I Am the Chosen King (57 page)

Isle of Wight

On the last day of August, the rain stopped and the wind-squalled clouds parted into flowing mares’ tails, the sun valiantly attempting to warm the wet and dripping world below. All was new-washed and laid out to dry, gently steaming in the unexpected heat.

The gales of the past few weeks had largely abated, but up here on the headland seemed as demon-strong as ever. With his cloak streaming out like a banner, the weight of its billowing straining at the brooch at his right shoulder, Harold walked to the top of the rise, his collar-length fair hair writhing into a knotted tangle the instant he stepped up by the cliff edge. This was the highest point of the island, where the wind buffeted straight in off the sea, seven hundred, almost sheer, feet below. Shielding his eyes, Harold could discern three ships ploughing through the wave crash of the tide, their earth-red sails tightly reefed, the oar thresh of the sea foam frothing to either side of their sleek keels. Headway was slow, for although the tide was carrying them, they were beating against the wind. Harold could almost feel his own muscles pull and strain with the rowers.’ He had taken his turn at the oars as a young man, knew the pain of calloused palms and aching back, the pull of the grabbing current on the blade, the buck of the ship as she plunged against a heavy swell. In his mind, he heard the steersman’s call as he shouted the beat that kept the oar time: “Lift her! Lift her!” He closed his eyes, smelt the sharp, saline tang of the sea, felt the rasp of the wind and the stinging kiss of spindrift on his lips and cheeks. The rise and dip of the waves…

The August weather had seemed more fitting for autumn chill or winter misery. The harvest would be poor again this year: what had escaped the lashing rain had been flattened by the high winds. Trees were down; roof, barn and house place were wrecked as if a rampaging giant had trampled a swathe across the landscape. The sea had been no less disturbed, a-churn with spume, and sea trade had fallen slack; few except the most experienced—or foolhardy—had dared to risk setting sail to cross devil-whipped open seas. Land and sea folk alike had begun to wonder whether the summer would ever appear. But for Harold and the safety of England, the squalid weather had come as a blessing.

In mid-June, Tostig’s invasion plans had been blown into disarray. He had attempted to make landfall on the northern shore of the Humber estuary; Eadwine and Morkere had seen him off, sending him running, yelping, with his tail tucked tight atween his legs. The westerly gales had finished the job, scattering his ships, snapping masts and oars as if they were dead twigs. Those mercenary sailors from the south coast, who had been offered the adventure of a fight for a handful of gold, deserted him with as much eagerness as they had joined.

The threat from Normandy, too, was eased, for no grand fleet of ships could voyage in convoy across the Channel Sea and hope to remain together—but Harold was not complacent. Word had come with those few traders who braved the crossing that Duke William’s shipbuilding was almost completed and that the muster to arms, whatever the weather conditions, had been set for the second week in August. It was now the end of that month and, although the damp permeated through woollen cloak, reed roof thatch and strained temper alike, the winds were no longer gusting. All it needed was a shift from west to south and the Duke would be here.

There was no doubting that he would be coming, for William had made an inescapable commitment to this thing: gold promised to the mercenaries of Flanders and Brittany; an escalating sea current of debt, bolstered by his own bravado. He was too far in, now; to turn tail would mean the loss of his own duchy. No man would follow William again if this attempt at England failed.

From Harold’s perspective, this aggressive lust for warfare at all cost was a failing of William’s character. He was not a man to sheathe a drawn sword or swallow his pride; apology was not a word contained in his Norman vocabulary. Fight, not talk, was his way. An effective English king would aim, ultimately, to use as little force as possible, trusting peaceful solution over military might. The threat of the muster of the fyrd was often enough to entertain a settlement. In England, pitched battle was avoided unless of absolute defensive necessity.

But oh aye, Harold knew William would come—what he did not know, could only guess at, was the when of it.

One of those three ships was the
Dolphin
, Eadric the Steersman’s craft. She was the goddess of longships, the Cleopatra, Helen of Troy, of craft. Eadric was in command of the scyp fyrd, the sea warriors, for he was the most capable of Harold’s men. If William were to put to sea and attempt to run the coastal blockade, Eadric and his sea hounds could be relied upon to fight as only those who had not forgotten their Viking blood could fight.

Did the Duke, Harold wondered, as he stood on the high headland watching those three craft, realise what awaited him on this northern side of the Narrow Sea? The Normans had become a land army, used to besieging stone-built fortresses or fighting in ground-force formation on foot or horseback. They relied on their machinery of war—the mangonels, ballistas, siege towers and crossbows—and on their heavy coats of mail to ward off a sword blow. Mail kept the body safe, but it also restricted movement where instant agility and speed were an advantage. At sea, for instance. The ships Duke William had requisitioned were merchantmen, deep-wallowing sailing craft without the oar space—or trained oarsmen—to manoeuvre them swiftly. When William came, unless he understood how to run the gauntlet of the waiting scyp fyrd, few of his followers would make landfall.

Harold breathed in a lungful of sea air. The question in his mind: had William made plans to avoid the English blockade? Had he set aside his own self-importance and heeded the advice of those experienced in the ways of the sea?

Beside the King, his brother Leofwine squatted on his haunches, also looking towards the three gallant ships. There were others out there, of course, beyond eye vision, oar-riding the waves or, where the waters were not so deep, at anchor. A shield wall of ships, each in view or hailing distance of the other, lined from here on the Island of Wight to the seven cliffs of Dover. And beyond them, the outrunners, the swiftest and lightest of craft that could be pulled by the oar into any wind, against any sea. It was towards these ships that Eadric was steering, to hear of latest news, of sighting and of feelings that itched below an experienced sailor’s skin.

Waiting, all of them, English and Norman, waiting for the wind to back.

Leofwine had unsheathed his sword and laid it across his knees, his fingertips resting, with the lightest of touches, against its bright, deadly gleam. “Raven’s Wing,” he called it, for the dark streaks of interlocking patterning within the blade, formed beneath the hammer in its making. Up near the pommel there was a shape that resembled the outstretched wing of the raven, the bird of the battlefield. A fitting pattern, and a fitting name for the weapon given him as a present by his eldest brother when he had become earl.

“I am thinking,” he said into the wind, “that Eadric may have a good fight some day soon.”

“I am thinking you may have the right of it. Soon now, surely, the war horns will boom and the sea riders will set their oars to the ocean, their daggers loose at their belts.”

“It may be a fight that we will regret not being a part of,” Leofwine answered with a wistful sigh.

Harold laughed. “You will have fighting enough, have no worry of that. Eadric and those men, for all their ability, will not stop every ship of Duke William’s. Some will land along our coast. We will have our fight against them then.”

One of the few housecarls who had ridden with Harold to this high and lonely point saw riders approaching at a fast gallop. He called out in warning to his King. Alerted, Harold studied the four swift-coming horsemen. “It seems someone else is anxious to join the fight—or has brought us news of one, perhaps,” he said. “Come, Leofwine, let us see who so urgently seeks me.”

“God sail with you, Eadric,” Leofwine murmured as he pushed himself upright and strode back down the hillside in the wake of his brother.

Leofwine was as surprised as Harold to recognise one of the riders as their own brother Gyrth, and with him, their nephew Hakon.

“Well met, Gyrth! Hakon! What brings you here?” Harold greeted them as the young men reined in their sweating horses.

“You bring me, my Lord—and our other brother!” Gyrth held out his hand, Harold clasping it, palm to palm, in greeting. “I have been a-visiting our mother at Bosham Manor—she is well and sends her love.” Gyrth explained. “I heard that you were here, keeping watch for our Norman friend. I thought I would see if you had heard tell of the latest news of Tostig? Our nephew decided to ride with me.”

Hakon spat. “That bastard of Normandy is no friend of mine. I would be here when he comes, to run my sword personally through his black heart.”

“Aye, we know you like not Duke William.” Leowfine laughed. “But your opinion of him is somewhat personally biased. We”—he gestured to himself and Gyrth—“have never had an opportunity to meet the man and judge his nature for ourselves.”

Hakon snorted displeasure; Leofwine laughed the louder. “I am jesting, lad, I’m sure your assessment of the man is accurate.”

Ignoring the byplay, Harold was frowning, his eyes creasing into narrowed slits at the mention of his brother Tostig’s name. He guided Gyrth some few steps from earshot of the men, beckoning Leofwine and Hakon to walk with them. With hardness in his voice, he said, “I would that I could say I never cared to hear of Tostig again, yet I must, for I need to know what the cur is plotting.”

Gyrth scratched at the fair beard new growing around his chin. “It is not news you will like to hear. But first you must hear something from my own lips, lest someone else tells you and makes a fat goose out of a sparrow’s breast.”

This sounded ominous. Harold stopped walking, waiting for his brother to speak.

“During the early summer months,” Gyrth said, “Tostig asked that I join his fleet, take up arms against you—but this you know, for I sent word to you immediately that I had refused him.”

Harold nodded. This he knew.

“I received further word, not a few days since while at Bosham with our mother. A letter, begging me again to join him, written in Tostig’s own hand.” Gyrth lowered his head. “I had no choice but to hang the messenger who brought me it. I could not risk you thinking that I was not loyal to you. Tostig may be my brother, as are you, but you are also my King. And that makes a difference in this thing.”

Setting his hand to Gyrth’s shoulder, Harold indicated his grateful understanding. This was no easy thing for Gyrth, no easy thing for any man of honour and conscience. “I am grateful to you, Gyrth, as king, aye, but more as your brother.”

“Tostig and I always ran together as litter mates. You and Leofwine”—Gyrth glanced at his other brother—“are joined in spirit, as Tostig and I once were. It saddens my heart that my favourite brother has turned against you so foolishly. I had hoped that, once you were anointed king, a negotiation could be made atween you.”

“As had I.” Harold agreed. “I had no intention of making war on my own kindred.” He snorted a brief guffaw. “I have enough outside of my blood to occupy me in that!”

Gyrth smiled appreciatively. “You sent embassies and messengers, even a letter in your own hand, but Tostig neither heard nor read any of them. Our mother’s letters could instil no sense into him, nor could any word from our sister.”

To that, Harold made no reply. Edith had made no attempt to avert this quarrel between her brothers. Although he had no proof, it seemed likely that her communications had, in fact, urged the opposite.

What price and value a crownì
? Harold thought. Gyrth would have been aware of Edith’s letters, probably of the contents, but no sense rubbing a nose in the dung.

“There is more,” Hakon added gruffly. “Tell him everything that was set down in the letter, Uncle.” He nudged Gyrth none too gently with his elbow.

Again Harold waited, resisting the sudden urge to put his hand to his sword pommel. He was not going to like this.

“After the mess he made of landing along the Humber our brother went north to seek Malcolm of Scotland’s aid, which was promised—not that his promise is worth the shit it is written in. Then Tostig sailed to the islands of Orkney. Islands that are under the protection of Harald Hardrada of Norway. It seems…” Gyrth swallowed; he lowered his head, his eyes, finding a need to stare at his boots, the grass, anywhere but at Harold. Then he continued quickly, spitting the sour-tasting words from his mouth. “My King, he confirms in his own words, that he has agreed to fight against you with the Hardrada under the banner of Norway. It is to that alliance he urged me to join with him.” Falling silent, Gyrth opened a leather pouch at his waist, pulled from it a crumpled piece of parchment. Handed it to Harold.

The King took Tostig’s letter, unfolded it slowly and read, taking in every word. When he had finished, he tore it in half and scrunched the pieces into a ball. He looked out to the sun-sparkle on the sea; clouds were louring in again from the west. The warmth of the sun, then, had been for a short visit only.

Hardrada, King of Norway, who had also decided to take the opportunity to expand his territory. In the vein of Cnut before him and the aspirations of Magnus, his predecessor, Hardrada had decided to try for an additional crown.

So
, Harold thought,
from the south I am to face William of Normandy, and from the north-east, my own brother, united in war with the Hardrada.
He clenched his fingers around the damning parchment, brusquely jerked back his arm and hurled the thing from him with a wordless cry of pain. “God grant me blessing,” he shouted aloud to the wind-driven sea, “that I shall not need to fight both the devil-spawn scum of brother and duke at once!”

The Channel Sea

When the wind shifted further to the south, they knew things might, at last, begin to happen. There was a new uprush of expectation among the Englishmen of the scyp fyrd. Daggers were eased loose, hands gripped tighter on the oars of the warships, the sturdy thirty-two- and forty-oared Dragon Craft, and all eyes were keening southwards. Towards Normandy.

Across the Channel Sea, Duke William would be waiting and watching, cursing the poor sea conditions. The English spies had worked well, had a very good idea how many ships he had mustered, how many—how few—would be under oar. Showing that he was no sea warrior. The majority of William’s fleet relied on sail, requiring a fair-set southern wind to accompany them across the ninety-odd miles between Dives and…and where? That, the English spies could not discover, only conjecture, and that too, might depend on the fickleness of the wind. William, once he set sail, could beach anywhere along the southern or eastern coast.

Eadric the Steersman stood, eyes squinting into the brightness, balancing with the lift and fall of
Dolphin
’s foredeck, his head up, nostrils scenting the sea wind as if he were a wolf seeking prey. They were all one of the pack, these English ships, waiting to be loosed for the hunt. All they needed was a sight of that prey to start the run. The King was relying heavily on his fleet commander’s instinct and great knowledge. The movements of tide and wind were family to Eadric, being mother, daughter, wife and mistress. He knew all its moods, its tempers, cunning and subtleties. His senses told him now that William’s fleet was coming. He could not see sail or wave thresh, but they were there, heading north. Had anyone asked, he would have answered that he could smell them. As an animal would smell an approaching storm. His bones felt them. Or at least, if William had not ordered his men to sea, then he was a fool, for this was ideal weather. If it held.

Eadric bit his lower lip, deep in thought, turning his mind from the south. There was no cloud, no breeze, but would this wind hold? Or would she, capricious as she had been all summer long, swing back to her previous hunting run across the Great Sea to the west? If Eadric could not decide the mood of the wind, then neither, he doubted, would William’s sailors. Had the Duke committed himself to action, or was he dithering? Was the pricking of Eadric’s skin, the tingling behind his neck, playing him for the fool instead? Happen they had all been on edge too long during this frustrating summer.

The Norman army was growing restless, this much England knew as fact; supplies were diminishing, the eagerness for adventure dwindling into exasperation. Waiting for the wind was a desperate occupation. Hah! He ought to have used oar, not sail. With oar the Duke would already be here—but then with oar, he would have needed to find the men to row them, or the time to teach such men the skill. That was a thing the King, Harold, had also discovered of William’s nature. He was not a man to bide his time, to be patient, to wait and wait again until the thing clicked, right, into place.

A voice, distant but clear, sounded from the steerboard side; Eadric swung his head round, questioning, then raised his hand in acknowledgement to Bjarni Redbeard from the
Sea Star
, a craft that matched the length and speed of the
Dolphin
. Eadric cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back, “Nay! I see nothing—but they are there, mark you. I know they are there!”

“Aye, we all feel it! He would be a fool, I am thinking, to pass by this opportunity—” Bjarni was about to say more, but his shout was abruptly silenced, for the horn sounded, distant, from the south, from where
Wave Dancer
was patrolling. All the men lifted their heads, alert, breath held, listening. Again, the long, mournful cry of the war horn…and a third time. Eadric himself was the first to break the enchantment. He leapt, in four strides, from stern to mast, took up
Dolphin
’s own horn—the long and curving aurochs’ horn—and blew three blasts in response, the sound scudding over the creaming waves, caught by the wind and lifted to the high clouds. In that instant, the men, too, had come alive, racing for the rowing benches, hands tight-gripping the oars, heads turned, expectant, to Eadric their master for his signal. For a long moment he stood there amidships, fists bunched against his hips, legs spread, feeling the eager roll of his tight-held ship, the salt taste of the sea stinging his lips, the song of the wind springing past his ears.

His eyes snatched to a white wake that folded around the keel—and another, and another, a silver glistening back, afin…he tossed his head and laughed. “Look, my brothers!” he crowed. “We have our friends to accompany us as we go to meet this bastard Duke of Normandy! Look! The dolphins have come to run with their sister!”

A shout of exultation was tossed to the height of the mast, the strain was taken up by arm muscles and Eadric shouted the command they so eagerly awaited: “Lift her! Lift her!”

Dolphin
and
Sea Star
. From the west, the answering boom and boom of the war horns from
Moon-Crest
and
Sun Singer
. From the east,
Cloud Chaser
and
Gull
.

The wolf pack was loose, and running fast on the trail of its prey.

***

Like most of them crammed tight into the ships, Duke William was no sailor, but at least the strong wine he had swallowed before embarkation was keeping his belly where it ought be—unlike many of them who were hanging over the sides, spewing up their guts. How the horses were faring he could only guess, but at least the sea had calmed its heaving once they had cleared the leeward coast of Cap d’Antifer. That had been one of the most terrifying ordeals of his entire life—and he had seen plenty. The wind was not blowing from as far south as they would have liked, but the decision to risk embarkation had to be made. They had already waited over long and the opportunity, so William had been advised by his seafarers, might not come again.

“What are our chances?” the Duke had asked them as they gathered together in a solemn group outside his command tent. Some, not willing to commit themselves, had scratched at neck and cheek, fiddled with ear lobes. Others had slowly shaken their heads, but most had agreed that the wind was unlikely to prove kinder this side of autumn. Clearing that lee shore was the dilemma. If only the wind would back a little more. Dives, the majority confirmed, was not the most favourable place from which to launch a sailing fleet. This prevailing wind was too westward, the lee shore too hazardous, with not enough experienced oarsmen to row them off, should need arise. Further along the coast would have been better—Eu, perhaps? Closer, too, to England.

This particular argument had swung, blade about hilt, throughout the year, but William had been adamant. His muster point was Dives. Closer to Caen. Mile upon mile of sand suitable for the initial building of ships and the encampment of men. Beyond, sufficient grazing for horses. Add to that, an ideal embarkation point. Higher up the coast would mean a shorter, quicker voyage, but what was nearer for William was nearer for Harold too. His English fleet was more capable at sea, his spies were efficient. Dives was more protected because of its distance. When Harold learnt of Norman manoeuvring, the invasion fleet would be almost upon him.

The captains had been right about that lee shore, however.

William stood at the prow of his command ship, the
Mora
, his nails digging into the wood of the curving rail. He closed his eyes, saw again the spew of wave foam against rock and cliff, heard in his ears the rush of the sea as it beat against that coast, too close to the steerboard side of the fleet. The ships’ masters had known what they were doing and the wind had held. All but three ships of the convoy had slipped past the danger zone and headed out into the open sea.

***

They were almost halfway across, so the
Mora
’s commander had said. So far all had gone to plan, even allowing for those few difficult horses who had been abandoned at Dives or had their throats cut, their carcasses heaved overboard. The mood of the men was buoyant and eager after these weeks within the confines of the camp. A few more weeks and William would not have been certain of holding their loyalty. Loading the supplies had taken much of their attention, but once that had been completed there was nothing to do save wait…no matter, now, they were under way, the thresh of spindrift frothing the water into a white churn of spray, curving beneath the bows of more than seven hundred ships.

William gazed with pride at the array: large, sturdy traders’ craft, smaller fishing boats, a handful of warships, all held in tight check so as not to outrun the slower vessels. So many of them! Patterned sails, plain, striped, patched; red and blue, white, green, brown and saffron. Some men in the next ship saw the Duke watching them, raised their arms in salute and cheered his presence. Content, he waved back.

His own was superb, a Flemish warship given as a present from his wife, built and paid for from her own purse. He gazed up at the wide billow of her striped red and saffron square sail, the bronze crucifix at the masthead glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight. Come nightfall, a lantern would be raised, as there would on all the boats to enable them to keep together—at least until any damned English ships were sighted. To avoid them, he was relying on the skill of his own Norman warships, riding ahead. They must discover the waiting English, signal word so that lanterns could be covered, sails reefed, course altered…over seven hundred vessels to be brought through a blockade under the secrecy of darkness. They had assured him it could be done, his captains and sea commanders. If they kept their nerve and their wit, they had said.

The Duke raised his head, sniffed at the salt wind. The sun was dipping towards the western horizon. An hour until dusk. One more hour. Come dawn, they should be seeing the grey outline of England’s southern coast…

***

They heard the hollow boom of the war horns before they saw the indistinct shadow-shape of ships. The white of oar stroke and bow wave, the gleam of bronze and glint of gold reflecting the sinking sun from the carved, grinning heads of the curving prows. Dragons, wing-stretched ravens, sea monsters. At their head, a craft with a prow shaped as a leaping dolphin. The English scyp fyrd, the sea warriors.

Duke William watched in morbid fascination as they approached, racing through the creaming waves. So fast did they fly—even against the wind, but then, they were powered by thirty, forty, oars and were carried by the run of the tide. Eight knots or so could they speed across the open sea under the power of those oars, he had been told—by whom and when he could not remember. He could see the bank of oars to either side of the dolphin ship; could hear, now, the shouts echoing across the expanse of water between them, an expanse that was rapidly narrowing. Could hear, but not understand the meaning.

“What is it they shout?”

“It is the steersman, sir, calling the beat of the oar.”

Unaware that he had spoken aloud, William stared at the man behind him who had spoken, a Fleming sailor. “And what ought we do about them?” William asked caustically.

The sailor shrugged, pointed vaguely at the sails of the Norman fleet. “We do as the others are already doing, my Lord. We turn about and run. Else we drop to our knees and pray.”

The blood streamed to William’s face, his breathing came in rasping gasps from his throat. “I run from nothing and no one!” The words burst from his mouth as he swung down from the foredeck, his strides taking him aft, to where his captain stood, issuing a burst of orders to the crew.

“We fight!” William bellowed. “Give the order on the horn—set ready the archers. We fight!”

“No, sir!” the
Mora
’s captain countermanded. “Your warships that were ahead must surely have already been destroyed. Your fleet is made of merchant vessels; when such encounter pirates, they run. It is not prudent to fight one of those dragon ships—and besides, our luck is turning against us twice over. See our sail, my Lord Duke? It is flapping. The wind has cast against us. She is veering to the west.”

The Duke’s proud and glorious fleet began to scatter in disarray. Each ship, careless now of keeping within the discipline of the convoy, broke free and fled before the westering wind. Better, the seamen all agreed, to run for Normandy than meet the fire arrows of the English, all except the Duke, who stood rigid at the stern of his ship, with no choice but to watch. As well the words that ran through his mind were not voiced, for his oaths would have shocked even sea-tainted sailors.