Margaret the Queen (24 page)

They reached the Deira border actually on the wide, high anonymity of Bowes Moor. The lower lands of upper Teesdale lay ahead of them, and they swung away north-eastwards to avoid that more populous area, especially the vicinity of the abbey of Egglestone, which might well be Norman-held, keeping to the heathland pastures of Hamsterley Common until they came to the Wear. That river would have led them winding down to Durham, their immediate goal, but again through populated lands. So they forded Wear near Witton and kept to the high ground by Brancepeth and Langley Moors until, with the sunset, they could look down into the deep shadow-filled valley out of which rose the steep, hog-backed ridge, almost encircled by the Wear, whereon stood the large and handsome church of St. Cuthbert, shrine for the bones of that great missionary and also of the Venerable Bede, humble luminary of all knowledge — but, for their purposes, more importantly the seat of Bishop Walchere of Durham. It was as much fort as church, on a strong site, with semi-monastic buildings attached, and massive construction work appeared to be going on alongside, in stone, further on the ridge's crest. The town, quite large, nestled in the gut of the valley below on both sides of the river, a bridge linking.

Cospatrick sent Maldred to announce the arrival of Edgar, rightful King of England, and of the Earls of Dunbar and Northumbria and of Cumberland, to see the Archbishop of York, with greetings from the King of Scots. This resounding announcement quickly won him into the presence of Walchere, a tall, ruddy-cheeked man of middle years with shrewd eyes, who had succeeded old Ethelwin in the see whom Maldred had last seen on that ship in Wearmouth Bay. It was this Walchere who had sent the monk Turgot to attend the royal wedding at Dunfermline. He was known to be of independent mind and incensed at the Conqueror's scornful treatment of Holy Church, especially the deposition of Archbishop Stigand and the maltreatment of his own superior Eldred of York. He was cautious, however, and declared that he would welcome the distinguished visitors provided that they came in peace and goodwill. But that, sadly, Archbishop Eldred was gravely ill, and that he feared for his life.

This last was a blow to the party from Scotland, for Eldred might have been the key to much, the most senior and notable churchman in England now that Stigand was imprisoned and the unknown Lanfranc in his place at Canterbury. Walchere was sympathetic, but not a great deal of use to them. His position was complicated by the fact that his territorial lord here, the Earl Waldeve of Deira, was also his close friend and was now apparently firmly in William's camp; indeed it had been part of the Earl Waldeve's bargain with the Conqueror that his friend Walchere of Hexham should get the bishopric. The ambitious new building which was going up nearby was in fact a great Norman-style castle-palace which the pair of them would occupy, so oddly close was the relationship. So that there was not much that Walchere might do to encourage the visitors. But he did not seek to prevent them having an interview with the sick Archbishop.

Edgar now suddenly asserted himself. He declared that he was the rightful king of this realm and that Eldred was his subject and friend. Admittedly he had failed him, and crowned the hated Norman; but he had repented of that folly, and he, Edgar, would forgive him. He would therefore interview him alone, as was suitable. This he insisted upon, with Walchere confirming that it was inadvisable for numbers to enter the sickroom, or for any controversy to take place, for the Archbishop was very frail. Cospatrick cursed below his breath, but was outmanoeuvred this once, being anxious not to seem to devalue Edgar's authority here in England.

However when presently Edgar rejoined them, he was in sour mood. The old man was doddering, he announced, all but senile, hardly had recognised him, seemed scarcely aware of what was going on, what was at stake. There was nothing to be gained there, nothing.

Cospatrick started up, asserting that they had not come all this way for
that
. He would go up and see what
he
could do. But Walchere firmly put his foot down. The Archbishop was in
his
house and care, as were they all. He was responsible. One interview with the invalid was sufficient for the present. In the morning, perhaps . . .

In the early morning, an unheard-of thing, Cospatrick attended Lauds, the cock-crow service of the Romish Church to start the day — whilst the others still slept. Walchere was impressed, and permitted the Earl thereafter to go up and see the sick man — who was apparently at his poor best first thing in the morning. Maldred, arisen by then, went with him.

The emaciated old man in the great bed looked frail indeed, a shrunken shadow of a tall and powerful figure, with a gaunt tonsured head and eyes deep in hollow sockets. But the eyes themselves were bright enough, almost fevered, far from dulled in senility. The Bishop introduced them, and left.

After their greetings, jerky and a little difficult, there was silence whilst the haggard prelate eyed them searchingly. At length he spoke, thinly, tremorously, but with no lack of certainty.

"You have come from that coxcomb Edgar?"

Cospatrick did not fail to note the tone, however weak. "No, my lord Archbishop. He is but in our company. We are from the King of Scots. Cousins of His Highness, both."

"You, Cospatrick, I
...
have heard of. Not always
...
to your credit!"

"I would have been surprised otherwise," the Earl admitted, smiling. "Folk only spoken well of are, I swear, exceeding dull! Yourself, my lord, I have heard, are not
all
saint!"

A momentary twitch, which might have been a hint of amusement, flickered across the wasted features. "Bold!" he acknowledged. "Malcolm your King
...
is no saint. But is now . . . wed to one
...
I hear."

"She, the Queen, sends you her greetings and remembrances, my lord," Maldred put in.

"She was . . . ever the best of that family. Likest her grandsire Edmund. I never could abide
...
his sainted brother Edward!"

This whispered outburst seemed to exhaust Eldred and he lay for a little, eyes closed, breathing heavily, while his visitors glanced at each other.

Then they found the sunken gaze on them again. "What does your Malcolm . . . want of me? A done man," he got out.

Cospatrick judged his man. "Money," he said baldly. "Aye. You are frank."

"Would you have me otherwise? Your Edmund Ironside was
my
grandmother's brother, see you."

"Ha! Yes — Elgiva. I had . . . forgot. So you are . . . some kin
...
to Edgar."

"To my sorrow."

"He, he wanted money also."

"For a different purpose."

"
Eh.
..?"

"He wants it to gain a throne for himself." "And you?"

"I seek it to fight Norman William. There is a difference."

"Aye. That is true." There was a sudden and distinct strengthening of that faint voice. "William the Bastard — hell receive him!"

"As you say, my lord. But — hell requires some assistance! King Malcolm seeks to provide that. But it is a costly business. He seeks to unite your Saxon lords, in armed rising. To assist this Hereward. To rouse Edwin, Morkar, Engelwine and the rest. Money, gold is required — of which Malcolm is short. Your earls and lords here have all been sorely impoverished by William's taxes and burdens. You know it all. To bring them to arms, we need treasure."

"Such treasure as I hold
...
is not mine. Belongs to Holy Church."

"No doubt, my lord. But in this, it will be used for Holy Church's benefit. The Norman tramples on Holy Church. None knows that better than you. He puts his own men wrongfully into your benefices. What use your treasure to the Church you serve if William lays his bloody hands on it?"

The old man lay silent.

Cospatrick came a step nearer to the bed, leaning forward. "I hear that William has named a new man, a Norman, to take
your
place, my lord. One Thomas. You know of him?"

The broken prelate seemed to convulse with a spasm of sheer fury, shocking to see. He could speak no words.

"So — your treasure will be Thomas's treasure! Or William's. If you let it lie, do not use it aright. Now. Do you wish that, my lord Archbishop?"

The croak emitted from those blue lips was less than intelligible — but entirely eloquent and negative.

There was a pregnant pause, all waiting. Then the words came.

"How can
...
I trust you . . . Cospatrick? Trust any?" That was agonised.

"I too hate William," the Earl said simply. "Whom .yon crowned!"

There was a long, gulping sigh from the bed.

Maldred spoke. "I swear, my lord, that all is truth, honest. That this is King Malcolm's purpose. That our mission is to seek to lead the Saxon lords in revolt. Forthwith. That this is what the gold is for — not for Edgar. Or for any other."

Eldred gave his almost imperceptible nod. "When do you ride?"

"So soon as we may. Time is short."

"So be it. Leave me now. I am weary. But send Walchere to me."

As Cospatrick raised a hand in salute, Maldred again intervened.

"My lord Archbishop — the Queen. Margaret Atheling asks, begs your charity. To help her. She seeks to free the Saxon slaves, taken by the Scots. There are many. Their owners must be paid. She is gathering moneys for this. Believes that you will help. I am to speak for her. Here is her ring. She is good, kind. Will you aid her? And them?" That came out in something of an embarrassed rush.

Again the hint of a nod. "Give her
...
an old man's . . . blessing." Two trembling fingers were raised, as much seemingly to point to the door as in benediction.

They left him, a little doubtfully, to seek Bishop Walchere.

It was after they had breakfasted that the Bishop came, to draw them apart from their companions and take them to a small chamber nearby.

"I do not know what you have said, or done," he declared. "But the Archbishop has been more open
-
handed than I have ever known him." He pointed to two leather bags on a table, one large, one small. "This is for King Malcolm's use. This for Queen Margaret."

Even Cospatrick was affected when he opened his weighty bag and saw what it contained. Eldred had indeed been generous. As well as hundreds of gold and silver coins, there were jewels, chains, rings, bracelets, chalices and other vessels, mainly gold, even an earl's sword-belt, far more than either of them had hoped for, a breath-taking treasure. And in the small bag there was sufficient to ransom many slaves, coins, brooches, medallions, trinkets and the like, but above all, a most splendid golden crucifix encrusted with rubies, priceless.

The Bishop eyed them curiously. "This is what you came for?"

. "Yes," Cospatrick admitted. "But we need more than gold to defeat the Norman. You will thank the Archbishop for
us.
. . ?"

Before they rode, Walchere added his own contribution to Maldred's bag, but nothing to the Earl's.

"The wages of hate and the wages of love!" Cospatrick commented cynically. "And hate will ever win!"

"Not in the end," Maldred said doggedly.

.* * *

Thereafter they rode cautiously indeed, not slowly but by unfrequented ways and high moorlands, due southwards now but making many detours and always with scouts out ahead, guided by one of Walchere's men. They had basically about one hundred and forty miles to go, but half as far again by the routes they took, partly to avoid populous and strategic areas in an increasingly Norman-dominated land, and partly to visit certain Saxon chiefs thought to be prepared to do more than curse the Normans. So they went by the North and West Riding moors and dales, and Haworth, to the Hebden Water by the Forest of Trawden, and then began the long climb into Peakland and the Derwent, making brief but high-pressure visits to ealds and thanes and lords on the way, Edgar playing the king, his Saxon friends persuasive, Cospatrick the paymaster. They had some limited success, with gold eloquent and word of Hereward's Anglian successes encouraging. But it became ever more evident that major military co-operation would depend on the active participation of their natural leaders, the Saxon earls, most of whose attitudes to the Conqueror had been equivocal, to say the least. Waldeve of Deira and Northumbria was in William's pocket now, although he was really a Dane, of course; Edwin, their own lord, talked but did nothing; Ulfwin of Kent was a mere boy; Edmund of Essex was married to a Norman, as was Ecgbert of Sussex. Wessex, greatest of all, was now wholly a prisoner of William, who had taken over his capital, Winchester, as his own favourite seat. So the visitors could not judge the extent of their success or otherwise, until they had made an impact on Earl Edwin of Mercia. Maldred, however, did rather better, on Margaret's behalf, managing to extract small but useful sums from men who found that a deal easier than to commit themselves finally to armed intervention.