Crusade (5 page)

Some brave souls rose in rebellion but were quickly annihilated. One by one, village by village, burgh by burgh, the English acquiesced. The last great rising came in the North, in the earldoms of Edwin and Morcar. When Svein Estrithson, the King of Denmark, landed with his army, there was a glimmer of hope. But Estrithson was easily bought off by William – his treasury was full with the spoils of his prosperous new domain – and the English rebels, now just a handful of valiant men, were left to their fate.

I played a part in the rebellion, but was too young to lead it; I was no more than a boy and had lived a confined life under the watchful eye of old King Edward. As I was the true heir of the Cerdician line of England’s Kings, the last thing he would have let me do was prepare to be a leader of men and learn how to wield a sword like any other in the realm.

I will always believe that it was King Edward who had
my father poisoned when we arrived in England from exile in Hungary in 1057. My father was also called Edward; he would have been fifty-one years old at the old King’s death and the undisputed successor to the throne. None of the events we will speak of would have happened had my father not been poisoned. Ironically, the King placed the blame at the door of Harold Godwinson, the Earl of Wessex, the future King Harold, who had travelled to Budapest to bring us home.

But I digress. The real hero of those final days of England’s resistance was the man who saved my life in Swaledale, Hereward of Bourne. He was a great warrior and almost reclaimed this land.

He had stood with Harold on Senlac Ridge and was badly wounded, but his companions got him away and he escaped to Aquitaine. Edith Swan-Neck, Harold’s widow, persuaded him to return. In a long campaign in the North, he came close to killing the King by his own hand, but he had neither good fortune nor enough loyal supporters. William was a cunning, ruthless and formidable opponent and, in due course, prevailed.

I admired Hereward enormously, and wanted so much to be like him. When the campaign became too dangerous, he sent me with a small force high into the Pennines, into Upper Swaledale, a remote and harsh place, to see out the winter. But it proved disastrous – I wasn’t strong enough, and the morale of my men disintegrated.

When William and his Normans began their massacres in the North, it looked as though we were trapped. My men had lost the will to fight. Then, when all seemed lost, Hereward and a small squadron of his redoubtable
followers appeared from the top of the fells, as if from nowhere, their horses sinking to their chests in deep snow. It was a miracle – a moment I will never forget.

Hereward breathed new life into us, just by his presence and sense of purpose. I vowed then to find a way to follow his example.

He sent me to Malcolm Canmore, King of the Scots, for my protection and organized a last redoubt on the Isle of Ely. Hundreds flocked to his standard, including all the prominent men of England who still had the courage to resist. These included, to their ultimate credit, the last two English earls, Edwin of Mercia and Morcar of Northumbria, who had previously disgraced themselves by not joining Harold at Senlac Ridge and then by submitting to William at his court. A Brotherhood in honour of St Etheldreda was sworn and word was sent to all corners of the land proclaiming the right of the people to be ruled justly by common law.

It was the bravest act I have ever known. I should have been there, but Hereward wanted me to survive as the embodiment of England’s past and to remain a symbol of resistance for the future. For many years I asked myself if I had given in too readily to Hereward’s insistence. Did I take the easy way out? In my heart I know I did not, but, again, I grew stronger from the experience.

It took the King several months to break the besieged city. The end came in October 1071, almost five years to the day from Senlac Ridge. Few survived the Norman vengeance. Those who did were mutilated; most died from their wounds or, unable to care for themselves, starved to death. Morcar was the only one spared and
left whole, but was imprisoned for the rest of his life.

Hereward’s loyal companions – Martin Lightfoot, Einar of Northumbria and Alphonso of Granada – were also killed, but some of his family escaped to the home they had made in Aquitaine. However, the fate of his twin daughters, Gunnhild and Estrith, only became known to me many years later.

As for Hereward himself, that became an even greater mystery. It was rumoured he had been taken alive, but then flogged to death by William’s men. Others believed he was killed by William’s own hand in the Chapel of St Etheldreda and buried in secret at Crowland Abbey. A few even believed he escaped into the Bruneswald and lived a long life away from England. Some even believe that he is still alive now. Sadly, that is not possible, as he would be almost 100 years old, but he deserved a long and contented life for all he did in leading our fight against the Normans. The Siege of Ely may have ended when the rebels’ resistance was broken, but he made sure our spirit never was.

My memory of him is still vivid. He was an extraordinary man, very tall, with great strength and courage. He carried a mighty double-headed battle-axe, the Great Axe of Göteborg, with which he slew countless victims. He also wore a mystical talisman given to him by his wife, the seer, Torfida. She too was said to be a remarkable woman, but I never met her. Sadly, she died in strange circumstances a few months after Senlac Ridge.

I hope that one day, despite what the Norman scribes may write, the heroism of Hereward and all those who fought for freedom and justice with him at Ely will be remembered for generations to come.

I spent the years after the fall of Ely at the court of Malcolm Canmore in Scotland with my sisters Margaret and Christina, feeling sorry for myself and for England. Canmore was good to me but he could be a brute. He had little learning of any kind – he was a thug, on a par with the harshest of his housecarls. He sent Christina to the nuns in England and demanded that my beloved sister Margaret marry him. She was not only beautiful and kind, she also carried the bloodline of England’s kings stretching back to Alfred the Great, which was very appealing to Canmore. The poor woman had no choice if we were to have the safety of his kingdom.

She, on the other hand, was a saint. She produced a large brood of children for him, brought culture and sophistication to the court and worked tirelessly for the poor and the Church. She was everything he was not, and much loved for it. Happily, she was a good influence on him and he began to moderate his ways. Eventually, she became fond of him – perhaps she felt it was her duty to bring a woeful sinner back into God’s fold.

In many ways, Malcolm and Margaret became my surrogate parents – he the powerful, domineering father, but one to be respected and admired, and she the kindly and confiding mother every boy should have.

King William loomed prominently in my life throughout the years I spent at the Scottish court. I loathed him for many reasons, not the least of which was that he wore the crown that rightly belonged to me. He was also a brute, not like Canmore – who was a simple soul with some redeeming features – but a brilliant, remorseless monster of a man. The time Margaret and I were held hostage by
him after Senlac Ridge was a terrifying experience that I would never want to repeat. It was during this ordeal that I learned how to deal with my anger, how to deal with the Normans and how to survive.

As he had shown in his conquest of England, William lacked neither audacious ambition nor astonishing military aptitude. In 1072, he launched a brilliant attack on Scotland with both a large army and a huge fleet.

He marched more than 3,000 of his finest cavalry from Durham, crossed the Forth at Stirling and met with his fleet on the banks of the Tay. He had assembled 200 ships carrying 3,000 infantry and butescarls up the east coast. It was a mighty invasion force, not quite on the scale of the host that had crossed the Channel in 1066, but large enough to put the fear of God into Canmore.

While William sat and waited by the Tay, Canmore pondered his response. Not the most intelligent of men, he nevertheless had the cunning of a warrior and carefully weighed his options.

‘I will go to him and negotiate. I have no choice. Edgar, you will come with me.’

His judicious decision was applauded by my dear sister.

‘That is a wise choice, my husband. Let Edgar help you; he will give you good advice. Do what is best for Scotland and don’t let your pride get in the way. I will pray for your safe return.’

I was overawed by the sight of William’s army. He was camped around the old Pictish tower at the settlement of Abernethy, his tents in neat rows, his destriers tethered on ordered picket lines in the meadows. His massive fleet was in sight to the north, the ships lashed together in long rows
by the banks of the Tay. This was the work of a leader of armies second to none. When he greeted Canmore he was at the head of his Matilda Conroi, the finest cavalry in Europe. He was a large, imposing man with a considerable girth and a deep, growling voice.

Canmore also looked impressive at the head of his hearthtroop. I was to his left, his son Duncan, a boy of twelve, to his right. He tried to remain calm as he addressed his doughty opponent.

‘You are a long way from home, William of England. With so many men, I assume this is not a hunting party.’

‘I will come to the point, Malcolm of the Scots. You attack my northern realm as far as Bamburgh and Durham in the east and Carlisle and Penrith in the west. This must cease forthwith.’

‘The border between our kingdoms has never been agreed, so who are you to say whose realm it is? Besides, what my men may have done is nothing compared to the slaughter you meted out to the English, a people you now call your own.’

‘What I do in my own domain is my business. You will stay out of it, south of a border we will agree here and now at the line of the Wall of Hadrian.’

‘That is an insult. Cumbria has been part of Scotland for centuries.’

‘Not any more. I will take your son as hostage to our agreement and I also require you to send Prince Edgar from your court. He may go to Europe, but I do not want him on this island fomenting trouble among my people.’

At that, I felt compelled to assert myself.

‘My Lord Duke, they are my people too and I have a stronger claim to be their lord than you.’

‘You offend me, Prince Edgar. I am your King; even the rebels at Ely acknowledged it.’

‘But I do not!’

‘Enough, Edgar.’

My brief spat with William had given Canmore time to think. Forthright though he was in his verbal sparring with William, he knew he had to concede.

‘It is a hard bargain, but I agree to your terms; your army gives me no choice. I will not let them do here what they did in Northumbria. I will bow to you this day; but take your men back over the border where they belong. Duncan will join your court in England and Edgar will leave these shores directly.’

Canmore and William dismounted and entered the base of the tower. In circumstances that William had contrived with great symbolism and with Walchere, the new Bishop of Durham and Earl of Northumbria, presiding, the two Kings swore their agreement on the ancient Bible of Bede, brought especially for the occasion from Durham. Two monks had to hold the giant book so that Malcolm could place his hand on it. Then, to make the obedience complete, William laid his hand over Malcolm’s and rested his baculus, the fabled Viking mace of his ancestors, on his forearm.

The deed was done. William had secured his northern border, and Canmore could be at peace in his Alban realm – for a while, at least.

My blood ran cold as I contemplated the circumstances. Malcolm and his Scottish warriors were a formidable force,
but he stood there humbled by the overwhelming strength and ambition of William and the Normans. As for me, I remained the embodiment of the defeated English, a mere witness to yet another Norman conquest.

Even so, my determination to find my own destiny grew ever stronger.

On hearing the outcome upon our return to Dunfermline, the Queen was relieved that Malcolm had acted with such restraint, but greatly upset that part of the price was the loss of her son and brother.

Duncan took a small retinue and left within hours to reach William’s army before it had gone too far. I left two days later to make my way to William’s neighbours and enemies in Flanders and France. However, I would be back far earlier than I anticipated.

I travelled with only a dozen men and two stewards, and moved quickly through England’s ravaged North.

It was a difficult journey for me. The Great North Road was a hive of activity with cartloads of provisions of all sorts going backwards and forwards. York and Durham and the burghs towards the southern part of Northumbria were alive with masons and carpenters about their work, but it was a different story away from the routes under the watchful eye of the Norman overlords and their garrisons.

Ragged little children would often appear at the side of the road, begging for food. Sometimes, half hidden by the trees, the remnants of abandoned villages could be seen. There was fear and loathing just beneath the surface. It was well disguised, but it was there – as was
the deep-seated melancholy of a once proud people, now vanquished and forlorn.

When we got to Mercia, I left my men at Peterborough and, disguised as a monk, rode to Ely to find out more about what had happened there a year earlier.

What I found filled me with a heartfelt sorrow. The burgh of Ely, although small, was thriving. The causeway across the Fens, which King William had built to break Hereward’s resistance, was thronged with merchants and farmers. There was a considerable garrison of Normans at work on a huge motte and bailey, their work almost complete. Although all trace of the bloody encounter of thirteen months ago – which had seen England’s final capitulation to the Normans and the deaths of so many brave men – had gone, I shuddered at the thought of it.

Few would speak about the events of 1071, and those who did merely repeated the oft-told myths and rumours. The new abbot, a man called Theodwin, was not a Benedictine monk but a secular governor, placed there by the King to keep order and oversee the garrison and the building of the fortifications. I was told that the King also intended to tear down the abbey and St Etheldreda’s Chapel to build an enormous cathedral, modelled on the ones in his homeland. The door of her chapel was still barred and had not been opened since the King ordered it to be sealed at the end of the siege. Many believed that it had become Hereward’s tomb, his body still lying where it had been left after his execution at William’s own hand.