Crusade (6 page)

Outside the abbey I did find a man who would speak to me. I did not recognize him – perhaps I should have
done, as he was one of the few survivors of Ely and had campaigned with us in the North. But he was only a wretched shell of his former self.

His name was Wolnatius. He had been blinded after being captured at the collapse of the final redoubt and had barely survived the following winter. But when a new community of monks arrived, they took him in and cared for him. He was reluctant to speak to me until I gave him details, which only I could have known, about events in York during the rising and he was able to feel the Cerdician seal on my ring.

He had been close to Einar when he fell, had seen Martin brutally slain by the King and confirmed that Hereward had been taken alive – and flogged, he assumed, to death. Like many others, he thought his body had been buried by the Normans in a secret location to prevent it becoming a shrine to the English cause.

‘Like King Harold?’

‘Not exactly, my Lord Prince. Harold lies in an unmarked tomb in Waltham Abbey.’

‘How did he get there?’

‘Sire, it is said that Edith Swan-Neck returned to his makeshift grave on the beach near Senlac and took him to Waltham. The monks loyal to his memory keep his resting place a closely guarded secret. I am sure they will let you visit it.’

‘I will indeed visit him there and pray to his memory.’

Brave Wolnatius had little more detail to add. He wished me well and promised to be at my coronation when it happened. In return, I guaranteed him a place in my honour guard on that propitious day. As I left, I gave him a little
silver to help with his care. He grabbed my arm and buried his face in my sleeve, sobbing like a child.

So this is what had become of one of our bravest housecarls: reduced to poverty. I resolved there and then to do all I could to help restore the pride of men like Wolnatius.

My first act was to rejoin my men at Peterborough and make my pilgrimage to Waltham to pay my respects to Harold’s remains.

I have never resented Harold’s decision to claim the throne. He was the right choice for England’s future security. With foes like Hardrada and William threatening our shores, my prospects as King would not have been promising. I would have been lucky to survive Stamford Bridge, let alone Senlac Ridge.

I knelt by Harold’s unmarked crypt for a long time, thinking about the desperate and brave decisions he had made. Should he have waited for more men to arrive in London in those fateful days before the battle, before heading for the coast? Perhaps he did act too quickly, but he was fearless; that was his strength. He took a gamble, as daring men do, and although it was a close-run thing, he paid with his life.

I knew I could never be like Harold or Hereward, but I also knew that their example could be a guiding light for me, which, coupled with my own gift for thoughtful and considered decisions, might allow me to find a way to lead others and make my mark.

As I left, I placed my hand on the plain, cold slab of his sarcophagus and vowed that one day I would pay homage
in the same way to England’s other noble warrior, Hereward of Bourne.

The canons of Waltham, ever loyal to Harold’s and England’s memory, agreed that I could stay in Waltham for a while to plan my next move. I needed new allies; they were not difficult to find. William had many enemies, and my claim to the English throne made me a useful asset. I sent word to Flanders and to France and soon had a response.

Young King Philip of France had emerged from his weakened position as a boy-king to become a young ruler of great skill and tenacity and was keen to challenge William for control of Normandy. He offered me the formidable castle of Montreuil on the French coast, from where I could harass the Normans.

I took a ship from Maldon, but fortune once more deserted me. Not far off the coast of Essex, a ferocious easterly gale got up and pushed us relentlessly towards the sandbanks off Foulness. We ran aground and, within minutes, were in the water, losing most of my men and all of my silver.

I eventually made it back to Dunfermline, exhausted and thwarted once more. I was in my twenty-first year, but I felt like a boy again.

‘You can’t stay here,’ was Canmore’s blunt response when he received me. ‘I will give you a chest of silver, but you can’t stay in Scotland.’

Margaret pleaded my case.

‘William has gone to Normandy and taken Duncan with him. He won’t hear of Edgar’s return for months.
Besides, when did you ever care about upsetting the King of England?’

‘I need time to build my forces. This Norman bastard is building castles all over England, and he can put navies to sea and cavalry on the march in great numbers; what I saw on the Tay was a force a Roman emperor would have been proud of. I fear no man, but I can’t let him take Scotland like he took England. As soon as he knows Edgar is here, he will be at my gates within the month.’

Margaret held me. She had tears in her eyes.

‘What will you do?’

I was desperate but knew I had to leave. My next decision was the making of me. Had I stayed in the King’s comfortable fortress at Dunfermline, I would have withered away, consumed by my own anger and regrets.

‘I am going to submit to William.’

‘No, Edgar! We tried that; you remember what it was like.’

‘I know, but I’m older and wiser now. I have to find a life for myself. I will submit, gain his trust and bide my time. I will learn from the Normans. They are all-conquering; I have to understand why.’

Canmore looked at me curiously.

‘That’s a clever move. I am not done with William yet. Learn from him – and when the time is right, we will meet again to see what can be gained for both of us.’

‘My Lord King, you have given me a refuge here. I will always be in your debt. Please take care of Margaret.’

The Queen rode with me all the way to the Forth, where one of Canmore’s ships was made ready to take me to France. He had granted me a small retinue and a not inconsiderable purse. I would travel well.

Margaret understood me better than anybody. Like many women who live obscured by the larger shadows of their menfolk, she knew that beneath the aura of masculinity that men are required to show, they are often vulnerable and anxious. She knew my weaknesses and had helped me overcome them throughout my childhood.

She used our journey together to help me even more.

‘You are not a mighty warlord like Malcolm, but you have great courage, a clever mind and excellent judgement. Have faith in yourself and trust your instincts.’

‘What will I do without you, Margaret?’

‘You will do well; I know it. You have great gifts and are decent and loyal. Those precious things are not given to many.’

Margaret’s words were a source of great strength to me. I knew she was not just being kind; she was a good judge of character and too thoughtful to fill me with false hopes.

When we parted, I held her tightly as she sobbed at the renewed pain of losing both a brother and a son and begged me to keep an eye on young Duncan in the Normans’ lair.

I wondered if I would ever see her again.

I left Scotland knowing I had to put the past behind me and abandon the fight to become the rightful King of England. That hope had been extinguished when Hereward and the Brotherhood accepted William as King in their struggle for liberty at Ely.

On that long voyage to Flanders, I steeled myself to the future and began to find a tenacity that had eluded me for so long.

5. Robert Shortboots

Robert Curthose had to live with the sobriquet ‘Shortboots’ all his life. The Normans like to attach monikers, either in mirth or ridicule, and, in truth, Robert was not very tall, so ‘Shortboots’ he became. Robert did not get on well with his father, or his father with him. They could not have been more different – Robert took after his diminutive and taciturn mother rather than his towering and domineering father.

He was King William’s firstborn and, even as a young man, became de facto Duke of Normandy while his father was busy massacring the English in his new domain.

I had liked him when I was taken as hostage to Normandy after William took the throne. Our friendship blossomed and he soon became the salvation of my second submission to the King after I had decided to swallow my pride and let self-preservation rule my emotions. I faced the prospect with dread, but William was unusually gracious when I humbled myself before him at Caen.

He allowed me to keep a retinue and gave me enough land and titles to maintain my status as a royal prince. It was a far better deal than I could have hoped for, but one made by him not through generosity, but by way of expediency. I still represented a beacon of hope to any disgruntled Englishman and anyone else with a grudge against him – and there were many of those – so it was
significantly in his interest to keep me close by and for me to declare my fealty to him.

He still seemed fit, but his hair was turning grey and his girth much expanded. As for his temper, it was much the same – simmering some of the time and frequently volcanic in his outbursts.

Robert held the title Count of Normandy and I was fortunate to travel with him throughout the domain he ruled in his father’s absence. He was the perfect teacher of Norman ways. Although he was much calmer and more considerate than his father, he was forthright and disciplined; he expected obedience from his subjects and dealt firmly with miscreants. I learned quickly.

The months passed and I became more contented than I had ever been in my life. We hunted well and I ate and drank like a Norman lord – in large quantities, with only a modest regard for quality. Their appetite for women was similarly less than discerning, the priority being the frequency of the conquests rather than their worth.

But I did not complain too much. His father denied Robert the chance to take a wife, fearing that an alliance with another royal house would make his son too powerful, so I chose to stay single also; consequently, we could debauch ourselves as much as we liked.

William still styled himself as ‘Duke’ when in Normandy, and when he returned from England – which was usually two or three times a year – his relationship with Robert worsened. Only the intervention of Robert’s mother, the formidable Matilda, kept the peace.

To Robert’s great dismay, his father seemed to favour his thirdborn, William Rufus, especially after his second
son, Richard, died in a hunting accident in 1074. His name was the clue to William’s preference. Rufus ‘the Red’ was tall and fair – like his father and their Viking ancestors – whereas Robert took after his mother, whose stature was so meagre it became the subject of common jests.

Robert and I were both in our mid-twenties, Rufus nineteen. Understandably, he wanted to join us on our drinking and whoring excursions, but Robert would not hear of it and Rufus became more and more annoyed at the rejections. I tried to reason with Robert.

‘He’s your brother and good company, let him come.’

‘No, I’ll not have him running to my father or, more importantly, my mother with exaggerated stories of our adventures. He’s a prick, that’s all that needs to be said.’

Robert’s increasing distance from his father threatened to explode into violence in 1077. It was also the year when a boy called Sweyn appeared at Robert’s court in Rouen – a boy who later, as a man, would be as influential in my life as Hereward of Bourne. By coincidence, he was also a son of Bourne.

I had not met him before but I recognized the knight who brought him to court. They rode into Rouen’s keep together, the knight carrying the colours of Toulouse. The boy, although far too young, was dressed as a sergeant-at-arms. I strode over to greet them.

‘You must be Edwin of Glastonbury; you stood with Hereward during the revolt.’

‘I am, my Lord Prince. It is good to see you again; a few years have passed.’

‘Indeed. And who is the young man?’

‘Let me introduce Sweyn of Bourne. Sweyn, it is your privilege to meet Prince Edgar, the rightful heir to the English throne.’

Sweyn looked confident, spoke clearly and bowed deferentially to Edgar.

‘My Lord Prince, it is an honour to meet you at long last. Our paths almost crossed in England, but I was only a boy then and you would not have remembered me.’

I smiled to myself. Sweyn, so obviously still a boy, clearly thought of himself as a grown man. He was of average height and not particularly broad, but was lean and had a determined look about him. His clothes were plain but good quality, as were his weapons. He was dark-haired and tanned, and could well have passed for a man from Aquitaine rather than an Englishman.

‘Stewards, take the horses of our noble guests. Edwin, Sweyn, come into the hall and rest. Count Robert is out hunting. He will be delighted to meet you later.’

I ushered them both to the fire, eager to hear their news.

‘So, you are in training to be a knight?’

‘I am trying, sire. But I am not of high birth, so I must train as a soldier first and then hope I can win the right to carry a knight’s pennon.’

‘You are not related to Hereward?’

‘No, my Lord. My father was a humble villein, bonded to Hereward’s father, Thegn Leofric. He was killed when Ogier the Breton and his thugs came to our village. I was the only one who got away. My mother hid me in the hayloft where I waited until nightfall, when I crept away.
Three girls survived as well; they were taken as playthings by Ogier and his men and defiled until Hereward came and saved us.’

‘He had a habit of doing that. He saved my life too.’

‘Sire, I try to be like him every day.’

‘That is a very noble ambition. Edwin, I have so many questions for you about Ely … But first, why are you here?’

‘I am Sweyn’s guardian, and his care and future matter to me more than anything. I had heard that you were at Count Robert’s court, so now that Sweyn is old enough, I hope to be able to place myself at your service as a knight and begin Sweyn’s training and education.’

‘You are both welcome. The Count will be pleased to have two sturdy Englishmen in his retinue, especially ones who stood with Hereward of Bourne. But tell me how you got away from Ely.’