use him as a pawn to persuade Clito to submit.’
‘It is astonishing, Robert is seventy-five now. I hope he is as well as I am and not missing Sybilla too much. I wish I could see him; we would have a lot to talk about.’
‘I am told that the King used to let him hunt once a week, but he is too old now. His allowance from the King is thirty-five pounds of silver a year — a meagre amount for a royal duke — but he doesn’t starve or go about in rags.’
‘He deserves better than that.’
To Roger’s horror — he had thought their long and exhausting inquisition of Edgar was over — William resumes his questioning.
‘What of Estrith, did she ever build that roof?’
‘I heard from one of the nuns at Durham that Estrith died a few years ago, during an outbreak of the scarlet fever that killed half the population of Norwich. I don’t know about her roof; perhaps they are working on it now.’
‘Her father must also be dead. No one can live for ever — not even Hereward.’
‘He would be almost ninety, but bear in mind, Robert and I are both in our mid-seventies and still going strong.’
Young Roger, ever keen to impress his abbot with his knowledge of the scriptures, reminds him about longevity in the Bible.
‘The Bible tells us that Methuselah lived to be 969, Noah almost as long, and that Moses died at the age of 120. So, Hereward has plenty of years left yet.’
The three men smile at one another.
The scribe of Malmesbury is weary; day after day of revelations and insights have been hard to absorb. He and Roger of Caen have been checking one another’s recollections at the end of each day, and every evening until the early hours they have been scratching hurried notes to aid their memory.
What they have been made privy to is a remarkable story of two families, as if in a Greek tragedy: William’s powerful, all-conquering Norman family and Hereward’s modest, redoubtable English family locked in a bitter struggle over three generations and across a far-reaching landscape. What is more, in Hereward’s grandson, recently in the service of William’s son, King Henry, the saga still continues.
Edgar the Atheling’s long life has been laid bare in minute detail, and now the three men eat a final meal together, drink some wine and mead and savour a few flasks of the dark Pennine beer that Edgar’s steward brews for him.
At the end of the feast, William notices a tall, dark woman of about forty, slim and attractive, wearing a light, clinging dress. She slips behind the curtain of Edgar’s hall, leading towards his chamber.
The Prince sees that William has noticed the nocturnal guest.
‘She is not another phantom, my friend. That is Awel, which means “gentle breeze”; she is a widow from Owain Rheged’s tribe. She comes to see me once or twice a week. We have, shall we say, an understanding… it gets awfully cold up here, and we keep one another warm.’
Roger of Caen yawns once more, which is the signal for him to make his excuses and retire to his chamber, leaving Edgar and William to indulge in more heavy Pennine beer. Although tired, and much the worse for wear after sampling too many flasks of brew, William still has an appetite for more reflections from Edgar.
For his part, the old prince’s prodigious intake of various intoxicating potions is making him melancholy.
‘What do you make of my life, master storyteller? You have heard the accounts of many.’
‘It is a noble life, well lived and well told, and I am very grateful. You bring great honour to your noble Cerdician lineage.’
‘Do you really think that, or are you being kind to an old man?’
‘Why would I falsely praise you? You are far too worldly to be deceived by a sycophantic priest at work. Besides, you know in your own heart the weight of your achievements; you don’t need me to tell you.’
‘I suppose you are right… I am content.’
‘You should be. Your deeds in the Holy Land, King Henry’s Charter of Liberties, the protection of Hereward’s family and his legacy — any man should be proud of such things.’
‘Thank you, William of Malmesbury.’
‘And now, let us drink to Harold of Hereford. May he live a life that all who went before him would be proud of!’
‘A good toast. I will drink to that.’
Both men — as many who have drunk too much often do — drain their flasks in deep, satisfying quaffs.
William then gets to his feet and staggers waywardly to his chamber.
Edgar does not stir at all, but descends into a deep slumber in front of the fading fire. Within moments, the widow Awel appears. She summons the steward, and together they help Edgar to his bed.
He will sleep well, the memories of Palestine finally purged, the exploits of an honourable life recorded for posterity.
Late the next morning William, heavy-headed and regretting his excesses, and Roger, brighter and relieved to be going home to Wessex, say their farewells.
They are about to leave Ashgyll Force when Edgar, seemingly none the worse for his intemperance, tells them of some news. He takes a deep breath and looks down, clearly anxious about what he has heard.
‘My sergeant returned from Durham this morning. The King has had a shortage of silver for minting for some time now. He has just ordered the royal mint at York to open up the old Roman silver mines on these moors. He is going to build a new settlement at Alston to protect the mines and process the shipments. It is only five miles from here… and so, my many years of tranquility in this beautiful wilderness are about to be destroyed by hordes of uncouth miners from all over England and Scotland.’
The old Prince casts a teary eye towards the moors above him, before continuing.
‘It will be the end for the wolves and the bears and, of course, for my friends Owain Rheged and the Gul. But nothing is for ever, I suppose.’
‘Edgar, don’t be too pessimistic. You and Owain have survived for a very long time; your lineages stretch back centuries. I’m sure you will both live out your days in peace.’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt that, we are both too stubborn to give in yet. But we will be the last of our breed. There’s no shame in that — all lineages come to an end, even the mightiest, and the Gul and the Cerdicians have much to be proud of.’
William does not answer; he knows that Edgar is right. He smiles warmly, bows deferentially and kicks his mount eastwards beyond Ashgyll Force towards the ford over the Grue Water.
An hour or so later, as William and Roger begin the climb up Black Fell to traverse the high moors to Appleby, they hear the ominous scream of the Helm Wind. It is cold and gloomy and more like dusk than the middle of the day.
Then, as if the Helm Wind has heralded him, Owain Rheged appears, just as he did on that day over a week ago, a day that now seems a lifetime away.
He is standing on a crag about 100 feet above them, wrapped in a bearskin. He raises his ram’s-head staff above his head as a salute and a grant of safe passage through the land of the Gul, England’s last vestige of the people of Ancient Britain.
William and Roger halt their horses, and William raises his hand in a reciprocal gesture of friendship.
After all the trauma of their journey to reach Edgar’s lair and the long, tiring days and nights hearing his story, Roger is at last at ease.
‘Abbott, you were right about this journey. I am privileged to have heard Prince Edgar’s account in this mysterious place.’
‘So you should be. We have touched three ages of these islands in a heritage that spans hundreds of years. Owain Rheged is a remnant of the people who ruled this land centuries before the legions of Rome came here. Edgar is the last of the Saxons who ruled here after the Romans left. And, my instincts tell me, Harold of Hereford represents the future. He is an Englishman, but one who has embraced Norman ways and thus thickened his English blood. His service in the King’s guard would make his parents and grandparents, and all who followed their cause, very proud of him.
‘He is the future of these islands. When I am long gone and he is ready to tell his story, you would do well to
