some dark moments in my life but, lying motionless in great pain, with my friends badly injured, and knowing the sister with whom I had shared so much during our traumatic childhood was dead, was almost too much to bear.
I thought back to our earliest years together in the royal house of Hungary, in a strange land and among people with an even stranger language. My father, the Atheling Edward, son of Edmund Ironside, had been exiled as a boy with his twin brother, Edmund, in the time of Danish rule in England. After a long and complicated journey via the courts of Scandinavia and Russia with Emma, King Cnut’s wife, constantly plotting to have them killed, they had arrived in Budapest to find a peaceful refuge under the benign protection of Andrew, King of Hungary.
Sadly, my uncle Edmund died shortly afterwards, but my father prospered and married my mother, Agatha, a first cousin of Henry IV, King of Germany and Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. Unfortunately, although their union gave us the distinction of a lineage stretching back to both Alfred the Great and Charlemagne, that was the extent of their contribution to the lives of their children.
Margaret, the firstborn, was seven years older than me, and the shy and awkward Christina was my senior by five years. While my parents enjoyed life at court, my father hunting and my mother embroiled in the romances and intrigues of the nobility, we were left to the care of wet nurses, nannies and governesses, none of whom spoke English.
Margaret was our saviour, constantly telling us stories about an England she had never seen, describing it as an idyllic kingdom where, since the Cerdician King Edward had replaced the Danish kings in 1041 and remained childless, I would one day rule. She taught us the basics of English and insisted that when we were alone we only spoke English together. As a result, when we returned to England in 1057, I quickly became fluent.
The return to England was traumatic for all of us. My mother was taken ill — or so she said — and never left Budapest, and my father died in mysterious circumstances within days of us arriving in Kent. It was said he had been poisoned, and there were many potential culprits, including King Edward himself, for whom my father was a rival claimant to the throne, and Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex, who had travelled to Budapest to bring us home. But I always doubted that it could have been Harold and remain convinced that it was Edward’s doing.
In fact, it was Harold Godwinson who arranged for our immediate flight to Scotland and the protection of King Malcolm, an act of kindness that no doubt saved our lives. Although Malcolm Canmore was not the kindly host that Andrew of Hungary had been, at least we were out of the reach of those plotting to kill us.
At length, I realized that my reminiscing was only making my depression worse. I decided to break the spell of my melancholy by concentrating on the future and on the well-being of my friends.
It was not easy, but with an improvement in my physical condition came a revival of my spirits.
We were being cared for by the monks of Tynemouth Priory, a recent foundation in a bleak but beautiful position facing the sea at the mouth of the Tyne. Malcolm and Edward had been buried in the grounds on the order of Roger Mowbray, who wanted to insult their memory by insisting that they be buried on English soil. Malcolm’s men suffered even greater indignities. The bodies of the dead were thrown into the sea at Alnmouth, a few miles from the ambush, and the survivors were mutilated in various ways before being sent back to Scotland in carts.
Few made it back alive.
As soon as I was reasonably coherent, Roger of Mowbray came to see me with Arkil, his large and brooding steward. Although civil, he came directly to the point.
‘The King requires an explanation. Why were you with the King of the Scots when we attacked?’
‘Please tell the King that I was doing what I said I would do when I sought his permission in Gloucester to come to Scotland. I was trying to persuade King Malcolm to return home and cease his raids.’
‘So, why did you and your knights raise your swords in the attack?’
‘I would have thought the answer to that was obvious! We were trying to defend ourselves. Your ambush was executed in the murk of dusk, and you were on us like a bolt of lightning. In the mayhem, it was every man for himself.’
Roger looked at me intently and paused for a moment before answering.
‘Very well, I and the King have our suspicions and, as I’m sure you know, he has little regard for you. Nevertheless, he is prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt and has instructed me to give you an escort to Westminster for yourself and your party. You are to travel as soon as you are well enough. He will see you there.’
‘Thank you, Lord Mowbray. That is appreciated — as are your care and hospitality at Tynemouth Priory.’
I went to see Adela every day, but her improvement was slow. To our great relief, any internal bleeding had stopped and had not been life-threatening. Even so, her bones took a long time to heal and, after several weeks in bed, she was still very weak. Edwin and Sweyn were soon fit and well, although Sweyn’s scars were very prominent, as they would be for the rest of his life.
21. Vision of Beauty
It was the middle of February 1094 before we were able to begin our journey southwards. My request to travel to Scotland to pay my respects at Margaret’s grave was denied, but I was allowed to pay homage at Malcolm and Edward’s resting place. They had been interred close to the edge of the steep cliffs above the sea — a dramatic place that I felt sure Malcolm and Margaret would have approved of, had it been in Scotland.
We stayed at Durham on our journey, where much work was in progress. William of Calais, who had been appointed Prince Bishop by old King William in 1080, had just begun work on a cathedral to match the great churches of Normandy. Huge timber scaffolding was being erected to give the masons platforms from which to build the mighty walls. At ground level the stonework was already as tall as a man at the eastern end. The crypt had been dug out and the great stones of its columns were being dropped into place by fascinating mechanical devices made from pulleys and ropes, powered by the muscle of men and oxen.
The work had brought many people to the burgh, including craftsmen from Normandy and beyond. Although still a small island of modest civilization in a sea of death and desolation, it was beginning to resemble the burghs of the south.
Early the next day, as we were preparing to leave, Adela suddenly stopped herself in the middle of mounting her horse and spoke to Sweyn.
‘Do you recognize that woman — the one on horseback, in a nun’s habit?’
‘My God, she looks just like Torfida.’
‘She does.’
‘How old was Estrith when we last saw her at Ely?’
‘Thirteen, I think.’
‘So, how old would she be now?’
‘In her mid-thirties.’
‘Well, could it be her?’
Sweyn began to smile as he realized that Adela may be right.
‘It just might be.’
The two of them ran off towards her, with Edwin and myself in their wake. Sweyn got the question out first.
‘Madam, may we ask you your name? We think we may know you…’
‘I am Adeliza, a sister of Whalley Abbey. And you, sir?’
‘I am Sweyn of Bourne… I am sorry… we thought we recognized you.’
‘Who did you think I was?’
Still convinced she was right, Adela interrupted with a mix of excitement and impatience in her voice.
‘We thought you were Estrith of Melfi, the daughter of Hereward of Bourne.’
The nun looked around nervously to be sure no one was listening.
‘Come, let us go somewhere where we can talk quietly.’
The nun ushered us away behind the huts where the masons lived, where she was sure no one could see or hear her.
