‘No, he is the law here. The Earl doesn’t venture up here; no one in their right mind does — except you, of course.’
Recalling the Druid’s account of his early life, William asks, ‘Where did he learn English?’
‘From me, although I suspect I wasn’t the first to teach him. I came here nearly fifteen years ago; I chose this place to be close to my friends in Scotland and because Ashgyll Force cleanses me. I like to wash away the dust of Palestine and the memory of Jerusalem every day. I also came here because I once had a very traumatic experience high in the fells of the Pennines. It changed my life.’
‘May I ask about the circumstances?’
‘You may. My life was saved by a man called Hereward of Bourne. You know of him?’
‘I do. He has become a legend, but I would like to hear about him from you.’
Edgar appears to ignore William’s request.
‘Let me tell you about Owain Rheged. He is a remarkable man and his people are a lost tribe, full of strange rituals. He started to appear in the distance after I had been here for about a year and we had finished building our home. Then one day, as I was admiring the endless cascade of the Force, he appeared behind me, shouting and cursing in his language and pointing his ram’s-head staff at me. Eventually, I realized he was telling me the ground was sacred, so I fell to my knees and bowed my head. I felt certain I would be struck down, but he saw my gold ring and seal and relented. He just stared at me, then walked away.
‘I didn’t cast eyes on him again for several months. Then, one bright spring morning, he appeared with an oak sapling, their sacred tree. It stands over there, taller than my hall now. We have been friends ever since. I am very meek with him; he is a king, after all, and I’m only a prince.’
William observes Edgar intently as he speaks about Owain, King of Rheged, and of the land of Hen Ogledd.
He is tall and, although now stooped with the ravages of age, still has the bearing of a nobleman. His clothes are modest, no better than those of a minor thegn, and his only adornment is the gold ring of the House of Wessex, the royal Cerdician lineage of the ancient kings of England. Although its many wrinkles suggest much anguish in the past, his face has a kindly demeanour. His grey hair is cut short, as is his neat beard; only his dark eyebrows hint at his previous colouring. His steel-grey eyes are clear and alert; he carries no visible scars, and his aged hands are delicate and soft like those of a scholar.
‘Do you know there are still bears up here?’
‘That cannot be. The last bears in England died out hundreds of years ago.’
‘So, you don’t know everything, William of Malmesbury.’
Edgar then asks his steward to bring him his winter cloak.
‘It’s cold enough for this today. Here, try it.’
William takes the bearskin cloak and drapes it over his shoulders.
‘Well, it’s certainly a bearskin — ideal for your Pennine eyrie.’
‘Owain’s people know where the bears are. There are only a few dozen left, but they’re here all right. And lots of hungry wolves to keep them company. The Anglo-Danes who lived in the valleys — before King William butchered them — used to say that Owain could change himself into a bear or a wolf at will.’
‘Edgar, it is your life I have come to hear about. The mysteries of Owain Rheged can wait for another time.’
Again, Edgar ignores William’s request.
‘He has a Roman centurion’s helmet and sword, hundreds of years old. He brought them here once; he’s very proud of them. They were passed down to him from his ancestors. The helmet still has some of its horsehair crest, a remarkable thing. He says he also has the head of the Roman who once wore the helmet. It wouldn’t surprise me. The Gul keep the skulls of their victims as trophies.’
‘Edgar, your story please.’
‘Let’s discuss it in the morning. We must build up the fire now, and drink some mead; tonight will be cold.’
‘It is already cold! Does that wind never stop howling? And how do you sleep with that thundering waterfall?’
‘You’ll get used to the waterfall. As for the wind, that happens often. It comes off Cross Fell, which the locals call Fiends’ Fell. It is the Helm Wind and it shrieks like a banshee. The Gul say it is their gods speaking to them.’
The next day, Edgar the Atheling, the 74-year-old rightful heir to the throne of England, is still reluctant to give his account of his turbulent life. He asks William to walk with him to Ashgyll Force, so that he can talk to him beyond the earshot of others.
The deafening roar of the Force makes it hard to hear, and Edgar’s words fight against nature’s resounding presence.
‘William, I am sure you are as sympathetic a man as you are learned. But if I were to tell you my story, it would be painful for me. Few men have been as blessed by birth as I have, but I doubt that many have had their blessings so cursed. When I first came to England as a boy, I spoke only broken English; I knew several of the Slavic languages of Europe and some local Magyar, but English was very foreign to me. My father died within days of setting foot on our ancestral soil, and I immediately became a target for the ambitions and greed of others. I lived in fear and, despite all that has happened to me, I am still haunted by my formative years. Even now, I often wake in the night, disturbed by some nightmare or other. That’s when the Force comforts me, or the Helm Wind takes away the hot sweats. Do you live with fear, my learned scribe?’
‘I live with my anxieties, like every man. Perhaps the telling of your story will bring you peace, as well as enlightenment to others.’
‘I have already found a sort of peace here. I have learned to live with my past. And I think, when my life is weighed in the balance, the favourable will outweigh the unfavourable — at least, that is my hope. There is a thread which weaves its way through my story and makes some sense of it all.’
‘Will you at least reveal that to me?’
‘The thread connects four old men. I am one, and my good friend Robert, Duke of Normandy, now languishing in the King’s keep at Cardiff, is the second.’
Edgar hesitates; he looks wistful, sad even.
‘And the other two?’ William prompts.
Edgar turns away and sighs before continuing, clearly in two minds about whether to trust William with his story.
‘The third is Hereward of Bourne, a man whose heroic deeds are known to us all, and the fourth is the seer, the Old Man of the Wildwood and father of Hereward’s remarkable wife Torfida, who set Hereward on the path that changed his life. We all lived into old age and, I hope, acquired some contentment and a little wisdom from what we had experienced. I know three of us did, and I only hope the same is true for Robert — I have had no contact with him for twenty years.’
William takes a deep breath. He is about to make the move that he hopes will convince Edgar to tell his story.
‘I have been to see Robert, in Cardiff.’
‘How…?’
‘I have been asking the King for permission for several years. When I heard of your whereabouts, it became much more urgent, so I went to Winchester to plead my case and he relented. He’s getting old himself and softening a bit.’
‘How is Robert?’
‘He’s frail, but well. He is well taken care of — confined, of course, but he can walk about the keep freely and his chamber is warm and comfortable.’
‘Did he tell you his story?’
‘No, he wasn’t really strong enough for that and he said you would be a much better storyteller.’
‘Did he, indeed? He had a habit of getting me to do the things he didn’t like to do.’
‘He gave me this parchment.’
William hands Edgar a small scroll, sealed with Robert’s ducal ring. The Prince’s thin, bony fingers carefully break the seal and he begins to read. At first he smiles, then his eyes fill with tears. The message is only brief and
