest stunt has just collapsed in a heap. You think that
I, Hereward the Wakeful as you have kindly christened me,
you think I'd waste my time and my energy on that?'''

"Yes," said Thurman roundly, "and with a Norman,

too." He stood up. His twin and then, one by one, the rest of
them, stood up too.
They had had enough of Hereward that day. He had
hectored and insulted them, and that after letting them
down. The man who had taken such superlative command of
them in the courtyard of Bourne had been bewitched by a
Norman. It was Brand on whom the insults had borne most
hardly, because he was past the age to appreciate them, who
remarked: "Cold water's said to help when a man's in his
condition."
Thurnoth took up the lead. "So it is. We had a hound at
home once that was always getting in a state when there
wasn't a bitch handy. We used to put him in a cold bath."
They were in a ring round him now, closing in, happily.
"Such a good thing the river's nice and handy," said
Thurnoth. "And he's not likely," he added solicitously, "to
catch cold in this weather. And," added Thurnoth, crouching
slightly, his eyes on Hereward's suffused face, ". . . he can't
fight us all. Even the great Hereward the Wakeful can't . . .
possibly . . . fight us . . . all!''
On the last word, he sprang. They all sprang joyfully

with him. They ended the day delightfully, by forcibly dip-
ping their infuriated and infuriating leader in the nearby
waterway. At nightfall, they slept happy in the belief that the
intruder, the woman who
had interfered between Hereward
and themselves, was gone, and Hereward was theirs again,
baptised back into their community.
Hereward himself was, once more and true to his nick-
name, awake. He listened to the owls hunting over the dark
Isle and meditated. He knew that what was betwêen him and
his followers had been restored during that waterlogged

scuffle in the river, after nearly being lost for good. He had
not even lost his dignity. He had scored two black eyes and
some spectacular nosebleeds on other men's faces, and could
claim to have done well, under the circumstances.
Only, another thought kept intruding when he con-
Fever 189
templated these things. His mind persistently tried to follow
the frail and fevered person of Aude on its journey to Hun-
tingdon. And if his men were to realise that, the bond between
himself and them would be in peril once again.
Thinking of that, he threw himself over onto his back
and stared open-eyed into the dark. He must forget her, and
she, perhaps, would have to forget him. What had that in-
fernal monk. Brother Leo, said? "It was as though you had
dealt her a wound." And when, in that moment of insanity as
they were putting her stretcher on the boat, he had let his
lips brush hers, he had felt response there, not rejection. Well,
she was gone. That was that. Forget her. There was work to
be done.
Yes, and how was it to be done? The Danes were gone.
King Sven was gone. Edgar Atheling was still cowering up
How could a force as puny as his, a matter
there in Scotland.
now of sixty or so men, unseat William? They had no lever-
age; it was like trying to undermine a fortress with a tooth-
pick. Hywel had gone about obtaining leverage in a manner
more befitting a mentally afflicted brigand than an honest
warrior, but he had nevertheless recognised the lack in them.
They needed supporters, powerful ones, with followers. Wild
Edric in Mercia no, he had surrendered, so report said.
. . .
Edwin-and-Morcar? They were no longer officially earls of

their domains, but they must still have support there, thanes
who would follow them. Where they were at present, Here-
ward did not know.
But it might be worth finding out.
Enquiries set cautiously in hand during the following autumn

and winter indicated that it was. Edwin and Morcar, discon-
tented now that they had lost power in their earldoms, un-
easy as mere good-looking ornaments to William's entourage,
were interested in Hereward's schemes, yes, very interested.
Unfortunately, the thanes of Mercia and Northumbria,
in whom Hereward had also reposed confidence, proved to
have other ideas.
6 ^ The Burning %n
"Three of them," said William. "Three thanes. Two
brothers and a cousin. Three ingratiating smiles. Six itching
palms. One disintegrating head. Earl Edwin's head. They
brought it to me as a trophy, Lanfranc. And when I banished
them out of England, they were astounded. They thought
their only fault lay in not bringing me Morcar's head as well.
He escaped. He's in Ely now."
Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury, erstwhile Prior of
St. Stephen's in Caen, regarded the king with grave under-
standing. They were
old friends whose intimacy was of the
kind that from having quarrelled and come together
arises
again. It had been born, that intimacy, when William mar-

ried Matilda regardless of the fact that there was a blood link
between them, and the outspoken Lanfranc condemned the
marriage. William, reacting to this provocation very much as
he had reacted to the gift of Edwin's head, promptly ordered
Lanfranc out of Normandy. Lanfranc, who knew that silence
as well as outspokenness could have virtue, had never asked
him if it was really by chance that William, riding home from
hunting, had come across him on his way into exile, plodding
along on the back of one of the lazy, grass-fed nags that
commonly provided monkish transport, since monks rode
when they did. "I told you to
rarely and liked quiet horses
be out of my duchy by this morning!" William snapped,
pulling up.
"I am doing my best, but this horse can only do six miles
an hour. If you wished for such haste, you should have pro-
vided me with a better horse."
190
The Burning Fen 191
"Oh, turn it round, you fool, and go back to your abbey!

barked William. "I know an honest adviser when I see one.
Only in future, confine yourself to giving advice, and don't
attempt to give me orders again."
Now, that spontaneous liking that William felt for Lan-
franc had made him bring the prelate across the Channel to
head the Church in England and to give, when necessary,
comfort and counsel to his lord. At the moment, Lanfranc
thought, looking at William's face, to give comfort was be-
yond him. There was an unusual brightness in the king's eyes,
and it was not the brightness of anger. The death of this
young earl had a meaning for William that Lanfranc did not
fully understand. There had been no tears in the king's eyes
when recently he learnt of the death of his old friend William
FitzOsbern. This, to Lanfranc, was strange.
"He was a very beautiful young man," said William.
''Was. The thing his killers brought to me wasn't beautiful.
Yet they seemed to think I should find the gift acceptable."
Lanfranc said nothing to that, standing quietly where he
was in the plainly furnished tower chamber that was the
archbishop's office in the London fortress. His hands re-
mained folded over the rope girdle of the monk's robe he
preferred to the vestments of his position. He was an austere
man, and a controlled one. His outspoken moments were al-
ways deliberate. He did not choose to have one now. But he
had the well-opened and luminous eyes of a developed intel-
lect, and William read them.
"No, you need not comment," said the king. "You have
already taken me to task for the spoiling of the north. Your
face says: aman who would do that must expect to have the
heads of his enemies brought to him by those in search of
praise. You would need to be a king yourself, Lanfranc, to
know why I did what I did in the north. And perhaps I would
need to be Edwin-and-Morcar to know why they left my
court for Ely. I had made peace with them again, at their
."
request . .
"A crown can be a tempting bait," said Lanfranc.

"You think that was it? That Hereward of Bourne sug-

gested . . . r" The black eyes hardened, the uncharacteristic
tears forgotten. "If so, Lanfranc, then that nest must be burnt
out. I have tolerated it too long."
"Many people have wondered why," Lanfranc said.
"After the girl Aude was kidnapped . .

."
"She brought back news," William said. "There are men

in the Fens I would rather have Hereward
living than dead.
himself, from what she says, is man I could value. And
a
there is also a plain, stolid, anjcknxard man in Ely, a man called
Brand of Fallowdene, who was once a knight of mine. I've
failed to win over the English leaders, and though I have won
a few of the thanes, they are not on today's showing the — —
best ones. Those two in my opinion are among the best ones.
Because of them, I have held back from Ely. But not now,
Lanfranc. Not now."
Itwas impossible, thought Simon (who had once been In-

connu), in some ways not to admire the Montgomery clan.
He tested with a mailed foot the first section of the planking
causeway over which he would soon be expected to ride, and
found that the floats beneath were enough to keep it buoyant.
It had been the inspiration of Roger of ^Montgomery's son
Robert, w^ho at seventeen was an unpleasant youth, but pos-

sessed of all the strategic gifts and resourcefulness of his fa-
ther's family.
Simon was still Roger of Montgomery's man.
He had had little option. Goscelin had never returned
from Normandy; nor had any news of him come back. He
could have fallen victim to any one of a dozen misadven-
tures: been taken ill in a tavern where he was unknown;
fallen victim to footpads; been thrown from his horse and
killed. Or a more sinister fate might have found him. There
was no way of finding out. The mere possibility of the sinister

was enough to keep Simon from hazarding another man on
the same mission, and when he asked Earl Roger's consent to
The Burning Fen 193
go himself, was brusquely refused. "It will be to search for

it
the slayers of your family, I take it. Yes, I have heard the
story of your returned memory." (Oh, had he, indeed? Simon
wondered.) "But it is too many years ago. I understand your
feelings, but you will learn nothing now, and you are needed
here. We have hardly enough men to control England as it
is." Simon considered going without permission but that
would have left Wulfhild and the two children, the only liv-
ing family he now had, at risk. At a terrible risk, if the Talvas
clan were by any chance responsible for Goscelin's disap-
pearance.
"If they did it, then I would imperil you all by going," he
said to Wulfhild, thinking it out aloud. "And if they did not
. . . they may be right. It may be impossible now ever to be
sure. And as long as I am not sure, I can seek no redress. What
am I to do?"
"Are you asking vie that?" Wulfhild asked him. "Do
nothing. There are times when it's better not to know, and
safer not to ask too many questions. Doii't imperil us. Doesn't
the future matter just as much as the past?"
He did not agree with her, but whether or not uncer-
tainty seemed to be unalterable. He did not
was better, it
know who was guilty, and he did not want to incur the dan-
ger that further enquiries could bring. He hesitated, and days
succeeded one another, becoming weeks, months. He lived
with his memories and learnt not to think about them. Im-
perceptibly, life picked him up and carried him onwards,
bringing him in due course, as part of his knight's service to
Montgomery, to Ely.
The onslaught was a major offensive. William was here
in person. His second half-brother, Bishop Odo of Bayeux,
was here in person. And
were Roger of Montgomery and so
his son. Earl Ralph of Norfolk, and Roger the son of Fitz-
Osbern, now Earl of Hereford since his father's death. The

maps of the fenland which burrowing clerks had unearthed
from King Edward's records were mostly inaccurate, but it
was eventually established that there were places to the east

of Ely where the width of the marshes was no more than four
furlongs. There was a note on one of the maps that paths
across these marshes were believed to exist, but in the village of
Brandon where the Norman assault had its headquarters in a
temporary fort behind a ditch, no one would admit to knowl-
edge of any. William did not press the point. Where it was a
matter of swamps that could swallow a horse and rider in a
few moments, no instructions at all were better than unreli-
able ones. They would make their own bridgehead.
"I don't like it," said Ralph of Norfolk. He had halted his
company halfway along the southernmost of the three cause-
ways. "It's too quiet."
The whole column, Norfolk's men and Montgomery's,
waited, knights standing by their horses' heads. They were
well out already over the squelching mud and the green reed-
beds, advancing on the clustered roofs and the abbey tower
of Ely in the distance. Simon's horse stamped and the planks
underfoot bounced on the inflated oxhides, their seams
caulked with the clay that supported them. Ahead of the
slowly advancing knights were archers, longbows drawn,
scanning the marshes for movement. But as yet there was
none. From here they could distinguish fields and animals,
but of human life there seemed to be no sign.
Sunlight quivered gently on the reeds. Dragonflies
skimmed above the pools. A light west wind sighed a little.
Hereward and iMorcar and their followers in the enemy
stronghold might just as well have been asleep. "It's unnat-
ural," said Norfolk, speaking to Aiontgomery, just ahead of
Simon. "We're within bowshot now. Have been for som.e time
if they have crossbows. But there isn't a sign."
There seemed no alternative but to go on. But uneasiness

was communicating itself. Someone said: "There's hearth-
smoke there, at the end of the north causeway. We must be
near the firm ground now; almost onto it."
"But where's the cottage it belongs to?" asked somebody
The Burning Fen 195
else. "It must be down in a hollow and no one builds houses
."
in hollows in this kind of country. I can't understand . .
He stiffened, like a dog scenting game, or danger. A sec-

ond smoke had sprung up near the first, and now a third was
joining it. Then came a fourth and a fifth and a sharp smell
blew over the Fen. The smokes were spreading, joining, mak-
ing a dirty haze across the marsh. Then at the foot of the
smoke came the and the
pale dancing of flame in sunlight,
billows of vapour were dyed pink and orange. "Oh, Christ,
the Fen's on fire!" somebody wailed.
Planks bounced underfoot like a springboard as they
wheeled to flee. Smoke blew round them, reducing men and
animals to milling ghosts. Voices and trumpets blared and
shouted, attempting to create an orderly withdrawal, but the
advance was rolling back on itself, like a river backed up by a
high tide, fighting wîth its own current. Simon slipped on the
edge of planking which his watering eyes could not see,
saved himself by grabbing at his horse, dragged up another

man who had fallen into the mud, and wâs nearly knocked
into it again by someone else's plunging mount. He struggled
back along the causeway, among the splashes and the
screams. The smoke lifted a moment and he found his man
Rollo on one side of him and Montgomery's boy, Robert, on
the other. A
stampeding horse crashed past and fell with a
terrified, screaming whinny into the Fen. Rollo looked over
his shoulder. "Oh, God," he whispered, "that's worse than the
marshes."
Simon glanced back. The fire had blown across the end
of their own causeway, or they would not have been alive.
But it had swept straight up the other two. He had time to
see its final little fleeing figures, too far from
mastery, see the
safety when was raised, flinging themselves into
the alarm
the fen or engulfed by the bounding red pursuer. Beside him,
Robert Montgomery's son panted savagely: "I know what Fd
like to do to those canaille on Ely." x\nd spelt it out, in detail.
A\\ of them were white with rage and grief, and the
knight Simon FitzTancred, who had once been Inconnu, was
known to have a weakness in his brain. That he should two or

three times retch as they stumbled for the safety behind the
ditch was not thought remarkable.
In the camp at Brandon, that day and the next, anger was as
detectable in the air as the foul ashen smell that drifted from
the Fen. In the evening there was none of the usual singing
and storytelling at the fires. William remained incommuni-
cado throughout, shut in his tent w ith his leaders.
''But the foe is not as clever as he thinks he is," William
said grimly, across the table at suppertime. "He kindled the
reeds too soon. All the advance was not on the causeways.
The toll of the dead is bad but it could have been much
worse. And the reeds will not burn twice. We have blocked
the river exits, so he cannot escape to the sea. Next time we
cross the Fens, we shall reach him."
At the tent entrance, guards challenged and were an-
swered. The lame Simon de Senlis, was admitted. "My
knight,
But I have had a stranger arrested
lord, forgive the intrusion.
who was behaving suspiciously in the camp. He was peddling
ointments for burns. And," said de Senlis significantly, "he
was asking a great many questions."
The practise of personal attention to fine detail had pre-
served William's skin and reputation whole on more than one
occasion. He raised his brows. "A full report, if you please, de
Senlis," he said.
The stranger, apparently, had a Flanders accent. He was
selling plain pottery suitable for camp use, amulets said to be
fragments of saintly done up in leather pouches
bone,
("cheap, nasty, and probably worthless," said de Senlis
roundly), and little pots of aromatic salve for injuries. He
was an ungainly, black-haired man with long arms, and he
was going round the camp expressing pious horror at the
tactics of the Ely defenders. He had also shown considerable,
not to say inquisitive, interest in whatever kind of vengeance
the king might be planning. De Senlis, walking up to a group
of men-at-arms who seemed to be in an unusual huddle, had
The Burni7ig Fen 191
heard him at it, at which point he had gripped the pedlar by
the elbow and taken him into custody. "Although," he said,

"the danger of poisoned unguent seems to me more serious
than anything he may have learnt here. The men, I think,
believe that none of the enemy would dare to penetrate your
very camp, my lord. I would like to agree with them, but ." . .
"He's most likely a spy," agreed Montgomery indif-

ferently. "String him up outside the gate as a warning to
other spies.''
"Later," said William. "I wish to see him first. Getting

face to face with this foe is proving very difficult. Even one of
his spiesmight be worth seeing."
When de Senlis brought him in, the pedlar had to stoop
his head, as William himself did, in all parts of the tent ex-
cept immediately under the ridgepole. The pedlar stood be-

fore them, awkward, bony, with a timid expression and a
back hunched under a heavy pack. "He doesn't look danger-
ous," said Montgomery. Bishop Odo gave a rumbling laugh
from the depths of a massive frame, and the young earls of
Hereford and Norfolk smiled.
WiUiam paid no attention. "I am informed that you have
entered my camp and among other suspicious activities, have
been peddling pottery and charms and salves to my men,"
he said. "The pottery's neither here nor there and I doubt
if the charms are, either. But the salves are another matter.
They cannot be sold here unless their wholesomeness is

vouched for."
"But, my lord, they are made from a formula of the
blessed St. Etheldreda of Ely, and are used even in Flanders,
where I come from. I'm only a poor peddling man making a
living where my feet take me and God sees fit to guide me. If
I've given offence, selling these good salves in the camp, I'm
sorry for it. I'm honest, sir, and so are my ointments. I'll
swear whatever oaths you like to that."
William leant back, arms folded. He, and his com-
panions, stared hard at the pedlar. The words were humble
and the garrulousness was common in men who were afraid.
19S CONFRONTATIONS, 1070-1072 A.D.
But the air smelt of mockery as it smelt of ash. William let his
arms unfold. "Come nearer," he said.
The pedlar approached, almost bumping his bony fore-

head on the ridgepole lantern. "Bring out the salves," William
ordered.
The man unslung his pack and tumbled a dozen small
earthenware pots on the trestle table. WiUiam picked up two
or three, unstopped them, sniffed at them and left one open.
"Allow me," he said.
The words were courteous, the movement quite the con-
trary. WilKam's hand shot out and seized the pedlar's left
wrist, jerking it forward into the pool of lantern light. With
his other hand he pushed the man's coarse sleeve up to the
elbow. A tremor ran through the pedlar, as of resistance sup-

pressed. The brown, bare forearm, its fuzz of hair prickled
with lantern light, was as thick as William's own, and as hard.
William reached for his meat-knife.
He froze for a moment, the knife poised. The pedlar also
stood motionless. The young
exchanged swift glances;
earls
Earl Roger half rose from his seat. Then William smiled at his
captive and scored the long wrist he held, so that the blood
sprang up in dark red beads along the track of the blade.
—
There was a faint hiss but it sounded more like anger than
fear —
from the pedlar. Then the king dipped a napkin into
the selected pot and smeared the unguent over the scratch,
rubbing it well in. He let the man go, and the pedlar straight-
ened, pulling down his sleeve.
"I'd havedone that for you, and cut deeper and rubbed
in more, if you had asked me," he said, and his voice was
noticeably less servile. "It won't harm me. Nor your men, my
lord. It will heal them."
"Perhaps," said William. "A4agnanimity can be the same
thing as a blow in the face. I haven't asked your name, ped-
lar, nor do I But listen to me. It was reported that

intend to.
you not only sold salves and pots in my camp; you asked
questions. I shall answer them. I am a better source of infor-
mation than any of my men. I shall be in Ely within a week,
The Burning Fen 199
either by force or because it has surrendered to me. And
surrender is a course that I enjoin on its defenders. Every
living thing on Ely is a hostage now in my hands. If I have to
break in, I shall leave not a building standing, or a blade of
corn, and not many heads upon shoulders, either. I have sent
a herald already, by river, to say as much. Take your salves,
pedlar, and go. We shall meet again."

The pedlar drew changed his
in his breath, almost spoke,
mind, and went. His cheekbones were flushed darkly under
the brown skin. "What the devil ?" began Roger of . . .
Montgomery.
"We have met the foe face to face at last," said William.
"An interesting encounter. We what the results are.
shall see
That, gentlemen, for your information, was Hereward of
Bourne."
They came exclaiming to their feet. He waved them
down again. "Oh, I have no doubt of it. In this camp, Simon
that was once Inconnu has grey hair and black eyebrows; as
you know, my brother of Mortain has copper hair and dark
brows. But I never yet saw a man whose forearm hair
changed from black to red at the elbow. I saw the red in the
roots of his hair too, as he stood under the lantern. For the
rest, in build and height, he meets the description of Here-
ward that the girl Aude gave us, in every particular. Even to
the accent. Hereward of Bourne was reared in Flanders. He
would have that accent at his tongue's end."
"You let him go!" said Roger of Montgomery, in open
exasperation.
"I prefer to defeat him on equal terms," said William
calmly. "I want his fealty."
"After yesterday?" Roger of Hereford and Ralph of Nor-

folk shouted together.
William nodded. was a strategem any of us might
"It
have used. War iswas offensive, because it seemed to
war. It
be the device of a man who was afraid to meet me in the

open. But he has done more than that now. How many of you
would have come into my camp in disguise, and been
brought into my presence, and still not faltered? When we

take Ely, I hope to capture him alive, and Thane Brand of
Fallowdene with him, and make peace with them both. They
are worth having as followers. I wish I could now say the
same of Morcar, but he has betrayed me in a fashion they
have not. If I take him living, it will not be to ask him for
fealty again. I should put no faith in it. But I would put faith
in theirs, if I once had it. It was my pleasure today, Roger,
to have Hereward in my hand and let him know it, and then
set him free; to choose my own time to conquer him. That
way, he will know when the time comes that my mastery is
no accident, and be won the more easily. The girl Aude was
right: he is worth the winning."
He did not know it, and neither did Hereward, but the
time had come already.
7 ^ Jhe Last Defence
Smoke hung over Ely in an acrid fog. There were places

where the reeds smouldered still. The Isle lay choking under
a sun that the fumes made dull and angry. And in the Mon-
astery of Ely, gathered into council by Abbot Thurstan, the
monks were also angry.
"The answer from Hereward," Thurstan told them, "is
no. No and no and no. I have seen Hereward and Morcar and
all their chief men. I've pleaded with them. So has a deputa-
tion from Witchford though they did more cursing
village,
than pleading. This insane burning of the reeds has set the
peat on fire in half a dozen places. Snorri and his mother
Withburga will lose their whole corn crop this year. But our
efforts were useless. And that isn't all." He paused for breath,
looking at their hopeless faces. "It appears," he said, "that
Hereward, who in my opinion is as mad as those Danish allies
of his ever were, although he condemns them for their wild-

ness, has been into the Norman camp in disguise and found
out their intentions. Which are, it seems, to assault Ely again
and take it by force unless we surrender first. If William is
obliged to use force, he proposes to raze the very building on

it,and will certainly kill most of the men. He sent a herald,
saying much the same thing but offering terms. I saw the
herald. He was treated correctly and sent back unharmed,
but he took the same reply that Hereward made to me.
That Ely will fight to the death. Our death, my brothers, if
necessary."
He hadn't meant to say the last sentence. It slipped out
because he was thinking it. The abbot's eyes turned unhap-
201
pily to the stone walls of his beloved abbey. If that were

destroyed it would be for him a kind of dying even if the
brethren survived, and of that there was no guarantee.
"Would the Normans kill us? " asked one of the monks.
"Who knows?" said Thurstan.
Brother Leo said: "When William breaks in here, all the
rest of the crops will go as well, if not the people. And ..."
He paused and added painfully, "My apple orchard . .
."
"A monk," said Thurstan, harassed, "has no business to

care for any worldly thing in that way. Brother Leo. The
orchard is not yours. It belongs to God. If it pleases Him that
it should be destroyed. ..."
''Would it please Him?" asked a brother called Godfrey.
He was an ordained monk, with a calm, steady temperament.
"It seems doubtful, to say the least of it. Are we bound to
sacrifice the things we hold for God to Hereward's lost cause?
To the cause of the men who sacked Peterborough?"
"We're English!" said the explosive Brother Athelstan.
"So were the monks of Peterborough. To them, Here-
ward is enemy," said Brother Godfrey. "And so are the
the
people of Witchford. I think many of them would willingly
show William the way in over the marshes. All that prevents
them is that they are too afraid of the Normans to go near
them even with offers of help."
Abbot Thurstan was silent, his face full of conflict. They
watched him anxiously. A voice from the back of the as-
sembly said: "I'd prefer William in a good temper to the
Bastard in a bad one." Someone else said: "After Peter-
borough, Hereward's nothing but a robber."
"I'm English," said Thurstan at last. "And I've no love for
Normans. They have stolen abbey land, as you all know. But
I'm abbot of this abbey, and a man of the Isle, too. I'm not
willing to face, for either the abbey or the Isle, the destruc-
tion that the combined efforts of Hereward and Morcar and
their band of and William in his wrath, will loose
lunatics,
upon us. If a messenger leaves for William's camp at night-
fall, the smoke haze will hide him as he crosses the marsh.
The Last Defence 203
even if the moon is out. I think we should put it to a vote."

"Who should be our messenger, if the vote is in favour?"
Brother Godfrey asked.
"Oh, Brother Leo," said the abbot dryly. He caught sight
of Leo's face and added: "Yes, I know. But we cannot imperil
the whole Isle and abbey for one man who will not be saved
in any case. And after all, Brother Leo, in a way they are your
apple trees!"
All through the slow, wary advance across the Fen, Leo had
the unpleasant fantasy that he was disembodied, leading an
army of ghosts across a landscape of death.
The silence in which they moved was partly responsible.
So was the look of the burnt Fen under the hazy moonlight.
Endless and fiat it stretched from side to side, silver-veined
here and there with watercourses, utterly still except for curls
of mist and drifts of ash from under their feet. There was a
smell of burning and decay. This was a place from which
living things had been cast out, and it was not natural that an
army of living men and horses should traverse it.
The it produced a fear that Leo would lead

unreality of
them all by mistake in the moon mist. He went cau-
astray
tiously, glad that he was not asked to hurry. The path, one of
two slim spurs of firm clay that stretched across the eastern
fen, still had good enough for men but
a top layer of bog,
difficult for their mounts. They had to lay down planks and
brushwood as they went, to make a path for the destriers, and
then these had to be gentled and led quietly onward. It pre-
vented haste.
Mercifully the path was only half a mile long and not
sinuous. It was marked, too, if one knew what to look for, by
very small white pebbles placed well apart along one edge.
Holding his lanternLeo found the way without error,
low,
despite his fears. One part of him regretted it. He was here
under obedience to his abbot, and within himself he knew,
too, that Thurstan was right. But Brand who had been his
friend was in the camp of Hereward.
They had Brandon in darkness, but by dawn they

left
were across, assembling on the firm ground on the Ely side of

the Fen. Leo stood in the greying mist, his dew-laden robes
clinging coldly round his legs, and watched grey figures
heave themselves noiselessly into saddles, standards being
hoisted above horses' crests, and mailed arms exchanging sig-
nals. All still in that uncanny silence. Earl Ralph of Norfolk,
close by, leant down and spoke into his ear. "Which direction
now and how far?"
"Two furlongs and a half. You are on the path to it now."
Leo pointed. "There will be a guard. It could include Here-
ward himself. His men say he sleeps very little."
"Speed and surprise, then. We

understand. Stand back,
monk, for your own safety. You will not find us ungrateful,
later on."
A horse stamped and blew through damp-irritated nos-
trils. A bird flew up, shouting a warning. It circled, calling.
"Bloody plovers!" said Ralph of Norfolk. William rode up, a
huge shape on a huge horse, his standard-bearer cantering
after him. In the mist a horn sounded. Ralph raised his own
horn. Pennants waved and horses plunged. The silence was
over. Shouts echoed across the Fen. Leo scuttled, suddenly
superfluous. Ponderously, but gathering speed, the Normans
surged past, bearing down like an avalanche on the Ely en-
campment. Leo dropped to his knees in the wet grass. He had
done the duty imposed on him by the vote of his fellow
monks and the command of the abbot. But no one had for-
bidden him to pray for the souls of those who would die this
morning. Above all he prayed for the soul, or if God permit-
ted, the safety, of Brand of Fallowdene. His half dream on
the marsh had been true. He had led death across the
marshes to Ely, and he was not proud of it.
For those in the Ely longhouse, it was as it had been for
the Normans they had once surprised at Bourne. The warn-
ing note of the horn and the thunder of hooves brought them
tumbling from their pallets, still struggling into their armour,
still brushing away the tendrils of sleep, too late. For many of
The Last Defence 205
them, it was a matter of plunging straight from dreams into
eternity. They ran into the open and were overwhelmed at
once by a flood of mailed men pouring out of the mist, by a
phalanx of horses that neighed and crashed and trampled, by
flaring torches and a shining rain of spears.
Brand, one of the few to live through it, remembered it
afterwards as a series of grievous images. A great red splash

on the earth before the longhouse and a man, one of the
twins, crawling away from it with a spearhead protruding
like a strange dorsal fin from his back. The far end of the
longhouse roof exploding into flame as a torch was hurled
into it. Odi, having clambered somehow to the nearer end of
that imperilled roof, perching astride the gable and shooting
arrow after arrow at the Normans, shouted a warning to
Brand as the enemy came at him from behind, confirming
their ancient friendship once again before a javelin brought
him headlong to his death. Hereward, who had indeed been
up and on guard, whose horn had been the first to blare a
warning, leapt and whirled, shouting to his men to form a ring,
then vanished suddenly in the mixture of mist and smoke.
Alone in a circle of foes, spinning to face first one, then
another, Brand heard himself summoned by name to surren-
der, but ignoredit, fighting on. Then disarmed, he fell,
sprawled face down on the cold morning earth, blood run-
ning pungently down his throat from a blow on his nose. He
wept as he lay, for Odi and his friendship, and for Hereward
who was gone, alive or dead God only knew, and for so many
friends, and for the loss of their great enterprise. Brand wept
for the loss of his own life's purpose, for the task that was left
unfinished. He tasted the blood in his mouth and he tasted
the salt of his tears, as nauseous and as bitter as defeat.
8 ^ Surrender
Aude was in the dairy, straining curds for cheese.

There was no need for her to be there. Earl Waltheof
had an army of dairywomen and cheesemakers disposed
about his various estates, and to call them an army was no
exaggeration since his marriage had been celebrated by the
return to him of his father's old earldom of Northumbria. At
Huntingdon, where the household was now, the dairy was if
anything overstaffed. But Aude had skill at the work and she
had formed the habit of taking refuge in it when other tasks
allowed. In a household headed by a combination of Wal-
theof and Judith, one frequently needed a refuge.
It was the winter after the fall of Ely, when William
decided that he had dangled the bait long enough before Earl
Waltheof, and ordered the marriage to proceed. Judith, mind
and body united in one last revolt, immediately contracted
measles.Aude had helped to nurse her, willingly, since Judith
had done the same for her when she came, ill with the marsh
ague, out of Ely. Brother Leo had been right in thinking that
once free and out of the Fens, she would recover, but it had
been a slow business. Judith's kindness was needed. All the
same, despite her gratitude, caring for Judith was stressful. "I
don't care if I never get well. I'll only have to marry Waltheof
if I do," she whispered painfully, over and over. Aude, her
mind haunted by images of a man she would never marry or
even see again, strove to sound sympathetic and quell her
envy. He had got away from Ely, that much she knew. But
where he had gone and whether or not he was wounded, she
206
Surrender 201
had no means of discovering. Judith had less to complain

about than some, Aude felt.
By the time Judith was on her feet again, Lent had set
in. But Lent too passed; Easter came, and in London in the
spring of 1072, the match was sealed. Queen Matilda, who

had been in Normandy till now, although England was safe
for her —
she and William were not as united as they had
been, it was said —
came over for the ceremony. Judith went
through it like a beautifully dressed sleepwalker. She took
the vow^s, she let her hand be set in Waltheof's. She walked
beside him from the church, sat beside him through the
smoky and uproarious feast, and then slept beside him in the
sumptuous bridal chamber hung with tapestries and dec-

orated with broom and bluebells and blossoms. In the morn-
ing, Aude went with the other women in a chattering flock,
shepherded by Queen Matilda, to greet the couple. They
found that Waltheof had risen early and gone hawking.
Judith too was up, fully dressed and with her hair braided.
She was sitting on a stool with a book in her hands, and when
she raised her head at their entrance, her expression was cold.
"Judith!" cried Matilda, mock-horrified. "We thought
you might still be asleep. On my morning I never stirred
first
till noonday. What a surprising girl you are. Well, well, let's
see."She pulled back the bedcovers. "Aude and Emma, come
and help me."
"Don't trouble to look at the sheets," said Judith, her
eyes still on the .page. It was a beautifully illuminated page;
the book, on the coming of Christianity to Northumbria, was a
gift from the Atheling's sister, now Queen Margaret of Scot-
land. There were gems set in the cover. Matilda stared at the
book's owner, pausing with the bedcovers still in her grasp.
"Judith! Are you saying that he didn't that he can't ?". . . . . .
"He can and he did," said Judith coolly. "But I took my

mother's advice and used olive oil beforehand to make it eas-
ier for myself. As a result, he doesn't believe I was a virgin.
We quarrelled. We're not on speaking terms this morning."

"Oh, Godr said Matilda. "Of all the silly things to

;'
do . .
"Unnecessary discomfort is silly, too," said Judith tartly.

"My mother said it was." She went on reading. Embarrassed,
the ladies trooped out, except for Aude, who turned back to
Judith. Judith burst into tears.
"Don't. Oh, don't. Oh, ]ii, please don't."
"I hate him. I hate himi Stupid, selfish, drunken sot. He
was slobbery and drunk and arrogant. He wants proof that
he's the first, so Vni supposed to provide it, never mind what
it's like for me. He's a pig, just a pig!" She pulled away from
Aude's gentling hands. "He said it was my duty to bleed, can
you believe it? Oh, I know he was good to you when you
came back from Ely. Sent his own physician to you. To you,
he's quite different."
"Not quite," said Aude. It was highly probable that had
Judith offered him a friendlier reception, Waltheof's be-
haviour last night might have been less rude. But if Aude
could see his virtues, his kindness to her after her release was
not among them. "It suited him to help me after Ely," she
said. "He wanted to ask questions. He took my answers to the
king. He asked endless questions, Judith. How many men
were there in the Isle and how were they trained, and what
was the camp like, and did I learn anything of wâys in and
out across the marsh. He wanted me well so that I could
tell him."
She had told him, she remembered, as little as possible,
and must have been a decided disappointment. She had tried,
and it wasn't very hard, to put Hereward and some of his
men, such as Brand of Fallowdene, in a good light. She did
not know how the king had received her information, or
whether she had done Hereward any service by it. She could
only hope that she had. She knew now that in attacking Ely,
William had sought Hereward's fealty rather than his life.
She would like to think that that was due to her.
Judith twined the end of a long black plait round her
fingers. "What was he like, Hereward?"
Surrender 209
*
'Extraordinary." Aude realised that to Judith she had
actually said very little about him. "He tried to tell me what
they were fighting for. I didn't agree with him, but I could
see that they had a purpose, a real one. They weren't just . . .
robbers." She added, because to talk of Hereward was some

comfort, salve on the wound: "Fm glad he wasn't killed."
"Are your But you were a hostage. You might have been
killed yourself."
"No. When I was really in danger, he sent me to safety.
He sat by me when I was ill, willing me to get better. Oh, I
can't describe him properly. But a man with that vitality and
that . . . that character . . . shouldn't be allowed to get himself
killed before he has had children. He ought to hand himself
on. If he doesn't, it's a waste. That's why I'm glad he
survived."
"Oh," said Judith, enlightened, "I see." Her dark eyes, in
shape and colour so like her uncle's, examined her friend
with a compassion that William's eyes never held. "I do see.
Oh, Aude."
They had both got to the grimacing stage when a com-
manding rap came at the door. "Judith!" It was Matilda's
voice. "Come out at once. A\âltheof is here. He's brought you
some wildfowl for your dinner."
Clearly, Matilda had been marriage-mending. Judith laid
down her book. "Coming!" she called. In a lowered voice,
she muttered: "I wish he'd fallen off his horse and broken his
damned neck." She led the way out into the sunlight, smiling
a bright, false smile.
And that, thought Aude, preparing a fresh straining cloth,

had set the pattern for the marriage. True, the match was
only three months old, and true, Judith was now pregnant;
motherhood might alter her. But Aude could not believe that
it would. She wiped a damp forehead, for the day was hot
and though the limewashed dairy wâs as cool as anywhere, it

could not wholly exclude the July warmth. The cream had
needed no persuading to turn. Judith would, Aude felt sure of
it,hand the baby, the unwanted offspring of Waltheof's de-

and resume with redou-
tested seed, to the nearest wet-nurse
bled energy and ingenuity her guerrilla warfare against her
husband. No one would be able to help her, because she
rejected help. She had drawn back from all friendship. Aude's
last close talk with her had been on that dreadful morning
after the wedding.
She did not know what secret oppression by Waltheof
was the cause of Judith's unremitting bitterness. After that
first had apparently tried to conciliate his
disastrous night, he
wife. But the compliments he paid her and the gifts he
brought her seemed only to increase her dislike. She did not
quarrel with him openly; him a lavish
in public she gave
courtesy and an obtrusive deference which made onlookers
feel that Waltheof was being deliberately drowned in good
manners like a wasp in honeywater. But she ran his house-
hold with a savage efficiency, as if bent on denying him the
least chance to criticise her, and there was misery behind her
sharp tongue. It was as if she had no spare energy left for
being patient. She had been a she-devil this morning, reduc-
ing three of her ladies to tears. Aude had made for the dairy
at the first opportunity and was happy to find it empty, the
usual staff having gone to watch a cockfight in the courtyard.
It was a haven.
"Ah. There you are," said Hereward's voice, from the
doorway.
Aude turned round, slowly, disbelievingly. His voice was
ineradicably familiar, but it was impossible that it could re-
ally be his. Having turned, she discovered that the silhouette
in the doorway, black against the dazzle of the sunlit court-
yard behind him, also looked like his, tall and wide-shoul-
dered and gangling. He walked forward into the dairy, closing
the door, and changed from a shape into an individual. Aude
stepped backwards,bumped into a butter churn, stepped side-
ways, and knocked two pans of cream off the table onto the
floor, where the cream spread across the flagstones in a yellow
pool. Hereward clicked his tongue at such clumsiness, cleared
Surrender 211
a space on the edge of the table, and perched himself there,

his movements neat and economical despite his gangling size;
this too, just as she remembered.
"But ." said Aude. He grinned at her, russet eyes and

. .
rusty hair alive and vibrant. "But what are you doing here?"
she said, gasping. "You what if Earl Waltheof sees you?
. . .
You . you must be mad!

. .
"People keep saying that," said Hereward serenely.

"Abbot Thurstan said I was mad when I wouldn't surrender
Ely on terms, and my uncle Gerbod said it when I got to
Flanders and told him of the stand we made. But there's no
madness in coming here, my love. It's official. Earl Waltheof
knows I'm here. He sent to his wife's quarters to fetch you.
When the page came back and said you were thought to be in
the dairy, he gave me permission to come and find you."
."
"But . .
"I have surrendered, Aude," said Hereward quietly. He

noticed that on a shelf near him, a cloth was soaking in a
basin of water. He lifted it out, squeezed it, and squatted to
mop the spilt cream, competently domesticated as men often
were who spent most of their lives in camp without female
company. "Don't do that," said Aude, and knelt to take the
cloth from him. Their fingers met, and at that meeting,
checked.
"I have made my peace with William," he said. "The
resistance is over. It was over, if I am to tell you the truth and
I will never tell you anything else, before William crossed the
Fens to Ely. It wâs over the day I came face to face with
him in his camp. I went there in disguise, to learn his plans;
you heard that tale, perhaps?"
"Yes."
"He recognised me and I knew it. He had me in his grasp
and he let me go, to fight it out fairly."
"Yes, I heard. You did the same thing, to the man who
captured me."
"You understood that?" They both became aware that
they were crouching face to face, on a floor wet with cream
and water, and that it was ridiculous. They stood up, leaving
the cloth where it was to blot up the spillage. "I was angry,
Aude," Hereward said. "It was like an insult, that kind of
treatment. I was too angry to consider the terms. So we did
fight it out. But afterwards ..."
"What happened to you at Ely? How did you escape?"
"You remember Brand? I saw him fighting alone and I
was trying to reach him through the scrimmage, when some-
thing caught my helm a glancing blow. The next thing I
knew, I was waking up on an island in the peat, among the
mists, with Dunstan Tooth-Drawer and Eadsige One-Ear
leaning over me. They'd picked me up and got me away
somehow in the confusion and the smoke. They said I was
such a weight, they nearly threw me in the bog half a dozen
times out of exasperation." For a moment he pantomimed it,
lugging an invisible body between himself and an invisible
partner, feet sinking in boggy ground, and Aude let out a
yelp of laughter. Sobering, she said: "Brand is alive, too."
"Yes, when I came back to England to make my peace, I
heard about that. He would not swear fealty, but William let
him go to Fallowdene, though only as the guest of his son-in-
law. He has no lands now and no titles. But I have land and
title, Aude. I am Thane of Bourne again, as I used to be. And
it is as Thane of Bourne that I am here, to ask the hand in
marriage of Aude, daughter of Ranulf, knight and castellan in

the service of William of Normandy. What answer does Aude
give me?"
There was to be no reprieve, then. No time to consider.
She felt which she leant as though it were
the table against
the only real and solid object in a world otherwise dissolving
into diaphanous possibilities. One of those possibilities must
come into being, but only by her own act of choice. And how
did one choose, all in a few minutes? This decision must
shape a whole lifetime. She said nothing. Hereward said:
"Aude, will you believe me if I tell you that for the first time
in my life, I am truly afraid?"
"Afraid?"
Surrender 213
"Yes. All my life, I've achieved what I wanted, by being
better with a sword or faster or stronger in one way or an-
other, than the nextman. But you are not a man and none of
these things will help me now. Aude, will you believe me
when I say I love you? I have lost many things," he added.
"Many friends. A battle. My beautiful, fierce ships. They
were burnt when Ely was taken. But out of the wreck, I
have saved a little. Bourne has been returned to me and soon
I shall rebuild my hall there. I have a future. Now, if you are
willing, hope to have you. But only if you are willing. You
I
were brought a captive to my presence once. You will not be

asked to endure that again." Still she did not answer. "Earl
Waltheof says," said Hereward gently, "that there is no harm
if we ride a little way together. There is a breeze blowing out
on the pastures. Will you come?"

It was a clear choice, after all, when faced squarely. It
was between Hereward or not Hereward, for always. Let him

go, and she would never set eyes on him again. Go with
him, and whatever the hidden future held, he would be part
of it. She nodded, and the nod meant more than yes, I "will
ride with you. He understood at once, and the joy and aston-
ishment that sprang up into his eyes moved her painfully,
reflecting for her the depth of his need. "I will come with
you," said Aude.
She had always supposed that her marriage, if it ever took

place at would follow
all, the conventions of her world. But
with Hereward, life was apt to hold surprises. No down-
stuffed pillow for Aude, and no white linen sheets. No gar-
lands of flowers, and no musicians outside the door. She had
cool grass under her back, clover and marsh marigold for
floral decorations, bees and marsh warblers and the steady
munch-munch of the tethered horses grazing, for her music.

She had not, at this stage, even had a priest."Tomorrow,"
said Hereward. "I told Earl Waltheof I was impatient. iVnd so
I am. Too impatient even for that, unless you yourself hold
me back. Aude, my love?
"Iam impatient too," said Aude.

Her face below his was full of happiness, in which he
rejoiced. He studied it, knowing the level eyes and the sturdy
jaw for the shield devices of an integrity that might at times
be embarrassing, but was a perfect assurance to a man that
all his children would be his. He recognised too, what Aude
herself did not yet know, that here was a capacity for passion
that would shake all the dry old leaves from his tree of life
and leave him bewildered until the new growth came. That
passion had already begun its glorious disturbance.
JhrL
IV
IMMOLTITIONS
1075-1082 A.D.
1 ^ %e Seditious
"Marriage Party
"This is a peaceful place," said Brand, who was not now

called Brand of Fallowdene, although Fallowdene was where
he lived. "I like visiting you here, Edgiva. When you said you
wished to enter a convent, I was against it . . . but now, since
I have known the monks of Ely, and seen you here, I begin to
understand what you find here. Though I can't find words
for it."
"We're in harbour," Edgiva gravely. "Out of the

said
storms. Although we pray all who must still
the time for those
sail in the storms. The wild weather outside isn't forgotten."
"I wish that Wulfhild could come here sometimes."

"So do I. But if she did and Sister Olive got to hear of
. . .
it ... I think Olive would go mad. She lives on the edge of
madness all the time. She would flee from Withysham and die
by the roadside, sooner than stay here after a Norman or a
Norman's wife had crossed the threshold. You are different,
of course, Father. You fought on as far as you could. She ad-
mires you."
In its clearing in the depths of Andred Forest, Withy-
sham Abbey was a tranquil place. Brand looked round the
bare, quiet guest parlour, and out of the window towards the
trees, leafless because it was February, which on this side
approached close to the building as if to protect it. When he
and Edgiva stopped talking, as they had now, one could hear
the quiet, and it was not the quiet of emptiness but was full
217
218 IMMOLATIONS, 1075-1082 A.D.
of the weight of prayer. He had had the same experience

once or twice when visiting Brother Leoat Ely, although not
the last time he had been at Ely Abbey, when he was taken
there to come before King William. That had not been a
tranquil occasion at all. Brand said: "It's more than three
years, now ..."
William had paid him a compliment, and he knew it, in
giving orders that he was to be captured if possible, not
killed. But he would rather have been killed. He was not
grateful to the man who had identified him —
because like a
fool he had kept the old shield device that he had used in
—
Normandy and he had come into William's presence raging
and resentful. Too resentful, even, for much fear.
He had left Normandy two years before the Conquest
and not seen William since then, face to face. The king had
changed, he thought, as he stood below the dais in the room
in Ely Monastery that William had commandeered for audi-
ences. There were grey flecks now in William's black hair,
and deeper, straighter lines in his eagle face. His body had
thickened. But his dignity had increased. There was about
him now an aura that one could almost call a kingliness,
except that Brand had seen Gilda. And to the man responsi-
ble for Gilda's horror, he would allow no honour. He waited
for William to speak.
William had an air of haste as well as dignity. There was
much to do on Ely and he was short of time. But he spoke
courteously, greeting Brand almost as if he were a guest in-
stead of a prisoner. Brand gathered that his thirteen years at
the Norman court had been his undoing. Brand had left a
memory there. Now William, perversely, had chosen to seek
his fealty instead of his demise.
There was monk, Brother Godfrey, standing at Wil-

a
liam's side. He appeared to be representing Abbot Thurstan,
who had fallen ill and was in the infirmary, perhaps not des-
tined to recover. Brother Godfrey added his persuasions to
William's. He spoke well, calmly and good-humouredly. It
was almost difficult to say no.
The Seditious Marriage Party 219
But he did say no. He
had sworn an oath, Brand said
patiently, to the widow
King Harold, and there were other
of
reasons too. He could not offer William his fealty. While he
spoke, he watched William for signs of anger. But they did
not come.
"I am sorry," said \Mlliam's remote, harsh voice unemo-
tionally. "\êry sorry. Sir Brand."
That expression of sorrow, suddenly, was more para-
lysing, more alarming than any outburst of rage. Brand
thought of Earl xMorcar, who had also been captured and was
already on his wây to a dungeon in the London fortress. He
thought of some of the lesser men, who had yielded at the
battle and been mutilated. His belt buckle seemed to be
made of heavy ice. Fortunate Odi, in the safety of his com-
munal grave.
". but there is no need," said William, "for me to take
. .
any forceful action against you, Sir Brand, despite your

obstinacy. The resistance is broken. You can do me no harm
now. If you will not put your hands between mine, the loss is
yours. You can hold no land or position in any realm of mine.
But you served me well once, and for the memory of that I
will nor imprison, exile, or maim you. You may live privately
where you choose, with your daughter in England if you
wish. Will you not reconsider. Sir Brand? I was a good lord to
you once."
It was true. Brand saw himself for a moment through
more worldly eyes, a fool and a dreamer, clinging to ancient

promises made on the edge of carnage, and to the memory of
an outrage long beyond repair. "If it is an oath that holds you
back," Brother Godfrey was saying, "you can be released. I
am an ordained priest; whatever you swore on, I can repre-
sent your case to Archbishop Lanfranc if you wish. There is
unlikely to be any difficulty. Is that the trouble?"
"No," said Brand. "It was not that kind of oath. I said:
there were other reasons."
It was hard to give them. There was too much potential
menace in the man on the dais and too much assurance. Wil-
liam possessed in a high degree the art of making other men

feelreduced in his presence, their arguments and passions
reduced with them. But he would have to speak. "I was in the
camp by the Humber," Brand said, "in the winter of 1069.
Some women whose homes had been burnt and whose men-
folk were slain, came to us for help. They had eaten human
flesh to stay alive in the wilderness. I saw them. I spoke to
them. They are my reason."
"Because of whatwe did in the north," said William,
"other men and women will live in peace in other places. But
I see now that I can expect no oath of fealty from you. I
should be wiser to banish you, now that I know what is in

your mind. But I by my
word. Simon of Fallow-
will stand
dene is here. He is willing for you to lodge with him. You
have my permission to go back to Fallowdene with him, or
anywhere you choose. But remember this. Whatever feelings
you harbour concerning me, give me no future offence. If you
come before me again in this way, you will live out your life
as an outlaw or a cripple. Go free. But conduct yourself. Sir
Brand, with the utmost caution henceforth."

And for want of any alternative, he had conducted him-
self with caution, until caution felt as though it were eating
into his bones. He said restlessly to Edgiva: "I came here
today not only to see you, but to get away from Fallowdene.
It's an unhappy place just now."
"I'm sorry to hear it." Edgiva's calm face, with the heavy
level browns that were his legacy to her, was attentive within
itsframe of veiling. "Why is it unhappy?"
"There was a young smith. You may not remember him
— a sullen kind of young man called Arnulf. He would have
been a child when you wêre at Fallowdene. He was married
."
just after came home to a girl called Swan
I . .
"I do remember Swan, I think. She had fair hair."

"Yes. She was married for a while to one of the Norman
men-at-arms, the one in fact that Simon killed in the north.
He wasn't much of a husband to her. After his death, another
man-at-arms, from Beechtrees, was interested in her, but she
would have nothing to do with him. We arranged for her to
marry Arnulf, and she was content with him, although there
were no children. But two nights ago, Arnulf and one of
Swan's brothers went poaching deer. It's against the law now,
to take a deer without the king's leave. The spoor led them
out of Fallowdene valley, right off our lands, all the way to
Beechtrees. They were caught by Sir Alain's men and hanged
out of hand. When I came away, half the village was in Ar-
nulf's forge, Swan and her mother were rocking and wailing,
and Swan's other brother —Young Ulf, that's his name —was
cursing every Norman in the land to Hell. Your Sister Olive
would have loved to hear him. Simon and Wulfhild say that
the two who are dead were troublemakers, and as a matter of
fact, some of the villagers agree with them. Simon is liked by
many of them and he wasn't responsible for this. Oh, it will

all come to nothing, and even if trouble did break out, Simon
has a dozen men-at-arms on the place now. But for the time
being,I am glad to be out of Fallowdene. In all the talk and
argument," Brand added, "no one, not Wulfhild and not

Simon, turned to me and as much as asked my opinion. I am
very much a guest of charity, at Fallowdene, Edgiva. I am a

living man, with no purpose left in his Hfe. And I never felt
it so much as I did today."
"I am tired of that phrase, no, Waltheof. Tired to death of it!"

Waltheof, like a great, angry, yellow-haired bear, advanced
on Judith across the floor of her bower. Her ladies had al-
ready fled from the scene. Judith retreated before him, knock-
ing over the table at which she had been sitting, spilling a
treatise on falconry. Queen Margaret's jewelled tome on the
Conversion of Northumbria, and a lyre and a set of red
leather merlin's jesses to the floor. "You have time to read and
strum a lyre and go hawking. But you never spend five min-
utes with our daughters if you can help it, and rather less
than that with me. And all you have given me is daughters. I
want a son. This yearT
He caught up with her, and kicked her feet from under
222 IMMOLATIONS, 1075-1082 a.d.
her. The floor came up, knocking the wind out of her lungs.
Waltheof's weight descended and what little breath remained
in her was pressed out. She gasped: "No!" just once, but his
grip only tightened and a spiral silver arm-ring that he wore

on his left arm pressed agonisingly into a nerve in her elbow.
She was still gasping for air, eyes distended, when he entered
her. She did not want him and she was not ready for him. She
won her struggle for breath and instantly cast it away again
in a scream. "That's vnich better," said Waltheof with savage
cheerfulness.
He stood up when he had finished, tidied his clothes, and
then with an air of punctihous politeness that was itself in-
sulting righted the table and the fallen objects. He flicked

through the treatise on falconry disdainfully. "That is a copy
of the book King Harold wrote, I see. You read the books of
the English, though you aren't willing to give us sons."
Judith, sitting on the floor, stranghng the tears of fury and
pain, and wiping the straggle of a loosened braid out of her
eyes, did not answer. "When I came to your bower today,"
Waltheof said, "I actually came to bring you news. You dis-
tracted me, when it was so plain that was interrupting you
I
in the much more amusing business of reading with your

ladies. I wonder if your eternal books bore them as much as
they bore me? But I'm forgetting again. The news. We are
invited to a wedding. Earl Ralph of Norfolk is to many Emma
of Hereford at We're bidden
last. to the feasting in Norwich
Castle, two months from now."
"I thought the king had forbidden the match," said
Judith waspishly. "Emma was sent away once, to get her out
of Ralph's sight."
"The Maine on campaign, and likely to stay
king's in
there," saidWaltheof with malice. "He has more important
matters on hand than just one rogue marriage." He looked at
her angrily, as she slowly heaved herself to her feet, shaking
her soiled maroon and gold-embroidered skirts. She had all
the physical attributes he Hked best: firm, statuesque breasts

and columnar thighs; she was a woman in whom a man
could bury himself and be lost. Why would she not love him?
"We shall accept, of course," he said.
The gathering at Norwich Castle in the spring of 1075 con-

sisted, at arough estimate, of half the nobility of England
and Brittany, with a smattering of Norman guests, and some
Welsh chieftains who were friends of the bride's family and
had accompanied the party from Hereford. The castle, long
since converted from wood to stone with the aid of a first-class
Norman architect and a team of equally first-class Breton
masons, was actually almost big enough to house the gather-
ing that Ralph of Norfolk considered appropriate for his nup-
tials. It was not quite big enough; the steward, counting
heads as the eleventh shipload of Bretons arrived, realised just
in time that the dais could not accommodate the size of chief
table that was required, and with a cold qualm in his stom-
ach at the prospect of three dozen combustible barons draw-
ing blades over questions of precedence, sent in haste to
Norwich for workmen. When hammering was over and
the
the sawdust swept up, the dais was big enough but the gap
through which dishes and barrels must be brought from the
kitchen was inconveniently narrow. "It will have to do," said
the steward. "As long as the food gets into the hall somehow
—sideways, backwards, who cares? — it doesn't matter. The
important thing," said the steward firmly, "is that no trouble
of any sort should break out at this feast."
But he omitted to cross his fingers when he said it.
Even as it was, the dais still would not hold the chief
custom of a separate ladies' table had
guests' wives, so the old
to be revived. The bride had a seat of honour there, amiong
her attendants and the female guests. Waltheof, seated beside
Ralph of Norfolk, thought the ladies made a charming pic-
ture. He was sorry that his own wife Judith was an inhar-
monious element in it. Why, he wondered irritably, must she
sit there with that line between her eyes and that forced
smile on her face? What a contrast Emma, the bride, made to

her. W^hy couldn't Judith be like Emma?
Emma was aglow. She was in full bloom now, unrec-

ognisable as the awkward sandy child of former years. She
was all honey and amber and gold, from her in-
in tones of
dustriously burnished hair to her wide and beautifully
shaped golden brown eyes; from the gold dusting of her
freckles to the tawny silk of her gown. But the glow was more
than outward. Its source came from within. She was happy.
So very unlike Judith, thought Waltheof grimly.
Unlike at least one other person, as well. "I felt mighty
sorry for that lame man, Simon de Senlis," a big-belUed
Breton called John Belforet was saying. "I'd hate to go to
AMlliam the way he's had to go, tell the king that he's been
defied. I wish you every happiness, Ralph, but what kind of a
risk are you taking today? She's like a sweet golden plum, I
grant you, but if A\'illiam went to the trouble of sending de
Senlis all the way here to forbid the wedding, he must have
meant it."
"He has a rebellion on his hands in iMaine," said Ralph,
unmoved. "He won't leave off to chase a pair of errant lovers.
And by the time the war is over," he added, Hght eyes danc-
ing, "it will be far too late. I'll probably be the father of twins."
"It's a mystery to me," said Belforet, "why there should
be any talk of objections anyhow. The girl is daughter to his
old friend FitzOsbern, isn't she? And you're a leading earl of
his. It's suitable enough."
"There was talk of betrothing one of his sons to her,"
said Roger of Hereford, "though that came to nothing. I
don't think that's the reason. I think he's afraid of another
power-bloc."
Four people, including Belforet and a short, shrewd-
eyed \\'elsh landowner, said: "AA^hat power-bloc?" together.
Ralph grinned, a mobile Celtic grin that curved upwards
towards his ears. "I know what my ntw brother-in-law
means," he said. "I hold a chunk of land on the eastern side of
—
England, facing Flanders which is less friendly to \Mlliam,
since the count who was his father-in-law died. Roger here
holds a chunk of land along the Welsh March." The shrewd-
eyed landowner laughed and further along the table three
other Welsh nobles chuckled in the depths of their well-
ribbed, bass-voiced chests. One raised a drinking horn in
salute. "If we two join hands," said Ralph, "then we must be
such men as he can trust absolutely. But we are both young

."
and have only lately come to our possessions, and . .
"He certainly doesn't seem to trust me," said Roger of

Hereford. "He even sent a sheriff of his own into Hereford,
not long ago, to hear pleas in viy court. I got it stopped. I
appealed to Lanfranc and the sheriff was recalled. But the

man came in the first place on William's orders. He tries to
keep his hand on us even from Maine."
"But," said Belforet, "you said another power-bloc,
Roger. What's the first one?"
"Talvas-Montgomery, of course," said Roger of Here-

ford. "An awful warning. He dare not alienate them; since
they joined forces they've been far too strong. And they put a
high price on their fidelity. Immunity for Mabel, no matter
what she does. Is she still amusing herself with young boys?"
he added interestedly.
"Boys and young men." The conversation was making
Waltheof uneasy. He was glad of the change of subject. "I
don't know how Roger of Montgomery can endure it."
"Would you really want Mabel Talvas dependent on you
for your services?" Ralph asked, and they all laughed. A min-
strel came out onto the floor to eulogise the bride and groom,
and Ralph signalled for more wine barrels to be rolled out

of store. Wâltheof, who was drinking mead, got to his feet
with an oxhorn raised high. "To Ralph and Emma!
"Can you drink it all in one swallow?" Ralph enquired.
"Good old English fashion?"
Waltheof, head back and throat muscles rippling,
tilted
obliged. The two young watched him delightedly and
earls
promptly called for mead-horns themselves, to test their own
abilities. Both, slightly crimson and pop-eyed, succeeded.
They sat down again amid hearty applause. Roger wiped his
mouth and blinked as the mead struck his alimentary canal,
bounced, and soared into his brain. "If the king forbade this
match for the reason you think, Ralph," he said aggressively,

"that's a terrible slur on both our families. Have you real-
ised that?"
From beyond Belforet, another Breton said: "William
judges others by himself. After all, how trustworthy is he?
What about all those poisonings?"
The minstrel was still valiantly singing, but he was con-
centrating on the ladies' table and the humbler guests. At the
top table, the atmosphere was undergoing a change, shifting
from the festive to the businesslike, a little further with every
sentence spoken. "The poisoning tales you speak of," said one
of the Wêlshmen. "Bits and pieces we have heard, but no
details. Will someone tell us?"
Information poured on him like a cloudburst.
". . .probably poisoned old King Edward's nephew as
well . . . you know, Edgar Atheling's father. Died very sud-
denly of a gastric complaint, he did, almost the moment he
set foot in England out of exile. He was going to be made
the heir. . .
."
". . . no doubt at all about Walter of Maine. Come to

."
think of it, he was King Edward's nephew, too. . .
."
"Brihtric . .
."
". . . belladonna. . .
"Matilda knows iMabel Talvas a bit too well, you ask if
me. God help you if you get in the path of either of them ." . .
"God help you even if you don't." That was a Norman

from the end of the table. "I came over and fought at Hast-
ings. Rich rewards, we were promised. So I took William at
his word like a few hundred other poor wantwits, and what
do we get? We sacrificed our assets to get to England, broke

our best swords and lost half our best men, and ended up
with the fine reward of a piddling manor apiece, full of sulky
villeins —
and then we had to build castles with our own
money! And we go about in armour day in, day out. You get
to thinking at times that the English do nothing but guzzle
—
and booze saving your presence, my lord Waltheof ; we look
on you as one of us ." . .
"Thank you," said Waltheof frostily.

". but they can hold a grudge. I've had four of
. . my men
murdered in the last two years. And much help we get in
protecting ourselves! William lost interest after Ely, that's
what it is. hands in Maine and Nor-
He's got enough on his
mandy. He ought to hand England over

won't come back. He
to one of his sons. Young Robert's old enough aJid pressing
for a chance to prove himself. Maybe he'd look after it a bit.
We need a peace-keeping force here, a real one, not just us.
The army's been away too long."

"He wôn't cede any land to his sons till he dies," Ralph
said with certainty. "It's been suggested. All he said was that
he didn't take off his clothes before he went to bed."
Somebody, and afterwards they were never quite sure
who it was, said: "What if we didn't wait for him to die?
What if we just took England over and ran it properly, our
way? If we had a man at our head whom the English would
accept as king, there'd be an end to all the murders and un-
rest. Say, someone like Earl Waltheof here."
There was a moment's silence, and then an inventive

outbreak, half serious and half not, of strategic suggestions.
"We've enough men . . . two armies, from Hereford and
."
Norfolk . .
". . . close on London pincer-style. Seize the London

fortress and the Winchester treasury . .
."
"Some of the castellans would come over to us. ." . .
"Are you all out of your minds?" shouted Waltheof. He

banged his mead-horn furiously on the table for a hearing.
"All the castellans have taken oaths of fealty direct to Wil-
liam, and so have we, for that matter! And I took mine after
I'd rebelled and been reinstated. Do you expect me to turn on
him now?"
Earl Ralph of Norfolk said, his eyes very bright with
drink and excitement and a pure Celtic wildness, "Do you
like England rudderless and unguarded, falling in

to see
value? xMost manors are worth less every year, since sixty-six.
You could lead us to better times. Your own people love you;
you have a reputation for generosity and courage in battle,
which would bring others to your banner. You only made
peace with William in the first place to protect English folk
from him — everyone knows that. The English would wel-
come you. And if you have a son, he would be king after you
and carry the blood of William's house with him, so there'd
be a good firm link with your predecessor. You need not take
up arms yourself. We would do that. We will bring the crown
to you, if you will stand ready to receive it."
Judith was with child, the result of that unmannerly
union on the floor of her bower. It might be a son, this time.
And if he w ere made a king; if when the crown was set
on his head, the cheering shook the rafters of the West
Minster and set the candle flames streaming, surely, then she
would see what he was worth, and love him.
His fingers tightened on his drinking horn. Roger of
Hereford saw it. With all the hauteur that was so much a part
of him, Roger said: "To be offered a crown and refuse it
. what man who is a man would do that?"
. .
Ralph, more subtle, said: "Earl Waltheof's scruples do

him credit. But a king of integrity is what we want."
After which, the two of them gathered up their very
considerable persuasive powers and set to wôrk to prise the
—
Earl of Huntingdon, Northumbria, and these days North- —
ampton also, loose from his allegiance. It took slightly longer
than anyone expected. All of half an hour.
2 ^ lAnjinished Business
On AA'ulfhild's loom, the shuttle flew like an angry hor-

net. She was keeping her eyes on her task and her lips closed.
Brand stood in the middle of the hall, pushing spare clothes,

grooming tackle, saddle-oil, tinder box, sandbox, cleaning
rags, leather bottle, and sundry other items of a soldier's kit
into a large leather sack. He wished his daughter would
speak. When the sack was full and she was still silent, he
swore under his breath and spoke first.
"Wulfhild, I'm about to leave. It's time to say goodbye."
The loom stopped. Wulfhild swung round on her stool.
The misery on her face hurt him. "Father. Why must you
go?" she said.
Brand sighed, letting the sack slide to the ground. This

parting was going to be worse, even, than that other one,
after Hastings. He did not know what to say to her.
He felt now what he had felt then, that the oddity of
their relationship weakened him. He had never known Wulf-
hild as a child, never exercised the slightest authority over
her. They had met as adults and quarrelled as adults. He could
not say to her: what I do is right, because I am your father.
That he was her father made no difference.
"I must go," he said patiently, "because while there is a
chance, however slender, that William can be unseated, I
must have a part in it."

"There isn't a chance," said Wulfhild flatly. These days
she rarely left the manor. But Simon did, and Alric the Stew^-
ard went regularly to Chichester, so she heard all the news,
and had opinions about it. Like the queen of a hive, Wulfhild
229
did not need to be mobile to be informed. "If William is
thrown out, then it will only be another Norman, or some-

thing as near Norman as makes no difference, who takes over.
This is a war of the king's men against the king. It has noth-
ing to do with you."
"It has everything to do with me. And it is not a war to
enthrone another Norman. It is a war to enthrone an English-
man. Waltheof."
"That figurehead!" said Wulfhild with scorn. "And for
him, you are going to join Ralph of Norfolk, who is a Breton
. what if you and Simon meet on the field?"
. .
"Then we meet," said Brand fatalistically. "It won't con-

cern you."
"It will concern me!" She was crying, with anger as well
as grief. "He's gone to join the royal London and
levies in
you're going to join the enemy. You could meet you could . . .
. . . and what me, torn apart between you?"

w411 it be like for
"You chose Norman," said Brand frigidly.
to marry a
"Yes. Because I can see what you won't see, that the
battle against William is over. He's won; he won on that hill
at Hastings nearly ten years ago, proved it half a
and he's
dozen times since. It's all over, Father. Why won't you see?
This squabble between William and his own men is nothing
to do with you. Oh, Father. Haven't you fought enough?
Can't you rest now? Haven't wx made you welcome here?
Hasn't Simon been a son to you? You're ungrateful. Father."
Brand lost patience. ''Ungrateful! Do you think I should
be grateful for a bed and a place at the table in 7ny ouon
house?'' Wulfhild's mouth opened, speechlessly. "Yes, my
girl, viy house." Four years of bitterness welled into his
throat like bad wine. "Fallowdene wâs mine once, or have
you forgotten? I lost it, for the crime, the unforgiveable
crime, of fighting for my lawful overlord first and refusing to
fawn on his conqueror afterwards. Don't talk to me about
gratitude!" He gathered up his sack again, gazing round the
hall as he did so, in farewell. He would not live here again, he
knew. He imprinted his mind with the details, for they would
Unfinished Business 231
have to last smoke-blackened beams, with hams
a lifetime:
hanging from them to cure; the pattern of weapons and tools
on the \^'all by the door; stools he had made; hangings Wulf-
hild had made. But it was never any use to cling to material
things, for everyone must leave them in the end. As he went
to the door, Wulfhild spoke again. "Father, what did we do
that was wrong, that made you feel unwelcome?"
"Nothing," said Brand. "But what do you think it's like,
sitting about the hall day after day, like an old dog lying by
the fire while the rest of the pack go hunting? I'm fifty-five,
Wulfhild, but I'm still hale. I propose to find something to do
with my life. I have chosen to finish the business I began
when I w as fifteen and first joined the service of Earl Godwin
and became his man, to fight for his house and against his
enemies, until the end."
Wulfhild shook her head. "That business is finished. Fa-
ther. The house of Godwin is finished."
"/'7// not finished," said Brand. "Not yet." The door
closed on his resolute footsteps.
The
fair-haired Swan, recently widowed for the second
time, was making loaves in a corner by the fire. She said,
speaking across the hearth trench: "He's gone to fight against
this Norman king. Nothing wrong with that."
"That Mauger and Alain of Beechtrees were are good — —

for nothing won't make a king out of Waltheof. Stupid,
obstinate old man!" said Wulfhild furiously, meaning her
father.
"Anything's better than having one of the Normans on
top," said Swan sulkily.
"You're privileged," said Wulfhild, "because you're
grieving. If you weren't, I'd have Dame Editha beat you. You
don't know what you're talking about."
Swan, inelegantly, spat into the fire.
"We have every hope," dictated Archbishop Lanfranc, "that

the rising will be put down you came back to
quickly. If
England we should rejoice and welcome you as a messenger
of God. But, nevertheless, you need not hurry to cross the

Channel on account of a handful of . .
."
Of what? There were no words in Lanfranc's vocabulary

that seemed to him strong enough to describe the treacherous
behaviour of the rebels, while still remaining within the limits
of decency. Above all, he did not know how to describe
Waltheof's part in Waltheof had not taken up arms; he was
it.
sitting quiet in his hall atNorthampton. But Lanfranc had

his spies in the inns and the markets, and they all unequivo-
cally reported the same gossip. That the rebels, Roger of
Hereford and Ralph of Norfolk, proposed to offer the crown
to Wâltheof as soon as they had it in their gift, and hoped in
return to become dukes in his kingdom; and that, most
deadly of all, \\âltheof had been in touch with Denmark,
hoping to buy men and arms for silver to help his cause.
He looked at the map on the wall of his office in London
where the conflict, as far as the king's side was concerned,
was being co-ordinated. Little pins with coloured heads
marked the dispositions of the various leaders. Roger of
Hereford was halted at the Severn and Ralph of Norfolk was
similarly balked at Cambridge, with local forces ranged
against them. W^hen the reinforcements Lanfranc was now
rapidly gathering at London were ready, he would divide
them between the two fronts and destroy Hereford and Nor-
It would be simple.
folk in a single day.
Lanfranc had already named Hereford and Norfolk in
the letter he wâs dictating. But not, as yet, Waltheof. He
knew why not; it was because that name would hurt William
more than any other in this sorry roll-call of scoundrels. Wil-
liam had forgiven Waltheof again and again. The earl ap-
peared to have a mysterious attraction for William, rather as
Edwin had had. Lanfranc could not see why, but did not
discount the strength of that attraction, either.
No. He would break the news of Waltheof's defection
later, perhaps in person. This was one of the times when
silence was more kindly. But it was Waltheof of whom he
was chiefly thinking as he said to the clerk at his side, "... a

handful of traitors and brigands."
Brand knew, even while it was going on, that the defence of
Norwich Castle would be the last campaign of his life. The

skills of war to which he had devoted most of his adult years
were passing from him now into the hands of younger men,
and he could do nothing about it.
But if this battle was the last, it was also the finest, the
one that through all the rest of his life would shine most
brightly in his memory. He spent it lifted out of himself,
endowed with endurance and marksmanship far beyond his
normal range, as if some final, perfect expression of his war-
rior's craft had been given to him, so that he might return the
gift in faultless order.
And all this, when he had come into the castle in a con-
dition of the deepest despair and shame.
The first suspicion that his warrior days were ending had
come on the battlefield outside Cambridge, when he knew he
was missing strokes that should have landed, and was taking
blows that once he would have dodged with ease. It was
strengthened when, as Ralph's forces broke and fied, he was
overtaken by a pursuer and forced to turn at bay. He found
himself staring straight into his son-in-law's wrathful and
wintry eyes, and heard Simon snarl: "Keep on running, you
old fool!"
That he could not do. The indignity of fieeing at all
was bad enough; the indignity of fleeing from Simon was
quite intolerable. The old desire to finish it all and be done
with it made him raise his axe and spring on Simon, not to
kill, but to be killed. At the end of a scrimmage lasting under
a minute, Simon had disarmed him, grabbed him, spun him

round, and thrust him into an unwilling run. "Get out of here,
damn you!" Simon roared. "They're chopping the right feet
off all the captives for the love of God and all the saints in
. . .
Heaven, will you run?"

And run he had, with Simon growling encouragement

behind him until he finally uttered a parting valediction and
tripped artistically over a molehill. Brand found himself safe
in Norwich Castle, by courtesy of his Norman son-in-law. He
was wretched enough, stricken enough, to have cast himself
over the walls. But he had not reckoned on Emma.
Ralph, the Earl of Norfolk, Emma's husband, was not
had escaped. And an arrow winging over
in the castle, for he
the walls two days later, with a piece of vellum bound round
the shaft, informed her that Ralph was not only safe and alive
but on his way to Denmark in search of help. That marked
the start of the change in Emma, from silent, withdrawn
despair to an inspired and magical optimism that carried
them all with it. "He is alive," she said. "And help may come,
from Denmark, from Hereford. We must hold Norwich. It
may be a long siege. We will begin by rationing the food."
Hope grew in them all, as the castle filled with her spirit.
She gathered the men in the hall, her own and Ralph's, and
when she talked to them they said that she spoke with
Ralph's voice. She rationed them ruthlessly but she ate with
them and took no more than they did, not even by a crust.
She was always merry, always ready to praise, except when a
man was caught pilfering food, and it was Emma then who
said that the defence of Norwich would be better without
that hungry mouth, and had him hanged.
A4eanwhile, the enemy was acting oddly. From the bat-
tlements, the defenders watched a number of curious timber
structures appear beyond the moat. They speculated about
them for four days and then learnt the answer, when rocks
began to rain over the walls, propelled from what were ap-
parently gigantic crossbows, killing Ivo, the castle com-
mander, in the first volley.
some idea of that over-educated brat Robert,
"This'll be
Montgomery's son," one of the Bretons said. "I've heard him
talk about it. He said the Romans had engines for flinging
rocks over walls."
"The point," said Emma, "is not whose idea they are, but
Unfimshed Business 235
how They've driven us from the walls."
to fight against them.
"Brand said: "They're within crossbow shot, or I'm a
paynim. Are there any crossbows in the castle?"
"There are crossbows," said Emma. And gave charge of
the defence of Norwich to him.
He placed hismen high on top of the keep and at the
highest arrow shts, adding a few of the best longbowmen, big
men capable of drawing the heaviest bows. The engines had
been placed was even mar-
as close in as the attackers felt
ginally safe, because of the weight of the missiles they were

delivering. Even conventional shafts might do some damage,
Brand thought.
He kept the barrage up, hour after hour, taking a major
part in the shooting himself. Crossbows were far from the
most accurate of weapons, which was probably why the
enemy had risked coming within range. But bolt after bolt
left Brand's bow to find one unlikely mark after another, and
his bowmen strove to emulate him, marvelling. They

watched the enemy struggle on. Chain mail was not proof
against crossbow bolts. They went on all night, shooting at
the torch flames as the besiegers tried to fit up shelters for
their engine operators. Next day, the besiegers experimented
hopefully with a longer range. They failed. The defenders,
rejoicing, watched them giving up.
At the end of that day, the diabolical inventions were
finally dragged back too far for use, and the last few rocks fell
harmlessly short. Brand wiped a grimy hand across eyes red
with long, sleepless hours of shooting, and said, with his self-
respect intact again: "My friends, the walls are still ours."
The walls were theirs. The struggle was not, for beyond the
walls the foe still waited, and no help came, either from
Hereford or Denmark. But if they were defeated now, they
had made a defence to remember, and neither Brand nor
Emma were downhearted. "In three more days," Emma said,
when he came to consult her on the matter of dwindling
supplies, "I shall seek terms. We have made them respect us.
I think terms could be arranged, now. You may have won our
lives, Sir Brand."
"No," he said. "You've done that if anyone has, Countess
Emma. It is your name that men will remember, a thousand
years from now."
"If we are all alive and free a thousand hours from now,
I shall be satisfied," said Emma. She scanned, in businesslike
fashion, the table on the hall dais, where the tallies of the
food stores were spread out. "But I think we shall be," she
said. "Ralph's mother had the gift sometimes of foreseeing
the future, and so at times has Ralph. He told me once that
we should be together when we died and that it would be far
away from England. I shall try to negotiate for all our lives in
return for exile. Then I shall go to find Ralph. A\'here will you
go, Sir Brand? Will you come with me?" She paused, ruefully
turning a tally stick over in her hands. The notches on it
represented sacks of flour, and all but three were now crossed
through. "In lending me your sword, you have thrown away
everything you had. I'm sorry."
"I had very little," said Brand. "And I am not sorry. It
was a good fight, even if we lost it." He gave her a grin,

wondering why he was not in love with her. Young as she
was, she was a great lady, like those other superb women,
Gytha the mother of King Harold and Eadgyth the king's first
wife, with whom Brand had once been very deeply in love.
But although he knew very well that Emma troubled the
dreams of half the men in Norwich Castle, she did not trouble
his.He felt for her only admiration for her spirit, as if she had
no body. Desire, like swordsmanship, had fallen away from
him. And now, as her question made him concentrate on his
future, he realised that he knew why. "Your oflrer is kind," he
said."But no. I know where I want to be, although as yet I
can'tgo there, because I can't now stay in England. It isn't
Fallowdene until the time comes, I must simply find a
. . .
place to wait. I shall go to my other daughter in Normandy.

She is married to a Norman knight and he has a manor near
St. Evroul, called Daimcoteau. He wasn't at Hastings. I think
I roof there. For the time being, it will do."
shall find a friendly
For the time being, it would have to do. It even seemed
to him right. Brand's mother had been a Welshwoman. Along
with dark hair and brown eyes, she had bequeathed to him a
little, just a little, of the Celtic prescience that Ralph pos-
sessed. Never very articulate, he could not explain himself to

Emma, but it seemed to him that both Norwich and Daimco-
teau, apparently a disaster and makeshift, were necessary
steps on the way to completing unfinished business. The
sense of unfinished business was still strong in him, although
he did not now know what that business was. When it was
done with, and not before, he would be free to leave the
world behind. In Daimcoteau he would await his final
summons.
Thinking along quite different lines, Emma said, with
bitterness: "If only Earl Waltheof, our prospective king, had
raised one finger in his own cause!
3 ^ Snowflakes in a Jlâinhow
Earl Waltheof sat his horse in Northampton marketplace

in the midst of an earnest crowd of burghers and listened
with an air of complete attention while their spokesman, a
megalith of a man with grey hair and a grey cloak, explained
that it would not do, not, to have the
sir, indeed it would
village of Strathwood holding a market that clashed with
their own. "It takes trade from Northampton and weakens
our own market, which we have held every month since the
days of King Alfred. See." A thick, pale forefinger pointed. "A
woven goods stall should be there, but the vendor went to
Strathwood this month because it is nearer his weaving
sheds." There was an affirmative chorus from the rest of the
burghers. "Yes, I see," said Earl Waltheof.
He heard himself making the right responses: ". not . .
realised the seriousness of the clash hard to withdraw the . . .
right entirely once it is granted change the nature of

. . .
Strathwood Fair, perhaps horse sales and archery trials

. . . . . .
consult with the Strathwood men at the next Shire Court . . .
."
only two weeks away. . .
If the world, his world, was still in existence two weeks
hence, that was. It was incredible that he could ride among

these broad-vowelled gentlemen in their fur-edged mantles
and talk local business with the surface of his mind, while
under the surface such torments raged. He seemed to be im-
personating himself.
His duty was done and the gathering was breaking up.
He heard himself declining offers of entertainment and food,
and exchanging polite, parting small talk. And listening to it.
238
Snoivflakes in a Rambonjo 239
". . . disgraceful business this rebellion." That was the mega-
lithic man again. "The land will never get onto a sound basis
with all these disturbances. Though there's some hope of
peace now. Hereford's defeat on the Severn was the best
news I've heard in years. Pity Hereford himself got away.
Seems the Earl of Norfolk escaped as well. Did you hear the
proclamation, my lord, or were you not in the town so soon?"
"I was in the town," said Waltheof. "I heard the procla-
mation, yes."
He tookand rode for home as for a bolthole,
his leave,
though poor kind of earth that contained such a vixen

it was a
as Judith. What would it be like, he wondered, to go back to
a woman who would comfort him, put her arms round him,
and him not to be afraid?
tell
He was so afraid that it was like a sheet of glass between

himself and the rest of the world. Did they know, Lanfranc
and the rest, of his part in this? Some of the earls' men had
been taken. Had they talked? Had anyone talked, ever? And
if the king's representatives did know, what would happen?
And when?
When he reached the English manor house at which he
was now Reading aloud, as
based, he found Judith in the hall.
usual, while her women stitched. On her lap she had the
jewel-encrusted volume that Margaret of Scotland had sent
her, and she was reading a paragraph at a time in Latin, then
translating into French as she went along, for the sake of the
mental exercise, which for some reason gave her pleasure.
King Malcolm of Scotland was said to encourage his wife in
such pursuits, but possibly Margaret corrected the balance
by behaving in other ways as though she were actually a
wife. Perhaps iMargaret took care of herself in pregnancy,
and did not lose her husband's sons, as Judith, a week ago, had
managed to lose Waltheof's. He looked at her with dislike,
and Judith closed the volume deferentially, making it quite
clear that he was interrupting her and that she was now com-
ing on duty again. She was not pleased to see him. And never,
he thought, would be.
"Well, my lord?" She nodded dismissively at her women.

"And what did good burghers of Northampton want?"
the
She knew what they had wanted. Judith
perfectly well
had told him baldly that the Strathwood grant of a market
would annoy the Northampton merchants, and he had signed
the grant to prove her wrong. He was not going to tell her
now that the burghers of Northampton were nearly angry
enough to march on Strathwood next month and tear the
stalls apart with their bare hands. "There was a proclamation
in Northampton this morning," he said. "Norwich has sur-

rendered. And Earl Ralph was not in the castle. He escaped."
"So that's the end of the rising." Judith sat with her
hands clasped round the book she held, fingering the ame-
thysts in the cover. "There can't be a trial of the earls, since
they've got away. But there's bound to be an enquiry."
There certainly would be an enquiry. The word enquiry
fell on Waltheof's hearing with the dull finality of earth clods
on a coffin. There would be a trial of the offending earls in

their absence, if not in their presence. His mind plunged
feverishly into the future, trying to overhear the evidence at
that trial. Judith's dark eyes were watching him.
"You're in a dangerous position," she observed. "What do
you intend to do?"
The deception he had kept up in front of the burghers
would not work on Judith, whose attitude towards his ambi-
tions had been, all the time, one of cynical observation. She
had smelt his terror and it pleased her. He was so frightened
that he wanted to break down and sob with his head on her
lap. But Judith's book-infested lap was no good to him or
any man.
"You mean, w^hat do nxe intend to do?" he said. "What
will you do, Judith, if I'm arrested? Will you plead our cause
to the king and ask him for clemency? My future is your
future. You should remember that."
Judith thought it over, turning the book this way and
that. Sunlight from a high window dappled her hands with
SnoHDflakes in a Rambouo 241
garnet red and emerald green and the reflected violet of

amethyst. "What are the penalties?" she asked.
"Under English law, banishment," he said. "Under Nor-
man law . . . captivity or death. It might be English law for
me. If I come into it at all, that is."
"You'll come into it," said Judith grimly. She asked:
"Can't you go to the king? Confess not all, but some? Say . . .
you were at the wedding and heard some of the plot dis-
cussed. But say you argued against it."
"So I did."
"Well, say that. And you can say that you didn't want to
betray your friends. Say you never consented to be king. It's
your word against theirs. Say that . . . that you didn't trust
them, that you suspected they only wanted to use you as an ac-
."
ceptable English figurehead and that you wêren't ready to . .
"Use me what?" demanded Waltheof.

as a
Judith's handsbecame still. "Well, they're an ambitious

pair. You would certainly have had to fight every step of the
way to keep your proper share of the power in your hands,

even if the three of you had won. But you must have recog-
nised that. I assumed," said Judith, in an attempt to recoup
what she now saw had been a bad mistake, "that you wxre
prepared to deal with it."
"How dare you! " said Waltheof.

Oh, what was the use, she asked herself murderously, of
even trying to be a wife to the man? Every word she said was
interpreted as a move in a marital chess game. And this, far
from being anything of the kind, had been spoken out of

conviction. Could it possibly be that this big blond simpleton
had completely trusted those slippery allies of his, who had
promised him the crown and never asked him to help them
fight for it? Rage rose up in her. She hadn't minded his con-
spiring against William. William, after all, had married her to
Waltheof. But that Waltheof should be such a fool, and that
she must live with her fortunes tied to such foolishness, was
intolerable. And now it would be worse, for she had pointed
I'l-I IMMOLATIONS, 1075-1082 A.D.
out his stupidity to him and that would infuriate him. She
was a woman, who must not be cleverer than Wahheof Try- .
ing to put matters right, because there had been so much

quarrelling and she was weary of it, and because although
in one way his terror pleased her, in another it aroused her
pity, she said: "Waltheof, I want to help. Please let me. Don't
be angry."
For a tiny space of time, their two ships came within hail
of one another. For a tiny space of time, they had an op-

portunity to call out to each other, to establish contact, to sail
on safely in convoy. But ...

"Angry?" he said. "You are full of ideas about business
that is rightly mine. Full of clever insults to fling at my
friends, who can't defend themselves. But the business that is
properly yours, you can't perform. You know a great deal

about Earl Roger and Earl Ralph, it seems, but you don't
know how to care for and bring forth my son. Where is
77
1
y son?''
"He would have been my son, too," said Judith.
She spoke out of the need for comfort, out of grief and
the desire to share it.But the old bitterness forced its way
into her voice; there was resentment there, both for the way
that the lost son had been implanted in her, and for Wal-
theof 's inability to understand what it was to lose a child. He
heard and rounded on her. ''Your son! " he said.
it,
He needed an outlet. The misery and terror inside him

would be held in no longer. His future, his very life, were in
jeopardy and it was her fault. He would never have listened
to the conspirators in Norwich Castle but for her, but for the
secret, unadmitted wish to be important in her eyes.
"As if you ever cared for any child of mine," he said.
"You leave our daughters to their nurses all the time. You
bore them, and then you were bored njcith them. Much you
cared for my son. All you ever care about is your hawking
"
and your silly songs and your blasted booksl
She was still clutching the iridescent volume on the con-
version of the north. He snatched at it. She tried to keep hold
Snowflakes in a Rainboiv 243
of it but he forced her fingers loose. He drew his knife and
began prising the jewels roughly from their settings. She
sprang up and tried to stop him, but he dodged away from her
and darted behind a bench, still digging at the cover. Red
and green and violet sparks scattered glittering among the
rushes. "AA^hat are you doing?" Judith shouted. "Waltheof,
have you gone mad?"
He laughed, knocking her out of the way with an elbow
as she caught up with him again, and began deliberately to
tear the book apart. "Stop it!" Judith shrieked. ''Stop kV

"You cry louder for your book than for your son. Your
son, as you call him!" Waltheof shouted. Rich, illuminated
vellum pages flew about the hall in a mingling of bright
pigment and white margins, snowflakes in a rainbow. Judith
closed with him and tried to knee him. The wâll shook as he
hurled her against it. He flung the remains of the mutilated
book away and his knife after it and grabbed her shoulders,
holding her flat against the tapestry.
"You lost the baby only a week ago. So for the time being
you're safe from thatV His smile was the ugliest thing she
had ever seen. "But when you are quite well again, my love,
things between us will be very different. Henceforth you'll
have a baby every year. For that's w^hat you need. iVnd
there'll be no more books, no more nonsense to distract you
from your proper business and fill your head with ideas that
have no business there. If I see you with a book in your
hands, I'll tear it to pieces as I did this one and make you
wish you'd never learned A from B. I will teach you to insult
my friends. I am going now to see Archbishop Lanfranc. The
conflict that can't be avoided is best faced boldly. I shall tell
him of the position I was placed in at Norwich Castle; I
think I can explain. I did not need you, Judith, to tell me I
should go . .
."
"Liar! "shouted Judith.

". . . and when I return, well, you will see. Dear Judith.
What a picture you'll make, with a dozen children round
your skirts."
"I'll strangle them in their cradles!" Judith screamed

after him. He strode away through the rushes and the spoilt
vellum leaves, and out of the door. banged after him. She
It
flung herself onto a settle and lay There were tears on

still.
her face but they dried as the fury began to grow and burn
inside her. She heard him in the distance, calling for his
horse; heard the sounds of his departure. Her women came to
find her and took her pulsating silence for distress. She let
them try to console her, speaking gently to them in answer
when they talked of King William's famous clemency and his
affection for her husband. Presently, she summoned Walthe-
of 's chief clerk.
"Egbert, do you keep copies of my lord's letters, the ones
he sends out?"
"Yes, madam. We keep drafts with final amendments,
and sometimes even make extra fair copies."
"Where are the copies kept?"

"I have them in a chest in the office, my lady."
"Bring the chest to me, please."
The chief clerk hesitated. "My lady, it's private cor-
."
respondence and my lord gave me no orders to . .
"Does your lord make you privy to his conversations

with his wife? He left certain instructions with me if not with
you. Bring that chest at once, and let me have no more in-
solence."
When the chest came, she thought at first that she was
wasting her time. She blessed her powers of rapid reading, as
she flicked through one dull document after another. Epistles

to tenants about dues or repairs, a copy of the Strathwood mar-
ket grant, depositions to the Shire Courts about this or that
dispute . . . nothing about Earl Ralph and nothing about Earl
Roger. Perhaps even Waltheof had had the good sense not to
keep incriminating documents. It might be an error to assume
was altogether a fool.
that he
No. He njcas altogether a fool. She sat, heart suddenly
drumming, and studied a rough, much-amended letter to
King Harald Svenson of Denmark. Her smile, as she perused
Snowflakes in a Rainbow 245
it, was not much prettier than Waltheof's. If Judith knew

anything about either English or Norman law, then this cor-
respondence with Denmark, Waltheof would most certainly
not confess to Lanfranc. She called a servant to take back the
locked chest to the office. But the letter to Denmark she
folded carefully, and kept.
From Judith's seat in the gallery, overlooking the great hall in

London, the foreshortened figure of her uncle resembled a
modelled image rather than a living man.
He sat so regally still on the dais that even the winter
light on his crown gleamed steadily, unwinking. But power
was implicit in him despite his immobility. Judith did not like
him, but the tie of blood conferred insight. She was aware,
acutely, of the anger in William, and the hurt.
"By the Splendour of God, Waltheof," William was say-
ing, breaking the silence after a long, long pause, "I do not
know^ what to do with you."
Waltheof stood alone before the king. He gave an im-
pression of being shrunken in spirit, huddled within his great
frame like a small animal in an over-large cage. Judith was
aware of his loneliness and fear, just as she was aware of the
anger in William; as though the intense atmosphere had
sharpened some extra sense within her. She waited, taut, for
William to make up his mind.
He had wasted no time in making it up where Roger of
Hereford and Ralph of Norfolk wêre concerned. Ralph had
been judged guilty in his absence of treason and insurrection,
and his lands in England were forfeit to the crown. He and
Emma, now together again in Brittany, had made so staunch
a resistance when William tried to bring them out of their
fastness, that for once in his life William had had to with-
draw defeated. But he had had his revenge from here. As for
Roger of Hereford, he had made the mistake of answering the
formal royal summons and coming to face the court, sure of
the power of his father's shade. But William was trying
Roger, not his old friend FitzOsbern, and the memory of Fitz-
Osbern had had an effect on him that was scarcely softening.

"You shall live, Roger, lately of Hereford," he had said. "That
much mercy we will show you for your father's sake. If he
were now, he might well say it was too much. He was
alive
never disloyal to us. Yes, you shall live, and have food and
clothes and warmth at our expense. But you shall remain

henceforth a prisoner, to be confined for all your life in what-
ever of our fortresses is our pleasure." And Roger had been
taken shouting from a court which was as shaken by that as
by a death sentence. If William's mood were still as vengeful,
Judith said to herself, clasping her hands on the smooth-
sanded elmwood of the gallery rail, then \Aâltheof's fate
would be no better. Oh, sweet saints, let William's mood
endure!
But William had fallen silent again. From the body of
the hall, pebbled with heads bared in deference to a court
someone shouted: "We know what to do with him!",
sitting,
and Archbishop Lanfranc, seated near the king, leant disap-

provingly forward, trying to identify the culprit. The noise
roused William.
"The accusations are serious," he said. "You are ar-
raigned, Waltheof, on charges of being privy to a rebellious
plot and failing to report what you knew until after the plot
had failed. You are also charged with treasonable corres-
pondence with Denmark, as a result of which a Danish fleet
appeared off the Yorkshire coast this year. Happily for us —
it was too late to help you and was driven off without diffi-
culty. But that does not diminish the heinousness of inviting a

foreign power to invade our realm in the first place. Well,
Waltheof! Have you anything to say?"
In the hush, Waltheof cleared his throat. He did it tw^ce
before he could speak. "I have said," he repeated, "that I did
not think the bride-ale talk at Norwich Castle was serious.
And when I found that it was, I was afraid to speak out.
Afraid for my friends. I could not betray my friends. I came
."
in the end, when I knew that that no longer mattered . .
Snonjoflakes in a Raiiibov) 241
"To save your own skin!" shouted someone from
the floor.
". . . as for the charge of corresponding with Denmark,"
shouted Waltheof above it, "this I utterly deny. It is a lie. I
am not responsible for gossip, and I cannot believe that tales
told by the ignorant in the marketplace have more weight

than my sworn oath!
There was another outburst from the floor, this time of
many voices, furiously refuting him. William had to wait for
it to end before he spoke again.
"The first charge, Waltheof, we find to be proved. You
heard the plot laid, and kept silence. But the second is . . .
doubtful. We agree that there is little evidence that it was

you, and not one of your associates, who communicated with
Denmark." He raised a hand, to still another incipient uproar.
"What has been proved is iniquitous enough. As lord of three
earldoms, which you receivedwe had at our hands after
pardoned your earlier offences, you can hardly look for
clemency now ..."
"Good, good," muttered Judith.
". . . but you are also a member of our royal house, father
of children who you have a claim on
are kin to us. For that,
us. To you standing before me on such charges as these,
see
Waltheof," said William, switching suddenly from the remote
royal plural to the personal singular, "makes feel weary. I me
repeat, before God, that I do not
do with you. I know what to
will therefore adjourn the court for today and consult with
my council and my bishops. The court will convene again in
the morning." He rose, ignoring the hubbub that now wôuld
not be controlled. The session was ended. "Return Earl
Waltheof to his quarters," said King William, "until
tomorrows"
Between theoretical plan and practical action, there is a

chasm. Judith lay under the furs of her couch that night and
thought about that chasm, but could not think coherently.
She could only feel. And what she felt, at the possibility
of William's mercy and Waltheof's return to her life and
her bed, was horror beyond bearing. If Waltheof came
back . .
He must not come back. He ?nust not. That thought, and

that one only, had firm shape in her mind. She would not, she
would not allow herself to be used by him again. She would
bear him no more children, since they would be gifts of
hatred, not of love. And she would not be stifled. He had said
there would be no more books. The world of song and vision
and dreams, of knowledge beyond the bounds of her own
experience, was to be shut off from her. He had sworn
it.But . .
She remembered that swearing, reliving it in the dark-

ness. She shuddered. For Judith, the stronghold of personal-
ity, the ultimate place that must not be ravished, was in the
mind, not the body. The rape on the floor of the bower had
been only a symbol, like a written description of a sacked
town, compared to the broken walls and the slaughtered men
themselves. She imagined the violation of that private for-
tress, and with that, the chasm ceased to exist. Judith was
William's niece; she had a certain likeness to him. The hard,

implacable, remorseless anger that in William had devastated
the north, now took control in Judith, to devastate Earl
Waltheof.
In the morning she would testify. When the court con-
vened again, she would ask to bear witness, and with her
hand upon a rood, she would swear to Waltheof's correspon-
dence with the Danes. And she would place the copy of that
letter, that foolish, foolish letter, in Archbishop Lanfranc's
hands. "To Hell," said Judith aloud in the darkness, and

meant it literally, "to Hell, to Hell with Waltheof!
Judith awoke suddenly, to terror.

Through a chink in the shutters, the light spoke of a
bright May daybreak and the dawn chorus was at its height.
But she was not aware of these things. She was aware only of
Snowflakes in a Rainbow 249
fear. She lay transfixed by it, like a moth impaled on a pin,
and the sweat broke from her pores. Her heart pounded at
the walls of her body like a trapped thing seeking escape. In
A\'inchester, more than a hundred miles from where she now
lay in Huntingdon, his guards had come for A\'altheof
It had taken from December to the end of May, with
persistent urging from the barons, to make \Mlliam finally set

his seal to the order for AAâltheof's execution. He had been
bitterly, angrily, reluctant to kill this last of the English earls,
this fine-built warrior whose physique — Judith suspected

reminded him of Harold whom he had once loved. She had
prayed for \Mlliam to make up his mind to it, so that she
might be set free. She had rejoiced to hear that the date was
set, and on the eve of May 31, 1076, she had gone to sleep ex-
pecting serene slumber, and to wake in the morning a widow.

Instead, there was this.
Marriage apparently created a bond. Not of love or even
understanding, necessarily, but still a bond. They had shared
shared embraces, mingled themselves in their children
a life,
and now, whether she willed it or not, Waltheof 's mind in its
final anguish could penetrate to hers.
She lay and experienced death with him. She knew when
the cell bolts grated back, and she felt the sob of mingled
dread and yearning that rose in him when the tantalising sun
shone on his face. She climbed with him the hill outside Win-
chester,towards the church of St. Giles, and knew that he
saw ahead of him not a church but a darkness, in which he
must soon, inevitably, be lost. She heard within her the
prayers he recited as he knelt on the grass at the edge of
that darkness,and knew that among the images of Heaven
and the Resurrection to which he clung for comfort was an-
other image, that of herself, with her arms flung round him in
protection. A a Judith who had never
phantom image, of
had never allowed her to exist. Though he
existed because he
had never understood that, and never would. W^hen she gave
her testimony in London, his horror had played on her rigidly
turned back like a spatter of hailstones. He had never under-
stood for one moment the nature of the threat his existence
was to hers.
He had held her in contempt, and she had promised
herself that before he died, he should learn to respect her.
But all anger and all satisfaction were lost now as she felt,
amid a crescendo of panic so towering that she balled her
hands against her mouth to keep from screaming, the sword
raised above his neck. Then it fell and for Waltheof, terror
was done. For her it was not, for her body was still alive to its
memory, and it ebbed only slowly from her shaken nerves.
She shivered in the reaction and the sweat dried coldly on
her. She said to herself, over and over, trying to exorcise the
deathly knowledge now lodged in her: "It's over. Over. For
him, too. He was afraid but it's over. He'll never threaten me
again. Forget him, Judith. You have a life to live."
The lame knight, Simon de Senlis, had had the jawline of his
small, pugnacious, unlovely face shaved to the likeness of
doeskin, and his new boots, one specially shaped to accom-
modate his deformity, were made of it. The care he had taken
over his appearance was an index to his lack of confidence in
it. Simon de had had the nasty task of carrying King
Senlis
William's prohibition to Ralph of Norfolk on the eve of
Ralph's wedding, and the even nastier one of carrying the
news of Ralph's defiance back again to William. But neither
had afflicted him with such dread as this, the presentation of
his reward for loyal service. Walking, or clumping, behind
the page sent to conduct him to William's apartment in the
London castle, Simon de Senlis quailed.
The page tapped, was admitted, stood back to let de
Senlis go first. There were three people in the modestly sized
stone room with the tapestries depicting stag hunting in blue
and scarlet on a cream background. One was WiUiam, seated
expansively on an elmwood settle. The second was Arch-
bishop Lanfranc, standing quietly beside him. The third, also
standing, on William's other side, was Judith.
She was magnificent, de Senlis thought. He glanced at
Snow flakes in a Rainbow 251
her once, taking in, with longing, the height and dignity of
her, the gloss of the blue-black plaits, theJunoesque breasts,
the long, strong thighs. Then he looked away. William, smiling
and confident, like a tomcat advancing on a sparrow, said:
"Judith, my dear, let me present your future spouse to
you. Simon de Senlis is a brave and loyal knight in my
service,whose ..."
''This man?" said Judith.
She took him in, feature by feature; his small stature, his
deformed foot, his twisted button of a nose. He endured it; he
was used to the scorn of women. Although they were not all
as beautiful as Judith. "Simon," said the king, "greet your
wife-to-be."
"My lord . .
." That was Lanfranc, who had registered
Judith's response and clearly did not like it.
"De Senlis! " said William, unheeding.

Out of a dry mouth, he said: "My lady, I have long held
you in great admiration. I am not the best-looking man in
England, but . .
."
"That won't matter to Judith," said WiUiam equably.

"Waltheof was as handsome as a god and she still wanted
his leonine head chopped off. What Judith wants is a man
whom her royal uncle can trust. In you, I feel sure, she will
find one."
Judith turned to him. "This is a deliberate insult." Her
voice shook. "I will not marry this man! I will notV She gath-
ered her skirts, him
brushed past de Senlis without looking at
again, and was gone. He knew that his face had blanched and
tightened. The archbishop's face contained pity. William said
calmly: "Women are emotional and speak before they think.
She will obey. I shall see to it. Her Aunt Matilda could have
told her how. In a few days. Archbishop Lanfranc here will
."
perform a quiet ceremony. . .
"My lord," said de Senlis huskily, "there is something I

must say."
He had prepared this speech already. Judith might never
have picked him out of the crowd at her uncle's court, but he
had seen her often, admired her, and also assessed her. He
had been prepared for this, though not for the degree of pain
it was now causing him. "Aly lord, it takes two to make a
marriage. I thank you for offering me your beautiful kins-

woman as a wife. But I am not a man to force myself on a
woman who does not want me, and I wouldn't blame
any woman for not wanting me. I ask your leave, therefore, to
withdraw from this arrangement." He bowed, turning to the
door. William made no move to stop him. He caught a hint of
a dismissive nod from Lanfranc. He went. As he descended
the stairs, he could hear his own Umping footsteps. His stom-
ach was heaving.
In the room above, Lanfranc said sternly: "I was afraid
of that. And it was hard on de Senlis, my lord. A man may
learn to live with his own ugliness, but he does not want a
mirror held up to it."
"I intend reparation." \Mlliam did not sound contrite. "I

intend giving him most of Earl Waltheof's lands and trea-
sure. Hell find that wealth has surprisingly healing quali-
ties. It can dazzle some women so that they can't see a
lame foot or anymore. He'll be more likely to
a twisted face
end his days with grandchildren weeping round his deathbed
than I will. xMy leopard cubs are showing their baby teeth at
me already, and my leopardess is encouraging them. Splendour
of God, Lanfranc," said the king, swinging round on his settle,
to face his friend, "why can women never be trusted? My son

Robert is in arms against me on the borders of Normandy, and
Matilda is financing him. A\âltheof ... he had the right to
expect his wife to keep his counsel, at least! Not to search his
correspondence and hand copies of his letters to you! Yes, I
used de Senlis to humiliate her. I did not expect her to accept

him. I have no intention of arranging, or consenting to, any
real marriage for her, ever. But what I hope de Senlis will
come to realise is that he is too good for her and in fact too
good for most women. They're all the same. xMatilda, Judith,
Mabel Talvas..."
Snow flakes tJi a Rainbow 253
"Of the three, the last is the worst," said Lanfranc. The
celibate archbishop showed no disposition to defend the fe-
male sex to William.
"She William agreed, "but for reasons that you per-
is,"
fectly well understand, Lanfranc, though I have controlled

Judith and could control Matilda if I felt she was enough of a
danger to warrant it, Mabel I must leave to the hands of God.
In the end, no doubt. He will call her to mind."
was more than five years before that hope was ful-
It
filled. But even as \Mlliam spoke, the slow celestial mills had
begun to grind. In Normandy, on the borders of Maine, an

outbreak of disease among the pigs and cattle was already
brewing the first of a series of unprofitable years that would
eventually cause Mabel Talvas to cut back, calamitously, on
her expenses.
And in Italy, Robert Saugei, who had fled from his home
in Normandy with his three sons because Hugh the eldest had
refused Mabel's advances, felt the first twinges of the illness
that in four and a half years would kill him, guessed at its
fatal nature,and confided in Hugh with a warning. "All these
years," he said, "I have wârned you boys that it is best for us
all if we stay out of Normandy and refrain from trying to
challenge the might of Mabel Talvas, whatever our provoca-

tion. When I am dead, hope you will still remember
Hugh, I
that advice, you and your brothers, William and Robert."

Hugh had grown, as Judith had thought he would, into a
strongly made, handsome young man. His brown hair was
vigorously wiry and his aquiline profile not one to trifle with.
He was a knight now, as were his brothers. The family had
made its way, more than successfully, in Italy. "Wê have
—
you have a future here," said Robert of Saugei, senior.
Hugh said nothing. His father said: "I have bred three
knights and I suppose it is no use being surprised if they
insist on behaving as knights. But not while I live, Hugh. Not
while I live. Afterwards ... it will be for you to decide."

"We shall decide with care," said Hugh quietly. He had
a deep voice, very different from the voice of the boy Hugh in
Rouen. Judith would have liked it.
While in the manor of Daimcoteau, in the heart of Nor-

mandy, Brand of Fallowdene lived quietly with his daughter
Elfhild and her husband, an exile, busying himself with
—
manor affairs in letting him do so, Elfhild and Gervase were
—
wiser than Wulfhild and Simon had been and waiting.
Still, with a persistent sense of unfinished business.
4 » Celestial Mil
It had rained steadily throughout the summer of 1081. It
had rained with determination and astonishing versatility, in

cold silver lances, in a whispering and pervasive drizzle, in
dirty dow^npours from a grey and yellow sky, in vicious wind-
blown spats from a scudding grey and black one. The river
raced swirling through Fallowdene valley and the paths
turned to milky torrents water carved new impression-
as the
ists shapes in the chalk. In Fallowdene the hay and the corn
were harvested with difficulty, during brief let-ups, and the

result at the end was poor. It would be a hard winter.
Wulfhild had been in the church, praying for divine
assistance during the cold months ahead and for an early, fruit-
ful spring next year. She rose from her knees painfully, feel-
ing in them the twinges of the rheumatism that had set in for
the first time this year, and was a warning of old age and
physical decline to come. She was thirty-seven and there
were plentiful traces of grey now in her beechnut hair;
women's youth did not last long. She picked up the bucket of
water with which, earlier, she had mopped the flagstoned
floor— the old priest was very old indeed now, and it was his
flock, these days, who cared for his house and his church and
his strips in the field —and went outside. It was not raining
just at this moment, and a diluted shaft of October sun was
making its way through the mists that obscured the tops of
the downs. If they had a dry autumn, even, it would make
them all feel better. And it would give them a chance to get
the hall thatch repaired where it needed it, she thought.
Her thoughts nowadays were almost all concerned with
255
2S6 IMMOLATIONS, 1075-1082 A.D.
Fallowdene. She never went off the manor now; nor did she
any longer take much interest in news from the outside
world. Sometimes gossip reached her of the excesses and
brutality of Sir Alain at Beechtrees, but there was nothing to
be done about it, so she closed her ears. Once or twice she
had had word from Elfhild in Normandy, first to say that
their father had appeared at Daimcoteau and was going to
stay there; later to say that he was still there and was well. It
was welcome information but, once more, it required no ac-
tion. It was unlikely that she would ever see her father again.
He was safe; it w as enough to know that.
Simon brought back news of this and that occasionally,
from his tours of duty. But he never said a great deal unless
she questioned him, and gradually she had fallen out of the
habit of that. She had learnt to immerse herself in the work of
the hall and leave Simon to his silences. She suspected that
though he never now spoke of his past memories, he thought
of them often. It was not a subject she wanted to discuss and
its presence in mind did not incline her to conversation.
his
He was good husband by most standards, and Wulf-

a
hild the realist did not complain. Nor, for the most part, did
the villagers of Fallowdene and its holdings. Admittedly
there were a few exceptions. Swan had not married again,
and she and her surviving brother now lived together, since
the deaths of their parents. Young Ulf ran his father's pottery
and Swan cared for their garden and helped in the hall in
return for extra food. The pair of them grew thinner, more
faded, and more bitter each year, never concealing their dis-
like of Simon and all things Norman. But it had little effect
on other folk. "Oh, well, they have their reasons," people said,
shrugging. They were a part of the place, like Alric Steward
and his arthritis, and certain paths that were always water-
logged in winter. Compared to the bad harvest and the
ragged thatch, certainly, they were of little importance to
Wulfhild.
She made her way back towards the hall, passing be-
tween the mounds of the Fallowdene graves. Ulf Potter and
Celestial Mills 251
Imme were there, as was the kinsman of Wulfhild's who had
come to Fallowdene after Hastings to die. There were also
several small graves. Wulfhild had had her share of children
who died young. But she had been fortunate with a few.
Richard and Blanche still throve, and six-month-old Sybil
was vigorous. That Simon had chosen to make Sybil the name
of his new, living daughter instead of keeping it as the name
only of his murdered sister had been a relief to Wulfhild.
Perhaps it meant, she thought, that at last he was letting go
of the past. She thought of Sybil and despite the ache in her
knees and the rainy smell still in the air, her spirits lifted. She
quickened her steps.
A strange horse was tied in the yard. Someone must have
arrived while she was in the church. Simon was in the hall; it
was surprising that he had not sent to fetch her. She pushed
open the door and stepped down to the hall floor, pushing
aside the curtain that hung over the door to exclude draughts.
Simon was by the fire with the visitor. They looked round as
she entered. The visitor was a stranger, a thin man, whose
face in the firelight was heavily lined and whose straggling,
scanty hair seemed to have no colour at all. A stranger, yet he
did remind her of someone . .
It was Goscelin.
A succession of poor harvests; the need to pay additional

garrison soldiers because of the disturbances in neighbouring
Maine; structural repairs essential for the fortresses in Dom-
front and Bures; these had eventually forced even puissant
Mabel Talvas to engage in a mundane economy drive.
But the chatelaine of a string of vital border castles did
not experience the bite of such economies personally if she
could help it, and certainly not when she was Mabel Talvas.
Suffering was for others, not for Mabel. That was how it
had always been, ever since her childhood when she sat in
the dungeons of Domfront Castle with her father's arm round
her and a sweetmeat to suck, watching round-eyed while his
vengeance on captive enemies was carried out. William Tal-
vas, too, considered that suffering was for others, and he

taught his daughter accordingly. He was brave in the face of
fettered prisoners or frightened and pious ladies —he had had
his wife strangled because her persistent churchgoing irri-
tated him —
but he avoided battlefield confrontations. His fel-
low barons named him The Hare as a result, but he chose to
take it as a compliment. "Only fools place their own skins in
danger," he said to the attentive A4abel,
So Mabel, moving westwards along her chain of castles
that traced the Normandy/Maine border, dismissed servants,
sold off serfs, and cleared out superfluous prisoners, as an
alternative to cutting her own personal expenditure. With the
prisoners, her usual methods were to stop their rations and
leave them to their fate behind doors as massive as tomb-
stones, or to dispose of them directly, like so much garbage,
down disused wells. Even for Mabel's well-fortified peace of
mind were too many stories in circulation about people
there
who had gone to her castles to conduct business or enjoy
promised hospitality, and found that the business or the hos-
pitality consisted of death, mutilation, or captivity. Releasing
captives would only add to what Mabel referred to as "these
slanderous tales."
Yet, one day, drifting through the dark honeycomb of
passages in Domfront Castle, humming like a huge, malevo-
lent bumblebee, she reached the stone-arched kitchens and
surveyed their steam-shrouded occupants and was careless.
She said to the head cook: "Turn Rvg of them out. Any fivG.''
She was clearly obUvious to Goscelin. But then, eleven years

was a long time. In all that time she had not kept in mind that
one of the serfs in her kitchen had once been, and in a way still
was, a prisoner.
"I found your steward, sir," Goscelin said to Simon. "Hubert.

I found him. But I had to make enquiries on the way, and
somehow she got to hear of it. I reached Hubert, and Mabel's
men reached the two of us one hour later."
That should have been the end. He had thought it was.
Celestial Mills 2)9
waiting in the half-light of that stone prison with the moat
almost lapping the sill of the window grille and only damp
rock to lie on. Then the cell door grated open and there was
iMabel, standing in the doorway, flanked by a pair of grinning
guards and staring, staring, with that blue and yellow gaze
of hers.
''She didn't look natural, down in those caverns," Gos-
celin said, warming his hands at W'ulfhild's hearth. His fin-
gers rustled dryly, skin against skin, as he rubbed them. He

was in his thirties but he looked sixty. "She looked almost
cosy, in a macabre sort of way. Just a plump woman, middle-
aged, fading frizzy hair, plain blue gown, slippers a bit
scuffed at the toes." His accent, once so well bred it was

nearly mincing, had roughened. He shivered. "She still looks
like that. But I'm different. I was young then, and handsome.
That's why I'm alive."
To begin with, the fancy that iMabel had taken to him
gained him nothing but time. She found it piquant — here
Goscelin hesitated but Wulfhild was born in a thrall's
said: "I
hut and it isn't a convent," and he went on to visit him and —

make love, if love it could be called, on the dungeon floor
with Hubert as audience. Only the desperate need to survive
at all costs made Goscelin able to perform. Her body was
hideous, squat and flabby-breasted, with an unpleasant con-
sistency, a core of wiry muscle under a layer of loose skin and
subcutaneous fat. At first she liked to lay him flat on his back
on the floor and lie on top of him, which was uncomfortable
but no worse. Later, she introduced variations that were very
uncomfortable indeed and sometimes frightening. Her cli-
maxes grew harder to attain and her pursuit of them more
frenzied. "She was tiring of me," Goscelin said. "But then it
rained and when the dungeon floor was awash, it lost its
attraction for her. So she wasn't quite wearied of me at
. . .
that time .she had me brought up to her chamber."

. .
He pleaded for Hubert to be moved too and she prom-

ised to see to it. It was three years before he learnt that she
had kept that promise by taking Hubert from his cell that
same day and having him flung into the wellshaft. Guilt for
Hubert lay heavily on Goscelin now, but not so heavily, he
sometimes reminded himself, as it lay on Mabel. It was an-
other item on the long bill that, please God, Mabel Talvas
would one day pay.
The thing he had dreaded, that Mabel would finally tire
of her toy and break it, came soon after he had left the
dungeon. Away from his surroundings of stimulating squalor,
he was as bland to her as a meal with no salt on it. He saw her
interest die finally away, and prepared himself as best he
could for death. There came a day when a new and fright-
ened page was brought to the chamber and introduced to
Goscelin as his replacement. But Goscelin was a strong young
man, said Mabel skittishly. He ought not to be wasted; he
should go to the kitchens, as a scuUion.
"And there I stayed, and I never passed the gate I tried —
—
once, and regretted it for another ten years," said Goscelin.
"No one goes out of that gate without Mabel's consent. After
a bit, you lose the urge to run. And you get afraid of remind-
ing her that you exist. But after eleven years . .
." His voice
broke, like a teenage boy's. He put his hands to his face and
put them down again and laughed. ". . . after all those years,
she'd forgotten me! She let me go. Just like that. She let
me go!"
He hadn't believed it at first. He had walked away from
would soonest
the castle, taking, instinctively, the road that
lead him out of Mabel's territory, wondering when someone
would come after him to fetch him back. But there was no
pursuit, and the unaccustomed sun ("It was a warm day, for
a wonder, this year," he said) was a benison on bones so long
denied Moving slowly along the road, testing his freedom,
it.
testing what strength was still in him, he had remembered

the mission on which he had come to Normandy.
"And I knew that if you still lived, sir, I should carry
back to you what Hubert told me. I didn't know how long it
would take me to get here, but I had to try. First of all I had
to find shelter, help of some sort. I'd no money, nothing. I
Celestial Mills 261
thought I might have to beg. And then I thought an abbey

might be willing to take me in, let me work, and earn enough
."
to travel with. . .
"Yes," said Simon, sitting gravely by the hearth, "one

goes to abbeys for help in such circumstances. I know."
"Well, Ifound one. Just over the Maine border. I told
them who I was and where I'd come from. And while
I was
there, I was contacted. By three brothers, the Saugeis, their
name is. They were Mabel's victims too, in the past. One of
them she used as she used me. They have been in exile and
now they're back home again, secretly, and they've come to
kill Alabel. They were looking for people who could tell them
something of the inside layout of Mabel's castles, and what

her movements are throughout the year. I don't know that I
was much help to them, except that I could give them a name
or two of people who might be. But the thing is, sir, as I w as
saying when Lady Wulfhild here came in, I told them your
tale and they're willing to wait for you. If you can be with
them before Christmas, they'll wait and you can go with

."
them. . .
"Go with them?" Wulfhild demanded.

Simon looked at her across the fire trench. "Hubert told
what he knew before he died," he said, "and he knew far
more than he told me when I was a sick lad in his keeping. I
know now, for sure, who killed my family ..."
"Well, Mabel Talvas, of course. It's obvious!"
". and why," said Simon.
. .
The fire crackled. Outside the hall, she heard the familiar
sounds of the manor. Geese cackling while Editha fed them.
Editha herself exchanging badinage with someone in the dis-
tance. A
dog barking. Pot lids clattering in the kitchen. Saw-
ing. They were sounds she heard every day, as part of her
life. What would her life be without them? She thought: this
is what it is like to suffocate, to drown. This is what I have
feared ever since that quarrel the day Richard was born. I
shall lose Fallowdene. And Simon will be killed. And I shall
lose everything that makes my life for me. She thought of her
son Richard, in London, learning the skills of knighthood in a
respectable household. His inheritance would be lost, too. An
impassioned wave of hatred for Goscelin poured over her. She
had felt pity for him at first, but not now. Now she was sorry
he had not died along with Hubert in Mabel's prison. Why
had he had to come back, bringing the past with him, just as it
was dropping awây over the horizon at last? The naming of
little Sybil had been the sign to tell her and then Goscelin
. . .
must needs walk in and in a few sentences annihilate the years.

She could have killed him herself, with infinite pleasure.
"You guessed already that Mabel was responsible," she
said to Simon. "You've believed it for years, I know you have.
Why is it so different now ?
"Oh, I more than guessed. I knew," said Simon. "I've
known since the fall of Ely. When the reeds were set on fire
and we were all running for our lives, I heard that son of
hers, Robert, declare what he would like to do to the de-
fenders if he got his hands on them. He recited, accurate to
what happened in the courtyard of my home.
the last detail,
Itwas far beyond coincidence. He must have heard the story
from his mother. But for your sake, Wulfhild, knowing what
Fallowdene is to you, and for the sake of the children, I
pushed it out of my mind. I kept on saying: I am still not
sure, even though I was sure. But then ..."
"But then," said Goscelin, crouched over the fire, more
like a crone than a man who had ever, in his life, been a
knight, "but then, he didn't know why the bitch did it."
"Well?" said Wulfhild, speaking too loudly, aware that

her voice seemed to have found an echo even in the midst of
thatch and tapestries. "Why did she?"
"As a lad," said Simon harshly, talking to the fire rather
than to Wulfhild, "I was quite good-looking."
"I never knew about it then," Simon said. "But it seems that
she was passing near my home once, back in the days when I
Celestial Mills 263
was only sixteen. She started on her foul road early, before
she was thirty ..."
"After she had her last child she was told she could have
no more, or that's what used to be said when we were all
mulling her over in the kitchens at Domfront," said Goscelin.

"Her husband left her then. But Mabel was still hungry. And
she had her preferences.'"
"She saw me," said Simon, "and found out who I was and
sent to my father, saying she wanted me to enter her service.
Oh, making all the usual promises. A place in her household
as a page, my education to be completed to knighthood stage
. you can imagine. But the long and the short of it was that
. .
my father guessed what she wanted me for I think she of- —

—
fered money and he refused. Hubert knew. And he heard
more of the talk in that courtyard than I could, up there on
the roof. I heard Mabel's men ask where I was and I heard
my father say, in Rouen. But I couldn't hear what they said
after that. Hubert did and that's when they told my father
. . .
why they had come. Maybe Hubert meant to tell me when he

thought I was strong enough to bear it. My family died be-
cause of me, because they had insulted the great Mabel Tal-
vas. And that is why, Wulfhild, I must go to Normandy to
join the Saugeis. Theirs is the same mission as mine, and they
have invited me. If swords are ever drawn on Mabel Talvas,
mine must be among them. I think you realise that."
"And me?" said Wulfhild. She did not look at Goscelin.
"And the children? Richard?"
"Richard may lose his inheritance, yes. Well, so did I, and
more than that. But I came through. As for you, Wulfhild,
you and the girls, a nunnery somewhere will take you in. If
not Withysham, then another ." . .
"But is this story true}'' Wulfhild was fighting, knowing

all the time that it was useless, that this nightmare had been
coming towards her ever since the night that Simon first
woke her with his wild dreaming, but still unable to give in
without battle. "Why didn't Mabel know you when you went
to Earl Roger's household? You were still young then. Did

she never approach —
you again or set anyone on you?
was three years later," said Simon, "and I was already
"It
half grey and my face no longer the face of a youth. I think
she had no idea she had ever seen me before. I think the story
is true, Wulfhild. I'm sorry."
"Do one thing for me," said Wulfhild exhaustedly. She
wanted to get away from them both, to hide in her apart-
ment, to cower there out of sight and shiver.
"Yes?" Simon asked.
"Give it out, or let me give it out, that you are going on
pilgrimage. Carry a blank shield. Keep your part in this hid-
den, if you can. Then there is a chance that you may come
home and that Fallowdene may much,
remain safe. Do that
Simon, for me and Richard and our daughters. Keep your
hair covered. Fleas eT
Simon nodded. "Yes. Very well. That much I will do."
5 ^ CNemesis
The Simon and Goscelin took from Chichester

ship that
lent colour to tales that Wulfhild might spread of pil-
any
grimages, for the vessel was bound for the Mediterranean.
But their passages took them only to Nantes; there Simon
purchased horses.
They could have travelled on by river. But on horseback,
they had a mobility that a boat could not give. They could
was not that Simon
leave the path and fade into the forest. It
feared pursuit yet. That would come later. But the outlaw's
instinct to avoid being cornered was already at work in him.
They rode.
The track wâs muddy but passable. They jogged along
the banks of the broad, lazy Loire, smooth waters like
its
polished steel under a dull sky. The sight of it awakened

unexpected memories in Simon. He had journeyed by the
Loire with his father as a boy. "We went to a healing shrine
in Saumur," he told Goscelin. "My mother was ill; we went to
pray for her. It was summer." He recalled the wind rustling
in the lime trees that overshadowed the path, and the taste of
fresh carp, cooked over a campfire on a sandbank. The mem-
ory was happy, for they had reached home to find Simon's
mother better. She hadn't died till the following year. Even
that recollection was happy now. She had missed the Talvas
visitation and for that, thank God. With that, the memory
was back of those who had not been so fortunate. Standing on
another sandbank, a quarter of a century later, watering his
horse, he watched the shrivelled heart shapes of a few late-
265
fallen leaves drift past on the slow current, and said an Ave
for all his dead. Goscelin waited at a distance, aware that
Simon had withdrawn from him. If Mabel had not succeeded

in damaging Simon's body, she had harmed his soul ir-
reparably. He was not now capable of a real and living love,
or he would not have put Wulfhild and his children in such
danger, even for this reason. But he was what Mabel had
made him. It did not occur to Simon to turn back.
Close to Angers they left the Loire and took the Roman
road to Le Mans. "We will be waiting at the abbey of St.
Guillaume, near Le A4ans," the Saugeis had said to Goscelin.
"It is well away from the Talvas domains, yet the Roman
road will lead us straight there in two or three days, when-
ever we choose to set out." The abbey, when Simon and
Goscelin reached it, proved to be an insignificant place, built
where a long-departed minor saint had seen a vision of an
Archangel. was poor and tumbledown, the walls eaten with
It
ivy and littered at their base by fallen stones. There were

only a dozen monks, none younger than forty. Hopeful en-
trants to the religious life had not come here for their noviti-
ates for a long time. Goscelin, in the capacity of Simon's
guide, asked for Sir Hugh Saugei and his brothers, and the
two of them were shown to a bare room where three men sat
round a brazier, two playing chess and one fashioning a set
of new wooden chessmen. They were big, brown-haired
men with an unmistakeable fraternal resemblance, and the
set of shoulders and head carriage that spelt knight to any-
one with experience enough to recognise it. They glanced
with instant recognition at Goscelin and then, appraisingly,
at Simon. The eldest of the three said: "Will Sir Simon re-
move his helm?"

Simon did so.
"Goscelin told us that your hair went silver in boyhood,"
said the man who had spoken. "Now we see that it is true."
He stood up and his brothers rose with him. "I am Sir Hugh
Saugei. These are my brothers William and Robert. You are
very welcome. Sir Simon FitzTancred, formerly Inconnu."
Ne?itests 261
In January, the night before they left the abbey, they went
together to its little church. No one was there but themselves.
"By rights, a priest should witness this, but for their own
sake, the brothers of this abbey should be left ignorant," Sir
Hugh said, standing with his back to the altar. "We will
officiate for ourselves. Lay your blades on the altar."
The church was very quiet. There wâs no sound except
the rustle of the candle flames. One by one they stepped
forward and laid their weapons on the worn embroidery of
the cloth.There were only four swords; Goscelin's blade, bor-
rowed from Simon, was not among them. He was here to
guide and introduce Simon and to help in making contact
with informants in Mabel's employ who would warn them of
the right moment to swoop. Goscelin himself would not enter
any of xMabel's castles again, not even to kill her. At the
thought of it, his mouth muscles slackened and his hands
began to tremble. After eleven years in Mabel's grip, a knight
could cease to be a knight.
But he joined the others as they knelt and prayed before
the altar, quiet as effigies, while cold reflected candlelight ran
over the four steel swords. Then Hugh said: "Simon, dedi-
cate us."
Simon had never made such a speech before, but the
words came easily. "Since the innocent have suffered and still
suffer oppression by Mabel Talvas of Belleme, and since
there is no law in this land with power to defend them, we
dedicate our blades and bodies to that task. Let there be in
this undertaking no love for bloodshed. Let us not seek from
her an eye for an eye, for in so doing,we should become what
she Let us seek simply her life, that others may live. Let us
is.
wield our swôrds as the physician the knife, amputating the

gangrened limb, no more, no less. In this we are of one mind
and together we ask the blessing of God upon the work be-
fore us. In nomine patri, et filii, et spirituum sancti. Amen."
Mabel had spent Christmas in Domfront, surrounded by

She was powerful and she was wealthy, and power
guests.
and wealth had their attraction; there were always people

willing to accept Mabel's invitations, despite the obvious
risks. But after Christmas she was to move on, according to
the informers suborned by Goscelin, to Bures, further west.
At Bures, at a small shrine, the five men met one of the in-
formers face to face. "She's only part human, that one," said
Walchelin the Armourer. He was a soberly dressed man,
middle-aged, with eyes both shrewd and wary. "She likes to
swim even in January," he said. "It ought to kill her but it
hasn't yet. She bathes in the river below the castle, three
afternoons a week. Then she rests in her chamber. After that
she gets randy and sends for her latest toy. I generally see her
come back from the river. Then's your best chance. I'll
signal."
"We're grateful . .
." Hugh began, but Walchelin cut
him short.
"She did for my from Dom-
father last year. Sold him off
front as a serf and him freeborn, let me tell you, and over
seventy. I tried to find him but I was too late. He went to a
farm south of here and dropped dead with a load of firewood
on his back. Selling m.en like animals is against the law now,
but try telling that to Mabel. Don't thank me. Just don't men-
tion me to anyone, either. I want to live. Now% I'd best tell
you what the castle's like inside and we'll decide on a signal.
."
i think . .
For three successive afternoons after that they kept vigil

in a little wood close to the small slate-roofed town. Their
patient horses waited with them, saddled, under the trees. On
the third day, when was grey and so still that
the weather
even their breathing sounded noisy, they saw a white cloth
flap from a tower in the castle, and before it had vanished,
they were mounted. Goscelin was to wait in the wood. He
said, as they sprang up: "Godspeed," and they saw by his
eyes that he wished, now, that he could come with them.

Hugh nodded towards Goscelin's horse and raised question-
ing eyebrows and Goscelin hesitated. And then shook his
head. "I might lose my nerve, and kill you all," he said.
Ne?nesis 269
The main gate of the castle was open, as was normal by
day unless an attack was expected. It allowed for the traffic of
messenger and marketgoer, suppliant and supplier. They
rode in unchallenged, across the outer bailey, under an arch
and up a slope to the inner courtyard, where they sprang out
of their saddles again, flinging their reins to the ground.
The place seemed to be empty. The only sentry in sight
was on a tower and the Httle knot of riders below did not
seem to perturb him. Horsemen no doubt rode in and out
frequently. The hall door stood open, at the top of a flight of
steps. Hands on swordhilts, they raced up and in.
Inside the hall, a fire burnt on the hearth and there was
human activity to be found at last. A steward in a gold chain
of office sat behind a table haranguing an apprehensive man
who looked like a farmer, and a dozen men-at-arms were
eating at a trestle table, eyeing the farmer with mildly preda-
tory interest over their champing jaws. As the four intruders
strode in, faces turned towards them and some of the voices
broke off short.
But no one moved to stop them. No one, indeed, could
know for sure if they ought to be stopped. They had all
painted out their shield devices, and helmets were no aid to
identification. They could have been Mabel's men, come to
report on some task accomplished or danger discovered. Un-
molested, they marched the length of the hall, and Hugh
gestured to the left.
Walchelin had drawn the castle layout for them, with a

stick on the earth, smoothing it flat afterwards. A door to the
left led to Mabel's tower. The door was shut but only latched.
Simon clicked the latch up and was first through. He found
a bolt on the other side and shot it after his companions had
entered. It would delay pursuit if anyone in the hall actually
produced that amount of initiative. One of the weaknesses of
households such as this was that all went in so much fear of
their employers that action without permission was a rarity.
As a young man, with his memory impaired and his
imagination not yet developed, Simon had taken the atmo-
sphere of the Montgomery-Talvas households for granted. He

had not been comfortable in it, but he had not known, or
asked, why. But now, as he hastened up shadowy spiral steps
with the others, the occasional angled arrow slit the only
source of Hght, he suddenly recognised the cause of that old
uneasiness. The atmosphere of this place, Mabel's lair, was
tainted with eyil, as the air of a charnel-house was tainted
with decay. It ran like spiders on the skin and reeked like
blood in the nostrils. His fingers tightened on his swordhilt
and inside his gauntlets his palms were wet. It was not fear of
Mabel herself, or her men. It was abstract, supernatural fear;
the terror of corruption.
At the top of the steps they checked. Dark, rough-
flagged passages receded to Walchelin had
left and right.
not told them which to take. "The stairs break halfway up,"
he had said. "But then they continue. Just go on climbing."
But they could see nothing up which to climb. They stood
close together, listening. There were footsteps, and a page
came round the right-hand corner. He halted, seeing them,
and Hugh's hand instantly clamped itself across his face,
blocking nose and mouth and thrusting him back against the
wall, where a stomach kept him pinned. Spread-
knee in his
eagled fingers clawed at the stone behind him and frightened
eyes aboye the gloyed, imprisoning hand watched the sword
that Hugh had drawn. "One squeak and it's your last," said
Hugh agreeably, and dropped his hand as far as his captiye's
windpipe. "A\ê want Mabel Talyas. A\'here's her room?"
The boy gulped, his eyes darting from one face to an-
other. "L . . . L . . . Lady Mabel? \\\\o . . . wh . . . what?"
''\\t want to kill her," explained Simon, in a conyersa-
tional yoice as if this were the least remarkable of errands.
Then the page's eyes flared with satisfaction and they saw
that to him, it was.
My God, thought Simon, is this another of her yictims?
\\'hat has she done to him, to breed such hatred? Hugh
thought: I know what she has done to him. She did it to me.
And now she's done it once too often.
Neviesis 271
The bov pointed to the leftward passage. "It's that way. I
was going to her."

"AA'ere you, now?" Hugh released him. "Good. Then lead
do vou no harm, if you lead us right."
us there. \\'e'll
He led them, with alacrity. The passage turned a corner
and there were the steps, winding awav up the tower. One of
the Sauêi brothers muttered a curse on \\'alchelin for leav-
ing vital details out of his instructions.
A torch burnt above the arch to this further flight of
steps.As he passed under it, their young guide glanced back
to make sure they were close behind him. For an instant they
saw his face vividly lit. The savagê delight on his childish
features was shocking.
At the top of the steps was a closed door. The page
tapped twice and a woman's voice answered. Behind him, all
four swords were now out of their scabbards. The page threw
the door open and stood aside to let them pass.
There was a brazier in the room, and bulrushes on the

floor, and a cloak had been casually flung down on the rushes.
Nearby was a couch \^-ith ornately carved legs. The couch
had rugs of bear and sable, and on it, the rues slipping back
as she sat up at the intrusion, was Mabel Talvas, naked.
She must have come from her swim wrapped only in the
cloak, which was visibly damp. So was Mabel's dyed, frizzy
hair, trailing in clammy crimpings over lined neck and droop-
ing breasts. She was growing old. The huge and costly rings
which were all she could be said to be wearing showed with-
out pity the wrinkles in her hands, and the blue and yellow
eyes were pouched. Quarry and hunters faced each other and
the hunters shuddered with distaste.
She saw the swords and her round eves dilated. She
began demanding, in loud and penetrating tones, to know
who they were and what they were doing there. Hugh barked:
"Shut upl" and reached behind him for the door. The page,
understanding, closed and bolted it, shutting them in with
her. Mabel stopped for breath, mouth hanging open. There

was a shortlived pause.
They had intended to force a way into her presence and

kill her without delay. Led by Hugh and Simon, they had
tried deliberately to approach the destruction of Mabel Tal-
vas coldly, like engineers proposing to drain a cesspool. "It's
better if we do," Hugh had said, as they laid their plans and
prepared to dedicate themselves. "Better for mean." But us, I
now some kind of

that they wêre here, the need to pause for
ritual, some statement of intent, was on them all. They were
not engineers, any more than they were murderers. They

were headsmen, and this was an execution, which demanded
formality.
"Simon," said Hugh, keeping his eyes on iMabel, "you
have suffered even more than we have at this woman's hands.
Recite to her, therefore, her crimes against us all, beginning
with your own, so that she may understand why she is
condemned."
Mabel threw back her head to scream and simul-
taneously clutched for a sword that hung on the wall by the
couch. But the page seized it first, with an unexpected and
unpleasant giggle, and the two younger Saugeis grabbed hold
of Mabel, Robert jamming a hand over her mouth just in
time. "Now!" he said.
Simon obeyed, repeating the things that he had not ut-

tered since the day Brand compelled him, and would never
utter again as long as he lived. When he wâs done, Hugh
added his own contribution to the narrative. Mabel fought
throughout it all. At the end, her captors threw her forwârd
to land on all fours at Hugh's feet. Once more she opened her
mouth to scream and this time succeeded. Hugh grasped a
handful of the damp, disgusting hair, and she scrabbled at
the rushes and vomited. Above her, the swords swung up.
Simon's descended first. "For Sybil!" he said as it fell. The
gibbering obscenity on the floor was cut off into silence, and
the flabby trunk collapsed. Hugh leant down and straight-
ened, with a dripping trophy in his hand. Holding it aloft, he
turned to the door.
After that scream, and with their persons bloodied as if
Nemesis 213
from a battle, they could not hope to leave the castle by

stealth. Hugh yanked back the bolts from the door and jerked
his head at them, and they jostled through without attempt-
ing silence or secrecy, and plunged headlong down the stairs.
Thev were in the courtyard in less than a minute, but found

that despite their speed, the scream had been heard, and a
reception was awaiting them.
It consisted of a handful of men-at-arms and a few
knights, some only half-dressed. Many of the castle's in-
habitants as well as Mabel had apparently been having a

siesta. AMthout pausing, the five of them sprang, yelling and
orory, into the Hus^h flourished the head of
middle of the foe.
Mabel Talvas in their startled faces. In a knot, guarding one
another's backs, they worked their way towards their horses
and the gate. Incredibly, no one in this distracted fortress had
thought of sequestering the one or blocking the other. They
\^'ere outnumbered, but they wxre fully armed, which most of
their assailants were not. Hugh's sword cleft two bared

heads. The page, clumsily wielding the sword from Mabel's
wall, struck at a man's unprotected side and sliced him half
through, before he was axed down himself, the last of Mabel's
victims, the last she would ever taint and destroy. They were
near the horses. Simon had lost his shield. He used his sword
to deflect an axe, and the blow glanced on his right side. He
saw a bright streak appear as it scraped the chain links of his
byrnie. He grabbed for his saddle pommel, vaulted up,
caught up the trailing reins.
The others were up, too. They kicked their horses and
were galloping, straight from a standstill, straight for the
slope to the outer courtyard. They were down and across the
outer bailey and out. Simon gripped the saddle with one
hand. It was hard to breathe. Every lungful of air hurt him.
He must have a broken rib. Probably two. He felt giddy and
held on to consciousness with his will. As the faintness slowly
yielded, hesaw that they were still galloping, that Goscelin
had joined them and was beside him, and that Hugh, in the
lead, was looking over his shoulder to count his accomplices.
Below the nosepiece, Hugh's mouth opened in a wide grin.

He raised his left hand high.
Mabel's head, scored with swordcuts, still dangled from
it by her twisted locks. Hugh's voice floated back. "They'll
have to bury the bitch without it! Even if they forget to put a
stake through her heart, we've made certain she won't walk!"
6 ^ %e Passing
". . . And so we commit the body of Olive our dear sister
in Christ ... in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection . . .
in the name of the Father . .

."
"I am glad," said Edgiva to Wulfhild, as they walked on

the frosty grass after the committal, "to see you here. I am
glad you agreed to come. We have been estranged for much

too long. But while Sister Olive lived, there was little I could
do. Welcome to Withysham —even though you are not yet
taking refuge here."
"I wanted to come," said Wulfhild. The stiff grass blades
crunched underfoot as they paced up and down beside the
small grey church of Withysham, and their winter cloaks
brushed over it. "I thought of coming, many times. But when
Father was atFallowdene and visited you here, he warned
me not to. Because of Sister Olive."
"Yes. To her, the word Norvian and the word Sataii were
the same thing, and the abbess who ruled then agreed with
her.But I am abbess now." Edgiva smiled. "I should like you
to know, Wulfhild, that since becoming abbess, I did try to
change Olive's mind. But it was no use. She would not even
join with us in prayers for peace because she said such
prayers could only benefit the Normans. There could be no
peace, she said, until there had been war. And one thing I
was determined on; that there should be peace and not dis-
sension here in Withysham. Our serenity is our most precious
possession. Even Father commented on it. He said he liked to
come here, and that amazed me, knowing how opposed he
used to be to convent hfe. So I didn't press Sister Olive.
215
Though I did try, two months ago at Christmas —

to tell her —
that your husband was as much of a victim as she was, and
that he had gone to Normandy to do battle against the people
who had harmed his family. I'm afraid that even when she
heard that, she still ..."
Wulfhild stopped pacing. "What is it?" asked Edgiva.

"When you told her that Simon had gone to Normandy
. . . what did you mean by that?"
"That Sir Simon has gone to Normandy to kill Mabel
Talvas, naturally," said Edgiva, her serenity unbroken.
There was a silence, during which Wulfhild moved cir-
cumspectly away from the wall of the church, partly out of a

sudden distrust for all walls and similar opaque structures
behind which listening ears might lurk, and partly because
she felt dizzy and the wall seemed about to fall on her. She
stopped again, with a good stretch of the rank February grass
between and it. Edgiva came after her. "What do you
herself
know about Mabel Talvas?" Wulfhild demanded.
"I was reared in Normandy," said Edgiva, "and even in
a convent, one hears news. We have two nuns who first en-
tered religion in Flanders and there were French and Nor-
man girls in their Flemish convent. We know how Mabel
has prospered, and by what means, and what her amuse-
ments are."
how did you hear of Sir Simon's errand?"
"I meant,
"Oh, I know you've put out a tale of a pilgrimage. Very
wise. But one of my novices has parents in Westwater. They
visited her and she learnt the story from them. But no one
here will give the secret away, Wulfhild."
Wulfhild stood rigid, holding her cloak hood tightly
against the cold wind that tried to blow it back. She had gone
white. "How can I be sure of that?"
Simon has a good name," said Edgiva, "and the
"Sir
Montgomery-Talvas clan a bad one. Also, if Sir Simon were
dispossessed, who would replace him? Another minion of the
—
Montgomerys, perhaps another Sir Alain of Beechtrees.
The Passing 211
Self-interest if nothing else will keep your people silent, and I
will keep my own nuns silent. Did you not realise that most
of your villagers knew?"
"I did not. Richard knows. We had to tell him, since his
inheritance is in jeopardy. He has come home to be with me
till his father comes back. He seems to understand why Sir
Simon was obliged to go, and to agree. But apart from him,
no one else know^s, not even Blanche. Unless
—
." Wulfhild . . —
frowned ". someone recognised Goscelin when he came
. .
back from Normandy. You know about Goscelin too?"

"Yes." Edgiva was still calm. Fourteen years ago, when
she and Wulfhild had quarrelled, she had still been capable
of fierce feeling, of taking sides in the conflicts of the world.
Now, it seemed that the austerity of this place had dried
out her passions until they crumbled to nothing, and for her
the world had become unreal. She made no further comment,
except to say: "I think the story will go no further, Wulfhild."
hope not," said Wûlfhild sombrely. "Because
"I God help
Fallowdene and everyone in it, if it does!
As she dismounted in front of the hall at Fallowdene, Blanche

and Richard hurried out to meet her. Blanche had grown into
a sturdy girl, a little indolent, but good-tempered; Richard at
thirteen was becoming very like his father as the bone struc-
ture of maturity began to emerge from his boy's face. The
expressions on both their faces startled Wulfhild now, so that
she checked, halfway out of the saddle. Care and responsi-
bility had appeared on them, wiping youthfulness away. She
thought: Richard is almost a man and Blanche will be a
woman soon. He will become a knight and she will grow out
of all her laziness. But what has made the change?
"Mother," said Blanche, reaching her first, "please come
into the hall quickly. It's Father. He's come home. And he's ill."
She threw her reins to the nearest of her escort and ran
into the hall with them. Simon wâs sitting on a bench just
inside the door. Goscelin was beside him, supporting him.
Simon gave her a smile of sorts, a rictus in a bloodless face.

"Home at last," he whispered.
"Richard! Blanche! Editha! Where is Dame Editha?
Swan! Fetch wine, mead, anything. Get a bed ready. Bring
something we can use as a stretcher. Put a brazier in the
sleepinghouse. Simon, what is it, what's happened?"
"I had a blow on the side," said Simon faintly. Goscelin,
steadying him against the wall at his back, said: "We thought
it was just ribs at first, but it got worse. There's not much to
see. It was a glancing blow, from an axe, and he was wearing
armour."
"Thought I was getting better," Simon said. "We got on a
ship. From got one going
a port in Brittany. Saugei brothers
south." He
seemed oblivious to the fact that other people
were coming and going round him. He sipped the wine that
Blanche had brought. "Got pain again on the ship. Thank
God Goscelin was with me. Goscelin found horses Chi- . . .
chester. Helped me home. Held me in the saddle. Swaying

side to side like a pine tree in a gale. Mabel's dead. We did it.
."
Hugh Saugei took her head away . .
"Oh, hush!" said Wulfhild in alarm, but Blanche said:

"It's all right, Mother, I know about it. We all know. Swan
knew who Goscelin was when he came back out of Nor-

mandy, and when he and Father went off together, everyone
said they'd gone after Mabel Talvas. You looked so fright-
ened. Mother. You couldn't hide it. And everyone had known
for years that that was the thing you were most afraid of, that
the Talvases were the people who orphaned Father."
Richard, coming into the hall again with a trestle to use
as an improvised stretcher, said: "You didn't want Blanche,
or anyone but me, to know about it, so they all pretended
not to. You would have worried. Mother. We were trying to
protect you. And, of course, it's true that Swan, help me . . .
ease Sir Simon onto this; someone take the other end true . . .
that we weren't absolutely sure."

"Well," said his mother grimly, "you're sure now.
."
But . .
The Piissing 219
But to Simon, it would not matter for very long. \\^hen
they had him in his chamber, under his rugs, she sat beside
him and tried not to believe what she saw in his face, but
without success. She had seen it before. She had seen it in the
face of the kinsman who came

Fallowdene to die after the
to
battle. He too had believed himself to be mending from a
wound, but had slowly sickened and slipped back. His face
had had the same sunken flesh between the juttings of the
skull, thesame gritty pallor, the same blueness about the lips,
that Simon's face had now. He had been afraid, she remem-
bered. She had looked after him, smiling cheerfully and hid-
ing her knowledge, to help him hide it from himself. She
must brace herself for that again. It would be harder this
time, much, much harder.
Simon opened his eyes. He looked at her. She saw that
shewould not have to pretend this time, after all. He already
knew, and welcomed it.
In Caen, in the chief guest chamber of the Convent of the

Holy Trinity which Matilda and AMlliam had founded as part
of their payment to the Church for recognition of their mar-
riage. Queen Matilda placed a purse in the hand of her most
trusted and discreet messenger, wished him Godspeed, and
took her leave of him. The nun w^ho had been sitting with her
when he came said as he went out: "Madam, will he be safe if
King AMlliam finds out?"
"That I am still sending money to my son Robert? Xo,
probably not," said Matilda. "Since the king can no longer
vent his fury on me, he might well vent it on my messengers
instead. But I pay people to let me know what the king is
doing, and I will warn my couriers of danger if I can. Do you
think I am wrong to support my son?
"xMadam . .
." — the nun was ill at ease
— ". . . it is hardly
for me to comment on that."
"Xo," Matilda agreed. "It isn't. Because you don't under-
stand why I do it." She moved in her chair, as though it were
uncomfortable. It was in fact only the second time she had
been out of bed since she fell ill some weeks previously. The
guest chamber had been appointed as sickroom and looked it.
The chair had armrests and a footstool, and the table beside
it held a washing basin and medicines. There was an inde-
finable odour of disease. "William," said his wife, "has not the
gift of making himself loved. He prefers to be feared. Had
Robert ever had one word of praise from him, he would have
been his father's slave for the rest of his days. But William
—
did nothing but sneer at him for his lack of inches which he
inherited from me. Curthose, that's what his father calls him.
Shortlegs. Robert conducted a campaign in Scotland when
his father commanded it, and brought Malcolm's fealty back
as a trophy, and all William did was upbraid him for spend-
ing too much on the business. Is Robert so unjustified in what
William calls his rebelliousness?"
"Madam, I know so little of these things. I cannot judge."
"I can," said Matilda. Reminiscently, she said: "When
our second son was killed in the hunting field, William
grieved for him, because he was going to grow up black-
haired and dictatorial like his father, and because Archbishop
Lanfranc had already taken my husband to task for caring
too much for the hunt, and William had a sense of guilt over
it.But he has never grieved for the loss of Robert's affection
and he wouldn't grieve if Robert died. As for our daughter
Agatha, she was only a pawn that God inconveniently took.
You know about Agatha? She was once engaged to marry
Earl Harold of England and she did not want any other
union. She pleaded so desperately, when he arranged a mar-
riage for her in Spain, that although I knew it was strictly
speaking her duty to go, I changed my mind and pleaded too.
But we might as well have argued with a man who was stone-
deaf. Her body was brought back to us a month after she
sailed for Spain. She had fallen into a lethargy and died on
the voyage. I cried over her coffin. WilHam merely cursed.
The marriage would have had a good political significance
for him. I have much against my husband, Sister, for my
children's sake as well as my own."
The Fas sing 281
"But ... he made you a queen, iVIadam."

"Yes, and he made me Regent of Normandy when he
sailed for England, and he protected me at times. In his own
way." Matilda's lips, carefully painted to hide the pallor of
sickness, smiled wryly. "But he never
— . .
." —she hesitated,
and her voice lowered ". . . he never loved me. Sister. I
thought he did, once, before he left Normandy for England,

but I think I was mistaken. I even think that he also believed
he loved me but wâs mistaken too. William is not capable of
that kind of love, and he is not vulnerable to women. He is
more vulnerable to Lanfranc than he ever was to me. His
mother wâs the only wôman he ever listened to in his life. It
was after he went to England," Matilda added, "that he
began not to change, but to find out w^hat he was really
. . .
like. I found out, too."
"Madam, I don't quite understand."

"Don't you?" Matilda lifted a small silver mirror from
her lap and contemplated her face in it. "How ugly I look, all
wizened with illness. Even my hands look like fleshless little

sparrows' claws."
"You will put on flesh again soon."
"Do you think so?" said Matilda with mockery. "I don't.
I am tenacious of no doubt drag on for a little
life and I shall
longer, even a year or two. But no more. And I don't suppose
I shall ever see William again."
."
"Oh, Madam, I'm sure . .
"/'7// There was desolation in Matilda's voice. Her

sure."
pale, bright eyes had dimmed and filled. The tears spilt and
found their way unwiped down her face, making streaks in
the careful paint. "Quite, quite sure. Mabel Talvas is dead.
You've heard of her, I hope? Someone, someone she'd injured,
found the courage to burst into her castle at Bures and be-
head her. The messenger
told me. Someone claimed the re-
dress that William was never able to give him. And for
reasons that you certainly won't understand, and that I don't
propose to explain to you, William will never forgive me for
thatV
After his homecoming, Simon of Fallowdene took three weeks

to die.
Throughout them he lay on the couch in the sleeping-
house, and Wulfhild slept at night on a pallet next to the
couch. By day she tended him, sitting for hours beside him,
talking to him, giving him the poppy seed drinks that Dame
Editha brewed for the pain, and watching over him when he
drowsed. Up to the last few days, when his mind began to
wander and his bodily processes broke down, they were
nearer to each other than they had ever been. The spectre of
Mabel Talvas was between them no longer. There were no
more haunting fears, no more words that could not be spoken.
They could attend to one another.
Theirs had scarcely been a union of passion. It had begun
in expediency and grown into partnership but not into love.
But they had never undervalued each other either, and now
each became conscious, with some astonishment, of the other's
high regard. When he was gone it was that astonishment, that
sense of discovery, that Wulfhild most clearly remembered,
not the dragging days of physical and mental dissolution in
which his life had closed.
He was buried behind the church, and among the Fal-
lowdene folk who came to the ceremony there was more
genuine sorrow than Wulfhild had ever hoped to see. When
Simon first came to Fallowdene, she had set herself the task
of interpreter and mediator. She had succeeded better than
she knew. Only the sour Swan and her brother Young Ulf
were not present at the burial, and it was better, in Wulf-
hild's opinion, without them.
was over, and she was walking slowly back to the hall
It
at Richard's side when Blanche, who was walking behind

them with Dame Editha, said: "Mother, there are riders com-
ing over the down from the south. Surely, that's the banner of
Alain of Beechtrees?"
Wulfhild halted, turning. "You have sharp eyes, Blanche.
But yes . .
." —she narrowed her own eyes, aware that they
The ?assi7ig 283
were not as keen as they used to be

— ". . . yes, you're right.
Now, what . . .
?"
"He'll have come for the funeral," said Richard. "Al-

though we didn't tell anyone Father was back, let alone that
he was ill. I suppose the news must have round the
filtered
countryside. He's missed the burial but he can join us round

the table."
Editha said: "There's plenty of food. I saw to that. We'll
make him welcome."
But Sir Alain had not come for the funeral.
When he stood in the hall of Fallowdene, stripping off
his gloves and surveying his surroundings in a manner that
was unquestionably that of appraisal, Wulfhild thought: this
is how it was for Lady Olive. This is how he came to Beech-
trees. Walked in without warning and took control. Her mind
slid back to the day Simon had come to Fallowdene. Then,
she had said to herself that this was the meaning of defeat,
when a stranger stood in your hall and laid claim to it, and
you. Later, had learnt that she could still
at Beechtrees, she
count herself among the fortunate, for many reasons. But she
had not quite learnt it, even then. Full and final realisation
had not come till now.
He had dismounted and stumped into the hall, followed
by his escort, in a bullying silence, ignoring enquiries as to
whether he had come for Sir Simon's burying. Now he made a

brusque beckoning gesture with his left hand and from the
midst of the escort, the Beechtrees chaplain came forward,
nerve-thin and harassed as he had always been, unrolling a
vellum scroll. The seal of Roger of Montgomery was on it.
Before he began to read, Wulfhild knew what he was
going to say. It was as though his words were tracing the
outlines of a predetermined pattern. While she listened, she
studied the small red lines in Sir Alain's face, the whites of his
eyes, and the lines round his mouth, all of which said more
about his way of life at Beechtrees than twenty eyewitnesses
could have related, and wondered how the news had got out.
Who had sent word to Beechtrees to pass on to Montgomery,

that Simon was home, and hurt, and from what cause?
Then, beyond Sir Alain, edging inquisitively into the
hall to see the outcome of their perfidy, she saw Swan and
Young Ulf, and recognised at once the vicious satisfaction on
their faces.
I
J^JheSummons
Brand, formerly of Fallowdene and now of Daimcoteau,

came out of the house at the sound of noisily barking dogs
and found three strangers drawing rein before the door. All
were cloaked and hooded, for though the sun was out, the
ground still steamed from a recent thundershower. One of
the riders, judging by the slenderness of the fingers on the
reins, was a woman, and all had good horses, but he could tell
no more than that. He quieted the dogs and went up to the

foremost rider, to ask their business. He was then taken aback
at being addressed by name before he had time to speak.
"Brand!" said the foremost stranger joyfully, and slid out

of his saddle to fling a long arm round Brand's unexpecting
shoulders. "Well, isn't that the best luck we could have? W'ê
ride straight in and find you! Cosy little manor, this is, isn't
it? And would you believe it," said the stranger, pulling a long
and solemn face, "he doesn't recognise us. Oh, come now,
Brand. Look here!"
He pushed back his hood. Brand looked at his hair and
his face went stony. "I see," he said.
"I doubt it," said Hereward quietly, standing with the
sun on his still-red head, his bony features grave. "But just
now, that doesn't matter. What does matter is the news we
bring. We have urgent business with you, Brand. May we
come in?"
Brand, unsmiling, nodded.
He could do no other, for the rituals of hospitality de-
manded it. He called a groom to take their mounts and led
them indoors. The hall of Daimcoteau was small but very
28S
well kept, its furniture smelling of beeswax, its rushes min-

gled with rosemary. "I'm obliged to represent my son-in-law,"
Brand said stiffly. "He and my daughter are in St. Evroul at a
wedding. But I have no taste for such affairs now. I prefer to
stay and mind the house for them. It's a small return for their
years of hospitality. Please sit down. Will you present your
companions to me, Thane Hereward?"
"Oh, Brand!" said the lady, speaking for herself, "do you
really not know us? Did you never hear whom Hereward
married? Do you really not recognise Eadsige One-Ear,
and me?"
"iMy wife, the Lady Aude," said Hereward with formal-
ity. "We also have four children but we had to leave them be-
hind. We were in a hurry. Aren't you glad to see us?

"I heard a rumour about your marriage," said Brand.
"And other rumours, too. So they were true. You look well,
you and Aude, and Eadsige too. Scarcely a grey hair between
you. The leader you chose has rewarded you well in a ma-
terial sense, I imagine. Your lives have been comfortable.
Well. Why are you here?"

Eadsige looked frankly anything but comfortable, and
moved away to sit on a bench where he would not have to
listen to the rest of the conversation. Aude cast an anguished
glance at her husband. She found Brand pathetic, an ageing
man with iron-grey hair and a rigidly straight back, support-
ing his self-respect on an ersatz stewardship and displaying a
courtesy varicose with bitterness. But Hereward chose to ig-
nore the pathos. "We are here," he said, coming directly and
ruthlessly to the point, "to askyou to return with us to En-
gland. At Your daughter Wulfhild is in great need of
once.
you. She has asked for you to come."
"Wulfhild? What have you to do with Wulfhild?" Brand
demanded. "What about her husband? Is Simon not with her?"
"Simon is dead," said Aude gently. "He died of injuries
received ... on a visit to Normandy. To be exact, as he fought
his way out of the castle of Bures, after the death of Mabel
Talvas."
The Summons 281
"Mabel Talvas?" Brand's face was an astonished blank.
"Yes, I knew that she was killed, and how. All Normandy
knows that. But wêll, Simon might have had his reasons.
. . .
But how ...?''

"There is no doubt at all," said Hereward, "that Simon
had his reasons." He explained them, shortly. "It wâs put
about that he had gone on pilgrimage," he said at the end.
"But he and Goscelin had gone to Normandy to join up with

the Saugeis. An was made to keep it a secret, but the
effort
effort failed. And there were two people on the manor of
Fallowdene who didn't love Simon, because he was Norman.
A woman called Swan and her brother, Ulf. When Simon
came home injured, they informed on him. He was already
dead, in fact it was the day of his burial, when Sir Alain of
Beechtrees arrived to arrest him. But ..."
"Your daughter Wulfhild wasn't dead," said Aude softly.
—
"iVnd now^ she is to pay for her husband's act."
"I think," said Brand, seating himself between them,
"that you had better tell me the whole story, very slowly,
from the start. I haven't taken it in yet and I still don't see
where I come into it, and I don't understand what you mean
by payy
"We come into it," Hereward said, "because your daugh-
ter appealed to the king. This is what happened. Those two,
Swan and Ulf ..."
"I remember them," said Brand.
"Good. They're no longer on the manor, by the way.
They fled. Wisely, I suspect. They are not popular now
among the other villagers, according to your grandson Rich-
ard. They informed, as I said. As a result, on the day of Sir
Simon's funeral, Alain of Beechtrees —
you recall him
I take it
toor —
arrived with an order under Montgomery's seal. The
order said that the manor and its subholdings Little Dene and
Westwater were forfeit to the earl because of Sir Simon's part
in the death of Earl Roger's wife. Sir Simon, if living, was
under arrest. Ifdead — the informers obviously he realised
might be dying — then Wulfhild, along with Fallowdene, will
be handed to Sir Alain in marriage. Alain's \v ife is now dead.

Pure vengeance on Earl Roger's part, carrying his vendetta to
Simon's family as well as Simon. The earl knows well enough
why Lady Olive ran away to a convent. He has permitted
Wulfhild a month's delay for mourning. Wasn't that gracious
of him?" Hereward's mobile features expressed, momentarily,
a nauseating graciousness, followed by a demonstration of
such an intensely savage gloating that Brand flinched. "After
that, she will have no alternative but to do as she is bid,
unless she takes sanctuary in Wlthysham. Which would mean
leaving Fallowdene, and her children, to the kindly lordship
of Sir Alain without even the leaven of Wulfhild's presence.
You can imagine what that would be like. Wulfhild, as a last
resort, sent her son to appeal on her behalf to King AA'illiam.
William, because you and I were once comrades and friends,
has sent me to you. With a proposition."
"The order will be rescinded," said Aude. "Montgomery
has consented and will provide Alain with a marriage else-
where ..."
"William's commands are commands to be obeyed," said
Hereward, "even if you're Roger of xMontgomery."
". and your grandson's inheritance will be
. . restored,
while Wûlfhild will have permission to live single if she
chooses, if you. Brand, will meet one requirement."
Brand's face was uncompromising. "And that is?"
"The man," said Hereward slowly. He
king's a curious
shook his head at Brand. "You ought to know that. You knew
him in Normandy. All through the years he had regretted
that so few of the English would work with him. When I
made peace with him, he welcomed me not just with courte-
ous words but with gladness. He would welcome your friend-
ship in the same way. You may not be willing to believe it,
but I think you hurt him. Brand, when after Ely you refused
to become his man. It seems to me that in some ways, you
—
and I and some others that fool Waltheof was one in his —
mind stand for England. The price of Wulfhild's freedom is
The Summons 289
you, Brand. It is that you should return voluntarily from exile
and give him your fealty. You need never fight for him, you
know, not now. It will only be a matter of words. That's all."
"I might be," said Brand. "And the answer's no."
thought it
He sprang up, striding away from them. He turned at

the end of the hall and came back. His face was thunderous.
"It's impossible! William ... in Normandy he was still
human. But not now, not since the north. I might as well
make peace and be welcomed with gladness by Mabel Talvas
in person."
"William is not a Mabel Talvas," said Hereward. He
reined in his own indignation, putting reason into the field
instead. "It is not that I like the king. Brand. He once had me
defenceless in his own tent and he patronised me as though I
wêre as harmless as a maiden and more harmless than some."

He glanced, amused, at Aude who had once been so far from
harmless that she had killed two men. "He can make gen-
erosity into an insult," Hereward said. "Yes, he has done great
evil. But he is not corrupt. Not like iVlabel."
"That," said Brand viciously, "must have been a great

comfort to Gilda when she was starving on the trek to
reach us."
"Oh, don't be such a fool. Brand. Of course it was no
comfort to Gilda. But it makes a difference to William and
those who follow him. He is still a leader to trust if you make
a bargain with him. If William were cast from his throne, if
all his treasure were taken from him, were alone if he

among enemies with nothing but his bare hands for weap-
ons, he would still be formidable. But if you took all her
power and wealth awây from Mabel Talvas, she would have
been just a talkative middle-aged haybag with disgusting
personal habits. I met her once or twice when I was cam-
paigning in Maine. Mabel in herself was small, nothing.
William is not. Brand, njcill you stop standing there with your
head thrown back like that ." Hereward's own head
— . . —
adopted the same attitude ". and listen? Stop trying to
. ,
imitate a stone wall and be flesh and blood instead . . .

!"
"And a father," interposed Aude, still in that gentle voice.

Hereward stopped. "We're off the point," said Aude. She
had changed very little from the girl Brand had known. Ten
years and four children had put a on her and given
little flesh
a mature shaping to her mouth, but the brown eyes were as

direct and the ability to penetrate to the heart of a situation
as decisive as ever. Hereward had changed more. His face
was still mobile and his charisma still as forceful, but the
crazy adventurer of Bourne and Brandon had become a man
both seasoned and stable. Aude perhaps had had a hand in
William who matters now," she said. "He has
that. "It isn't
England, Brand, and he'll have it till Doomsday, or his seed

will. Nothing you can do will change that. The cause you
fought for and swore oaths for doesn't need you now. But
Wulfhild needs you. So do her children. What will happen
to them, left to Alain FitzHubert's mercies? I believe. Brand,
that your daughter here at Daimcoteau is childless. You have
."
no other grandchildren, only Wulfhild's . .
She broke off, because of the curious, listening expres-

sion that had appeared on Brand's face. It was as though he
had caught, and was straining to hear again, a distant sound
that she and Hereward had not noticed. She exchanged a
quick, puzzled glance with Hereward. They were both silent.
Once, Brand had ignored the mores of his world for his
sister's sake. He had ignored them even more forcefully when
he broke faith with his lord to help a woman unjustly ac-

cused. And as if the practise were habit-forming, he had
scarcely hesitated when it came to a choice between healing
or not healing his Norman son-in-law. He should have known
that it was through this chink in his nature that his final
summons to the completion of unfinished business would
make itself heard. He said, slowly: "Years ago many years . . .
... a monk said to me something I have never forgotten. He

said: 'When God wants you. He'll shout.' "
"I don't understand," said Aude.
The Summons 291
Hereward said: "Neither do I. But I think he means
he'll come."
Wîlliam's Chair of State was an institution. Wherever it was

set up, there came instantly into being a court. It had trav-
elled with owner all over Normandy and all over England.
its
It had been set up in halls and council chambers, under oak
trees and in market squares. The present version was new, for
it had had to be reconstructed to accommodate with some-
thing resembling comfort and dignity the fast-expanding

girth of King William. Even so, its wide seat and deep back
only just contained its occupant. Seated in it, heels crossedon

a footstool and his belly all but spilling off the chair, William
was keenly aware of his own grossness. But when he looked
at the man standing before him, he saw that Brand had kept
his stocky figure well, and that his jawHne was still sharp. At
Daimcoteau, Brand had reverted to the beardless Norman

fashion, and he did not disgrace it. William's abdomen, Wil-
liam's jowls, hung the heavier for looking at him.
Brand might well have retained a certain innocence of
mind along w4th his physical attributes. The thought had
—
come to William sometimes Lanfranc had a disconcerting
habit of arousing such ideas —that his own coarsening body
was some parallel process in his mind. He
a manifestation of
disliked that idea and did not dwell on it. There were times,
after all, when a ruler must place scruple and pity out of
sight and hearing, secluded behind locked doors in the brain,
and leave them there. A man called Simon Inconnu had once
failed to keep those doors shut, and for a while had gone mad
as a result. A king must not be so childish. He was not going
to admit, even within himself, that this man Brand, never
more than a knight and at other times —
much less a rebel, an
outlaw, an exile —might in his nothingness still be possessed of
something William had lost.
Brand was no more than an insurgent come to yield, the

last to do so and the most obstinate. Brand had served him in
Normandy and of all Englishmen, more even than Waltheof

or Hereward, Brand might have been expected to make peace
with Norman William. Of all men, therefore. Brand most
represented the obdurate and wayward land that had for so
long rejected him. For the corpulent tyrant in the Chair of
State, this should be a moment of triumph.
Except that there was in Brand no will towards the
peace he was about to swear. Brand was here for his daugh-
ter 'ssake. Not for William's.
It was for the king to speak first.
"We have allowed you to re-enter our realm. Sir Brand,

to release your daughter from the burden of her husband's
guilt, on condition that you set aside your ancient enmity and
swear your fealty to us. Earl Roger of Montgomery has given

his consent. You are fortunate. He is still pursuing others who
were concerned in the murder of his wife, and will pursue
them, till he or they are dead." William briefly met the eyes
of a man beyond Brand's shoulder and Brand, half-turning
his head, recognised the immobile features of A4ontgomery,
standing foremost of all those gathered in this London hall to
hear the oath of fealty taken. William had been able to im-
pose his will on iMontgomery perhaps only because A4abel
was now dead and Matilda dying. That he had troubled to do
so, indicated the value he set upon Brand. "For the sake of
the past years you spent in our service," William was continu-
ing, "he and I will let your daughter go free, to remain in
possession of her husband's lands till her son is of age, and to
live unmarried if she wishes it, if you will once more enter
our peace and our protection. Are you now prepared to
do so?"
"I am ready."
There was no other way. Already, he knew. Earl Roger's
men were travelling to the Mediterranean, hoping to pick up
the trail of the Saugei brothers; already another man with a
grudge against Mabel, William Pantol, whose brother she
had killed long ago, had fled with his family into the sanctu-
ary of an abbey and might well spend the rest of his life there,
The Suvmtons 293
simply because he was suspected. Goscelin had been kicky
not only in that \^\llfhild had sworn that Simon came home
to Fallowdene alone, but also because he was, after his years
in Mabel's hands, so much changed. He was still at Fallowdene

as Wulfhild's pensioner, going prudently by the name of
John. He was often ill; his premature ageing was leading him
towards premature death. He would have what Brand himself
had once been offered; a place at the hearthside, like a failing
hound, until he died. Brand knelt. The king's padded hands
were held out and he put his own between them. The thick
royal palms enclosed them, hard.
The shock through Brand's body was like the jolt when a
swinging sword rebounds from armour and the force of the
blow returns through the hilt. It was like the sparking re-
sponse of steel in frosty weather to a careless touch. He
looked up, startled, and his eyes widened as they stared into
William's. He had made no mistake. What he felt in William's
hands and was seeing in William's eyes was really there. He
patronised vie as though I were harmless as a viaideii. Had
Hereward experienced this, too, in William's tent before the
fall of Ely?
Godalone knew which had come first. Had William first
desired England and then learnt to desire the men who stood
for her: Harold, Edwin, Hereward, Waltheof, and now
Brand? Or had the latter desire always been there, latent,
until the struggle for England threw men in his path not as
other warriors but as opposition he must court and conquer
because he had a use for them?
He was in good company. Brand thought, kneeling
there. He recalled the other men in the list. Beautiful physi-
cal specimens, all of them. He was the least significant, in
that way. Once, William would not have noticed him. He had
put hands between William's before, years ago, and cer-
his
tainly there was nothing of this then. But now, he was the
last English rebel to come to WilHam's feet, and so he had
acquired significance. The length of the chase excited the

hunter's passion.
Only with an keep from shivering

effort of will could he
in that too-strong grasp.William was speaking, giving in his
harsh voice the words of the allegiance oath that Brand must
speak after him. Brand did so, clearly, for William's men
must hear the words said, and witness them. Had they any
inkling, he wondered, of the silent dialogue of joined hands at
the Chair of State?
It was finished. He stood up. William leant forward to
give his new liegeman the kiss of peace. He must endure it,
standing unmoving till it was over. How horrible, he thought
suddenly, how unspeakably horrible, to be a woman given in
marriage to a man you loathed. His skin crept, tiny blood
vessels contracting, nerves pricking, as he realised how close
he had come to abandoning Wulfhild to that. But for Aude,
who had seen where he was vulnerable, through his grand-
children. . .
But for Aude, he would still have been waiting for his
summons. And he would have waited in vain. He had cause
to thank Aude.
William was speaking. "You are welcome to our court,
Sir Brand. We have hoped for many years that one day we
would receive you here, in this fashion. Tell us, what kind of
life will you make for yourself henceforth? Will you go back
to Fallowdene again and live there with your daughter?"

"No," said Brand. His body had been seized, as soon as
William released his hands, bv an astounding lightness and
freedom, as if he were made of sun and air. His last re-
sponsibility on earth had just passed from him for ever. It
was all over. All the conflicts, the warring loyalties, the tor-
menting loves, were past. Even this last, monstrous one did
not matter. William would not proceed to any kind of action.
Probably he never had. Probably even William himself did
not understand this aspect of his own nature. He was not, as
Hereward had said he was not, corrupt. Brand was free now
to concern himself with his own salvation.
"Not to Fallowdene," he said. "I am going to Ely."
Domesday
X 1086 AD.
In the xMonastery of Ely, that quiet community under
the great Anglian skies thatwere bounded only by the
horizon, one lived in the awareness of time and eternity and
their steady rhythms that neither war nor birth nor death
disturbed. Season followed season and year followed year in a
powerful procession, like great rollers coming ashore. Those
who dwelt on those shores rested mind and body in the sea-
sound and gave their souls to prayer.
Brand rested in it, relieved by it, grateful for it, free for
the rest of his life from the troubling world. Such news as
drifted to him was, in any case, mostly good. Wulfhild still
lived at Fallowdene, managing it for Richard until he should
be of an age to take command, and Richard, coming once or
twice to Ely, said that his mother was well, though growing
stout in middle age and somewhat inclined to be domineer-
ing. How Wulfhild would bear it when Richard married and
she was asked to step back to make way for a new mistress at
Fallowdene, Brand could not imagine, but that problem
would not be his. Richard and Wulfhild and Richard's w4fe
must see to it. His own part in Fallowdene was done.
Brother Leo, his friend, who had spoken for him to the
Norman abbot who now ruled at Ely, sought him out on a
burning June afternoon three years after Brand's arrival. Bril-
liant light drenched the grass rectangle in the midst of the
cloisters where they paced side by side, and on the paved

floor of the cloisters the bars of light and shade wêre so dis-
tinct that it seemed strange the soles of their feet could not
detect them. From the site where a great new church was
29)
296 DOMESDAY 1086 A.D.
being built to replace the old one, there was silence because
the workmen were resting until the sun had declined a little.
Brand too was inclined to silence, but Leo said: "I am sorry
to see the old church go. I was fond of it. But I suppose
Abbot Simeon is right. One should not be too fond of walls
and buildings, or even of apple trees."
"Abbot Simeon doesn't quite lack fondness for posses-
sions himself," said Brand tranquilly, "at least on the abbey's
behalf. When I think of the things he has called Sheriff Picot
of Cambridgeshire because of the abbey lands the sheriff had
stolen .and the things he has let Brother Athelstan say out
. .
loud about the sheriff, without censure. ." . .
They both laughed. Brother Athelstan's comments on

the rapacious sheriff were part of the abbey folklore now,
delightedly repeated whenever a visitor called or a new
novice joined them. A ravenous lion and a filthy hag with a
belly so insatiable that he would share nothing even with
God and his angels, were among the more repeatable insults
in the choleric Athelstan's repertoire.
"When the abbot goes to this new tribunal in Cam-
bridge," said Leo, "he may get some of the lost lands back.
What an amazing undertaking this new survey is going to be.
Not that Brother Athelstan approves of that either. You were
not in the common room yesterday when he was talking
about it.
— He went Brand chuckled ap-
red in the face . .
." —
preciatively and marched about banging every object
". . .
he came across with a clenched fist. He said it was a scandal,

and that the king as far as he could make out wanted to know
of every hide of land and whether it was grazing or corn or
timber, and to know of every man on every manor, and
details of every ox and cow and pig. He said the king seemed
to want to know all about everyone in England, as if he were
God preparing for the Day of Judgement. One of these days I
shall be called on to prescribe for him when he falls into a fit
with one of these outbursts. Brother Athelstan ended up
crashing a fist on the common room table and shouting that
Doviesday 10S6 A.D. 291
the king wanted to possess this land as though it were a

woman . . . Brand, what is it?"
Brand had stopped pacing. He said sadly: "Brother
Athelstan is right. That is what the king is like. I know. That
is how he looks on England. He's not natural about it." . . .
"Are you regretting that you gave up the struggle against

him and took God for your lord instead, then? " Leo turned to
his friend. "Tell me if you are. Let us talk about it."
"No," said Brand. "I don't feel that." His distressed look
deepened. "I don't feel anything, Leo. William is all that
Brother Athelstan says, but I feel nothing. It's as though it no
longer mattered or had anything to do with me. I don't know
if that's right or wrong. I only know that it's so."
And to be expected, thought Leo, gazing with the eyes of
experience at the traces of tiredness and ill-health on Brother
Brand's face. Brand these days was short of breath after exer-
tion and more than once Leo had watched him stop when
he was working and press a hand against his chest. On the
plea that in this hot weather, the older members of the
community could from a tonic, Leo had dispensed a
benefit
and included infused foxglove leaves in
suitable herbal drink
Brand's. They would relieve the symptoms for a while. After
that. Brand would have loving care and quietness for what
time remained to him. Undoubtedly, in Ely, he was in the

right place.
"I used to think that in my old age I might be getting
holier," Brand said. "But now I think . . . that I am simply old."
"Is it such a disaster?" asked Leo. "If I remember rightly,

youth was most exhausting time of life."
a
They laughed again and walked on companionably, side
by side, their sandals whispering on the flagstoned cloister
floor, barred with light and shadow, as their two lives, still for
a little while lying ahead of them, were barred with day

and night.
?,?rM?,^,'''"l'C I'BRARV
3 9i9.9 00285 862 7
-mr mo pr,
Sab
Boston Public Library

COPLEY SQUARE
GENERAL LIBRARY
The Date Due Card in the pocket in-

dicates the date on or before which this
book should be returned to the Library.
Please do not remove cards from this

pocket.
(cofitniiitil 'roifi front flnp)
awful to bear. Herevvarci hates himself

for falling in ioxe with a Norman hos-
tage.
Behind all their lives is the ever-
present William. Steely, invincible,
intelligent,sometimes strangelv com-
passionate, he struggles for one cause:
the union of his kingdom and the fealty
of his subjects.
Using the fictional characters of Brand
and his family, and m.any real historical
personages, the novel is historically
accurate to the finest detail. Beautifully
written. The Disputed Croivn con\'inc-
ingly re-creates two tempestuous dec-
ades ir\ eleventh-century English history.
Although complete in itself, with Gil-
and The Norman Pretender it forms
denford
a remarkable trilogy that establishes
author Valerie Anand as a brilliant his-
torical novelist.
Valerie Anand, a professional journalist

and editor, has contributed articles and
short stories to many British publica-
tions. Author of GUdenford and The
Norman Pretender, she lives with her
husband irt Surrey, near London. Her
next work will be a novel set in India.
Cover photo Courtesy The Bettmann Archive,

Inc. from the Bayeux Tapestry, eleventh century.
Critical Praise for
Anand's Gildenford
Valerie
and The Norrnan Pretender:
"Valerie Anand can honorably bear comparison with the likes of

—
Mary Renault, Sigrid Undset, and a fine novelist of pre-Norman
—
England Hope Muntz....A beautifully structured and eminently
readable novel."
Bestsellers
"Like a medieval tapestry, Valerie Anand has woven a medieval

story both intricate and absorbing.. .the historical story should
be savored whole."
Pittsburgh Press
"Her book moves from great scene to great scene. . .a superb first
novel." M^M
Book News
"The novel is nothing less than Anand's portrayal of the modern

man's dilemma and as such, Gildenford is a thoroughly admirable,
genuine, and moving piece of literature."
Houston Post
\
"A sound and remarkably crystal-clear working of dense historical
materials." s^mtm^^^^^^K
JW^^mIJI^^^^HI.' — - ^^.j}^ Kirkus Reviews
"Enthusiastic readers of Gildenford will not be disappointed with

this sequel. .one of the best portrayals of the period since Hope
.
Muntz's Golden Warrior."

Library Journal
"A novel that takes at least some of its inspiration from events
recorded so beautifully in the Bayeux Tapestry ... a rich, wonderfully
textured recreation of a misty but ever fascinating chapter in the
book of British kings."
Publishers Weekly
PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

NEW YORK
ISBN 0-684-17629-7

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THE

n Christmas Day of 1066,

(continued on hack flap)

The NoTTnan Pretender

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS X TJew york

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

1. Great Britain History— —William 1066-

1087 —Fiction. 2. Hereward, 1071 — Fiction.

This book published simultaneously

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

English and Norman Riding Houses x

CORONATION DAY December 1066 a.d. 1

Part I. Dedications, 1068 a.d. 5

L The Rude Home comiiig 7

2. The Paradoxical Marriage 20

i^. Warningin the North 79

Part II. Revelations, 1069-1070 a.d. 87

1 . T^^ Rising Gale 89

Part III. Confrontations, 1070-1072 a.d. 149

L Unhallonjoed Norman Hands 151

Part IV. Immolations, 1075-1082 a.d. 215

1 . T^^ Seditious Marriage Party 217

DOMESDAY 1086 a.d. 295

It would be impossible to list all the books and publica-

Monastic Setting of Ely (Mac Dowdy), Peterborough Cathe-

RICHARD II JUDITH AELFGIFU = ETHELRED =

RICHARD III ROBERT 7 HERLEVA HERLUIN EDWARD

MATILDA = WILLIAM ADELAIDE ROBERT ODO EDMUND

EiMMA r= CNUT = ELFGIFT

ALFRED GODGIFT =z DROGO HARTHACNUT HABALD

ALTER RAI.PH FULK

SWEYN EADGYTH = HAROLD = ALDITH TOSTIG

HAKON 5 children twin sons (?) 5 children

EDITH GYRTH LEOFWIN WULFNOTH 2 daughters

Normans, French, Bretons

Adelaide, sister to William the Conqueror

English, Welsh, Danish

Arnulf the Fallowdene blacksmith

Brand, ex-Thane of Fallowdene, now an adherent of the rebel

Characters who do not appear directly but whose existence,

Aldith, second wife of King Harold: in exile abroad

Hereward the Wake is one of the most famous char-

fairly certain that he was a Lincolnshire thane, and fairly

It should have been a moment of the utmost solemnity.

and flashing with rare imported gems, should have been

monly referred to as Edwin-and-Morcar, as if they were one

weight. Archbishop Aldred of York came to the front of

These Normans would fire a house at the sound of a

Adelaide of Champagne, trying to push a needle through

the nursery. And the background noise of savage yells from

8 DEDICATIONS, 1068 A.D.

up two skeins of green silk

"The ways of God are inscrutable," said the duchess. She

then all their leaders came with him on a state progress

elbows on knees and black braids falling forward over her

the better. When it is clearer which of the English earls are

us now. Nine children," said Matilda with satisfaction, "come

"No, no, of course not," said Matilda in a shocked voice.