William has no idea what it says. But it has a profound effect on Edgar, who turns and walks closer to the Force.
After a while, he walks back towards William, pushing the scroll up into the sleeve of his shirt.
‘He must be very frail; his writing is tentative, like the scrawl of a child.’
‘I’m sorry. He was a little shaky when we met; he’s a very old man.’
‘He says I can trust you, that your chronicles are fair and accurate, but I knew that already. When I heard that you had arrived on these fells, I knew what you had come for. I have had time to think. The mighty Hereward once told me that the lives of men move in great circles and that at the end of a long journey there should be time for reflection. I have had plenty of time to reflect here in the Pennines. It’s a place for penance, as in Purgatory. Perhaps I am purged; I will tell you my tale. As you say, it may do some good, and Robert seems content that I should let people know more of his life.’
Later that morning, Edgar settles by his fire to begin his account. William of Malmesbury reminds young Roger of the date. It is 31 October, All Hallows, the Feast of the Dead, in the year 1126.
Roger’s responsibility will be to help William remember as much of the detail as possible. It is fortunate that he does not have to commit quill to vellum, as his hand still quivers from the horrors of the previous day and the menacing environment in which they find themselves, with the chilling cold of an approaching winter at over 1,000 feet in the Pennines, the thunder of Ashgyll Force and the screams of the Helm Wind off Fiends’ Fell.
PART TWO
4. Abernethy
The years following the Conquest were a living hell for me and the people of England. Its army, once so potent behind its legendary shield wall, never recovered from the gruesome battle of Stamford Bridge against Harald Hardrada’s formidable Norwegians and the slaughter of Senlac Ridge, where the courageous King Harold and most of the English aristocracy were massacred by William, Duke of Normandy, and his merciless clan.
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 Goteborg, 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
