Man With a Sword Read online

  ‘You are a lucky devil,’ he said. ‘Luckier than the Earl Mor-car. He’s gone to Normandy with his feet chained to his neck. He’ll rot in some dungeon where the sun has never shone since the world began. What do you think of that, fellow?’

  Hereward did not answer, his brain was so bruised by the man’s words. He did not even know whether a man had spoken, or whether in the dark he had dreamed the words.

  Then the man kicked him in the ribs, and Hereward knew that it was no dream.

  The man said, ‘You are lucky, are you not, Hereward? Better men than you lie dead or blind. Say you are lucky. Say it so that I can hear it. Then I will leave you.’

  But Hereward would not speak now, and the man kicked him a few times, then left him.

  25. Queen Matilda

  Then one day the low door to the dungeon, which was in an old wine-cellar below the tavern, was kicked open, and three men entered carrying lights. One was the gaoler; the other two were mail-clad soldiers who carried daggers in their hands. Hereward, lying on the mouldering straw, his wrists and ankles chafed by his rusty chains, turned weakly from the light of their torches and shut his eyes.

  The gaoler said, ‘They get like this, even the bravest of them, after a few months in the dark on short commons.’

  He began to laugh loudly, but one of the soldiers said, ‘Silence, fat-belly. This is a warrior, a brave one - something you will never be. Strike off the chains and count yourself lucky that you are not lying on the straw in his place.’

  The gaoler complained, saying that it was always the same with soldiers - they thought they owned the world and that common men were their slaves.

  The other soldier laughed menacingly and said, ‘Well, is that not right and proper, man? Knock off the chains and keep your grumbling for your old woman when you sit over the fire with her. She may listen to you, but we shall not.’

  It was a painful affair, getting the chains off. It was even more painful for Hereward to stand upright again. His limbs hardly seemed to belong to him, and he felt so dazed that he almost fell to the stone floor. The soldiers supported him and led him up to a chamber where they washed him and combed his straggling hair, and even put a fresh tunic on his thin body. When one of them poured wine between his lips, Hereward said at last, ‘Why do you do this, butchers? Cannot you leave a man to die quietly in the dark?’

  The taller of the soldiers said shortly, ‘Thegn, we obey the orders of our King - no more and no less. There may be time enough for you to die in the dark after he has spoken to you.

  Until then, drink this wine and try to bear yourself like a man. You will be carried through the streets of Cambridge in a closed litter to the place where William waits for you.’

  Hereward gazed at the big sword which the soldier wore. The man noticed this and said with a laugh, ‘Do not be a fool, Thegn Hereward; you are too weak to swing such a weapon. And even if you could, the passage-ways and gates are thronged with good honest Normans. You would never get away, through to the streets.’

  Hereward said, ‘That is a foolish use of words - good, honest Normans. There are none of those living.’

  The soldier nodded. ‘I should say the same, no doubt,’ he answered, ‘if I sat where you do today, and you were the one with the helmet and the long sword. Come, let us be away. We must not keep the King waiting.’

  In the litter, with its closed hide curtains, Hereward was almost sick. He had not eaten for so long, and the strong resinous wine, together with the swaying motion of the litter, made his head reel. But at last he was set down and then hurried across a narrow street and up stone stairs to a long dark chamber, where the shutters were closed, and only a few tapers shed a dim light. Hereward could see that in various parts of the room mail-clad knights stood, talking to each other in low voices. They hardly seemed to notice his entrance. Among them was a tall, broad-shouldered man who wore the robes of a bishop over his mail, and carried a leaden mace carelessly in his hand, with which he emphasized his words. No one needed to say that this was the King’s half-brother, Odo of Bayeux. There was no other man like him in England - strong both in Church and in State, the regent of the King himself.

  Odo was laughing at some jest when the tapestries at the far end of the chamber parted and King William came in. At either side of him walked a man. The lord at the King’s right hand was smiling and demonstrating some point with his fine, gold-ringed hands. One of the soldiers said, ‘Waltheof seems content today!’ Hereward saw that Waltheof’s hair was cropped short, and no longer flowed freely to his shoulders as he had once worn it, when he was the hero of the English at the time of the York rebellion.

  The man on the King’s other side was young and darkhaired. He had a sulky pale face and pulled at his lower lip as though dissatisfied about something. From the lions embroidered on his tunic, Hereward guessed that this was Robert, Robert Curthose, William’s eldest son, who would one day become Duke of Normandy.

  As the King came down the room and sat in the tall oak chair at its centre the knights and barons kneeled. Only Hereward still stood. Someone whispered, ‘Down, Englishman! Down before your King.’

  But Hereward did not reply or move. And at last the King waved his hand sternly and the many men filed out through the tall door, leaving only Robert and Earl Waltheof behind. Bishop Odo went with a bad grace, muttering loudly, and even striking with his leaden mace against the wooden shutters.

  King William smiled at this, but said nothing.

  At last he looked at Hereward and said in a low but firm voice, ‘Come nearer, thegn. I am a little too weary to shout the length of the room. It is a long time since we fished together on Axholme.’

  He was dressed in an ordinary leather jerkin and linen trousers, cross-banded to the ankle in the English manner. Over his shoulders he wore a cloak of red serge, and on his head a light iron helmet without ear-guards or nose-piece. Apart from his great ring and the broad leather belt round which careered the lions of Normandy, cast in silver, there was nothing to indicate that this was the Conqueror of the English.

  Hereward stood before him a while, then said, ‘What do you want with me? I have no wish to talk of fishing - or Axholme or anything else. I shall tell you nothing. I am content to be beheaded like a hundred more, or to be cast into your dungeons for life, like Morcar, or that brother of Harold Godwinson, Wulfnoth. Wulfnoth did you no wrong, Norman. He was the only one of his brood of whom this can be said - but it is true. Very well, kill me or put me where Wulfnoth is. I do not care.’

  The King was silent for a while, then he said slowly, ‘It seems you are determined to ruin God’s handiwork, thegn.’

  Hereward flared up at this and said, ‘Dare you speak of ruin, when half England still lies smouldering? When the folk of the north crawl starving on their bellies like dogs, seeking the scraps of offal that even your hunting-hounds refuse?’

  Robert of Normandy stopped pulling at his lip, and began to grin at these words. But Earl Waltheof held up his hand towards Hereward and said urgently, ‘Thegn, this is not the time for hot words. Learn discretion, my friend.’

  Hereward looked at him, speechless, to think that this lord who had led the English in the rising at York should have changed so.

  Then William spoke again, this time gravely and in an even voice, and said, ‘You speak out as your heart dictates, thegn. You are honest, though misguided. Perhaps, if you were a king you would think differently. You must thank God that you are not a king; for a king must often do what makes him weep afterwards in the loneliness of his bed.’

  Hereward ground his teeth and said, ‘You talk like a coward, not a king.’

  William drew a deep breath and then replied, ‘That is perhaps because I am a coward. I have been in too many affrays not to feel the chill sweat of fear. It is only the monks in their safe cells who are not cowards. They can set down brave deeds in their books without feeling anything but reflected glory. Though, no doubt, some of them came near to feeling fear th
e day you sacked the Golden Borough, my Christian friend.’

  Hereward clenched his fists as though he wished to strike the King down. But William pointed a finger at him and said, ‘Do nothing rash, thegn. I only tell you that, in the eyes of many men, you are as much a destroyer, a burner of villages, a robber of churches, as I am. We each have our reasons - but could either of us persuade the peasants that we meant well?’

  At last Hereward said in a tight voice, ‘Do not play with me any longer, Tanner. I am not a hide to be beaten and then softened in the brine-tub. Punish me and be finished.’

  For a moment William’s face hardened. It had been many years since anyone had used this old insult against him; many years since a man dared to remind him that his mother, Arlette, had been the daughter of a tanner…. It was at Alencon - and thirty-two men had lost their hands and feet for crying, ‘Tanner! Tanner!’ over the city walls at him.

  But that was half a lifetime ago. A man learns to tolerate many things in such a space. Especially a man like William, who had at last gained his heart’s desire, his kingdom.

  Almost gently, he said to Hereward, ‘The least said, the soonest mended, my friend. I will come to the point - I think that you have been punished enough, one way and another. I am not one to punish twice over for the same misdeed. Ask Earl Waltheof if that is not true. So, this is what I say to you: you have shown me that you are a man skilled in war; you have shown that you are a man respected by your own folk. The English would obey a war-leader like you, and in obeying you they would save their own lives - if you, in your turn, obeyed me. Earl Waltheof once thought otherwise - but now he has made himself my friend, and so the friend of his countrymen. Is that not so, Earl?’

  Waltheof nodded and bowed his head. Hereward bit his lips and was silent.

  William went on, ‘In this world, thegn, there is nothing perfect. My brother, Odo, could prove that to you at great length, and with quotations from Greek, Hebrew, and Latin to make his point. I am no scholar, so you must take my word for it without quotations. And I tell you that on earth, though a man may dream of drinking from a silver chalice, he must often be content with a clay cup. So you must be content with me - though you may have dreamed that some other man, Hardrada of Norway, or the Atheling, perhaps, should have been your king.’

  Hereward said in a shaking voice, ‘You know that I hate you, yet you seem to be offering me my freedom. Is that so?’

  The King kicked at a smouldering log in the hearth as though to give himself time to think, then, with narrowed eyes, looked at Hereward and nodded.

  ‘I am offering you not only your freedom, but also a baron’s state. Do not set too much store by that, it would only be a small tenancy - somewhere in Lincolnshire. Perhaps the lands your father once held. As a baron, a lesser baron, you would hold lands from me, and you would learn to see sense.

  You would learn to accept the world as it is - and not as you dreamed it to be. What do you say?’

  Here ward’s blood began to pulse so fast now that he almost sank to his knees. There was both relief and anger mixed in his brain; and he did not know what to say.

  William said, ‘Sit down, thegn. You are weary. You have fought a long fight and have suffered the necessary punishment. I am a soldier and I speak plainly. Sit down.’

  Hereward felt the King leading him to a stool beside the fire. He wanted to drag away, to strike at the man, but he lacked the strength. He knew that tears were running down his stubbled cheeks and into his beard, but he could not stop them. He put his hands over his face.

  At last he said, ‘If only I had my wife and son again, you could keep your barony. You could swelter in Hell for all I cared about you, or about England! That is my answer.’

  There was a long silence in the chamber after Hereward had said these words; a silence so deep that for a time he thought he was dreaming it all in the dungeon where he had lain so long.

  Then the King said in a firm voice, ‘And this is my answer!’

  And the quietness seemed to lift as though the shutters of the room had been flung open to let in the sunlit air. Hereward felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.

  He slowly raised his head and saw Euphemia. She was standing before him, smiling sadly, and dressed in blue and white. Beside her, holding her hand, stood a boy about nine years old, his wide grey eyes fixed curiously on Hereward, his mouth halflaughing and half-crying. On his right arm the boy wore a bronze bracelet embossed with boars and hounds. This had once been the property of Hardrada, and had been left as a birth-gift at Bergen years ago, before the longships had set course for the Humber.

  Euphemia said, ‘This is Cnut, your son, Hereward. He has grown to be a fine boy. A warrior could be pleased with such a son.’ Then she seemed to wait for an answer.

  But Hereward could not speak. He rose unsteadily and put an arm about each of them, drawing them towards him and hugging them silently.

  Looking beyond them, his eyes now dim, Hereward saw that

  the King was smiling strangely; but smiling; as though thinking that every man, however brave or rebellious, had his price - and that often this price was the simplest of gifts.

  But Hereward was too occupied now to think of such things, or of vengeances and glory. His wife and his son were with him after years of waiting and he was glad, living for once only in the present.

  All at once Cnut pulled himself free and got to his knees at his father’s feet. As Hereward smiled down at him, the boy took hold of his hands and said in a clear voice, ‘Ic becom eowr man.’ This was the act of homage of a thegn to his lord, as old as the Saxon folk themselves: ‘I am your man.’

  Hereward turned to his wife and said, ‘He has been taught well, Euphemia. I spoke those words to Hardrada, years ago, in the hall at Bergen and he understood me. Who taught him this?’

  Euphemia did not reply. The answer was given by another woman, who had come quietly into the dim chamber and now stood beside the King, pale-faced and smiling, her delicate white hands clasped over the golden cross which glinted on the wine-dark red of her robe.

  This woman said, ‘I taught your son, Baron. I, sister of Flemish Baldwin and wife of the King, taught him. It is proper that the son of an Englishman should speak his oath of fealty in his own tongue.’

  Hereward bowed his head now before Queen Matilda, the daughter of one Baldwin and the sister of another. Nor did he think that this was any dishonour, for her reputation was great in the countries of the north, both as a pious queen and as a stem one. This was the Flemish queen who had ruled Normandy for William while he was gaining the throne at Hastings, and who had kept rebel barons in check during the burning of the north. The patron of scholars, the almsgiver to the poor, the worshipper of Christ; Matilda was all these things. And now Hereward knelt before her, unable to help himself.

  ‘Lady,’ he said, ‘tell me that it is you who give me back my family. Then I am your servant. I will bow the knee to you, lady.’

  Queen Matilda shook her head a little sadly and said, ‘It is God who gives, not I. And it is God who instructs you, through your son. Speak to the anointed King those same words which your son has just spoken to you, Baron. So all will be well.’

  Then she stepped back into the shadows.

  For a while, Hereward glared at King William, his old pride battling with his love for Euphemia and Cnut.

  Then, awkwardly, he said, ‘Do you hope to gain my loyalty in this way, Norman?’

  King William was long in answering. At last, he said, ‘When I bought your wife and son from Swein of Denmark, I thought it was a good bargain if, by using them, I could bring you peacefully over to my side. Now, for some strange reason, I am not certain that I acted well. For, as my own wife has reminded me, it is your right, under God’s law, to live with your own folk. It is not a privilege that should be granted by an earthly king.’

  He paused for an instant and looked away. Then, in a firm voice, he went on, ‘Take your wife and son, thegn, and leave thi
s house without delay. There will be horses for you. Go where you choose, and go now, before I change my mind.’ Hereward heard these words, bewildered. No one in his lifetime had spoken to him so fairly - unless it had been Hardrada.

  Unable to help himself, he suddenly took William’s hands in his own and, kneeling, said, ‘Ic becom eowr man.’

  Hereward heard his own words as though they had been spoken by a stranger. He felt the King’s hands shaking strangely as he answered.

  ‘In the presence of these witnesses, I, William of England and Duke of Normandy, accept your oath, Hereward. And in that same presence I here create you baron. By God’s grace, let there be peace between us always.’

  26. Baron

  In this way Hereward became a baron and accepted King William as his lord. His lands were not great, but they stretched between Peterborough and Grantham, into Kesteven, the southern Riding of Lincolnshire.

  He wanted no castle, for, as he told his overlord Bishop Odo, he had seen enough of war and now wished only to farm as his father had once done, and to watch his son grow up in the sun.

  Bishop Odo laughed at this and said, ‘We’ll see, Baron - we’ll see! But at least you must follow our custom and keep armed knights on your holding, in case the King needs them. Ten will be enough - good strong youths who can sit a horse and use a lance. They can be Englishmen, if you wish, as long as they take the oath to the King, to me, and to you. That will bind them tight enough. And, in return, you must allow them small-holdings, so that they can live well without turning brigand and robbing travellers along the highway.’

  This Hereward agreed to; but his own mind was set on the house he would build for his wife and son. When it was finished it stood on a hillock above the river and looked down on the oak forest that billowed towards Stamford. It was a house of oak and plaster, with some of its roofs thatched, and some covered with bright red tiles fetched from the Humberside. All who saw the house, Baron’s Steading, said how much it brought back memories of the old Danelaw. Its main roof soared high and steep, and was surmounted by a dragon carved in black oak. All the facing-timbers were carved so intricately that they looked more like lace than wood. ‘Aye,’ answered Hereward, ‘there is still something we men of the north can show the Normans, when it comes to building a house.’